Delta Blue

by William H. Lovejoy

  “Delta Blue, Semaphore. You all right?”

  “A-one. Just taking care of the IO’s interests, Semaphore.”

  *

  At ten o’clock in the morning, Felix Eisenach appeared in Marshal Hoch’s office, as ordered.

  Eisenach was accompanied by Oberst Maximillian Oberlin and Oberst Albert Weismann. All of them were in immaculate uniform, but the sleeplessness of an early morning was in their eyes.

  Marshal Hoch had abandoned the discipline of military weight training fifteen years before. Eisenach judged him to be close to 135 kilograms, all of it hanging from a very short frame. His jaws bulged, and his eyes were recessed behind plump cheeks and overhanging eyebrows.

  Despite the appearance, he was still a marshal, and he was still very intelligent.

  His face was flushed with his indignation.

  He stood behind his desk and said, “There are two things, Felix.”

  “Yes, Herr Marshal?”

  “This.” Hoch held out a sheet of paper, and Eisenach stepped forward to take it. Oberlin and Weismann remained near the door.

  Eisenach read through it quickly. Another request from the American State Department, this time addressed to the High Command, demanding explanations for the activities in the Greenland Sea.

  “I would direct them to the Bremerhaven Petroleum Corporation, Marshal Hoch.”

  “Yes. And the next communiqué will be more fiercely worded”

  “So be it,” Eisenach said. “By then, we shall have Ghost operational and flight-tested. Then, you will see a change in the American tone.”

  Hoch glared hard at him from those deep-set eyes. “Perhaps.”

  Eisenach waited in silence, not eager to hear of the second item.

  The marshall turned his head on his bull neck to look at Oberst Weismann. “You have an explanation for this morning’s fiasco, Colonel?

  Weismann’s red face became redder. “I have no excuses that are acceptable, Herr Marshal. I was at Peenemünde when the attacks came. My squadron leaders took it upon themselves to engage the Soviets.”

  “Leaving the platforms without air cover.”

  “Yes, Herr Marshal.”

  “And not even, as a byproduct, managing to shoot down a single Soviet aircraft.”

  “Yes, Herr Marshal. The MiG pilots were very good, and the plan well executed. As soon as our planes were drawn away from the platforms, the MiG’s turned and ran. Nine missiles were fired, six from our aircraft, but the distances were too great for accuracy.”

  Hoch turned back to Eisenach. “Admiral Schmidt seems to have been the only one prepared to meet an enemy, General. Must we always rely on the navy?”

  “No, Herr Marshall, not again.”

  Twelve

  “Depth charge missiles? Depth charge missiles!” Sergeant Bert Embry was a trifle outraged. “No way, Colonel.”

  McKenna spoke into the open mike, “What do you think, Mabry?”

  Lt. Mabry Evans at Jack Andrews Air Force Base said, “It’s an interesting problem, Colonel.”

  Evans was looking at a photocopy of the same map that McKenna, Embry, and Pearson were scanning in the Command Center. Pearson had taken the electromagnetic mapping tapes and printed them on clear plastic. The map was fuzzy and highly irregular. The instruments had picked up anything that generated or carried electricity. The earth itself was a source in many places, creating false returns. High voltage sources were best defined, but factories and automobiles on the mainland had produced spots. The city, with its concentration of televisions, stereos, radios, washers, dryers, computers, and the like, was a dim, sloppy blur. At sea, especially along the coast in the shipping lanes, large ships could be pinpointed. In the north, the wells themselves stood out clearly, reinforcing the turbine-generator theory.

  The transmission lines had been less clearly defined than Pearson had hoped, perhaps because of the depth of the seabed for much of the distance, or perhaps, as Evans had suggested, because the cable itself was mildly armored and insulated. Still, there had been enough of a pattern to define two transmission lines extending from the supposed pumping stations on the mainland up through the North, Norwegian, and Greenland seas to the wells. Among the wells themselves, it was difficult to exactly note the cables, but the electromagnetic patterns from all wells seemed to converge on wells number one and eleven for the most part.

