The fighters swept their radars around the sky, hoping to find targets for their remaining missiles. Six more Badgers were a hundred miles off, but they had already been warned by the leading tankers and were heading north. The Tomcats didn't have enough fuel to pursue. They turned for home and landed at Stomoway an hour later with nearly dry tanks.
"Five confirmed kills and a damage," the squadron commander told Toland. "It worked."
"This time." Toland was pleased nevertheless. The U.S. Navy had just completed its first offensive mission. Now for the next one. Information was just in on the Backfire raid. They'd hit a convoy off the Azores, and a pair of Tomcats was waiting two hundred miles south of Iceland to meet them on the return leg.
STENDAL, GERMAN DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC
"Our losses have been murderous," said the General of Soviet Frontal Aviation.
"I will tell our motor-rifle troops just how serious your losses have been," Alekseyev replied coldly.
"We have lost nearly double our projections."
"So have we! At least our ground troops are fighting. I watched an attack. You sent in four attack fighters. Four!"
"I know of this attack. There was a full regiment assigned, more than twenty, plus your own attack helicopters. The NATO fighters are engaging us ten kilometers behind the front. My pilots must fight for their lives simply to get where your tanks are-and then all too often they are engaged by our own surface-to-air missiles!"
"Explain," ordered Alekseyev's superior.
"Comrade General, the NATO radar surveillance aircraft are not easy targets-they are too well protected. With their airborne radar, they can vector their fighters against ours to launch their missile attacks from beyond visual range. When our pilots learn that they are being attacked, they must evade, no? Do your tankers sit still to give their enemies an easy shot? This often means that they must drop their bombs to maneuver. Finally, when they do manage to reach the battle zone they are frequently shot at by friendly missile units who don't take the time to distinguish between friend and foe." It was an old story, and not merely a Soviet problem.
"You are telling us that NATO has command of the air," Alekseyev said.
"No, they do not. Neither side does. Our surface-to-air missiles deny them the ability to control the air over the battle line, and their fighters helped by their surface-to-air missiles, and ours!-deny it to us. The sky over the battlefield belongs to no one." Except the dead, the Air Force General thought to himself.
Alekseyev thought of what he had seen at Bieben, and wondered how correct he was.
"We must do better," the Theater Commander said. "The next massed attack we launch will have proper air support if it means stripping fighters from every unit on the front."
"We are trying to get more aircraft forward by using deceptive maneuvering. Yesterday we tried to feint NATO's fighters to the wrong place. It nearly worked, but we made a mistake. That mistake has been identified."
"We attack south of Hannover at 0600 tomorrow. I want two hundred aircraft at the front line supporting my divisions."
"You'll have them," the Air Force General agreed. Alekseyev watched the flyer leave.
"So, Pasha?"
"That's a start-if the two hundred fighters show up."
"We have our helicopters, too."
"I watched what happens to helicopters in a missile environment. Just when I thought they'd blast a hole through the German lines, a combination of SAMs and fighters nearly annihilated them. They have to expose themselves too greatly when they fire their missiles. The courage of the pilots is remarkable, but courage alone is not enough. We have underestimated NATO firepower-no, more properly we have overestimated our ability to neutralize it."
"We've been attacking prepared positions since this war began. Once we break into the open-"
"Yes. A mobile campaign will reduce our losses and give us a much more even contest. We have to break through." Alekseyev looked down at the map. Just after dawn tomorrow, an army-four motor-rifle divisions, supported by a division of tanks-would hurl itself into the NATO lines. "And here seems to be the place. I want to be forward again."
"As you wish, Pasha. But be careful. By the way, the doctor tells me the cut on your hand was from a shell fragment. You are entitled to a decoration."
"For this?" Alekseyev looked at his bandaged hand. "I've cut myself worse than this shaving. No medal for this, it would be an insult to our troops.
ICELAND
They were climbing down a rocky slope when the helicopter appeared two miles west of them. It was low, about three hundred feet over the ridge line, and moving slowly toward them. The Marines immediately fell to the ground and crawled to places where they might hide in shadows. Edwards took a few steps to Vigdis and pulled her down also. She was wearing a white patterned sweater that was all too easy to spot. The lieutenant stripped off his field jacket and draped it around her, holding her head down as he wrapped the hood over her blond hair.
"Don't move at all. They're looking for us." Edwards kept his own head up briefly to see where his men were. Smith waved for him to get down. Edwards did so, keeping his eyes open so that he could look sideways at the chopper. It was another Hind. He could see rocket pods hanging from stubby wings on either side of the airframe. Both the doors to the passenger compartment were open, revealing a squad of infantrymen, weapons at the ready, looking down. "Oh, shit."
The noise from its turboshaft engines increased as the Hind came closer, and the massive five-bladed main rotor beat at the air, stirring up the volcanic dust that coated everything on the plateau they had just left. Edwards's hand tightened on the M-16's pistol grip, and he thumbed off the safety. The helicopter was coming almost sideways, its rocket pods pointed at the flatlands behind the Marines. Edwards could make out the machine guns in the Hind's nose, some kind of rotary gun like the American minigun that spat out four thousand rounds per minute. They wouldn't have a chance in hell against that.
"Turn, you son of a bitch," Mike said under his breath.
"What is it doing?" Vigdis asked.
"Just relax. Don't move at all." Oh, God, don't let them see us now.
"There! Look there at one o'clock," the gunner said from the front seat of the helicopter.
"So this mission isn't a waste after all," the pilot replied. "Go ahead."
The gunner centered Ins sights and armed the machine gun, setting his selector for a five-shot burst. His target was agreeably still as he depressed the trigger.
"Got him!"
Edwards jumped at the sound. Vigdis didn't move at all. The lieutenant moved his rifle slightly, bringing it to bear on the chopper-which moved south, dropping below the ridgeline. He saw three heads come up. What had they shot at? The engine sounds changed as the helicopter landed, not far away.
The gunner had hit the buck with three bullets, with little damage to the edible tissue. There was just enough in the eighty-pound animal to feed the squad and the helicopter crew. The paratroop sergeant slit the deer's throat with his combat knife, then set to remove the viscera. The local deer were nothing like the animals his father hunted in Siberia, but for the first time in three weeks he'd have some fresh meat. That was sufficient to make this boring mission worthwhile. The carcass was loaded into the Hind. Two minutes later it circled up to cruise altitude and flew back to Keflavik.