some people climbing this hill."
"Who?" There was concern in her voice.
"Guess."
"Skipper, they're coming up for sure," Smith warned over the radio.
"Yeah, I see that. Everybody got a good place?"
"Leftenant, I strongly recommend that we let them get in very close before opening fire," Nichols called.
"Makes sense, skipper," Smith agreed on the same circuit.
"Okay. You got ideas, gentlemen, I want to hear them right away. Oh, yeah, I've called in for some help. Maybe we can get some air support."
Mike pulled back on the charging handle of his rifle to make sure a round was chambered, set it on safe, then put the M-16 down. The Marines had all the hand grenades. Edwards had never been taught how to use them, and they frightened him.
Come on, fellows, just go the hell away and we'll be glad to leave you alone. They kept coming. Each paratrooper climbed slowly, rifle in one hand and the other hand grabbing or fending off rocks. They spent their time evenly looking up toward Edwards and down at their footing. Mike was truly frightened. These Russians were elite soldiers. So were his Marines--but he was not. He didn't belong here. The other times he'd faced Russians, in Vigdis's house, the terrifying incident with the helicopter, all those were behind him and for the moment forgotten. He wanted to run away--but what if he did? He'd earned the respect of his Marines, and could he throw that away and still live with himself? What of Vigdis--could he run away in front of her? What are you most afraid of, Mike?
"Stay cool," he muttered to himself.
"What?" Vigdis asked. She too was afraid, just from seeing his face.
"Nothing." He tried to smile and half succeeded. You can't let her down, can you?
The Russians were now five hundred yards away and still well below them. Their approach became more cautious. There were six of them, and they moved two at a time, fanning out and no longer taking what looked to be the easy route to the top.
"Skipper, we got a problem," Smith called. "I think they know we're here."
"Nichols, I want to hear you."
"We wait until they get within one hundred yards, and for Christ's good sake, keep heads down! If you can get some support, 1 would suggest you do so."
Edwards switched radios. "Doghouse, this is Beagle, and we need some help here."
"We're working on that. We're trying to get--to get some friends to listen in on this frequency. It takes time, Lieutenant."
"I got about another five minutes--tops--before the shooting starts."
"Keep this channel open."
Where are they? Edwards asked himself. He couldn't see anyone now. The rocks and cover that had so often worked for them were now working against them. He stopped bobbing his head up and down. He was the officer, he was in command, he had the best vantage point, and he had to see what was happening. Edwards moved slightly to get a decent view of the events below him.
"There is somebody there!" the platoon sergeant said, grabbing for the radio. "Markhovskiy, you're heading into a trap! 1 see a man with a helmet atop the hill."
"You're right," the lieutenant said. He turned. "Get the mortar set up!" The officer ran over to the big VHF radio and tried to raise Keflavik. Armed troops on this hill could only mean one thing--but Keflavik was still off the air.
Edwards saw one Russian rise up, then drop back down on a shout from someone else. When the shape reappeared, it was behind a rifle. He heard a whistling sound, then there was an explosion fifty yards away.
"Oh, shit!" Edwards fell to his face and cowered next to his rock. Bits of other rocks fell around him. He looked at Vigdis, who seemed all right, then over at the far peak, where men were racing downhill. Another mortar round fell to his right, and was followed by automatic-rifle fire. He grabbed his satellite radio.
"Doghouse, this is Beagle. We are under attack."
"Beagle, we are now in contact with a Navy carrier. Stand by." The ground shook again. The round fell less than thirty feet in front of his position, but he was well shielded. "Beagle, the Navy carrier is now on your frequency. Go ahead and transmit. Their call sign is Starbase, and they know where you are."
"Starbase, this is Beagle, over!"
"Roger, Beagle, we show your position five klicks west of hill 1064. Tell me what's happening."
"Starbase, we are under attack by a squad of Russian infantrymen, with reinforcements on