'Then explain to our comrades in blue that carrier aircraft cannot take Iceland away from us, but their fucking Marines can!'
Andreyev saw smoke rise from one of his heavy gun batteries. The sound followed a few seconds later. The first Russian salvo landed several thousand yards short.
'Fire mission!'
Iowa had not fired her guns in anger since Korea, but now the massive sixteen-inch rifles turned slowly to starboard. In the central gunnery control station, a technician worked the joystick controls for a Mastiff remotely piloted vehicle. The miniature airplane purchased a few years earlier from Israel circled eight thousand feet above the Russian gun battery, its television camera shifting from one emplacement to another.
'I count six guns, look like one-fifty-five or so. Call 'em six-inch.'
The precise location of the Russian battery was plotted. Next the computer analyzed data on air density, barometric pressure, relative humidity, wind direction and speed, and a dozen other factors. The gunnery officer watched his status board for the solution light to come up.
'Commence firing.'
The center gun of the number two turret loosed a single round. A millimeter-band radar atop the after director-tower tracked the shell, comparing its flight path with the one predicted by the fire-control computer. Not surprisingly, there were some errors in predicted wind velocity. The radar's own computer forwarded the new empirical readings to the master system, and the remaining eight main-battery guns altered position slightly. They fired even before the first round landed.
'Mother of God!' Andreyev whispered. The orange flash obscured the ship momentarily. Someone to his left shouted, perhaps thinking that one of the Russian artillery rounds had struck home. Andreyev had no such illusions. His artillerymen were out of practice and had not yet bracketed their target. He turned his field glasses to his gun battery, four kilometers away.
The first round landed fifteen hundred meters southeast of the nearest gun. The next eight landed two hundred meters behind them.
'Get that battery moved right now!'
'Drop two hundred and fire for effect!'
Already the guns were going through their thirty-second reload cycle. Inert gas ejected scraps of the silk propellant-bags out the muzzles to clear the bores, then the breeches opened and loading ramps unfolded into place. The bores were checked for dangerous residue, then elevators from the handling rooms rose to the back edge of the ramps and the shells were rammed into the waiting gun barrels. The heavy power bags were dropped onto the ramps and rammed behind the shells. The ramp came up, the breeches closed hydraulically, and the guns elevated. The turret crews moved out of the loading compartments and held their hands over their muff-style ear- protectors. In fire-control fingers depressed the keys and the breeches surged backwards once more. The cycle began again, the teenage seamen performing the same tasks that their grandfathers had done forty years before.
Andreyev stepped outside to watch in ghastly fascination. He could hear the sound of ripping linen that announced the passage of the monstrous projectiles, and turned to look at the battery. Trucks were puffing up to the guns as the crews fired off their last rounds and began frantic preparations for relocating their guns. The battery had six 152mm pieces and many trucks for the crews and ammunition. A curtain of dirt and rock appeared, followed by three secondary explosions, then four more salvos as New Jersey joined her older sister in the bombardment.
'What's that?' A lieutenant pointed to a dot in the sky.
The artillery commander tore his eyes away from what had been a third of his heavy guns and identified the remotely piloted vehicle. 'I can have it shot down.'
'No!' Andreyev shouted. 'You want to tell them where our last SAM launchers are?' The General had faced mortar and rocket fire in Afghanistan. This was his first experience on the receiving end of heavy guns.
'My other batteries are all camouflaged.'
'I want at least three new alternate positions prepared for every gun you have, fully camouflaged, all of them.' The General went back inside the building. He felt confident that the Americans would not shell the city of Keflavik, at least not soon. The map room contained wall-sized charts of the western Icelandic coast. Already his intelligence staff was placing flags to denote the position of suspected American units.
'What do we have on the Hvita?' he asked his operations chief.
'One battalion. Ten BMD infantry carriers; the rest of the transport is trucks and commandeered vehicles. They have mortars, antitank missiles, and handheld SAMs. They are deployed to cover the highway bridge above Bogarnes.'
'The Americans are already looking down at them from this hill. What sort of aircraft have we seen?'
'The Americans have several carriers within striking distance of us. Twenty-four fighters and thirty-four attack aircraft per carrier. If they also landed a full division of Marines, we are facing a significant number of helicopters, plus fixed-wing Harriers. These can operate off their amphibious aviation ships or from land bases set up for the purpose-with the right materials it can be done in four to six hours. A Marine division is about double our strength in men, one heavy battalion of tanks, stronger in artillery, but not so many mortars. It's their mobility that worries me. They can dance all around us, using helicopters and landing craft to place troops anywhere they choose-'
'Just as we did when we landed. Yes,' the General agreed soberly. 'How good are they?'
'The American Marines regard themselves as elite troops, just as we do. Some of their senior officers and NCOs doubtless have combat experience, but few company officers and squad sergeants will have seen any real action.'
'How bad is it?' A new man came into the room. It was the KGB station chief.
'You chekista bastard! You told me the Marine division was going to Europe! They're killing my men while we speak.' The distant thunder of heavy guns punctuated Andreyev's words. The battleships were shifting fire to a supply dump. Fortunately not much was left there.
'Comrade General, I-'
'Get out of here! I have work to do.' Andreyev was already wondering if his mission might be hopeless, but he was a general of paratroops and not accustomed to failure. He had ten attack helicopters, all dispersed and hidden after the attack on the Keflavik airfield. 'What's our chance of getting someone in to look at this harbor?'
'We are under continuous surveillance from the American radar aircraft. Our helicopter would have to fly over enemy positions to get there. The Americans have their own armed helicopters and jet fighters-it's a suicide mission, and it would take a miracle for our men to get close enough to see anything, much less live long enough to tell us something useful.'
'Then see if you can get us a reconnaissance aircraft from the mainland or satellite support. I must know what we're pitted against. If we can smash their invasion beach, we stand a good chance of defeating the troops they have on the ground, and to hell with their naval aircraft!'
It was complicated to do, but a Flash information request from the Commander Northern Fleet cut through most of the bureaucracy. One of the two real-time-capable Soviet reconnaissance satellites burned a quarter of its maneuvering fuel to alter its orbit and came low over Iceland two hours later. Minutes later, the last Soviet RORSAT was launched south from the Baikonor Kosmodrome, and its first revolution took it within radar range of Iceland. Four hours after Andreyev's message, the Russians had a clear picture of what was arrayed at Iceland.
'Are they ready?' SACEUR asked.
'Another twelve hours would be better, but they're ready.' The operations officer checked his watch. 'They go off on the hour. Ten minutes.' The hours spent getting the new division in place had been used profitably. Several additional brigades had been assembled into a pair of new polyglot divisions. The front had been almost entirely stripped of reserves to do it, while a hastily thought-out cover and deception plan had radio units all over the front, broadcasting radio messages to simulate the presence of the relocated formations. NATO had deliberately limited its own 'maskirovka' until now, allowing SACEUR to bet all of Western Europe on a pair of fives.
