Delta Blue

by William H. Lovejoy

  Eighteen

  “Got that son of a bitch!” Mac Zeigman exuded.

  “I did it! I did it!” his backseater wailed.

  Zeigman had the stick full back, pulling out of the steep dive. His face sagged under the oxygen mask with the additional gravity generated by the hard maneuver. As the Tornado came level, then vertical, he straightened the stick and worked in some aileron.

  Straight up on afterburners, rolling.

  Celebrating.

  Blood pounding in his ears.

  Threat receiver screaming.

  Where?

  And the tail came off.

  The whole aft end of the Tornado detonated and shredded. The rudders went slushy under his feet.

  Zeigman’s eyes went to the rearview mirror and saw the WSO’s face.

  Could not see it.

  The man’s visor was filled with blood. His head had exploded.

  And the nose came down, the aircraft tumbling, still going upward.

  Reaching the apex, slowing, then picking up speed again as it started down toward the cold, dark sea.

  Still tumbling wildly.

  Automatically, frantically, he worked the rudders, trying to stop the tumbling.

  That did not work.

  Reached between his legs and grabbed the red ejection handle.

  That did not work, either.

  Watched the cold, dark sea.

  *

  After downing the two Tornadoes over the ice, Volontov had continued south, climbing back to 2,000 meters, watching the radar screen, asking Sable to point out hostiles. Lieutenant Gurychenko stayed right with him, some degree of excitement in his voice after having made his own first two kills.

  Sable had pointed out the four Tornadoes directly to the south, and Volontov had been scanning the skies, aware of the small fires burning on a dozen platforms, trying for a visual contact. On the radar screen, they were sixteen kilometers away.

  He had seen the yellow-orange ball of the explosion low against the sea, appearing where no aircraft was to be seen by the eye or by his radar. As soon as it hit the sea, there was a second, terrific detonation. The self-destruct package, protecting vital secrets.

  He knew it was a MakoShark, and he wondered who the pilot was.

  The blip on his screen was not moving in any linear direction, but the altitude readout showed him to be climbing rapidly. Volontov locked on, committed, and released two AS-11s.

  The Tornado blew up nine kilometers in front of him, and he banked left, looking for more.

  “I have another, Condor One,” Gurychenko reported.

  The radar was becoming clearer, with fewer blips on the screen.

  The two low-flying Eurofighters were almost out of radar range, headed south.

  Two more Tornadoes that had been part of this flight were streaking southward, running from the MiGs.

  He continued his circle, coming back toward where the MakoShark had exploded. He looked for parachutes, but did not see them. If they had ejected successfully at that low an altitude, they would already be in the water.

  East and west, the wells burned. Several ships were on fire.

  “Condor One, Condor Two. The fuel state.”

  Pyortr Volontov refocused his eyes on his own HUD. A blinking amber light told him he was several minutes away from critically low fuel. Too frequent use of the afterburners at low altitudes.

  He came out of his turn headed eastward, beginning a slow climb.

  “Sable, Condor One.”

  “Proceed, Condor One.”

  “Send a tanker our way, please. Fuel state is close to critical.”

  “He is on the way, Condor.”

  “Status report?” Volontov asked.

  “Tern Flight has lost one aircraft to a SAM from one of the platforms. Vulture Flight has three down — one pilot recovered from the ice, and Condor Flight is missing two. Germans shot down, one-six interceptors, four tankers.”

  “Thank you, Sable.” Volontov switched to his second tactical frequency. “Delta Blue, Condor One.”

  “Condor One, this is Delta Yellow. I can’t raise Blue.”

  “I believe he is down north of platform one-three by several kilometers. I am, however, very low on fuel.”

  “I’m on my way, Condor. Thanks.”

  Gurychenko pulled in on his wing as they climbed through 7,000 meters.

  Volontov felt depleted, completely let down. He thought about the numbing, unexplainable letters he would have to write. He wondered if Colonel McKenna had a wife to whom he should write. He was happy that no one would write a letter to Martina.

  And he thought that perhaps their engagement had lasted long enough.

