Delta Blue

by William H. Lovejoy

  Brackman had spoken to the Soviet general half an hour before, after Delta Yellow’s report.

  Finally, a telephone buzzed, and after a duty officer signaled him, Brackman got up to cross the room and take the receiver.

  “Brackman.”

  “Marvin, this is Vitaly.”

  “Your people find out anything?”

  “The rocket is warheaded only with high explosive, Marvin, but the target is your space station.”

  “Goddamn. You’re certain?”

  “The information was obtained in Berlin, from Eisenach’s headquarters. The German ballistics and rocketry experts have been working on the programming for some time.”

  “Thank you, Vitaly.”

  Brackman hung up the phone. He looked at the map. All of the 1st Aerospace Squadron was earth side, beat up, and exhausted.

  Themis was defenseless.

  A few hundred pounds of HE detonated in the hub would completely destroy her, scatter the spokes, upset the orbits of the individuals units. There would be expensive pieces of space station re-entering the atmosphere for years.

  The people. His people. He could get them into the lifeboats in time.

  Some of the spokes could be released and perhaps saved. The fuel module. The nuclear reactor was also quickly detachable.

  Brackman checked the map.

  The intelligence officer was watching him, concern evident in his face.

  “David, could we see the satellite deployment?”

  Thorpe gave the order and purple circles appeared on the map. The ID tags next to them identified the satellite type, orbit, and coverage.

  “That Rhyolite over Poland, David, in geostationary orbit. Can it pick up Peenemünde?”

  “Maybe the edge of it, Marv. We can give it a look-see.”

  “Do that. We need to know when that rocket launches.”

  *

  Weismann and Oberlin had been in the control bunker for the past hour, sitting in an observation room above the launch and flight controllers. Both of them were talking on telephones.

  The commander of the 20.S.A.G. had attempted several times to reach Eisenach, but there were no communications between the platforms and the mainland. He had finally reached Schmidt.

  The admiral sounded entirely defeated. “Your elite wing no longer exists, Weismann. They performed poorly.”

  As he listened to Schmidt’s long list of criticisms, the rage built within him, and he finally slammed the telephone down.

  Oberlin looked at him, holding his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone. “There are brownouts and blackouts all over Germany, Albert. The platforms are off-line.”

  Weismann barely heard him. “That fucking Schmidt!”

  “What?”

  “He won’t defend the wells against the invading task forces.”

  “That is treason,” Oberlin said. “I will shoot him myself.”

  “He says there’s nothing left to defend.”

  Oberlin’s shoulders sagged. “Then, it is all over, Albert. There will be investigations, charges, court-martials.”

  Weismann looked at the video monitor. The last truck, one of those containing hydrogen, was driving away from the launch pad. Gespenst I stood proudly in her gantry, wreathed in the vapors of condensing oxygen. Most of the launch personnel had already withdrawn. She was brightly lighted from floodlights on the ground and on the gantry shroud which had been rolled a quarter of a kilometer away.

  He saw the digital clocks mounted on the far wall of the bunker. It was 0114 hours. The second clock gave the time to launch: 01.21.43.

  The flight time to impact was one hour and six minutes.

  “No, Max. We have one more chapter to write.”

  *

  “The minute that rocket launches,” Brackman told her on the secure microwave telephone link, “the NORAD and JPL people will begin determining its track. If it looks as if it will come anywhere near Themis, you are to abandon the station. That is an order, Colonel Pearson.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “There are no qualifications. No ifs, ands, or buts. You pass that on to Overton immediately.”

  “Yes, General.”

  As soon as she hung up, Pearson touched the PA button.

  “General Overton, Colonel Avery to the Command Center.”

  She repeated the announcement, then switched to Tac-1. “Delta Green, Alpha Two.”

  “Green here,” Dimatta said.

  Pearson relayed the warning from Brackman.

  McKenna’s voice responded. “Alpha, you have a projected launch time?”

  “No. Snake Eyes? Where are you?”

  “They’re in my payload bay,” Dimatta said.

  “But there’s no passenger module!”

  “Like monkeys, hangin’ onto the missile racks,” Munoz said. “Plugged into oxy and commo, sittin’ on the third parachute issued to me tonight. Still, it’s almost better’n the place I grew up.”

