Red Storm Rising Part 21

Edwards ignored the irrelevancy. "What's the chance they're trying to draw our fighters out, like?"

"Expensive bait." The captain dismissed the idea. "You're saying they might have launched their ASMs from farther out. Maybe they don't fly as far as we thought. Point is, those missiles are ten minutes out now, the first of them, with about a five- or seven-minute delay to the last. And not a G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing we can do about it."

"Yeah." Edwards nodded. The Air-Ops/Met building was a two-story frame structure that vibrated every time the wind hit fifty knots. The lieutenant took out a stick of gum and started chewing on it. In ten minutes a hundred missiles, each carrying about a ton of high explosives-or a nuclear warhead-would start falling. The men outside would get the worst of it; the enlisted men and the flight crews trying to get the airplanes ready to race off. His a.s.signed job was merely to keep out of the way. It made him a little ashamed. The fear he could now taste along with the peppermint made him more ashamed.

The Eagles were now all airborne, racing north. The last of the Backfires had just launched their missiles and were turning back northeast at full power as the Eagles raced at twelve hundred knots to catch up. Three of the interceptors launched missiles, and they succeeded in killing a pair of Backfires and damaging a third. The "Zulu" fighters which had scrambled off the deck could not catch the Backfires, the commanding controller on Sentry One noted, cursing himself for not having sent them after the older, less valuable Badgers, some of which they might have caught. Instead, he ordered them to slow down, and had his controllers vector them toward the supersonic missiles.

Penguin 8, the first of the P-3C Orion antisubmarine warfare aircraft, was rolling now, down runway two-two. It had been on patrol only five hours before, and its flight crew was still trying to shake off the sleep as they rotated the propjet aircraft off the concrete.

"Tipping over now," the radar operator said. The first Russian missile was almost overhead, beginning its terminal dive. The Eagles had hit two of the incoming missiles, but courses and alt.i.tudes had been against them, and most of their Sparrows had missed, unable to catch the Mach-2 missiles. The F-15s...o...b..ted over central Iceland, well away from their base, as each pilot wondered if he'd have an airfield to return to.

Edwards cringed as the first landed-or didn't land. The air-to-surface missile had a radar-proximity fuse. It detonated twenty meters off the ground, and the effects were horrific. It exploded directly over International Highway, two hundred yards from Air-Ops, its fragments ripping into a number of buildings, the worst hit being the base fire station. Edwards fell to the floor as fragments lashed through the wooden wall. The door was torn off its hinges by the blast and the air filled with dust. A moment later, at the Esso facility a hundred yards away, a fuel truck exploded, sending a fireball towering into the sky, and dropping burning jet fuel for blocks around. Electrical power was immediately lost. Radars, radios, and room lights went out at once, and battery-powered emergency lights didn't come on as they were supposed to. For a terrified moment, Edwards wondered if the first missile really might have been a nuke. The blast had rippled through his chest, and he felt sudden nausea as his body tried to adjust to the sensations that a.s.saulted it. He looked around and saw a man knocked unconscious by a falling light fixture. He didn't know if he was supposed to buckle his helmet strap or not, and somehow this question seemed enormously important at the moment, though he didn't remember why.

Another missile landed farther away, and then for a minute or so the sounds blended into a series of immense thunderclaps. Edwards was choking from the dust. It felt as though his chest would burst, and impulsively he bolted for the door to get fresh air.

He was greeted by a solid wall of heat. The Esso facility was a roaring ma.s.s of flames which had already engulfed the nearby photo lab and base thrift shop. More smoke rose from the enlisted housing area to the east. A half-dozen aircraft still on the flightline would never leave it, their wings snapped like toys from the blast of a missile that had exploded directly over the runway crossroads. A smashed E-3A Sentry burst into flames before his eyes. He turned to see that the control tower had been damaged, too, all its windows gone. Edwards ran that way, not thinking to take his jeep.

Two minutes later, he entered the tower breathlessly to find the crew all dead, torn apart by flying gla.s.s, the tiled floor covered with blood. Radio receivers were still making noise over desk-mounted speakers, but he couldn't seem to find a working transmitter.

