Delta Blue

Sixteen

Kapitän Rolf Froelich was nervous and trying not to show it, Schmidt thought, but then every man in Schmidt’s small fleet was nervous.

Three successive nights of maintaining battle stations, with no sight of the enemy, did terrible things to both morale and the state of readiness. Sleeplessness, inaction, boredom. It could lead to mistakes.

For all Schmidt knew, the American MakoSharks had been romping unseen through the offshore wells each night, shooting their pictures. The probe by submarines that he had convinced himself to expect had not occurred. Neither the Black Forest nor the Bohemian had had sonar contacts to report. The fifty sonobuoys deployed around the field only picked up the screw signatures of slowly cruising German naval vessels.

Maybe it was the spell of bad weather that was holding them off.

For the past three days, it had been overcast, the sun and its warmth blotted out. Frequent rain squalls passed through the region, drenching everything, including gun crews shivering throughout seemingly long nights. The weather was another morale-breaker.

Froelich waited until Schmidt finished brooding, staring out the window of his flag plot. When he turned back to the Hamburg’s commanding officer, he had not come up with any answers.

He did have an observation. “The weather is lifting, Rolf.”

“A little, Admiral. The meteorologist says that we will continue to be overcast, but that the rain should let up. None is forecast, anyway.”

“A small favor. Well, shall we get on with it?”

Froelich moved to the electronic plot on the bulkhead, and the leutnant operating it sat up at his console.

Not many of the symbols on the map had changed in the last days. The wells did not move, though they might if Eisenach’s stupid “fail-safe” plan were activated. The ships of the Dritte Marinecraft’s first four battle groups were now holding their stations. The fifth battle group was 200 kilometers away, approaching the wells. Schmidt had relieved them of their duty over the cable.

The picture displayed on the map was fairly complete. The basic information was fed to the admiral’s plot from the Combat Information Center, which obtained its information from the radar sightings of all ships in the fleet, as well as the Luftwaffe aircraft flying cover.

Extending a collapsible pointer, Froelich aimed it at a group of red blips northwest of North Cape, Norway. The Soviet ships out of Archangel continue to move at cruise speed. The group has been joined by three stragglers.”

“It is how large, now?”

“Fourteen vessels, headed by the rocket cruiser Kirov. There are several Kotlin Sam class destroyers and two troop carriers. The balance appear to be service and supply ships.”

“And the other group?”

The pointer slipped across the screen to a spot 300 kilometers due east of Daneborg, Greenland.

“The American and British task force still contains seventeen ships, Admiral. They have not moved farther north in the last eight hours, but appear to be on track to meet the Soviet group.”

“Operation Whale, they are calling it?”

“It was advertised as such in the newspapers. A joint naval exercise.”

“But no more details since that announcement?”

“No, Herr Admiral.”

“I do not like the presence of the two salvage ships in the Anglo force,” Gerhard Schmidt said. “Nor do I like seeing the Tarawa… ”

The Tarawa was an amphibious assault ship, with a capability of landing 1,800 soldiers by helicopter and landing craft. The reconnaissance flights had detected no large contingents of troops aboard the ship, but they could easily be kept below decks.

“Tell me, Rolf. What is your estimate for the minimum amount of time it would take either of those task forces to reach us?”

“The slowest of the ships can make eighteen knots, Admiral. It would take about fifteen hours for the British-American force, nineteen hours for the Soviet group.”

They were much closer than Schmidt liked. He also did not care to be outnumbered almost two-to-one, even if some of the ships were merely noncombatants.

“The aircraft?” he asked.

The pointer flew over the map. “Colonel Weismann has just two aircraft up at the moment, here and here. He continues to insist upon using his strength at night. One of the Eurofighters detected an airborne warning craft here, over the eastern coast of Greenland. It is probably supporting the British-American task force. Both task forces have helicopters up, ranging in front of them. Antisubmarine warfare craft, probably.”

“If we stopped the fifth battle group right where they are, the Americans and Soviets would intercept them sometime tomorrow,” Schmidt said.

“Do you want to do that, Admiral?”

“No. I want them here, so that we have three battle groups on the southern side of the well field. All right, Rolf, thank you.”

As soon as the Kapitän left, Schmidt said, “Lieutenant, locate General Eisenach for me. I believe he is still on Platform One.”

Five minutes passed before the telephone at his side buzzed. He picked up the receiver.

“Felix,” Schmidt said, “I want to bring you up to date on those task forces.”

It took him two minutes.

