Arguento, at the doorway to the Radio Shack, grinned at her.
“Requesting permission to enter the Command Center,” she said.
“Come on in,” McKenna told them.
“My God, Kevin, it’s beautiful!”
Olsen had a grin that threatened to eclipse the room. “She was armed, Colonel. I saw pylons with two Sidewinders and four unknowns.”
“You got a peek, huh?”
“You let us,” Haggar said.
“Oh, no! If Brackman or Overton should ever ask you, it was purely by accident.”
Haggar’s face sobered. “Ah. I see.”
“Step at a time, okay?”
“All right, Kevin. I appreciate it.”
“Now, I want you both to grab a bite to eat, then go to Ben’s cubicle. I’m going to accidentally leave Tac-1 open on Ben’s intercom circuit. I want you to listen in. Sergeant Arguento.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Could you print out a copy of Map GS-1014 and accidentally drop it?” That map pinpointed the wells.
“Damn right, sir.” Arguento turned back into the Radio Shack.
“And no one talks to anyone about these accidents,” McKenna ordered.
He got three affirmative responses.
They were right on the deck, five hundred feet above the coast north of Bremerhaven, holding 500 knots.
The screen displayed a flickering green land-and-sea-scape. Zipping beneath them.
“I’m not seeing shit, Cancha.”
“Still four or five miles, Nitro Fizz.”
They were looking for the first mainland pumping station on the Germany end of the supposed pipeline. The aerial photos of the past several years all displayed a rather innocuous group of five large buildings and three five-foot-diameter pipes emerging from the sea.
“Camera set for side view,” Williams said.
“Roger.”
Instead of the traditional view from above, they were coming in low and to the seaward side of the complex, taking photographs from the side. Amy Pearson wanted side-view elevations.
On the highway below and inland, a dozen sets of headlights cut the night. Out to sea on his left, Dimatta saw several ships, but couldn’t tell whether they were German naval vessels or not.
McKenna had forbidden the use of radar. No alerting the ground installations.
“Got it, Cancha. Give me two points right.”
Dimatta tapped the hand controller.
The right side of the screen showed the group of tall buildings sitting at the top of a short cliff.
“Snap, snap, snap!” Williams said, “I got twenty each of low-light and IR.”
Twenty-six miles later, they got photos of the second pumping station, located on the headland near Coxhaven, then Dimatta applied left rudder and started a climb. He took the MakoShark to 12,000 feet of altitude, but stayed subsonic on turbojets.
A leisurely ride.
“We set on the sequence, Nitro?”
“Cut straight across the offshore wells on a heading of three-zero-five. We’re looking for anything associated with the wells, but not directly attached to a platform. Cables, pipelines. We want close-ups of well number one. Then, on the ice, headed east, we’re also looking for exposed pipelines and cables.”
“You and I may eventually get along,” Dimatta said.
“Not if you keep eating pasta and Hollandaise and that Greek stuff.”
“Hey, you’re going to start me dreaming about it, and we got an hour to target.”
“Think about broads.”
“I’ll think about taking them out to dinner.”
“Radar, Command.”
“Radar here.”
“We over the horizon, yet?”
“Over, and target area coming up, General.”
Overton switched the screen display to the repeat image from the radar. McKenna, Pearson, Milt Avery, and Arguento all moved closer for a better view. Donna Amber was in the Radio Shack, monitoring the satellite relays for voice communications. No one wanted to lose contact with Delta Green.
“Command, Radar. I’m going to extend the range to two-two-zero.”
There was some clutter over the Arctic Ice Pack. The dark screen flickered with snow.
“Radar, Command. Back it off a little.”
The radar operator shortened the range, and much of the false radar return disappeared.
They waited twelve minutes until the edge of the ice, and the ice platforms appeared. The orbit was a bit two far to the west, and platforms twenty-two and twenty-four, on the east end, did not display on the screen. Svalbard Island wasn’t present, either.
Delta Green was not displayed, of course.
McKenna moved to a microphone. “Delta Green, Alpha One.”
“Go Alpha.”
“Squawk me once.”
“Roger.”
As the radar sweep passed the lower-left corner of the screen, a bright blip appeared as Dimatta flipped on the IFF, then flashed out.
“I’ve got you,” McKenna said. “Just making your turn to the east?”
“Roger, Alpha. We’re coming up on well number twenty-three.”
McKenna found himself counting silently, trying to keep pace with Dimatta while looking at a nearly blank screen. Blank as far as friendlies were concerned.
Three minutes.
“Command, Radar. I’ve got bogies.”
Two of the Tornados were at 2,000 meters, headed west over the ice. Mac Zeigman had reversed the normal course, and was covering the ice platforms before turning south to the offshore wells.
As was his preference, Zeigman was flying alone in Tiger Führer, having left his weapons system officer depressed and alone on the tarmac at New Amsterdam.
Zeigman and his wingman were at 10,000 meters. He could not see his wingman, some four kilometers to his right in the dark. Below, he had occasional glimpses of Tiger Drei and Tiger Vier when their silhouettes passed over white stretches of ice.
To keep his adrenaline level stable, Zeigman tried to think of this patrol as the typically boring routine of the past months. Still, something in Oberst Weismann’s tone had suggested that it might not be.
Despite himself, the adrenaline level was fluctuating. He felt keyed up.
Ready to unleash his tension on someone.
Or something.
“Tiger Leader, this is Platform Eighteen.”
“I hear you, Platform Eighteen.”
“We may have seen something on the dome camera.”
“What is that, Eighteen.”
“Unknown, Tiger Leader. A flash of darkness.”
The ground crews were also tense, Zeigman thought, but then again…
“All Tigers, Tiger Leader. Alert, now.”
He did not listen to the rash of affirmatives on the radio, but banked slightly to the right, to give himself a better view of the ice.
There. His two Tornados.
And there, two kilometers ahead of them, a shadow racing.
He could not make out the shape. It was a darkness fleeing along the ground.
“Tiger Three. Unidentified aircraft dead ahead of you, two kilometers. Come to the left four degrees.”
“Affirmative, Leader.”
“Tiger Two, let us engage.”
“Leader,” said Two, “I do not see it.”
“Join on me, Two.”
Zeigman rolled on over until he was inverted, then pulled the nose down. By the time he reached the proper altitude, the unidentified airplane would be east of him, and he would come down on it from its rear.
He flashed his wing lights once for the benefit of Tiger Zwei.
He had not taken his eyes off the phantom, and he cursed to himself when he saw his two low-level fighters pass right over it.