Delta Blue

Fourteen

Kapitän Ernst Blofeld accepted his mug of coffee, then sat on the single sofa in the admiral’s quarters, next to Werner Niels, the admiral’s aide. It was a spartan room without even a picture of the admiral’s family present, but Schmidt suspected it was spacious and homey to a submarine commander. He thought that men who were amenable to life under the sea had to be somewhat crazy, but he respected their courage.

The steward backed out of the compartment and pulled the door shut behind him.

Schmidt was in his swivel chair at his desk, the top of which was exceptionally neat, and he turned toward the submarine commander. “Well, Captain?”

“There has been no damage to the cables, Herr Admiral. We traversed the area three times, utilizing remote video cameras, and found everything intact.”

“Were they even close?”

“It is difficult to tell, but we located several possible points of impact. None were closer than twenty meters. The torpedo guidance mechanism must target on electromagnetic generation sources, but the cables are well armored, and the presence of other sources in the region, such as the ships, must confuse the torpedoes.”

Schmidt nodded his understanding. “What else, Captain Blofeld?”

“We have discovered three sonobuoys in the last couple of days, and we have destroyed them.”

“So. They are listening to us?”

“Yes. Generally along the line of the cables. They were American sonobuoys.”

“I do not doubt it. Undersea traffic?”

Blofeld sipped his coffee. “The Ohio was snooping around the fringes of the platforms two days ago. Yesterday, the signature of the Soviet submarine Typhoon was heard to the east of Svalbard by the Bohemian. They run when we approach, Admiral. They are not even interested in games of tag.”

The Bohemian was the second of the submarines assigned to the Dritte Marinekraft.

“But for how long will they run, Ernst? We are, I think, testing the patience of people in high places in Washington and Moscow.”

Werner Niels said, “General Eisenach and the High Command seem to think they will eventually go away.”

“Among the three of us,” Schmidt said, “General Eisenach and the High Command are fools. They rely on the introduction of their magical Ghost missile to establish instant military and political parity. It will not happen. I think it is up to us to defend the GUARDIAN PROJECT.”

“The Stuttgart claims a MakoShark kill,” Niels said. “Perhaps we will prevail simply by attrition? The Americans have only four or five of the machines.”

Blofeld looked at Niels, then the admiral, and proceeded cautiously. “The commander of the Stuttgart may be mistaken. We detected no aircraft crash on sonar, and we could find no debris.”

Schmidt had been skeptical, himself. He had been on the bridge during the battle, had seen the MakoShark for only moments at the time it dropped its torpedoes, and had marveled at its slippery image and acceleration. “You are very likely correct, Ernst. The stealth craft have proven to be close to invincible. However, we also have some invincibility. I believe that, short of using tactical nuclear devices, which they will not do, the Americans will be unable to breach the cables. We are going to leave the fifth battle group to patrol this region.”

Niels got up, retrieved the insulated pot the steward had left behind, and poured more coffee for everyone.

“And I believe that the Americans and Soviets know, or think they know, the true nature of the wells. They will not attack them for fear of creating a fury they cannot quell. Tell me, Ernst, if you were seeking a way to destroy the system, how would you go about it?”

“Without attacking the wells, and knowing that I could not reach the undersea cables, Admiral?”

“Exactly.”

“I would infiltrate frogmen under Platforms One and Eleven and attach limpet mines to the cables collected there. All twenty-four cables from the platforms congregate at Platform One and, I think, Platform Eleven, as the alternate distribution center, now has nine cables in place.”

“You think that way because you are a submariner, Ernst.”

“Of course, Admiral.”

“But I happen to agree with you. Niels, we want a message to the Twentieth Special Air Group, requesting that sonobuoys be sown around the perimeter of the offshore wells and along the ice. We will listen for intruders, as well as position our battle groups around the platforms.”

“As you wish, Admiral,” Niels said, jotting the note on his pad.

“And, Ernst, I think that the Black Forest and the Bohemian will give up their patrols of the cables. You will concentrate your efforts around the wells.”

Delta Blue slipped into her bay, then came to a stop with a whoosh! of the forward thrusters. As the hangar doors folded shut behind him, McKenna and Munoz began shutting the operational systems down.

