Only military vessels and aircraft of any nation were to be challenged, and though Zeigman often hoped for such a confrontation, none had yet materialized.
The routine route around the sea-based rigs was accomplished in twelve minutes. He saw two whales sounding in the slate-gray seas, moving toward the south. He called Bahnsteig Drei with the information that a large iceberg was drifting in their direction. From March through September, the ice pack spawned large and small chunks of ice, and three huge seagoing tugboats were stationed in the area to nudge them away from a platform if necessary.
The platforms on the ice were in a ragged row that stretched over seventy kilometers in distance from east to west and were about twelve kilometers from the edge of the ice shelf. They were visible from a few miles away because of the slight mist that seemed to hang over them, frequently pluming up and away with the wind. Zeigman assumed that heat converters within the domes created the mist.
The ice pack was not smooth. Pressure ridges jutted from it, in long, jagged replicas of lightning. Some reached an altitude of severed hundred feet. Crevasses that could swallow whole airplanes, much less a schneekatze, a snow cat, belonging to one of the rigs, appeared abruptly and unexpectedly. Pollutants from the atmosphere grayed the surface and took the edge off the whiteness, but the sun’s reflection was still dazzling, and Zeigman kept his tinted visor lowered.
He followed the row eastward, away from the storm brewing in the west. If there was much wind in that storm, to fling the snow crystals about, the ice-bound wells would be whited out. A helicopter from one of the resupply ships was landing at Bahnsteig Neunzehn. The men at Bahnsteig Vierundzwanzig were engaged in a volleyball game outside the dome, on the helicopter pad, and he waggled his wings at them as he shot overhead. He would not report the frivolity. Zeigman did not give a damn what they did on the rigs. Oil was oil, and only when it was refined into JP-4 to feed his engine did he pay attention to it.
As the last well passed under him, Zeigman advanced his throttle and pulled the nose up. Dialing the Nav/Com radio into the air group’s net, he triggered the transmit button. “Pelican One, this is Tiger Leader.”
“Go ahead, Tiger Leader,” the tanker pilot told him.
“Pelican One, in four minutes, my fuel state will be critical. Where are you?”
The pilot gave him the coordinates. “You are always near critical, Tiger Leader. You should plan better.”
“Ah, but it is more fun being on the edge,” Zeigman told him. And it was.
Four
McKenna was asleep in his office when a none-too-gentle slap on the shoulder awakened him. He rocked against the restraint encircling his waist.
Looking to his left, he saw Pearson’s face in the gap between the curtains that closed off his office cell.
“I’ve got the map ready, McKenna.”
Since the time McKenna had made a playful pass at her two years before, Pearson had come to regard the differences in their military ranks as insignificant. McKenna cared less about military tides and military courtesy, except where it was absolutely necessary, but he wished that she would call him something besides “McKenna.” It was always said in a flat, neutral tone.
He brought his left hand to shoulder level, cocked it at the wrist, and waved at her. “Hi, Red.”
She liked that nickname a little less than he liked “McKenna,” from her. Wrinkling her nose at him, she said, “Wake up and come on out here.”
Sighing, he pulled the Velcro straps loose, pushed out of the cubicle, and followed her graceful arc into the command center. Overton was waiting beside the console under the viewing port. A blowsily white view of Antarctica was showing.
The other side of the world was displayed on the main console screen, one of seven screens available to the command center. Three technicians hovered, monitoring the consoles.
Pearson’s map of the Greenland Sea now had green circles representing each of the wells, and inside each circle was a number.
“We don’t know,” she said, “how the Germans are identifying the drilling platforms, but I’ve given each a number, according to when it went into operation.”
There didn’t seem to be a pattern, McKenna noticed. The rigs on the ice had been emplaced last. Their numbers ran from sixteen to twenty-four, but not in order. Sixteen was in the middle of the line, twenty-three on the east end, and twenty-four on the west end. So much for the vaunted German sense of organization.
The offshore wells were just as muddled, with number one in the center of the irregular cluster.
