"We'll have to go far out of our way to be able to climb without being seen, but yes, we can establish ourselves there, I think. So long as they are not terribly alert, that is."

"Okay, once we cross this road, we keep together in one group. You got the point, Sergeant Nichols. I'd suggest we rest up a bit. Looks like we'll have to be on the move for quite a while once we get moving."

"Eight miles to the foot of the hill. We will want to be there about sunset."

Edwards checked his watch. "Okay, we start moving in an hour." He walked over to Vigdis.

"So, Michael, what do we do now?" He explained the situation to her at length.

"We're going to be close to some Russians. It might be dangerous."

"You ask if I want to not go with you?"

Say yes and hurt her feelings. Say no and... shit!

"I don't want to see you hurt any more."

"I stay with you, Michael. I am safe with you."

SOUTHAMPTON, ENGLAND

It took several hours to pump out the water that had given her the false list, an impression that had been reinforced by the ostentatious activities of divers. The powerful tugs Catcombe and Vecta moved her slowly aft into the Solent. Her flight deck had been fully repaired by the Vosper shipwrights though so much of the gray steel showed the slapdash bandage work of a job done more in haste than in consideration for the ship's proud name. Two thousand men had done the job. New arresting gear had been flown in from America, along with electronic equipment that came nowhere near replacing what the Russian missiles had destroyed. The tugs escorted her to Calshot Castle, then she moved alone south to Thom Channel, east by the yachts docked at Cowes. Escorts were waiting at Portsmouth, then the small formation turned south and west into the English Channel.

Flight operations began at once. The first aircraft to arrive were the Corsair attack bombers, then the heavier Intruders and the sub-hunting Vikings. USS Nimitz was back in business.

USS CHICAGO

"-and shoot!" Three hours of excruciating work distilled down to half a second. The now-familiar shudder of compressed air ejected a pair of torpedoes into the black water of the Barents Sea.

The Soviet commander had been just a little too eager to verify Chicago's death and allowed his frigate to run in close behind his two remaining Grishas. All three ships were pinging at the bottom, looking for a dead submarine. You didn't expect us to run south, did you? North or east, maybe, but not south. McCafferty had maneuvered his submarine wide around the Russian frigate, staying at the fringe of her sonar range, then closed up two thousand yards behind her. One fish for the Krivak and one running for the nearest patrol boat.

"No change in target course and speed, sir." The torpedo raced after the Soviet frigate. "He's still pinging the other way, sir."

The waterfall display lit up, a bright dot on the contact's tone line. Simultaneously the thundering explosion echoed through the hull.

"Up scope!" McCafferty met the eyepiece at deck level and worked it up slowly. "That's a kill. We broke her back. Okay..." He turned to the bearing of the near Grisha. Okay, target number two is turning-wow, there go his engines. Increasing speed and going left."

"Skipper, the wire's cut on the fish."

"How long on the run?"

"Another four minutes, sir." In four minutes at full speed the Grisha would be outside the torpedo's acquisition radius.

"Damn, it's going to miss. Down scope. Let's get out of here. We'll go east this time. Make your depth four hundred, all ahead two-thirds. Come right to zero-five-five."

"Must have been the shock of the explosion, sir. Half a second later, the control wires let go on the number-two fish." McCafferty and his weapons officer reexamined the plot.

"You're right. I cut that one too close. Okay." The captain stepped over to the chart table. "Where do you figure our friends are?"

"Right about here, sir. Twenty- to twenty-five miles."

"I think we've taken enough heat off them. Let's see if we can get back up there while Ivan tries to figure out what's going on."

"We've been lucky, skipper," the exec observed.

"That's true enough. I want to know where their submarines are. That Victor we got just walked across our sights. Where are the rest of 'em? They can't just be chasing after us with these." Of course not, McCafferty realized. The Russians set up hunting preserves, sectors limited to specific types of ships. Their surface ships and aircraft would be in one sector, and next to it their submarines would have exclusive hunting rights...

He told himself that he'd done well to date. Three patrol boats, a fullsized frigate, and a sub, quite a week in anybody's book. But it wasn't over. Not until they got Providence to the ice.

38 - Stealth on the Rocks

The first leg of the trip was only eight miles in a straight line, but the line they traveled was straight in no dimension. The terrain here was volcanic also, littered with rocks large and small. The large ones made shadows, and whenever possible they stayed in them, but with every step they had also to detour, uphill and down, left and right, until every yard of forward travel was accompanied by a yard in another direction, and eight miles became sixteen.

For the first time, Edwards knew that he was under possible observation. Even when the hilltop they skirted was hidden by a ridge, who could say that the Russians did not have another scouting party out? Who could be sure that they were not being watched, that some Russian sergeant with binoculars had noticed their rifles and packs, then picked up his portable radio and sent out a call for an armed helicopter? The effort of the walk made their hearts beat fast. Fear made their hearts beat faster still, compounding their fatigue like interest on a usurer's loan.

Sergeant Nichols proved an efficient leader, and a hard one. The oldest member of the party, his stamina-sore ankle and all-amazed Edwards.

They all kept quiet, no one wanted to make noise, and Nichols was unable to growl at those too slow to keep up. His contemptuous look was enough. He's ten years older than me, Edwards told himself, and I'm a track man. I can keep up with this bastard. Can't I?

Nichols managed to keep them clear of the coast road for most of their journey, but there was one point where the road looped around a small cove to within a mile of their path. Here they faced a cruel choice: risk observation from the road, where the traffic was probably Russian, or from the mountaintop. They risked the road, slowly and gingerly as they watched traffic motor along every fifteen minutes or so. The sun was low in the northwestern sky as they crept up a ravine with steep walls. They found a rockpile to rest in before their dash below the observation post.

"Well, that was a nice day's walk, wasn't it?" the sergeant of Royal Marines asked. He wasn't even sweating.

"You trying to prove something, Sergeant?" Edwards asked. He was.

"Sorry, Leftenant. Your friends told me you were in proper shape."

"I don't think I'll have a heart attack just yet, if that's what you mean. Now what?"

"I'd suggest that we wait an hour, until the sun sinks lower, then press on. Nine more miles. We'll want to move as quick as we can."

Sweet Jesus! Edwards thought. He kept his face impassive. "You sure they won't see us?"

"Sure? No, I am not sure, Leftenant. Twilight is the hardest time to see, however. The eye cannot adjust from the bright sky to the dark ground."