"What's this?" the chief asked. "Another sonar contact behind the first one, bearing two-five-three. He's following the other guy!"

"I need an ID, Chief."

"I don't have enough data, Captain. Both these guys are creeping."

Is Boston one of them? If so, which? If the one in front, do we warn him and reveal our position? Or shoot and risk shooting at the wrong one? Or just do nothing at all?

McCafferty went aft to the plotting board. "How close is this one to Providence?"

"Just over four thousand yards, coming in on her port bow."

"He probably has her then," the captain thought aloud.

"But who the hell is he?" the tracking officer asked quietly. "And what's this Sierra-2 contact behind him?"

"Transient! Transient!" the sonar chief called. "Mechanical transient on Sierra2!"

"Left fifteen degrees rudder," McCafferty ordered quietly.

"Torpedo in the water, bearing two-four-nine!"

"All ahead two-thirds!" This order was loud.

"Conn, sonar, we got increased machinery noises on Sierra-l. Okay, the front contact is a two-screw boat, blade count indicates speed of ten knots and increasing, getting some cavitation. Target Sierra-I is maneuvering. Classify this target as a Tango-class."

"Boston's the one in back. All ahead one-third." McCafferty ordered his submarine to slow back down. "Get him, Todd!"

His wish was rewarded with an explosion fifteen seconds later. Simms had come up with the same tactic as his friend on Chicago. Close to a few thousand yards of the target, and give him no chance to maneuver clear. Fifteen minutes later, Boston joined her healthy sister.

"Talk about a tough four hours. That Tango was good!" Simms called over on the gertrude. "You in good shape?"

"Yes. We have the front guard position. You want to take the rear for a while?"

"You got it, Danny. See ya'."

ICELAND

"Lead off, Sergeant Nichols."

The Russian outpost was three miles south and three thousand feet up. They climbed up the walls of the ravine and into relatively open ground. They were between the sun and the outpost. Edwards found that intellectually he believed what Nichols said about light conditions, and how the eye reacted to them-and how easy was it to spot something three miles away?-but walking like this felt like being naked on the street at rush hour. They had darkened their faces with camouflage makeup, and their uniforms blended in well with the color and texture of the land. But the human eye looks for movement, Edwards told himself, and we're moving. What am I doing here?

One step at a time. Walk softly. Don't raise any dust. Slow, easy pace. No sudden moves. Heads down. All the things Nichols had said echoed through his mind. Look at me, I'm invisible.

He commanded himself not to look up, but Edwards would have been less than human not to sneak an occasional look. The hill-mountain towered above them. It really got steep near the top. A volcano? he wondered. There was no sign of activity at the summit. Maybe nobody is there? Right. Do us all a favor and be blind, or asleep, or eating, or looking for airplanes. He had to pull his eyes away from it.

The rocks he stepped over and around blended together after a while. Each member of the party walked alone. No one said anything. Every face was couched in a neutral expression that might have meant quiet determination or concealed exhaustion. Just walking the rocks safely required concentration.

This is the end of it. The last hike. The last hill to climb. The end, Edwards promised himself. After this I drive a car to get the morning paper. If I can't have a one-story house I'll damned well have an elevator installed. I'll get kids to cut the grass for me and sit on the porch watching them.

Finally the hilltop was behind him. He had to sneak his looks over his shoulder now. For some reason the helicopter full of Russian paratroopers didn't come. They were somewhat safer now. So Nichols stepped up the pace.

Four hours later the mountaintop was behind a knife-edge ridge of volcanic rock. Nichols called a halt. They'd been moving for seven hours.

"Well," the sergeant said. "That was easy enough, wasn't it?"

"Sarge, next time you jump out of an airplane, please break your ankle," Mike suggested.

"Hard part's behind us. Now all we have left is to climb this wee hill," Nichols pointed out.

"Might want to get some water first," Smith said. He pointed to a stream a hundred yards away.

"Good idea. Leftenant, I do think we should be atop the hill as quick as we can."

"Agreed. This is absolutely the last Goddamned hill I ever climb!"

Nichols chuckled. "I have said that myself once or twice, sir."

"I don't believe it."

USS INDEPENDENCE

"Welcome aboard, Toland!" Commander, Strike Fleet Atlantic was a three-star billet, but Rear Admiral Scott Jacobsen would have to settle for the job instead of the rank for the moment. The life-long aviator was the most senior carrier division commander in the Navy, and was the replacement for the late Admiral Baker. "You have one hell of a letter of introduction here from Admiral Beattie."

"He made too big a deal of it. All I did was pass along an idea somebody else came up with."

"Okay. You were on Nimitz when the task force got hit, right?"

"Yes, sir, I was in CIC."

"The only other guy who got out was Sonny Svenson?"

"Captain Svenson, yes, sir."

Jacobsen picked up his phone and punched three digits. "Ask Captain Spaulding to join me. Thank you. Toland, you, me, and my operations officer are going to relive that experience. I want to see if there might be something our briefing left out. They're not going to punch any holes in my carriers, son."

"Admiral, don't underestimate them," Toland warned.

"I won't underestimate them, Toland. That's why I have you here.

Your group got caught too far north for the circumstances. Taking Iceland was a beautiful move on their part. It screwed our plans pretty well. We are going to fix that, Commander."

"So I gather, sir."

USS REUBEN JAMES

"Ain't she pretty!" O'Malley said. He flipped his cigarette over the side and crossed his arms, staring at the massive carrier on the horizon. She was just a dim gray shape, with aircraft landing on the flat deck.

"My story is supposed to be about the convoy," Calloway sniffed.

"Well, they're making port right about now. End of story." The pilot turned with a wide grin. "Hell, you made me famous, didn't you?"

"You bloody aviators are all the same!" the Reuters correspondent snapped angrily. "The captain won't even tell me where we're going."

"You don't know?" O'Malley asked in surprise.

"Well, where are we going?"

"North."

The port had been cleared in expectation of the convoy. The merchantmen were brought past several wrecks of ships that had died from Soviet mines, some laid before the war, others dropped from aircraft. The port had also been bombed six times by long-range fighter-bombers, each time at a murderous price from French air defense forces.

The first ships in were the big Ro/Ros, the roll-on/roll-off container ships. Eight of them together carried a full armored division, and these were taken quickly to the Bassin Theophile Ducrocq. One by one, the ships lowered their curved stern ramps to the dock and the tanks began to roll off. They met a continuous taxi-rank of low-loader tractor-trailers, each of which would carry a tank or other armored fighting vehicle to the front lines. Loaded, they rolled off one by one to the assembly point at the Renault facility adjacent to the port. It would take hours to unload the division, but it had been decided nevertheless to move everything in a body to the fighting front, less than five hundred kilometers away.