The three MakoSharks were off the ground at six-forty in the morning, Borneo time.
Three hours and twelve minutes later, on the northern side of the equator, over seven thousand miles from Merlin Air Force Base, they descended from 100,000 feet.
It was two-fifty-six in the morning, and the sun was already rising in the northern latitudes, though still low on the horizon.
Crossing the Austrian border, McKenna pressed the stud for the Tac-1 frequency, already set in a scrambling mode. “Delta Flight, break.”
“Yellow gone.”
“Green doing it.”
On either side of him, Dimatta and Conover began to pull away. The three MakoSharks would make the single run northward flying parallel, but with forty miles between each of the craft. Shalbot had said that would give the mapping coverage a slight overlap.
“Alpha One, Delta Blue.”
“Go ahead, Blue.” Overton was on the microphone.
“Six minutes to IP, on schedule.”
“Copy, Blue.”
“Semaphore, Delta Blue,” McKenna said.
“Delta Blue, this is Semaphore,” General Thorpe said.
“Semaphore, did you get my message about the need for a Hot Country recovery?”
“Roger. The boss wants to know when we started having tech sergeants running the air force.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have any promotion allocations for my squadron,” McKenna said, “but I want him to be a master sergeant by the time we get back. Can master sergeants run the air force?”
“They already do,” Thorpe told him. “I’ll process your oral recommendation, and we’ll see if we can’t find an allocation somewhere.”
Munoz broke in, “You’ve got my recommendation, too. How about silver oak leaves? Got any of those laying around somewhere?”
“Can it, Tiger. I appreciate that, Semaphore. How we doing for Cottonseed?”
“Cottonseed’s four minutes from station. He’s standing by on this frequency,” Thorpe said. “Condor and Vulture are in alert status.”
“Roger, that. Are we a go?”
“Go, Delta Blue.”
McKenna checked the HUD. Mach 1.4. Altitude
42,000. Green LED’s everywhere.
On his right, the low sun was threatening, a pink nipple on the horizon. At lower altitude, though, it would be dark enough for the first part of the flight.
The plan was to make a curving pass northward, starting over the German mainland, swinging around the jut of Norway over the North Sea, continuing over the Norwegian Sea, and then into the Greenland Sea. Pearson was hoping to trace the electromagnetic anomalies out of Germany to the offshore platforms.
They had to do it at 600 knots. Right at 690 miles per hour. Slower was better, faster might jumble the readings, since, according to Shalbot, the tape recording mechanism was equivalent to, “the one Moses used.”
The distance was 1,900 miles. It would take two and three-quarters hours, and they would hit the platforms in strong early morning light.
McKenna pressed the Tac-2 button, preset for the frequency he and Volontov had agreed upon. It was not a scrambled frequency.
“Condor One, Delta Blue.”
“Delta Blue, this is Condor One. Proceed.”
“Condor, we’ll be on our IP in two minutes. You might want to start engines in about forty minutes.”
“Copy forty minutes. Condor out.”
Back to Tac-1. “Cottonseed, Delta Blue.”
“Go ahead, Delta Blue.”
“What do you see me flying into?”
“Blue, we no longer have coverage of your area, but an hour ago, two Eurofighters and two Tornados took off from New Amsterdam, headed north. Mildenhall RAF reports two Tornados flying the French border. You’ve got eleven scheduled commercial flights in the area of operations. I can read them off for you, if you like.”
“We’ve got the commercial aircraft input already,” McKenna said. “What about in your area?”
“We’re showing three formations currently. The flight makeup appears to consist of two Tornados and two Eurofighters, Blue. We have a flight approaching the ice, a flight on the southbound leg, and two tankers are aloft at three-zero-thousand, south of Svalbard. Then, we’re expecting the flight from New Amsterdam.”
“Thank you, Cottonseed. Delta Blue out.”
On the intercom, Munoz said, “They’re beefin’ up the beef, amigo.”
“Looks that way, Tiger.”
“IP!”
McKenna set the elapsed time counter on his chronometer to zero, then eased the hand controller forward. By the time they passed over Bremerhaven, the MakoShark was steady at 600 knots and 3,000 feet of altitude. Dimatta and Conover each checked in with the same readings.
Munoz cussed Shalbot’s jury-rigged controls, lashed to the left side of his cockpit, but seemed to think the magnetometer was operating.
Bremerhaven was dark, the streets identified by long rows of street lights. A few early risers were up, pushing headlight beams along the shaded streets. The naval base was well lit, a destroyer and a freighter putting out to sea side by side. New Amsterdam Air Force Base launched a multi-engined jet transport of some kind that took off to the east.
No one seemed to notice them.
“Let’s make the turn, Snake Eyes.”
McKenna used a lot of space to make a left turn to a heading of 345 degrees.
“Green turning.”
“Yellow turned.”
“Copy,” McKenna told them.
Twenty minutes later, they all turned back to dead north. If the expectations were correct, Delta Blue was approximately over the eastern cable.
“I wish to hell I could get a concurrent readin’ on this thing,” Munoz said. “I don’t like not knowin’ what we’re gettin’. If anything.”
“Trust to God and Benny Shalbot, Tiger.”
Twenty minutes after that, Munoz said, “Arctic Circle, jefe.”
“Roger.”
He called Cottonseed and got an update on the German patrol planes.
McKenna went to Tac-2. “Condor One, Delta Blue.”
“Proceed, Delta Blue.”
“What’s your situation, Condor?”
“On station, the last two aircraft are almost finished refueling.”
The Fulcrums were circling at 30,000 feet over the Barents Sea, fifty miles out of range of radar aboard either the offshore platforms or the tankers replenishing the German aircraft.
“Condor, you have two flights of mixed Tornados and Eurofighters. Flight One is currently refueling south of Svalbard. Flight Two is on the western edge of the ice pack. I’d appreciate your help.”
“Delta Blue, Condor. We will depart these coordinates now.”
It was getting light out, the dawn a milky gray spreading over a darker gray sea. To the east a few miles was some cloud cover, but it wasn’t doing Delta Blue any good. It might mask Delta Green for a while.
Unable to change his speed, heading, or altitude, McKenna felt a little exposed.
“One o’clock high,” Munoz said.
McKenna looked up. There were four aircraft in a loose formation.
“They’re southbound and down,” Munoz quoted. “Those assholes are thinking about sausage and eggs, not us.”
“I don’t think so, either,” McKenna agreed.
He estimated that the Germans were flying at 30,000 feet. Having successfully completed their patrol of the platforms, they were not looking for intruders in the middle of the Norwegian Sea.
Ten minutes later, the German planes were out of sight to the south.
But he saw a ship coming up on the horizon.
Zeigman circled to the east of the tanker, waiting for his last two planes to be fueled.
He was watching the sea. It was bland and mesmerizing, shades of gray. Most of his days and nights were that way. The northern regions always gave a feeling of overcast, even when the sun was shining. As he came around, Svalbard Island appeared in his windscreen, also bland. It was fifteen kilometers away.