Again, Lieutenant Potter's team of commandos helped matters. They went from house to house, locating the captains and mates of local fishing boats. The skilled seamen were flown to the lead ships to help pilot the big gray amphibs through the tightest of the passages. By noon the first LST had her ramp on land, and the first Marine tanks rolled onto the island. Right behind them were trucks loaded with steel, pierced-plank runway material, which was dispatched east to a flat piece of ground preselected as a base for Marine helicopters and Harrier jump-jet fighters.
Once the fleet helicopters had completed their task of marking the rocks and shoals, they returned to moving troops. The troop carriers were escorted by SeaCobra gunships and Harriers as they extended the Marine perimeter to the hills overlooking the Hvita River. There contact was made with outlying Russian observation posts and the first real fighting began.
"So much for our intelligence reports," General Andreyev muttered. From his headquarters he could see the massive shapes steaming slowly into view. They were the battleships Iowa and New Jersey, accompanied by missile cruisers for air defense.
"We can engage them now," the artillery chief said.
"Then do so." While you can. He turned to his communications officer. "Has word gotten out to Severomorsk?"
"Yes, Northern Fleet will sortie its aircraft today and submarines are being sent as well."
"Tell them their primary targets are the American amphibious ships at Stykkisholmur."
"But we are not sure they are there. The harbor is too dangerous for-"
"Where the hell else would they be?" Andreyev demanded. "Our observation posts there do not answer us, and we have reports of enemy helicopters moving south and east from that direction. Think, man!"
"Comrade General, the Navy's primary objective will be the enemy carrier force."
"Then explain to our comrades in blue that carrier aircraft cannot take Iceland away from us, but their fucking Marines can!"
Andreyev saw smoke rise from one of his heavy gun batteries. The sound followed a few seconds later. The first Russian salvo landed several thousand yards short.
"Fire mission!"
Iowa had not fired her guns in anger since Korea, but now the massive sixteen-inch rifles turned slowly to starboard. In the central gunnery control station, a technician worked the joystick controls for a Mastiff remotely piloted vehicle. The miniature airplane purchased a few years earlier from Israel circled eight thousand feet above the Russian gun battery, its television camera shifting from one emplacement to another.
"I count six guns, look like one-fifty-five or so. Call 'em six-inch."
The precise location of the Russian battery was plotted. Next the computer analyzed data on air density, barometric pressure, relative humidity, wind direction and speed, and a dozen other factors. The gunnery officer watched his status board for the solution light to come up.
"Commence firing."
The center gun of the number two turret loosed a single round. A millimeter-band radar atop the after director-tower tracked the shell, comparing its flight path with the one predicted by the fire-control computer. Not surprisingly, there were some errors in predicted wind velocity. The radar's own computer forwarded the new empirical readings to the master system, and the remaining eight main-battery guns altered position slightly. They fired even before the first round landed.
"Mother of God!" Andreyev whispered. The orange flash obscured the ship momentarily. Someone to his left shouted, perhaps thinking that one of the Russian artillery rounds had struck home. Andreyev had no such illusions. His artillerymen were out of practice and had not yet bracketed their target. He turned his field glasses to his gun battery, four kilometers away.
The first round landed fifteen hundred meters southeast of the nearest gun. The next eight landed two hundred meters behind them.
"Get that battery moved right now!"
"Drop two hundred and fire for effect!"
Already the guns were going through their thirty-second reload cycle. Inert gas ejected scraps of the silk propellant-bags out the muzzles to clear the bores, then the breeches opened and loading ramps unfolded into place. The bores were checked for dangerous residue, then elevators from the handling rooms rose to the back edge of the ramps and the shells were rammed into the waiting gun barrels. The heavy power bags were dropped onto the ramps and rammed behind the shells. The ramp came up, the breeches closed hydraulically, and the guns elevated. The turret crews moved out of the loading compartments and held their hands over their muff-style ear-protectors. In fire-control fingers depressed the keys and the breeches surged backwards once more. The cycle began again, the teenage seamen performing the same tasks that their grandfathers had done forty years before.
