“Aye, skipper.”
A minute later, Morris could feel the change in his ship’s motion as her steam plant drove the frigate hard through the six-foot seas. He waited thoughtfully, wishing his ship had one of the more sensitive 2X arrays being fitted to the Perry-class fast-frigates. It was a predictably long five minutes, but ASW was a game that demanded patience.
Power was reduced, and as the ship slowed, the pattern on the sonar screen changed from random flow noise to random ambient noise, something more easily perceived than described. The captain, his ASW officer, and the sonar operator watched the screen intently for ten minutes. The anomalous sound tracing did not reappear. In a peacetime exercise they would have decided that it was a pure anomaly, water-generated noise that had stopped as unpredictably as it had started, perhaps a minor eddy that subsided on the surface. But now everything they detected had a potential red star and a periscope attached.
My first dilemma, Morris thought. If he investigated by sending his own helicopter or one of the Orion patrol aircraft, he might be sending them after nothing at all, and away from a path that could end with a real contact. If he did nothing, he might not be prosecuting a real contact. Morris sometimes wondered if captains should be issued coins with YES and NO stamped on either side, perhaps called a “digital decision generator” in keeping with the Navy’s love for electronic-sounding titles.
“Any reason to think it’s real?” he asked the ASW officer.
“No, sir.” The officer wondered by this time if he had been right to call it to his captain’s attention. “Not now.”
“Fair enough. It won’t be the last one.”
19 – Journeys End/Journeys Begin
HAFNARFJORDUR, ICELAND
Sergeant James Smith was a company clerk, which meant that he carried his commander’s maps, Edwards was grateful to learn. He would have been less happy to learn what Smith thought about what they were doing, and who was leading this party. A company clerk was also supposed to pack an ax with him, but since Iceland was almost entirely devoid of trees, his was still in the company headquarters, probably burned down to a charred axhead by now. They walked east in silence, their eyes punished by the low sun, past two kilometers of lava field that gave mute testimony to Iceland’s volcanic birth.
They moved fast, without pausing for rest. The sea was at their back and as long as they could see it, men on the coast might see them. Each puff of dust raised by their boots made them feel increasingly vulnerable and Private Garcia, who brought up the rear of their small unit, periodically turned and walked backward for a few yards to be sure that no one was following them. The others looked ahead, to the sides, and up. They were sure that Ivan had thought to bring a helicopter or two along. Few things can make a man feel as naked as an aircraft filled with eyes.
The ground was almost totally barren. Here and there a few sprigs of grass fought their way through the rocks to sunlight, but for the most part the terrain was as barren as the surface of the moon-the Apollo astronauts had trained somewhere in Iceland for that very reason, Edwards remembered. The mild surface winds scoured up the slopes they were climbing, raising small quantities of dust that made the lieutenant sneeze periodically. He was already wondering what they would do when their rations ran out. This was no place to try living off the land. He’d been in Iceland only for a few months, and hadn’t had a single chance to tour the countryside. Cross one bridge at a time, Edwards told himself. People grow their own food everywhere. There have to be farms around, and you’ll be able to find them on the maps.
“Chopper!” Garcia called out.
The private had a great set of eyes, Edwards noted. They couldn’t hear it yet, but there it was on the horizon, coming in from the sea.
“Everybody down. Let me see those glasses, Sergeant.” Edwards held out his hand as he sat. Smith came down next to him, the binoculars already at his eyes.
“It’s a Hip, sir. Troop carrier.” He handed the glasses over.
“I’ll take your word for it,” Edwards replied. He could see the ungainly shape, perhaps three miles away, heading southeast toward Hafnarfjordur. “Looks like it’s heading for the piers. Oh. They came in on a ship. They want to dock it, and they’ll want to secure the waterfront first.”
“Makes sense,” Sergeant Smith agreed.
Edwards followed the helicopter until it dropped behind some buildings. Less than a minute later, it was up again, heading back northwest. He gave the horizon a close look.
“Looks like a ship out there.”
MV JULIUS FUCIK
Kherov moved slowly back to the chart table with an Army medic at his side. His pumps were almost keeping up with the inflow of water. The Fucik was down half a meter at the bow. Portable fire pumps were being set near the bilges to draw more seawater out and eject it over the side through the hole the American missile had made. He smiled wanly to himself. An Army medic followed him around. The General had practically pulled a gun on the captain, forcing him to allow the medic to give him a bottle of blood plasma and some morphine. He was grateful for the latter-his pain was still there, but not nearly so bad as it had been. The plasma container was a damned nuisance, with the medic holding it aloft as he moved around the pilothouse. But he knew he needed it. Kherov wanted to stay alive a few hours longer-and who knows, he thought, if the regimental surgeon has skill, I might even live . . .
There were more important things at hand. He had studied the charts of this port, but he had never been here before. He had no pilot. There would be no harbor tugs, and the tiny barge-tugs carried in his ship’s split stem would be useless for docking.
The helicopter circled his ship after making its first trip. A miracle that it flew at all, the captain thought, after having the one next to it shattered by that strafing run. The mechanics had managed to extinguish that fire rapidly and place a curtain of water fog around the other aircraft. Some minor repairs had been needed, there were an even dozen holes in the sheet metal, but there it was, hovering just aft of the superstructure, landing slowly and awkwardly in the roiled air.
“How are you feeling, my captain?” the General inquired.
“How do I look?” A brave smile that failed to draw one in return. The General knew that he should physically carry the man to his surgeon’s emergency medical post, but who then would dock the ship? Captain Kherov was dying before his eyes. The medic had made that clear enough. There was internal bleeding. The plasma and bandages couldn’t hope to keep up with it. “Have your men secured their objectives?”
“They report some fighting still at the air base, but it will soon be under control. The first team at the main quay reports no one there. That will be secure, my captain. You should rest a bit.”
Kherov shook his head like a drunken man. “That will come soon enough. Fifteen more kilometers. We race in too fast as it is. The Americans may yet have some aircraft heading for us. We must get to the dock and unload your equipment before noon. I have lost too many of my crewmen to fail.”
HAFNARFJORDUR, ICELAND
“We gotta report this,” Edwards said quietly. He shrugged out of his pack and opened it. He’d watched a man test the radio before, and saw that instructions were printed on the side of the radio set. The six pieces of the antenna fitted easily into the pistol grip. Next he plugged in his headset and switched the radio on.
He was supposed to point the flowerlike antenna at a satellite on the 30* meridian, but he didn’t have a compass to tell him where that was. Smith unfolded a map and selected a landmark in that general direction. Edwards pointed the antenna at it and waved it slowly across the sky until he heard the warbling carrier wave of the communications bird.
“Okay.” Edwards turned the frequency knob to a preselected channel and toggled the Transmit switch.
“Anyone on this net, this is Mike Edwards, first lieutenant, United States Air Force, transmitting from Iceland. Please acknowledge, over.” Nothing happened. Edwards reread the instructions to make sure he was doing the right thing, and rebroadcast the same message three more times.
“Sender on this net, please identify. Over.” A voice finally answered.
“Edwards, Michael D., first lieutenant, U.S. Air Force, serial number 328-61-4030. I’m the meteorological officer attached to the 57th Fighter Interceptor Squadron at Keflavik. Who is this? Over.”