“Let’s go back to the map, Tiger.”
McKenna switched off the helmet interface. It worked well enough, but was hard on the neck muscles.
The map appeared on the screen, and the GPS navigation satellites pinpointed Delta Blue’s position on the map. The coordinates of the target — a spot in the ocean — appeared at the top right of the screen.
During the skirmish, they had drifted a hundred miles west and north. McKenna turned until the target was due north on the screen.
“What’d you think, Snake Eyes?”
“About what?”
“About how she handled with a ton of torpedoes hangin’ on the wings.”
“Not bad, Tiger. A little sluggish, maybe.”
What he was really thinking about was the courage of the man in the Eurofighter. He thought he might have liked knowing the guy, then decided against that. He didn’t want to know anything about either of them.
Forget the years of training, the Red Flag exercises over the Nevada desert.
It wasn’t the same. There was no training for this.
McKenna had killed his first two men.
He wasn’t happy about it.
“Eleven miles to target, amigo. Let’s put it on the deck.”
“The torpedoes went right in on target, Marv, and two of our sonobuoys recorded four explosions. I don’t think we got the transmission cable, though. There’s been no excitement at either end of the cable. No ships racing out to run down a break.”
Brackman listened to Overton’s report, then said, “How’s McKenna?”
“Fine. They’re on the ground at Jack Andrews. There’s a couple hours of work, repairing some dents they picked up from the debris.”
“Beyond that, Jim?”
“The man himself? You know Kevin. He’s not giving much away. Still, I think he’ll be fine. Munoz, too.”
“Dimatta didn’t show any aftereffects with his first encounter, did he?” Brackman asked.
“No, not obviously. But then his profile is different from McKenna’s. Frank did have a couple talks on the sly with Doc Harvey, and that may have helped him.”
“Watch him close, Jim. Keep him out of the MakoShark for a couple days.”
“And when he says ‘no?’ ”
“You outrank him.”
“You ever known that to make a difference with McKenna?” Overton asked.
“No. Not much of one, anyway.”
Thirteen
“You should talk to the widow,” Weismann said.
“Do not tell me what I should, or should not, do,” Eisenach said into the telephone.
“I have reviewed the radar tapes from the Tornado. Major Metzenbaum gave his life for Germany, willingly and with valor, General Eisenach. He was of the very best.”
“His wife is a Jew, is she not?”
There was a long pause on Weismann’s end of the telephone. “I do not know.”
“You should pay closer attention to the dossiers of your men, Colonel.”
“Pardon me, Herr General, but that does not negate his actions last night.”
“You are having a change of heart, Albert.”
“Not at all.”
“Then recommend him for a medal. I will honor it.”
“Thank you.”
Eisenach leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingertips on the top of his desk. Through the window, he saw a soldier mowing the lawn, and farther away, a transport taking off. The daily routine at Templehof had not changed. It was as if the battles taking place in the north had no effect whatsoever on the rest of Germany. But they did. They affected every true German’s right to his own destiny. And Felix Eisenach was privileged to assist in shaping that destiny.
He was not about to allow his vision to be blurred or obliterated.
“How many MakoSharks do the Americans have, Albert?”
“It is not known, Herr General. The treaty allows them six, but I believe that one or two have not been funded by their Congress.”
“So, we are being harassed by, perhaps, only four of these stealth airplanes?”
“It seems to be enough, Herr General. Spotting them is a fluke.”
“Then we need more eyes looking. I will see that you receive another eight pilots and Tornados from the Sixteenth Air Wing. Integrate them into your coverage.”
“Very well, General. And I am going to reduce the daytime flights to one aircraft every three hours. The stealth planes fly by night.”
Eisenach considered the move, then said, “I agree. And Peenemünde?”
“The scientists are fabricating a new collar for mating the nose cone to the third-stage body.”
“The software?”
“All but finished, I am told.”
“They may then begin programming the test flight?”
“I should think so,” Weismann said.
“The target for the test will be the American space station.”
“Herr General?”
“Perhaps we can deflate their resolve to interfere in German national interests, Albert. Along with removing that damnable aircraft carrier.”
The sun shone brightly today, for a change. The sea was smooth, much bluer than was normal. Off the starboard flank, the coast of Greenland was barely visible on the horizon. Ahead, as they turned to the east, the top of the dome of Bahnsteig Zehn was just peeking above the sea.
The two destroyer escorts trailed on either side, three kilometers off the stern, matching the turn. Their wakes appeared very white.
Gerhard Schmidt lowered his binoculars and returned to the bridge from the wing.
The brilliance of the day and the brisk, chilled salt air had given him hope, clarified his thinking.
Kapitän Rolf Froelich stood up from his chair, holding a steaming mug. “Coffee, Admiral?”
“Please, Captain.”
A steward appeared a few minutes later with a ceramic mug on a silver tray, and Schmidt accepted the mug. The hot liquid warmed him.
“Rolf, let us go to the CIC.”
The two men descended one deck and entered the Combat Information Center. Computer and radar consoles lined the bulkheads, and a large electronic plotting table occupied the center of the space. The duty officer was a young, smooth-faced leutnant.
Schmidt leaned on the edge of the table with one hand and studied the plot. The third battle group, recalled from their maneuvers off Iceland, was closing in to starboard. The second battle group had achieved its station, south of Svalbard Island and a few kilometers east of Bahnsteig Sechs. The fourth group, led by the Stuttgart, was still steaming off Norway.
The fifth battle group, given to him this morning on loan from the 1st Fleet, and composed of a new destroyer, an elderly destroyer escort, and a helicopter carrier, was only 250 kilometers into the North Sea, outbound from Bremerhaven.
“Tell me once again, Rolf, of the Black Forest’s report.”
“Simply, Admiral Schmidt, that they tracked four torpedoes early this morning. Mark 46s, they believe. At first, they thought that the Black Forest was under attack, but the torpedoes ran wild for several minutes and finally detonated on the seabed.”
“And the coordinates, again?”
The Kapitän signaled a plotter, and a yellow circle appeared on the plotting table.
“Depth?”
“Ninety-seven meters, sir,” the plotter said.
“They’re trying for the ca… the pipeline, Captain Froelich.” Occasionally, Schmidt forgot that most of the navy still thought they were oil wells.
Froelich leaned over to study the plot. “Outside of the approaches to the mainland, that would be where the pipeline is located in the shallowest waters. This is perplexing, Admiral. Why would the Americans want to sever the pipeline when the platforms are so exposed? Even the attack on Platform Nine was confined to the defensive batteries.”