Polly Tang waved at them from the window overlooking the bay. McKenna waved back, then contacted Beta One and dumped the maintenance files.

“Got it,” Mitchell said.

“And, Brad, I want full service on Blue immediately. What’s the status on Green?”

“Lube and oil coming right up, Kevin. Green arrived two hours ago. All systems checked out, and she’s being refueled right now.”

“Good. Great.”

“Tell me, please,” Mitchell said, “what Con Man did to my bird.”

Among maintenance people, ground crews, and pilots, there was an unresolved dispute over ownership of an aircraft or, in this case, an aerospace craft. It didn’t matter that the taxpayer had put up the cash or that the air force held the title.

“When I left Hot Country, Brad, they were still running checks. So far, the primary navigation computer has to be replaced — it took a chunk of shrapnel, four solid fuel containers are cracked, two wing ribs and one wing tip spar need to be replaced, she needs a new right rudder and two thruster nozzles, and we’ve got to replace two hundred square feet of wing skin that disappeared. He burned up a couple tires getting it on the ground at two-eight knots.”

“Oh, hell, that’s only a couple days’ work.”

“That’s what Benny Shalbot said. He stayed behind to do the electronics rehabilitation. On the rest of it, they’re flying in some people and materials from Martin Marietta and Rockwell.”

“Yeah, okay. Anyway, I’m glad everyone’s all right. They are, aren’t they?”

“A-one, Brad.”

Sometimes, in their anxiety over the craft, the maintenance people forgot about the pilot people.

Tang gave them a green light as soon as the atmosphere in the bay had reached the correct content and pressure levels, and McKenna and Munoz opened their canopies, unbuckled their straps, and released their communications cables and environmental hoses. McKenna unfastened his helmet, slipped it off, and stuck it under his arm. The hatch opened and several technicians darted into the bay.

“Me for bed,” Munoz told him.

“Not just yet, Tony. I’ve got a job for you.”

“Unmerciful bastard, aren’t you?”

“Got a reputation to uphold.”

McKenna pushed hard off the MakoShark toward the hatchway, grabbed the frame as he passed through, and deflected his flight toward Polly Tang.

“Catch me, love!”

She looked up from the console and stuck out a stiffened left arm. Her palm caught McKenna in the chest and arrested his flight.

“Thanks. I needed that.”

“Any time,” she told him, then went back to securing the console controls.

“What Makos are aboard, Polly?”

“Just number two.”

“You know her schedule, offhand?”

“Due to return to Peterson tomorrow afternoon. Sixteen hundred hours, I think.”

Pressing the PA button on the communications system, McKenna checked his watch and said, “Your attention, please. There will be a briefing for all pilots and system officers at eleven hundred hours in Compartment A-forty-seven.”

He repeated the message one more time, then he and Munoz went down the corridor to the pilot’s dressing room, took sponge baths, changed into jumpsuits, and stored their flight gear in their lockers.

By the time they reached the exercise room, Dimatta, Williams, Haggar, and Olsen were already there. Dr. Monte Washington was working out on a Nautilus machine.

“Dr. Washington, I’m afraid we need some privacy for about ten minutes.”

“Hey, damn it! I got as much right to be here as you do. With the money my company is… ”

“Dr. Washington, I want you to go to your quarters and pack your belongings. You’ll be leaving on the next flight earth side. That will be with Major Haggar at oh-eight hundred in the morning.”

Washington’s mouth dropped open. “McKenna, you got no right to talk… ”

“Check it out with the station commander, Washington. Now, get out.”

Washington extricated himself from the machine, put on a sullen pout, and left the compartment. Munoz closed the door behind him.

McKenna looked at his pilots, all of whom were waiting expectantly on him. “Check rides,” he said.

Dimatta said, “Damn, Snake Eyes. I haven’t had a check ride in six months.”

“It’s the other way around this time, Frank. I want you to take Lynn and Ben over to your bay and give them a close-up look at Delta Green. They need a full rundown on the weapons, radar, and threat systems, plus any other system they don’t have on a Mako. Then, as soon as Delta Blue is serviced, you’re all going out.”

