much in the way of recent military news, and even playing dumb they could
easily make a mistake or fail to “remember” a battle their supposed unit had
recently fought.
And headquarters had to learn about the American carrier in the fjord
here. If they were pressed into service by some over-diligent prick of a
Norwegian junior officer, they wouldn’t be able to reach their radio, and the
carrier might get away.
He weighed the dangers. Destroying the M-109 would be simple enough, but
would a fire attract the attention of the enemy carrier? Finenko doubted it.
The battle lines were some distance away, and there were other reasons for
fire than enemy action. Only that morning, the team had encountered some
farmers burning trash in a field.
He took several steps toward the Norwegian, one hand casually on the grip
of his G3, the other raised in greeting. His enemy was armed with a typical
Norwegian tank commander’s weapon, a Maskin M40–a copy of the MP40 made
famous by the Germans in World War II as the so-called “Schmeisser.” Finenko
knew he would have to take the man down quickly and efficiently to avoid a
devastating spray of return fire. Casually, his left hand dropped to the
barrel of his weapon.
“Tyepyehr!” he shouted, his own Norwegian forgotten. “Strelyat!”
His finger closed on the G3’s trigger as he dragged the muzzle around,
aiming from the hip at the young Norwegian as the assault rifle stuttered and
cracked, shattering the stillness of the ridge-top woods. The enemy’s mouth
gaped open as his jacket exploded in bloody spurts with each bullet impact.
In the same instant, the Carl Gustav whooshed, and a brightly burning
point of light streaked across the forest clearing, slamming into the M 109
between turret and tracks. There was a flash and a hollow-sounding bang.
There was no flame and little smoke. That was good; there would be nothing to
alert the Americans now.
The Norwegian lieutenant was flat on his back, arms spread, eyes wide
open.
“Up!” Finenko snapped to the others. “Quickly! We must leave the area
at once.”
Like ghosts, the four infiltrators slipped away through the trees,
leaving the wreckage of the SAM vehicle beside a tree-shaded lane on a
Norwegian hilltop.
0941 hours Zulu (1041 hours Zone)
Viper Squadron ready room, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Romsdalfjord
Coyote walked into the ready room, Teejay close behind him. Both men
still wore their flight suits, though helmets, life vests, and survival gear
had been parked in lockers outside. Quite a few of the other VF-95 aviators
and RIOs were already gathered in the compartment, along with crew chiefs and
squadron deck personnel.
“Coyote!” Batman cried, reaching through the crowd to clap him on the
shoulder. “Teejay! Welcome back, guys! Have some caffeine.”
He handed Coyote a mug filled with steaming coffee, and Coyote took it
gratefully. “What’s the occasion?”
“Waiting to hear from the powers on high,” Ken Blake, “Malibu,” said.
Batman’s RIO grinned and jerked a thumb toward the 1-MC on the bulkhead.
“Things’ve been damned quiet since we hit their airfields. Word is there’s
another briefing coming up soon. God knows what it’ll be this time.”
“Coyote! I watched you come in on the PLAT,” Batman said, a mischievous
grin on his face. “Your landing was much better this time. I really think
you’re improving!”
Coyote surprised himself by laughing. “Practice makes perfect.”
“Hey,” Teejay said. “If I’d’ve known you were still practicin’, man-”
“Make a hole!” someone yelled, and the crowd parted from in front of the
ready room door. Tombstone stepped through. His khakis were rumpled, and
Coyote thought again that he’d never seen him looking so worn.
“As you were, everybody,” Tombstone said. He waved the clipboard he was
carrying in one hand. “Thought you gentlemen would like to see the latest
posting for the Viper tally board.”
He began reading off the names of pilot-RIO teams in the squadron. Eight
of them had been in combat earlier that morning, flying TACCAP for the A6
strikes against the Russian air bases. Most of the rest had been on BARCAP
over Romsdalfjord and had not taken part in the battle. Loon and Saint, in