  Pearson had drawn in inked lines, following the centers of two parallel patterns, dotting the lines when the patterns were not totally revealed, then overlaid the clear plastic on a map of the region. The consensus was that the Germans had laid two cables a mile apart. Both probably carried electrical energy, but one of them backed up the other in case of a breakdown or other interference. That theory was supported by the two receiving stations on the mainland.

  Evans said, “I don’t suppose we could take a shot at the two places where the cable comes ashore? I’m pretty sure they’re buried pretty deep, below the dummy pipelines, but that would have the best chance for success.”

  “No, Mabry. I won’t even ask Brackman about that. The mainland is going to be off-limits. In fact, I suspect that anything south of the Arctic Circle will be off-limits. We don’t want any of our sorties witnessed by passersby.”

  “Who passes by?” Sergeant Embry asked.

  “A Greenpeace boat, for one.”

  “How about where the cables leave the platforms?” Embry asked. “I know that takes twenty-four shots, instead of two, but we could maybe slice a cable directly under the platform.”

  “Forget it, Sergeant,” Pearson said. “We don’t know the configuration of extraction and injection well casing in relation to the cables. We won’t take a chance on hitting the well casing, the anchor lines, or some other stabilization lines that I suspect are attached to the casing and cable.”

  “There’s a spot,” McKenna said, “at seventy-five degrees, four minutes north and two degrees, seven minutes east where the western cable appears brightest. Amy has the depth shown as three hundred and twenty feet.”

  “Undersea mountain,” she said.

  “Would a Phoenix or Sidewinder penetrate to that depth?” McKenna asked.

  “Uh-huh,” Embry said.

  “No, Colonel,” Evans agreed with the NCO. “We could maybe devise a warhead with a depth fuse, and even come up with a Rube Goldberg electromagnetic homing device, but the guidance is going to come apart on us as soon as it hits the sea. This is purely a guess, but I don’t think any of the ordnance in our inventory is going to go much deeper than fifty feet before it goes haywire.”

  “Damn it,” McKenna said.

  “But, if you could pull a few strings, Colonel, maybe we could turn the MakoShark into a torpedo plane.”

  Embry nodded.

  Pearson asked, “You think so, Mabry?”

  “It’s worth a try, Colonel Pearson. I need to get hold of a half-dozen Mark 46s. That’s a heavy mother, almost six hundred pounds, but it’s solid-fuel propelled, and it’s aircraft adaptable.”

  “Why don’t we just send navy planes?” Embry asked.

  “Because this is still a funny, covert war,” Pearson said. “None of the parties are admitting publicly that anything is going on. We’ll continue to use the stealth craft.”

  McKenna called Brackman, but got Thorpe, who said he would check on the torpedoes.

  When Thorpe called back, he said, “The Kennedy is off Cyprus. She’s loading and launching a C-2 Greyhound within the hour. You get your torpedoes and a naval crew to help you mount them. I want a complete attack plan before you go with this, Kevin.”

  “I’ll put Colonel Pearson right on it,” he said, then passed the information to Evans.

  “We go from Jack Andrews, right?” Evans asked. “I mean, those torpedoes are never going into space, much less re-enter the atmosphere.”

  “We go from Chad. Damn it, I was just there.”

  After he signed off the radio, Pearson said, “How come I get all the paperwor
k?”

  “Because I have to sleep,” McKenna said. “Then pop off to Chad for a shower.”

  Her eyes got a little dreamy. “Someday, somebody’s going to figure out a shower for this place.”

  “Ah, the one I had last night. This morning, actually. Suds lathered all over, smooth, slippery, warm spray … ”

  “Stop it!”

  “You should have been there, Amy.” He grinned.

  She shook her head in resignation, and McKenna almost regretted teasing her.

  Almost, but not quite.

  He did regret patting her on the fanny a couple years before.

  Donna Amber sailed out of the Radio Shack. “I’ve got some orders directed to the commander, First Aerospace.” McKenna took the sheet from her. “Maybe I’m being transferred?”

  “We can hope,” Pearson said.

  “No,” Donna Amber said, “this is for one of my kind, enlisted.”

  McKenna scanned the sheet and found:

  PROMOTED TO MASTER SERGEANT E-7

  Benjamin J. Shalbot, AF17667903, TSgt E-6, 1st AS, SPACOM.