And as he had in their last two conversations, Eisenach brushed them off, like he would a fly. “You worry too much, Gerhard. It is simply a show of force. The Americans could not breach our security with their airplanes, so now they will march across our front door with their ships. I am not frightened. Are you frightened?”

“Yes, Felix, I am. Amphibious assault ships scare me. Salvage ships scare me.”

“Why?” the general asked. “It is only a pitiful armada, assembled with vessels that were close by at the time they needed them.”

He partially agreed with the general. If Gerhard Schmidt wanted to put together a show of force, he would do it with seven or eight warships, not seventeen ships that included unarmed vessels.

“Nonetheless, Felix, I believe you should talk to the High Command. I want permission to unleash my guns, and my submarines, against hostile vessels if I need to do so.”

“Then you have it, Gerhard.”

Schmidt wondered when Eisenach had obtained that kind of authority, the authority to start a war.

“I want it in writing.”

“Then you shall have it in writing. You will not need it, however.”

“I hope you are right,” he said.

“I know I am right. This afternoon, this evening at the latest, Ghost I is to be placed on its launch pad.”

Eisenach sounded almost gleeful.

With as many setbacks as the Gespenst program had suffered, and with as many aircraft as the 20.S.A.G. had lost, Gerhard Schmidt thought that it was up to him to prepare for battle.

The GUARDIAN PROJECT commander’s frame of mind, Schmidt thought, was not conducive to such planning, so he must take it upon himself.

“Now, Lieutenant, find Colonel Albert Weismann for me.”

Daniel Goldstein was standing outside the doorway to his own office.

Weismann told him, “Shut the door, Goldstein.”

The Jew reached inside and pulled the door shut.

Weismann uncovered the mouthpiece of the telephone. “All right, Admiral. Yes, I am aware of the ships.”

“Are you also aware of the makeup of each flotilla?”

“Yes. Cruisers, destroyers, salvage ships”

“Do you know what that means?”

“General Eisenach says a show of force.”

“And do you believe that?”

Weismann did not. “I think they’re standing by in case of an accident. A blowout.”

“Caused by?” Schmidt asked.

“An error in judgment or aiming. I think the Americans may try to torpedo the cables under the wells.”

“Do you, now? I had not thought of that, Colonel. I am preparing for an infiltration of the offshore platforms by submarine and frogmen.”

That was a surprise to Weismann. “The defense planning group has not mentioned the possibility.”

“They wouldn’t. They’re all air force.”

Weismann knew of the admiral’s disenchantment with the air force. Worse, having lost four aircraft, and having had Zeigman and Metzenbaum abandon coverage to chase decoy Soviets, his disenchantment had some foundation.

“Perhaps, Admiral, they will do both.”

“We should prepare for the eventuality, Weismann.”

“When, do you think?”

“If it were me planning operations for the other side, I would pick tonight. The weather is projected to be better than it has been for several days, though there will still be a high overcast.”

“I will alert my squadrons.”

“Tell them not to go running after specters, will you?”

Weismann depressed the telephone bar, then dialed New Amsterdam. As normal, it took a while to run down Zeigman, but he was discovered asleep in his quarters.

“Colonel?” with a yawn.

“Mac, what do you have planned for tonight?”

“Give me a minute to wake up. Let me see. We’re running two Eurofighters directly over the wells. They, as well as the ships, are an inducement to attack. I have scheduled six Tornadoes for the overhead coverage. The first aircraft go at eleven o’clock. There will be two changes of the guard.”

“We are going to send them all,” Weismann said.

“Are you crazy? Herr Colonel.”

“I think not. We will keep four tankers aloft through the night, replacing them as needed. You may keep your two low-flying decoys, but all of the rest, including the aircraft on loan from the Sixteenth Fighter Wing are to be deployed over the wells.”

“Throughout the night?”

“Yes.”

“That’s twenty-four planes, Colonel.”

“I can count, Major. We want four of them armed with the Saab Rb05 air-to-surface missiles.”

“You are expecting a major offensive, Colonel?”

“The signs point toward it, Mac. Do not unduly alarm the squadrons, however. They will be suspicious, as it is, due to the number of planes.”

“All right. Why the A-to-S?”

“There are British, American, and Soviet surface ships gathering. We may need to dissuade them.”

“Yes. I saw them on last night’s patrol. Will you be flying?”

Weismann wished it were possible. “I am stuck here for the night. Good hunting, Mac.”

He hung up the telephone, scratched the side of his neck, and got up to open the door.

