“The LP at Peenemünde suggests heavy equipment moving. We need to check on it, and fast.”
A long pause. Brackman said, “Delta Yellow is close to that route.”
“Delta Yellow to Semaphore,” Conover said, “I’m copying you.”
“What’s your condition, Yellow?” the general asked. “Subpar, but I can make six-five-oh knots. I’ve got to stay subsonic.”
“How far are you from Peenemünde?”
“Hold one. Do-Wop?”
“I make it one-zero-five-zero miles,” Abrams said. “About an hour and a half, if I squeeze a couple more knots out of her,” Conover said.
“We’ll live with two hours, if we have to” Brackman told him. “Don’t push it. But see what you can see.”
“Roger that, Semaphore. Delta Yellow out.”
Pearson had thought that the battle was over, but now she wondered if it wasn’t just beginning.
After splashing the Tornado that attacked the Hercules, Dimatta had rolled out to the west, looking for the last three in that flight.
He felt good about that one, better than he had felt after downing the first two over the ice. This one had been a son of a bitch.
Where were the others?
Abrams had them on radar.
“Making like jackrabbits, Cancha. Headed southwest. Maybe they’re going to defect to England.”
“What speed are they making, Do-Wop?”
“Slow. Five-zero-zero knots at twelve thousand feet. Bet they’re low on fuel, conserving.”
Dimatta checked his own fuel load. Soon, he would have to turn for Jack Andrews, or he’d be boosting on rockets and coasting.
“I just lost one of them from the screen, Cancha. Probably flamed out. You want to chase the other two?”
“I’m about flamed out, myself, Do-Wop. Let the sea have them, if they don’t make it.”
Scanning his HUD, he noted the lack of green lights in the bottom right corner. “Hell, Do-Wop, we couldn’t do anything about them, anyway.”
“Damn. I’m checking. Nope, no missile control, Cancha. We must have taken debris somewhere. Maybe the electronics bay.”
“Anything else showing bad?”
“No, that’s it. But we sure want a full checkup on the ground before we go home.”
Dimatta circled back toward the Hercules, and was surprised to find it moving northward.
“Where’s that sucker going?” he asked Abrams.
Before the WSO could respond, Tac-1 brought up McKenna’s voice. “Cancha, you there?”
“Damn near right beside you, Snake Eyes. What’s up?”
“How’s your fuel?”
“Got plenty of pellets. Maybe an hour of JP-7.”
“Ride herd on platform number one for a little while, will you? We’re going to make a visit.”
“Roger,” Dimatta said, wondering what the hell was going on.
Abrams spoke up on the intercom, “What the hell’s going on?”
Semaphore asked the same question. “Delta Blue, what the hell’s going on?”
McKenna laid the headset aside without responding and waddled back to the ramp. Munoz was waiting for him, standing next to the cargomaster.
“Never, ever, ever thought I’d be a Green Beret, amigo.”
“Me, either, Tony.”
They were both still in their environmental suits, but had discarded the helmets and gloves. The parachute harness was snug, and they had located webbing belts on which to hang their extra magazines, flashlights, K-Bar combat knives, and M-16s. They each had two fragmentation grenades.
The cargomaster patted them roughly on the shoulders, then pointed to the port bulkhead, where a red light had changed to amber.
McKenna moved carefully out to the edge of the ramp and crouched. The wind screamed around him.
The light changed to green.
He stepped off, Munoz right beside him.
He thought Munoz had yelled something, maybe, “Geronimo!” but couldn’t tell in the combined noise of the engines and the prop wash.
He tumbled once, then pulled the rip cord.
They were jumping from 1,500 feet, and there wasn’t much margin for error. After an enforced jump from a thousand feet, though, it seemed as if he had plenty of time.
The parachute casing released with a loud pop, and the drogue chute streamed the fabric out above him. When the canopy blossomed, the sudden deceleration jerked him upright, then swung him from side to side.
“Hey, Kev! Twice in one night. We’ll have to start a club.”
Munoz was to his left, slightly above him.
“You start the club, Tony,” he yelled back. “I’ll be the treasurer.”
The sea was dark around them, more terrifying now that he had been in it once tonight. His toes ached, but that was a good sign. To the northeast, he saw a fire which was probably on number eleven. The lights of some ship were closing in on it.
Slightly below and ahead of him was the dome and pad of platform number one.
There was a helicopter on the pad, but no one near it. The AA and SAM batteries appeared deserted.
Almost the whole top of the dome on the near side was gone, and the hole was defined by the interior lights shining through it.
He tugged on the left shroud, spilling air, and changing his direction.
He wouldn’t mind falling short, landing on the pad, but he didn’t want to overshoot and go in the water again.
Cold wind hitting him on the left. His face felt red from the cold.
Still too high and too far right. The wind was drifting him. He pulled on the shrouds again.
Unclipped the M-16 from its D-ring on the web belt.
Looked up.
Munoz was dumping air. They were closing toward each other.
The canopies bumped.
Dome coming up fast.
One more tug.
The edges of the hole were jagged, sharp aluminum shards pointing at him.
Over the hole, and Munoz’s canopy was fighting his own for space.
The light was coming from the well section and from two bulbs he could see in the top floor of what must be a residential area. There were a couple beds showing through the wreckage where the dome had collapsed on the inner ceiling, also tearing large holes in the ceiling.
A body in one of the beds, the back of its head dull brown-bloody red.
The canopies bumped again as the two of them dropped through the hole.
It was a lot farther from the dome roof to the interior ceiling than he had expected.
He hit hard on ceiling panels, and his legs went right through the soft gypsum board. His hips stopped him, and he hit the quick release buckle on the harness with the palm of his hand as the canopy collapsed around him.
Setting the M-16 aside, McKenna leaned back on his right hand and tried to get his legs free. The gypsum buckled under his hand, but he got his right leg free, rolled over on to a joist, and pulled his left leg out of the hole.
Scrambling, he rose and stepped out of the harness, bent to retrieve the rifle. Peering down through the hole, he didn’t see anyone moving around.
Munoz was already free of his chute and waiting for him, standing on the juncture of two walls.
The noise was tremendous. He hadn’t expected that much noise.
Munoz gestured down into the well section of the dome with the muzzle of his rifle.
McKenna, stepping on ceiling joists and avoiding large chunks of dome panels, crossed to his WSO and looked down. They were about a hundred feet above the floor. There weren’t as many floors inside the dome as Pearson had expected. Down on the deck were three gigantic turbine generators, as well as enough pipe to plumb several houses. Steam vapor, smelling highly sulphurous, gorged out of the section.
The attack hadn’t shut down the generators.
“What now, jefe?” Munoz yelled.