The transmission lines had been less clearly defined than Pearson had hoped, perhaps because of the depth of the seabed for much of the distance, or perhaps, as Evans had suggested, because the cable itself was mildly armored and insulated. Still, there had been enough of a pattern to define two transmission lines extending from the supposed pumping stations on the mainland up through the North, Norwegian, and Greenland seas to the wells. Among the wells themselves, it was difficult to exactly note the cables, but the electromagnetic patterns from all wells seemed to converge on wells number one and eleven for the most part.
Pearson had drawn in inked lines, following the centers of two parallel patterns, dotting the lines when the patterns were not totally revealed, then overlaid the clear plastic on a map of the region. The consensus was that the Germans had laid two cables a mile apart. Both probably carried electrical energy, but one of them backed up the other in case of a breakdown or other interference. That theory was supported by the two receiving stations on the mainland.
Evans said, “I don’t suppose we could take a shot at the two places where the cable comes ashore? I’m pretty sure they’re buried pretty deep, below the dummy pipelines, but that would have the best chance for success.”
“No, Mabry. I won’t even ask Brackman about that. The mainland is going to be off-limits. In fact, I suspect that anything south of the Arctic Circle will be off-limits. We don’t want any of our sorties witnessed by passersby.”
“Who passes by?” Sergeant Embry asked.
“A Greenpeace boat, for one.”
“How about where the cables leave the platforms?” Embry asked. “I know that takes twenty-four shots, instead of two, but we could maybe slice a cable directly under the platform.”
“Forget it, Sergeant,” Pearson said. “We don’t know the configuration of extraction and injection well casing in relation to the cables. We won’t take a chance on hitting the well casing, the anchor lines, or some other stabilization lines that I suspect are attached to the casing and cable.”
“There’s a spot,” McKenna said, “at seventy-five degrees, four minutes north and two degrees, seven minutes east where the western cable appears brightest. Amy has the depth shown as three hundred and twenty feet.”
“Undersea mountain,” she said.
“Would a Phoenix or Sidewinder penetrate to that depth?” McKenna asked.
“Uh-huh,” Embry said.
“No, Colonel,” Evans agreed with the NCO. “We could maybe devise a warhead with a depth fuse, and even come up with a Rube Goldberg electromagnetic homing device, but the guidance is going to come apart on us as soon as it hits the sea. This is purely a guess, but I don’t think any of the ordnance in our inventory is going to go much deeper than fifty feet before it goes haywire.”
“Damn it,” McKenna said.
“But, if you could pull a few strings, Colonel, maybe we could turn the MakoShark into a torpedo plane.”
Embry nodded.
Pearson asked, “You think so, Mabry?”
“It’s worth a try, Colonel Pearson. I need to get hold of a half-dozen Mark 46s. That’s a heavy mother, almost six hundred pounds, but it’s solid-fuel propelled, and it’s aircraft adaptable.”
“Why don’t we just send navy planes?” Embry asked.
“Because this is still a funny, covert war,” Pearson said. “None of the parties are admitting publicly that anything is going on. We’ll continue to use the stealth craft.”
McKenna called Brackman, but got Thorpe, who said he would check on the torpedoes.
When Thorpe called back, he said, “The Kennedy is off Cyprus. She’s loading and launching a C-2 Greyhound within the hour. You get your torpedoes and a naval crew to help you mount them. I want a complete attack plan before you go with this, Kevin.”
“I’ll put Colonel Pearson right on it,” he said, then passed the information to Evans.
“We go from Jack Andrews, right?” Evans asked. “I mean, those torpedoes are never going into space, much less re-enter the atmosphere.”
“We go from Chad. Damn it, I was just there.”
After he signed off the radio, Pearson said, “How come I get all the paperwork?”
“Because I have to sleep,” McKenna said. “Then pop off to Chad for a shower.”
Her eyes got a little dreamy. “Someday, somebody’s going to figure out a shower for this place.”
“Ah, the one I had last night. This morning, actually. Suds lathered all over, smooth, slippery, warm spray… ”
“Stop it!”
“You should have been there, Amy.” He grinned.
She shook her head in resignation, and McKenna almost regretted teasing her.
Almost, but not quite.
He did regret patting her on the fanny a couple years before.
Donna Amber sailed out of the Radio Shack. “I’ve got some orders directed to the commander, First Aerospace.” McKenna took the sheet from her. “Maybe I’m being transferred?”
“We can hope,” Pearson said.
“No,” Donna Amber said, “this is for one of my kind, enlisted.”
McKenna scanned the sheet and found:
PROMOTED TO MASTER SERGEANT E-7
Benjamin J. Shalbot, AF17667903, TSgt E-6, 1st AS, SPACOM.
McKenna said, “Donna, would you get on the PA and ask General Overton, Colonel Avery, and Sergeant Shalbot to come to the Command Center.”
“Right away, Colonel.”
The ceremony was brief, and McKenna slapped the stripes he had picked up at the Jack Andrews base exchange against Shalbot’s arms. They stuck to the fabric of the jumpsuit with double-sided tape.
Shalbot said, “Shucks.”
McKenna said, “Okay, Master Sergeant, you need to get ready for a ride to Hot Country.”
“Ah, sh… ah, hell, Colonel. Again?”
“I can get someone else.”
“Not on your life.”
Wilhelm Metzenbaum, the “Bear,” was edgy.
He and Zeigler had been thoroughly reamed by Weismann for abandoning coverage of the wells to pursue an obvious diversion by Soviet MiGs.
Obvious, after the fact. Weismann, Eisenach, and Hoch had not been on the scene, but they knew what was obvious.
Metzenbaum was not a complainer, but he was getting fed up with the crap surrounding the oil wells. Something definitely was not right. He had told Olga about it yesterday. She said he should retire. He said he had two years to go. She said he had the twins to think about it. Where would they be without a father?
Where indeed?
Metzenbaum leaned his head low and to the left to sight the rearview mirror. The Tornado was there, above him and to the right by a hundred meters. Higher yet, at 6,000 meters was the other pair, also one of his Eurofighters and one of Zeigman’s Tornadoes. The four of them had taken off from New Amsterdam an hour before.
He was not happy with the new pairings. Weismann and Zeigman had assumed that the American MakoSharks would attack a Eurofighter first since its pilot would have his hands full flying the plane in evasive maneuvers, much less attempting to guide his missiles by hand. That gave the Tornado, with its weapons system officer, an advantage. The Tornado would spring to the rescue.
Of course.
He was bait, a minnow, a worm on the end of the line.
Below on the dark sea, a freighter cruised, its wake prickling with phosphorescence. Under its deck lights, he saw a heavy, twin-rotored helicopter lashed to its afterdeck. More antiaircraft and missile batteries for the platforms. Seven of the platforms had now been armed, but judging by the performance of the gun and SAM crews at Bahnsteig Neun, it was a wasted effort. A total waste of men, equipment, and deutsche marks.