warning. Alekseyev blinked in surprise at the sudden gout of light overhead, then grabbed for his seatbelt as the helicopter turned hard left and dropped like a stone. It was almost in the trees when the Sidewinder chopped off the tail rotor. Sergetov awoke and shouted in surprise and alarm. The Mi-24 spun in the air as it crashed into the trees and bounced the last fifty feet to the ground. The main rotor came apart, sending pieces in all directions, and the sliding door on the left side of the aircraft popped off as though made of plastic. Alekseyev went out right behind it, dragging Sergetov with him. Once again his instincts had saved him. The two officers were twenty meters away when the fuel tanks exploded. They never heard or saw the Phantoms that continued west to safety.
"Are you hurt, Vanya?" the General asked.
"I didn't even piss my pants. That must mean I'm a seasoned veteran." The joke didn't work. The young man's voice shook along with his hands. "Where the hell are we?"
"An excellent question." Alekseyev looked around. He hoped to see lights, but the entire country had a blackout in force, and Soviet units had learned the hard way about using lights on the highways. "We have to find a road. We'll head south until we hit one."
"Where is south?"
"Opposite from north. That is north." The General pointed to a star, then turned to select another. "That one will lead us south."
SEVEROMORSK, R.S.F.S.R.
Admiral Yuri Novikov monitored the progress of the battle from his underground headquarters a few kilometers from his main fleet base. He was stung by the loss of his principal long-range weapon--the Backfire bombers--but the way the Politburo had reacted to the missile attack was a greater shock. Somehow the politicians thought that it meant a ballistic-missile attack from the same area was possible, and no amount of argument to the contrary would change their minds. As if the Americans would risk their precious ballistic-missile subs in such restricted waters! the Admiral growled to himself. He was up against fast-attack boats--he was certain of it--and he was being forced to go after them with half his assets to prevent their escape. He didn't have that many assets to go around.
The Commander-in-Chief of Soviet Northern Fleet had had a good war to this point. The operation to seize Iceland had gone almost perfectly--the boldest Soviet attack ever staged! The very next day he had smashed a carrier battle group, an epic victory for his forces. His plan to use his missile-armed bombers and submarines in combination against the convoys had worked well, particularly after he'd decided to use the bombers to eliminate the escort ships first. Submarine losses to date had been heavy, but he'd expected that. The NATO navies had practiced antisubmarine warfare for generations. There had to be losses. He'd made mistakes, Novikov admitted to himself. He should have gone after the escorts in a systematic way sooner--but Moscow wanted the merchants killed most of all, and he'd acceded to the "suggestion."
Things were changing now. The sudden loss of his Backfire force--it would be out of action for another five days--forced him to take his dedicated anticarrier submarine teams and send them against the convoys, which meant crossing NATO's picket line of submarines, and losses there were heavy, too. His force of Bear reconnaissance bombers was hard hit. The damned war was supposed to be over by now, Novikov thought angrily. He had a powerful surface force waiting to escort additional troops to Iceland, but he couldn't move that group until the campaign in Germany was within sight of its conclusion. No battle plan survives the first contact with the enemy, he reminded himself.
"Comrade Admiral, satellite photographs have arrived." His aide handed over a leather dispatch case. The fleet intelligence chief arrived a few minutes later with his senior photo-interpretation expert. The photos were spread out across a table.
"Ah, we have a problem here," the photo expert said.
Novikov didn't need the expert to tell him that. The piers at Little Creek, Virginia, were empty. The American amphibious assault force had sailed with a full Marine division. Novikov had watched the progress of Pacific Fleet units to Norfolk with great interest, but then his ocean-reconnaissance satellites had both been killed, and launch authority on the last of them had been withheld. The next photo showed the carrier berths, also empty.
"Nimitz is still at Southampton," his intelligence chief pointed out. "He came into port with