Toland went over the sketchy data that had come in the dispatch from Norfolk. "From what we know, it was a pretty off-the-wall plan, but it seems to have worked."
"Nobody ever said Ivan was dumb," Svenson commented sourly. "What about our orders?"
"Nothing yet."
"How many troops on Iceland?" the Admiral asked.
"No word on that, sir. The P-3 crew watched two relays of four hovercraft. At a hundred men per load, that's eight hundred men, at least a battalion. probably more like a regiment. The ship is large enough to carry the equipment load for a full brigade and then some. It's in one of Gorshkov's books that this sort of ship is uniquely useful for landing operations."
"That's too much for a MAU to take on, sir," Svenson said. A Marine Amphibious Unit consisted of a reinforced battalion of troops.
"With three carriers backing them up?" Admiral Baker snorted, then adopted a more thoughtful pose. "You could be right at that. What does this do to the air threat to us?"
"Iceland had a squadron of F-15s and a couple AWACS birds. That's a lot of protection for us-gone. We've lost raid warning, attrition, and raid-tracking capabilities." Svenson didn't like this at all. "We should be able to handle their Backfires ourselves, but it would have been a lot easier with those Eagles running interference."
Baker sipped at his coffee. "Our orders haven't changed."
"What else is going on in the world?" Svenson asked.
"Norway is being hit hard, but no details yet. Same story in Germany. The Air Force is supposed to have gotten a heavy hit in on the Soviets, again no details. It's still too early for any substantive intel assessments of what's happening."
"If Ivan was able to suppress the Norwegians and fully neutralize Iceland, the air threat against this battle group has at least doubled," Svenson said. "I have to get talking with my air group."
The captain left. Admiral Baker was silent for several minutes. Toland had to stay put. He hadn't been dismissed yet. "They just hit Keflavik?"
"Yes, sir."
"Find out what else is there and get back to me."
"Yes, sir." As Toland walked back to the intelligence shack, he pondered what he'd told his wife: The carrier is the best-protected ship in the fleet. But the captain was worried.
They were almost thinking of it as home. The position was at least easily defensible. No one could approach Hill 152 without being seen, and that meant crossing a lava field, then climbing up a steep, bare slope. Garcia found a small lake a kilometer away, evidently filled with water from the winter snows that had only lately melted. Sergeant Smith observed that it would have made a good mixer for bourbon, if they had any bourbon.
They were hungry, but all had four days of rations along, and they feasted on such delicacies as canned lima beans and ham. Edwards learned a new and indelicate name for this item.
"Anybody here know how to cook a sheep?" Rodgers asked. Several miles south of them was a large herd of the animals.
"Cook with what?" Edwards asked.
"Oh." Rodgers looked around. There wasn't a tree in sight. "How come there ain't no trees?"
"Rodgers only been here a month," Smith explained. "Prive, you ain't never seen a windy day till you been here in the winter. The only way a tree can grow here is if you set her in concrete. I seen wind strong enough to blow a deuce-and-a-half right off the road."
"Airplanes." Garcia had the binoculars. He pointed northeast. "Lots."
Edwards took the field glasses. They were just dots, but they grew rapidly into shapes. "I count six, big ones, look like C-141s... that makes them IL-76s, I think. Maybe some fighters, too. Sergeant, get a pad and a pencil-we have to do a count."
It lasted for hours. The fighters landed first, rolling off to the refueling area at once, then taxiing to one of the shorter runways. One aircraft came in every three minutes, and Edwards couldn't help be impressed. The IL-76, code-named the Candid by the NATO countries, was an awkward, ungainly design, like its American counterpart. The pilots landed, stopped, and rolled their aircraft onto the taxiway off the main north-south runway as though they had practiced for months-as Edwards rather suspected they had. They unloaded at the airport terminal building, then rolled to the refueling area and took off, coordinating neatly with the landing aircraft. Those lifting off came very close to their hill, close enough that Edwards was able to copy down a few fail numbers. When the count reached fifty, he set up his radio.
"This is Edwards transmitting from Hill 152. Do you copy, over."
"Roger, copy," the voice came back at once. "From now on, your code name is Beagle. We are Doghouse. Continue your report."
"Roger, Doghouse. We have a Soviet airlift in progress. We have counted fifty-five-zero-Soviet transport aircraft, India-Lima-Seven-Six type. They are coming into Reykjavik, unloading, and rolling back out to the northeast."
"Beagle, are you sure, repeat are you sure of your count."
