Delta Blue

by William H. Lovejoy

  “They already do,” Thorpe told him. “I’ll process your oral recommendation, and we’ll see if we can’t find an allocation somewhere.”

  Munoz broke in, “You’ve got my recommendation, too. How about silver oak leaves? Got any of those laying around somewhere?”

  “Can it, Tiger. I appreciate that, Semaphore. How we doing for Cottonseed?”

  “Cottonseed’s four minutes from station. He’s standing by on this frequency,” Thorpe said. “Condor and Vulture are in alert status.”

  “Roger, that. Are we a go?”

  “Go, Delta Blue.”

  McKenna checked the HUD. Mach 1.4. Altitude

  42,000. Green LED’s everywhere.

  On his right, the low sun was threatening, a pink nipple on the horizon. At lower altitude, though, it would be dark enough for the first part of the flight.

  The plan was to make a curving pass northward, starting over the German mainland, swinging around the jut of Norway over the North Sea, continuing over the Norwegian Sea, and then into the Greenland Sea. Pearson was hoping to trace the electromagnetic anomalies out of Germany to the offshore platforms.

  They had to do it at 600 knots. Right at 690 miles per hour. Slower was better, faster might jumble the readings, since, according to Shalbot, the tape recording mechanism was equivalent to, “the one Moses used.”

  The distance was 1,900 miles. It would take two and three-quarters hours, and they would hit the platforms in strong early morning light.

  McKenna pressed the Tac-2 button, preset for the frequency he and Volontov had agreed upon. It was not a scrambled frequency.

  “Condor One, Delta Blue.”

  “Delta Blue, this is Condor One. Proceed.”

  “Condor, we’ll be on our IP in two minutes. You might want to start engines in about forty minutes.”

  “Copy forty minutes. Condor out.”

  Back to Tac-1. “Cottonseed, Delta Blue.”

  “Go ahead, Delta Blue.”

  “What do you see me flying into?”

  “Blue, we no longer have coverage of your area, but an hour ago, two Eurofighters and two Tornados took off from New Amsterdam, headed north. Mildenhall RAF reports two Tornados flying the French border. You’ve got eleven scheduled commercial flights in the area of operations. I can read them off for you, if you like.”

  “We’ve got the commercial aircraft input already,” McKenna said. “What about in your area?”

  “We’re showing three formations currently. The flight makeup appears to consist of two Tornados and two Eurofighters, Blue. We have a flight approaching the ice, a flight on the southbound leg, and two tankers are aloft at three-zero-thousand, south of Svalbard. Then, we’re expecting the flight from New Amsterdam.”

  “Thank you, Cottonseed. Delta Blue out.”

  On the intercom, Munoz said, “They’re beefin’ up the beef, amigo.”

  “Looks that way, Tiger.”

  “IP!”

  McKenna set the elapsed time counter on his chronometer to zero, then eased the hand controller forward. By the time they passed over Bremerhaven, the MakoShark was steady at 600 knots and 3,000 feet of altitude. Dimatta and Conover each checked in with the same readings.

  Munoz cussed Shalbot’s jury-rigged controls, lashed to the left side of his cockpit, but seemed to think the magnetometer was operating.

  Bremerhaven was dark, the streets identified by long rows of street lights. A few early risers were up, pushing headlight beams along the shaded streets. The naval base was well lit, a destroyer and a freighter putting out to sea side by side. New Amsterdam Air Force Base launched a multi-engined jet transport of some kind that took off to the east.

  No one seemed to notice them.

  “Let’s make the turn, Snake Eyes.”

  McKenna used a lot of space to make a left turn to a heading of 345 degrees.

  “Green turning.”

  “Yellow turned.”

  “Copy,” McKenna told them.

  Twenty minutes later, they all turned back to dead north. If the expectations were correct, Delta Blue was approximately over the eastern cable.

  “I wish to hell I could get a concurrent readin’ on this thing,” Munoz said. “I don’t like not knowin’ what we’re gettin’. If anything.”

  “Trust to God and Benny Shalbot, Tiger.”

  Twenty minutes after that, Munoz said, “Arctic Circle, jefe.”

  “Roger.”

