"They report some fighting still at the air base, but it Will soon be under control. The first team at the main quay reports no one there. That will be secure, my captain. You should rest a bit."
Kherov shook his head like a drunken man. "That will come soon enough. Fifteen more kilometers. We race in too fast as it is. The Americans may yet have some aircraft heading for us. We must get to the dock and unload your equipment before noon. I have lost too many of my crewmen to fail."
HAFNARFJORDUR, ICELAND
"We gotta report this," Edwards said quietly. He shrugged out of his pack and opened it. He'd watched a man test the radio before, and saw that instructions were printed on the side of the radio set. The six pieces of the antenna fitted easily into the pistol grip. Next he plugged in his headset and switched the radio on.
He was supposed to point the flowerlike antenna at a satellite on the 30* meridian, but he didn't have a compass to tell him where that was. Smith unfolded a map and selected a landmark in that general direction. Edwards pointed the antenna at it and waved it slowly across the sky until he heard the warbling carrier wave of the communications bird.
"Okay." Edwards turned the frequency knob to a preselected channel and toggled the Transmit switch.
"Anyone on this net, this is Mike Edwards, first lieutenant, United States Air Force, transmitting from Iceland. Please acknowledge, over." Nothing happened. Edwards reread the instructions to make sure he was doing the right thing, and rebroadcast the same message three more times.
"Sender on this net, please identify. Over." A voice finally answered.
"Edwards, Michael D., first lieutenant, U.S. Air Force, serial number 328-61-4030. I'm the meteorological officer attached to the 57th Fighter Interceptor Squadron at Keflavik. Who is this? Over."
"If you don't know that, pal, you don't belong on this net. Clear off, we need this for official traffic," the voice answered coldly. Edwards stared at the radio in mute rage for several seconds before exploding.
"Listen up, asshole! The guy who knows how to work this damned radio is dead, and I'm all you got. The base at Keflavik was hit seven hours ago by a Russian air and ground attack. The place is crawling with bad guys, there's a Russian ship coming into Hafnarfjordur harbor right now, and you're playing fucking word games! Let's get it together, mister. Over!"
"Copy that. Stand by. We have to verify who you are." Not a trace of remorse.
"Dammit, this thing works on batteries. You want me to run them down while you open a file cabinet?"
A new voice came on the circuit. "Edwards, this is the senior communications watch officer. Get off the air. They might be able to monitor you. We'll check you out and be back in three-zero minutes from now. You got that? Over."
That was more like it. The lieutenant checked his watch. "Roger, understand. We'll be back in three-zero minutes. Out." Edwards flipped the power switch off. "Let's get moving. I didn't know they could track in on this." The good news was that the radio broke down in under two minutes, and they were moving again.
"Sarge, let's head for this Hill 152. We should be able to see pretty good from up there, and there's water on the way."
"It's hot water, sir, full of sulfur. Just as soon not drink that shit, if you know what I mean."
"Suit yourself." Edwards moved off at a slow trot. Once as a boy he'd had to call in to report a fire. They'd believed him then. Why not now?
MV JULIUS FUCIK
Kherov knew that he was finishing the work that the Americans had begun. Driving his ship into the harbor at eighteen knots was worse than reckless. The sea bottom here was rock, not mud, and a grounding could easily rip his bottom out. But he feared another air attack even more, and he was sure that a flight of American fighters was heading this way, laden with missiles and bombs that would rob him of success in the most important mission of his life.
"Midships!" he called.
"Rudder amidships," the helmsman acknowledged.
He'd learned minutes before that his first officer was dead, from wounds sustained in the first strafing attack. His best helmsman had died screaming before his eyes, along with many of his skilled deck crewmen. He had only one man qualified to take the shore sightings necessary for a positive position fix. But the quay was in sight, and he'd depend on a seaman's eye.
"Slow to half speed," he ordered. The helmsman relayed the order on the engine room telegraph.
"Rudder right full." He watched his ship's head come slowly right. He stood on the centerline of the bridge, carefully lining his jackstaff up with the quay. There was no one trained to handle the mooring lines. He wondered if the soldiers could manage it.
The ship touched bottom. Kherov was thrown from his feet and cursed loudly with pain and rage. He'd misjudged his approach. The Fucik shuddered as she slid across the rocky bottom. There was no time to check his chart. When the tide turned, the harbor's strong eddy currents would make his landing an impossible nightmare.
"Reverse your rudder." A minute later the ship was fully afloat again. The captain ignored the flooding alarms that hooted behind him. The hull was penetrated, or maybe the damaged seams had sprung farther. No matter. The dock was a mere thousand meters away. It was a massive quay made of rough stone. "Midships. All stop."
The ship was moving far too fast to stop. The soldiers on the dock could already see that, and were slowly backing up, away from the edge, fearing that it would crumble when the ship struck. Kherov grunted with dark amusement. So much for the line handlers. Eight hundred meters.
"All back full."
Six hundred meters. The ship's whole mass shuddered as the engines fought to slow her. She headed into the berth at a thirty-degree angle, her speed now eight knots. Kherov walked to the engine room voice tube.
"On my order, shut down the engines, pull the manual sprinkler handle, and evacuate the engine spaces."
"What are you doing?" the General asked.
"We cannot moor to the quay," Kherov answered simply. "Your soldiers don't know how to handle the lines, and many of my seamen are dead." The berth Kherov had selected was precisely half a meter shallower than his ship's draft. He went back to the voice tube.
"Now, Comrades!"
Below, the chief engineer gave the orders. His chief machinist cut off the diesel engines and ran to the escape ladder. The engineer yanked the emergency handle for the fire-suppression system and followed, after counting heads to make sure that all his men had gotten out.
"Rudder hard right!"
A minute later the bow of JULIUS FUCIK rammed the quay at a speed of five knots. Her bow crumpled as though constructed of paper, and the whole ship pivoted to the right, her side slamming against the rocks in a shower of orange sparks. The impact ripped the ship's bottom open at the turn of her starboard bilges. Instantly her lower decks flooded, and the ship settled rapidly to the bottom, only a few feet below her flat keel. The JULIUS FUCIK would never sail again. But she had reached her objective.
Kherov waved to the General. "My men will deploy the two baby tugboats we have in the stem. Tell them to remove two barges and set them between the stem and the end of the quay. My men will show you how to secure the barges properly so they don't drift off. Then use your bridging equipment to take your vehicles off the elevator onto the barges, then from the barges to the quay."