“Delta Yellow, Delta Blue. Scramble, scramble!”
He waited ten seconds then repeated the scramble order. Switching to the Tac Two channel, he called, “Delta Red, Wet Country.”
“Wet Country, Red.”
“Where you at, Country Girl?”
“Westbound, ninety miles west of Phnom Penh, Snake Eyes.”
“Turn it around, and head for Da Nang. We’ll rendezvous with you in about forty minutes.”
“Roger, turning.”
The Mako and MakoShark crews were rarely in one place for long enough to call it a true home. On board Themis or at one of the three support bases, a block of rooms was set aside for their use, but none of the rooms was personalized to any degree. Of them all, only George Williams managed to leave an imprint. His tools and electronic projects could be found in lockers at any of the four places he might be spending a day or a night.
Conover was in a visitor’s room with the shades drawn and the air-conditioning vents all wide open. He was on his feet, stumbling, clumsily trying to shove one leg into his flight suit before he realized he’d been awakened.
As he became aware that he’d heard something about Delta Yellow and scramble, the order came over the public address system once again.
He fumbled his way into his flight boots, pulled open the door, and ran smack into Munoz, in just about the same state of dress.
“What the hell, Tony?”
“Damned if I know,” Munoz said, hopping on one foot while he pulled a boot on.
Conover banged on Abrams’s door.
It whipped open to reveal Abrams standing stark naked with two socks in his hand. The thick fur of his chest gave him a bearish tone.
“I’m looking for my clothes, goddamn it!” he yelled.
“Snap to it!”
“Shit! We haven’t had a scramble in two years,” he complained.
Rushing down the hallway, pulling on their clothes, the three of them found the elevators already on the first floor, so they took the stairs for two flights.
By the time they emerged into the blinding brightness of day, they were more or less dressed.
Ground crewmen were racing across the grounds for Hangar One, and they fell in with them, passing through the pedestrian door and heading for the ready room, next door to the pilot’s dressing room.
McKenna was already there, pulling on his environmental suit.
He briefed them as they donned their equipment and found their helmets.
“I want us up around angels forty, fifty miles off the coast. We’ll advertise our presence with radar emissions and see if we can’t draw a response.”
“We’ll get a response from some Vietnamese SAM, maybe,” Williams said.
“You can handle a missile or two, can’t you, Nitro?” McKenna said.
“If I can just nudge these eyelids up another millimeter, yeah.”
They left the ready room on the run and found their crews putting the finishing touches on the MakoSharks, closing hatches, pulling the safeties on the missiles and Chain Guns.
Conover and Williams stopped at the base of the cockpit ladder and allowed themselves to be vacuumed. It had become an ingrained habit, even when they weren’t headed for the space station.
As soon as the airman patted him on the calf, Conover
went up the ladder. In the cockpit, he powered up the panels and systems as he hooked in.
The tow tractor was already in place, and as soon as Williams left the ladder, Conover signaled for the tow. He released the brakes, and the MakoShark began to roll, falling in behind Delta Blue.
He lowered his helmet over his head and locked it in place, then checked the face visor to be sure it was sealed.
“Nitro?”
“I’m in.”
“Checklist.”
“Coming up.”
Seven minutes later, Conover was running up the jet engines at the side of the runway. McKenna, on the runway, gave him a thumbs-up, then shoved the throttles in. Delta Blue lifted her nose a trifle and whisked away.
Conover rolled forward, steered into a left turn, and lined up on the center stripe. Delta Blue was already off the ground, her gear folding in.
“Merlin, Yellow.”
“You’re free, Yellow.”
“Nitro?”
“Hit it, Con Man.”
He ran the throttles forward, then came off the brakes.
Delta Yellow came alive.
And he was glad to be with her.
“That’s it, Hannibal, all I’ve got.”
Brackman waited while the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs digested the information.
“Where’s Thorpe?”
“On his way to the coast.”
“Hold the line, Marvin. I’m going to make another telephone call.”
Brackman held the line. Milly Roget was gone for the night, and he had made his own coffee. He tasted it and wished he hadn’t.
Eleven minutes ticked off the big clock on his wall before Cross got back to him.
“Shoot it down, Marvin.”
“Just like that?”
“Too many missiles on the loose.”
“You’re right, Hannibal.”
He hung up, dialed the communications center, and said, “I want a link to 1st Aero’s Tac Two.”
“One moment, sir.”
When he had a connection to the communications net which spanned the globe over satellite relays, Brackman said, “Delta Blue, Semaphore.”
The response was immediate. “Semaphore, Blue.”
“All weapons are free, Blue. You are authorized first strike.”
“Copy weapons free and first strike authority. Will do, Semaphore.”
McKenna and Conover passed east of Ho Chi Minh City at 2:17 RM. The MakoSharks were in formation at fifty thousand feet and Mach 4.
McKenna had devoted most of the flight time to developing his tactics, then revising them after Brackman had changed the rules of engagement.
“Deltas, Blue.”
“Yellow.”
“Red.”
“Go hot mike.”
McKenna touched the keypad on his communications panel that would keep his microphone open. The six of them would be in continual voice contact, without having to depress a transmit button.
“Country Girl,” he said, “what’s your status?”
“One-six-point-three on rockets and, let’s see… one-two minutes on turbojets. We’ve been doing a lot of coasting, Snake Eyes”
“All right. I want you to fly an oval between Haiphong and Dong Hoi. That’s about two hundred miles. I’ll cover the center, from Dong Hoi to Quang Ngai, and Con Man, you cover Quang Ngai to Nha Trang.”
He got “rogers” from both pilots, and Conover peeled away from his right wing, rolling back toward the south.
McKenna went on, “If this guy is taking an Arctic route from the West Coast to somewhere on the peninsula, we should intercept him.”
“Just one little ol’ problem,” Munoz said.
“I know. Seeing him. What we’re going to do is fly at angels three-five, fifty miles off the coast. Keep it subsonic. We want the radars active, and we want everyone squawking all modes and codes. If you get any queries from Vietnam air controllers, make up some lie.”
In demonstration, McKenna turned on his modified IFF, tapping the keypads that would give him an identification on radar, along with his altitude and with a clear military affiliation.
“Gotcha, Snake Eyes,” Lynn Haggar said. “If he’s curious, and he’s got to be, he’s going to make a radar check as he approaches the continent. He’s going to see three military planes flying a funny security line, and he’s going to get more curious. Maybe he’ll use the radar a few times.”
“Let’s hope so, Country Girl. Alpha, are you copying?”
“Right here, Blue.” Overton’s voice was unmistakable.