“Damned sure. Bastards! That’s twice now.”
The dome of well number nine was completely dark, the platform invisible against the darkness of the sea.
Munoz went over to infrared tracking on the screen, and the heat emitted by the dome appeared as a dim red ball on the screen.
They couldn’t get a distance on the infrared, but they had a direction.
“We want the right side on this one, Snake Eyes.”
“Got it, Tiger.”
McKenna hoped that Pearson’s drawings of the dome interiors were accurate. He wanted to blow a few big holes in the dome on the side away from the wellhead and let the weather in. Create chaos and discomfort among the platform personnel. Give the task forces time to move in with their Spetznaz and Rapid Deployment Force troops and secure the wells.
“One in the dome and one on the pad,” McKenna said.
“Roger.”
The dim red ball got larger and larger.
“Launching,” Munoz said.
The missiles sailed away, guided by Munoz’s helmet.
The platform defenses never opened up.
They never saw anything to fire at.
There were two detonations, and then Delta Blue passed over the platform.
In the rearview screen, McKenna saw bright lights, interior lights shining through a jagged-edged hole in the night.
“Number five’s next, then number one,” Munoz said. “Give me a heading.”
“Three-four-five.”
“Coming around”
“Hey, compadre?”
“Yeah.”
“I’d better do a quick check on those four Tornadoes behind us.”
“I’m watching them, Delta Blue,” Cottonseed said. “They’re circling around now, wondering where the hell you’ve gone. Ah! Now they have an idea. I suspect they see light on platform number nine. And six. And ten. And three. We’ve got five hits on the ice, so far. Some of those Fulcrums are turning for another pass.”
“How about the four hostiles chasing Delta Yellow?”
“Just now turning north. If I knew where Yellow was, I’d give him a distance.”
Conover said, “Check my IFF.”
“Okay, babe, got you. Hell, they’re twenty miles behind you, headed in the wrong direction. The MiGs over east splashed a couple more. Both Eurofighters.”
Platform number five was holed without return fire, but they ran into an active defense of well number one. The defensive batteries couldn’t see them, however, and AA fire and SAM launches were being directed blindly, hoping to hit something.
Munoz put three missiles into number one, one through the dome, and two into the SAM radar trailers.
“Next target eleven,” Munoz said.
“Con Man?” McKenna asked.
“Ten, twelve, fifteen down. Two and seven coming up.”
“Cancha?”
“Six, three, and four are ventilated.”
There were fires on several of the platforms. The seascape was becoming defined with bonfires low on the water.
“I’m out of SAMs, Snake Eyes. Got six air-to-airs, though.”
“Use them up,” McKenna said.
They put two of them into platform eleven, then McKenna went into a hard right turn and headed south again. Because of its location between nine and six, platform number thirteen had been skipped on the first pass.
It was time to correct the omission.
Three minutes later, Munoz said, “I need radar to pinpoint it, Snake Eyes.”
“Go radar.”
A moment after the radar image hit the screen, Munoz yelled, “Jesus Christ!”
McKenna’s eyes jerked down to the screen.
Tornado diving, closing fast.
Wha-wha-wha!
The threat receiver sounded overly loud to him.
Check the screen.
Six missiles fired.
“Son of a bitch is right on our ass,” Munoz said.
McKenna rolled right, then left, shoving the throttles in. He was too low for much maneuvering.
“Hard left, Snake Eyes.”
Whip the hand controller over.
“Rockets! Now, now, now!”
McKenna slapped the throttles.
But not before two Sky Flash missiles slammed into the starboard engine nacelle. The right wing erupted in a ball of flame.
Eighteen
“Got that son of a bitch!” Mac Zeigman exuded.
“I did it! I did it!” his backseater wailed.
Zeigman had the stick full back, pulling out of the steep dive. His face sagged under the oxygen mask with the additional gravity generated by the hard maneuver. As the Tornado came level, then vertical, he straightened the stick and worked in some aileron.
Straight up on afterburners, rolling.
Celebrating.
Blood pounding in his ears.
Threat receiver screaming.
Where?
And the tail came off.
The whole aft end of the Tornado detonated and shredded. The rudders went slushy under his feet.
Zeigman’s eyes went to the rearview mirror and saw the WSO’s face.
Could not see it.
The man’s visor was filled with blood. His head had exploded.
And the nose came down, the aircraft tumbling, still going upward.
Reaching the apex, slowing, then picking up speed again as it started down toward the cold, dark sea.
Still tumbling wildly.
Automatically, frantically, he worked the rudders, trying to stop the tumbling.
That did not work.
Reached between his legs and grabbed the red ejection handle.
That did not work, either.
Watched the cold, dark sea.
After downing the two Tornadoes over the ice, Volontov had continued south, climbing back to 2,000 meters, watching the radar screen, asking Sable to point out hostiles. Lieutenant Gurychenko stayed right with him, some degree of excitement in his voice after having made his own first two kills.
Sable had pointed out the four Tornadoes directly to the south, and Volontov had been scanning the skies, aware of the small fires burning on a dozen platforms, trying for a visual contact. On the radar screen, they were sixteen kilometers away.
He had seen the yellow-orange ball of the explosion low against the sea, appearing where no aircraft was to be seen by the eye or by his radar. As soon as it hit the sea, there was a second, terrific detonation. The self-destruct package, protecting vital secrets.
He knew it was a MakoShark, and he wondered who the pilot was.
The blip on his screen was not moving in any linear direction, but the altitude readout showed him to be climbing rapidly. Volontov locked on, committed, and released two AS-11s.
The Tornado blew up nine kilometers in front of him, and he banked left, looking for more.
“I have another, Condor One,” Gurychenko reported.
The radar was becoming clearer, with fewer blips on the screen.
The two low-flying Eurofighters were almost out of radar range, headed south.
Two more Tornadoes that had been part of this flight were streaking southward, running from the MiGs.
He continued his circle, coming back toward where the MakoShark had exploded. He looked for parachutes, but did not see them. If they had ejected successfully at that low an altitude, they would already be in the water.
East and west, the wells burned. Several ships were on fire.
“Condor One, Condor Two. The fuel state.”
Pyortr Volontov refocused his eyes on his own HUD. A blinking amber light told him he was several minutes away from critically low fuel. Too frequent use of the afterburners at low altitudes.
He came out of his turn headed eastward, beginning a slow climb.
“Sable, Condor One.”
“Proceed, Condor One.”
“Send a tanker our way, please. Fuel state is close to critical.”
“He is on the way, Condor.”