Red storm rising - By Tom Clancy Page 0,106

here a month," Smith explained. "Prive, you ain't never seen a windy day till you been here in the winter. The only way a tree can grow here is if you set her in concrete. I seen wind strong enough to blow a deuce-and-a-half right off the road."

"Airplanes." Garcia had the binoculars. He pointed northeast. "Lots."

Edwards took the field glasses. They were just dots, but they grew rapidly into shapes. "I count six, big ones, look like C-141s ... that makes them IL-76s, I think. Maybe some fighters, too. Sergeant, get a pad and a pencil--we have to do a count."

It lasted for hours. The fighters landed first, rolling off to the refueling area at once, then taxiing to one of the shorter runways. One aircraft came in every three minutes, and Edwards couldn't help be impressed. The IL-76, code-named the Candid by the NATO countries, was an awkward, ungainly design, like its American counterpart. The pilots landed, stopped, and rolled their aircraft onto the taxiway off the main north-south runway as though they had practiced for months--as Edwards rather suspected they had. They unloaded at the airport terminal building, then rolled to the refueling area and took off, coordinating neatly with the landing aircraft. Those lifting off came very close to their hill, close enough that Edwards was able to copy down a few tail numbers. When the count reached fifty, he set up his radio.

"This is Edwards transmitting from Hill 152. Do you copy, over."

"Roger, copy," the voice came back at once. "From now on, your code name is Beagle. We are Doghouse. Continue your report."

"Roger, Doghouse. We have a Soviet airlift in progress. We have counted fifty--five-zero--Soviet transport aircraft, India-Lima-Seven-Six type. They are coming into Reykjavik, unloading, and rolling back out to the northeast."

"Beagle, are you sure, repeat are you sure of your count?"

"That is affirmative, Doghouse. The takeoff run brings them right over our heads, and we got a paper record. No shit, mister, five-zero aircraft"--Smith held up his pad--"make that five-three aircraft, and the operation is continuing. We also have six single-seat aircraft sitting at the end of runway four. I can't make out the type, but they sure as hell look like fighters. You copy that, Doghouse?"

"I copy five-three transports and six possible fighters. Okay, Beagle, we gotta get this information upstairs fast. Sit tight and we'll keep to the regular transmission schedule. Is your position safe?"

That's a good question, Edwards thought. "I hear you, Doghouse. We're staying put. Out." He took off the headset. "We safe, Sergeant'?"

"Sure, Lieutenant, I haven't felt this safe since Beirut."

HAFNARFJORDUR, ICELAND

"A beautiful operation, Comrade General." The Ambassador beamed.

"Your support was most valuable," the General lied through his teeth. The Soviet embassy to Iceland had over sixty members, almost all intelligence types of one sort or another. Instead of doing something useful, like seizing the telephone exchange, on donning their uniforms they had been rounding up local political figures. Most of the members of Iceland's ancient Parliament, the Althing, had been arrested. Necessary, the General agreed, but too roughly done, with one of them killed in the process and two more shot. Better to be gentle with them, he thought. This was not Afghanistan. The Icelanders had no warrior tradition, and a gentler approach might have shown better returns. But that aspect of the operation was under KGB control, its control team already in place with the embassy personnel. "With your permission, there is much yet to be done."

The General went back up the jacob's ladder onto the Fucik. Problems had developed in off-loading the division's missile battalion. The barges that contained that equipment had been damaged by the missile strike. The newly installed landing doors had jammed solid and had to be torched free. He shrugged. Up to now, Polar Glory had been a near textbook operation. Not bad for a scratch crew. Most of his rolling equipment--two hundred armored vehicles and many trucks--had already been mated with their troops and dispersed. The SA-11 battalion was all that remained.

"Bad news, Comrade General," the SAM commander reported.

"Must I wait for it?" the General asked testily. It had been a very long day.

"We have three usable rockets."

"Three?"

"Both these barges were ruptured when the American missile hit us. The shock damage accounted for several. The main damage came from the water used to fight the fire."

"Those are mobile missiles," the General objected. "Surely the designers anticipated that they might get wet!"

"Not with saltwater, Comrade. This is the army version, not the