Delta Blue

by William H. Lovejoy

  The telephone buzzed, and when she lifted it from the console, Pearson heard only a squeal. Amber pushed off a bulkhead, sailing into the Radio Shack to check on the satellite relays.

  When the relay was reestablished, she heard, “Is Colonel Pearson around there somewhere?”

  “This is Colonel Pearson.”

  “Hey, honey. Walt MacDonald in NSA’s German section.”

  “Hello, Walt. Is something the matter?”

  “Well, I don’t know. My monitoring computer yelped on one of your LPs, and I just got through checking the tape.”

  “Which one?”

  “Peenemünde. Sounds to me like railroad cars moving on steel rails. Hell of a racket. Big diesel engines moving stuff around.”

  “How long ago?”

  “According to the tape it started about half an hour ago, and they’re still clanking around.”

  “Thanks, Walt. I’ll get back to you.”

  Pearson replaced the phone in its holder, and pulled herself up to the microphone. Overton and Avery were staring at her.

  “Semaphore, Alpha Two. Are you still monitoring?”

  “This is Semaphore,” General Brackman said.

  “The LP at Peenemünde suggests heavy equipment moving. We need to check on it, and fast.”

  A long pause. Brackman said, “Delta Yellow is close to that route.”

  “Delta Yellow to Semaphore,” Conover said, “I’m copying you.”

  “What’s your condition, Yellow?” the general asked. “Subpar, but I can make six-five-oh knots. I’ve got to stay subsonic.”

  “How far are you from Peenemünde?”

  “Hold one. Do-Wop?”

  “I make it one-zero-five-zero miles,” Abrams said. “About an hour and a half, if I squeeze a couple more knots out of her,” Conover said.

  “We’ll live with two hours, if we have to” Brackman told him. “Don’t push it. But see what you can see.”

  “Roger that, Semaphore. Delta Yellow out.”

  Pearson had thought that the battle was over, but now she wondered if it wasn’t just beginning.

  *

  After splashing the Tornado that attacked the Hercules, Dimatta had rolled out to the west, looking for the last three in that flight.

  He felt good about that one, better than he had felt after downing the first two over the ice. This one had been a son of a bitch.

  Where were the others?

  Abrams had them on radar.

  “Making like jackrabbits, Cancha. Headed southwest. Maybe they’re going to defect to England.”

  “What speed are they making, Do-Wop?”

  “Slow. Five-zero-zero knots at twelve thousand feet. Bet they’re low on fuel, conserving.”

  Dimatta checked his own fuel load. Soon, he would have to turn for Jack Andrews, or he’d be boosting on rockets and coasting.

  “I just lost one of them from the screen, Cancha. Probably flamed out. You want to chase the other two?”

  “I’m about flamed out, myself, Do-Wop. Let the sea have them, if they don’t make it.”

  Scanning his HUD, he noted the lack of green lights in the bottom right corner. “Hell, Do-Wop, we couldn’t do anything about them, anyway.”

  “Damn. I’m checking. Nope, no missile control, Cancha. We must have taken debris somewhere. Maybe the electronics bay.”

  “Anything else showing bad?”

  “No, that’s it. But we sure want a full checkup on the ground before we go home.”

  Dimatta circled back toward the Hercules, and was surprised to find it moving northward.

  “Where’s that sucker going?” he asked Abrams.

  Before the WSO could respond, Tac-1 brought up McKenna’s voice. “Cancha, you there?”

  “Damn near right beside you, Snake Eyes. What’s up?”

  “How’s your fuel?”

  “Got plenty of pellets. Maybe an hour of JP-7.”

  “Ride herd on platform number one for a little while, will you? We’re going to make a visit.”

  “Roger,” Dimatta said, wondering what the hell was going on.

  Abrams spoke up on the intercom, “What the hell’s going on?”

  *

  Semaphore asked the same question. “Delta Blue, what the hell’s going on?”

  McKenna laid the headset aside without responding and waddled back to the ramp. Munoz was waiting for him, standing next to the cargomaster.

