"Master Arm." Ralston ran his hands across the buttons. "Torpedo Select, position one."
"Set initial search depth two-fifty; course-select, Snake." Ralston made the proper settings.
"Set."
"Okay, Willy, get ready for Yankee-search," O'Malley ordered, meaning a search using active sonar.
"Ready, sir. Bearing to contact now two-zero-zero, changing right-to-left rapidly."
"Hammer his ass!" O'Malley switched the sonar signals into his headset.
Willy thumbed the button and the sonar transducer fired off a series of pings. The wave fronts of sound energy reflected off the submarine's hull and came back to the transducer. The contact suddenly increased engine power.
"Positive contact, bearing one-eight-eight, range eight hundred yards."
Ralston fed the last numbers into the fire-control system: "Set!"
The pilot brought his thumb across the stick to a button on the right side and pressed it home. The Mark-46 torpedo dropped free of its shackles and plunged into the sea. "Torp away."
"Willy, secure pinging." O'Malley keyed his radio. "Romeo, we just dropped on a diving two-screw submarine, approximately eight hundred yards from us on a bearing of one-eight-eight. Torpedo is in the water now. Stand by."
The Mark-46 torpedo was set on a "snake" pursuit pattern, a series of undulating curves that carried it in a southerly direction. Alerted by the helicopter's sonar, the Soviet submarine was running at flank speed and diving to evade the torpedo.
"Hammer, Romeo, be advised that Hatchet is en route to you in case your torp misses, over."
"Roger that," O'Malley acknowledged.
"It's got him!" Willy said excitedly. The torpedo was on automatic pinging as it closed with the submarine. The captain made a hard right turn, but the fish was too close to be fooled.
"Hit! That's a hit!" Willy said almost as loudly as the noise of the explosion. Directly ahead of them the surface seemed to jump, but no gout of foam leaped up. The torpedo had gone off too deep for that.
"Well," O'Malley said. In all his years of practice he'd never fired a live fish at a live sub. The sounds of the dying sub seemed the saddest thing he'd ever heard. Some oil bubbled to the surface. "Romeo, we're calling that one a kill. Tell the bosun to get out his paintbrush. We are now orbiting to look for wreckage and possible survivors." Another frigate had rescued the entire crew from a downed Russian Bear the previous day. They were already on the mainland for interrogation. But there would be none from this incident. O'Malley circled for ten minutes, then turned for home.
"Beagle, you all fed and rested?" Doghouse asked.
"I guess you could say that." Edwards had been waiting for this, but now that it had come it sounded ominous enough.
"We want you to patrol the southern shore of the Hvammsfj"rdur and let us know of any Russian activity you see. We are particularly interested in the town of Stykkisholmur. That's a small port about forty miles west of you. As before, your orders are to evade, observe, and report. You got that?"
"Roger. How long we got?"
"I can't say that, Beagle. I don't know. You want to move right along, though."
"Okay, we'll be moving in ten minutes. Out." Edwards dismantled the antenna, then stowed the complete radio assembly in the backpack. "People, it's time to leave this mountain retreat. Sergeant Nichols?"
"Yes, sir?" Nichols and Smith came over together.
"Were you briefed on what we're supposed to be up to?"
"No, sir. Our orders were to relieve your party and await further instructions." Edwards had already seen the sergeant's map case. He had cards for the whole western Icelandic coast, all but their drop zone in a pristine condition. Of course, the purpose of their coastal reconnaissance was clear enough, wasn't it? The lieutenant took out a tactical map and plotted their course west.
"Okay, we'll pair off. Sergeant Smith, you take the point along with one of our new friends. Nichols, you take Rodgers with you and cover the back door. You both have a radio, and I'll take the third and keep the rest of the party with me. The groups stay within sight of each other. We keep to the high ground as much as possible. The first hard-surface road we hit is ten miles west of here. If you see anything, you drop and report in to me. We are supposed to avoid contact. No hero crap, okay? Good, we'll move out in ten minutes." Edwards assembled his gear.
"Where we go, Michael?" Vigdis asked.
"Stykkisholmur," he answered. "You feel okay?"
"I can walk with you, yes." She sat down beside him. "And when we get to Stykkisholmur?"
Mike smiled. "They didn't tell me that."
"Why they never tell you anything?"
"It's called security. That means the less we know, the better it is for us."
"Stupid," she replied. Edwards didn't know how to explain that she was both right and wrong.
"I think when we get there, we can start thinking about a normal life again."
Her face changed. "What is normal life, Michael?"
