Delta Blue

by William H. Lovejoy

  At a hundred feet of altitude, he banked left.

  Wham!

  The airframe shook with the impact.

  He was forced back into level flight.

  “Took a piece of wing tip, I think,” Abrams said.

  “Shit. Call Alpha.”

  “Alpha, Delta Yellow.”

  “Go Yellow.”

  “We’ve got some structural damage, extent unknown … Jesus! Seven SAMs, Con Man … ”

  *

  Amy Pearson gripped the microphone stand to keep from floating away.

  The screen on the console was blank. She felt deprived of necessary knowledge. They should have put the AWACS plane in the air.

  “Yellow, Alpha. Repeat.”

  “Wing tip damage maybe, Alpha. We’ve got SAMs. I’m going to be busy.”

  “Copy, Yellow. Keep Tac-1 open.”

  “Roger.”

  She heard grunts from either Conover or Abrams. “Left, left, left … hard … now climb … chaff! … dodged it! … up, babe, up … punch a flare … shit!”

  Then there was carrier wave.

  Pearson hit the intercom. “Donna, did we lose the relay?”

  “No, Colonel. We lost the transmitter.”

  “Alpha Two to Hot Country.”

  “Hot Country, go Alpha.”

  “Is Snake Eyes there?”

  “Yeah, just a … no. I don’t know where he’s gone.”

  God. Every time he was needed.

  “Send somebody to get him,” she ordered.

  *

  On Tac-2, the Jack Andrews air controller said, “Delta Blue, I don’t have authority for your takeoff.”

  McKenna retracted the landing gear.

  “Let’s go over, Tiger.”

  “Already? You want to get us some altitude first, Snake Eyes?”

  “We’ll get it fast enough.”

  “Sure, but take it easy. We got those torps hangin’ out there, and they’re not all that streamlined.”

  Delta Blue was armed in the same way as Delta Yellow had been.

  “Delta Blue, this is Jack Andrews Control. Come back to me.”

  “Jack Andrews, Semaphore.” General Brackman’s voice was unmistakable.

  “Go ahead, Semaphore.”

  “All restrictions are lifted. Delta Blue is now authorized for flight.”

  “Roger, Semaphore, Jack Andrews Control out.”

  “Delta Blue, Semaphore.”

  McKenna depressed the stud. “Go ahead, Semaphore.”

  “I want a plan, right now.”

  “Search and rescue,” McKenna said.

  “Approved. No search and destroy.”

  McKenna thought about the Mark 46s on the pylons, how good it would feel to see one of them plow into the hull of a cruiser.

  “Yes, sir. No destroy.”

  Over the Mediterranean, Munoz scanned the sea with radar, then jettisoned the torpedoes. They went through the checklist, then ignited the rockets for a five-minute burst.

  Delta Blue covered most of the distance at Mach 4.5 at 60,000 feet.

  Periodically, Munoz tried the tactical channels, “Delta Yellow, Delta Blue.”

  Nothing.

  “Delta Blue, Alpha One” General Overton’s voice. “Delta Blue.”

  “Let’s assume he’s still aloft.”

  “Let’s,” McKenna said.

  “The IO figures he’d try to make Hot Country, and she’s calculated a possible flight path.”

  Pearson came on the air and gave the beginning and ending coordinates to Munoz.

  “How do you figure that, Alpha?” With a quick mental picture, McKenna could tell the flight path was too far to the west.

  “Because Con Man is left-handed,” Pearson said.

  “Gotcha,” Munoz said. “He’d pull out to the west.”

  McKenna rolled into a left bank.

  “I’m figuring structural damage that’ll keep him below sonic speeds,” Munoz said on the intercom. “Do-Wop reported a wing tip, but he’s obviously lost his antennas.” The radio antennas were imbedded in the skin of the right wing. It was not a hopeful sign.

  “Say six hundred knots at best,” the WSO said, “and figuring our speed and the time we left, we want to start looking hard over Sweden.”

  “Suppose he can give us an IFF?” McKenna asked.

  “That antenna is in the left wing, amigo. There’s a chance.”

  “Go active.”

  Waiting.

  McKenna was accustomed to waiting after so many years in the military, but the practice didn’t make it any easier. Thinking about Conover and Abrams down in icy water didn’t help, either.

  “You worried, jefe?”

  “Yeah, Tony, I am.”

  “So am I. Somebody was waiting for him.”

  “Yes. Somebody figured it out. There were only ships involved, so it must have been that admiral.”

  “Schmidt?”

  “Right. Amy was right about him.”

  “Let’s hope Amy-baby’s right about Con Man, too,” Munoz said.

  She was.

  Munoz found the IFF south of Stockholm.

  “Hot shit! Got ’em, Snake Eyes.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. He’s shut it down now, so he’s only squawkin’ every once in a while. Three-two miles. Go to three-three-eight.”

  McKenna turned to the new heading, backing off on the throttles.

  A few minutes later, Munoz said, “We’re going to over shoot him. Bring it back to seven hundred knots, and make a wide three-sixty.”

  McKenna went into a shallow bank to the right.

  “There he is again! Take her down to two-two-thousand.”

  As he put the nose over, McKenna checked the eastern horizon on his left. The sun was peeping, spreading opaque light at altitude. By the time they reached the Mediterranean, they’d be in full daylight. And if Delta Three couldn’t handle much more altitude, they would be in danger of being spotted by Greek or Italian aircraft.

  To hell with it. If they were seen, they were seen. Conover’s IFF went off the screen again, but Munoz had his position, speed, and track in the computer.

  They came up behind Delta Yellow almost silently. Abrams obviously wasn’t running active radar.

  McKenna closed in at 620 knots, easing up close to the right wing. He was within a hundred feet before he could see clearly. The right wing tip skin was shredded, as were a couple of the spars under it. The right rudder was gone.

  He slowed, pulled back on the controller, and rose to a position above and behind the damaged MakoShark. Looking down on it, he saw that a fifteen-foot-wide slice of skin had peeled away from the upper wing, taking the radio antennas with it. The ribs, spars, and fuel tanks were fully exposed.

  “Goddamn,” Munoz said. “I don’t know how he’s making the speed he is.”

  “Has to, to maintain lift, I expect. This is going to be one high-speed landing.”

  McKenna touched the throttles, and Delta Blue advanced on her sister ship. He banked slightly outward to give Conover some room, then flashed his wing tip lights.

  Delta Yellow jiggled a little at the shock of seeing them. Abrams turned on the cockpit lights so McKenna and Munoz could see that they were all right.

  They waved, and Munoz switched on his own cockpit light and waved back.

  With a flashlight, Abrams Morse-coded their damage estimate, which included a malfunctioning navigation computer. The backup wasn’t working, either.

  The fuel supply was adequate for recovery in Chad. Conover wanted his aerospace craft repaired immediately, top goddamned priority. He had an appointment in the Greenland Sea.

  McKenna depressed the Tac-2 button. “Alpha One, Delta Blue.”

  “Go ahead, Delta Blue.”

  “We’ve got them.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Overton said.

  “That’s pretty mild,” McKenna said, “compared to what I’m reading in Morse code.”

&n
bsp; 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.”