Haggar’s eyes were about the size of twenty-millimeter shells.

“Frank, you’ll take Ben as your backseater. Lynn, you and Tony will fly Delta Blue. I’m fond of it, so don’t break it, please. George, I want you to monitor both flights, and throw some problems at them — a systems failure, maybe, and a couple of missile runs.”

“Target?” Williams asked.

“Use a gun pod and a couple of training Wasps on each craft. Make Neptune or Pluto the target.”

Williams nodded.

Dimatta looked to Haggar. “Boom-Boom, I think.”

“Don’t you dare,” she said. “There was a stripper in Atlanta named Boom-Boom.”

“That’s who I was thinking of,” Dimatta said.

“Chauvinist!”

“Country Girl, I think,” Munoz said, “and Ben’s obviously the Swede.”

Olsen grinned, his Nordic face showing his pleasure.

Dimatta scowled for a minute, thinking, then agreed, “Yeah, Tiger, that’ll do it.”

McKenna was happy to see the two of them accepted into the stealth half of his squadron. Attaching the nicknames was the first step.

“This will be a space-only familiarization flight of two hours,” he said, “and you’ll stay within a thousand miles of Themis. Questions?”

Munoz said, “See, Lynn? Just like I told that Russian colonel. I knew I’d be gettin’ you.”

Dimatta grinned at McKenna, “Do I need to ask about authorization?”

McKenna grinned back. “No.”

Lynn Haggar started to say something, perhaps appreciative, but McKenna gave her a small negative shake of the head, then left the exercise room. He went back up Corridor 1-B and turned into the maintenance office. Mitchell, a fuel technician named Lennon, and Bert Embry were there, and McKenna spent a few minutes reviewing the current stores of fuel and ordnance with them. He ordered more Wasps and JP-7.

“Right away?” Mitchell asked. “That’s going to throw off the Honey Bee schedule.”

“Right away, Brad. I don’t want to come up short if we need something.”

Mitchell turned to his computer and called up a listing. “We’ve got a hot contract with Lockheed, and their equipment is slated for the next seven Honey Bee launches.”

“So kick them back three or four.”

“They’ll raise hell in Washington.”

“Tell them to call Brackman.”

“You mean I get to throw some weight around? That’ll be a first.”

McKenna was stifling yawns by the time he reached the Command Center. He had been up and about for too many hours straight, in violation of Space Command’s policy. Overton and Pearson were waiting for him. He thought he detected a little fire in Pearson’s green eyes. Her auburn hair floated out from her head like dark fire.

“Where have you been?” Pearson asked. “We’ve been waiting.”

“Miss me, dear?”

“Not so much that I’d notice.”

“Now, children,” Overton said. The front of his blue jumpsuit was stained with grease and oil.

“What have you been doing, Jim?”

Overton brushed the stain on his chest with his fingertips. “Ventilation motor failure in Eight.”

The general wasn’t above getting his hands dirty, one of the reasons McKenna liked him.

He brought them up to date on the condition of Conover, Abrams, and Delta Yellow. “And I ordered more ordnance shipped up from Merlin. Lockheed may complain a little, Jim.”

“Did you also request some more torpedoes from the navy?” Pearson asked.

“No. It’s time to abandon that scenario. We’re not having any success, and last night proves that your Admiral Schmidt lives up to your billing of him, Amy. He knows damned well where to wait for us. I’m not taking chances with my people where the probability of success is so low.”

Pearson looked a little crestfallen, but McKenna was certain she would not argue with him, not after Conover’s close call.

Polly Tang’s voice came over the intercom and interrupted them. “Command, Hangar. Preparing Delta Green for launch.”

McKenna reached out a hand and pulled himself over to the console. “Hangar, Command. Proceed.”

“What’s that, Kevin?” Overton asked.

“We’re doing check rides with Dimatta and Munoz.”

“With, or for?” Overton wasn’t stupid.

“With.” McKenna sighed. “I’m having Haggar and Olsen get a feel for the MakoSharks.”

“Shit! Kevin, you know the position on that.”

