Red Storm Rising

40. The Killing Ground

There was much to do, and time was short.

Lieutenant Potter and his team of Force Recon commandos found eight Russian troops in the town. They were trying to escape down the only road south when they ran into an ambush which killed or wounded five of their number. Those were the last who could have warned Keflavik of the ships on the horizon.

The first regular troops came by helicopter. Platoon- or company-sized units were placed on every hilltop overlooking the bay. Particular care was taken to keep the aircraft below the radar horizon from Keflavik, where a single Russian transmitter remained in operation despite all efforts to the contrary. A CH-53 Super Stallion helicopter airlifted the components of a mobile radar transmitter to a hill on the island's northwest coast, and a team of Army technicians went to work at once to get it operational. By the time the ships entered the rock-filled nightmare called Stykkisholmur harbor, five thousand troops were already in position over the handful of roads leading into the town.

The captain of one big LST-Landing Ship, Tank-had tried to count the rocks and shoals on the trip up from Norfolk. He'd stopped on reaching five hundred and concentrated on memorizing his particular area of responsibility, known as Green-Two-Charlie. The daylight and low tide helped. Many of the rocks were exposed by low water, and helicopter crews relieved of their immediate duties of landing troops dropped radar-reflectors and lighted beacons on most of them, which improved matters greatly. The remaining task was marginally safer than crossing a highway blindfolded. The LSTs went first, winding through the rocks at the recklessly high speed of ten knots, relying on their auxiliary bow thrusters to assist rudder movements to steer the ships through the lethal maze.

Again, Lieutenant Potter's team of commandos helped matters. They went from house to house, locating the captains and mates of local fishing boats. The skilled seamen were flown to the lead ships to help pilot the big gray amphibs through the tightest of the passages. By noon the first LST had her ramp on land, and the first Marine tanks rolled onto the island. Right behind them were trucks loaded with steel, pierced-plank runway material, which was dispatched east to a flat piece of ground preselected as a base for Marine helicopters and Harrier jump-jet fighters.

Once the fleet helicopters had completed their task of marking the rocks and shoals, they returned to moving troops. The troop carriers were escorted by SeaCobra gunships and Harriers as they extended the Marine perimeter to the hills overlooking the Hvita River. There contact was made with outlying Russian observation posts and the first real fighting began.

"So much for our intelligence reports," General Andreyev muttered. From his headquarters he could see the massive shapes steaming slowly into view. They were the battleships Iowa and New Jersey, accompanied by missile cruisers for air defense.

"We can engage them now," the artillery chief said.

"Then do so." While you can. He turned to his communications officer. "Has word gotten out to Severomorsk?"

"Yes, Northern Fleet will sortie its aircraft today and submarines are being sent as well."

"Tell them their primary targets are the American amphibious ships at Stykkisholmur."

"But we are not sure they are there. The harbor is too dangerous for-"

"Where the hell else would they be?" Andreyev demanded. "Our observation posts there do not answer us, and we have reports of enemy helicopters moving south and east from that direction. Think, man!"

"Comrade General, the Navy's primary objective will be the enemy carrier force."

"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.

It was a stimulating exercise. Alekseyev had to move his A exploitation forces forward while a battered B motor-rifle division bled to force a crossing of the Weser. All the while the General waited nervously for news from his shaky right flank. There was none. CINC-West was as good as his word, and launched a covering attack against Hamburg to draw off NATO forces from the latest Soviet breakthrough.

That was no easy maneuver. Antiaircraft missile and gun units had been drawn from other sectors. When NATO appreciated what was in the offing, they would break every effort to prevent a Soviet advance on the Ruhr. Resistance so far had been light. Perhaps they didn't understand what was happening, or perhaps, Alekseyev thought, they really were at the end of their personnel and logistical string.

The first A unit was 120th Motor-Rifle, the famous Rogachev Guards, whose leading elements were just now crossing at R?hle, and right behind was 8th Guards Tank. Two more tank divisions were bunched on the roads to R?hle, while an engineer regiment labored to erect seven bridges. Intelligence estimated two, perhaps three, NATO regiments coming to meet them. Not enough, Alekseyev thought. Not this time. Even their air power was depleted. His frontal aviation groups reported minor opposition only around R?hle. Perhaps my superior was right after all

"Heavy enemy air activity at Salzhemmendorf," an Air Force communications officer reported.

That's where 40th Tanks is, Alekseyev thought. The B unit had been badly chewed up by the German spoiling attack

"Fortieth Tanks reports a major enemy attack under way on its front."

"What do they mean by 'major'?"

"The report comes from the alternate command post. I can't reach the divisional HQ. The assistant commander reports American and German tanks advancing in brigade force."

Brigade force? Another spoiling attack?

"Enemy attack in progress at Dunsen."

"Dunsen? That's close to Gronau. How the hell did they get there?" Alekseyev shouted. "Confirm that report! Is it an air or ground attack?"

"Hundred twentieth Motor-Rifle has a full regiment across the Weser. They are advancing on Br" keln. Eighth Tanks, leading elements have the Weser in sight. SAM units are setting up to cover the crossing point."

It was like having people read different parts of the paper to him simultaneously, Alekseyev thought. General Beregovoy was at the front, coordinating traffic control and setting final assignments for the post-crossing maneuver. Pasha knew that was his proper place, but, as before, he was annoyed to be far from the real action, giving orders like a Party boss instead of a fighting commander. The artillery from all the advancing divisions was well forward to protect the crossing against counterattack.

My rear areas are awfully weak…

"Comrade General, the attack at Dunsen is composed of enemy tank and motorized troops with heavy tactical air support. The regimental commander at Dunsen estimates brigade strength."

A brigade at Dunsen, and a brigade at Salzhemmendorf?

Those are B unit commanders. Out of practice, inexperienced. If they were really effective officers, they'd be in A units, not shepherding out-of-shape reservists.

"Enemy ground units at Bremke, strength unknown."

That's only fifteen kilometers from here! Alekseyev reached for some maps. It was cramped in the command vehicle, so he went outside and spread them on the, ground with his intelligence officer beside him.

"What the hell's going on here?" His hand moved across the map. "That's an attack on a twenty-kilometer front."

"The new enemy division is not supposed to be in place yet, and Theater Intelligence says it will be broken up for spot-reinforcement use all over the northern front area."

"Headquarters at F" lziehausen reported a heavy air attack and went off the air!"

As if to emphasize this latest report, there was a massive explosion to the north in the direction of Bremke, where 24th Tanks had its main fuel and ordnance dump. Suddenly aircraft began to appear low on the horizon. The mobile command post was in woods overlooking the small town of Hunzen. The town was largely deserted, and the unit's radio transmitters were there. NATO aircraft had so far shown a reluctance to damage civilian buildings unless they had to

Not today. Four tactical fighters leveled the center of the town, where the transmitters were, with high-explosive bombs.