  NORAD was listening.

  Brackman spoke, “Delta Green, Semaphore. What’s your craft status?”

  “Up and sailing, Semaphore,” Dimatta replied. “We’re just coming up on Norway at three-eight-thousand. About twenty-eight-hundred out of Hot Country.”

  “Weapons status?”

  “There, we’ve got a problem, Semaphore. I’ve got six air-to-airs that I’d like to drop in on Peenemünde with, but we can’t fire them. We think we’ve got a chunk of shrapnel in the electronics bay.”

  “Alpha Two,” McKenna said, “here’s what you do. Get Embry and Shalbot and have them arm Delta Red with eight air-to-air Wasps and eight Wasps configured for space firing. That’s going to take about forty-five minutes. Put Haggar and Olsen on alert. In fact, have them watch the arming and have Embry brief them on the missiles.”

  Overton and Avery arrived in the Command Center as McKenna finished, and in time to hear Brackman interrupt. “That’s not an option, Snake Eyes.”

  “That’s the only option I see at the minute, General.” McKenna’s voice had some heat in it.

  “Shit.” Pause. “Comply with that, Alpha, but they’re not to launch until I give the word.”

  “Roger, Semaphore.” Brackman would be calling the Pentagon now, she thought.

  “Then,” McKenna said, “we’ll try to work out a backup option. I need to have someone get in touch with Mabry Evans and have him arm Delta Orange the same way.”

  “Delta Orange is not yet flight certified,” Semaphore said.

  “Beta One, you listening to this?” McKenna asked.

  “Right here, Snake Eyes,” Brad Mitchell said.

  “Run it down for me.”

  “Beta Two’s pulling the data up now. Okay, Delta Orange. All flight systems have checked out, including communications, navigation, and computer systems. None of it has been flight tested. We don’t yet have weapons guidance linkage systems completed. The rocket motors have not been tested. At all.”

  “Would you fly it?” McKenna asked.

  “Hell, no. Well, maybe. This is the fifth one we’ve done, Snake Eyes. We’ve gained experience, and we’ve had few glitches.”

  “Hell, compadres, I don’t need guidance systems. I’ve got a steady hand,” Munoz asserted.

  “Fuel it up and arm it,” McKenna said. “Cancha’s going to put this thing in overdrive, and we’ll be touching down in an hour.”

  No one said anything. Overton shook his head.

  Pearson thought about all of the things that could go wrong. Especially with untested systems.

  After a long silence, Semaphore finally said, “Consider it done, Snake Eyes.”

  “One more thing,” McKenna said, “Delta Orange is now Delta Blue.”

  *

  When the payload bay doors opened, McKenna and Munoz climbed down from the missile racks and dropped to the tarmac. It was hot as hell, dry heat attacking McKenna’s face as soon as he had the helmet off. The heat felt good after the freezing temperatures at high altitude. The
battery pack for his suit heater was fully depleted. His right knee hurt, probably the aftermath of one of the jumps tonight, and his back was stiff from sitting on the bay doors.

  Ducking out from under the MakoShark, McKenna walked forward along the right side of the fuselage and looked up until he found the hole. Not very big, maybe six inches in diameter, it was located right in the center of the electronics compartment.

  They weren’t going to turn Delta Green around and send it out again.

  Dimatta came around the nose and joined him.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “Sorry about that, Frank.”

  “I can take Delta Orange.”

  “Not anymore,” McKenna said. “She’s Delta Blue now.”

  The newest MakoShark had been shoved to the front of the hangar, and fifteen people surrounded it, finalizing its preflight checks. The banks of overhead fluorescent were bright after a couple hours in the payload bay.

  Munoz said, “I’m gonna find a head, then climb in.”

  “Lead the way, Tony.”

  When they came back from the men’s room, they climbed the ladders, slid over the coaming, and settled into their new cockpits. Everything smelled pristine, with just a taste of electronic burn-in and JP-7 fuel.

  “Delta Blue, Delta Red.”

  McKenna pulled his helmet in place and plugged in. “Go ahead, Country Girl.”

