Delta Blue

by William H. Lovejoy

  McKenna pressed his trigger and pulled his head back a little.

  The first shells — about thirty of them — went right through the Eurofighter’s engine intake. The turbojet exploded and spewed debris in flaming arcs.

  McKenna jerked his head back, pulling the MakoShark into a tight loop, but still felt the pings as they flew through some of the debris that filled the air.

  When he straightened his head, the rearview screen showed him a ball of flame plunging toward the sea.

  “You had it, Tiger. Brave guy.”

  “Tornado Comin’ up under us. Two launched.” The radar had flashed on, then off again.

  McKenna rolled hard to the left.

  Jammed the rocket throttles forward.

  The sky behind them lit up as the rockets fired.

  The HUD went quickly to 600 knots, 700, switched to Mach numbers. 1.1. 1.5.

  He pulled the throttles back.

  “Lost the missiles, lost the Tornado. He’s tryin’ to figure out what happened.”

  A minute later, Munoz flashed the radar again. “He’s goin’ west, still looking for us. The other Tornado is joinin’ up with him.”

  “Let’s go back to the map, Tiger.”

  McKenna switched off the helmet interface. It worked well enough, but was hard on the neck muscles.

  The map appeared on the screen, and the GPS navigation satellites pinpointed Delta Blue’s position on the map. The coordinates of the target — a spot in the ocean — appeared at the top right of the screen.

  During the skirmish, they had drifted a hundred miles west and north. McKenna turned until the target was due north on the screen.

  “What’d you think, Snake Eyes?”

  “About what?”

  “About how she handled with a ton of torpedoes hangin’ on the wings.”

  “Not bad, Tiger. A little sluggish, maybe.”

  What he was really thinking about was the courage of the man in the Eurofighter. He thought he might have liked knowing the guy, then decided against that. He didn’t want to know anything about either of them.

  Forget the years of training, the Red Flag exercises over the Nevada desert.

  It wasn’t the same. There was no training for this.

  McKenna had killed his first two men.

  He wasn’t happy about it.

  “Eleven miles to target, amigo. Let’s put it on the deck.”

  *

  “The torpedoes went right in on target, Marv, and two of our sonobuoys recorded four explosions. I don’t think we got the transmission cable, though. There’s been no excitement at either end of the cable. No ships racing out to run down a break.”

  Brackman listened to Overton’s report, then said, “How’s McKenna?”

  “Fine. They’re on the ground at Jack Andrews. There’s a couple hours of work, repairing some dents they picked up from the debris.”

  “Beyond that, Jim?”

  “The man himself? You know Kevin. He’s not giving much away. Still, I think he’ll be fine. Munoz, too.”

  “Dimatta didn’t show any aftereffects with his first encounter, did he?” Brackman asked.

  “No, not obviously. But then his profile is different from McKenna’s. Frank did have a couple talks on the sly with Doc Harvey, and that may have helped him.”

  “Watch him close, Jim. Keep him out of the MakoShark for a couple days.”

  “And when he says ‘no?’ ”

  “You outrank him.”

  “You ever known that to make a difference with McKenna?” Overton asked.

  “No. Not much of one, anyway.”

  Thirteen

  “You should talk to the widow,” Weismann said.

  “Do not tell me what I should, or should not, do,” Eisenach said into the telephone.

  “I have reviewed the radar tapes from the Tornado. Major Metzenbaum gave his life for Germany, willingly and with valor, General Eisenach. He was of the very best.”

  “His wife is a Jew, is she not?”

  There was a long pause on Weismann’s end of the telephone. “I do not know.”

  “You should pay closer attention to the dossiers of your men, Colonel.”

  “Pardon me, Herr General, but that does not negate his actions last night.”

  “You are having a change of heart, Albert.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then recommend him for a medal. I will honor it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Eisenach leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingertips on the top of his desk. Through the window, he saw a soldier mowing the lawn, and farther away, a transport taking off. The daily routine at Templehof had not changed. It was as if the battles taking place in the north had no effect whatsoever on the rest of Germany. But they did. They affected every true German’s right to his own destiny. And Felix Eisenach was privileged to assist in shaping that destiny.