"Get Alternate One going immediately," Alekseyev ordered.

More aircraft swept overhead, heading southwest toward Highway 240, where Alekseyev's A units were moving toward R?hle. The General found a working radio and called CINC-West at Stand.

"We have a major enemy attack coming southeast from Springe. I would estimate at least two-division strength."

"Impossible, Pasha-they don't have two reserve divisions!"

"I have reports of enemy ground units at Bremke, Salzhemmendorf, and Dunsen. It is my opinion that my right flank is in jeopardy, and I must reorient my forces to meet it. I request permission to suspend the attack at R?hle to meet this threat."

"Request denied."

"Comrade General, I am the commander at the scene. The situation can be managed if I have authority to handle it properly."

"General Alekseyev, your objective is the Ruhr. If you are not able to achieve that objective, I will find a commander who is."

Alekseyev looked at the radiotelephone receiver in disbelief. He had worked for this man-two years. They were friends. He's always trusted my judgment.

"You order me to continue the attack regardless of enemy action?"

"Pasha, they make another spoiling attack-nothing more serious than that. Get those four divisions across the Weser," the man said more gently. "Out."

"Major Sergetov!" Alekseyev called. The young officer appeared a moment later. "Get yourself a vehicle and head for Dunsen. I want your personal observations on what you find. Be careful, Ivan Mikhailovich. I want you back here in less than two hours. Move."

"You will do nothing else?" the intelligence officer asked.

Pasha watched Sergetov board a light truck. He could not face his officer. "I have my orders. The operation to cross the Weser continues. We have an antitank battalion at Holle. Tell them to move north and be alert for enemy forces on the road from Bremke. General Beregovoy knows what he's supposed to do."

If I warn him, he'll change his dispositions. Then Beregovoy will be blamed for violating orders. That's a safe move. I prudently pass on a warning, and-no! If I can't violate orders, I cannot co-opt someone else into doing so.

What if they're right? This could be another spoiling attack The Ruhr is a strategic objective of vast importance.

Alekseyev looked up. "The battle orders stand."

"Yes, Comrade General."

"The report of enemy tanks at Bremke was incorrect." A junior officer came over. "The observer saw our tanks coming south and misidentified them!"

"And this is good news?" Alekseyev demanded.

"Of course, Comrade General," the captain answered lamely.

"Did it occur to you to inquire why our tanks were heading south? Goddamn it, must I do all the thinking here?" He couldn't scream at the right person. He had to scream at somebody. The captain wilted before his eyes. Part of Alekseyev was ashamed, but another part needed the release.

They had the job because they had more battle experience than anyone else. It had never occurred to anyone that they had no experience at all in this sort of operation. They were advancing. Except for local counterattacks, no NATO unit had done very much of that, but Lieutenant-he still thought like a sergeant-Mackall knew that they were best suited to it. The M-1 tank had an engine governor that limited its speed to about forty-three miles per hour. It was always the first thing the crews removed.

His M-1 was going south at fifty-seven miles per hour.

The ride was enough to rattle the brain loose inside his skull, but he'd never known such exhilaration. His life was balanced on the knife-edge of boldness and lunacy. Armed helicopters flew ahead of his company, scouting the route, and pronounced it clear all the way to Alfeld. The Russians weren't using this route for anything. It wasn't a road at all, but the right-of-way for an underground pipeline, a grassy strip one hundred feet wide that took a straight line through the forests. The tank's wide treads threw off dirt like the roostertail from a speedboat as the vehicle raced south.

The driver slowed for a sweeping turn while Mackall squinted ahead, trying to see whatever enemy vehicle the helicopters missed. It didn't have to be a vehicle. It just could be three guys with a missile launcher, and Mrs. Mackall would get The Telegram, regretting to inform her that her son…

Thirty kilometers, he thought. Damn! Only a half-hour since the German grenadiers had punched a hole in the Russian lines, and zoom! goes the Black Horse Cav! It was crazy, but hell, it was crazy to have stayed alive ever since his first engagement―an hour after the war started. Ten klicks to go.

"Look at that! More of our tanks southbound. What the hell is going on?" Sergetov snarled to his driver, even talking like his general now.

"Are they our tanks?" the driver asked.

The new major shook his head. Another one passed through the gap in the trees-the turret had a flat top, not the usual dome shape of Soviet tanks!

A helicopter appeared over the gap and pivoted in the sky. Sergetov didn't mistake this for a Russian, and the stubby wings on either side of the fuselage marked it as an armed attack-chopper. The driver lurched to the right just before the nose-mounted machine gun flashed at them. Sergetov jumped clear as the tracers reached out. He landed on his back and rolled toward the treeline. His head was down, but he could feel the heat blast when the machine-gun tracers ignited the spare gas tank on the back of the truck. The young officer scampered into the trees and looked around the edge of a tall pine. The American helicopter flew to within a hundred meters of his vehicle to ensure its destruction, then spun off to the south. His radio was in the overturned, burning truck.

"Buffalo Three-One, this is Comanche, over."

"Comanche, this is Three-One. Report, over."

"We just popped a Russian truck. Everything else looks clear. Roll 'em, cowboy!" the helicopter pilot urged.

Mackall laughed at that. He had to remind himself that this wasn't really fun. Quite a few tank drivers had gotten into trouble by getting just a little too unwound on the German countryside, and now they were being ordered to! Two more minutes and three kilometers passed.

Here's where it gets tricky.

"Buffalo Three-One, we show three Russian vehicles standing guard on the hilltop. Look like Bravo-Tango-Romeos. All the bridge traffic seems to be trucks. The repair shop is on the east bank north of the town."

The tank slowed as they came to the last turn. Mackall ordered his "track" off the road, onto the meadow grass, as it edged ponderously around a stand of trees.

"Target BTR, eleven o'clock, twenty-seven hundred! Fire when ready, Woody!"

The first of the eight-wheel vehicles exploded before any of their crews knew a tank was near. They were looking for aircraft, not enemy tanks forty kilometers in the rear. The next two died within a minute, and Mackall's platoon of four tanks dashed forward.

They all reached the ridge three minutes later. One by one, the huge Abrams tanks crested the hill overlooking what had once been a small city. Many days of continuous air attacks and artillery fire had ended that. Four ribbon bridges were in operation, with numerous trucks crossing or waiting to cross.