  He called Cottonseed and got an update on the German patrol planes.

  McKenna went to Tac-2. “Condor One, Delta Blue.”

  “Proceed, Delta Blue.”

  “What’s your situation, Condor?”

  “On station, the last two aircraft are almost finished refueling.”

  The Fulcrums were circling at 30,000 feet over the Barents Sea, fifty miles out of range of radar aboard either the offshore platforms or the tankers replenishing the German aircraft.

  “Condor, you have two flights of mixed Tornados and Eurofighters. Flight One is currently refueling south of Svalbard. Flight Two is on the western edge of the ice pack. I’d appreciate your help.”

  “Delta Blue, Condor. We will depart these coordinates now.”

  It was getting light out, the dawn a milky gray spreading over a darker gray sea. To the east a few miles was some cloud cover, but it wasn’t doing Delta Blue any good. It might mask Delta Green for a while.

  Unable to change his speed, heading, or altitude, McKenna felt a little exposed.

  “One o’clock high,” Munoz said.

  McKenna looked up. There were four aircraft in a loose formation.

  “They’re southbound and down,” Munoz quoted. “Those assholes are thinking about sausage and eggs, not us.”

  “I don’t think so, either,” McKenna agreed.

  He estimated that the Germans were flying at 30,000 feet. Having successfully completed their patrol of the platforms, they were not looking for intruders in the middle of the Norwegian Sea.

  Ten minutes later, the German planes were out of sight to the south.

  But he saw a ship coming up on the horizon.

  *

  Zeigman circled to the east of the tanker, waiting for his last two planes to be fueled.

  He was watching the sea. It was bland and mesmerizing, shades of gray. Most of his days and nights were that way. The northern regions always gave a feeling of overcast, even when the sun was shining. As he came around, Svalbard Island appeared in his windscreen, also bland. It was fifteen kilometers away.

  Idly, he automatically swept the instrument panel with his eyes. He glanced at the radar scope.

  What!

  He counted the blips, then pressed the transmit button. “Tiger Flight, break off refueling and join on me. Panther Leader, do you hear me?”

  Wilhelm Metzenbaum, Panther Führer; came back to him immediately. “Panther Leader, Tiger.”

  “Go to military power, Panther Flight, and join on me. I have eight targets, possibly Soviet aircraft, at one-six-zero-zero-zero altitude, three-five kilometers, my bearing zero-three-eight.”

  As his wingman and second element closed in on him, Zeigman advanced his throttles and began to climb.

  “You are an asshole,” he told his weapons system operator over the intercom.

  “Major?” squeaked Hauptman Fritz Gehring.

  “You should have seen the Russians earlier.”

  “I am sorry, Major.”

  “Do not be sorry. Keep your eyes open. We will arm all systems now.”

  Within minutes, Wilhelm Metzenbaum’s flight sidled in next to them.

  “Tiger Leader, our new tactics will not work against MiGs.”

  “Agreed, Panther. Take the Eurofighters and go to three-five-zero-zero-zero meters. We will make the first strike, and you the second.”

  “One strike is all we have in us, Tiger Leader. Our fuel supply is limited.”

  “One pass is all you will need,” Zeigman promised, “if
that.”

  He worked his shoulder muscles and stretched his fingers. He felt good, all charged up.

  MiGs.

  He had never attacked MiGs before.

  *

  Gerhard Schmidt listened to the radio exchanges of the German pilots, sitting in his upholstered chair in his flag plot aboard the Hamburg.

  Provide them with a warning Tiger Leader. Shoo them away.

  He heard nothing.

  Schmidt looked at his aide, Werner Niels. The man looked slightly sickly.

  “Lieutenant,” he said to his plotter, “have we a radar contact with those aircraft?”

  The leutnant spoke into his headphone, listened, then tapped his keyboard. Eight green rectangles appeared on the plotting board. They were east of Svalbard Island, heading east-north-east.

  “I am sorry, Herr Admiral, the radar can reach only Tiger and Panther flights. The Soviet airplanes are beyond our range.”

