Delta Blue

by William H. Lovejoy

“That’s who I was thinking of,” Dimatta said.

  “Chauvinist!”

  “Country Girl, I think,” Munoz said, “and Ben’s obviously the Swede.”

  Olsen grinned, his Nordic face showing his pleasure.

  Dimatta scowled for a minute, thinking, then agreed, “Yeah, Tiger, that’ll do it.”

  McKenna was happy to see the two of them accepted into the stealth half of his squadron. Attaching the nicknames was the first step.

  “This will be a space-only familiarization flight of two hours,” he said, “and you’ll stay within a thousand miles of Themis. Questions?”

  Munoz said, “See, Lynn? Just like I told that Russian colonel. I knew I’d be gettin’ you.”

  Dimatta grinned at McKenna, “Do I need to ask about authorization?”

  McKenna grinned back. “No.”

  Lynn Haggar started to say something, perhaps appreciative, but McKenna gave her a small negative shake of the head, then left the exercise room. He went back up Corridor 1-B and turned into the maintenance office. Mitchell, a fuel technician named Lennon, and Bert Embry were there, and McKenna spent a few minutes reviewing the current stores of fuel and ordnance with them. He ordered more Wasps and JP-7.

  “Right away?” Mitchell asked. “That’s going to throw off the Honey Bee schedule.”

  “Right away, Brad. I don’t want to come up short if we need something.”

  Mitchell turned to his computer and called up a listing. “We’ve got a hot contract with Lockheed, and their equipment is slated for the next seven Honey Bee launches.”

  “So kick them back three or four.”

  “They’ll raise hell in Washington.”

  “Tell them to call Brackman.”

  “You mean I get to throw some weight around? That’ll be a first.”

  McKenna was stifling yawns by the time he reached the Command Center. He had been up and about for too many hours straight, in violation of Space Command’s policy. Overton and Pearson were waiting for him. He thought he detected a little fire in Pearson’s green eyes. Her auburn hair floated out from her head like dark fire.

  “Where have you been?” Pearson asked. “We’ve been waiting.”

  “Miss me, dear?”

  “Not so much that I’d notice.”

  “Now, children,” Overton said. The front of his blue jumpsuit was stained with grease and oil.

  “What have you been doing, Jim?”

  Overton brushed the stain on his chest with his fingertips. “Ventilation motor failure in Eight.”

  The general wasn’t above getting his hands dirty, one of the reasons McKenna liked him.

  He brought them up to date on the condition of Conover, Abrams, and Delta Yellow. “And I ordered more ordnance shipped up from Merlin. Lockheed may complain a little, Jim.”

  “Did you also request some more torpedoes from the navy?” Pearson asked.

  “No. It’s time to abandon that scenario. We’re not having any success, and last night proves that your Admiral Schmidt lives up to your billing of him, Amy. He knows damned well where to wait for us. I’m not taking chances with my people where the probability of success is so low.”

  Pearson looked a little crestfallen, but McKenna was certain she would not argue with him, not after Conover’s close call.

  Polly Tang’s voice came over the intercom and interrupted them. “Command, Hangar. Preparing Delta Green for launch.”

  McKenna reached out a hand and pulled himself over to the console. “Hangar, Command. Proceed.”

  “What’s that, Kevin?” Overton asked.

  “We’re doing check rides with Dimatta and Munoz.”

  “With, or for?” Overton wasn’t stupid.

  “With.” McKenna sighed. “I’m having Haggar and Olsen get a feel for the MakoSharks.”

  “Shit! Kevin, you know the position on that.”

  “I had a close call with Conover and Abrams, Jim. I want backup. As soon as we get them oriented, I’m going to give them Delta Red to practice in.”

  “Why not Autry and Chamberlain?”

  “They’re nowhere near as ready as Haggar and Olsen, that’s why. Damn it, I’m the squadron commander.”

  “You may have to put Conover and Abrams in Delta Red,” the general said.

  “Their buggy is going to be fine,” he insisted.