  *

  Wilbur Conover rolled right, turning onto the heading Abrams gave him. It took a while. He figured he had about 30 percent control on the lateral axis. He wouldn’t be doing any victory rolls.

  He wouldn’t be using rockets, either, and he took the rocket motors off standby.

  “Squawk me, please, Yellow and Green,” Cottonseed said.

  He hit the IFF for one second.

  “Thank you. Yellow, you’re closest.”

  “Roger, Cottonseed. I’ve got the hammer down. I heard the mayday.”

  McKenna had said, “Delta Blue, mayday. Ejecting.” Calmly. Not a tremor in his voice.

  “We do have an ELB signal,” Cottonseed said. “Robin Hood Two is closest and reports ETA in six minutes. Robin Hood Three is trying to locate a Soviet pilot on the ice.”

  “Copy that, Cottonseed. Hostile aircraft status?”

  “Two Tornadoes and two Eurofighters southbound. Mildenhall reports tankers leaving New Amsterdam. You have four Tornadoes on your right, Yellow. They’re circling.”

  “Damn,” Abrams said. “I’ve still got seven air-to-air.”

  “We’re not in shape for much horseplay, Do-Wop.”

  “Yeah, I know. Okay! I’ve got the Emergency Locator Beacon. Come right … hold it.”

  “Can you reach him on voice yet?”

  “Not yet, Con Man. Those damned radios only have a mile of range. Another minute or two.”

  Conover asked on the open channel, “Robin Hood Two, where are you?”

  “Delta Yellow, we’re on the two-six-five radial of the ELB. Four minutes.”

  Conover hoped the damned environmental suit heaters worked. Whenever he tried the ailerons, he hoped even more that the heaters worked.

  The fires below were dying away, both on the platforms and the ships. He couldn’t tell, but thought that none of the wells had blown out. He wondered what condition the platform workers would be in by the time the task forces reached them. He figured that the ships were about twelve or thirteen hours away.

  “Snake Eyes, you read me?” Abrams called on the emergency channel.

  “Got you, Do-Wop. Fortunately, I can’t see you.”

  “Tiger?”

  “I’m here, damn it! And it’s gettin’ cold. You wanna tell someone to put a foot in it?”

  “ETA in three. Either of you injured?”

  “Pride,” McKenna said.

  “I’m gonna have to get out of this suit and see if anything important’s frostbit,” Munoz said.

  “Hang loose,” Abrams said.

  “Ain’t nothin’ hangin’ loose, brother. All scrunched up tight.”

  *

  Adm. Gerhard Schmidt was commanding the Hamburg from the shambles of the CIC. The bridge of the cruiser was gone, along with Kapitän Rolf Froelich, the second mate, and the helmsman.

  All of the windows had been blown out of his flag plot, one deck below the bridge.

  The leutnant who did his plotting for him was sitting at a console, manning a microphone and taking damage reports. His head was wrapped with a bloody white T-shirt.

  “Herr Admiral, the flooding has been contained in Compartment Four.”

  “Good, Lieutenant. We’ll keep her afloat yet. The steerage party?”

  “They are in t
he compartment. Ten minutes, they say.”

  The magnificent cruiser was going to have to be steered by hand from the rudder compartment. The work party was rigging block and tackle.

  “What of the other ships?” Schmidt asked.

  “The destroyer Erlich is listing badly. The captain says it may have to be abandoned. The Mannheim is standing by and beginning to take crewmen off the destroyer. All others report fires under control. The northern battle groups are undamaged.”

  And one day, Schmidt promised himself, he would find out why. He suspected they had not fired one gun or one missile battery, even against the radar-visible MiG fighters.

  “Tell them they are to begin evacuating the platforms. As soon as they have collected survivors, they are to return to Bremerhaven.”

  “Very well, Admiral. Captain Blofeld, sir.”

  Schmidt crossed to the table and took the headset from the leutnant.

  “Blofeld?”

