"Well, Sarge, we got good concealment here. Hell, a guy fifty yards away would have trouble spotting us in this crap. I say we wait for it to get a little dark tonight and get north of the road. Once we get past that, the population thins out-at least that's what the map says. It ought to be fairly safe once we get away from the population centers."
"What will our friends on the other side of that radio say about that?"
"I guess we better find out." Edwards checked his watch. He was nearly two hours overdue. Doghouse was annoyed with him.
"What kept you off the air?"
"We just moved about eight klicks. Maybe you'd prefer we waited around and counted the Russians picking over the wreckage. Listen up, we're all alone here and that's a little scary, you know?"
"Understood, Beagle. Okay, we got orders for you. You have a map of the area you're in?"
"That's affirm, a one-to-fifty-thousand one."
"Okay, they want you to move to Grafarholt. There's a hill there. You're supposed to find a safe place near there and belly-up for further instructions."
"Hey, Doghouse, before we get any farther, what if Ivan starts playing DF games and tries to track us down from our radio transmissions?"
"Okay, about time you asked that. The radio you got is encrypted UHF, single-sideband. That means it's got thousands of channels, and having him lock into one is not real likely. Second, you have a directional antenna. When you transmit, make sure there's a hill between you and them. UHF is line-of-sight only. So you ought to be safe on that score, too. Happy?"
"It helps."
"How soon can you get to that hill for us?"
Edwards looked at the map. About seven kilometers. A comfortable two-hour walk in peacetime, maybe three or four not so comfortable hours, given the terrain here. They'd have to wait for darkness, detour around a few villages... and there was that one other little thing to be concerned about... "Twelve hours, minimum."
"Roger, understood, Beagle. Copy twelve hours. That's fine. We'll be calling for you then. Anything else to report?"
"Some activity on the road below us. Several trucks, Army-type, painted green. A lot of personal vehicles, four-by-fours. No armored stuff, though."
"Okay. Take your time and play it safe. Your mission is to avoid contact and report. We'll be here if you need us. Out."
At Doghouse in northern Scotland, the communications officer leaned back in his swivel chair.
"The lad sounds somewhat rattled," an intelligence officer commented over his tea.
"Not quite SAS material, is he?" another asked.
"Let's not be too hasty," said a third. "He's bright, something of an athlete, and he had the presence of mind to escape when events called for it. Seems a bit high-strung, but given his position that's understandable, I think."
The first pointed on the map. "Twelve hours to go this little distance?" "Across hilly, open terrain, with a whole bloody division of paras running about in lorries and BMPs, and with a sun that never sets, what the hell do you expect of four men?" demanded the fourth, a man dressed in civilian clothes who had been gravely wounded while in the 22nd SAS Regiment. "If that lad had any sense, he'd have packed it in yesterday. Interesting psychological profile here. If he manages to get to this hill on time for us, I think he'll do all right."
The convoy had scattered. Toland looked at the radar display, an expanding ring of ships, now beginning to turn back east to reassemble. One merchantman had been sunk, another badly damaged and limping west. Three frigates were trying to locate the submarine that had done the damage. Gallery had gotten a possible contact and fired a torpedo at it, without result. Four helicopters were dropping sonobuoys in hope of reacquiring it, and a half-dozen sonars were pinging away, but so far it looked as though the submarine had evaded the angry escorts.
"That was a beautiful approach," the tactical action officer observed grudgingly. "His only goof was hitting the back end of the convoy."
"His fire control wasn't all that great," Morris said. "They say they had sonar readings on five fish. Figure three targets. Two hits for a kill on one, and a scratch hit on another for damage. The other was a clean miss. Not a bad afternoon's work. What's he doing now, people?"
"How much you want to bet it's an old nuc boat?" TAO asked. "Their fire-control systems aren't up to current standards, and they can't run very fast and still stay covert. He just barely made the intercept, and bit off two ships. When they scattered he didn't have the speed to pursue without advertising his position, and he's too smart for that."
"Then what did he do?" ASW asked.
"He was in close when he launched. Ducked inside the convoy and went deep. Used the noise from the thundering herd to mask himself, then motored off clear..."