  He was not about to allow his vision to be blurred or obliterated.

  “How many MakoSharks do the Americans have, Albert?”

  “It is not known, Herr General. The treaty allows them six, but I believe that one or two have not been funded by their Congress.”

  “So, we are being harassed by, perhaps, only four of these stealth airplanes?”

  “It seems to be enough, Herr General. Spotting them is a fluke.”

  “Then we need more eyes looking. I will see that you receive another eight pilots and Tornados from the Sixteenth Air Wing. Integrate them into your coverage.”

  “Very well, General. And I am going to reduce the daytime flights to one aircraft every three hours. The stealth planes fly by night.”

  Eisenach considered the move, then said, “I agree. And Peenemünde?”

  “The scientists are fabricating a new collar for mating the nose cone to the third-stage body.”

  “The software?”

  “All but finished, I am told.”

  “They may then begin programming the test flight?”

  “I should think so,” Weismann said.

  “The target for the test will be the American space station.”

  “Herr General?”

  “Perhaps we can deflate their resolve to interfere in German national interests, Albert. Along with removing that damnable aircraft carrier.”

  *

  The sun shone brightly today, for a change. The sea was smooth, much bluer than was normal. Off the starboard flank, the coast of Greenland was barely visible on the horizon. Ahead, as they turned to the east, the top of the dome of Bahnsteig Zehn was just peeking above the sea.

  The two destroyer escorts trailed on either side, three kilometers off the stern, matching the turn. Their wakes appeared very white.

  Gerhard Schmidt lowered his binoculars and returned to the bridge from the wing.

  The brilliance of the day and the brisk, chilled salt air had given him hope, clarified his thinking.

  Kapitän Rolf Froelich stood up from his chair, holding a steaming mug. “Coffee, Admiral?”

  “Please, Captain.”

  A steward appeared a few minutes later with a ceramic mug on a silver tray, and Schmidt accepted the mug. The hot liquid warmed him.

  “Rolf, let us go to the CIC.”

  The two men descended one deck and entered the Combat Information Center. Computer and radar consoles lined the bulkheads, and a large electronic plotting table occupied the center of the space. The duty officer was a young, smooth-faced leutnant.

  Schmidt leaned on the edge of the table with one hand and studied the plot. The third battle group, recalled from their maneuvers off Iceland, was closing in to starboard. The second battle group had achieved its station, south of Svalbard Island and a few kilometers east of Bahnsteig Sechs. The fourth group, led by the Stuttgart, was still steaming off Norway.

  The fifth battle group, given to him this morning on loan from the 1st Fleet, and composed of a new destroyer, an elderly destroyer escort, and a helicopter carrier, was only 250
kilometers into the North Sea, outbound from Bremerhaven.

  “Tell me once again, Rolf, of the Black Forest’s report.”

  “Simply, Admiral Schmidt, that they tracked four torpedoes early this morning. Mark 46s, they believe. At first, they thought that the Black Forest was under attack, but the torpedoes ran wild for several minutes and finally detonated on the seabed.”

  “And the coordinates, again?”

  The Kapitän signaled a plotter, and a yellow circle appeared on the plotting table.

  “Depth?”

  “Ninety-seven meters, sir,” the plotter said.

  “They’re trying for the ca … the pipeline, Captain Froelich.” Occasionally, Schmidt forgot that most of the navy still thought they were oil wells.

  Froelich leaned over to study the plot. “Outside of the approaches to the mainland, that would be where the pipeline is located in the shallowest waters. This is perplexing, Admiral. Why would the Americans want to sever the pipeline when the platforms are so exposed? Even the attack on Platform Nine was confined to the defensive batteries.”

  At some point, the Hochkommandieren must include all of its commanders in the secret, Schmidt thought. He said, “All I am told, Rolf, is that the Americans and the Soviets appear to have entered a conspiracy to deprive Germany of new energy sources. The rationale, apparently, is to keep us subservient to the superpowers.”

