“Roger.”
The distance to target continued to shrink as Conover slowed the MakoShark to 350 knots and descended to twenty feet over the water. The fuel load was down a third. Low-level flight on turbojets in the Mach numbers consumed the JP-7 quickly.
At five miles, Abrams switched on.
The sweep didn’t make two complete revolutions before all hell broke loose.
Thump, thump, thump!
Magnesium flares erupted all around them, bursting at close to 3,000 feet, then drifting downward in their parachutes.
“Jesus Christ!” Abrams shouted. “There must be a hundred of them.”
Four miles. Conover felt like his portrait was being taken. There were hot lights everywhere.
“Steady on, Do-Wop. We’re going to dump the fish first thing.”
“Got it. Take her down a tad.”
Puffs of flak started to explode off their flanks. Conover took a quick scan through the windscreen. He could see the muzzle flashes of big guns and antiaircraft guns.
“I count six ships, Do-Wop. They’re even using the heavy stuff.”
“SAMs coming soon, then. Three miles.”
A detonation above them threatened to drive the MakoShark into the sea. Conover fought the turbulence and pulled up a few feet higher.
“Two miles.”
“LOCK-ON” hit the screen.
“One mile. Committed. Do whatever you want to do, Con Man.”
Conover shoved the throttles full forward as soon as the MakoShark jumped, losing the weight of the torpedoes.
At a hundred feet of altitude, he banked left.
Wham!
The airframe shook with the impact.
He was forced back into level flight.
“Took a piece of wing tip, I think,” Abrams said.
“Shit. Call Alpha.”
“Alpha, Delta Yellow.”
“Go Yellow.”
“We’ve got some structural damage, extent unknown… Jesus! Seven SAMs, Con Man… ”
Amy Pearson gripped the microphone stand to keep from floating away.
The screen on the console was blank. She felt deprived of necessary knowledge. They should have put the AWACS plane in the air.
“Yellow, Alpha. Repeat.”
“Wing tip damage maybe, Alpha. We’ve got SAMs. I’m going to be busy.”
“Copy, Yellow. Keep Tac-1 open.”
“Roger.”
She heard grunts from either Conover or Abrams. “Left, left, left… hard… now climb… chaff!.. dodged it!.. up, babe, up… punch a flare… shit!”
Then there was carrier wave.
Pearson hit the intercom. “Donna, did we lose the relay?”
“No, Colonel. We lost the transmitter.”
“Alpha Two to Hot Country.”
“Hot Country, go Alpha.”
“Is Snake Eyes there?”
“Yeah, just a… no. I don’t know where he’s gone.”
God. Every time he was needed.
“Send somebody to get him,” she ordered.
On Tac-2, the Jack Andrews air controller said, “Delta Blue, I don’t have authority for your takeoff.”
McKenna retracted the landing gear.
“Let’s go over, Tiger.”
“Already? You want to get us some altitude first, Snake Eyes?”
“We’ll get it fast enough.”
“Sure, but take it easy. We got those torps hangin’ out there, and they’re not all that streamlined.”
Delta Blue was armed in the same way as Delta Yellow had been.
“Delta Blue, this is Jack Andrews Control. Come back to me.”
“Jack Andrews, Semaphore.” General Brackman’s voice was unmistakable.
“Go ahead, Semaphore.”
“All restrictions are lifted. Delta Blue is now authorized for flight.”
“Roger, Semaphore, Jack Andrews Control out.”
“Delta Blue, Semaphore.”
McKenna depressed the stud. “Go ahead, Semaphore.”
“I want a plan, right now.”
“Search and rescue,” McKenna said.
“Approved. No search and destroy.”
McKenna thought about the Mark 46s on the pylons, how good it would feel to see one of them plow into the hull of a cruiser.
“Yes, sir. No destroy.”
Over the Mediterranean, Munoz scanned the sea with radar, then jettisoned the torpedoes. They went through the checklist, then ignited the rockets for a five-minute burst.
Delta Blue covered most of the distance at Mach 4.5 at 60,000 feet.
Periodically, Munoz tried the tactical channels, “Delta Yellow, Delta Blue.”
Nothing.
“Delta Blue, Alpha One” General Overton’s voice. “Delta Blue.”
“Let’s assume he’s still aloft.”
“Let’s,” McKenna said.
“The IO figures he’d try to make Hot Country, and she’s calculated a possible flight path.”
Pearson came on the air and gave the beginning and ending coordinates to Munoz.
“How do you figure that, Alpha?” With a quick mental picture, McKenna could tell the flight path was too far to the west.
“Because Con Man is left-handed,” Pearson said.
“Gotcha,” Munoz said. “He’d pull out to the west.”
McKenna rolled into a left bank.
“I’m figuring structural damage that’ll keep him below sonic speeds,” Munoz said on the intercom. “Do-Wop reported a wing tip, but he’s obviously lost his antennas.” The radio antennas were imbedded in the skin of the right wing. It was not a hopeful sign.
“Say six hundred knots at best,” the WSO said, “and figuring our speed and the time we left, we want to start looking hard over Sweden.”
“Suppose he can give us an IFF?” McKenna asked.
“That antenna is in the left wing, amigo. There’s a chance.”
“Go active.”
Waiting.
McKenna was accustomed to waiting after so many years in the military, but the practice didn’t make it any easier. Thinking about Conover and Abrams down in icy water didn’t help, either.
“You worried, jefe?”
“Yeah, Tony, I am.”
“So am I. Somebody was waiting for him.”
“Yes. Somebody figured it out. There were only ships involved, so it must have been that admiral.”
“Schmidt?”
“Right. Amy was right about him.”
“Let’s hope Amy-baby’s right about Con Man, too,” Munoz said.
She was.
Munoz found the IFF south of Stockholm.
“Hot shit! Got ’em, Snake Eyes.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. He’s shut it down now, so he’s only squawkin’ every once in a while. Three-two miles. Go to three-three-eight.”
McKenna turned to the new heading, backing off on the throttles.
A few minutes later, Munoz said, “We’re going to over shoot him. Bring it back to seven hundred knots, and make a wide three-sixty.”
McKenna went into a shallow bank to the right.
“There he is again! Take her down to two-two-thousand.”
As he put the nose over, McKenna checked the eastern horizon on his left. The sun was peeping, spreading opaque light at altitude. By the time they reached the Mediterranean, they’d be in full daylight. And if Delta Three couldn’t handle much more altitude, they would be in danger of being spotted by Greek or Italian aircraft.
To hell with it. If they were seen, they were seen. Conover’s IFF went off the screen again, but Munoz had his position, speed, and track in the computer.
They came up behind Delta Yellow almost silently. Abrams obviously wasn’t running active radar.
McKenna closed in at 620 knots, easing up close to the right wing. He was within a hundred feet before he could see clearly. The right wing tip skin was shredded, as were a couple of the spars under it. The right rudder was gone.