"Admiral, don't underestimate them," Toland warned.
"I won't underestimate them, Toland. That's why I have you here.
Your group got caught too far north for the circumstances. Taking Iceland was a beautiful move on their part. It screwed our plans pretty well. We are going to fix that, Commander."
"So I gather, sir."
USS REUBEN JAMES
"Ain't she pretty!" O'Malley said. He flipped his cigarette over the side and crossed his arms, staring at the massive carrier on the horizon. She was just a dim gray shape, with aircraft landing on the flat deck.
"My story is supposed to be about the convoy," Calloway sniffed.
"Well, they're making port right about now. End of story." The pilot turned with a wide grin. "Hell, you made me famous, didn't you?"
"You bloody aviators are all the same!" the Reuters correspondent snapped angrily. "The captain won't even tell me where we're going."
"You don't know?" O'Malley asked in surprise.
"Well, where are we going?"
"North."
The port had been cleared in expectation of the convoy. The merchantmen were brought past several wrecks of ships that had died from Soviet mines, some laid before the war, others dropped from aircraft. The port had also been bombed six times by long-range fighter-bombers, each time at a murderous price from French air defense forces.
The first ships in were the big Ro/Ros, the roll-on/roll-off container ships. Eight of them together carried a full armored division, and these were taken quickly to the Bassin Theophile Ducrocq. One by one, the ships lowered their curved stern ramps to the dock and the tanks began to roll off. They met a continuous taxi-rank of low-loader tractor-trailers, each of which would carry a tank or other armored fighting vehicle to the front lines. Loaded, they rolled off one by one to the assembly point at the Renault facility adjacent to the port. It would take hours to unload the division, but it had been decided nevertheless to move everything in a body to the fighting front, less than five hundred kilometers away.
After what had seemed an endless, tense voyage, arrival was a culture shock for the American troops, many of them National Guardsmen who rarely went overseas. The dock workers and traffic police were too exhausted from weeks of frantic work to show any human emotion, but ordinary people who had learned, despite heavy security, that reinforcing troops were landing came out, first in small groups, soon in small mobs, to watch the new arrivals. The American troops were not allowed to leave their company areas. After some informal negotiations, it was decided small delegations would be allowed to meet briefly with some of the troops. The security risk was minor-the telephone lines in and out of all NATO ports were under tight control-and there was an unexpected result to this exercise in simple courtesy. Like their fathers and grandfathers, the arriving troops saw that Europe was worth fighting for. The people who were often seen merely as threats to American jobs had faces and hopes and dreams, all of which were in danger. They were not fighting for a principle, or a political decision, or a treaty made of paper. They were here for these people and others not the least different from those they'd left at home.
It took two hours longer than they'd hoped. Some vehicles were broken down, but the port and police officials had organized the assembly points with skill. The division moved off in the early afternoon at a steady fifty kilometers per hour, driving down a multilane highway cleared for its path. Every few yards, someone stood to wave while the troops made final checks on their gear. The easy part of their journey was about to end.
ICELAND
It was four in the morning when they reached the top, only to find that this mountain had a number of "tops." The Russians had the highest one, three miles away. Edwards's group had a choice of two subsidiary peaks, each a few hundred feet lower than the adjacent thousand-meter summit. They picked the higher of the two, overlooking the small fishing port of Stykkisholmur, almost due north, and the large rock-filled bay that the map called Hvammsfj"rdur.
"Looks like a fine observation point, Leftenant Edwards," Nichols judged.
"That's good, Sarge, 'cause I am not going another foot." Edwards already had his binoculars on the eastern peak. "I don't see any movement."
"They're there," Nichols said.
"Yeah," Smith agreed. "Sure as hell."
Edwards slid down from the crestline and unpacked his radio.
"Doghouse, this is Beagle, and we are where you want us, over."
"Give me your exact position."
Edwards opened his map and read off the coordinates. "We believe there's a Russian observation post on the next peak over. They're about five klicks away, according to this map. We're well concealed here and we have food and water for two days. We can see the roads leading into Stykkisholmur. Matter of fact, it's nice and clear now, and we can see all the way to Keflavik. We can't pick anything out, but we can see the peninsula."
"Very well. I want you to look north and tell us what you see in detail."
Edwards handed the radio antenna to Smith, then turned and put his field glasses on the town.
"Okay. The land is pretty flat, but higher than the water, on a shelf, like. The town is fairly small, maybe eight square blocks. There are some little fishing boats tied up to the docks... I count nine of them. The harbor north and east of the port is wall-to-wall rocks that go on for miles. I do not see any armored vehicles, no obvious signs of Russian troops-wait. I do see two four-by-fours parked in the middle of the street, like, but nobody around 'em. The sun's still low, and there's lots of shadows. Nothing moving on the roads. I guess that's about it."
"Very well, Beagle. Good report. Let us know if you see any Soviet personnel at all. Even one, we want to know about him. Stay put."
"Somebody coming to get us?"
"Beagle, I don't know what you're talking about."
USS INDEPENDENCE
Toland stood in the Combat Information Center, watching the displays. Submarines concerned him the most. Eight allied subs were in the Denmark Strait, west of Iceland, forming a barrier that few submarines would be able to pass. They were supported by Navy Orions operating out of Sondrestrom, Greenland, something impossible until the Russian fighters at Keflavik had been whittled down. That closed off one possible avenue of access to Strike Fleet Atlantic. More submarines formed a line parallel to the fleet's line of advance, and those were supported by the carrier-borne S-3A Vikings that operated continuously off the flight decks.
The Pentagon had leaked to the press that this Marine division was enroute to Germany, where the battle hung in the balance. In fact, the tight formation of amphibs was twenty miles from his carrier on a course of zero-three-nine, four hundred miles from its real objective.
"We're not heading north any longer," Calloway said. Dinner was being served in the wardroom. The officers were plowing through the last fresh lettuce aboard.
"I believe you're right," O'Malley agreed. "I think we're heading west now."
"You might as well tell me what the devil we're up to. I've been shut off from your satellite transmitters."