  “Never, ever, ever thought I’d be a Green Beret, amigo.”

  “Me, either, Tony.”

  They were both still in their environmental suits, but had discarded the helmets and gloves. The parachute harness was snug, and they had located webbing belts on which to hang their extra magazines, flashlights, K-Bar combat knives, and M-16s. They each had two fragmentation grenades.

  The cargomaster patted them roughly on the shoulders, then pointed to the port bulkhead, where a red light had changed to amber.

  McKenna moved carefully out to the edge of the ramp and crouched. The wind screamed around him.

  The light changed to green.

  He stepped off, Munoz right beside him.

  He thought Munoz had yelled something, maybe, “Geronimo!” but couldn’t tell in the combined noise of the engines and the prop wash.

  He tumbled once, then pulled the rip cord.

  They were jumping from 1,500 feet, and there wasn’t much margin for error. After an enforced jump from a thousand feet, though, it seemed as if he had plenty of time.

  The parachute casing released with a loud pop, and the drogue chute streamed the fabric out above him. When the canopy blossomed, the sudden deceleration jerked him upright, then swung him from side to side.

  “Hey, Kev! Twice in one night. We’ll have to start a club.”

  Munoz was to his left, slightly above him.

  “You start the club, Tony,” he yelled back. “I’ll be the treasurer.”

  The sea was dark around them, more terrifying now that he had been in it once tonight. His toes ached, but that was a good sign. To the northeast, he saw a fire which was probably on number eleven. The lights of some ship were closing in on it.

  Slightly below and ahead of him was the dome and pad of platform number one.

  There was a helicopter on the pad, but no one near it. The AA and SAM batteries appeared deserted.

  Almost the whole top of the dome on the near side was gone, and the hole was defined by the interior lights shining through it.

  He tugged on the left shroud, spilling air, and changing his direction.

  He wouldn’t mind falling short, landing on the pad, but he didn’t want to overshoot and go in the water again.

  Cold wind hitting him on the left. His face felt red from the cold.

  Still too high and too far right. The wind was drifting him. He pulled on the shrouds again.

  Unclipped the M-16 from its D-ring on the web belt.

  Looked up.

  Munoz was dumping air. They were closing toward each other.

  The canopies bumped.

  Dome coming up fast.

  One more tug.

  The edges of the hole were jagged, sharp aluminum shards pointing at him.

  Over the hole, and Munoz’s canopy was fighting his own for space.

  The light was coming from the well section and from two bulbs he could see in the top floor of what must be a residential area. There were a couple beds showing through the wreckage where the dome had collapsed on the inner ceiling, also tearing large holes in the ceiling.

  A body in one of the beds, the back of its head dull brown-bloody red.

  The canopies bumped again as the two of them dropped through the hole.

  It was a lot farther from the dome roof to the interior ceiling than he had expected.

  He hit hard on ceiling panels, and his legs went right through the soft gypsum board. His hips stopped him, and he hit the quick release buckle on the harness with the palm of his hand as the canopy collapsed ar
ound him.

  Setting the M-16 aside, McKenna leaned back on his right hand and tried to get his legs free. The gypsum buckled under his hand, but he got his right leg free, rolled over on to a joist, and pulled his left leg out of the hole.

  Scrambling, he rose and stepped out of the harness, bent to retrieve the rifle. Peering down through the hole, he didn’t see anyone moving around.

  Munoz was already free of his chute and waiting for him, standing on the juncture of two walls.

  The noise was tremendous. He hadn’t expected that much noise.

  Munoz gestured down into the well section of the dome with the muzzle of his rifle.

  McKenna, stepping on ceiling joists and avoiding large chunks of dome panels, crossed to his WSO and looked down. They were about a hundred feet above the floor. There weren’t as many floors inside the dome as Pearson had expected. Down on the deck were three gigantic turbine generators, as well as enough pipe to plumb several houses. Steam vapor, smelling highly sulphurous, gorged out of the section.