  Schmidt detested seeing only half the battle. His mind was good at imagining the things he could not see, one of the reasons he was an excellent tactician. His brain kept track of unseen destroyers, frigates, and submarines with only minimal input as to course, heading, and speed. He anticipated the intentions of ship commanders with frequent success. Airplanes, and their arrogant operators, were much more difficult.

  He studied the plotting board. One by one, the green rectangles blinked out as they chased the Soviet aircraft out of radar range.

  Just below the ice cap on the plotting board was his own ship, the Hamburg and her escorts. The second battle group, centered on the Stuttgart, was also out of his radar range, but plotted by hand. It was forty miles off the northern coast of Norway. The third battle group was near Iceland, practicing maneuvers. The fourth group patrolled the southwestern edge of the offshore platforms.

  Two of the tugboats were fending off an ice floe at Bahnsteig Zwei, and the other was standing by near Bahnsteig Vierzehn. A fuel tender was approaching the fourth battle group.

  He looked out the big window at the coming day. The visibility was good for about a kilometer.

  He turned back and studied the plotting board.

  “What do you think, Werner?”

  His aide broke off a trance between himself and the board. “I think, Admiral, that all of our air cover has fled to the east. There is not one airplane in the sky over the ice or the offshore platforms.”

  “My observation, also.”

  Schmidt thought about it for one more minute, then keyed the intercom button set into the arm of his chair.

  “Sir?” Kapitän Froelich said.

  “Captain, I want you to sound General Quarters. Alert the second and fourth battle groups to do the same. Also alert any of the platforms that have been armed. All antiaircraft and missile batteries are freed. They may fire at any aircraft they see.”

  “But, Admiral! Our fighters … ”

  “Are off on a wild-goose chase, Captain. Do as you are told.”

  The klaxon sounded immediately.

  *

  Delta Blue passed almost directly over the ship.

  “It’s a fuel tanker, Snake Eyes. Unarmed.”

  “Think they saw us?”

  “Damned sure of it. Couple of those guys nearly fell overboard, gawking.”

  “Okay, then. The alarm’s been sounded. You can play with your radar set.”

  “Finally.”

  McKenna saw the first of the platforms coming up. The dome had a bare, dull gleam of morning reflecting off of it. It was light enough now to see that the sea had a rough look to it. The waves were capping at about four feet, he guessed. White spume sprayed from the crests.

  He hit Tac-1. “Delta Flight, arm missiles and guns, but maintain your courses. They’re on to us, but completing the map is the priority. Do-Wop, you still monitoring the Soviet channel?”

  “Roger that, Snake Eyes. They’ve got themselves a skirmish going. From their AWACS guys, who are recapping in English for me, I make it seven missiles fired on both sides, no hits. The Sovs are starting to break it off, and two of the Germans have skedaddled. The tankers are headed east, so maybe they’re short of go-juice.”

  “Okay, Do-Wop, keep me posted if anything gets out of hand. Cottonseed, you there?”

  “Go, Delta Blue.”

  “Any readings?”

  “Nothing airborne. You feel like squawking me?” McKenna hit the IFF switch, counted to three, then killed it.

  “Got you, Delta Blue. Four miles to the first platform. That’s number nine. Then you’ll see number one off your right wing, then number seven off your left. Then you’ll see the Hamburg, dead on.”

  “What’s she doing, Cottonseed?”

  “She and her two destroyers are now turning south. I’m going to call it one-seven-seven degrees. They’ve probably gotten a report from that fuel tanker.”

  “Thank you, Cottonseed. Blue out.”

  The radar screen showed three targets, wells nine, thirteen, and five.

  “Going back to visual, Snake Eyes.”

  The screen went to gray. Gray sea. Gray day.

  McKenna checked the HUD. Airspeed 600 knots, altitude 3,000 feet. Boring routine, gray day.

  “Hey, hombre! That sucker’s armed.”

  McKenna looked down at the magnified image. On the helicopter pad near the dome, two antiaircraft guns had been mounted. On the far side of the pad were two SAM installations, the missile mounts sporting three cylinders each. Midway between them was a small house trailer topped with a radar antenna.

  “Kill the radar,” he said.

  “Already done.”

  “Alert the others.”

  Munoz called Dimatta and Conover and passed on the information.

