"Copy that. Okay now, Edwards, real fast, what's your father's middle name?"
"Doesn't have one," Edwards said. "What-"
"The name of his boat?"
"The Annie Jay. What the hell is this?"
"What happened to your girlfriend Sandy?"
It was like a knife in the guts. The tone of his voice answered for him. "You go and fuck yourself 1"
"Copy that," the voice replied. "Sorry, Lieutenant, but you had to pass that test. We have no further orders for you yet. Tell you the truth, nobody's decided what to do about you. Stay cool and avoid contact. Same transmission schedule. If you get tagged and they try to make you play radio games, start off every transmission with our call sign and say that everything is going great. Got that? Going great."
"Roger. If you hear me say that, you know something's wrong. Out."
KEFLAVIK, ICELAND
The major commanding the Air Force detachment was enjoying himself despite having been up for over thirty hours. Keflavik was a magnificent base, and the paratroopers had captured it nearly intact. Most importantly, the Americans had thoughtfully stored their maintenance equipment in protective shelters dispersed throughout the base, and all of it had survived. As he watched from the smashed control tower, a half-dozen sweeper trucks were brushing the last fragments from runway nine. In thirty minutes it would be safe to use. Eight fuel bowsers sat filled and ready on the field, and by the end of the day the pipeline should be repaired. Then this would be a fully functional Soviet air base.
"How long before our fighters arrive?"
"Thirty minutes, Comrade Major."
"Get the radar operating."
The Soviets had packed most of the equipment for a forward air base in one of the Fucik's barges. A mobile long-range radar was now operating just west of the main runway intersection, plus a van from which ground controllers could direct radar intercepts of incoming targets. Three truck-vans of spare parts and air-to-air missiles were on the base, and three hundred maintenance personnel had been flown in the previous day. A full battery of SA-11 missiles guarded the runways, plus eight mobile antiaircraft guns and a platoon of infantrymen armed with handheld SAMs for low-flying raiders. The only hangup had been with the SAMs, and the replacements flown in a few hours ago had already been loaded on the launcher vehicles. Any NATO aircraft that came waltzing into Iceland was in for a rude surprise, as a Royal Air Force Jaguar had discovered the night before, shot out of the sky over Reykjavik before its pilot could react.
"Runway nine is cleared for operation," the radio operator reported. "Excellent! Now get them working on one-eight. I want every strip operational by this afternoon."
HILL 152, ICELAND
"What's that?" Edwards saw it first for a change. The wide silver wings of a Badger bomber skirted in and out of the lower cloud layer. Then something else. It was smaller, and it disappeared back into the clouds.
"Was that a fighter?"
"I didn't see anything, sir." Garcia had been looking in the wrong direction. The sound passed overhead, the distinctive whine of turbojets on a low throttle setting.
The lieutenant was becoming a master at getting his radio in operation. "Doghouse, this is Beagle, and things are rotten. Do you copy?"
"Roger, Beagle. What do you have for us?"
"We have aircraft flying overhead, westbound, probably for Keflavik. Stand by."
"I can hear 'em, but I don't see nothin'." Garcia handed the glasses over.
"I saw one twin-engine aircraft, probably a bomber, and one other aircraft, a lot smaller, like a fighter. We have aircraft sounds overhead, but we got solid clouds at about two thousand feet. No more visual sightings."
"You say heading towards Keflavik?"
"That's affirm. The bomber appeared to be westbound and descending."
"Any chance you can walk back to Keflavik to see what's happening there?"
Edwards didn't speak for a second. Couldn't the bastard read a map? That meant walking thirty miles over bare ground.
"Negative. Say again, negative, no chance. Over."
"Understood, Beagle. Sorry about that. I had orders to ask. Get back to us when you have a better count. You're doing good, guys. Hang in there. Out."
"They asked if we wanted to walk over to Keflavik," Edwards announced as he took off his headset. "I said no."
"Real good, sir," Smith observed. At least Air Force officers weren't total idiots.
KEFLAVIK, ICELAND
The first MiG-29 Fulcrum landed at Keflavik a minute later. It taxied behind a base jeep and stopped close to the tower. The major in command of the base was there to meet it.
"Welcome to Keflavik!"
"Excellent. Find me a lavatory," the colonel replied.
The major motioned him to his own jeep-the Americans had left seventy jeeps behind, plus over three hundred private automobiles-and drove toward the tower. The American radios had been destroyed, but the plumbing was made of sterner stuff.
"How many?"
"Six," the colonel answered. "A Goddamned Norwegian F-16 jumped us off Hammerfest and got one before we knew he was there. Another aborted with engine trouble, and a third had to land at Akureyri. Do we have men there?"
"Not yet. We have only one helicopter. More should be coming in today." They pulled to the door. "Inside, second door on the right."
"Thank you, Comrade Major!" The colonel was back in three minutes. "The unglamorous side of flying fighter aircraft. Somehow we never warn our cadets about this."
"Here, coffee. The previous occupants were most kind to us." The major unscrewed an American thermos. The colonel took the cup, savoring the flavor as though it were fine brandy while he watched his fighters land. "We have your missiles all ready for you, and we can refuel every aircraft from our trucks. How soon can you fly again?"
"I'd prefer that my men get at least two hours to rest and eat. And I want those aircraft dispersed after they're fueled. Have you been hit yet?"
"Only two reconnaissance aircraft, and we killed one. If we're lucky-"
"Luck is for fools. The American will hit us today. I would."
USS NIMITZ
"We have a new intel source on Iceland, code name Beagle," Toland reported. They were in the carrier's Combat Information Center now. "He counted over eighty transport flights into Reykjavik last night, at least six fighters with them. That's enough airlift capacity for a whole airborne division and then some. Doghouse in Scotland says that they have an unconfirmed report of Soviet fighters landing now."
"Have to be a long-range one. Foxhound, maybe a Fulcrum," CAG said. "If they have them to spare. Well, we weren't planning to visit the place just yet. We might have a problem with them trying raid-escort, though."
"Any word on E-3 support from the U.K." Baker asked Svenson.
"Looks like none."
"Toland, when do you expect our friends to arrive?"
"The RORSAT passes overhead in twenty minutes. They'll probably want that data before they take off. They could take off at any time after that, Admiral. If the Backfires tank up partway down and proceed at max power, two hours. That's worst case. More likely four to five hours."
"CAG?"