“Couldn’t you have renumbered a little, just to make it easier?” he asked.
“Your logical mind can’t handle this, Colonel McKenna?”
In front of the general, McKenna got a title.
“We’ll do it your way,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Overton told him, “One of the problems we have, Kevin, is that our standard satellite coverage is naturally more concerned with Europe, Asia, and the Barents and North seas. Only sporadically do we get a pass over the Greenland and Arctic seas, and even then, we haven’t been particularly watchful. The data we have on hand is limited.”
“You’re certain these wells are being overprotected, Amy?” McKenna asked. He still wasn’t sure that her suspicions were well-founded.
“From the information I’ve gathered, I am. And NORAD is similarly intrigued.”
“Okay, point made. What do you want?”
With a clear-polished nail, she traced a route over the screen of the monitor. “We want close-up shots of at least three of the platforms, and we want infrared and low-light film of all of them. There are also naval ships in the area, and you should get as many of them as you can.”
“We have any ideas on the shipping?”
“The long-distance photos we have suggest a few armed vessels and some supply ships. The missile cruiser was identified by its deck and funnel layout as the Hamburg. I’m going to check on her assignments through the covert channels.”
“And the patrol aircraft?”
Overton answered. “After we backtracked through the old photos, we suspect they originate out of New Amsterdam Air Force Base. They’re Panavia Tornados and, occasionally, a pair of Eurofighters or Dornier 228s. Amsterdam has four air wings assigned to it, Kevin, all of them equipped with similar aircraft, so we can’t pinpoint the squadron or group. If you happen to run into a plane, get its tail number, would you?”
“Sure thing, Jim.”
“Anything else, Amy? Want me to bring back a pizza and a six-pack?”
Her pale green eyes studied him, perhaps with a trace of amusement in them, but it didn’t transfer to her mouth. “Just the photos, Colonel.”
“I’ll go get my Brownie. Oh, Jim? Conover and Dimatta are due back in a few hours. Would you tell Will to stand down and Frank to prepare for a second run on the wells? We’ll get some backup on whatever I find.”
“Will do, Kevin,” the general said.
*
After the hatch spun and locked behind McKenna, Pearson tapped the keyboard and cleared the screen.
She could feel General Overton studying her. Pearson knew he was a competent judge of people, and he was constantly on the lookout for signs of abrasiveness between members of his crew. In the confines of Themis, teamwork was essential. Arguments between station personnel did not contribute to the mission, and if the warring factions got out of hand, Overton would ship the least necessary person earth side immediately. He had done it before.
She was absolutely certain that the general considered McKenna more necessary than he did her. Though she liked the commander, and she thought he liked her, Over-ton wouldn’t allow anything to interfere with the command assigned to him.
Pearson knew he was waiting — had been waiting for months — for her to say something about her dislike for McKenna. And then, boom, she would be on the next Mako flight to Peterson.
She wasn’t going to give Overton t
he chance, or McKenna the satisfaction, of getting rid of her. In every position she had ever held, she had had to stand her ground, fight for her rights, and she wasn’t giving up, now.
She had analyzed her reaction to the squadron commander before. It wasn’t that McKenna was unattractive. The lines in his face, the pilot’s squint of his eyes, gave him the appearance of maturity and made him rather ruggedly handsome. His dark hair, though too long, seemed to always stay in place, even in the zero-gravity environment. And yet, there were other things that bothered her. His playful attitude in serious situations jangled her nerves and contradicted the maturity she expected him to display. She knew he was a highly competent pilot, and that competence was sometimes reflected in the deadly slate gray of his eyes. There was a subtle arrogance to the man, as if he knew too well his own capability. He expected things to happen as he planned, just because he was in control.
And the men in his squadron thought he was god. They would do anything, legal or illegal, for him. That was what irritated her most, his loyal following. She was also expected to be a fan. Besides herself, no one else seemed to recognize that he was just a man.
A man who was supposed to be a professional, just as she was a professional. Recognizing her contribution. Staying at arm’s length, maintaining the professional distance. Not patting her on the fanny when he felt like it.