PENGUIN 8.

"What the h.e.l.l is that?" the Orion pilot said. He turned his aircraft violently to the left and increased power. They had been orbiting ten miles out from Keflavik, watching the smoke and flames rising from their home field, when four ma.s.sive objects pa.s.sed under them.

"It's a-" the copilot breathed. "Where-"

The four Lebeds were moving at over forty knots, bouncing roughly over the four- to five-foot waves. About eighty feet long and thirty-five wide, each had a pair of ducted propellers atop, immediately forward of a tall,'aircraft-type rudder painted with the Soviet naval ensign, a red hammer and sickle over a blue stripe. They were already too close to sh.o.r.e for the Orion to use any of her weapons.

The pilot watched incredulously as he approached, and any doubts he had ended as a 30mm cannon fired at them. It missed wide, but the pilot jerked the Orion around to the west.

"Tacco, tell Keflavik ASW Ops they got company coming. Four armed hovercraft, type unknown, but Russian-and they gotta be carrying troops."

"Flight," the tactical coordinator reported back thirty seconds later. "Keflavik is off the air. ASW Ops Center is gone; the tower is gone, too. I'm trying to raise the Sentries. Maybe we can get a fighter or two."

"Okay, but keep trying Keflavik. Get our radar lit off. We'll see if we can find where they came from. Get our Harpoons lit off, too."

KEFLAVIK, ICELAND.

Edwards was surveying the damage through binoculars when he heard the message come in-and could not answer it. Now what do I do? He looked around and saw one useful thing, a Hammer Ace radio. He took the oversized backpack and ran down the steps. He had to find the Marine officers and warn them.

The hovercraft raced up Djupivogur Cove and came to land a minute later less than a mile from the airbase. The troopers gratefully noted the smoother ride as their craft spread out to line abreast, three hundred yards between them as they tore across the flat, rocky gorse toward the NATO air base.

"What in the h.e.l.l-" a Marine corporal said. Like a dinosaur coming to the picnic, a ma.s.sive object appeared on the horizon, apparently coming overland at high speed.

"You! Marine, get over here!" Edwards screamed. A jeep with three enlisted men stopped, then raced toward him. "Get me to your CO fast!"

"CO's dead, sir," the sergeant said. "CP took a hit, Lieutenant-f.u.c.kin' gone!"

"Where's the alternate?"

"Elementary school."

"Go, I gotta let them know, we got bad guys coming in from the sea-s.h.i.+t! You got a radio."

"Tried calling, sir, but no answer." The sergeant turned south down International Highway. At least three missiles had landed here, judging by the smoke. All around, the small city that had been the Keflavik air base was a loose collection of smoking fires. A number of people in uniforms were running around, doing things that Edwards didn't have time to guess at. Was anybody in charge?

The elementary school had also been hit. The third of the building still standing was a ma.s.s of flame.

"Sergeant, that radio work?"

"Yes, sir, but it ain't tuned into the perimeter guards."

"Well, fix it!"

"Right." The sergeant dialed into a different frequency.

The Lebeds halted in two pairs, each a quarter mile from the perimeter. The bow door on each opened, and out rolled a pair of BMD infantry a.s.sault vehicles, followed by mortar crews who began at once to set up their weapons. The 73mm guns and missile launchers on the minitanks began to engage the Marine defensive positions as the reinforced company in each vehicle advanced slowly and skillfully, using their cover and taking advantage of their fire support. The a.s.sault force had been handpicked from units that had fought in Afghanistan. Every man had been under fire before. The Lebeds immediately turned crablike and sped back to sea to pick up yet more infantrymen. Already, elements of two elite airborne battalions were engaging a single company of Marines.

The frantic words on the platoon radio nets were all too clear. The base electrical supply was cut, and along with it the main radios. The Marine officers were dead, and there was no one to coordinate the defense. Edwards wondered if anyone really knew what the h.e.l.l was going on. He decided that it probably didn't matter.