  “Yes, Admiral. I am sub-surface, with my antenna raised. We escaped a heavy barrage of depth charges. The Bohemian, is standing by, also, five kilometers from the Soviet task force, though she is slightly damaged. I have the Americans and British in sight.”

  “Secure all weapons, Captain, submerge, and wait for the task forces to pass over. Then return to port.”

  “Admiral?” Blofeld’s voice contained his amazement.

  “As you were ordered,” Schmidt said.

  He knew when to give up the field. There was always, always another day.

  *

  Delta Yellow was in a wide circle above them. Conover had turned on his running lights to reassure them, and it was reassuring.

  When a wave raised him high enough, McKenna could see a few fires to the north. He could not see any stars. The white and orange parachute floated on the surface forty feet away. The first thing he had done when his feet hit the water was to get rid of the parachute, unhooking the shrouds from the harness before his hands became too stiff. He didn’t want to be entangled in it.

  He couldn’t see Munoz.

  The two of them figured they had landed a quarter-mile apart, a fair distance considering they had ejected at about a thousand feet of altitude, but they weren’t going to waste energy swimming toward each other.

  The Mae West kept him floating on his back.

  The heater seemed to be working.

  Or at least struggling.

  McKenna sensed that his body temperature was steadily going down. His joints seemed to move slowly. The gloves were tight, not allowing much of the suit’s heated air into them, and his hands were numb.

  The flesh of his face felt numb, also, though he couldn’t touch it. The helmet visor was splattered with salt water, giving him a wavery vision of his immediate vicinity.

  Nothing worth looking at, anyway.

  Except Delta Yellow’s lights.

  They had been in the water twelve minutes.

  “Con Man?”

  “Yeah, Snake Eyes?”

  “How’s that aileron?”

  “What aileron?”

  “Don’t give me any shit.”

  “I’ve got about thirty percent, Snake Eyes.”

  “Fuel status?”

  “Low, but okay.”

  “I want you to move out for Hot Country.”

  “Cancha will be here in a couple minutes, then I’m gone.”

  “Do-Wop?” Munoz asked.

  “Hey, Tiger?”

  “What’re you listenin’ to?”

  They got to hear half of Jimmy Rodgers’ “Honeycomb,” before another voice broke in.

  “Delta Blue? Robin Hood on the line.”

  “Go, Robin.”

  “I want a balloon right away.”

  “You’ve got one up,” McKenna said.

  “Just one?”

  “At the moment.”

  “Hey, shit!” Munoz said.

  McKenna had not told Munoz that he had not deployed his own balloon yet. He had pulled it out of his leg pouch, but held it deflated against his chest.

  “You first, amigo,” McKenna said. “Put a light on it.”

  “Jefe … ”

  “Now, damn it!”

  McKenna saw the halogen flashlight beam that Munoz aimed up at the balloon. The bright orange balloon was off to his right and stood out against the dark sky. He couldn’t see the steel cable that descended from it to connect with Munoz’s parachute harness. The running lights of the C-130 appeared low on the water, followed shortly by the roar of its four turboprops. It was flying as slow as it could and still remain airborne.

  Coming on.

  Closer.

  It passed overhead, the trailing loop snagged the balloon and cable, and Munoz was gone.

  In almost a flash.

  On the radio, Munoz yelled, “Goddamn!”

  And dropped his flashlight.

  McKenna lifted the balloon away from his chest with his left hand and found the plastic handle with his right. He couldn’t bend his fingers very well, but he got the handle between his forefinger and third finger and jerked.

  The helium cartridge popped and the balloon began to fill.

  He let it go and it rose slowly, then more rapidly, trailing the wire cable behind it. When it reached the fifty-foot length of the cable, it jerked him slightly, held him a bit more upright in the water.

  Delta Yellow was headed south, and her running lights went out.

  “Bye-bye, Snake Eyes.”

  “Take care, Con Man.”

  “Cancha get the big guy outta the water, Robin Hood?” Dimatta said.

  “Hey!” Robin Hood said, “Next pass. We only do one at a time, but we never miss.”

  The Hercules had flown several miles to the east while they winched Munoz aboard. Now, McKenna saw it make a tight circle and come back toward him.