“Are you all right, Amy?”
She looked up from the blank screen. I’m fine, General. Just getting organized.”
Pearson smiled at him, then pushed off from the console, floated across the center, and entered the communications compartment, the “Radio Shack.”
T. Sgt. Donna Amber, one of the three women on board, had the shift, and she was anchored before the primary console, monitoring the circuits in use aboard the station. Amber was a mousy woman — brown hair clipped short, brown eyes, tiny. She was also amazingly proficient at the complex radio, video, radar, and computer console.
From one speaker issued the sounds of some hard rock group.
“Do you want to kill that, Donna?”
“Sure thing, Colonel.” She depressed a keypad, and the high-pitched guitar was silenced. “We have work to do?”
“Yes. First, we want to tap into NATO.”
“Comm net, or data base?”
“The data base,” Pearson told her.
Amber checked the readout mounted on the wall that gave her the station’s celestial coordinates. “Okay, I can get there through a Rhyolite II channel.”
Themis had access to a wide variety of communications networks and computer data bases, utilizing microwave, VHF, and UHF relays in several satellite systems. Commonly, they used the Air Force Satellite Communications System (AFSATCOM) or the Critical Communications Net (CRITICOM), but frequently, because of their orbit characteristics, they could lose contact with those systems. Then, the station linked up through other satellites, such as the Rhyolite. This particular link, though Pearson no longer thought about the details, went through the Rhyolite at 22,300 miles above the earth, to an American DSCS III at 500 miles, to a NATO IIIB, then to the microwave antenna complex outside Brussels, Belgium.
Although Themis — 1st Aerospace Wing, and its 1st Aerospace Squadron operated under the Space Command of the U.S. Air Force, the role of Themis was multipurpose, responding to the needs of many agencies, and the station had access to NATO, CIA, National Security Agency, Defense Intelligence Agency, FBI, Treasury, and State data bases. Almost everyone aboard the station had cryptographic security clearances of the highest order.
While the sergeant set up the communication links, Pearson pulled herself into position in front of a secondary computer screen.
When the screen told her she was connected to the North Atlantic Treaty Organization Military Data Base, she entered an access code that brought up a menu:
1) GENERAL INFORMATION
2) PERSONNEL INFORMATION (RESTRICTED ACCESS)
3) MILITARY INFORMATION (RESTRICTED ACCESS)
She tapped “3.”
1) PUBLIC RELATIONS OFFICE
2) NATO INFORMATION (RESTRICTED ACCESS)
3) WARSAW PACT INFORMATION (RESTRICTED ACCESS)
4) COMMUNICATIONS CONTROL (RESTRICTED ACCESS)
5) NUCLEAR CONTROL (RESTRICTED ACCESS)
6) AIR CONTROL (RESTRICTED ACCESS)
7) NAVAL FORCES (RESTRICTED ACCESS)
8) GROUND FORCES (RESTRICTED ACCESS)
9) INTELLIGENCE OFFICE (RESTRICTED ACCESS)
She keyed the number “2.” Pearson was still somewhat amazed at the fact that unified Germany was still a member of NATO, but knew that it was primarily because of the German distrust of the Soviet Union. And though NATO had been dramatically downsized in forces, influence, and role, it still operated an extensive intelligence collection function.
And here she was, snooping in the confidential data of a supposed ally.
She entered two more seven-digit codes, allowing her access to all but the most highly classified data files. Using the Hamburg as her key, she called up all of the available data on the ship, its current assignment, and its primary officers. When she saw that it had been designated as the flagship of Adm. Gerhard Schmidt, she called up his file, also.
She stored the information in the Themis mainframe computer, cleared the screen, and went searching for data on New Amsterdam Air Force Base. She called up the files concerning the base’s air units, commanders, and role and mission, then stored that in her own machine.
Pearson checked for a file on Bremerhaven Petroleum Corporation, but there was nothing there.
“All right, Donna, let’s go to the CIA, then the DIA.”
