"True. You're quite correct, Bob. The problem is, how do we hit the Backfires? They appear to be flying directly down over Iceland. Fine, we have a known area of transit, but it's protected by MiGs, laddy. We'd end up sending fighters to battle fighters."
"So we try something indirect. We gun for the tankers they're using."
The fighter pilots present, two squadron operations officers had silently been watching the intelligence types talk.
"How the hell are we going to find their tankers?" one asked now.
"You think they can refuel thirty or more bombers without some radio chatter?" Toland asked. "I've listened in on Russian tanker ops by satellite, and I know there's chatter. Let's say we can get a snooper up there, and he finds out where they're tanking. Why not then put some Toms astride their flightpath home?"
"Hit them after they tank the strike the fighter jock mused.
"It won't do diddly for the strike today, say, but it'll hurt the bastards tomorrow. If we succeed even once, then Ivan has to change his operational pattern, maybe send fighters out with them. If nothing else, we'll have them reacting to us for a change."
"And perhaps take the heat off us," the group captain went on. "Right, let's look at this."
The map didn't begin to show how hard it would be. The Skula River had carved a series of gorges over the centuries. The river was high, and the falls generated a cloud of spray from which a rainbow arched in the morning sun. It made Edwards angry. He'd always liked rainbows before, but this one meant the rocks they had to climb down were slick and wet. He figured it to be two hundred feet down to a floor of granite boulders. It looked a lot farther than that.
"You ever do any rock climbin', Lieutenant?" Smith asked.
"Nope, nothing like this. You?"
"Yeah, 'cept we mostly practice goin' up. This here oughta be easier. Don't worry too much about slipping. These boots hold pretty good. Just make sure you set your feet on something solid, okay? And you take it nice and slow. Let Garcia lead off. I already like this place, skipper. See that pool below the falls? There's fish in there, and I don't think anybody'll ever spot us down this hole.
"Okay, you watch the lady."
"Right. Garcia, lead off. Rodgers, cover the rear." Smith slung his rifle across his back as he walked to Vigdis.
"Ma'am, you think you can handle this?" Smith held out his hand.
"I have been here before." She almost smiled until she remembered who had brought her here, and how many times. She didn't take his hand.
"That's good, Miss Vigdis. Maybe you can teach us a thing or two. You be careful, now."
It would have been fairly easy except for their heavy packs. Each man carried a fifty-pound load. The added weight and their fatigue affected their balance, with the result that someone watching from a distance might have taken the Marines for old women crossing an icy street. It was a fifty-degree slope down, in some places almost vertical, with some paths worn into the slopes, perhaps by the wild deer that throve here. For the first time fatigue worked in their favor. Fresher, they might have tried to move more quickly; as it was, each man was near the end of his string, and feared his own weakness more than the rocks. It took over an hour, but they made it down with nothing worse than cuts on their hands and bruises somewhere else.
Garcia crossed the river to the east side, where the canyon wall was steeper, and they camped out on a rocky shelf ten feet above the water. Edwards checked his watch. They had been on the move continuously for more than two days. Fifty-six hours. Each found himself a place in the deep shadows.
First they ate. Edwards downed a can of something without troubling to see what it was. His burps tasted like fish. Smith let the two privates sleep first, and gave his own sleeping bag to Vigdis. The girl fell mercifully asleep almost as quickly as the Marines. The sergeant made a quick tour of the area while Edwards watched, amazed that he had any energy left at all.
"This is a good spot, skipper," the sergeant pronounced finally, collapsing down next to his officer. "Smoke?"
"I don't smoke. Thought you were out."
"I was. The lady's dad did, though, and I got a few packs." Smith lit an unfiltered cigarette with a Zippo lighter bearing the globe and anchor of the Marine Corps. He took a long pull. "Jesus, ain't this wonderful!"
"I figure we can spend a day here to rest up."
"Sounds good to me." Smith leaned back. "You held up pretty good, Lieutenant."
"I ran track at the Air Force Academy. Ten-thousand-meter stuff, some marathons, that sort of thing."
Smith gave him a baleful look. "You mean I've been trying to walk a damned runner into the ground?"