Goldstein waited stoically in the hallway, leaning against the wall.

“Let us see what you have accomplished, Herr Direktor-Assistent.”

They walked down the corridor together and emerged from the office complex in the back of the building onto the assembly floor. The second rocket in line was being fitted with one of the MIRV warheads. The technicians handled it as if it were hot, but Weismann knew that, until it was armed, it was quite safe. Not even a fire or explosion would detonate the nuclear charges. They were not finally armed until a barometric device assured that the warhead had reached at least 3,000 meters of altitude.

Gespenst I had its new collar installed, and Weismann stopped below and looked up at it. The collar was of bare metal and shiny next to the gray paint, but he was not looking for appearance, only for function.

The test warhead, loaded with 300 kilograms of high explosive, was suspended in the air from an overhead crane. He backed away and watched as the nose cone was lowered, then fitted back into place by six technicians. The men appeared exhausted, their lab coats grimy, their faces matching the coats.

“See, Herr Colonel? A perfect fit.”

“How long, Goldstein?” It was already getting dark outside.

“Perhaps a couple hours to secure it and complete the wiring. Then we will roll it out and mount it on the pad. If the weather holds, we will have our first launch at eight o’clock in the morning.” Goldstein tried to sound excited, but failed.

“We will have our first launch yet tonight, Goldstein.”

“But, Colonel! The men need rest!”

“They can rest tomorrow. The software?”

“Is ready,” Goldstein professed. “But, Colonel Weismann, it is unthinkable to actually target the American space station. We can change the program quickly.”

“Goldstein, you do not know the meaning of ‘quickly.” Weismann looked at his watch. “In half an hour, six air force specialists in ballistics and computers will be here to examine the software.”

The look of anguish that passed over Goldman’s face confirmed his suspicions.

“Right now, Goldman, General Eisenach wants to see you at his headquarters in Berlin.”

“Now? I am a mess. I must wash and change clothes.”

“It is all right. You will be coming right back.”

Weismann signaled to the two helicopter pilots.

He wondered if Goldstein would be surprised to find Maximillian Oberlin waiting at the helicopter for him.

Probably not.

McKenna was talking to Polly Tang at the hangar operations console when Pearson came sailing along the corridor.

He reached out a hand, she grabbed it, and he pulled her to a stop.

She seemed a little breathless. Her headband was slightly askew, and her face seemed subdued.

When she realized he was still holding her left hand, she used her right hand to extricate it from his grasp.

Polly Tang grinned.

“What’s up, Amy?”

“There’s a bit of a flap in Washington, D.C.”

“Oh?”

“Dr. Monte Washington went right to the press as soon as his company fired him. Told them that Themis was a battlestar, armed to the teeth.”

“It make the papers or TV yet?” McKenna asked.

“No. But there’s a mob of reporters that is all over the White House and the Pentagon, trying to get confirmations.”

She was worried, McKenna thought.

“You talked to Brackman?” he asked.

“Yes, along with Jim.”

“How long does he think Admiral Cross can hold them off?”

“A day. Two at the most.”

“That’s all the time we need. Cross can give them the whole story after tonight. I won’t mind being called in front of a Senate hearing panel after those wells are closed down.”

McKenna looked through the window. Munoz was supervising the installation of the final Wasp. The MakoShark appeared particularly lethal with all four pylons mounting missiles. Additionally, two retractable mounts had been installed in the payload bays, each armed with four Wasps. In total, there were twenty-four missiles loaded, half of them warheaded for air-to-surface and half for air-to-air. The three MakoSharks would depart with seventy-two missiles, and McKenna hoped to have at least sixty of them survive the blackout.

He was already in his environmental suit. It was augmented for this trip with thigh pouches containing emergency equipment, including an emergency locator beacon. A battery pack that could power the heating elements in the environmental suit was strapped to his side. If one of the MakoSharks went down in an icy sea, the heated environmental suit might keep a pilot and a WSO alive for around twenty-five minutes, enough time for the search-and-rescue planes that had been moved into Daneborg to reach them. The uninflated Mae West felt bulky around his neck. All of it made him feel clumsy, even in a weightless environment.

“What’s this?” Pearson asked, reaching out to pluck at the harness webbing he wore.

“You mean the parachute?”

“Yes. You guys never wear parachutes.”

“Too damned uncomfortable, Amy. We have to take the cushions out of the lounge seats.”

“So, why now?”

“Makes us feel better,” he said, not ready to get into involved explanations. “You all set?”

