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.
USS NASSAU
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 corners 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.
KEFLAVIK, ICELAND
“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.”
SACK, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF GERMANY
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.”