KEFLAVIK, ICELAND
"The attack should be over by now."
Andreyev didn't expect rapid information. The Americans had finally succeeded in damaging his last radar, and he had no way of tracking the air battle. His radio-intercept crews had copied numerous voice transmissions, but they'd been too faint and too fast for any conclusion other than that a battle had in fact been fought.
"The last time we caught a NATO carrier force, we smashed it," the operations officer said hopefully.
"Our troops above Bogarnes are still under heavy fire," another reported. The American battleships had been hitting them for over an hour. "They are taking serious losses."
"Comrade General, I have a-you'd better listen to this, it's on our command circuit."
The message repeated four times, in Russian: "Commander Soviet Forces Iceland, this is Commander Strike Fleet Atlantic. If you don't get this, somebody will get it to you. Tell your bombers better luck next time. We'll be seeing you soon. Out."
SACK, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF GERMANY
Sergetov staggered up to the traffic-control point in time to see a battalion of tanks move down the road toward Alfeld. He stood slumped over, hands on his knees, as he watched the tanks roll off.
"Identify yourself!" It was a KGB lieutenant. The KGB had taken over traffic management. The authority to shoot violators came easy to the KGB.
"Major Sergetov. I must see the area commander at once."
"Attached to what unit, Sergetov?"
Ivan stood up straight. Not Comrade Major, not Comrade, just Sergetov.
"I am personal aide to General Alekseyev, Deputy Commander West. Now get me the hell to your commander!"
"Papers." The lieutenant held out his hand, a coldly arrogant look on his face.
Sergetov smiled thinly. His identification documents were in a waterproof plastic envelope. He handed the top card over to the KGB officer. It was something his father had managed to get for him before mobilization.
"And what might you be doing with a Class-1-Priority pass?" The lieutenant was wary now.
"And who the fuck are you to ask?" The son of a Politburo member brought his face to within a centimeter of the other man's. "Get me to your commander now or we'll see who gets shot here today!"
The chekist deflated abruptly and led him to a farm cottage. The commander of the traffic-control station was a major. Good.
"I need a radio on the Army command circuit," Sergetov snapped.
"All I have is regimental and division," the major answered.
"Nearest division headquarters?"
"Fortieth Tanks at-"
"It's destroyed. Damn, I need a vehicle. Now! There is an American force at Alfeld."
"We just sent off a battalion-"
"I know. Call them back."
"I have no such authority."
"You damned fool, they're heading into a trap! Call them now!''
"I don't have the auth-"
"Are you a German agent? Haven't you seen what's going on there?" "It was an air attack, wasn't it?"
"There are American tanks in Alfeld, you idiot. We must launch a counterattack, but one battalion isn't enough. We-" The first explosions started, six kilometers away. "Major, I want one of two things. Either you give me transport right now or you give me your name and service number so that I can denounce you properly."
The two KGB officers shared a look of incredulity. Nobody talked that way to them, but anyone who did... Sergetov got his vehicle and raced off. Half an hour later he was in the supply base at Holle. There he found a radio.
"Where are you, Major?" Alekseyev demanded.
"Holle. The Americans got through our lines. They have at least one battalion of tanks at Alfeld."
"What?" The radio was silent for a moment. "Are you certain?"
"Comrade General, I had to swim the damned river to get here. I counted a column of twenty-five armored vehicles a few kilometers north of the town. They shot up the tank-repair station and massacred a column of trucks. I repeat, General, there is an American force at Alfeld in at least battalion strength."
"Get transport to Stendal and report personally to Commander-in-Chief West."
USS INDEPENDENCE
"Good evening, Major Chapayev. How's the leg?" Toland asked, sitting down beside the hospital bunk. "Are you being treated properly.?"
"I have no complaints. Your Russian is-fair."
"I do not often get to practice with a Soviet citizen. Perhaps you can help me somewhat." Major Alexandr Georgiveyich Chapayev, the computer printout read. Age 30. Second son of General Georgiy Konstantinovich Chapayev, commander of the Moscow Air Defense District. Married to the youngest daughter of a Central Committee member, Ilya Nikolayevich Govorov. And therefore probably a young man with access to lots of under-the-counter information...
"With your grammar?" Chapayev snorted.
"You were the commander of the MiGs? Be at ease, Major, they're all finished now. You know that."
"I was the senior flying officer, yes."
"I've been told to compliment you. I am not a flyer myself, but they tell me your tactics over Keflavik were excellent. I believe you had five MiGs. We lost a total of seven aircraft yesterday, three to MiGs, two to missiles, and two to ground fire. Considering the odds, we were disagreeably surprised."
"I had my duty."
"Da. We all have our duty," Toland agreed. "If you are concerned at how we will treat you, you should not be. You will be treated properly in all respects. I don't know what you have been told to expect, but probably you have noticed once or twice that not everything the Party says is completely true. I see from your identification papers that you have a wife and two children. I have a family, too. We'll both live to see them again, Major. Well, probably."
"And when our bombers attack you?'
"That happened three hours ago. Didn't anyone tell you?"
"Ha! The first time-"
"I was on Nimitz We took two hits." Toland described the attack briefly. "This time things worked out differently. We're conducting rescue operations now. You'll know for sure when we bring some survivors in. Your air force is no longer a threat to us. Submarines are another matter, but there is no sense asking a fighter pilot about that. In fact, this isn't really an interrogation."
"So why are you here?"
"I will be asking you some questions later. I just wanted to come down and say hello. Is there anything I can get you, anything you need?"
Chapayev did not know what to make of this. Aside from the possibility the Americans would shoot him outright, he didn't know what to expect. He'd had the usual lectures about trying to escape, but clearly these did not apply to being aboard a ship in the middle of the ocean.
"I do not believe you," he said finally.
"Comrade Major, there is no point in asking you about the MiG-29, because none are left on Iceland. All the others in the Soviet Air Force are in Central Europe, but we're not going there. There is no point in asking you about ground-defense positions on Iceland; you're a pilot and you don't know anything about that. The same is true of the remaining threat against us: submarines. What do you know about submarines, eh? Think, Major, you are an educated man. Do you think you have information that we need? I doubt it. You will be exchanged in due course for our prisoners-a political question, for our political masters. Until then we will treat you properly." Toland paused. Talk to me, Major...