“Yes. The KH-11 is sending good pictures, but it’s mostly clouds.”

A KH-11 spy satellite had been moved into geostationary orbit over the Greenland Sea two days before. It had infrared and night sensors.

“What’s the cloud status?” he asked.

“Fairly solid between eight thousand and fifteen thousand feet. There are a few holes beginning to show, but not near the platforms. For anything under fifteen thousand, we’ll be relying on Cottonseed’s radar.”

McKenna checked his watch, which he had reset to German time. Ten o’clock. He looked back up the corridor and saw Conover and Dimatta hanging onto the consoles outside their hangars. Dimatta was talking to Lynn Haggar, who was handling the hangar controls for his launch. Ben Olsen was working with Conover. McKenna gave them a thumbs-up.

“Time to go.”

“Be careful,” she said, still looking worried.

“Tony’s keeping an eye on me.”

Tang blew him a kiss, and McKenna smiled at her, then pushed off the console, grabbed the hatchway, and pulled himself into the hangar.

Benny Shalbot helped him strap in.

“How’s the new stripe, Benny?”

He didn’t wear the insignia on his jumpsuit, of course. No one did.

“Shit,” he said. “They’re starting to call me ‘Sarge’ now. I feel like a lifer.”

He was a lifer.

“Just respect talking, Benny.”

“Sure, Colonel. But, anyway, the pay’s better.”

Once his straps were tight and all of the umbilicals connected, Shalbot shoved off.

Tang used her PA system. “Clear the bay, please.”

“You ready, Tiger?”

“I’ve been ready for two days, Snake Eyes. Got to a point, there, where I was havin’ trouble fallin’ asleep.”

Seven minutes later, the doors opened, McKenna fired the thrusters, and the MakoShark drifted backward.

Tang and Pearson waved at them.

All of the MakoSharks reversed ends and the WSOs finished programming the computers.

Delta Blue had a nine-minute wait for a window.

“Not bad,” Munoz said.

McKenna ran radio checks, testing his transmission and reception with Alpha One, Semaphore, Cottonseed, Condor One, and Robin Hood One, the lead craft of the four airplane rescue squadron, all C-130 Hercules planes.

“Delta Yellow,” he called on the Tac-1 frequency. “How’s she holding up?”

“Better than new,” Conover told him. “I haven’t seen this much green since the last time I was in Borneo.”

“One minute, Snake Eyes,” Munoz said.

Automatically, his eyes went to the CRT and the TIME TO RETRO FIRE. Munoz was right, as usual.

“Keep the shiny side up,” Overton said.

“Tell me, which side’s the shiny one, Alpha?” Munoz radioed back.

“The one without missile exhaust burns. Don’t bring any missiles back, huh?”

“Roger that… four, three, two, one,” Munoz said.

McKenna double-checked his straps as the computer took over the rocket throttles. As the levers advanced silently, he was shoved back into the couch. The vibration in the floor felt familiar and good.

Themis disappeared from the rearview screen, and McKenna hated to see her go.

The rocket burn was longer than normal, going for two minutes and forty-two seconds.

The computer turned Delta Blue nose forward at Mach 19.6 and adjusted her for the forty-degree nose up angle.

The sun was hot and bright, trying to defeat the bronze tinting of the canopies. The earth was a wonderful blue under their position. South Pacific. McKenna picked out Tahiti and thought about the mural in Sixteen’s dining compartment. Put Pearson in the front of the mural.

At ninety miles of altitude, McKenna felt the grip of the atmosphere slowing the craft.

“We have coolant flow, Snake Eyes.”

The two blue lights on the HUD confirmed it.

The windscreen went to red-orange, and the stars disappeared.

He notched up the air conditioning by two clicks as the heat picked up.

As they came out of the blackout, the windscreen losing a yellow hue, Munoz called Themis, “Alpha One, Delta Blue at two-three-five thousand, Mach twelve-point-four.”

“Copy that, Blue.”

Conover and Dimatta checked in a few minutes later, and McKenna set up rendezvous coordinates over the northeast coast of France.

Then he radioed Murmansk on Tac-2.

“Condor One, Delta Blue.”

Volontov had been waiting by a microphone. He responded immediately. “Proceed, Delta Blue.”

“You’ve got twenty minutes, Condor.”

“We must wait that long?”

