"We were told that NATO was politically divided and militarily uncoordinated. How would you evaluate that report, Comrade Major?" Alekseyev asked sharply. "I can't go through military channels with that sort of request, can I? Write up your travel orders. I want you back here in thirty-six hours. I'm sure we'll still be here."
"They should be there in half an hour."
"Roger that, Doghouse", Edwards replied. "Like I said, no Russians visible. We haven't seen any aircraft all day. There was some movement on the road west of us six hours ago. Four jeep-type vehicles. Too far off to tell what was in them, and they were southbound. The coast is clear. Over."
"Okay, let us know when they get there."
"Will do. Out." Edwards killed the radio. "People, we got some friends coming in."
"Who and when, skipper?" Smith asked at once.
"Didn't say, but they'll be here in half an hour. Must be an air drop."
"They come take us out?" Vigdis asked.
"No, they can't land a plane here. Sarge, you got any opinions?"
"Same as yours, I 'spect."
The plane was early, and for once Edwards saw it first. The C-130 Hercules four-engine transport skimmed down from the northwest, only a few hundred feet over the eastern slope of the ridge they were on. A stiff breeze blew from the west as four small shapes emerged from the aft cargo door and the Hercules turned abruptly north to leave the area. Edwards concentrated on the descending parachutes. Instead of drifting down into the valley below them, the parachutists were coming straight down to a rock-filled slope.
"Oh, shit, he misjudged the wind! Come on!"
The parachutes dropped below them as they ran downhill. One by one they stopped, losing their shape in the semidarkness as the men landed. Edwards and his party moved rapidly, trying to remember where the men had landed. Their camouflage 'chutes turned invisible as Soon as they touched the ground.
"Halt!"
"Okay, okay. We're here to meet you", Edwards said.
"Identify yourself!" The voice had an English accent.
"Code name Beagle."
"Proper name?"
"Edwards, first lieutenant, U.S. Air Force."
"Approach slowly, mate."
Mike went forward alone. At length he saw a vague shape half-hidden by a rock. The shape held a submachine gun.
"Who are you?"
"Sergeant Nichols, Royal Marines. You picked a bloody poor place to receive us, Lieutenant."
"I didn't do it!" Edwards answered. "We didn't know you were coming until an hour ago."
"Balls-up, another bloody balls-up." The man stood and walked forward with a pronounced limp. "Parachuting's dangerous enough without coming into a fucking rock garden!" Another figure came up.
"We found the lieutenant-I think he's dead!"
"Need help?" Mike asked.
"I need to wake up and find myself home in bed."
Edwards soon found that the party sent to rescue him-or whatever their mission was-had gotten off to a disastrous start. The lieutenant in command of the group had landed on one boulder and fallen backward on another. His head hung from the rest of his body as if on a string. Nichols had sprained his ankle badly, and the other two were uninjured but shaken. It took over an hour to locate all their gear. There was no time for sentiment. The lieutenant was wrapped in his parachute and covered with loose rocks. Edwards led the rest back to his perch on the hilltop. At least they'd brought a new battery pack for his radio.
"Doghouse, this is Beagle, and things suck, over."
"What took so long?"
"Tell that Herky-Bird driver to get a new eye doctor. The Marines you sent here got their boss killed, and their sergeant ripped his ankle up."
"Have you been spotted?"
"Negative. They landed in rocks. It's a miracle they weren't all killed. We're back on the hilltop. We covered our tracks."
Sergeant Nichols was a smoker. He and Smith found a sheltered spot to light up.
"Sounds rather excitable, your lieutenant."
"He's only a wing-wiper, but he's doin' all right. How's the ankle?"
"I'll have to walk on it whether it's fit or not. Does he know what he's about?"
"The skipper? I watched him kill three Russians with a knife. That good enough?"
"Bloody hell."
"Captain?"
Morris started at the hand on his shoulder. He'd just wanted to lie down in his stateroom for a few minutes after conducting helicopter night landing practice, and-he checked his watch. After midnight. His face was sweaty. The dream had just started again. He looked up at his executive officer.
"What is it, XO?"
"We got a request to check something out. Probably a snowbird, but well, see for yourself "
Morris took the dispatch with him to his private bathroom, tucked it in his pocket, then washed his face quickly.
"'Unusual contact repeated several times, have attempted localization without success'? What the hell is this supposed to be?" he asked, toweling off.
"Beats the hell out of me, skipper. Forty degrees, thirty minutes north, sixty-nine, fifty west. They got a location but no ID. I'm having the chart pulled now."