  McKenna said, “Donna, would you get on the PA and ask General Overton, Colonel Avery, and Sergeant Shalbot to come to the Command Center.”

  “Right away, Colonel.”

  The ceremony was brief, and McKenna slapped the stripes he had picked up at the Jack Andrews base exchange against Shalbot’s arms. They stuck to the fabric of the jumpsuit with double-sided tape.

  Shalbot said, “Shucks.”

  McKenna said, “Okay, Master Sergeant, you need to get ready for a ride to Hot Country.”

  “Ah, sh … ah, hell, Colonel. Again?”

  “I can get someone else.”

  “Not on your life.”

  *

  Wilhelm Metzenbaum, the “Bear,” was edgy.

  He and Zeigler had been thoroughly reamed by Weismann for abandoning coverage of the wells to pursue an obvious diversion by Soviet MiGs.

  Obvious, after the fact. Weismann, Eisenach, and Hoch had not been on the scene, but they knew what was obvious.

  Metzenbaum was not a complainer, but he was getting fed up with the crap surrounding the oil wells. Something definitely was not right. He had told Olga about it yesterday. She said he should retire. He said he had two years to go. She said he had the twins to think about it. Where would they be without a father?

  Where indeed?

  Metzenbaum leaned his head low and to the left to sight the rearview mirror. The Tornado was there, above him and to the right by a hundred meters. Higher yet, at 6,000 meters was the other pair, also one of his Eurofighters and one of Zeigman’s Tornadoes. The four of them had taken off from New Amsterdam an hour before.

  He was not happy with the new pairings. Weismann and Zeigman had assumed that the American MakoSharks would attack a Eurofighter first since its pilot would have his hands full flying the plane in evasive maneuvers, much less attempting to guide his missiles by hand. That gave the Tornado, with its weapons system officer, an advantage. The Tornado would spring to the rescue.

  Of course.

  He was bait, a minnow, a worm on the end of the line.

  Below on the dark sea, a freighter cruised, its wake prickling with phosphorescence. Under its deck lights, he saw a heavy, twin-rotored helicopter lashed to its afterdeck. More antiaircraft and missile batteries for the platforms. Seven of the platforms had now been armed, but judging by the performance of the gun and SAM crews at Bahnsteig Neun, it was a wasted effort. A total waste of men, equipment, and deutsche marks.

  Deutschland über alles. The spirit was in the air, the aroma rich and heavy on the military bases. He knew what people like Eisenach and Weismann were thinking, and it sickened him. As soon as his two years were up, he would retire from the Luftwaffe and purchase a small shop to run near his cottage. He would take weekends off and visit the boys in Frankfurt.

  Metzenbaum scanned the HUD, then the panel. The radarscope displayed the three other aircraft and the freighter. His was the only active radar.

  Fish. He was a fish.

  Waiting for a bigger fish to come along.

  Metzenbaum did not think much of his chances against a super aircraft that he could not see nor shoot at.

  Yet again, he scanned the skies above. They were overcast at 4,000 meters, 3,000 meters above him. He had elected to fly low, using the lighter hue of the clouds as a movie screen. Behind him, Tiger Sieben’s silhouette was clearly visible against it.

  As was the dart that zipped quickly past, several kilometers to the east.

  He never took his eyes off it. The slim shape disappeared when it crossed caverns in the clouds, reappeared against foamy bases.

  It was moving faster than his flight, which had been holding 550 knots. Metzenbaum clicked his radar off, advanced his throttle, and began to climb. Turning slightly to the right he began to close on the dart.

  “Tiger Seven, stay with me. No radar.” He blinked his wing lights once for his wingman’s benefit. “Panther Two, go to zero-zero-eight, and begin losing altitude. There is a MakoShark below the cloud cover at two-five-zero-zero meters and descending.”

  Still there. He kept himself from staring directly at it, looking instead slightly ahead of it, and holding the silhouette in his peripheral vision.

  Closer.

  A thousand meters away, it took on the delta shape. Sleek. So black against the cloud base.

  Metzenbaum armed all four of his Sky Flashes, aimed them with his gun sight, and launched.

