"All ahead one-third!" McCafferty ordered when he couldn't stand it anymore. Chicago slowed to five knots. To the diving officer: "Take her up to periscope depth."

The planesmen pulled back on their controls. There was some minor groaning from the hull as the outside water pressure relented, allowing the hull to expand an inch or so. On McCafferty's order the ESM mast went up first. As before there were several radar sources. The search periscope went up next.

A weather front was moving in, with a rain squall to the west. Fabulous, McCafferty thought. There goes ten percent of our sonar performance.

"I got a mast at two-six-four-what is it?"

"No radar signals on that bearing," a technician said.

"It's broken-it's the Krivak. We got a piece of her, let's finish her off. I-" A shadow went across the lens. McCafferty angled the instrument up and saw the swept wings and propellers of a Bear.

"Conn, sonar, multiple sonobuoys aft!"

McCafferty slapped the scope handles up and lowered the scope. "Take her down! Make your depth four hundred feet, left full rudder, all ahead full."

A sonobuoy deployed within two hundred yards of the submarine. The brassy sound of its pings reverberated through the hull.

How long for the Bear to turn and drop on us? On McCafferty's order a noisemaker was ejected into the water. It didn't work, and he fired off another. One minute passed. He'll try to get a magnetic fix on us first.

"Rewind the tape." The duty electrician was grateful to have something to do. The video record of his five-second periscope exposure showed what looked like the remains of a Krivak's topsides.

"Passing three hundred feet. Speed twenty and increasing."

"Scrape the bottom, Joe," McCafferty said. He watched the tape rerun, but that was only to have something for his eyes to do.

"Torpedo in the water port quarter! Torpedo bearing zero-one-five."

"Right fifteen degrees rudder! All ahead flank! Come to new course one-seven-five." McCafferty put the torpedo on his stem. His mind went through the tactical situation automatically. Russian ASW torpedo.- sixteen-inch diameter, speed about thirty-six knots, range four miles, runs about nine minutes. We're doing-he looked-twenty-five knots. It's behind us So if he's a mile behind us... seven minutes to cover the distance. It can get us. But we're accelerating at ten knots per minute... No, it can't.

"High-frequency pinging aft! Sounds like a torpedo sonar."

"Settle down, people, I don't think it can catch us." Any Russian ship in the neighborhood can hear us, though.

"Passing through four hundred feet, starting level out."

"Torpedo is closing, sir," the sonar chief reported. "The pings sound a little funny, like-" The sub shook with a powerful explosion aft.

"All ahead one-third, right ten degrees rudder, come to new course two-six-five. What you just heard was their fish hitting the bottom. Sonar, start feeding me data."

The Russians had a new line of sonobuoys north of Chicago, probably too far off to hear them. Bearings to the nearest Soviet ships were steadying down: they were heading right for Chicago.

"Well, that'll keep them off our friends for a while, XO."

"Super."

"Let's go south some more and see if we can get them to pass us. Then we'll remind 'em what they're up against."

ICELAND

If I ever get off this rock alive, Edwards thought, I'll move to Nebraska. He remembered flying over the state many times. It was so agreeably flat. Even the counties were nice neat squares. Not so in Iceland. For all that, it was easier going than they had enjoyed since leaving Keflavik. Edwards and his party kept to the five-hundred-foot elevation line, which kept them at least two miles from the gravel coast road, with mountains at their backs and a good long field of view. Up to now they had seen nothing more than routine activity. They assumed that every vehicle on the move had Russians aboard. That probably was not true, but since the Soviet troops had appropriated so many civilian vehicles there was no way to tell the sheep from the goats. That made them all goats.

"Enjoying your rest, Sarge?" Edwards and his group caught up with Smith. There was a road half a mile farther ahead, the first they'd seen in two days.

"See that mountaintop?" Smith pointed. "A chopper landed on it twenty minutes ago."

"Great." Edwards unfolded his map and sat down. "Hill 1063-that's thirty-five hundred feet."

"Makes a nice lookout point, don't it? You suppose they can see us from there?"

"Ten or eleven miles. Depends, skipper. I figure they're using it to watch the water on both sides. If they have any brains, they'll keep an eye on the rocks, too."

"Any idea how many people they have there?" Edwards asked.

"No way. Maybe nobody-hell, they might have been making a pickup, but I wouldn't bet on it. Maybe a squad, maybe a platoon. You gotta figure they have a good pair of spotting glasses and a radio."

"And how do we get past them?" Edwards asked. The ground was mostly open, with only a few bushes in sight.

"That's a real good question, skipper. Pick our routes carefully, keep low, use dead ground-all the usual stuff. But the map shows a little bay that comes within four miles of them. We can't detour around the far side without running into the main road-can't hardly do that."

"What's the problem?" Sergeant Nichols arrived. Smith explained matters. Edwards got on the radio.

"You just know they're on the hilltop, not strength or weapons, right?" Doghouse asked.

"Correct."

"Damn. We wanted you on that hill." Now there's a surprise, Edwards thought. "No chance you can go up that hill?"

"None. Say again no chance at all. I can think of easier ways to commit suicide,

mister. Let me think this one over and get back to you. Okay?"

"Very well, we'll be waiting. Out."

Edwards got his sergeants together and they started exploring the maps.

"Really a question of how many men they have there, and how alert they are," Nichols thought. "If they have a platoon there, we can expect some patrol activity. Next question is how much? I wouldn't be very keen on doing that hill twice a day myself."

"How many men would you put there?" Edwards asked.

"Ivan has a whole paratroop division here, plus other attachments. Call it ten thousand men total. He can't garrison the entire island, can he? So, would he have a rifle platoon on this or any other hilltop, or just a spotting team-artillery observers, that sort of mob. They're looking for your invasion force, and from up there a man with a decent spyglass can cover all of this bay to our north, and probably see all the way to bloody Keflavik the other way. They'll also be looking for aircraft."

"You're trying to make it sound easy?" Smith wondered.

"I think we can approach the hill safely enough, then wait for nightfall-what of it we have-and try to pass under them then. They will have the sun in their eyes, you know."

"You've done this before?" Edwards asked.

Nichols nodded. "Falklands. We were there a week before the invasion to scout various things. Same thing we're doing now."

"They haven't said anything on the radio about an invasion."

"Leftenant, this is where your Marines are going to land. No one's told me as much, but they didn't send us here to find a football pitch, did they?" Nichols was in his mid-thirties, approaching twenty years of service. He was by far the oldest member of the party, and the past few days of serving under a rank amateur had chafed on him. The one nice thing about this young weatherman, however, was his willingness to listen.

"Okay, they wanted us on this hill to eyeball things, too. How about this smaller peak to the west of the main summit?"