“Delta Blue? Robin Hood on the line.”
“Go, Robin.”
“I want a balloon right away.”
“You’ve got one up,” McKenna said.
“Just one?”
“At the moment.”
“Hey, shit!” Munoz said.
McKenna had not told Munoz that he had not deployed his own balloon yet. He had pulled it out of his leg pouch, but held it deflated against his chest.
“You first, amigo,” McKenna said. “Put a light on it.”
“Jefe… ”
“Now, damn it!”
McKenna saw the halogen flashlight beam that Munoz aimed up at the balloon. The bright orange balloon was off to his right and stood out against the dark sky. He couldn’t see the steel cable that descended from it to connect with Munoz’s parachute harness. The running lights of the C-130 appeared low on the water, followed shortly by the roar of its four turboprops. It was flying as slow as it could and still remain airborne.
Coming on.
Closer.
It passed overhead, the trailing loop snagged the balloon and cable, and Munoz was gone.
In almost a flash.
On the radio, Munoz yelled, “Goddamn!”
And dropped his flashlight.
McKenna lifted the balloon away from his chest with his left hand and found the plastic handle with his right. He couldn’t bend his fingers very well, but he got the handle between his forefinger and third finger and jerked.
The helium cartridge popped and the balloon began to fill.
He let it go and it rose slowly, then more rapidly, trailing the wire cable behind it. When it reached the fifty-foot length of the cable, it jerked him slightly, held him a bit more upright in the water.
Delta Yellow was headed south, and her running lights went out.
“Bye-bye, Snake Eyes.”
“Take care, Con Man.”
“Cancha get the big guy outta the water, Robin Hood?” Dimatta said.
“Hey!” Robin Hood said, “Next pass. We only do one at a time, but we never miss.”
The Hercules had flown several miles to the east while they winched Munoz aboard. Now, McKenna saw it make a tight circle and come back toward him.
He unclipped his flashlight from the harness and fumbled with the slide switch. It finally came on, nearly blinding him. Gripping it tightly, he aimed it up toward the balloon.
Nice orange orb.
Waiting.
Building wail of the turboprops.
Stiffen the back, tense the muscles.
Involuntarily.
He didn’t actually see the loop catch his cable. WHAM!
He was out of the water, almost horizontal in the air, seawater spraying off of him.
He still had the flashlight, surprised at that.
The Hercules began to climb.
He felt the cable vibrating as the winch started.
McKenna heard the cannon long before he heard the turbojet engines.
A shadow passed between him and the clouds.
He was on his back, looking up, when he saw the silhouette.
Tornado.
The son of a bitch was going to shoot down a rescue aircraft.
The shadow disappeared.
The winch picked up speed, drawing him in faster.
Pushing his head back until the helmet collar would not allow further movement, he looked back and up. The cargo bay of the C-130 appeared invitingly warm, red-lit, gaping. A crewman in a flight suit and parka, trailing a safety line, stood out on the lowered cargo ramp, guiding the cables.
The balloon passed by the man, and the winching stopped while the balloon was detached.
Fifty feet to go.
And here came the Tornado again.
McKenna felt numb and helpless. If he’d had a gun, he’d have emptied it at the bastard. He saw the winking of its cannons when it was still a mile away.
Then the orange blossom as it exploded.
Then the blinking wing lights of Delta Green as it crossed the Tornado’s path, jinking high to avoid the debris.
He was floating on the air current, and the turbulence increased as he was reeled into the C-130’s prop wash.
He felt his shoulder being grabbed, fingers reaching in to grip his harness.
And then he was aboard, the crewman grinning at him. Still hanging from the cable that passed through an overhead pulley, his feet couldn’t quite reach the ramp.
The winch backed off, his feet touched down. His toes weren’t feeling anything.
The seawater was still dripping from his environmental suit.
The crewman helped him walk back on the ramp and into the cargo bay. McKenna popped his visor loose, breathed the real air, and absorbed the din of the engines.
Both felt good to him. He stripped off his gloves and detached his helmet.
Worked his fingers. They began to sting as feeling came back.
Munoz was sitting in one of the lowered hammock seats on the right side of the bay, drinking from a big Styrofoam cup of coffee.
A medic slapped a hot cup into his hands, and McKenna nodded his thanks.
“Hey, compadre,” Munoz yelled above the engines. He was grinning insanely.
McKenna leaned over him and spoke loudly into his ear. “You owe the USAF for a flashlight. But we’ll collect it from your pay.”
“Probably costs the same as a MakoShark,” Tony the Tiger said.
McKenna grinned back at him, turned around, and gave a thumbs-up to the crewmen and medical staff who were standing and lounging around the huge interior.
Against the forward bulkhead, he saw where some of the transport’s crew had stacked parachutes and M-16 assault rifles.
Nineteen
“Cottonseed, Robin Hood Three.”
“Go ahead, Three.”
“We just lifted off the ice. Got us a Soviet pilot with a nasty chest wound.”
“Three, come on back to Daneborg.”
“Roger that, Cottonseed. Robin Hood Three out.”
Silence.
Then: “Cottonseed, Robin Hood Two.”
“I read you, Two.”
“Delta Blue One and Two are aboard and whole. They’re walking around, and Two wants a taco.”
“Copy, Two. Bring it home.”
“Well, hang on for a minute, Cottonseed. Delta Blue One’s got some kind of idea.”
Pearson was so relieved, her hands trembled. She gripped her left hand in her right to hide it. Overton was grinning broadly, perhaps masking his own concern. Milt Avery did a somersault in the middle of the compartment, something she didn’t often see from a full colonel.
Val Arguento and Donna Amber gave each other a high five, the contact of their palms sending each of them in opposite directions across the Command Center.
The telephone buzzed, and when she lifted it from the console, Pearson heard only a squeal. Amber pushed off a bulkhead, sailing into the Radio Shack to check on the satellite relays.
When the relay was reestablished, she heard, “Is Colonel Pearson around there somewhere?”
“This is Colonel Pearson.”
“Hey, honey. Walt MacDonald in NSA’s German section.”
“Hello, Walt. Is something the matter?”
“Well, I don’t know. My monitoring computer yelped on one of your LPs, and I just got through checking the tape.”
“Which one?”
“Peenemünde. Sounds to me like railroad cars moving on steel rails. Hell of a racket. Big diesel engines moving stuff around.”
“How long ago?”
“According to the tape it started about half an hour ago, and they’re still clanking around.”
“Thanks, Walt. I’ll get back to you.”
Pearson replaced the phone in its holder, and pulled herself up to the microphone. Overton and Avery were staring at her.
“Semaphore, Alpha Two. Are you still monitoring?”
“This is Semaphore,” General Brackman said.