“I had a close call with Conover and Abrams, Jim. I want backup. As soon as we get them oriented, I’m going to give them Delta Red to practice in.”

“Why not Autry and Chamberlain?”

“They’re nowhere near as ready as Haggar and Olsen, that’s why. Damn it, I’m the squadron commander.”

“You may have to put Conover and Abrams in Delta Red,” the general said.

“Their buggy is going to be fine,” he insisted.

“I’m going to have to talk to Brackman.”

“Please do.”

Overton stared him down for a minute, then let it go. McKenna was assured that the station commander would be having a very long conversation with General Brackman, and that Brackman would be tracking him down soon thereafter.

Pearson watched them carefully, but McKenna thought that his decision about Haggar had taken some of the fire out of her eyes. There was a mellow quality present when she looked at him. The green had paled a bit.

Finally, she broke the silence with a question. “I assume you have a new strategy?”

“We may have to call in the navy. We use Volontov’s MiGs and the MakoSharks to create a diversion, then slip a couple subs under the platforms.”

“To run blindly into an anchor cable or well casing?”

“I admit that it’s going to take a little thought. I’ll need some help.”

“What do you need?” she asked.

“I need to sleep for a few hours. You want to help me with that?”

That got the fire back in her eyes.

Gen. Marvin Brackman was in Washington. He had been called to testify before the Senate Appropriations Committee in regard to Space Command appropriations for the next fiscal year. He didn’t bother mentioning the practical applications of the MakoShark and Themis currently under way, and no one on the panel brought up the matter, either.

So far, only the Village Voice and a deep page in the New York Times had mentioned the complaint of Malcolm Nichols, captain of the Greenpeace boat Walden. And Nichols had not mentioned potential oil spillage, only that a German air force pilot had fired a missile at him. That charge had been denied by the German Foreign Ministry, further increasing Nichols’s rage. He was trying to find a German lawyer to sue the Luftwaffe.

After his testimony, Brackman had been driven to the Pentagon in an air force staff car to have lunch with Harvey Mays and Hannibal Cross. They ate late and alone in the flag dining room, all of them opting for the day’s promoted special of veal.

“My aide says you did a nice job with the committee, Marvin.”

“You never know how well you did until the appropriations are announced, Hannibal. The feedback in Washington is damned slow.”

“The feedback,” Mays said, “would be a lot snappier if any of those senators knew about what we’re doing in the Greenland Sea.”

“True. I don’t know why it’s still under wraps.”

“I think we can thank the Germans for that,” Cross said. “At this point, I don’t believe there’s any question but that they don’t want the world to know about those geothermal taps, or the environmental hazard they pose.”

“Or the military buildup,” Mays said.

“That worries me,” Brackman said. “What I’d really like to do is hit a few of those equipment parks and fuel dumps with some thousand-pounders. We could at least set back their plans a few years.”

“That would have every congressman and reporter in town involved in the brouhaha in nothing flat,” Cross said. “No, we can get away with what we’re doing in the north because the Germans aren’t going to complain. That’s the President’s opinion. He believes we can stave off German ambition by shutting down those wells.”

“The hell of it is,” Brackman said, “we’re not having any success. When I talked to McKenna early this morning, before he went back to Themis, he was ready to give up on the cables. Of course, he’d damned nearly lost a MakoShark and two crewmen.”

“He’s too close to his squadron members,” Mays said. “As a commander, he should have a little more distance.”

“Maybe, but it’s a unique squadron, Harv. It has to be run differently.”

“Getting back to the immediate problem,” the chairman said, “does McKenna have something in mind?”

“Nothing solid yet. He may want to involve the navy, but he’s supposed to get back to me later today.”

“Not that I mistrust the navy, Admiral,” Mays said to Cross, “but I’m leery of doing very much underneath those platforms.”

Cross harumphed.

Brackman said, “One thing McKenna did point out, that we should have done some time ago. We ought to set up a couple naval task forces, maybe one out of England with the Brits involved, and one out of the Soviet Union. They should be outfitted with submersibles, salvage ships, the right kinds of equipment, and all of the experts we can find.”

“In case a well blows out, Marv?” Mays asked.