First the tanks located and engaged anything that looked even vaguely dangerous. Machine-gun fire began working on the trucks, while the main guns reached into the tank-repair yard established in the fields north of the town. By this time, two full troops were in place, and infantry vehicles took on the trucks with their light 25mm cannon. Within fifteen minutes, over a hundred trucks were burning, along with enough supplies to keep a whole Russian division in business for a hard day of combat. But the supplies were incidental. The rest of the squadron was catching up with the advance party, and their job was to hold this Russian communications nexus until relieved. The Germans already had Gronau, and the Russian forces east of the Leine were now cut off from their supplies. Two of the Russian bridges were clear, and a company of M-2 Bradley infantry carriers darted across to take up position on the eastern edge of the town.

Ivan Sergetov crawled to the edge of the grassy road-he didn't know what it was-and watched the units pass while his stomach contracted into an icy ball. They were Americans, at least a battalion in strength, he estimated, traveling light. No trucks, just their tracked vehicles. He kept his wits enough to begin a count of the tanks and personnel carriers that raced before him at a speed that he'd never really appreciated before. It was the noise that was most impressive. The turbine-driven M-1 tanks did not make the roar of diesel-powered tanks. Until they were a few hundred meters away, you couldn't even know they were there-the combination of low noise and high speed… They're heading towards Alfeld!

I have to report this. But how? His radio was gone, and Sergetov had to think for a minute to determine where he was… two kilometers from the Leine, right across that wooded ridge. His choice was a difficult one. If he returned to the command post, it was a walk of twenty kilometers. If he ran to the rear, he might find friendly units in half the time and get the alarm out. But running that way was cowardice, wasn't it?

Cowardice or not, he had to go east. Sergetov had the sickening feeling that the alarm had not been sounded. He moved to the edge of the trees and waited for a gap in the American column. It was only thirty meters to the far side. Five seconds to cross the gap, he told himself. Less.

Another M-1 blazed past him. He looked left and saw that the next was nearly three hundred meters away. Sergetov took a deep breath and ran into the open.

The tank commander saw him, but couldn't get to his machine gun fast enough. Besides, one man on foot without even a rifle wasn't worth stopping for. He reported the sighting on his radio and returned to the mission at hand.

Sergetov didn't stop running until he was a hundred meters into the trees. Such a short distance, but he felt as if his heart would spring from his chest. He sat down with his back against a tree to catch his breath and continued to watch the vehicle pass. It took several minutes before he could move again, then it was up the steep hill, and soon he was once more looking down at the Leine.

The shock of seeing the American tanks was bad enough. What he saw here was far worse. The Army tank-repair yard was a smoking ruin. Everywhere there were burning trucks. At least it was downhill. He ran down the east side of the ridge right up to the river. Quickly stripping off his pistol belt, Sergetov leaped into the swift current.

"What's that? Hey, I see a Russian swimming!" A machine gunner swiveled his.50 caliber around. The vehicle commander stopped him.

"Save it for the MiGs, soldier!"

He climbed up the east bank and turned to look back. The American vehicles were digging into defensive positions. He ran to cover and stopped again to make a count before proceeding. There was a traffic-control point at Sack. Sergetov ran all the way.

After the first hour, things settled down. Lieutenant Mackall got out of his tank to inspect his platoon's positions. One of the few ammunition carriers to accompany the troop stopped briefly at each tank, its crew tossing out fifteen rounds each. Not enough to replace what they'd fired, but not bad. The air attacks would be next. Crews were out chopping down trees and shrubs to camouflage their vehicles. The accompanying infantry set out their Stinger crews, and Air Force fighters were already circling overhead. intelligence said that eight Russian divisions were on the west side of this river. Mackall was sitting on their supply route. That made it a very important plot of real estate.

Quite a change from the last time, Toland thought. The Air Force had an E-3 Sentry operating out of Sondrestrom to protect the fleet, and four of their own E-2C Hawkeyes were also up. There was even an Army-manned ground radar just coming up on Iceland. Two Aegis cruisers were with the carriers, and a third with the amphibious force.

"You think they'll hit us first, or the 'phibs?" Admiral Jacobsen asked.

"That's a coin-toss, Admiral," Toland replied. "Depends on who gives the orders. Their navy will want to kill us first. Their army will want to kill the 'phibs."

Jacobsen crossed his arms and stared at the map display. "This close, they can come in from any direction they want."

They expected-no more than fifty Backfires, but there were still plenty of the older Badgers, and the fleet was only fifteen hundred miles from the Soviet bomber bases: they could come out with nearly their maximum ordnance loads. To stop the Russians, the Navy had six squadrons of Tomcats, and six more of Hornets, nearly a hundred forty fighters in all. Twenty-four were aloft now, supported by tankers while the ground attack aircraft pounded Russian positions continuously. The battleships had ended their first visit to the Keflavik area and were now in Hvalfj" rdur-Whale Bay-providing fire support to the Marines north of Bogarnes. The entire operation had been planned with the likelihood of a Russian air-to-surface missile attack in mind. There would be more vampires.

The loss of northern Norway had eliminated the utility of Realtime. The submarine was still on station gathering signal intelligence, but the task of spotting the outbound Russian bomber streams passed on to British and Norwegian patrol aircraft operating out of Scotland. One of the latter spotted a three-plane Vic of Badgers heading southwest and radioed a warning. The Russian aircraft were roughly seventy minutes from the fleet.

Toland's station in CIC was immediately below the flight deck, and he listened to the roar of jet engines overhead as the fighters catapulted off. He was nervous. Toland knew that the tactical situation was very different now from that on the second day of the war, but he also remembered that he was one of the two men who'd escaped alive from a compartment just like this. A flood of information came into the room. The land-based radar, the Air Force E-3, and the Navy E-2s all linked their data to the carriers. There was enough electromagnetic energy in the sky to cook the birds in flight. The display showed the fighters proceeding to their stations. The Tomcats reached out to the northern Icelandic shore, curving into loitering circles as they awaited the Russian bombers.

"Ideas, Toland. I want ideas!" the Admiral said quietly.

"If they're after us, they'll approach from the east. If they're going for the 'Phibs, they'll come straight in. There's just no percentage in deceptive tactics if they're heading for Stykkishohnur."

Jacobsen nodded. "That's how I see it."

The pounding on the flight deck continued overhead as strike aircraft landed to rearm for new bombing strikes. Aside from the expected material effect, they hoped to wreck the morale of the Soviet paratroopers by violent and continuous air attacks. Marine Harriers were also in action, along with attack helicopters. Initial progress was somewhat better than expected. The Russians did not have their troops as widely dispersed as they'd thought, and the known concentrations were being subjected to a hurricane of bombs and rockets.

"Starbase, this is Hawk-Blue-Three. I'm getting some jamming, bearing zero-two-four… more jamming now." The data was linked directly to the carrier, and the thick yellow strobes came up on the electronic display. The other Hawkeyes quickly reported the same information.