“Coming up, Colonel.”
From both agencies, Pearson extracted similar information, though again, nothing on Bremerhaven. She supposed that General Brackman was requesting an investigation. Later, she would run a comparison program against all of her files, eliminate duplicate information, and come up with comprehensive files. After she culled those, she would print out a short, but complete briefing report.
“Is that it, Colonel?”
Pearson thought for a moment. “Do you suppose, Donna, that you could get into the German Defense Command’s computer?”
“I doubt it,” Amber said, “but it’d sure be fun to try.”
Pearson wondered why everything had to be fun.
*
Felix Eisenach’s helicopter landed at the Bremerhaven naval facility at four o’clock, half an hour past its scheduled arrival time. The Messerschmitt-Bolkow-Blohm B0105 was olive drab, marked only with the blue, red, and yellow German flag and, below it, the yellow flag with two stars denoting a general-major. The slate-gray MBB B0105 parked next to it carried the single-starred flag of a navy admiral.
Bremerhaven was a lively, buzzing port, swarming with civilian shipping. Panamanian, Norwegian, Kuwaiti, British, and Soviet freighters and tankers lined the docks and crept slowly in and out of the mouth of the Weser River. A Japanese ship disgorged multihued little cars at one of the large piers.
In the naval yards, thirty-four ships were moored out or made fast to the quays, side by side, four and five deep. Launches and supply tenders poked among them like hungry water beetles. Shore-based cranes waddled back and forth on their rails, trundling cargo nets filled to capacity with crates and boxes. Sailors and civilian workers scurried about on important errands. Eisenach noted with some satisfaction that many of the ships displayed fresh gray paint, sharp edges, the newest radar antennas. In some report he had read, the German High Command had boasted of a 30 percent increase in naval units over the past five years. Most of the new vessels fell into medium-displacement ranges — assault transports, helicopter ships, destroyers, and small missile frigates. There were two new missile cruisers, the Hamburg and the Stuttgart, and two new submarines. The cruisers and the submarines were powered by nuclear reactors.
As the rotors slowed, Eisenach pushed open the door and stepped down from the small h
elicopter. He ducked his head, held his peaked cap in place, and walked toward the waiting sedan.
Kapitän Werner Niels, Schmidt’s aide, climbed out of the car and saluted.
Returning the salute, Eisenach raised an eyebrow.
“The admiral arrived earlier, General Eisenach, and went on to the officers’ club. He awaits you there.”
“Very well, Kapitän. Let us join him.” Eisenach slipped into the rear seat, and Niels went around to get in on the other side.
Admiral Schmidt was frequently too independent for Eisenach’s tastes. The man could have waited a half hour for his commander to arrive. But no, Schmidt had been in command of ships for a long time, and he was as accustomed to making his own decisions as he was impatient. And Eisenach suspected that Schmidt felt some aversion to reporting to an air force general officer.
Perhaps, also, Schmidt was somewhat frustrated. He had wanted command of the 1st Fleet, but had been cajoled and threatened into accepting command of the Dritte Marinekraft. Though he commanded eighteen major vessels, Schmidt did not consider the task force’s mission as vital as Eisenach did.
The driver pulled away from the helicopter pad located on the quay and found his way through the labyrinth of warehouses and fabrication plants that crowded upon the docks. Sailors came to attention and saluted as they went by. Toward the back of the base, they passed parade grounds, large brick barracks, and administrative buildings. Elm and oak trees lined the streets, and the grass plots around structures were closely clipped.
The officer’s club was solidly built of red brick and was new. Eisenach and Niels got out and walked up the pristine sidewalk to the double glass doors, the kapitän holding one of them for him.
Schmidt was waiting for him in one of the private meeting rooms, a stein of lager in front of him. The admiral often boasted that he drank only beer. He was a large, florid-faced man in his early sixties. His steel gray hair was shorn to almost nonexistence, and his blue eyes were unwavering. The skin of his face was firm, but his ears jutted outward from his skull like semaphores.
“Well, Felix, you have finally arrived.”
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