“Or in case they all blow out. If the Germans let us, we’re going to have to make an attempt to cap them.” Cross chewed his veal with vigor, then said, “Christ! We’re going to have to put McKenna in a staff job and make him a general.”

“He’ll resist all the way, Hannibal.”

“I know, and that’s good. But damn it, we should have been covering that base.”

“You’ll look into it?”

“Yes. It’ll take telephone calls from the President, I suppose, but we’ll put something together. And we’ll do it damned quickly. I’ll have the CNO find out where his specialized ships are located, and figure out how soon he can get them into the area.”

“Not too close, just yet,” Brackman said.

“We may need some troops,” the air force chief of staff said, “to secure the platforms if we make a move on them.”

The JCS chairman’s face sagged. “This may escalate way beyond what we want, gentlemen.”

It was nearly ten o’clock at night before Brackman called him back. Sheremetevo was at home, a spacious, nine-room apartment that was far too large for his needs since the children — young adults — had moved out. He had been widowed for three years, and he still felt the loss. The empty rooms seemed to echo.

The general sipped his second brandy and stood at the living room window, looking down on the lights of Moscow. From his eighth-floor vantage point, he could see the dark bend of the Moskva River where it passed under the Borodino Bridge. The foliage was thick this time of year. In the distance were the flood-lighted mosques and spires of the Kremlin, shining like new gold in the night.

The telephone rang, and he crossed to the end table to pick it up, settling back onto the flowered sofa.

“Vitaly, I’m sorry to be so late getting back to you, but it’s been something of a hectic day.”

“It is all right, Marvin.”

“Let me bring you up to speed.” Sheremetevo listened while Brackman detailed the trap that Schmidt had set for the MakoShark, the damage to the craft, and the failure to sever the cable.

Brackman also told him of the plan, to come through the U.S. President, to prepare a crisis task force.

“That is an excellent idea, Marvin. I shall support it with the Politburo on my end.”

“Great. It may require a few of your Spetznatz troops, to secure platforms if we have to make a frontal assault in order to cap the wells.”

That was dismaying. “That may be difficult. It will involve the army and the entire Politburo. Is the United States also prepared to commit troops?”

“I don’t know, yet, Vitaly. We’re going to propose the Rapid Deployment Force.”

“This may be the start of another Great War,” Sheremetevo said.

“I don’t like it, either. Now, you called me. Have you got something new?”

“Yes. Disturbing developments.”

“Uh-oh. Should I be sitting down?”

“Well, Marvin, I am sitting down.”

“Let me have it.”

“This morning, I met with a major of the GRU who had just returned from reconnaissance mission to Peenemünde. The Germans not only have constructed a copy of our rocket, it is all but finished. The major thinks that it will be operational within the week.”

“Damn. From the specs I read, it’s intercontinental.”

“It can also be utilized as a space vehicle.”

“What about a warhead, Vitaly?”

“Using the American joke, Marvin, I just told you the good news. The bad news is that the Germans have acquired nuclear warheads.”

“Oh, shit! What kind?”

“Multiple Individually Retargeted. I do not know the size or how many warheads each, but according to the major, there are five MIRVs in a deep bunker near Peenemünde.”

“That puts a new spin on the ball,” Brackman said.

Sheremetevo almost missed the analogy. “Yes.”

“We’re not going to attack the mainland.”

“Nor are we, Marvin.”

“But we’re going to have to do something dramatic.”

“And quite soon,” the commander of the PVO Strany agreed.

Frank Dimatta was disappointed at the decision to cancel the torpedo runs. Since his downing of the two Germans over the ice, and especially since Conover and Abrams were zapped, he had been looking forward to his chance at the cable. And maybe another Tornado or two.

Instead, Pearson and McKenna stuck him with a milk run over the wells at 60,000 feet, taking update pictures. One pass to the east, and one to the west.

“That’s it, Cancha. Let’s go home.”

“What do you think, Nitro, of taking a practice run against the Hamburg? Scare shit out of that admiral.”

“I like it, but sure as hell, I’d want to pop a Wasp at him. Then, too, McKenna would have us scraping grease off the hangar floors at Nellis.”