  *

  “Incoming,” Munoz said matter-of-factly. “Four hot ones, Snake Eyes. Seven hundred yards.”

  “Hell, he’s right on our tail,” McKenna said. “Going over.”

  “Hit it! Now, please.”

  The rocket motors had been on standby since Delta Blue had passed below 30,000 feet. McKenna shoved the throttles in and sank back into his lounge seat as the MakoShark leaped forward. He hauled back on the hand controller, and the nose pulled up. Seconds later, they entered the clouds. Droplets of moisture hit the windscreen and trailed backward over the canopy.

  In the rearview screen, he saw the four missiles swoop upward after him, now locked onto the rocket exhaust.

  He killed the rockets, pulled the nose on over, and was headed south, inverted.

  Rolled upright.

  The four missiles kept climbing straight up, looking for the heat trail they had lost.

  The screen gave up the night vision view as Munoz went to radar.

  “Bogies dead ahead, Snake Eyes. Two of ’em, eight thousand feet, two miles and closing fast.”

  Delta Blue had no missiles.

  Two of the hard points held four torpedoes, and the other two mounted a gun pod and a camera pod.

  “Two more below us. Under the clouds. All of ’em will be lookin’ for our radar.”

  McKenna armed the gun, held his head upright, and at the right side of the cockpit, raised a protective flap, and pushed the switch that interfaced the helmet with the MakoShark’s computer controls. The secondary trigger was mounted in the front of the armrest, so he would not have to grip the hand controller.

  An orange gun sight appeared on his visor.

  Moving his head slowly downward, the sight dropped to the bottom of the windscreen, and the MakoShark immediately followed, lowering her nose, slanting down toward

  8,000 feet.

  Forefinger on the trigger.

  “Come right a hair,” Munoz ordered.

  McKenna moved the sight to the right.

  The MakoShark followed.

  “You should have it any second, jefe.”

  There.

  A thousand feet above the cloud tops, now coming up, looking for him.

  Two missiles blossomed from under its wings.

  Munoz killed the radar almost as soon as the threat receiver went off. The CRT flashed HOSTILE LOCK-ON, then lost it.

  Outlined nicely against the clouds.

  Eurofighter, by its rudders.<
br />
  The two missiles missed them by a couple hundred yards.

  The pilot might not have him visually, looking up at a dark sky.

  Straight-in.

  Five hundred knots on the HUD.

  Lead it.

  He dropped the gun sight in front of the German’s line of flight.

  The MakoShark dipped almost imperceptively.

  And pressed the trigger.

  Hot green tracers arcing out from the pod.

  Dancing on the sky and clouds.

  Traipsing toward the fighter.

  The German saw them, whipped a wing over and tried to dive away.

  The twenty millimeter shells stitched across his canopy, then the left wing.

  The wing shredded and peeled away.

  Red-yellow flames licking.

  Delta Blue flashed over its victim as McKenna raised his head.

  Active radar again.

  “The other one’s hightailin’ it. Take her down!”

  McKenna canted his head, then pulled it back, and the MakoShark rolled inverted, then dove into the clouds.

  “Keep Comin’, keep Comin’ … upright. Left turn hard.”

  McKenna rolled upright, turned to the left.

  “Right there! Come back right.”

  To the right.

  “See him?”

  “Not yet, Tiger.”

  “Well, shit! I see him.”

  “You have radar.”

  “Oh, right. This one’s the son of a bitch that fired on us first.”

  At 5,000 feet, McKenna scanned the lower side of the cloud bank with his eyes, not moving the helmet.

  There he was. Another Eurofighter.

  He was in a tight circle, coming back to where his threat receiver had shown him an active radar.

  McKenna was about to say something when Munoz shut it down again.

  But the Eurofighter pilot had seen him.

  He was diving hard.

  They lined up on each other, McKenna seeing a front-view silhouette against the cloud layer. The German had to be working mostly on instinct.

  No missiles fired. He may have only had the four.

  Three thousand feet, McKenna judged.

  “Brave bastard,” Munoz said.

  The German opened up with his guns. Red tracers whistling above the canopy.