The fleet air-ops officer smiled thinly as he lifted his microphone. His units were fully in place, and this gave him several options.

"Plan Delta."

Hawk-Green-One carried Independence's air-wing commander. A fighter pilot who would have much preferred riding his Tomcat for the mission, he directed two fighters from each Tomcat squadron to seek out the Russian jamming aircraft. The converted Badgers were spread on a wide front to cover the approach of the missile-armed bombers and advanced at five hundred knots, three hundred miles now from the line of radar-picket aircraft. The Tomcats homed in on them at five hundred knots as well.

Each jammer created a "strobe," an opaque wedge shape on the U.S. radar screens, so that they looked like the spokes of a wagon wheel. Since every such spoke was particular to each of the radar transmitters, the controllers were able to compare data, triangulate, and plot the position of the jammers. The Tomcats closed in quickly while the radar-intercept officers in the back seat of each fighter flipped the Phoenix missile seekers to home-on-jam guidance mode. Instead of depending on the aircraft's own radar for guidance, the missiles would seek out the noise transmitted from the Badgers.

Twenty jamming aircraft were plotted. Eighteen fighters headed for them, targeting at least two missiles at each.

"Delta-execute!"

The Tomcats launched on orders forty miles from their targets. Once more, Phoenix missiles streaked through the air. Flight time was a mere fifty-six seconds. Sixteen of the Badger jammers went off the air. The surviving four all switched off when they saw the smoke trails of missiles and dove for the deck with Tomcats in pursuit.

"Numerous radar contacts. Raid One is fifty aircraft, bearing zero-zero nine, range three-six-zero, speed six hundred knots, altitude three-zero thousand. Raid Two-" the talker went on as the enemy aircraft were plotted.

"We have the main raid, probably Badgers going for the 'phibs. This one will be Backfires. They'll try to launch on us, probably far out to draw our fighters off," Toland said.

Jacobsen spoke briefly to his operations officer. Hawk-Green-One would control the defense of the amphibious force. Hawk-Blue-Four from Nimitz would defend the carrier groups. The fighters divided according to plan and went to work. Toland noted that Jacobsen was leaving control of the air action to the officers in the control aircraft. The fleet air-defense officer on USS Yorktown controlled the SAM ships, an of which went to full alert but left their radar transmitters on standby.

"The only thing that worries me is they might try that drone crap again," Jacobsen murmured.

"It worked once," Toland agreed. "But we didn't have them this far out before."

The Tomcats divided into four-plane divisions, each controlled by radar. They, too, had been briefed about the drones that had fooled Nimitz. The fighters kept their radars off until they were within fifty miles of their targets, then used the radars to locate targets for their on-board TV systems.

"Hawk-Blue-Four," one called. "Tallyho, I got eyeballs on a Backfire. Engaging now. Out."

The Russian plan of attack had anticipated that the American fighters would try to bum through the jamming aircraft to the north, then be caught off balance by the appearance of the Backfires to the east. But the jammers were gone, and the Backfires did not yet have the American carrier fleet on radar and could not launch their missiles on the basis of hours-old satellite photographs. Neither could they run away. The supersonic Russian bombers went to afterburner and activated their radars in a contest with time, distance, and American interceptors.

Again it was like watching a video game. The symbols designating the Backfires changed as the planes switched on their own protective jammers. The jamming reduced the effectiveness of the Phoenix missiles, but Russian losses were already serious. The Backfires were three hundred miles away. Their radars had an effective range of only half that, and already fighters swarmed over their formations. "Tallyho" calls cluttered the radio circuits as the Tomcats converged to engage the Russian bombers, and the ^ symbols started dropping off the radar screens. The Backfires closed at seventeen miles per minute, their radars searching desperately for the American fleet.

"Going to get some leakers," Toland said.

"Six or eight," Jacobsen agreed.

"Figure three missiles each."

By now the Tomcats had fired all of their missiles, and drew off for the Hornets to join the action with Sparrows and Sidewinders. It wasn't easy for the fighters to keep up with their targets. The Backfires, speed made for difficult pursuit curves, and the fighters were notoriously short on fuel. Their missiles continued to score, however, and no amount of jinking and jamming could defeat all of them. Finally one aircraft got a surface radar contact and radioed a position. The seven remaining Backfires fired their missiles and turned north at Mach 2. Three more fell to missiles before the fighters had to turn away.

Again the Vampire call came in, and again Toland cringed. Twenty incoming missiles were plotted. The formation activated jammers and SAM systems, with a pair of Aegis cruisers on the threat axis. In seconds they were launching missiles, and the other SM2-equipped SAM ships added their own missiles to the "basket," allowing their birds to be guided by the Aegis computer systems. The twenty incoming missiles had ninety SM2s targeted on them. Only three got through the SAM cloud, and only one of them headed for a carrier. America's three point-defense guns tracked the AS-6 and destroyed it a thousand feet from the ship. The other two missiles both found the cruiser Wainwright and exploded her four miles from Independence.

"Damn." Jacobsen's face took a hard set. "I thought we had that one beat. Let's start recovering aircraft. We got some dry fighters up there."

Everyone's attention turned to the Badgers. The northern Tomcat groups were just coming within range of the older bombers. The Badger crews had expected to follow their jammers in, reversing earlier tactics. Some were slow to realize that they had no electronic wall to hide behind, but none had a choice. They detected incoming fighters while still five minutes from their launch points. The Badgers held course and increased to full speed to lessen their time of vulnerability while their crews looked anxiously for missiles.

The Tomcat pilots were surprised that their incoming targets were not altering course, which made the possibility of drones seem even more likely. They closed to get visual identification of their targets for fear of being tricked again into shooting at drones.

"Tallyho! Badger at twelve o'clock and level." The first Tomcat loosed a pair of missiles from forty miles out.

Unlike the Backfires, the Badgers had a location fix for their targets, which enabled them to launch their AS-4s from maximum range. One by one, the twenty-year-old bombers launched and turned as tight as their pilots dared to escape. Their escape maneuvers allowed half to survive, since the Navy fighters were unable to pursue. Aboard the radar aircraft, kills were being tallied even as the missiles flew toward Stykkisholmur. Soviet Naval Aviation had just taken fearful losses.

Edwards was still in the twilight of anesthesia when he heard the electronic gonging of the General Quarters alarm. He was only vaguely aware of where he was. He seemed to remember the helicopter ride, but his next impression was that of lying in a bunk with needles and tubes stuck in various parts of his body. He knew what the alarm meant, and knew intellectually that he should be afraid. But he couldn't quite work his emotions up through the drug-induced haze. He succeeded in raising his head. Vigdis was sitting on a chair next to his bed, holding his right hand. He squeezed back, not knowing that she was asleep. A moment later he was, too.