  “I’m going to have to talk to Brackman.”

  “Please do.”

  Overton stared him down for a minute, then let it go. McKenna was assured that the station commander would be having a very long conversation with General Brackman, and that Brackman would be tracking him down soon thereafter.

  Pearson watched them carefully, but McKenna thought that his decision about Haggar had taken some of the fire out of her eyes. There was a mellow quality present when she looked at him. The green had paled a bit.

  Finally, she broke the silence with a question. “I assume you have a new strategy?”

  “We may have to call in the navy. We use Volontov’s MiGs and the MakoSharks to create a diversion, then slip a couple subs under the platforms.”

  “To run blindly into an anchor cable or well casing?”

  “I admit that it’s going to take a little thought. I’ll need some help.”

  “What do you need?” she asked.

  “I need to sleep for a few hours. You want to help me with that?”

  That got the fire back in her eyes.

  *

  Gen. Marvin Brackman was in Washington. He had been called to testify before the Senate Appropriations Committee in regard to Space Command appropriations for the next fiscal year. He didn’t bother mentioning the practical applications of the MakoShark and Themis currently under way, and no one on the panel brought up the matter, either.

  So far, only the Village Voice and a deep page in the New York Times had mentioned the complaint of Malcolm Nichols, captain of the Greenpeace boat Walden. And Nichols had not mentioned potential oil spillage, only that a German air force pilot had fired a missile at him. That charge had been denied by the German Foreign Ministry, further increasing Nichols’s rage. He was trying to find a German lawyer to sue the Luftwaffe.

  After his testimony, Brackman had been driven to the Pentagon in an air force staff car to have lunch with Harvey Mays and Hannibal Cross. They ate late and alone in the flag dining room, all of them opting for the day’s promoted special of veal.

  “My aide says you did a nice job with the committee, Marvin.”

  “You never know how well you did until the appropriations are announced, Hannibal. The feedback in Washington is damned slow.”

  “The feedback,” Mays said, “would be a lot snappier if any of those senators knew about what we’re doing in the Greenland Sea.”

  “True. I don’t know why it’s still under wraps.”

  “I think we can thank the Germans for that,” Cross said. “At this point, I don’t believe there’s any question but that they don’t want the world to know about those geothermal taps, or the environmental hazard they pose.”

  “Or the military buildup,” Mays said.

  “That worries me,” Brackman said. “What I’d really like to do is hit a few of those equipment parks and fuel dumps with some thousand-pounders. We could at least set back their plans a few years.”

  “That would have every congressman and reporter in town involved in the brouhaha in nothing flat,” Cross said. “No, we can get away with what we’re doing in the north because the Germans aren’t going to complain. That’s the President’s opinion. He believes we can stave off German ambition by shutting down those wells.”

  “The hell of it is,” Brackman said, “we’re not having any success. When I talked to McKenna early this morning, before he went back to Themis, he was ready to give up on the cables. Of course, he’d damned nearly lost a MakoShark and two crewmen.”

  “He’s too close to his squadron members,” Mays said. “As a commander, he should have a little more dis
tance.”

  “Maybe, but it’s a unique squadron, Harv. It has to be run differently.”

  “Getting back to the immediate problem,” the chairman said, “does McKenna have something in mind?”

  “Nothing solid yet. He may want to involve the navy, but he’s supposed to get back to me later today.”

  “Not that I mistrust the navy, Admiral,” Mays said to Cross, “but I’m leery of doing very much underneath those platforms.”

  Cross harumphed.

  Brackman said, “One thing McKenna did point out, that we should have done some time ago. We ought to set up a couple naval task forces, maybe one out of England with the Brits involved, and one out of the Soviet Union. They should be outfitted with submersibles, salvage ships, the right kinds of equipment, and all of the experts we can find.”

  “In case a well blows out, Marv?” Mays asked.

  “Or in case they all blow out. If the Germans let us, we’re going to have to make an attempt to cap them.” Cross chewed his veal with vigor, then said, “Christ! We’re going to have to put McKenna in a staff job and make him a general.”

