The American pilots were warned, but were too close to their bombing targets to react at once. Once free of their heavy ordnance, they were fighters again, and climbed into the sky-they feared MiGs more than missiles. The resulting air battle was a masterpiece of confusion. The two aircraft would have been hard to distinguish sitting side by side on the ground. At six hundred knots, in the middle of battle, the task was almost impossible, and the Americans, with their greater numbers, had to hold fire until they were sure of their targets. The Russians knew what they were attacking, but they too shrank from shooting with abandon at a target that looked too much like a comrade's aircraft. The result was a swarming mix of fighters closing to a range too short for missiles, as pilots sought positive target identification, an anachronistic gun duel punctuated by surface-to-air missiles from the two surviving Russian launchers. Controllers on the American aircraft and the Russian ground station never had a chance to direct matters. It was entirely in the hands of the pilots. The fighters went to afterburner and swept into punishing high-g turns while heads swiveled and eyes squinted at familiar shapes while trying to decide if the paint scheme was friendly or not. That part of the task was fairly even. The American planes were haze-gray and harder to spot, allowing easier target identification at long range than at short. Two Hornets died first, followed by a MiG. Then another MiG fell to cannon fire, and a Hornet to a snap-shot missile. An errant SAM exploded a MiG and a Hornet together.
The Soviet major saw that and screamed for the SAMs to hold fire; then he fired his cannon at a Hornet blazing across his nose, missed, and turned to follow him. He watched the American close for a high-deflection shot on a MiG-29 and damage its engine. The major didn't know how many of his aircraft were left. It was beyond that. He was engaged in a struggle for personal survival-which he expected to lose. Caution faded to nothing as he closed on afterburner and ignored his low-fuelstate light. His target turned north and led him over the water. The major fired his last missile and then watched it track right into the Hornet's right engine as his own engines flamed out. The Hornet's tail fragmented and the major screamed with delight as he and the American pilot ejected a few hundred meters apart. Four kills, the major thought. At least I have done my duty. He was in the water thirty seconds later.
Commander Davies crawled into his raft despite a broken wrist, cursing and blessing his luck at the same time. His first considered action was to activate his rescue radio. He looked around and saw another yellow raft a short distance away. It wasn't easy paddling with one arm, but the other guy was paddling toward him. What came next was quite a surprise.
"You are prisoner!" The man was pointing a gun at him. Davies's revolver was at the bottom of the sea.
"Who the hell are you?"
"I am Major Alexandr Georgiyevich Chapayev-Soviet Air Force."
"Howdy. I'm Commander Gus Davies, U.S. Navy. Who got you?"
"No one get me! I run out of fuel!" He waved the gun. "And you are my prisoner."
"Oh, horseshit!"
Major Chapayev shook his head. Like Davies, he was in a near-state of shock from the stress of combat and his close escape from death.
"Hold on to that gun, though, Major. I don't know if there're sharks around here or not."
"Sharks?"
Davies had to think for a moment. The code name for that new Russian sub. "Akula. Akula in the water."
Chapayev went pale. "Akula?"
Davies unzipped his flight suit and tucked in his injured arm. "Yeah, Major. This is the third time I've had to go swimming. Last time I was on the raft for twelve hours, and I saw a couple of the Goddamned things. You got any repellant on your raft?"
"What?" Chapayev was really confused now.
"This stuff." Davies dipped the plastic envelope in the water. "Let's rope your raft to mine. Safer that way. This repellant stuffs supposed to keep the akula away."
Davies tried to secure the rafts one-handed and failed. Chapayev set the gun down to help. After being shot down once, then surviving an air battle, the major was suddenly obsessed with the idea of being alive. The idea of being eaten by a carnivorous fish horrified him. He looked over the side of the raft into the water.
"Christ, what a morning," Davies groaned. His wrist was really hurting now.
Chapayev grunted agreement. He looked around for the first time and realized he couldn't see land. Next he reached for his rescue radio and found that his leg was lacerated, the radio pocket on his flight suit ripped away in the ejection.
"Aren't we two sorry sons of bitches," he said in Russian.
"What's that?"
"Where is land?" The sea had never looked so vast.
"About twenty-five miles that way, I think. That leg doesn't look too good, Major." Davies laughed coldly. "We must have the same kind of ejector seats. Oh, shit! This arm hurts."
"Damn, what do you suppose that's all about?" Edwards wondered aloud. They were too far away to hear anything, but they could not miss the smoke rising from Keflavik.
A more immediate concern was the squad of Russians now at the base of their hill. Nichols, Smith, and the four privates were spread out across a front of a hundred yards centered on Edwards, faces darkened, mainly squatting behind rocks and watching the Russians half a mile away.
"Doghouse, this is Beagle, and we got trouble here, over." He had to call twice more to get an answer.
"What's the problem, Beagle?"
"We got five or six Russians climbing our hill. They're about six hundred feet below us, half a mile away. Also, what's going on at Keflavik?"
"We have an air attack under way there, that's all I know at the moment. Keep us posted, Beagle. I'll see if I can send you some help."
"Thank you. Out."
"Michael?"
"Good morning. Glad one of us got a decent night's sleep." She sat down beside him, resting her hand on his leg, and the fear subsided for a moment.
"I'd swear I just saw some movement on the top there," the platoon sergeant said.
"Let me see." The lieutenant moved his powerful spotting glasses on the peak. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Maybe you saw a bird. Those little puffin things are all over the place."
"Possibly," the sergeant allowed. He was starting to feel guilty for sending Markhovskiy up there. If this lieutenant had half a brain, he thought, he'd have sent a larger force, maybe led it himself, like an officer should.
"The air base is being heavily attacked."
"Have you radioed in?"
"Tried to. They're off the air at the moment." There was concern in his voice. Sixty miles was too far for the small tactical radios. Their heavy VHF set reported into the air base. As much as he wanted to be with the patrol, the lieutenant knew his proper place was here. "Warn Markhovskiy."
Edwards saw one of the Russians stop and fiddle with his walkie-talkie. Tell him he's climbing the wrong hill-tell him to come home to Mama.
"Keep your head down, babe."
"What is it, Michael?"
"We got some people climbing this hill."
"Who?" There was concern in her voice.
"Guess."
"Skipper, they're coming up for sure," Smith warned over the radio.
"Yeah, I see that. Everybody got a good place?"
"Leftenant, I strongly recommend that we let them get in very close before opening fire," Nichols called.
"Makes sense, skipper," Smith agreed on the same circuit.