Idly, he automatically swept the instrument panel with his eyes. He glanced at the radar scope.
What!
He counted the blips, then pressed the transmit button. “Tiger Flight, break off refueling and join on me. Panther Leader, do you hear me?”
Wilhelm Metzenbaum, Panther Führer; came back to him immediately. “Panther Leader, Tiger.”
“Go to military power, Panther Flight, and join on me. I have eight targets, possibly Soviet aircraft, at one-six-zero-zero-zero altitude, three-five kilometers, my bearing zero-three-eight.”
As his wingman and second element closed in on him, Zeigman advanced his throttles and began to climb.
“You are an asshole,” he told his weapons system operator over the intercom.
“Major?” squeaked Hauptman Fritz Gehring.
“You should have seen the Russians earlier.”
“I am sorry, Major.”
“Do not be sorry. Keep your eyes open. We will arm all systems now.”
Within minutes, Wilhelm Metzenbaum’s flight sidled in next to them.
“Tiger Leader, our new tactics will not work against MiGs.”
“Agreed, Panther. Take the Eurofighters and go to three-five-zero-zero-zero meters. We will make the first strike, and you the second.”
“One strike is all we have in us, Tiger Leader. Our fuel supply is limited.”
“One pass is all you will need,” Zeigman promised, “if that.”
He worked his shoulder muscles and stretched his fingers. He felt good, all charged up.
MiGs.
He had never attacked MiGs before.
Gerhard Schmidt listened to the radio exchanges of the German pilots, sitting in his upholstered chair in his flag plot aboard the Hamburg.
Provide them with a warning Tiger Leader. Shoo them away.
He heard nothing.
Schmidt looked at his aide, Werner Niels. The man looked slightly sickly.
“Lieutenant,” he said to his plotter, “have we a radar contact with those aircraft?”
The leutnant spoke into his headphone, listened, then tapped his keyboard. Eight green rectangles appeared on the plotting board. They were east of Svalbard Island, heading east-north-east.
“I am sorry, Herr Admiral, the radar can reach only Tiger and Panther flights. The Soviet airplanes are beyond our range.”
Schmidt detested seeing only half the battle. His mind was good at imagining the things he could not see, one of the reasons he was an excellent tactician. His brain kept track of unseen destroyers, frigates, and submarines with only minimal input as to course, heading, and speed. He anticipated the intentions of ship commanders with frequent success. Airplanes, and their arrogant operators, were much more difficult.
He studied the plotting board. One by one, the green rectangles blinked out as they chased the Soviet aircraft out of radar range.
Just below the ice cap on the plotting board was his own ship, the Hamburg and her escorts. The second battle group, centered on the Stuttgart, was also out of his radar range, but plotted by hand. It was forty miles off the northern coast of Norway. The third battle group was near Iceland, practicing maneuvers. The fourth group patrolled the southwestern edge of the offshore platforms.
Two of the tugboats were fending off an ice floe at Bahnsteig Zwei, and the other was standing by near Bahnsteig Vierzehn. A fuel tender was approaching the fourth battle group.
He looked out the big window at the coming day. The visibility was good for about a kilometer.
He turned back and studied the plotting board.
“What do you think, Werner?”
His aide broke off a trance between himself and the board. “I think, Admiral, that all of our air cover has fled to the east. There is not one airplane in the sky over the ice or the offshore platforms.”
“My observation, also.”
Schmidt thought about it for one more minute, then keyed the intercom button set into the arm of his chair.
“Sir?” Kapitän Froelich said.
“Captain, I want you to sound General Quarters. Alert the second and fourth battle groups to do the same. Also alert any of the platforms that have been armed. All antiaircraft and missile batteries are freed. They may fire at any aircraft they see.”
“But, Admiral! Our fighters… ”
“Are off on a wild-goose chase, Captain. Do as you are told.”
The klaxon sounded immediately.
Delta Blue passed almost directly over the ship.
“It’s a fuel tanker, Snake Eyes. Unarmed.”
“Think they saw us?”
“Damned sure of it. Couple of those guys nearly fell overboard, gawking.”
“Okay, then. The alarm’s been sounded. You can play with your radar set.”
“Finally.”
McKenna saw the first of the platforms coming up. The dome had a bare, dull gleam of morning reflecting off of it. It was light enough now to see that the sea had a rough look to it. The waves were capping at about four feet, he guessed. White spume sprayed from the crests.
He hit Tac-1. “Delta Flight, arm missiles and guns, but maintain your courses. They’re on to us, but completing the map is the priority. Do-Wop, you still monitoring the Soviet channel?”
“Roger that, Snake Eyes. They’ve got themselves a skirmish going. From their AWACS guys, who are recapping in English for me, I make it seven missiles fired on both sides, no hits. The Sovs are starting to break it off, and two of the Germans have skedaddled. The tankers are headed east, so maybe they’re short of go-juice.”
“Okay, Do-Wop, keep me posted if anything gets out of hand. Cottonseed, you there?”
“Go, Delta Blue.”
“Any readings?”
“Nothing airborne. You feel like squawking me?” McKenna hit the IFF switch, counted to three, then killed it.
“Got you, Delta Blue. Four miles to the first platform. That’s number nine. Then you’ll see number one off your right wing, then number seven off your left. Then you’ll see the Hamburg, dead on.”
“What’s she doing, Cottonseed?”
“She and her two destroyers are now turning south. I’m going to call it one-seven-seven degrees. They’ve probably gotten a report from that fuel tanker.”
“Thank you, Cottonseed. Blue out.”
The radar screen showed three targets, wells nine, thirteen, and five.
“Going back to visual, Snake Eyes.”
The screen went to gray. Gray sea. Gray day.
McKenna checked the HUD. Airspeed 600 knots, altitude 3,000 feet. Boring routine, gray day.
“Hey, hombre! That sucker’s armed.”
McKenna looked down at the magnified image. On the helicopter pad near the dome, two antiaircraft guns had been mounted. On the far side of the pad were two SAM installations, the missile mounts sporting three cylinders each. Midway between them was a small house trailer topped with a radar antenna.
“Kill the radar,” he said.
“Already done.”
“Alert the others.”
Munoz called Dimatta and Conover and passed on the information.
“Delta Blue, Semaphore.”
“Go Semaphore.”
“Do we read armed platforms?”
“Two AA batteries and two SAMs on nine.”
The platform was coming up quickly.
“Abort the mission.”
“That’ll piss Amy-baby,” Munoz said, fortunately on the intercom.
“Delta Yellow, Delta Green, abort,” McKenna said. “Semaphore, I’m going to take it on through. My course is right up the middle, and if we don’t get it now, we may not get it at all.”