Five levels up, Nassau's captain was standing on the bridge wing. His normal battle station was in CIC, but the ship was not moving, and he figured that this was as good a place as any to watch. Over a hundred missiles were inbound from the northeast. As soon as raid warning had been received an hour earlier, all of his boat crews had set to lighting off the smoke pots set on the rocks in this so-called anchorage. That was his best defense, he knew, hardly believing it himself. The point-defense guns at the comers of the flight deck were in automatic mode. Called R2D2s for their shape, the Close-In-Weapons-System Gatling guns were elevated twenty degrees, pointing off to the threat axis. That was all he could do. It had been decided by the air-defense experts that even firing off their chaff rockets would do more harm than good. The captain shrugged. One way or another, he'd know in five minutes.

He watched the cruiser Vincennes to the east, steaming in slow circles. Suddenly four smoke-trails erupted from her missile launchers, and the missile firing cycle began. Soon the northeastern sky was a solid mass of gray smoke. Through his binoculars he began to pick out the sudden black puffs of successful intercepts. They seemed to be coming closer, and he noticed that the missiles were, too. And the Aegis cruiser could not get them all. Vincennes emptied her magazines in four minutes, then bent on full speed to race between a pair of rocky islands. The captain was amazed to see it. Someone was taking a billion-dollar cruiser into a rock garden at twenty-five knots! Even off Guadalcanal-

An explosion rocked the island of Hrappsey, four miles away. Then another on Seley. It was working!

Ten miles up, the Russian missiles switched on their radar seeker heads and found their target windows crammed with blips. Overloaded, they automatically scanned the largest for infrared signatures. Many of the blips gave off heat, and the missiles automatically selected the largest for their attention as they made their final Mach 3 dives. They had no way of knowing that they were attacking volcanic rocks. Thirty missiles got through the SAM defenses. Only five of them actually aimed themselves at ships.

Two of Nassau's R2D2s swiveled together and fired at a missile traveling too fast too see. The captain looked in the direction of the barrels just in time to see a white flash a thousand feet overhead. The sound that followed nearly deafened him, and he realized how foolish it was to be exposed when fragments dinged off the pilothouse next to him. Two more missiles fell into the town to his west. Then the sky cleared. A fireball to the west told him that at least one ship had been hit. But not mine!

"Son of a bitch." He lifted the phone to the Combat Information Center. "Combat, Bridge, two missiles fell into Stykkisholmur. Let's get a helo over there, there's gonna be some casualties."

As Toland watched, the tapes of the air engagement were replayed at fast speed. A computer tallied the kills. Everything was automated now.

"Wow," the intelligence officer said to himself

"Not like before, was it, son?" Jacobsen observed. "Spaulding, I want word on the 'phibs!"

"Just coming in now, sir. Charleston took a hit and broke in half. We have minor damage to Guam and Ponce-and that's it, Admiral!"

"Plus Wainwright." Jacobsen took a deep breath. Two valuable ships and fifteen hundred men were gone, yet he had to call it a success.

"The attack should be over by now."

Andreyev didn't expect rapid information. The Americans had finally succeeded in damaging his last radar, and he had no way of tracking the air battle. His radio-intercept crews had copied numerous voice transmissions, but they'd been too faint and too fast for any conclusion other than that a battle had in fact been fought.

"The last time we caught a NATO carrier force, we smashed it," the operations officer said hopefully.

"Our troops above Bogarnes are still under heavy fire," another reported. The American battleships had been hitting them for over an hour. "They are taking serious losses."

"Comrade General, I have a-you'd better listen to this, it's on our command circuit."

The message repeated four times, in Russian: "Commander Soviet Forces Iceland, this is Commander Strike Fleet Atlantic. If you don't get this, somebody will get it to you. Tell your bombers better luck next time. We'll be seeing you soon. Out."

Sergetov staggered up to the traffic-control point in time to see a battalion of tanks move down the road toward Alfeld. He stood slumped over, hands on his knees, as he watched the tanks roll off.

"Identify yourself!" It was a KGB lieutenant. The KGB had taken over traffic management. The authority to shoot violators came easy to the KGB.

"Major Sergetov. I must see the area commander at once."

"Attached to what unit, Sergetov?"

Ivan stood up straight. Not Comrade Major, not Comrade, just Sergetov.

"I am personal aide to General Alekseyev, Deputy Commander West. Now get me the hell to your commander!"

"Papers." The lieutenant held out his hand, a coldly arrogant look on his face.

Sergetov smiled thinly. His identification documents were in a waterproof plastic envelope. He handed the top card over to the KGB officer. It was something his father had managed to get for him before mobilization.

"And what might you be doing with a Class-1-Priority pass?" The lieutenant was wary now.

"And who the fuck are you to ask?" The son of a Politburo member brought his face to within a centimeter of the other man's. "Get me to your commander now or we'll see who gets shot here today!"

The chekist deflated abruptly and led him to a farm cottage. The commander of the traffic-control station was a major. Good.

"I need a radio on the Army command circuit," Sergetov snapped.

"All I have is regimental and division," the major answered.

"Nearest division headquarters?"

"Fortieth Tanks at-"

"It's destroyed. Damn, I need a vehicle. Now! There is an American force at Alfeld."

"We just sent off a battalion-"

"I know. Call them back."

"I have no such authority."

"You damned fool, they're heading into a trap! Call them now!''

"I don't have the auth-"

"Are you a German agent? Haven't you seen what's going on there?" "It was an air attack, wasn't it?"

"There are American tanks in Alfeld, you idiot. We must launch a counterattack, but one battalion isn't enough. We-" The first explosions started, six kilometers away. "Major, I want one of two things. Either you give me transport right now or you give me your name and service number so that I can denounce you properly."

The two KGB officers shared a look of incredulity. Nobody talked that way to them, but anyone who did… Sergetov got his vehicle and raced off. Half an hour later he was in the supply base at Holle. There he found a radio.

"Where are you, Major?" Alekseyev demanded.

"Holle. The Americans got through our lines. They have at least one battalion of tanks at Alfeld."

"What?" The radio was silent for a moment. "Are you certain?"

"Comrade General, I had to swim the damned river to get here. I counted a column of twenty-five armored vehicles a few kilometers north of the town. They shot up the tank-repair station and massacred a column of trucks. I repeat, General, there is an American force at Alfeld in at least battalion strength."

"Get transport to Stendal and report personally to Commander-in-Chief West."

"Good evening, Major Chapayev. How's the leg?" Toland asked, sitting down beside the hospital bunk. "Are you being treated properly.?"

"I have no complaints. Your Russian is-fair."