  “He’ll resist all the way, Hannibal.”

  “I know, and that’s good. But damn it, we should have been covering that base.”

  “You’ll look into it?”

  “Yes. It’ll take telephone calls from the President, I suppose, but we’ll put something together. And we’ll do it damned quickly. I’ll have the CNO find out where his specialized ships are located, and figure out how soon he can get them into the area.”

  “Not too close, just yet,” Brackman said.

  “We may need some troops,” the air force chief of staff said, “to secure the platforms if we make a move on them.”

  The JCS chairman’s face sagged. “This may escalate way beyond what we want, gentlemen.”

  *

  It was nearly ten o’clock at night before Brackman called him back. Sheremetevo was at home, a spacious, nine-room apartment that was far too large for his needs since the children — young adults — had moved out. He had been widowed for three years, and he still felt the loss. The empty rooms seemed to echo.

  The general sipped his second brandy and stood at the living room window, looking down on the lights of Moscow. From his eighth-floor vantage point, he could see the dark bend of the Moskva River where it passed under the Borodino Bridge. The foliage was thick this time of year. In the distance were the flood-lighted mosques and spires of the Kremlin, shining like new gold in the night.

  The telephone rang, and he crossed to the end table to pick it up, settling back onto the flowered sofa.

  “Vitaly, I’m sorry to be so late getting back to you, but it’s been something of a hectic day.”

  “It is all right, Marvin.”

  “Let me bring you up to speed.” Sheremetevo listened while Brackman detailed the trap that Schmidt had set for the MakoShark, the damage to the craft, and the failure to sever the cable.

  Brackman also told him of the plan, to come through the U.S. President, to prepare a crisis task force.

  “That is an excellent idea, Marvin. I shall support it with the Politburo on my end.”

  “Great. It may require a few of your Spetznatz troops, to secure platforms if we have to make a frontal assault in order to cap the wells.”

  That was dismaying. “That may be difficult. It will involve the army and the entire Politburo. Is the United States also prepared to commit troops?”

  “I don’t know, yet, Vitaly. We’re going to propose the Rapid Deployment Force.”

  “This may be the start of another Great War,” Sheremetevo said.

  “I don’t like it, either. Now, you called me. Have you got something new?”

  “Yes. Disturbing developments.”

  “Uh-oh. Should I be sitting down?”

  “Well, Marvin, I am sitting down.”

  “Let me have it.”

  “This morning, I met with a major of the GRU who had just returned from reconnaissance mission to Peenemünde. The Germans not only have constructed a copy of our rocket, it is all but finished. The major thinks that it will be operational within the week.”

  “Damn. From the specs I read, it’s intercontinental.”

  “It can also be utilized as a space vehicle.”

  “What about a warhead, Vitaly?”

  “Using the American joke, Marvin, I just told you the good news. The bad news is that the Germans have acquired nuclear warheads.”

  “Oh, shit! What kind?”

  “Multiple Individually Retargeted. I do not know the size or how many warheads each, but according to the major, there are five MIRVs in a deep bunker near Peenemünde.”

  “That puts a new spin on the ball,” Brackman said.

  Sheremetevo almost missed the analogy. “Yes.”

  “We’re not going to attack the mainland.”

  “Nor are we, Marvin.”

  “But we’re going to have to do something dramatic.”

  “And quite soon,” the commander of the PVO Strany agreed.

  *

  Frank Dimatta was disappointed at the decision to cancel the torpedo runs. Since his downing of the two Germans over the ice, and especially since Conover and Abrams were zapped, he had been looking forward to his chance at the cable. And maybe another Tornado or two.

  Instead, Pearson and McKenna stuck him with a milk run over the wells at 60,000 feet, taking update pictures. One pass to the east, and one to the west.

  “That’s it, Cancha. Let’s go home.”

  “What do you think, Nitro, of taking a practice run against the Hamburg? Scare shit out of that admiral.”