  The attack hadn’t shut down the generators.

  “What now, jefe?” Munoz yelled.

  “Down.”

  He crossed to a large hole. Joists were broken here, and large pieces of aluminum had crashed through the ceiling, burying the room. Massive hunks of styrofoam were everywhere, like boulders strewn on a hillside. The room below was dark, though light spilled into it from somewhere else.

  They slid down the face of the debris and found themselves standing in water. The ceiling was at least ten feet above. Big, spacious rooms to detract from the claustrophobia of the dome interior.

  McKenna saw an open door into a lighted hallway and sidled toward it while slipping the safety on the M-16. He put his back to the wall, then peered around the doorway.

  No one there.

  The hallway was awash in water, also, and he saw the reason for it twenty feet away. One of the rooms had caught fire after the missile attack. Blackened walls in the hallway and the charred remains of mattresses. A limp firehose snaked down the corridor.

  The racket of the generators was noticeably decreased. At the end of the hallway was a steel door with a sign on it. Written in German, the message was one that he couldn’t interpret much beyond the one word of VERBOTEN.

  Also on the door was a large “5.”

  Well, that helped a little.

  *

  General Felix Eisenach was totally humiliated.

  The VORMUND PROJEKT was in ruins.

  Almost.

  The Control Center was in pandemonium. People dashing about aimlessly, telephones ringing, alarms buzzing. Some of the soldiers had been issued weapons. Frightened console operators remained at their posts only by the sheer intimidation of the giant Diederman.

  Oberst Diederman strode back and forth along the rows of consoles, watching the ever-changing flow of information coming in. Stunned almost beyond speech, Eisenach sagged against the first console, where he had watched the eradication of Germany’s premier aircraft wing.

  Diederman walked past him. “No blowouts. A leak on Platform Fifteen. We continue to generate power.”

  Precision. The attackers had precision. Eisenach wished he controlled such precision.

  Two consoles down, an operator held up his hand. Diederman whirled toward him. “Sergeant?”

  “Platform Eight, Herr Colonel. A ship approaches, saying Admiral Schmidt has ordered evacuation.”

  “Are they in danger?” Diederman asked.

  The feldwebel spoke into his microphone, listened, reported: “There is no danger, Herr Colonel. The fires are out, there is damage to the dome above the engineering spaces. They have five wounded and the interior temperatures are dropping.”

  “They are to remain at their duties,” Diederman ordered. “We must not shut down production.”

  Diederman went to another console and attempted to reach Schmidt. After a few moments, he did, and Eisenach listened with detachment to the argument.

  The general had almost lost track of events. Three domes only were undamaged. The Soviets and American ships approached steadily.

  Spinning toward the leutnant still standing by him, Eisenach said, “Get me Peenemünde.”

  “At once, Herr General.”

  It took four minutes to run down Weismann.

  “Yes, General Eisenach.”

  “Your squadrons are destroyed.”

  “I know this. I have been hearing from New Amsterdam.” Weismann’s voice carried despair.

  “The Ghost. Launch it now.”

  “Soon,” Weismann said. “The tower shroud has been moved back, and it is erected on the pad. The fueling is under way.”

  “Immediately!”

  “It will go nowhere without fuel and computer programs, General.”

  “Speed it up!”

  “The ballistics people have computed the space station orbit and the interception path. It will be soon.”

  “Speed it up, I said!”

  “As you wish, Herr General.”

  Weismann hung up on him.

  “Herr General,” the leutnant said, “Marshal Hoch wishes to speak to you.”

  “Say that I will get back to him. Can you not tell that I am busy?”

  Shrugging, the leutnant spoke into his phone.

  Eisenach had not moved from the spot where he had been standing for forty minutes. Now he took a step, found his legs almost dead.

  “Diederman.”

  The big man came back toward him. “Yes, General?”

  “The radio control?”

  “No need for that, General. Everything continues to operate smoothly. The engineering sections hum.” Diederman tried to smile, but the dark eyes sunken into his face did not join in.

