'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.'
'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.
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.'
'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?'
The air group commander looked tense. 'Each carrier has a Hummer radar bird up, a pair of F-14 Tomcats with each. Two more Tomcats on the catapults, ready to go at five minutes' notice, another Hummer and a tanker. The rest of the fighters are at plus-fifteen on the roof, loaded and fueled. The flight crews are briefed. One Prowler over the formation, the rest ready to go at fifteen. The A-7s have buddy stores rigged. We're ready. Foch has her Crusaders at plus-fifteen. Good birds, but short legs. When the time comes we'll use them for overhead coverage.'
The Radar Ocean Reconnaissance Satellite, called a RORSAT, passed over the formation at 0310. Its radar transmitter noted the formation and its cameras tracked in on their wakes. Five minutes later, the data was in Moscow. Fifteen minutes after that, flight crews were given their final brief at four military air bases grouped around the city of Kirovsk on the Kola Peninsula. The crews were quiet, no less tense than their American targets. Both sides mulled over the same thoughts. This was the exercise both sides had practiced for over fifteen years. Millions of hours of planning, studies and simulations were about to be put to the test.
The Badgers lifted off first, pushed by their twin Mikulin engines. Each takeoff was an effort. The bombers were so heavily loaded that the tower controllers reached out with their minds to wish every aircraft into the still morning air. Once off the ground they headed north, forming up into loose regimental formations just north of Murmansk before heading west and skirting past the North Cape, before their slow left turns took them toward the North Atlantic.
Twenty miles off the North Russian coast, USS Narwhal hovered beneath the surface of a slate-gray sea. The quietest submarine in the U.S. fleet, she was a specialized intelligence-gathering platform that spent more time on the Soviet coast than did some ships in the Russian Navy Her three thin ESM antennae were raised, as was a million-dollar search periscope. Technicians aboard listened in on low-power radio conversations between aircraft as they formed up. Three uniformed intelligence specialists and a civilian from the National Security Agency evaluated the strength of the raid and decided that it was large enough to risk a warning broadcast. An additional mast was raised and aimed at a communications satellite twenty-four thousand miles away. The burst transmission lasted less than a fifteenth of a second.
The message was automatically relayed to four separate communications stations, and within thirty seconds was at SACLANT headquarters. Five minutes after that, Toland had the yellow message form in his hand. He walked immediately to Admiral Baker, and handed the message over:
0418Z REALTIME SENDS WARNING AIR RAID TAKE OFF 0400 HEADING WEST FROM KOLA ESTIMATE FIVE REGIMENT PLUS.
Baker checked his watch. 'Fast work. CAG?'