  “Delta Blue, Semaphore.”

  “Go Semaphore.”

  “Do we read armed platforms?”

  “Two AA batteries and two SAMs on nine.”

  The platform was coming up quickly.

  “Abort the mission.”

  “That’ll piss Amy-baby,” Munoz said, fortunately on the intercom.

  “Delta Yellow, Delta Green, abort,” McKenna said. “Semaphore, I’m going to take it on through. My course is right up the middle, and if we don’t get it now, we may not get it at all.”

  Brackman’s voice: “Delta Blue, you had an order.”

  “Hey, Semaphore, if it gets hairy, we’ll boost out.”

  A couple seconds of carrier wave.

  “Very well, Delta Blue. Use your judgment.”

  Airspeed 600, altitude 3,000.

  “We’ve got to do some critical thinkin’ about our ordnance loads, jefe. All we got is air-to-air.”

  McKenna reached out and armed all four of the Wasps and the gun. “Do the best you can, Tiger. Scare hell out of them, anyway.”

  At one mile, the AA guns opened up.

  Puffs of flak began to pop around them.

  McKenna held course, speed, and altitude.

  “Amy better kiss you for this, amigo.”

  “Precisely.”

  One of the SAM emplacements started to rotate, the missiles tilting over toward them.

  Nothing happened.

  “They can’t figure out where the hell we are on radar,” Munoz said.

  He launched one Wasp, waited a count of three, then launched a second.

  McKenna saw the rocket trail as the first one homed in on the SAM radar trailer. Munoz guided the second by hand toward the closest AA gun.

  Germans scattered like ants in a Raid storm. McKenna saw two men go over the side of the platform into the sea. He thought it would be pretty damned cold.

  Whump-whump.

  The Wasps detonated, one after the other.

  Whoosh.

  Delta Blue flashed over the platform.

  “Scratch one AA, one SAM radar,” Munoz said. “Hell, they never even got a missile off.”

  Seconds later, they went by platform number five and found it unarmed.

  Platform o
ne was armed, but they passed it six miles to the west, and the dome was between them and the well’s defensive armament.

  Platform seven wasn’t armed, either, but it had the Hamburg for company.

  “I think we have all the electromagnetic readings we want to have,” McKenna said.

  “I’m sure that’s true, compadre?”

  “Shall we go home?”

  “Chad, Chad, Snake Eyes. Beer and a Bloody Mary.”

  “Right you are.”

  The cruiser fired its first missile as McKenna went into a left turn, streaking over platform seven.

  “Incoming,” Munoz said. The volume of his voice didn’t even raise.

  McKenna tightened his turn, rolling his right wing vertical.

  “The G’s, Snake Eyes! The G’s!”

  “Oh, shit! I forgot.”

  Pushing the hand controller forward, McKenna relieved the gravitational forces. He didn’t want to lose anything recorded by Shalbot’s sensitive equipment and have to rehash this flight.

  The right wing was still up, the MakoShark in knife-edge flight.

  The rearview screen showed the SAM homing on the flicker of heat it was getting from one of the engines.

  “That one’s a heat-seeker. Another one launched,” Munoz said.

  “Chaff.”

  Munoz released a flurry of aluminized confetti intended to confuse the missile’s guidance system.

  “Flare.”

  The WSO punched out two magnesium flares. The brightly burning flares might draw off a heat-seeking missile.

  McKenna touched the right rudder, turning right — climbing, and hiding his exhaust from the missile. He shoved the throttles full forward, watching the gravitational force readout.

  When it reached 1.9, he backed off the throttles.

  The SAM exploded just behind them.

  “Jesus, that was close!” Cottonseed said. “You’ve got another coming, Blue!”

  McKenna rolled upright, still climbing, passing through 9,000 feet. The airspeed indicator held at Mach .9.

  The SAM was a deadly black eye in the rearview screen.

  “Blow off a Wasp, Tiger.”

  Instantly, the Wasp launched from its rail, then dove downward under Munoz’s guidance.

  The SAM liked the hot exhaust of the Wasp better than the negligible one of the MakoShark. It curved away from them, disappearing from the rearview screen.