Volontov sent the message for the tankers to take off right away, then called General Sheremetevo. While he waited for the general, he looked around his operations room. It was crowded with pilots checking the weather and talking to each other, simultaneously eager and anxious. When he caught the eyes of his two squadron leaders, he pointed a forefinger upward. They nodded and began moving through the mob, tapping their pilots on the shoulders.

Like Volontov, the general had also been waiting, though perhaps more patiently. He was at Stavka where he could keep an eye on the action relayed through the airborne warning and control aircraft, which had already been aloft for several hours.

“I have just talked to McKenna, General. They are in position, indicating that they have final approval.”

“As do we, Pyotr Mikhailovich. You may take off at any time you wish.”

“It will be a few minutes,” Volontov said.

“You are aware that the Germans have twenty-four aircraft up?”

“Yes, Comrade General. The space station relayed that information as soon as the fighters left Germany. There are also four tanker aircraft. I suspect they intend to stay the night.”

“Do you think that they are forewarned, that there has been an information leak, Pyotr?”

“I don’t know, General. Probably. It looks as if they expect us.”

“Would you do anything differently, suspecting that that is the case?” Sheremetevo asked.

“No, General. My pilots are ready.”

“I wish you luck, then.”

Volontov hung up the telephone and stepped outside the operations building. The MiG-29s were lined up in two rows, the twelve aircraft of his own 2032nd and 2033rd squadrons, plus eight more provided by the 11th Fighter Wing. He had organized them as three squadrons. He would lead the 2033rd as Condor Flight, providing overhead coverage, and Maj. Anatoly Rostoken would take the Vulture Flight, the 2032nd, as the lead elements, the point of the spear. Maj. Arkady Michovoi would command the eight planes of the Tern Flight. Unlike the first two squadrons, which were armed with AA-11 missiles, Michovoi’s was armed with the new AS-X-10 air-to-surface missiles. It had a range of only seven kilometers, but was extremely accurate, guided by a semiactive laser.

For two days, they had been practicing McKenna’s recommended tactics with the AS-X-10. The Tern Flight aircraft would have to be very low, very close, and very precise.

The wind off the Barents Sea was brisk, chilling his face. In the darkness, he could see scraps of paper blowing across the runways. Portable lights moved around the aircraft, as did the ground crews in their yellow parkas. Tractors with empty missile trailers pulled away, and the start carts were spotted between every other plane. Pilots were climbing into their cockpits.

Volontov walked across the tarmac to his own MiG, shrugged out of his parka, and was helped into his parachute harness by his crew chief. He pulled his helmet on, then climbed the ladder and swung his legs into the cockpit.

He powered up the instrument panel and the inertial navigation computer before strapping in. It always took several minutes for the gyros to come up to speed.

His crew chief, on the ladder beside him, checked the connections, then said, “I want my airplane back whole, Colonel.”

“I want you to have it that way.” Volontov smiled.

The tower gave them permission to start engines, and ten aircraft started right away. Minutes later, after the start carts were connected, the last ten were under power. The noise of forty 8,300-kilogram thrust Tumansky turbofans revving up was earsplitting.

Volontov closed his canopy after the crew chief pulled the ladder away. The cockpit was cold and he turned up the heater all the way.

After making certain that his first tactical frequency was set at the proper frequency for contact with his wing and that the second frequency was adjusted to the one agreed with McKenna, Volontov called the tower.

“Murmansk, Condor One requesting taxi and takeoff clearance for a flight of twenty.”

“Condor One, you are cleared for Runway Ten right, takeoff in pairs. Wind is eleven knots, gusting to twenty, direction one-seven-zero. Temperature is two degrees.”

That was Centigrade, just above freezing. The water would be much colder. Volontov was wearing two sweaters and a pair of long underwear under his pressure suit, but they would not do much for him if he was forced down in the sea.

Releasing the brakes and turning on his wing lights and anticollision strobe, he pulled out of line for several meters, then turned right. His wingman followed, taking up a position off Volontov’s right wing.

The rest of the wing fell into line as the commander’s MiG passed the front row. A half kilometer later, he turned left onto the runway and braked to a stop. No other aircraft was scheduled, but he had checked the skies anyway.

Gurychenko, his wingman, took up a position to his right, and Volontov blinked his lights. Advancing his throttles, then releasing the brakes, Volontov allowed the MiG to roll. Gurychenko stayed right alongside.

He pushed the throttles outboard and shoved them into afterburner.

The MiG leaped like a ballet dancer. Halfway down the stage, she rose into the air, and he retraced the landing gear and flaps.