  That was the ordered, prevalent subterfuge, and Gerhard Schmidt did not think much of it.

  Schmidt stood up. “All right, then. Signal the third battle group to turn north and take up station off Platform Ten. That will protect the southwest flank of the oil field. The second group has the southeast flank already. I want the Stuttgart under way on a course of three-four-five degrees as soon as possible. By late night, she and her group should be in position two kilometers east of those coordinates.”

  The leutnant was writing quickly on a notepad.

  “Then, signal the fifth battle group to make flank speed northward along the track of the pipeline. They will not achieve the objective yet tonight, but they might be able to protect the approaches, if the aircraft continue coming from the south.

  “Captain Froelich, we will make flank speed toward that spot in the ocean.” Schmidt stuck out a finger and pointed at the yellow circle. “We want to be two kilometers southeast of it.”

  “You think they will make another attempt, Admiral?”

  “I am sure of it.”

  “Very well, sir.” Froelich stepped to an intercom mounted on the bulkhead and passed the orders to the bridge. Within minutes, Schmidt felt the vibrations in the deck as the Hamburg increased revolutions.

  It was a good feeling, this preparation for action, after so many months of ennui.

  “Then, Captain, we want flare shells. If we do not have enough, radio Bremerhaven and have them flown out to all ships. We want every gun firing flares with every third shot.

  “We are going to light up the bloody night.”

  *

  The HUD readouts were right on. Airspeed 400 knots. Altitude 1,200 feet. The screen displayed the night-vision image of flat landscape.

  The orange bombsight bounced around the screen.

  “You want to arm me, Con Man?”

  Conover dialed “BOMB LOAD” on the selector, raised the protective flap, and thumbed the toggle switch upward.

  “You’re armed, Do-Wop.”

  “IP.”

  “Noted”

  “Bay doors.”

  Conover flicked the flap out of the way and clicked the switch. The green LED illuminated.

  “Doors clear.”

  The complex slowly appeared in the top edge of the cathode ray terminal.

  Conover glanced at the HUD, then to his left and upward. The Aeroflot passenger airliner was still heading west at 25,000 feet.

  Back to the screen. The launch tower was now centered. The bombsight dropped below it, a thousand yards in real space.

  The “LOCK-ON” signal appeared in orange letters in the upper-right corner.

  “Committed,” Abrams said.

  Five seconds later, the small parachute blossomed in the rearview screen.

  “Left three degrees.”

  Conover eased the controller over.

  “LOCK-ON,” on the screen again.

  “Committed.”

  As soon as he saw the parachute flutter open, Conover retracted the payload bay doors, then tapped the throttles forward.

  They were over water, climbing. The Pomeranian Bay had a few ships in it, dots of red and green running lights.

  “I don’t think we alerted anyone important,” Abrams said. “I’m still showing that big damned J-Band operating, but he didn’t get us.”

  “If he yelps, we’ll see if a torpedo works against a radar,” Conover said.

  Going to Tac-1, he said, “Alpha One, Delta Yellow.”

  “Go, Delta Yellow.” Pearson’s nice low tones on the other end.

  “LP-12s are deployed. You now have ears in Peenemünde, Alpha Two.”

  “Thank you, Yellow. Proceed with Phase Two.”

  “On the way. Yellow out.”

  “If McKenna doesn’t make a move on her soon,” Abrams said on the intercom, “I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

  “You’re already married.”

  “Yeah, but my wife only rarely gets to see me in action. By now, Amy knows what I’m really like.”

  “Yeah. A junior officer.”

  Conover advanced his throttles to 80 percent power and achieved Mach 1.9 at 30,000 feet before easing them back to a cruise setting. Some people in Denmark probably heard the sonic boom, but Conover didn’t think they’d call the cops.

  The lights of Copenhagen were spread below like a twinkling quilt. He thought it strange that he couldn’t spot a red light district among so many white lights.

  “Let’s keep her steady on three-five-oh, Con Man.”