"I do not often get to practice with a Soviet citizen. Perhaps you can help me somewhat." Major Alexandr Georgiveyich Chapayev, the computer printout read. Age 30. Second son of General Georgiy Konstantinovich Chapayev, commander of the Moscow Air Defense District. Married to the youngest daughter of a Central Committee member, Ilya Nikolayevich Govorov. And therefore probably a young man with access to lots of under-the-counter information…

"With your grammar?" Chapayev snorted.

"You were the commander of the MiGs? Be at ease, Major, they're all finished now. You know that."

"I was the senior flying officer, yes."

"I've been told to compliment you. I am not a flyer myself, but they tell me your tactics over Keflavik were excellent. I believe you had five MiGs. We lost a total of seven aircraft yesterday, three to MiGs, two to missiles, and two to ground fire. Considering the odds, we were disagreeably surprised."

"I had my duty."

"Da. We all have our duty," Toland agreed. "If you are concerned at how we will treat you, you should not be. You will be treated properly in all respects. I don't know what you have been told to expect, but probably you have noticed once or twice that not everything the Party says is completely true. I see from your identification papers that you have a wife and two children. I have a family, too. We'll both live to see them again, Major. Well, probably."

"And when our bombers attack you?'

"That happened three hours ago. Didn't anyone tell you?"

"Ha! The first time-"

"I was on Nimitz We took two hits." Toland described the attack briefly. "This time things worked out differently. We're conducting rescue operations now. You'll know for sure when we bring some survivors in. Your air force is no longer a threat to us. Submarines are another matter, but there is no sense asking a fighter pilot about that. In fact, this isn't really an interrogation."

"So why are you here?"

"I will be asking you some questions later. I just wanted to come down and say hello. Is there anything I can get you, anything you need?"

Chapayev did not know what to make of this. Aside from the possibility the Americans would shoot him outright, he didn't know what to expect. He'd had the usual lectures about trying to escape, but clearly these did not apply to being aboard a ship in the middle of the ocean.

"I do not believe you," he said finally.

"Comrade Major, there is no point in asking you about the MiG-29, because none are left on Iceland. All the others in the Soviet Air Force are in Central Europe, but we're not going there. There is no point in asking you about ground-defense positions on Iceland; you're a pilot and you don't know anything about that. The same is true of the remaining threat against us: submarines. What do you know about submarines, eh? Think, Major, you are an educated man. Do you think you have information that we need? I doubt it. You will be exchanged in due course for our prisoners-a political question, for our political masters. Until then we will treat you properly." Toland paused. Talk to me, Major…

"I'm hungry," Chapayev said after a moment.

"Dinner should be in about thirty minutes."

"You will just send me home, after-"

"We don't have labor camps and we don't kill prisoners. If we were going to mistreat you, why did the surgeon sew up your leg and prescribe pain medications?"

"The pictures I had with me?"

"Almost forgot." Toland handed the Russian's wallet over. "Isn't it against the rules to take this up with you?"

"I carry it for luck," he said. Chapayev pulled out the black-and-white shot of his wife and twin daughters. I will see you again It may be some months, but I will see you again.

Bob chuckled. "It worked, Comrade Major. Here are mine."

"Your wife is too skinny, but you are a lucky man also." Chapayev paused as his eyes teared up for a moment. He blinked them away. "I would like a drink," he said hopefully.

"Me, too. Not allowed on our ships." He looked at the photos. "Your daughters are beautiful, Major. You know, we have to be crazy to leave them."

"We have our duty," Chapayev said. Toland gestured angrily.

"It's the damned politicians. They just tell us to go-and we go, like idiots! Hell, we don't even know why the Goddamned war started!"

"You mean you do not know?"

Bingo. Codeine and sympathy… The tape recorder he had in his pocket was already turned on.

"If I continue the attack, we'll be destroyed here!" Alekseyev protested. "I have two full divisions on my flank, and I have a report that American tanks are at Alfeld."

"Impossible!" CINC-West replied angrily.

"The report came from Major Sergetov. He saw them arrive. I have ordered him to Stendal to make his report to you personally."

"I have 26th Motor-Rifle approaching Alfeld now. If any Americans are present, they'll handle matters."

That's a Category-C unit, Alekseyev thought. Reservists, short on equipment, out-of-date training.

"What progress have you made on the crossing?"

"Two regiments across, a third moving now. Enemy air activity has picked up-dammit! I have enemy units in my rear!"

"Get back to Stendal, Pasha. Beregovoy is in command at Hunzen. I need you here."

I'm being relieved. I'm being relieved of my command!

"Understood, Comrade General," Alekseyev replied. He switched off the radio. Can I leave my troops this vulnerable to counterattack? Can I forego warning my commanders? Alekseyev slammed his fist on the worktable. "Get me General Beregovoy'!'

It was too far for artillery support from the NATO lines, and they'd been forced to leave their own guns behind. Mackall trained his gunsights through the haze and saw the advancing Russian formations. He estimated two regiments. That made it a division-sized attack in the classic two-up, one-back fashion. Hmm. I don't see any SAM launchers upfront The colonel in overall command started giving his orders over the command circuit. Friendly air was coming in.

Apache attack choppers popped up right behind the Cav's positions. They moved south to flank the advancing Russian vehicles, jinking and skidding as they launched their Hellfire missiles into the leading echelon of tanks. Their pilots sought out missile-launch vehicles but found none. Next came the A10s. The ugly twin-engine aircraft swooped low, free for once of the SAM threat. Their rotary cannon and cluster bombs continued the job of the Apaches.

"They're coming in dumb, boss," the gunner commented.

"Maybe they're green, Woody."

"Okay by me."

The Bradleys on the eastern edge of the town engaged next with their missiles. The leading Soviet ranks were savaged even before they came into range of the tanks over the river. The attack began to falter. The Russian tanks stopped to shoot. They popped smoke and shot wildly from inside it. A few wild rounds landed close to Mackall's position, but they were not aimed shots. The attack was stopped two kilometers short of the town.

"Head north," Alekseyev said over the headset.

"Comrade General, if we head north-" the pilot started to say.

"I said head north! Keep low," he added.

The heavily armed Mi-24 swooped low abruptly. Alekseyev's gorge rose in his throat as the pilot tried to get even with him for giving the stupid, dangerous order. He sat in the back, hanging on to the seatbelt and leaning out the left-side door to see what he could. The helicopter jinked violently left and right, up and down-the pilot knew the dangers here.

"There!" Alekseyev called. "Ten o'clock. I see-American or German? Tanks at ten o'clock."

"I see some missile vehicles, too, Comrade General. Do you wish to see them more closely?" the pilot inquired acidly. He brought the chopper down a wooded road, barely two meters above the pavement as he dipped out of sight.

"That was at least a battalion," the General said.