  “The foreign ships approach. In hours, they will assault the platforms.”

  Alarm appeared on the leutnant’s face.

  “Nonsense. This is German property.”

  “I want it now.”

  The smile went away. “It is right beside you.”

  Eisenach looked down to where the engineer pointed. A small black box affixed to the top of the console. One green light, one unlit light, and a key slot.

  “Give me the key.”

  Diederman dug into his pants pocket and came up with a small key on a ring with a brass tag. It was unmarked. “The delay is one hour?”

  “It is as you ordered, General.”

  Eisenach inserted the key, twisted it, then pulled it out. Slowly, he bent the key tang back and forth until it snapped.

  “I suggest you call Schmidt back, Hans. He has an hour to get the men off the platforms.”

  Diederman shook his head in dismayed resignation, Eisenach thought.

  Eisenach also thought that people were going to remember his name. He had done his best for the fatherland.

  “Now, Lieutenant, find my pilots and tell them to prepare the helicopter.”

  Diederman was staring at an unteroffizier at a far console.

  The man was sitting with his hands in his lap and his chin resting on his chest.

  “Corporal, what the hell are you doing?” Diederman shouted.

  The head jerked up, whipped around.

  “Colonel?”

  “What is going on?”

  “Colonel, I think the dome camera saw parachutes.”

  “Back up the damned tape! Call the security squad!”

  Eisenach knew then that he had done the right thing.

  *

  Cottonseed was reporting ships closing on the platforms. German ships from the north.

  Dimatta stayed in his wide circle over the platform, wondering what McKenna and Munoz were doing.

  “Fifty minutes’ fuel, Cancha.”

  “When it gets to ten minutes, Nitro, we’ll keep that for reserve, and boost on rockets.”

  “Snake Eyes and Tiger?”

  “The Herc is still here.”

  He kicked in the autopilot. Going around in circles was boring h
im.

  “Delta Green, Semaphore.”

  “Go, Semaphore.”

  “What’s Snake Eyes doing?” Brackman asked.

  Dimatta had only met the commanding general once, but he’d never forget the voice.

  On the intercom, he asked Williams, “What’s the boss doing?”

  “Beats the hell out of me. Maybe looking for … how about self-destruct devices?”

  “Good, Nitro. I like it,” Dimatta said and went back to Tac-1. “Semaphore, Snake Eyes is checking for self-destruct explosives. We don’t want the Germans doing what we tried not to do.”

  “Copy that, Delta Green. Semaphore out.”

  “Jesus, Cancha! What if I was right?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Be like Kevin to think of it, though.”

  “Yeah,” the WSO said, “but you know what else? These platforms are spread over a few hundred square miles. Only one way they’re going to set off explosives.”

  “By radio.” Dimatta looked out the left side of his canopy at the dome. At the undamaged top of it, the radar antenna continued to rotate. A mini-forest of UHF, VHF, and other antennas was sprinkled around it.

  “What have we got left, Nitro?”

  “Air-to-air, but they’re not working, remember.”

  “Let’s go with landing gear.”

  “Mow ’em down. Gotcha.”

  Dimatta disengaged the autopilot and brought the MakoShark into a tight left turn, lining up on the dome. “I’m ready,” Williams said.

  Dimatta lowered the landing gear, feeling the increase in drag tug lightly at the hand controller.

  The screen displayed the dome on the night-vision lens.

  He retarded his throttles on the approach.

  “Down a tad, Cancha.”

  The antennas came up fast, and he leveled out, using the light spillage from the left side of the dome as his landing strip.

  The right gear slammed into the antenna group.

  Sparks and metal flying.

  As they flashed across the top of the dome, Williams reported, “Communications blackout.”

  *

  McKenna and Munoz went to the floor when they heard the racket from above, the sound of tearing metal.

  It died away, they looked at each other, shrugged, and stood up.

  The steel Verboten door was locked and would not budge. McKenna turned to his right, found another steel door, and pushed it open to find a stairway.

  “This way, Tony.”