  “I’m two minutes from blackout. Do I stay space side or go in?”

  Since giving the approval for Delta Red’s launch, Semaphore had stayed out of it. It was McKenna’s squadron.

  McKenna checked the chronometer: 0218 hours.

  “Tiger?”

  “Last reports say it’s still sittin’ on the pad,” Munoz said.

  “Bring it in, Country Girl. It’ll be easier if you can catch it on the ground. Swede, if it’s still down by the time you get there, put a couple into the third stage. If it’s airborne, and you can reach it, use heat seekers.”

  “Roger, Snake Eyes,” Olsen said.

  “Delta Red going black.”

  On the intercom, Munoz said, “Risky, isn’t it? Maybe we should have her hang around close to Themis? Wait until the rocket gets there?”

  “I thought about it, Tony. But the brass haven’t let me give them enough practice time. If it’s on the move, it’s going to be tough to hit. I’d rather give them a sitting target.”

  “Gotcha, amigo.”

  Munoz put the flight checklist up on the rearview screen, and McKenna ran through it while Munoz double-checked all of his new electronics.

  The tractor towed them outside, and he fired the turbojets. They had been broken in on the test stands, and they ignited right away. The tach readouts on the HUD were right on the money for idle.

  “Jack Andrews Control. Clear skies all around, Delta Blue. No other aircraft, no clouds, no wind. Typically Chad.”

  “Thanks, Control. We’re off.”

  He released the brakes, and the MakoShark began to roll. After a short sprint down the taxiway, McKenna turned into the center of the runway. He locked the brakes and ran the engines up.

  Good readings all the way. He brightened the HUD, turned down the air conditioning, checked the frequency settings on the radios.

  “Tiger?”

  “I’m as green as I’m gonna be this trip, jefe. So far, so good.”

  Tac-1 sounded off. “Alpha One, Delta Red.”

  “Go Red,” Overton said.

  “On path at two-three-eight thousand, Mach twelve-point-nine.”

  “Copy.”

  “Rocket status?”

  “Still on the ground, Red,” Overton told her.

  “We’re commencing flight plan for Peenemünde. Delta Red out.”

  “Punch it, Snake Eyes,” Munoz said.

  “Punched.”

  He released the brakes and slapped the throttles forward. The MakoShark leaped forward for her maiden flight. Eagerly, he thought.

  All of the control surfaces felt too smooth, too unaccustomed to his touch. There were supposed to be sensitivities that he was missing, a grainy feel to the throttle handles, a pebbled surface for the hand controller. “Rotate,” Munoz said.

  He eased the controller back and felt the MakoShark depart the ground. The wheels quit rumbling, and he retracted the gear, then pulled in the flaps.

  “Off at oh-two-three-two hours, Snake Eyes.”

  The hand controller was too soft, responses had a hairs-breadth of delay. As the MakoShark climbed, McKenna tapped the keyboard, trying new settings for the hand controller. They were at 30,000 feet and Mach 2.2 by the time it felt right.

  “Okay, jefe. Got us a course for Germany.”

  “Delta Red, Delta Blue, Alpha Two. We have launch! I repeat, the rocket has launched.”

  “Shit!” McKenna said. “Let’s go over, Tiger.”

  “First time for everythin’. Checklist Comin’ up. Let’s do this one carefully, Snake Eyes.”

  As they went through the procedure of checking pressures and loads and preparing the rocket motors, McKenna called Haggar.

  “Delta Red, Delta Blue.”

  “Go ahead, Blue.”

  “How’s your intercept?”

  “Be … Swede’s checking now. Hold one.”

  The rocket motors ignited, and McKenna pulled the controller back, taking the MakoShark vertical.

  “Sweet, sweet music,” Munoz said.

  Thrust coming up, eighty, ninety, a hundred percent. “Kill the jets, Snake Eyes.”

  He shut them down going through 50,000 feet.

  “Delta Blue, we’re going to miss an intercept by two hundred miles. The rocket is on a southeast track, but we’re short.”

  McKenna could hear the disappointment in her voice, and knew it was as much the result of her inability to protect Themis as it was the missed chance of proving herself.

  “Country Girl, you remember the pictures of Peenemünde?”