  He unclipped his flashlight from the harness and fumbled with the slide switch. It finally came on, nearly blinding him. Gripping it tightly, he aimed it up toward the balloon.

  Nice orange orb.

  Waiting.

  Building wail of the turboprops.

  Stiffen the back, tense the muscles.

  Involuntarily.

  He didn’t actually see the loop catch his cable. WHAM!

  He was out of the water, almost horizontal in the air, seawater spraying off of him.

  He still had the flashlight, surprised at that.

  The Hercules began to climb.

  He felt the cable vibrating as the winch started.

  McKenna heard the cannon long before he heard the turbojet engines.

  A shadow passed between him and the clouds.

  He was on his back, looking up, when he saw the silhouette.

  Tornado.

  The son of a bitch was going to shoot down a rescue aircraft.

  The shadow disappeared.

  The winch picked up speed, drawing him in faster.

  Pushing his head back until the helmet collar would not allow further movement, he looked back and up. The cargo bay of the C-130 appeared invitingly warm, red-lit, gaping. A crewman in a flight suit and parka, trailing a safety line, stood out on the lowered cargo ramp, guiding the cables.

  The balloon passed by the man, and the winching stopped while the balloon was detached.

  Fifty feet to go.

  And here came the Tornado again.

  McKenna felt numb and helpless. If he’d had a gun, he’d have emptied it at the bastard. He saw the winking of its cannons when it was still a mile away.

  Then the orange blossom as it exploded.

  Then the blinking wing lights of Delta Green as it crossed the Tornado’s path, jinking high to avoid the debris.

  He was floating on the air current, and the turbulence increased as he was reeled into the C-130’s prop wash.

  He felt his shoulder being grabbed, fingers reaching in to grip his harness.

  And then he was aboard, the crewman grinning at him. Still hanging from the cable that passed throug
h an overhead pulley, his feet couldn’t quite reach the ramp.

  The winch backed off, his feet touched down. His toes weren’t feeling anything.

  The seawater was still dripping from his environmental suit.

  The crewman helped him walk back on the ramp and into the cargo bay. McKenna popped his visor loose, breathed the real air, and absorbed the din of the engines.

  Both felt good to him. He stripped off his gloves and detached his helmet.

  Worked his fingers. They began to sting as feeling came back.

  Munoz was sitting in one of the lowered hammock seats on the right side of the bay, drinking from a big Styrofoam cup of coffee.

  A medic slapped a hot cup into his hands, and McKenna nodded his thanks.

  “Hey, compadre,” Munoz yelled above the engines. He was grinning insanely.

  McKenna leaned over him and spoke loudly into his ear. “You owe the USAF for a flashlight. But we’ll collect it from your pay.”

  “Probably costs the same as a MakoShark,” Tony the Tiger said.

  McKenna grinned back at him, turned around, and gave a thumbs-up to the crewmen and medical staff who were standing and lounging around the huge interior.

  Against the forward bulkhead, he saw where some of the transport’s crew had stacked parachutes and M-16 assault rifles.

  Nineteen

  “Cottonseed, Robin Hood Three.”

  “Go ahead, Three.”

  “We just lifted off the ice. Got us a Soviet pilot with a nasty chest wound.”

  “Three, come on back to Daneborg.”

  “Roger that, Cottonseed. Robin Hood Three out.”

  Silence.

  Then: “Cottonseed, Robin Hood Two.”

  “I read you, Two.”

  “Delta Blue One and Two are aboard and whole. They’re walking around, and Two wants a taco.”

  “Copy, Two. Bring it home.”

  “Well, hang on for a minute, Cottonseed. Delta Blue One’s got some kind of idea.”

  Pearson was so relieved, her hands trembled. She gripped her left hand in her right to hide it. Overton was grinning broadly, perhaps masking his own concern. Milt Avery did a somersault in the middle of the compartment, something she didn’t often see from a full colonel.

  Val Arguento and Donna Amber gave each other a high five, the contact of their palms sending each of them in opposite directions across the Command Center.