"I'd say more," the pilot commented. He was at full power, his nose low for maximum speed, and his eyes scanned ahead for enemy aircraft.

The General fumbled with his map. He had to sit down and strap in to use both hands on it. "My God, this far south?"

"As I told you," the pilot answered over the intercom, "they have staged a breakthrough."

"How close can you go to Alfeld?"

'That depends on how much the General wishes to be alive tonight." Alekseyev noted the fear and anger in the words, and reminded himself that the captain flying his helicopter was already twice a Hero of the Soviet Union for his daring over the battlefield.

"As close as you think safe, Comrade Captain. I must see for myself what the enemy is doing."

"Understood. Hang on, it will be a very rough ride." The Mi-24 jumped up to avoid some power lines, then dropped again like a stone. Alekseyev winced at how close to the ground they stopped. "Enemy aircraft overhead. Look like the Devil's Cross… four of them heading west."

They passed over a-not a road, Alekseyev thought, a grassy strip with tracked vehicles on it. The grass had been churned to bare dirt. He checked his map. This route led to Alfeld.

"I will cross over the Leine and approach Alfeld from the east. That way we'll be over friendly troops if anything happens," the pilot advised. Immediately thereafter the aircraft jumped up and down again. Alekseyev caught a glimpse of tanks on the ridge as they raced past. Many of them. A few strings of tracer bullets reached out at the chopper, but fell behind. "Quite a few tanks there, Comrade General. I'd say a regimental force. The tank-repair yard is to the south-what's left of it-shit! Enemy helicopters to the south!"

The aircraft stopped and pivoted in the air. There was a roar as an air-to-air missile leaped off the wingtip, then the Mi-24 started moving again. It jinked up, then down hard, and the General saw a smoke trail go overhead.

"That was close."

"Did you get him?"

"Does the General wish me to stop and see? What's that? That wasn't here before."

The chopper stopped briefly. Alekseyev saw burning vehicles and running men. The tanks were old T-55s… this was the counterattack he'd been told about! Smashed. A minute later he saw vehicles assembling for another effort.

"I've seen enough. Straight to Stendal as fast as you can." The General leaned back with his maps and tried to formulate a clear picture of what he'd seen. Half an hour later the helicopter flared and landed.

"You were right, Pasha," CINC-West said as soon as he walked into the operations room. He held three reconnaissance photographs.

"Twenty-Sixth Motor-Rifle's initial attack was crushed two kilometers in front of enemy lines. When I flew over, they were re-forming for another. This is a mistake," Alekseyev said with quiet urgency. "If we want that position back, we have to attack with full preparation."

"We must have that bridgehead back in our hands as quickly as possible."

"Fine. Tell Beregovoy to detach two of his units and drive back east."

"We can't abandon the Weser crossing!"

"Comrade General, either we pull those units back or we let NATO destroy them in place. That is the only choice we have at the moment."

"No. Once we get Alfeld back, we can reinforce. That will defeat the counterattack on their flank and allow us to continue the advance."

"What do we have to strike Alfeld with?"

"Three divisions are en route now-"

Alekseyev scanned the unit designations on the map. "They're all C formations!"

"Yes. I had to divert most of my B units north. NATO counterattacked at Hamburg as well. Cheer up, Pasha, we have many C units coming onto the front."

Wonderful All these old, fat, out-of-practice reservists are marching to a front held by battle-seasoned troops.

"Wait until all three divisions are in place. Get their artillery up front first so that we can pound the NATO positions. What about Gronau?"

"The Germans crossed the Leine there, but we have them contained. Two divisions are moving to attack there also."

Alekseyev walked over to the main map display and looked for changes in the tactical situation since he'd last been here. The battle lines in the north had not changed appreciably, and the NATO counterattack on the Alfeld-R?hle salient was only now being posted. Blue flags were at Gronau, and Alfeld. There was the counterattack at Hamburg.

We've lost the initiative. How do we get it back?

The Soviet Army had started the war with twenty A divisions based in Germany, with another ten moved in at the start, and more since. All of them had now been committed to battle, many pulled off the line due to losses. The last reserve of the full-strength formations was at R?hle, and they were about to be trapped. Beregovoy was too good a soldier to violate orders, even though he knew his forces had to be pulled back before they were irretrievably cut off.

"We must abandon the attack. If we press on, those divisions will be trapped behind two rivers, not just one."

"The attack is a political and military necessity," CINC-West answered- "If they push forward, NATO will have to draw forces off this attack to defend the Ruhr. Then we'll have them."

Alekseyev didn't argue further. The thought that came to him felt like a blast of cold air on exposed skin. Have we failed?

"Admiral, I need to see somebody in the MAF."

"Who?"

"Chuck Lowe-he's a regimental commander. Before he took it over, we worked together on CINCLANT's intelligence staff."

"Why not-"

"He's good, Admiral, very good at this stuff."

"You think the information is that hot?" Jacobsen asked.

"I sure do, sir, but I need a second opinion. Chuck's the best guy who's handy."

Jacobsen lifted his phone. "Get me General Emerson, quick… Billy? Scott. You have a Colonel Chuck Lowe serving with you? Where? Okay, one of my intel people needs to see him right now… important enough, Billy. Very well, he'll be on his way in ten minutes." The Admiral set the phone down. "Have you copied that tape?"

"Yes, sir. This is one of the copies. The original's in the safe."

"There'll be a helo waiting for you."

It was a one-hour flight to Stykkisholmur. From there a Marine chopper took him southeast. He found Chuck Lowe in a tent looking over some maps.

"You get around pretty good. I heard about Nimitz, Bob. Glad to see you made it. What's up?"

"I want you to listen to this tape. It'll take you about twenty minutes." Toland explained who the Russian was. He handed over a small Japanese personal tape player with earphones. The two officers walked out of the tent to a relatively quiet place. Twice Lowe rewound the tape to repeat a section.

"Son of a bitch," he said quietly when it was finished.

"He thought we already knew."

Colonel Lowe stooped down and picked up a rock. He hefted it in his hand for a moment, then hurled it as hard as he could. "Why not? We assume the KGB is competent, why should they assume that we're not! We had the information all along… and we blew it! " His voice was full of wonder and disgust. "You sure this isn't a cock-and-bull story?"

"When we pulled him out of the water, he had a nasty cut on the leg. The docs sewed that up and gave him pain pills. I caught him weak from blood loss, and pretty well juiced on codeine. Kinda hard to lie well when you're drunk, isn't it? Chuck, I really need your opinion."

"Trying to land me back in the intel business?" Lowe smiled briefly. "Bob, it makes a hell of a lot of sense. This should go up the ladder fast."

"I think SACEUR should get it."

"You can't just call up for an appointment, Bob."