  “Roger, Snake Eyes.”

  “Munitions bunker to the east, with the nukes?”

  “Right.”

  “The two big assembly buildings?”

  “Right.”

  “Avoid the bunker, but dump your load into the buildings. They’ve got four or five more of those rockets that they shouldn’t have.”

  “Roger that, Delta Blue.”

  McKenna waited for Brackman to intervene concerning an attack on the mainland, and when he didn’t, said, “Semaphore?”

  “This is Semaphore, Delta Blue.”

  “Will you confirm that order?”

  “Confirm what? We must have missed it.”

  Brackman never missed anything.

  “Alpha One, did you hear an order?” Brackman asked. “Negative,” Overton responded. “You want to repeat, Delta Blue?”

  “Oh, let’s skip it,” McKenna said, knowing it was his skin that would fry if anyone raised hell.

  “By the way, Delta Blue,” Brackman said, “we need an IFF on you for the satellites.”

  McKenna turned on the IFF and all of his running lights.

  Four minutes later, two minutes after he had shut down his rocket motors, Thorpe called, “Delta Blue?”

  “Go Semaphore.”

  “We have tracks. Themis is now over Antarctica. The rocket will achieve an orbit of one-nine-zero miles at seventeen-sixteen hours, Eastern Standard. We’re assuming a booster burn that will aim it for an orbit of two-two-zero miles, but it will be pursuing the station, coming up from behind at closure rate of around three hundred miles per hour. Impact estimated for seventeen-forty-one hours.”

  “I’m getting this down and input,” Munoz said.

  “We show you at two-three-zero-thousand feet, Mach one-four. You will need another rocket burn for six-point-four-five minutes, and you will need to alter course to the following coordinates.”

  Munoz keyed the celestial coordinates in to the computer as Thorpe read them off and immediately tapped the commit button.

  T
he readout on the CRT read: ACCEPTED.

  Then: EXECUTING.

  The MakoShark’s nose leaned toward the northern horizon.

  It was the first time they had exited the atmosphere toward the north. Most launches of rockets attempted a southeastern trajectory, using the earth’s spin to their advantage.

  “Executing new course, Semaphore. What will that do for us?”

  “You will be approaching Themis head-on, at a combined closure velocity of four-one-thousand miles per hour.”

  “Will we be in time?”

  Brackman’s hesitation was ominous. “No, Delta Blue. You’re going to be about one minute short. We’re working on the problem.”

  More ominous was Brackman’s order to Overton. “Prepare your lifeboats, Alpha One. Civilian contract personnel are to be loaded first. At seventeen-twenty hours, we will want you to disengage the reactor and fuel module spokes.”

  At 0242 hours, German time, Haggar called. “Alpha One, Delta Red.”

  “Go Red.”

  “Departing Peenemünde for Hot Country. We’re reporting heavy damage to two buildings and an apparent launch control bunker at Peenemünde. The launch gantry is severely damaged. There are fires raging out of control in both buildings, and six storage tanks, probably hydrogen and oxygen, have exploded.”

  “Copy, Delta Red.”

  “I hope she fried the people who launched this bastard,” Munoz said on the intercom.

  “Nice going, Country Girl, Swede,” McKenna said. “Welcome to the team.”

  *

  Pearson was feeding the mainframe computer with every bit of data she could find, but only three symbols appeared on the Command Center’s main console screen. Over a graphic arc depicting part of the station’s orbit line was placed a large white circle.

  That was Themis. Her home.

  Don’t threaten my home, you bastards.

  Down to the right, a red circle had steadily been gaining on them, rising into their orbit.

  Up to the left was Delta Blue, also below the orbit, but soon to be on it.

  On the screen, Delta Blue looked to be the same distance from Themis as was the red circle.

  But there was a difference.

  A fraction in time.

  Fifty-two seconds.

  NORAD and the JPL had not come up with an answer.

  Any increase in Delta Blue’s speed would boost her into another orbit.

  At 1727 hours, after the radar compartment reported the warhead on its scope, Overton said, “Milt, blow the explosive bolts on Spokes Nine and Thirteen, then order everyone into lifeboats.”