At some point, the Hochkommandieren must include all of its commanders in the secret, Schmidt thought. He said, “All I am told, Rolf, is that the Americans and the Soviets appear to have entered a conspiracy to deprive Germany of new energy sources. The rationale, apparently, is to keep us subservient to the superpowers.”
That was the ordered, prevalent subterfuge, and Gerhard Schmidt did not think much of it.
Schmidt stood up. “All right, then. Signal the third battle group to turn north and take up station off Platform Ten. That will protect the southwest flank of the oil field. The second group has the southeast flank already. I want the Stuttgart under way on a course of three-four-five degrees as soon as possible. By late night, she and her group should be in position two kilometers east of those coordinates.”
The leutnant was writing quickly on a notepad.
“Then, signal the fifth battle group to make flank speed northward along the track of the pipeline. They will not achieve the objective yet tonight, but they might be able to protect the approaches, if the aircraft continue coming from the south.
“Captain Froelich, we will make flank speed toward that spot in the ocean.” Schmidt stuck out a finger and pointed at the yellow circle. “We want to be two kilometers southeast of it.”
“You think they will make another attempt, Admiral?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Very well, sir.” Froelich stepped to an intercom mounted on the bulkhead and passed the orders to the bridge. Within minutes, Schmidt felt the vibrations in the deck as the Hamburg increased revolutions.
It was a good feeling, this preparation for action, after so many months of ennui.
“Then, Captain, we want flare shells. If we do not have enough, radio Bremerhaven and have them flown out to all ships. We want every gun firing flares with every third shot.
“We are going to light up the bloody night.”
The HUD readouts were right on. Airspeed 400 knots. Altitude 1,200 feet. The screen displayed the night-vision image of flat landscape.
The orange bombsight bounced around the screen.
“You want to arm me, Con Man?”
Conover dialed “BOMB LOAD” on the selector, raised the protective flap, and thumbed the toggle switch upward.
“You’re armed, Do-Wop.”
“IP.”
“Noted”
“Bay doors.”
Conover flicked the flap out of the way and clicked the switch. The green LED illuminated.
“Doors clear.”
The complex slowly appeared in the top edge of the cathode ray terminal.
Conover glanced at the HUD, then to his left and upward. The Aeroflot passenger airliner was still heading west at 25,000 feet.
Back to the screen. The launch tower was now centered. The bombsight dropped below it, a thousand yards in real space.
The “LOCK-ON” signal appeared in orange letters in the upper-right corner.
“Committed,” Abrams said.
Five seconds later, the small parachute blossomed in the rearview screen.
“Left three degrees.”
Conover eased the controller over.
“LOCK-ON,” on the screen again.
“Committed.”
As soon as he saw the parachute flutter open, Conover retracted the payload bay doors, then tapped the throttles forward.
They were over water, climbing. The Pomeranian Bay had a few ships in it, dots of red and green running lights.
“I don’t think we alerted anyone important,” Abrams said. “I’m still showing that big damned J-Band operating, but he didn’t get us.”
“If he yelps, we’ll see if a torpedo works against a radar,” Conover said.
Going to Tac-1, he said, “Alpha One, Delta Yellow.”
“Go, Delta Yellow.” Pearson’s nice low tones on the other end.
“LP-12s are deployed. You now have ears in Peenemünde, Alpha Two.”
“Thank you, Yellow. Proceed with Phase Two.”
“On the way. Yellow out.”
“If McKenna doesn’t make a move on her soon,” Abrams said on the intercom, “I’m going to ask her to marry me.”
“You’re already married.”
“Yeah, but my wife only rarely gets to see me in action. By now, Amy knows what I’m really like.”
“Yeah. A junior officer.”
Conover advanced his throttles to 80 percent power and achieved Mach 1.9 at 30,000 feet before easing them back to a cruise setting. Some people in Denmark probably heard the sonic boom, but Conover didn’t think they’d call the cops.
The lights of Copenhagen were spread below like a twinkling quilt. He thought it strange that he couldn’t spot a red light district among so many white lights.
“Let’s keep her steady on three-five-oh, Con Man.”
“Got it.”
Conover turned it over to the autopilot and settled back in his seat, working his arms to relieve some of the tension created by low-flying bomb runs.
Abrams played with his computer, lining up satellite relay stations, until he had KXKL out of Denver. It specialized in golden oldies, and was one of Abrams’s favorite stations.
Jody Reynolds, “Endless Sleep,” filled Conover’s headphones.
“Jesus, Do-Wop, can’t you find something a bit more upbeat?”
“Hey, it’s a good song. Anyway, it’ll be over in a minute.”
When he was growing up, Conover hadn’t paid much attention to music. He always had something better to do. But after a couple years with Abrams, he had learned to like most of the old stuff. He didn’t have much choice.
They listened to Buddy Holly, Elvis, the Temptations, Diana Ross, Guy Mitchell, and the muted thunder of the turbojets. No clouds tonight, and the stars were brilliant. The sea was so dark, it melted into the horizon. Occasionally, phosphorescent flashes could be seen. A group of three ships, turning out some knots. They had to be German navy, he decided, in formation as they were.
At two-twenty in the morning, Conover retarded throttles and began a slow descent.
“Delta Yellow, Hot Country.” McKenna still sounded pissed. The word floating around the base was that he’d been grounded, but no one on the continent of Africa was going to mention that out loud.
“Got you, Hot.”
“Con Man, see if you can’t make your drop at wave-top and three-five-zero knots. We may have been too high and too fast and screwed up the guidance on impact.”
“Copy that, Snake Eyes. We do it at wave-top and three-five-oh.”
“Luck. Hot Country out.”
Fifty miles from the target, Conover armed everything. They were carrying two Mark 46 torpedoes on the outer pylons, a gun pod on the port inner pylon, and four Wasps on the starboard inboard pylon. Two of the Wasps were warheaded for air-to-air and two for air-to-surface.
Abrams brought up the map on the screens and interfaced the Global Positioning Satellites. Delta Yellow was centered on the screen, and the target coordinates were dead ahead.
“Con Man?”
“Yo.”
“Something doesn’t feel right. Can I go active a couple sweeps?”
Conover felt a little itchy himself. The Germans had jumped all over McKenna the night before, but they had had the clouds working for them. He couldn’t see anything around him, but that didn’t mean much. Aircraft and, possibly, naval ships might be running dark.
Distance to target: twenty-five miles.
“Con Man?”
“Yeah?”
“You heard the question?”
“I’m thinking about it. Yeah, okay, two sweeps, but wait until we’re five miles from target. If we see something, I still want to get the fish dropped before we scoot.”