The routine route around the sea-based rigs was accomplished in twelve minutes. He saw two whales sounding in the slate-gray seas, moving toward the south. He called Bahnsteig Drei with the information that a large iceberg was drifting in their direction. From March through September, the ice pack spawned large and small chunks of ice, and three huge seagoing tugboats were stationed in the area to nudge them away from a platform if necessary.
The platforms on the ice were in a ragged row that stretched over seventy kilometers in distance from east to west and were about twelve kilometers from the edge of the ice shelf. They were visible from a few miles away because of the slight mist that seemed to hang over them, frequently pluming up and away with the wind. Zeigman assumed that heat converters within the domes created the mist.
The ice pack was not smooth. Pressure ridges jutted from it, in long, jagged replicas of lightning. Some reached an altitude of severed hundred feet. Crevasses that could swallow whole airplanes, much less a schneekatze, a snow cat, belonging to one of the rigs, appeared abruptly and unexpectedly. Pollutants from the atmosphere grayed the surface and took the edge off the whiteness, but the sun’s reflection was still dazzling, and Zeigman kept his tinted visor lowered.
He followed the row eastward, away from the storm brewing in the west. If there was much wind in that storm, to fling the snow crystals about, the ice-bound wells would be whited out. A helicopter from one of the resupply ships was landing at Bahnsteig Neunzehn. The men at Bahnsteig Vierundzwanzig were engaged in a volleyball game outside the dome, on the helicopter pad, and he waggled his wings at them as he shot overhead. He would not report the frivolity. Zeigman did not give a damn what they did on the rigs. Oil was oil, and only when it was refined into JP-4 to feed his engine did he pay attention to it.
As the last well passed under him, Zeigman advanced his throttle and pulled the nose up. Dialing the Nav/Com radio into the air group’s net, he triggered the transmit button. “Pelican One, this is Tiger Leader.”
“Go ahead, Tiger Leader,” the tanker pilot told him.
“Pelican One, in four minutes, my fuel state will be critical. Where are you?”
The pilot gave him the coordinates. “You are always near critical, Tiger Leader. You should plan better.”
“Ah, but it is more fun being on the edge,” Zeigman told him. And it was.
Four
McKenna was asleep in his office when a none-too-gentle slap on the shoulder awakened him. He rocked against the restraint encircling his waist.
Looking to his left, he saw Pearson’s face in the gap between the curtains that closed off his office cell.
“I’ve got the map ready, McKenna.”
Since the time McKenna had made a playful pass at her two years before, Pearson had come to regard the differences in their military ranks as insignificant. McKenna cared less about military tides and military courtesy, except where it was absolutely necessary, but he wished that she would call him something besides “McKenna.” It was always said in a flat, neutral tone.
He brought his left hand to shoulder level, cocked it at the wrist, and waved at her. “Hi, Red.”
She liked that nickname a little less than he liked “McKenna,” from her. Wrinkling her nose at him, she said, “Wake up and come on out here.”
Sighing, he pulled the Velcro straps loose, pushed out of the cubicle, and followed her graceful arc into the command center. Overton was waiting beside the console under the viewing port. A blowsily white view of Antarctica was showing.
The other side of the world was displayed on the main console screen, one of seven screens available to the command center. Three technicians hovered, monitoring the consoles.
Pearson’s map of the Greenland Sea now had green circles representing each of the wells, and inside each circle was a number.
“We don’t know,” she said, “how the Germans are identifying the drilling platforms, but I’ve given each a number, according to when it went into operation.”
There didn’t seem to be a pattern, McKenna noticed. The rigs on the ice had been emplaced last. Their numbers ran from sixteen to twenty-four, but not in order. Sixteen was in the middle of the line, twenty-three on the east end, and twenty-four on the west end. So much for the vaunted German sense of organization.
The offshore wells were just as muddled, with number one in the center of the irregular cluster.
“Couldn’t you have renumbered a little, just to make it easier?” he asked.
“Your logical mind can’t handle this, Colonel McKenna?”
In front of the general, McKenna got a title.
“We’ll do it your way,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Overton told him, “One of the problems we have, Kevin, is that our standard satellite coverage is naturally more concerned with Europe, Asia, and the Barents and North seas. Only sporadically do we get a pass over the Greenland and Arctic seas, and even then, we haven’t been particularly watchful. The data we have on hand is limited.”
“You’re certain these wells are being overprotected, Amy?” McKenna asked. He still wasn’t sure that her suspicions were well-founded.
“From the information I’ve gathered, I am. And NORAD is similarly intrigued.”
“Okay, point made. What do you want?”
With a clear-polished nail, she traced a route over the screen of the monitor. “We want close-up shots of at least three of the platforms, and we want infrared and low-light film of all of them. There are also naval ships in the area, and you should get as many of them as you can.”
“We have any ideas on the shipping?”
“The long-distance photos we have suggest a few armed vessels and some supply ships. The missile cruiser was identified by its deck and funnel layout as the Hamburg. I’m going to check on her assignments through the covert channels.”
“And the patrol aircraft?”
Overton answered. “After we backtracked through the old photos, we suspect they originate out of New Amsterdam Air Force Base. They’re Panavia Tornados and, occasionally, a pair of Eurofighters or Dornier 228s. Amsterdam has four air wings assigned to it, Kevin, all of them equipped with similar aircraft, so we can’t pinpoint the squadron or group. If you happen to run into a plane, get its tail number, would you?”
“Sure thing, Jim.”
“Anything else, Amy? Want me to bring back a pizza and a six-pack?”
Her pale green eyes studied him, perhaps with a trace of amusement in them, but it didn’t transfer to her mouth. “Just the photos, Colonel.”
“I’ll go get my Brownie. Oh, Jim? Conover and Dimatta are due back in a few hours. Would you tell Will to stand down and Frank to prepare for a second run on the wells? We’ll get some backup on whatever I find.”
“Will do, Kevin,” the general said.
After the hatch spun and locked behind McKenna, Pearson tapped the keyboard and cleared the screen.
She could feel General Overton studying her. Pearson knew he was a competent judge of people, and he was constantly on the lookout for signs of abrasiveness between members of his crew. In the confines of Themis, teamwork was essential. Arguments between station personnel did not contribute to the mission, and if the warring factions got out of hand, Overton would ship the least necessary person earth side immediately. He had done it before.
She was absolutely certain that the general considered McKenna more necessary than he did her. Though she liked the commander, and she thought he liked her, Over-ton wouldn’t allow anything to interfere with the command assigned to him.