"Copy that, Beagle. Okay, your orders are to head north towards Hvammsfjordur. You need to take a wide detour east to avoid all these bays I see. We want you there in ten days. Say again ten days, twelve at the most. You can make it easy. Stay out in the boonies and avoid contact with anyone. Continue the normal contact schedule and report on anything you see that may be of interest. Acknowledge."
"Roger, Doghouse, you want us in sight of Hvammsfjordur at the end of next week, and keep up the usual radio routine. Anything else?"
"Be careful. Out."
"Hvammsfjordur?" Smith asked- "That's a hundred miles on a straight line."
"They want us to detour east to avoid contact."
"Two hundred miles-walking over this shit." Smith's frown was enough to split a rock. "End of next week? Ten or eleven days?"
Edwards nodded dumbly. He hadn't known it would be that far.
"Gonna be a little tough, Mr. Edwards." The sergeant pulled a largescale map from his case. "I don't even have cards for the whole coastline. Damn. Look here, Lieutenant. The ridges and rivers on this rock come out from the center like the spokes on a wheel, y'see? That means we climb a lot, and these here ain't little hills. All the low places got roads, and sure as hell we can't follow no roads, right?" He shook his head.
Edwards forced a grin. "Can't hack it? I thought you Marines were in good shape."
Smith was a man who ran five miles every morning. He could not recall ever seeing this little Air Force wimp out doing roadwork. "Okay, Mr. Edwards. They say nobody ever drowned in sweat. On your feet, Marines, we got orders for a little hike." Rodgers and Garcia exchanged a look. "Mister" was not exactly a term of endearment for an officer, but Smith figured that insubordination only counted if the officer knew he was being insulted.
KEFLAVIK, ICELAND
The helicopters took time to assemble. The big AN-22 transport had delivered two Mi-24 attack choppers, quite a load even for that four-engine monster. Another IL-76 flight had delivered the technicians and flight crews to assemble, service, and fly them. There had been a major oversight in the plan, the General thought. The one helicopter that had survived the strafing attack on the first day was now broken down-and of course the broken part was not one which had been included in their pre-packaged equipment. There should have been more helicopters. He shrugged eloquently. No plan was ever perfect. More helicopters would be flown in, plus a few more mobile radar sets and some additional SAM launchers. The Americans looked to have every intention of making his tenure on Iceland difficult, and he needed more equipment to counter that...
Then there were those KGB bastards. We have to pacify the island, they said. As if Iceland wasn't already passive enough. There had been not a single incident of active resistance yet-not one, the General thought, remembering his year's service in Afghanistan. Compared with that mountainous hell, this was paradise itself. But that wasn't good enough for the KGB! Nekulturny barbarians. A thousand hostages had been taken, only to learn that there was no jail space to keep them. So my paratroopers must guard the poor, harmless wretches, using up a whole company of troops, His orders were to cooperate with the local KGB contingent. One did not cooperate with the KGB, of course, one was dominated by them. There were KGB officers with his mobile patrols, to advise, they put it.
General Andreyev was beginning to worry. Crack paratroopers were not the sort to be good jailers. Had they been ordered to go easily on the Icelanders, that would be one thing. Instead, their orders forced them to be harsh, which generated hostility. Some people had actually been heard to cheer when the last American bombers had come through. Absurd, the General thought. They had lost electricity but we had lost nothing-and they cheered. Because of the KGB's orders. What stupidity. An opportunity lost. He considered protesting his orders to his central command in Moscow, but to what point? An officer who disliked the KGB was an officer who disliked the Party itself.
He was aroused from his reveries by the whining sound of turboshaft engines. The first of the Mi-24 Hinds was turning its rotor, testing its engines. An officer ran toward him.
"Comrade General, with your permission, we are ready for a test flight. We're doing it light, unarmed. We'll load weapons when we get back."
"Very well. Captain, just check out the hilltops around Keflavik and Reykjavik. How long on the second one?" Andreyev asked.
"Two hours."
"Excellent. Good work, Comrade Captain."
A minute later the heavy attack chopper lifted into the air.
"Down and freeze!" Garcia screamed. It didn't come close to them, but seeing it was enough.
"What kind is it?"
"Hind. It's an attack bird, like the Cobra. Bad news, Lieutenant. It carries eight troops and a whole shitload of rockets and guns. An' don't even think about shooting it. Sucker's armored like a damned tank."
The Mi-24 circled the hill they'd just been on, then disappeared, heading south to loop over another hill.
"Didn't see us, I guess," Edwards said.
"Let's keep it that way. Keep the radio stowed awhile, Lieutenant. We can call this one in after we move out a ways, okay?"
Edwards nodded agreement. He remembered a brief on Soviet helicopters in the Air Force Academy. "We are not afraid of the Russians," an Afghan had been quoted, "but we are afraid of their helicopters."
BITBURG, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF GERMANY
Colonel Ellington awoke at six that evening. He shaved and walked outside, the sun still high in the evening sky. He wondered what mission they'd have tonight. He was not a bitter man, but to have nearly a quarter of his crews-men with whom he had worked for two straight years -lost in a week was a difficult thing to accept. It had been too long since his experience in Vietnam. He'd forgotten how terrible losses could be. His men could not stand down a day to mourn their dead and ease the pain, much as they needed to. They were being carefully rested. Standing orders gave them eight hours of sleep a day-like night-hunters, they slept only by day.
They were making a difference, however. He was sure of that. Every night the black and green Frisbees lifted off for some special target or other, and the Russians still had not figured a counter. The strike cameras mounted in each aircraft were bringing back pictures that the wing intelligence officers could scarcely believe. But at such a cost.
Well. The colonel reminded himself that one sortie a day was a lighter load than the other air crews were bearing, and that the close-support crews were taking losses equal to his own. Tonight held another mission. He ordered his brain to occupy itself with that task alone.
The briefings took an hour. Ten aircraft would fly tonight: two planes each at five targets. As commander he drew the toughest. Surveillance indicated that Ivan had a previously unsuspected forward fuel dump at a position west of Wittenburg that was supporting the drive on Hamburg, and the Germans wanted it taken out. His wingman would go in with Durandals, and he'd follow with Rockeyes. There would be no supporting aircraft on this one, and the colonel didn't want jammer aircraft to go in with him. Two of his lost birds had had such support, and the jamming had merely alerted the defenses.