“Status report?” Volontov asked.
“Tern Flight has lost one aircraft to a SAM from one of the platforms. Vulture Flight has three down — one pilot recovered from the ice, and Condor Flight is missing two. Germans shot down, one-six interceptors, four tankers.”
“Thank you, Sable.” Volontov switched to his second tactical frequency. “Delta Blue, Condor One.”
“Condor One, this is Delta Yellow. I can’t raise Blue.”
“I believe he is down north of platform one-three by several kilometers. I am, however, very low on fuel.”
“I’m on my way, Condor. Thanks.”
Gurychenko pulled in on his wing as they climbed through 7,000 meters.
Volontov felt depleted, completely let down. He thought about the numbing, unexplainable letters he would have to write. He wondered if Colonel McKenna had a wife to whom he should write. He was happy that no one would write a letter to Martina.
And he thought that perhaps their engagement had lasted long enough.
Wilbur Conover rolled right, turning onto the heading Abrams gave him. It took a while. He figured he had about 30 percent control on the lateral axis. He wouldn’t be doing any victory rolls.
He wouldn’t be using rockets, either, and he took the rocket motors off standby.
“Squawk me, please, Yellow and Green,” Cottonseed said.
He hit the IFF for one second.
“Thank you. Yellow, you’re closest.”
“Roger, Cottonseed. I’ve got the hammer down. I heard the mayday.”
McKenna had said, “Delta Blue, mayday. Ejecting.” Calmly. Not a tremor in his voice.
“We do have an ELB signal,” Cottonseed said. “Robin Hood Two is closest and reports ETA in six minutes. Robin Hood Three is trying to locate a Soviet pilot on the ice.”
“Copy that, Cottonseed. Hostile aircraft status?”
“Two Tornadoes and two Eurofighters southbound. Mildenhall reports tankers leaving New Amsterdam. You have four Tornadoes on your right, Yellow. They’re circling.”
“Damn,” Abrams said. “I’ve still got seven air-to-air.”
“We’re not in shape for much horseplay, Do-Wop.”
“Yeah, I know. Okay! I’ve got the Emergency Locator Beacon. Come right… hold it.”
“Can you reach him on voice yet?”
“Not yet, Con Man. Those damned radios only have a mile of range. Another minute or two.”
Conover asked on the open channel, “Robin Hood Two, where are you?”
“Delta Yellow, we’re on the two-six-five radial of the ELB. Four minutes.”
Conover hoped the damned environmental suit heaters worked. Whenever he tried the ailerons, he hoped even more that the heaters worked.
The fires below were dying away, both on the platforms and the ships. He couldn’t tell, but thought that none of the wells had blown out. He wondered what condition the platform workers would be in by the time the task forces reached them. He figured that the ships were about twelve or thirteen hours away.
“Snake Eyes, you read me?” Abrams called on the emergency channel.
“Got you, Do-Wop. Fortunately, I can’t see you.”
“Tiger?”
“I’m here, damn it! And it’s gettin’ cold. You wanna tell someone to put a foot in it?”
“ETA in three. Either of you injured?”
“Pride,” McKenna said.
“I’m gonna have to get out of this suit and see if anything important’s frostbit,” Munoz said.
“Hang loose,” Abrams said.
“Ain’t nothin’ hangin’ loose, brother. All scrunched up tight.”
Adm. Gerhard Schmidt was commanding the Hamburg from the shambles of the CIC. The bridge of the cruiser was gone, along with Kapitän Rolf Froelich, the second mate, and the helmsman.
All of the windows had been blown out of his flag plot, one deck below the bridge.
The leutnant who did his plotting for him was sitting at a console, manning a microphone and taking damage reports. His head was wrapped with a bloody white T-shirt.
“Herr Admiral, the flooding has been contained in Compartment Four.”
“Good, Lieutenant. We’ll keep her afloat yet. The steerage party?”
“They are in the compartment. Ten minutes, they say.”
The magnificent cruiser was going to have to be steered by hand from the rudder compartment. The work party was rigging block and tackle.
“What of the other ships?” Schmidt asked.
“The destroyer Erlich is listing badly. The captain says it may have to be abandoned. The Mannheim is standing by and beginning to take crewmen off the destroyer. All others report fires under control. The northern battle groups are undamaged.”
And one day, Schmidt promised himself, he would find out why. He suspected they had not fired one gun or one missile battery, even against the radar-visible MiG fighters.
“Tell them they are to begin evacuating the platforms. As soon as they have collected survivors, they are to return to Bremerhaven.”
“Very well, Admiral. Captain Blofeld, sir.”
Schmidt crossed to the table and took the headset from the leutnant.
“Blofeld?”
“Yes, Admiral. I am sub-surface, with my antenna raised. We escaped a heavy barrage of depth charges. The Bohemian, is standing by, also, five kilometers from the Soviet task force, though she is slightly damaged. I have the Americans and British in sight.”
“Secure all weapons, Captain, submerge, and wait for the task forces to pass over. Then return to port.”
“Admiral?” Blofeld’s voice contained his amazement.
“As you were ordered,” Schmidt said.
He knew when to give up the field. There was always, always another day.
Delta Yellow was in a wide circle above them. Conover had turned on his running lights to reassure them, and it was reassuring.
When a wave raised him high enough, McKenna could see a few fires to the north. He could not see any stars. The white and orange parachute floated on the surface forty feet away. The first thing he had done when his feet hit the water was to get rid of the parachute, unhooking the shrouds from the harness before his hands became too stiff. He didn’t want to be entangled in it.
He couldn’t see Munoz.
The two of them figured they had landed a quarter-mile apart, a fair distance considering they had ejected at about a thousand feet of altitude, but they weren’t going to waste energy swimming toward each other.
The Mae West kept him floating on his back.
The heater seemed to be working.
Or at least struggling.
McKenna sensed that his body temperature was steadily going down. His joints seemed to move slowly. The gloves were tight, not allowing much of the suit’s heated air into them, and his hands were numb.
The flesh of his face felt numb, also, though he couldn’t touch it. The helmet visor was splattered with salt water, giving him a wavery vision of his immediate vicinity.
Nothing worth looking at, anyway.
Except Delta Yellow’s lights.
They had been in the water twelve minutes.
“Con Man?”
“Yeah, Snake Eyes?”
“How’s that aileron?”
“What aileron?”
“Don’t give me any shit.”
“I’ve got about thirty percent, Snake Eyes.”
“Fuel status?”
“Low, but okay.”
“I want you to move out for Hot Country.”
“Cancha will be here in a couple minutes, then I’m gone.”
“Do-Wop?” Munoz asked.
“Hey, Tiger?”
“What’re you listenin’ to?”
They got to hear half of Jimmy Rodgers’ “Honeycomb,” before another voice broke in.