He had a raging headache that made tracking the conversation difficult.
“Yes, but they used the tactic offensively over Hanoi,” Oberst Weismann countered. “The decoys were used to draw SAM fire, then the attack aircraft fired on the SAM radars. The MakoSharks are not targeting SAM radars, and we would not be using it offensively.”
“The principle will work here, also, Herr Colonel. I have discussed it with the planning staff.”
“Review every incident for me, Major. Tell me what were the targets.”
“Other than photographic reconnaissance?” Zeigman said. “Platform Eight’s dome was destroyed. Platform Nine was attacked, as was the pipeline.”
“And we have lost four aircrews,” the wing commander said. “Two Eurofighters and two Tornadoes. The result of engagements initiated by ourselves. Now, again, the purpose of the overflights?”
Zeigman thought about it, then said, “I cannot explain Platform Eight. The rest of the flights over the wells were intended to gather information. On the night of the Soviet diversion, the air cover was drawn off so that the Americans could once again photograph.”
“And Platform Nine?”
“Only the defensive batteries were hit.”
“Then?”
“Their attention was diverted to the pipeline. That was the first real offensive operation, utilizing torpedoes.”
“Which tells you?”
Again, Mac Zeigman pondered, silently urging his head to clear. “They learned what they wanted to learn about the wells, then decided to cut off the oil flow by disrupting the pipeline. They are not going to attack the wells.”
“Yes,” Weismann said, idly scratching the back of his hand. “That is what I think. Additionally, Admiral Schmidt also believes the next efforts will be directed at the wells, though under them.”
Zeigman was not certain he would make a good operations officer. He was a pilot, and a damned good one. In the air, he made instantaneous decisions that had made him a survivor. On the ground, hashing and rehashing the intentions of American or Soviet commanders, he became quickly bored and muddled.
He was born a killer, not a plotter of when or where or who should be killed.
“I am going to tell you something that perhaps will explain, not only the interest of the Americans and the Soviets, but also their reluctance to approach the wells.” Weismann rubbed his forehead. Soon he would have no skin left, Zeigman thought.
He waited.
“This is highly classified information, Major.”
He nodded.
“The wells are not what they seem, not oil wells. They are geothermal taps.”
Zeigman shrugged his shoulders elaborately. A well was a well.
The commander explained the tremendous amount of energy to be drawn from the platforms when they were all completed. Over sixteen million kilowatts of electrical power.
Zeigman did not much care.
Weismann explained the dangers, what might happen to the ice and to the water levels if the wells were damaged.
So?
“So, like Admiral Schmidt, I am certain the wells themselves will not be attacked. The Americans are not foolhardy. They will continue to make their attempts on the cables.”
“Under the platforms?”
“Perhaps.”
“That means submarines, Herr Colonel. The interceptors will be useless.”
“Not necessarily. My thought, Major, is that the Americans, or the Soviets, or both, will attempt to penetrate the underwater screen placed by the Third Naval Force. I also think it likely they will, as they have done, create a diversion for Schmidt’s ships with aircraft.”
Zeigman winced as a lance of pain caromed around his brain. “I could agree with that.”
“Therefore, we will modify your modified Wild Weasel tactic. Think of it, Mac! Schmidt’s naval ships become the decoys. The invaders will try to divert the ships, and Schmidt’s guns will throw up flares. And… ”
“And it will be a duck shoot,” the new operations officer said. Finally, here was something that excited him and diminished his headache.
“Exactly! Now, we must analyze the MakoShark’s behavior. The time of night it has appeared, the normal approach routes, what we know of its armament, its speed and maneuverability. If we deploy most of our squadrons, we can overcome it with numbers.”
It sounded like a good idea to Zeigman.
Goldstein was lying to him, and the pseudodirector of the GESPENST PROJEKT, the banker’s son, knew absolutely nothing. The Jew had the banker’s son tied up in a web of misinformation.
Eisenach knew this, and it enraged him.
The constantly delayed project would be delayed again and again, and he had no recourse but to develop quickly a new strategy which would force the Americans and the Soviets to remain behind their borders.
After arriving at Templehof from Peenemünde by helicopter, Eisenach transferred to a Piaggio PD-808 executive jet for the flight to Svalbard Island. He sent Oberlin back to headquarters to watch over the daily tasks while he was gone.
By one-thirty, the jet had landed on Svalbard Island at the airfield which was leased from the Norwegians, and Eisenach had made his preparations by way of the jet’s sophisticated communications systems. The plastic explosive, detonators, and radios had been ordered.
If there was a drawback to the location of the wells, it was to be found in their distance from mainland Germany. Marshal Hoch and Eisenach had both tried to persuade the geologists to drill farther to the south, but to no avail. They must go to where the geology permitted the taps, not the other way around. The expense had been enormous, millions of deutsche marks, for the undersea cables. And helicopters could not reach the platforms from the mainland. Always, there was the transfer of aircraft en route.
Eisenach descended from the airplane into heavy drizzle and mud coating the concrete. He buttoned his uniform topcoat as he splashed his way to the helicopter. It was a navy helicopter, and the two pilots got out of the cockpit to salute him and help him into the back seat. He tossed his briefcase and the overnight valise that he kept in the Piaggio onto the floor next to him.
The pilot climbed back into his seat and said, “The flight will be very rough, Herr General. The weather is not cooperating with us.”
“A little rain shower?”
“The front has yet to come through. It is worse to the east of us.”
Eisenach smiled grimly. “We will just have to do our best, then.”
Shaking his head negatively, the pilot turned back to his controls, donned his headset, and started the two Allison turboshaft engines. The general put on his own earphones to help drown the noise of the engines, then buckled his seat belt. As they lifted off, Eisenach saw his executive jet pilots chocking the wheels and tying the aircraft down. They had complained of the stopovers at Svalbard, having to spend their days in the tiny operations hut. He estimated that the visibility was almost a mile.
Within ten minutes of flight, it was down to a quarter-mile. The rain was much heavier, sluicing over the Plexiglas bubble of the helicopter in thick streaks. They were flying low, less than a hundred feet above the ocean, and Eisenach could see ice trying to form on the water. It looked like gray sludge floating on the surface of the sea, damping the waves. The salt content was high enough to keep it from totally freezing at -4 degrees Centigrade — the water temperature reported by the pilot, but the thought of going down in it was chilling, also. A man would not live for long, perhaps five minutes.
The BO-105 bounced radically, short up and down strokes that kept Eisenach from concentrating on anything but where the water was and what the pilots were doing. He could tell that the pilot was fighting the controls, and several times, thought about returning to Svalbard.