  “I like it, but sure as hell, I’d want to pop a Wasp at him. Then, too, McKenna would have us scraping grease off the hangar floors at Nellis.”

  “Might be worth it.”

  “Might be, but let’s hang loose. The boss will come up with something soon.”

  “And you can bet the brass at Cheyenne Mountain will turn him down.”

  “Maybe, and maybe not,” Williams said. “Come around to one-seven-one, and let’s get her up to Mach five. Josie says we have a window in sixteen minutes.”

  “Will Josie let us stop off in Paris? I’m hungry.”

  “Josie says, ‘later.’ ”

  *

  Amy Pearson and Donna Amber developed the photos and transferred them to video. Arguento showed up in the photo lab in the hub as they were finishing.

  “Nice timing, Val,” Amber said.

  “You don’t get to be a master sergeant in the air force, Donna, without knowing how to avoid work. Hey, Colonel, I’ve got a problem.”

  “Wonderful,” Pearson said.

  “The Washington guy?”

  “The President or Monte?”

  “Dr. Monte. Overton confined him to Spoke Three and the communications compartment until we get a chance to transport him. Well, my monitoring computer sounded off, and when I checked his message traffic, I found some schematics of our radar computers and a complete personnel listing for the station.”

  “Damn it. Any of it get out?”

  “No. When I saw him log on to the system, I put him on five-minute delay.”

  “Okay, good. You can tell him he’s now confined to quarters. My order. I’ll take it up with the general, if I need to, but Washington’s leaving the station later this afternoon, anyway.”

  Arguento had been watching the screen as Amber double-checked the video. He said, “They’re getting ready for a siege, aren’t they?”

  “What do you mean, Val?” Pearson asked.

  “AA and SAM on all but three of the platforms now. And a fifth group of ships.”

  Pearson had missed that. “Where do you see the ships?”

  “Back up three or four frames, Donna. There.”

  Pearson squinted her eyes, poring over the photo. It was a large-scale shot, taking in all of the wells. Besides several individual ships — the tugboats and suppl
y tenders, she counted four groups of three ships each, almost at each corner of the offshore wells. The northern groups were splitting the distance between the offshore platforms and those on the ice. She did not see the … yes, she did. Clear at the bottom of the photograph. Another three ships standing guard over the area where they had attempted to bomb the cable.

  “You’ve got good eyes, Val.”

  “That, and timing.”

  “How do you read this?”

  “I think some German is getting worried about us.”

  “I hope he’s got something to worry about,” she said.

  “Oh, he does,” Amber said. “If I thought the Germans were better than us, I’d have joined the Luftwaffe.”

  *

  McKenna didn’t awaken until almost two in the afternoon. Themis time.

  After several days of one-and two-hour snatches of sleep, he felt fully refreshed.

  Ready to go.

  And he had a plan.

  Still strapped against the padded wall of his sleeping cubicle, he reached for the communications panel and tapped in the number for the Command Center.

  Colonel Avery answered the call.

  “Is Amy around there, Milt?”

  “No. She was up most of the night and early morning and said she was going to take a nap.”

  “I’ll run into her somewhere,” he said and unstrapped himself.

  Unzipping his curtain, McKenna pushed out into the corridor, crossing it, and stopped next to the one labeled, “Pearson.”

  He tapped on the wall.

  Then he tapped again.

  “Go away.”

  “I need to talk to you, Amy.”

  She unzipped the curtain part-way and stuck her head out, only inches from his face. She didn’t have the head-band on, and her heavy red hair was tangled and weightless. Her eyes were sleepy, her head tilted back as she peered beneath half-lowered lids.

  McKenna lacked willpower in some areas, and he couldn’t resist. He kissed her.

  A short, light kiss on the lips.

  Pearson almost responded, her lips soft and warm. She nodded sleepily once, then her eyes opened wide in realization.

  Before she could get into a protest mode, McKenna said, “I’ve got it.”

  “Got what?”

  “The answer.”

  “The answer to what?”