“Down.”
He crossed to a large hole. Joists were broken here, and large pieces of aluminum had crashed through the ceiling, burying the room. Massive hunks of styrofoam were everywhere, like boulders strewn on a hillside. The room below was dark, though light spilled into it from somewhere else.
They slid down the face of the debris and found themselves standing in water. The ceiling was at least ten feet above. Big, spacious rooms to detract from the claustrophobia of the dome interior.
McKenna saw an open door into a lighted hallway and sidled toward it while slipping the safety on the M-16. He put his back to the wall, then peered around the doorway.
No one there.
The hallway was awash in water, also, and he saw the reason for it twenty feet away. One of the rooms had caught fire after the missile attack. Blackened walls in the hallway and the charred remains of mattresses. A limp firehose snaked down the corridor.
The racket of the generators was noticeably decreased. At the end of the hallway was a steel door with a sign on it. Written in German, the message was one that he couldn’t interpret much beyond the one word of VERBOTEN.
Also on the door was a large “5.”
Well, that helped a little.
General Felix Eisenach was totally humiliated.
The VORMUND PROJEKT was in ruins.
Almost.
The Control Center was in pandemonium. People dashing about aimlessly, telephones ringing, alarms buzzing. Some of the soldiers had been issued weapons. Frightened console operators remained at their posts only by the sheer intimidation of the giant Diederman.
Oberst Diederman strode back and forth along the rows of consoles, watching the ever-changing flow of information coming in. Stunned almost beyond speech, Eisenach sagged against the first console, where he had watched the eradication of Germany’s premier aircraft wing.
Diederman walked past him. “No blowouts. A leak on Platform Fifteen. We continue to generate power.”
Precision. The attackers had precision. Eisenach wished he controlled such precision.
Two consoles down, an operator held up his hand. Diederman whirled toward him. “Sergeant?”
“Platform Eight, Herr Colonel. A ship approaches, saying Admiral Schmidt has ordered evacuation.”
“Are they in danger?” Diederman asked.
The feldwebel spoke into his microphone, listened, reported: “There is no danger, Herr Colonel. The fires are out, there is damage to the dome above the engineering spaces. They have five wounded and the interior temperatures are dropping.”
“They are to remain at their duties,” Diederman ordered. “We must not shut down production.”
Diederman went to another console and attempted to reach Schmidt. After a few moments, he did, and Eisenach listened with detachment to the argument.
The general had almost lost track of events. Three domes only were undamaged. The Soviets and American ships approached steadily.
Spinning toward the leutnant still standing by him, Eisenach said, “Get me Peenemünde.”
“At once, Herr General.”
It took four minutes to run down Weismann.
“Yes, General Eisenach.”
“Your squadrons are destroyed.”
“I know this. I have been hearing from New Amsterdam.” Weismann’s voice carried despair.
“The Ghost. Launch it now.”
“Soon,” Weismann said. “The tower shroud has been moved back, and it is erected on the pad. The fueling is under way.”
“Immediately!”
“It will go nowhere without fuel and computer programs, General.”
“Speed it up!”
“The ballistics people have computed the space station orbit and the interception path. It will be soon.”
“Speed it up, I said!”
“As you wish, Herr General.”
Weismann hung up on him.
“Herr General,” the leutnant said, “Marshal Hoch wishes to speak to you.”
“Say that I will get back to him. Can you not tell that I am busy?”
Shrugging, the leutnant spoke into his phone.
Eisenach had not moved from the spot where he had been standing for forty minutes. Now he took a step, found his legs almost dead.
“Diederman.”
The big man came back toward him. “Yes, General?”
“The radio control?”
“No need for that, General. Everything continues to operate smoothly. The engineering sections hum.” Diederman tried to smile, but the dark eyes sunken into his face did not join in.
“The foreign ships approach. In hours, they will assault the platforms.”
Alarm appeared on the leutnant’s face.
“Nonsense. This is German property.”
“I want it now.”
The smile went away. “It is right beside you.”
Eisenach looked down to where the engineer pointed. A small black box affixed to the top of the console. One green light, one unlit light, and a key slot.
“Give me the key.”
Diederman dug into his pants pocket and came up with a small key on a ring with a brass tag. It was unmarked. “The delay is one hour?”
“It is as you ordered, General.”
Eisenach inserted the key, twisted it, then pulled it out. Slowly, he bent the key tang back and forth until it snapped.
“I suggest you call Schmidt back, Hans. He has an hour to get the men off the platforms.”
Diederman shook his head in dismayed resignation, Eisenach thought.
Eisenach also thought that people were going to remember his name. He had done his best for the fatherland.
“Now, Lieutenant, find my pilots and tell them to prepare the helicopter.”
Diederman was staring at an unteroffizier at a far console.
The man was sitting with his hands in his lap and his chin resting on his chest.
“Corporal, what the hell are you doing?” Diederman shouted.
The head jerked up, whipped around.
“Colonel?”
“What is going on?”
“Colonel, I think the dome camera saw parachutes.”
“Back up the damned tape! Call the security squad!”
Eisenach knew then that he had done the right thing.
Cottonseed was reporting ships closing on the platforms. German ships from the north.
Dimatta stayed in his wide circle over the platform, wondering what McKenna and Munoz were doing.
“Fifty minutes’ fuel, Cancha.”
“When it gets to ten minutes, Nitro, we’ll keep that for reserve, and boost on rockets.”
“Snake Eyes and Tiger?”
“The Herc is still here.”
He kicked in the autopilot. Going around in circles was boring him.
“Delta Green, Semaphore.”
“Go, Semaphore.”
“What’s Snake Eyes doing?” Brackman asked.
Dimatta had only met the commanding general once, but he’d never forget the voice.
On the intercom, he asked Williams, “What’s the boss doing?”
“Beats the hell out of me. Maybe looking for… how about self-destruct devices?”
“Good, Nitro. I like it,” Dimatta said and went back to Tac-1. “Semaphore, Snake Eyes is checking for self-destruct explosives. We don’t want the Germans doing what we tried not to do.”
“Copy that, Delta Green. Semaphore out.”
“Jesus, Cancha! What if I was right?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Be like Kevin to think of it, though.”
“Yeah,” the WSO said, “but you know what else? These platforms are spread over a few hundred square miles. Only one way they’re going to set off explosives.”
“By radio.” Dimatta looked out the left side of his canopy at the dome. At the undamaged top of it, the radar antenna continued to rotate. A mini-forest of UHF, VHF, and other antennas was sprinkled around it.