"I can go through COMEASTLANT. The original goes to Washington. CIA will want to use a voice-stress-analysis machine on it. But I saw the man's eyes, Chuck."

"I agree. It should go to the top as fast as you can get it there-and SACEUR can make the fastest use of it."

"Thanks, Colonel. How do I call the chopper back?"

"I'll handle that. Welcome to Iceland, by the way."

"How's it going?" Toland followed the colonel back to the tent.

"We're up against good troops, but they have a tough defensive problem here, and we have all the firepower we need. We got 'em by the ass!" The colonel paused. "Nice work, Squid!"

Two hours later, Toland was aboard a plane bound for Heathrow.

The briefing was given by Marshal Fyodr Borissovich Bukharin. The KGB had arrested Marshals Shavyrin and Rozhkov the day before, a move that told Minister Sergetov more than this briefing ever would.

"The attack west from Alfeld has bogged down due to poor planning and execution by Commander-in-Chief West. We need to regain the initiative. Fortunately we have the troops available, and nothing changes the fact that NATO has suffered grievous losses.

"I propose replacement of the Western Theater command staff and-"

"Wait. I wish to say something," Sergetov interrupted.

"Make your point, Mikhail Eduardovich," the Defense Minister said, his annoyance clear.

"Marshal Bukharin, you propose complete staff replacement?" The practical consequences to the replacees was unspoken, Sergetov thought, but plain enough.

"My son is on the staff of the Deputy Commander West, General Alekseyev. This general is the one who led the breakthrough at Alfeld, and the one at R?hle! He's been wounded twice and had his helicopter shot down by enemy fighters-after which he commandeered a truck and raced to the front to lead yet another successful attack. He's the only effective general we have that I know of, and you want to replace him with someone unfamiliar with the situation-what madness is this?" he asked angrily. The Minister of the Interior leaned forward.

"Just because your son is on his staff-"

Sergetov's face went beet-red. "'Just because my son,' you say? My son is at the front, serving the State. He's been wounded, and barely escaped death when he was shot down at his general's side. Who else at this table can say that, Comrades? Where are your sons?" He pounded on the table in rage. Sergetov concluded in a softer voice, wounding his colleagues in a way that mattered, really mattered: "Where are the Communists here?"

There was a brief but deadly silence. Sergetov knew that he had either ended his political career or boosted it beyond measure. His fate would be decided by whoever spoke next.

"In the Great Patriotic War," Pyotr Bromkovskiy said with an old man's dignity, "Politburo members lived at the front. Many lost sons. Even Comrade Stalin gave his sons to the State, serving alongside the sons of ordinary workers and peasants. Mikhail Eduardovich speaks well. Comrade Marshal, your evaluation of General Alekseyev, if you please? Is Comrade Sergetov correct in his assessment?"

Bukharin looked uneasy. "Alekseyev is a young, bright officer, and, yes, he has done fairly well at his present post."

"But you wish to replace him with one of your own people?" Bromkovskiy didn't wait for an answer. "It is amazing, the things we learn and the things we forget. We forget that it is necessary for all Soviet citizens to share the burden together-but we remember the mistakes made in 1941, arresting good officers because their superiors erred, and replacing them all with political cronies who could lead us to disaster! If Alekseyev is a bright young officer who knows how to fight, why do you replace him?"

"Perhaps we were hasty," the Defense Minister admitted, watching the mood around the table shift dramatically. I'll get you for this, Mikhail Eduardovich. If you wish to ally yourself with our oldest member, it is fine with me. He won't live forever. Neither will you.

"That is decided then," the Party Chairman said. "Next, Bukharin, what of the situation on Iceland?"

"There are reports that some enemy troops have landed, but we immediately attacked the NATO fleet. We are waiting now for an assessment of the losses we inflicted. We have to wait for satellite reconnaissance before we can be sure of that." Bukharin knew only what Soviet losses were, and he would not reveal those until he could report favorable strike results.

They arrived just after dark, the KGB officers in battle dress. Alekseyev was working on deployments of newly arrived C divisions and didn't see them enter CINC-West's office. Five minutes later he was summoned.

"Comrade General Alekseyev, you are now Commander-in-Chief of the Western Theater of Military Operations," his superior said simply. "I wish you luck."

Alekseyev felt the hair rise up on his neck at the General's tone. The man was flanked by a pair of KGB colonels wearing the standard KGB battle dress, camouflage cloth tailored in the pattern of a class-A uniform, the "State Security" GB emblem shoulder boards. It was an institutional form of arrogance that suited the KGB as perfectly as the look on the colonels' faces.

What do I say? What can I do? This is my friend.

The former Commander-in-Chief of the Western Theater of Military Operations said it for him: "Good-bye, Pasha."

They took the General out. Alekseyev watched him go, then stop at the door. He turned with a look of hopeless fatalism before proceeding. Alekseyev's last sight was of the General's pistol belt, the leather flap loose over an empty holster. He turned away and saw on the desk a telex confirming his command status. It told him that he had the complete confidence of the Party, the Politburo, and the People. He crumpled it and threw it against the wall. He had seen the same words on the same form a few brief weeks before. The recipient of that message of confidence was now in a car heading east.

How long do I have? Alekseyev summoned his communications officer.

"Get me General Beregovoy!"

SACEUR allowed himself a meal. He'd lost ten pounds since the war had begun by subsisting on coffee and sandwiches and stomach acid. Alexander had commanded armies in his teens and twenties-maybe that's why he did so well, the General thought. He was young enough to stand it.

It was working. The Cav was at Alfeld. The Germans were firmly in control of Gronau and Bruggen, and unless Ivan reacted quickly, his divisions on the Weser were in for a very nasty surprise. The door to his office opened. It was his German intelligence officer.

"Excuse me, Herr General, I have an naval intelligence officer here."

"Is it important, Joachim?"

"Ja."

SACEUR looked down at his plate. "Show him in."

The General was not impressed. The man was dressed in his shipboard khakis. Only a very sharp eye could see where the creases used to be.

"General, I'm Commander Bob Toland. Until a few hours ago, I was on the threat team with Strike Fleet Atlantic-"

"How's it going on Iceland?"

"The air attack on the fleet was chewed up, sir. There's still the submarine problem to deal with, but the Marines are moving. I think we'll win this one, General."

"Well, the more subs they send after the carriers, the fewer go after my convoys."

That's one way to look at it, Toland thought. "Admiral, we captured a Russian fighter pilot. He comes from an important family. I interrogated him; here's the tape. I think we know why the war started."

"Joachim, did you check his data?"

"No, sir. He has already briefed COMEASTLANT, and Admiral Beattie wanted the data to come directly to you."

SACEUR's eyes narrowed. "Let's hear it, son."

"Oil."