"What in the hell-" a Marine corporal said. Like a dinosaur coming to the picnic, a massive object appeared on the horizon, apparently coming overland at high speed.
"You! Marine, get over here!" Edwards screamed. A jeep with three enlisted men stopped, then raced toward him. "Get me to your CO fast!"
"CO's dead, sir," the sergeant said. "CP took a hit, Lieutenant-fuckin' gone!"
"Where's the alternate?"
"Elementary school."
"Go, I gotta let them know, we got bad guys coming in from the seas hit! You got a radio."
"Tried calling, sir, but no answer." The sergeant turned south down International Highway. At least three missiles had landed here, judging by the smoke. All around, the small city that had been the Keflavik air base was a loose collection of smoking fires. A number of people in uniforms were running around, doing things that Edwards didn't have time to guess at. Was anybody in charge?
The elementary school had also been hit. The third of the building still standing was a mass of flame.
"Sergeant, that radio work?"
"Yes, sir, but it ain't tuned into the perimeter guards."
"Well, fix it!"
"Right." The sergeant dialed into a different frequency.
The Lebeds halted in two pairs, each a quarter mile from the perimeter. The bow door on each opened, and out rolled a pair of BMD infantry assault vehicles, followed by mortar crews who began at once to set up their weapons. The 73mm guns and missile launchers on the minitanks began to engage the Marine defensive positions as the reinforced company in each vehicle advanced slowly and skillfully, using their cover and taking advantage of their fire support. The assault force had been handpicked from units that had fought in Afghanistan. Every man had been under fire before. The Lebeds immediately turned crablike and sped back to sea to pick up yet more infantrymen. Already, elements of two elite airborne battalions were engaging a single company of Marines.
The frantic words on the platoon radio nets were all too clear. The base electrical supply was cut, and along with it the main radios. The Marine officers were dead, and there was no one to coordinate the defense. Edwards wondered if anyone really knew what the hell was going on. He decided that it probably didn't matter.
"Sergeant, we gotta get the hell outa here!"
"You mean run away!"
"I mean get away and report what's happened here. Looks like we lost this one, Sarge. Somebody's gotta report in so they don't send any more planes to land here. What's the fastest way to Reykjavik?"
"Dammit, sir, there's Marines out there-"
"You wanna be a Russian prisoner? We lost! I say we gotta report in and you'll do what I Goddamned tell you, Sergeant, you got that!"
"Aye aye, sir."
"How we fixed for weapons?"
On his own, a private ran to what was left of the school. A Marine was lying there facedown, a pool of red spreading from some invisible, fatal wound. The private came back with the man's M-16, field pack, and ammo belt, handing the collection to Edwards.
"We all got one now, sir."
"Let's get the hell outa here."
The sergeant threw the jeep into gear. "How we gonna report in?"
"Let me worry about that, okay?"
"You say so." The sergeant turned the jeep completely around, back up International, toward the wrecked satellite antennae.
MV JULIUS FUCIK
"Aircraft sighted, port bow!" a lookout screamed. Kherov raised his binoculars to his eyes and swore softly. He saw what could only be missiles dangling from each wing of the multiengined aircraft.
"Well, lookie what we got here," the Orion's pilot said quietly. "Our old friend, the Doctor Lykes. Combat, Flight, what else is around?"
"Nothin', Flight, not another surface ship for over a hundred miles." They had just completed a complete circuit of the horizon, scanning with their surface-search radar.
"And it's for Goddamned sure those hovercraft didn't come in off no submarine." The pilot adjusted course to pass within two miles of the ship, with the sun behind the four-engine patrol aircraft. His copilot examined the ship through binoculars. Onboard TV cameras operated by the weapons crew would provide even better close-up pictures. They saw a pair of helicopters warming up. Someone aboard the Fucik panicked and fired a hand-held SA-7 missile. It failed to lock onto the Orion and blazed off directly into the low sun.
MV JULIUS FUCIK
"Idiot!" Kherov growled. The smoke from the rocket motor didn't even come close to the aircraft. "He'll shoot at us now. All ahead flank! Helmsman, be alert!"
"Okay," the pilot said, turning away from the merchantman. "Tacco, we got a target for your Harpoons. Any luck with Keflavik?"
"Negative, but Sentry One is relaying the data into Scotland. They say a bunch of missiles hit Keflavik, looks like the place is closed whether we keep it or not."
The pilot cursed briefly. "Okay. We'll blow this pirate right out of the water."
"Roge, Flight," the tactical coordinator replied. "Two minutes before we can launch the-damn! I got a red light on the portside Harpoon. The sucker won't arm."
"Well, play with the bastard!" the pilot growled. It didn't work. In the haste to get off the ground, the missile's control cables had not been fully attached by the weary ground crew.
"Okay, I got one working. Ready!"
"Shoot!"
The missile dropped clear of the wing and fell thirty feet before its engine ignited. Fucik's weather deck was lined with paratroopers, many holding hand-launched SAMs and hoping to intercept the incoming ASM.
"Tacco, see if you can raise an F-15. Maybe they can rip this baby up with twenty-millimeters."
"Doing that already. We got a pair of Eagles coming in, but they're skosh fuel. One or two passes'll be all they can manage."
Forward, the pilot had binoculars to his eyes, watching the whitepainted missile skimming the wavetops. "Go, baby, go.
MV JULIUS FUCIK
"Rocket coming in, low on the horizon, portside." At least we have good lookouts, Kherov thought. He estimated the distance to the horizon, and gave the missile a speed of a thousand kilometers per hour...
"Right hard rudder!" he screamed. The helmsman threw the wheel over as far as it would go and held it down.
"You cannot run from a missile, Kherov," the General said quietly.
"I know this. Watch, my friend."
The black-hulled vessel was turning radically to starboard. As she did so, the ship heeled in the opposite direction, the same way a car rolls away from a turn on a flat road, which artificially raised the waterline on the vulnerable portside.
Some enterprising officers aboard fired signal flares, hoping to decoy the missile away, but all the missile's microchip brain cared about was the enormous blip that occupied the center of its radar seeker head. It noted that the ship's heading was changing slightly, and altered its own course accordingly. Half a mile from the target, the Harpoon lurched upward from its ten-foot altitude in its programmed "pop-up" terminal maneuver. The troopers aboard the Fucik instantly fired an even dozen SAMs. Three locked onto the Harpoon's engine exhaust plume, but were unable to turn rapidly enough to hit the incoming missile, and continued past it. The Harpoon tipped over and dove.