When he achieved 600 knots and 2,000 meters, Volontov shut down the afterburners. He continued to climb, waiting for the others to group around him.

There was very little talk on the radio. Everyone had his own thoughts to tend to, and the flight strategy had been ingrained after several briefings.

When the wing was complete, Volontov advanced his speed to Mach 1.5. They climbed quickly through low and scattered cloud cover and emerged into a starlit night. The clouds were like rolling plains below. Billowy steppes.

Three hundred kilometers out of Murmansk, Volontov spoke on the first tactical frequency. “This is Condor One. Code Neva. I say again, Code Neva.”

Condor Flight continued to climb, seeking the 15,000 meters they would maintain, while Vulture Flight leveled off at 6,000 meters and accelerated to Mach 1.7. When they were twenty kilometers ahead of the main group, they would return to Mach 1.5.

Tern Flight stayed at 6,000 meters. At the first sign of radar contact, they would dive to a hundred meters off the water and attempt to avoid the radar. After a few minutes passed, Volontov checked the positions by switching his radar to active.

Every one was in place.

He was proud of them.

His heading was shown as 000 degrees on the HUD, the reading taken from the gyroscopic compass. Magnetic compasses were less than reliable in the far north. The downward pull of magnetic north tended to depress the needles and make them jump from side to side.

Each of the flights met two tankers and topped off their fuel.

When the computer informed him that he had achieved 80 degrees north latitude, he checked his watch. 1112 hours, German time. They were two minutes ahead of schedule.

There would be ice shelf down there, but the clouds, which had been closing in, blocked a view of it.

On the second tactical frequency, Volontov said, “Delta Blue, Condor One.”

“Go Condor, you’ve got Blue.”

“Code Silver Lake.”

“Copy Silver Lake. Code Ural.”

“I receive Code Ural. Good luck, Delta Blue.”

“Same to you, fella.”

On the first tactical frequency, Volontov told his wing, “Code Volga.”

The entire flight turned to the west, Condor and Tern Flights waiting one and a half minutes, in order to stay directly behind Vulture flight.

Half an hour later, Rostoken reported the first radar probes.

Felix Eisenach was enjoying a late-night brandy with Hans Diederman in the engineer’s quarters on the fourth level when the duty officer called.

Diederman hung up the telephone and grabbed his jacket from the back of the sofa.

“There has been a radar contact, Herr General. Unidentified aircraft.”

Eisenach retrieved his own uniform jacket and slipped into it as he followed Diederman out of the small apartment and down the corridor to the operations room.

The dome did not have a military-type plotting screen, but one of the consoles was displaying the radar picture relayed by one of the Tornadoes over the ice platforms.

The console operator was a little excited. “I count… eh… count twenty aircraft, Lieutenant. Now, wait. Eight of them have disappeared into the clutter of ground return. They are flying very low.”

The duty officer looked up to Eisenach.

The general was extremely disappointed. He had been certain that attacks by aircraft were a thing of the past. Either the secret service’s leaking of the information about the fail-safe explosive devices had been ignored, or had not reached the proper ears. He should have used the newspapers, as the Americans had with the task force information.

“How many interceptors do we have up?” he asked.

The leutnant spoke to the operator. “Let us see our own radar.”

The screen flickered then displayed the area covered by the radar antenna on the dome. The Soviet — they had to be Soviet from that direction — aircraft were out of range.

With his finger, the operator checked off blips. “Twenty-four, Herr General.”

Twenty-four? That was all of the aircraft assigned to Weismann. Had the oberst known something that Eisenach had not known? The man had trouble communicating.

Nevertheless, Eisenach was happy to see all of the aircraft.

“Some of them are joining to meet the Soviets,” the leuntnant said. “See here? Ten of them.”

“That is good,” Eisenach said, relieved that Weismann had apparently instilled some discipline in his pilots.

The telephone rang, and the duty officer picked it up, listened, then handed the phone to Eisenach. “It is Admiral Schmidt.”

Eisenach took the handset. “Yes, Gerhard?”

“Did you know that twenty Soviet airplanes are coming at us, Felix?”

“Yes. I am watching on the screen.”

“And did you also know that the Soviet and British-American task forces have been turned northward and are making flank speed?”

“It could be expected,” Eisenach said. “As I mentioned to you.”

Inside, his stomach felt like jelly.

“I must have missed that mention,” Schmidt said. “I am going to sound General Quarters, and I am freeing my guns and missiles.”

“Of course,” Felix Eisenach said. “That is what you must do.”