FOLZIEHAUSEN, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF GERMANY
After eight hours of vicious fighting that saw artillery fire dropping on the forward command post, Beregovoy and Alekseyev stopped the Belgian counterattack. But stopping them wasn't enough. They'd advanced six kilometers before running into a solid wall of tanks and missiles, and the Belgian artillery was laying heavy intermittent fire on the main road supporting the Russian advance toward Hameln. Certainly they were preparing for another attack, Alekseyev thought. We have to hit them first-but with what? He needed his three divisions to advance on the British formations standing before Hameln.
"Every time we break through," Major Sergetov observed quietly, "they slow us down and counterattack. This was not supposed to happen."
"A splendid observation!" Alekseyev snarled, then regained his temper. "We expected that a breakthrough would have the same effect as in the last war against the Germans. The problem is these new light antitank missiles. Three men and a jeep"-he even used the American title for it-"can race along the road, set up, fire one or two missiles, be gone before we can react, then repeat the process a few hundred meters away. Defensive firepower was never so strong before, and we failed to appreciate how effectively a handful of rearguard troops can slow down an advancing column. Our security is based on movement"-Alekseyev explained the basic lesson from tank school-"a mobile force under these conditions cannot afford to be slowed down. A simple breakthrough is not enough! We must blast a massive enough! We must blast a massive hole in their front and race at least twenty kilometers to be free of these roving missile-crews. Only then can we switch over to true mobile doctrine."
"You say we cannot win?" Sergetov had begun to have his own doubts, but did not expect to hear them from his commander.
"I say what I did four months ago, and I was correct: this campaign of ours has become a war of attrition. For the moment, technology has defeated the military art, ours and theirs. What we're doing now is seeing who runs out of men and arms first."
"We have more of both," Sergetov said.
"That is true, Ivan Mikhailovich. I have many more young men to throw away." More casualties were arriving at the field hospital. The line of trucks running in and out never stopped.
"Comrade General, I received a message from my father. He wishes to know how things progress at the front. What should I tell him?"
Alekseyev walked away from his aide for a minute to ponder that.
"Ivan Mikhailovich, tell the Minister that NATO opposition is far more serious than we expected. The key now is supplies. We need the best information we can get on NATO's supply situation and a determined effort to worsen that situation. We have received little information on how well the naval operations to kill NATO convoys are going. I need that in order to evaluate NATO's endurance. I don't want analyses out of Moscow. I want the raw data."
"You are unhappy with what we get from Moscow?"
"We were told that NATO was politically divided and militarily uncoordinated. How would you evaluate that report, Comrade Major?" Alekseyev asked sharply. "I can't go through military channels with that sort of request, can I? Write up your travel orders. I want you back here in thirty-six hours. I'm sure we'll still be here."
ICELAND
"They should be there in half an hour."
"Roger that, Doghouse", Edwards replied. "Like I said, no Russians visible. We haven't seen any aircraft all day. There was some movement on the road west of us six hours ago. Four jeep-type vehicles. Too far off to tell what was in them, and they were southbound. The coast is clear. Over."
"Okay, let us know when they get there."
"Will do. Out." Edwards killed the radio. "People, we got some friends coming in."
"Who and when, skipper?" Smith asked at once.
"Didn't say, but they'll be here in half an hour. Must be an air drop."
"They come take us out?" Vigdis asked.
"No, they can't land a plane here. Sarge, you got any opinions?"
"Same as yours, I 'spect."
The plane was early, and for once Edwards saw it first. The C-130 Hercules four-engine transport skimmed down from the northwest, only a few hundred feet over the eastern slope of the ridge they were on. A stiff breeze blew from the west as four small shapes emerged from the aft cargo door and the Hercules turned abruptly north to leave the area. Edwards concentrated on the descending parachutes. Instead of drifting down into the valley below them, the parachutists were coming straight down to a rock-filled slope.
"Oh, shit, he misjudged the wind! Come on!"
The parachutes dropped below them as they ran downhill. One by one they stopped, losing their shape in the semidarkness as the men landed. Edwards and his party moved rapidly, trying to remember where the men had landed. Their camouflage 'chutes turned invisible as Soon as they touched the ground.
"Halt!"
"Okay, okay. We're here to meet you", Edwards said.
"Identify yourself!" The voice had an English accent.
"Code name Beagle."
"Proper name?"
"Edwards, first lieutenant, U.S. Air Force."
"Approach slowly, mate."
Mike went forward alone. At length he saw a vague shape half-hidden by a rock. The shape held a submachine gun.
"Who are you?"
"Sergeant Nichols, Royal Marines. You picked a bloody poor place to receive us, Lieutenant."
"I didn't do it!" Edwards answered. "We didn't know you were coming until an hour ago."
"Balls-up, another bloody balls-up." The man stood and walked forward with a pronounced limp. "Parachuting's dangerous enough without coming into a fucking rock garden!" Another figure came up.
"We found the lieutenant-I think he's dead!"
"Need help?" Mike asked.
"I need to wake up and find myself home in bed."
Edwards soon found that the party sent to rescue him-or whatever their mission was-had gotten off to a disastrous start. The lieutenant in command of the group had landed on one boulder and fallen backward on another. His head hung from the rest of his body as if on a string. Nichols had sprained his ankle badly, and the other two were uninjured but shaken. It took over an hour to locate all their gear. There was no time for sentiment. The lieutenant was wrapped in his parachute and covered with loose rocks. Edwards led the rest back to his perch on the hilltop. At least they'd brought a new battery pack for his radio.
"Doghouse, this is Beagle, and things suck, over."
"What took so long?"
"Tell that Herky-Bird driver to get a new eye doctor. The Marines you sent here got their boss killed, and their sergeant ripped his ankle up."
"Have you been spotted?"
"Negative. They landed in rocks. It's a miracle they weren't all killed. We're back on the hilltop. We covered our tracks."
Sergeant Nichols was a smoker. He and Smith found a sheltered spot to light up.
"Sounds rather excitable, your lieutenant."
"He's only a wing-wiper, but he's doin' all right. How's the ankle?"
"I'll have to walk on it whether it's fit or not. Does he know what he's about?"
"The skipper? I watched him kill three Russians with a knife. That good enough?"
"Bloody hell."
33 - Contact
"Captain?"