“Might be worth it.”

“Might be, but let’s hang loose. The boss will come up with something soon.”

“And you can bet the brass at Cheyenne Mountain will turn him down.”

“Maybe, and maybe not,” Williams said. “Come around to one-seven-one, and let’s get her up to Mach five. Josie says we have a window in sixteen minutes.”

“Will Josie let us stop off in Paris? I’m hungry.”

“Josie says, ‘later.’ ”

Amy Pearson and Donna Amber developed the photos and transferred them to video. Arguento showed up in the photo lab in the hub as they were finishing.

“Nice timing, Val,” Amber said.

“You don’t get to be a master sergeant in the air force, Donna, without knowing how to avoid work. Hey, Colonel, I’ve got a problem.”

“Wonderful,” Pearson said.

“The Washington guy?”

“The President or Monte?”

“Dr. Monte. Overton confined him to Spoke Three and the communications compartment until we get a chance to transport him. Well, my monitoring computer sounded off, and when I checked his message traffic, I found some schematics of our radar computers and a complete personnel listing for the station.”

“Damn it. Any of it get out?”

“No. When I saw him log on to the system, I put him on five-minute delay.”

“Okay, good. You can tell him he’s now confined to quarters. My order. I’ll take it up with the general, if I need to, but Washington’s leaving the station later this afternoon, anyway.”

Arguento had been watching the screen as Amber double-checked the video. He said, “They’re getting ready for a siege, aren’t they?”

“What do you mean, Val?” Pearson asked.

“AA and SAM on all but three of the platforms now. And a fifth group of ships.”

Pearson had missed that. “Where do you see the ships?”

“Back up three or four frames, Donna. There.”

Pearson squinted her eyes, poring over the photo. It was a large-scale shot, taking in all of the wells. Besides several individual ships — the tugboats and supply tenders, she counted four groups of three ships each, almost at each corner of the offshore wells. The northern groups were splitting the distance between the offshore platforms and those on the ice. She did not see the… yes, she did. Clear at the bottom of the photograph. Another three ships standing guard over the area where they had attempted to bomb the cable.

“You’ve got good eyes, Val.”

“That, and timing.”

“How do you read this?”

“I think some German is getting worried about us.”

“I hope he’s got something to worry about,” she said.

“Oh, he does,” Amber said. “If I thought the Germans were better than us, I’d have joined the Luftwaffe.”

McKenna didn’t awaken until almost two in the afternoon. Themis time.

After several days of one-and two-hour snatches of sleep, he felt fully refreshed.

Ready to go.

And he had a plan.

Still strapped against the padded wall of his sleeping cubicle, he reached for the communications panel and tapped in the number for the Command Center.

Colonel Avery answered the call.

“Is Amy around there, Milt?”

“No. She was up most of the night and early morning and said she was going to take a nap.”

“I’ll run into her somewhere,” he said and unstrapped himself.

Unzipping his curtain, McKenna pushed out into the corridor, crossing it, and stopped next to the one labeled, “Pearson.”

He tapped on the wall.

Then he tapped again.

“Go away.”

“I need to talk to you, Amy.”

She unzipped the curtain part-way and stuck her head out, only inches from his face. She didn’t have the head-band on, and her heavy red hair was tangled and weightless. Her eyes were sleepy, her head tilted back as she peered beneath half-lowered lids.

McKenna lacked willpower in some areas, and he couldn’t resist. He kissed her.

A short, light kiss on the lips.

Pearson almost responded, her lips soft and warm. She nodded sleepily once, then her eyes opened wide in realization.

Before she could get into a protest mode, McKenna said, “I’ve got it.”

“Got what?”

“The answer.”

“The answer to what?”

“It’s time to stop playing cat and mouse. That’s what Eisenach wants, because he can stonewall and get the time he needs.”

“The time for what?”

“To strengthen his defensive position and get that rocket off the ground.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?” she asked.

“We’re going to load up everything we’ve got, and take out those wells.”

Alarmed, she said, “We can’t do that! There’s too much risk, Kevin.”

“Just watch us,” he said, while noting her use of his name.