"Sergeant, we gotta get the h.e.l.l outa here!"

"You mean run away!"

"I mean get away and report what's happened here. Looks like we lost this one, Sarge. Somebody's gotta report in so they don't send any more planes to land here. What's the fastest way to Reykjavik?"

"Dammit, sir, there's Marines out there-"

"You wanna be a Russian prisoner? We lost! I say we gotta report in and you'll do what I G.o.dd.a.m.ned tell you, Sergeant, you got that!"

"Aye aye, sir."

"How we fixed for weapons?"

On his own, a private ran to what was left of the school. A Marine was lying there facedown, a pool of red spreading from some invisible, fatal wound. The private came back with the man's M-16, field pack, and ammo belt, handing the collection to Edwards.

"We all got one now, sir."

"Let's get the h.e.l.l outa here."

The sergeant threw the jeep into gear. "How we gonna report in?"

"Let me worry about that, okay?"

"You say so." The sergeant turned the jeep completely around, back up International, toward the wrecked satellite antennae.

MV JULIUS FUCIK.

"Aircraft sighted, port bow!" a lookout screamed. Kherov raised his binoculars to his eyes and swore softly. He saw what could only be missiles dangling from each wing of the multiengined aircraft.

PENGUIN 8.

"Well, lookie what we got here," the Orion's pilot said quietly. "Our old friend, the Doctor Lykes. Combat, Flight, what else is around?"

"Nothin', Flight, not another surface s.h.i.+p for over a hundred miles." They had just completed a complete circuit of the horizon, scanning with their surface-search radar.

"And it's for G.o.dd.a.m.ned sure those hovercraft didn't come in off no submarine." The pilot adjusted course to pa.s.s within two miles of the s.h.i.+p, with the sun behind the four-engine patrol aircraft. His copilot examined the s.h.i.+p through binoculars. On-board TV cameras operated by the weapons crew would provide even better close-up pictures. They saw a pair of helicopters warming up. Someone aboard the Fucik panicked and fired a hand-held SA-7 missile. It failed to lock onto the Orion and blazed off directly into the low sun.

MV JULIUS FUCIK.

"Idiot!" Kherov growled. The smoke from the rocket motor didn't even come close to the aircraft. "He'll shoot at us now. All ahead flank! Helmsman, be alert!"

PENGUIN 8.

"Okay," the pilot said, turning away from the merchantman. "Tacco, we got a target for your Harpoons. Any luck with Keflavik?"

"Negative, but Sentry One is relaying the data into Scotland. They say a bunch of missiles. .h.i.t Keflavik, looks like the place is closed whether we keep it or not."

The pilot cursed briefly. "Okay. We'll blow this pirate right out of the water."

"Roge, Flight," the tactical coordinator replied. "Two minutes before we can launch the-d.a.m.n! I got a red light on the portside Harpoon. The sucker won't arm."

"Well, play with the b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" the pilot growled. It didn't work. In the haste to get off the ground, the missile's control cables had not been fully attached by the weary ground crew.

"Okay, I got one working. Ready!"

"Shoot!"

The missile dropped clear of the wing and fell thirty feet before its engine ignited. Fucik's weather deck was lined with paratroopers, many holding hand-launched SAMs and hoping to intercept the incoming ASM.

"Tacco, see if you can raise an F-15. Maybe they can rip this baby up with twenty-millimeters."

"Doing that already. We got a pair of Eagles coming in, but they're skosh fuel. One or two pa.s.ses'll be all they can manage."

Forward, the pilot had binoculars to his eyes, watching the white-painted missile skimming the wavetops. "Go, baby, go..."

MV JULIUS FUCIK.

"Rocket coming in, low on the horizon, portside." At least we have good lookouts, Kherov thought. He estimated the distance to the horizon, and gave the missile a speed of a thousand kilometers per hour . . .

"Right hard rudder!" he screamed. The helmsman threw the wheel over as far as it would go and held it down.

"You cannot run from a missile, Kherov," the General said quietly.