'What do we have there?'
'One battalion of Landwehr, and they're pretty beat up. There are two companies of tanks on the way, ought to be there in a little over an hour. There are preliminary indications that Soviet reinforcements are heading that way. This might be the main axis of their attack, at least it seems that they're orienting in that direction.'
SACEUR rocked back in his chair, looking up at the map display. He had one reserve regiment within three hours of Ruhle. The General was a man who loved to gamble. He was never happier than when sitting at a table with a deck of cards and a few hundred dollars' worth of chips. He usually won. If he attacked south from Springe and failed… the Russians would put two or three divisions across the Weser, and he had precisely one regiment in reserve to stand in their way. If he moved his new tank division there, and by some miracle they got there in time, he would have frittered away his best chance for a counterattack by reacting to a Soviet move again. No, he couldn't just react anymore. He pointed to Springe.
'How long before they're ready to move?'
'The whole division-six hours at best. We can divert the units still on the road south to-'
'No.'
'Then we go south from Springe with what's ready now?'
'No.' SACEUR shook his head and outlined his plan…
'I see one,' Garcia called. Edwards and Nichols were beside him in a moment.
'Hello, Ivan,' Nichols said quietly.
Even with binoculars, the distance was still a little over three miles. Edwards saw a tiny figure walking along the crest of the mountaintop. He carried a rifle and appeared to be wearing a soft hat-perhaps a beret-instead of a helmet. The figure stopped and brought his hands up to his face. He had binoculars, too, Edwards saw. He looked north, slightly downward, training his field glasses left to right and back again. Then he turned and looked off in the direction of Keflavik.
Another man appeared, approaching the first. Perhaps they were talking, but it was impossible to tell at this distance. The one with binoculars pointed at something to the south.
'What do you suppose this is all about?' Edwards asked.
'Talking about the weather, girls, sports, food-who knows?' Nichols replied. 'Another one!'
The third figure appeared, and the trio of Russian paratroopers stood together doing whatever it was that they were doing. One had to be an officer, Edwards decided. He said something, and the others moved off quickly, dropping out of sight below the crest. What order did you just give?
Presently a group of men appeared. The light was bad, and they shuffled around too much to get an accurate count, but there had to be at least ten. About half of them were carrying their personal weapons, and these started moving downhill. To the west.
'Right, he's a smart soldier,' Nichols announced. 'He's sending out a patrol to make certain the area's secure.'
'What do we do about it?' Edwards asked.
'What do you think, Leftenant?'
'Our orders are to sit tight. So we sit tight and hope they don't see us.'
'Not likely they will, you know. I shouldn't think they'd climb down-must be eight hundred feet-then cross that rock yard, then climb up here just to see if any Yanks are about. Remember, the only reason we know they're there is that we saw their helicopter.'
Otherwise we might have walked right into them, and that would have been that, Edwards reminded himself. I won't be safe until I'm back home in Maine. 'Is that more of them?'
'Must be at least a platoon over there. That is rather clever of our friends, isn't it?'
Edwards got on the radio to report this development to Doghouse while the Marines kept track of the Russians.
'A platoon?'
'That's Sergeant Nichols's estimate. Kinda hard to count heads from three miles away, fella.'
'Okay, we'll pass that one along. Any air activity.?'
'Haven't seen any aircraft at all since yesterday.'
'How about Stykkisholmur?'
'Too far to make anything out. We still can see those four-by-fours sitting in the street, but no armored vehicles. I'd say they had a small garrison force there to keep an eye on the port. The fishing boats aren't going anywhere.'
'Very well. Good report, Beagle. Hang in there.' The major switched off and turned to his neighbor at the communications console. 'It's a shame to keep them in the dark like this, isn't it?'
The SOE man sipped at his tea. 'It would be a greater shame to blow the operation.'
Edwards didn't take the radio apart, but left it leaning against a rock. Vigdis was still asleep on a flat ledge twenty feet below the top. Sleep was about the most attractive thing Edwards could think of at the moment.
'They're heading in this direction,' Garcia said. He handed the glasses to Edwards. Smith and Nichols were conferring a few yards away.
Mike trained the binoculars on the Russians. He told himself that to have them come right to his position was a very low order of probability. Keep telling yourself that. He shifted his glasses to the Russian observation post.
'There it is again,' the sergeant told his lieutenant.
'What's that?'
'I saw a flash from that hilltop, sun reflected off something.'
'A shiny rock,' the lieutenant snorted, not taking the time to look. 'Comrade Lieutenant!' The officer turned at the sharp tone to see a rock flying through the air at his face. He caught it, and was too surprised to be angry. 'How shiny does that rock look?'
'An old can, then! We've found enough trash here from tourists and mountain climbers, haven't we?'
'Then why does it come and go and come back?'
The lieutenant got visibly angry at last. 'Sergeant, I know you have a year's combat experience in Afghanistan. I know I am a new officer. But I am a Goddamned officer and you are a Goddamned sergeant!'
The wonders of our classless society, the sergeant thought, continuing to look at his officer. Few officers could bear his look.
'Very well, Sergeant. You tell them.' The lieutenant pointed at the radio.
'Markhovskiy, before you come back, check out the hilltop to your right.'
'But it's two hundred meters high!' the squad leader shot back.
'Correct. It shouldn't take long at all,' the platoon sergeant said comfortingly.
Toland switched viewgraphs, in the projector. 'Okay, these satellite shots are less than three hours old. Ivan has three mobile radars, here, here, and here. He moves them about daily-meaning that one's probably been moved already-and usually has two operating around the clock. At Keflavik we have five SA-11 launch vehicles, four birds per vehicle. This SAM is very bad news. You've all been briefed on its known capabilities, and you'd better figure on a few hundred hand-held SAMs, too. The photo shows six mobile antiaircraft guns. We don't see any fixed ones. They're there, gentlemen, they're just camouflaged. At least five, perhaps as many as ten MiG-29 fighter interceptors. This used to be a regiment until the guys from Nimitz cut them down to size. Remember that the ones who're left are the ones who survived two squadrons of Tomcats. That is the opposition at Keflavik.'
Toland stepped aside while the wing operations officer went over the mission profile. It sounded impressive to Toland. He hoped it would be so for the Russians.
The curtain went up fifty minutes later. The first aircraft launched for the strike were the E-2C Hawkeyes. Accompanied by fighters, they flew to within eighty miles of the Icelandic coast and radiated their own radar coverage all over the formation. More Hawkeyes reached farther out to cover the formation from possible air-and submarine-launched missile attack.
Ground-based Soviet radar detected the Hawkeyes even before their powerful systems went active. They could see two of the slow propeller-driven aircraft hovering beyond SAM range, each accompanied by two other