  “Got it.”

  Conover turned it over to the autopilot and settled back in his seat, working his arms to relieve some of the tension created by low-flying bomb runs.

  Abrams played with his computer, lining up satellite relay stations, until he had KXKL out of Denver. It specialized in golden oldies, and was one of Abrams’s favorite stations.

  Jody Reynolds, “Endless Sleep,” filled Conover’s headphones.

  “Jesus, Do-Wop, can’t you find something a bit more upbeat?”

  “Hey, it’s a good song. Anyway, it’ll be over in a minute.”

  When he was growing up, Conover hadn’t paid much attention to music. He always had something better to do. But after a couple years with Abrams, he had learned to like most of the old stuff. He didn’t have much choice.

  They listened to Buddy Holly, Elvis, the Temptations, Diana Ross, Guy Mitchell, and the muted thunder of the turbojets. No clouds tonight, and the stars were brilliant. The sea was so dark, it melted into the horizon. Occasionally, phosphorescent flashes could be seen. A group of three ships, turning out some knots. They had to be German navy, he decided, in formation as they were.

  At two-twenty in the morning, Conover retarded throttles and began a slow descent.

  “Delta Yellow, Hot Country.” McKenna still sounded pissed. The word floating around the base was that he’d been grounded, but no one on the continent of Africa was going to mention that out loud.

  “Got you, Hot.”

  “Con Man, see if you can’t make your drop at wave-top and three-five-zero knots. We may have been too high and too fast and screwed up the guidance on impact.”

  “Copy that, Snake Eyes. We do it at wave-top and three-five-oh.”

  “Luck. Hot Country out.”

  Fifty miles from the target, Conover armed everything. They were carrying two Mark 46 torpedoes on the outer pylons, a gun pod on the port inner pylon, and four Wasps on the starboard inboard pylon. Two of the Wasps were warheaded for air-to-air and two for air-to-surface.

  Abrams brough
t up the map on the screens and interfaced the Global Positioning Satellites. Delta Yellow was centered on the screen, and the target coordinates were dead ahead.

  “Con Man?”

  “Yo.”

  “Something doesn’t feel right. Can I go active a couple sweeps?”

  Conover felt a little itchy himself. The Germans had jumped all over McKenna the night before, but they had had the clouds working for them. He couldn’t see anything around him, but that didn’t mean much. Aircraft and, possibly, naval ships might be running dark.

  Distance to target: twenty-five miles.

  “Con Man?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You heard the question?”

  “I’m thinking about it. Yeah, okay, two sweeps, but wait until we’re five miles from target. If we see something, I still want to get the fish dropped before we scoot.”

  “Roger.”

  The distance to target continued to shrink as Conover slowed the MakoShark to 350 knots and descended to twenty feet over the water. The fuel load was down a third. Low-level flight on turbojets in the Mach numbers consumed the JP-7 quickly.

  At five miles, Abrams switched on.

  The sweep didn’t make two complete revolutions before all hell broke loose.

  Thump, thump, thump!

  Magnesium flares erupted all around them, bursting at close to 3,000 feet, then drifting downward in their parachutes.

  “Jesus Christ!” Abrams shouted. “There must be a hundred of them.”

  Four miles. Conover felt like his portrait was being taken. There were hot lights everywhere.

  “Steady on, Do-Wop. We’re going to dump the fish first thing.”

  “Got it. Take her down a tad.”

  Puffs of flak started to explode off their flanks. Conover took a quick scan through the windscreen. He could see the muzzle flashes of big guns and antiaircraft guns.

  “I count six ships, Do-Wop. They’re even using the heavy stuff.”

  “SAMs coming soon, then. Three miles.”

  A detonation above them threatened to drive the MakoShark into the sea. Conover fought the turbulence and pulled up a few feet higher.

  “Two miles.”

  “LOCK-ON” hit the screen.

  “One mile. Committed. Do whatever you want to do, Con Man.”

  Conover shoved the throttles full forward as soon as the MakoShark jumped, losing the weight of the torpedoes.