The Valkyrie Project, page 3
Krog did not know the answers, but he thought he could guess them. He felt colder than he had ever felt in his life.
Commander Richards had gone to the officers’ club out of boredom and had left it out of boredom, deciding to return to his office to write a letter to his wife—one of his few escapes.
Richards liked Iceland but despised Keflavik. Clinging to a barren, gale-swept peninsula twenty miles west of the capital at Reykjavik, the navy air base, with its barbed-wire fences and yellow wooden buildings, resembled a prison and functioned as one. That’s how the Icelanders liked it. So paranoid were they about the supposed American threat to their old Norse culture that the government had required the navy to shut down its armed forces network television transmitter and hook up its base television sets to a closed circuit system instead. Fraternization with Icelanders was rigidly discouraged, especially between Icelandic women and American enlisted men. Occasionally, a busload of Icelandic girls might be brought to the base for a Saturday night dance, but otherwise there were only glimpses of Icelandair stewardesses when they debarked over at the civilian side of the airfield. Sometimes Richards thought they might all be better off stationed at the air base in Thule, Greenland, where the only temptation was provided by an occasional drunken Eskimo woman, smelling of urine and sweat.
Iceland was a constant and infuriating temptation. Its women were unusually attractive and sexually uninhibited to the point where prostitution was virtually nonexistent. The government regularly reported the illegitimate birth rate among its vital statistics. It had recently risen from twenty-five to thirty percent.
None of this was for the Americans. For them, there were movies, closed circuit television, Saturday night dances, and drunken evenings in the base clubs. Richards’ job at least took him around the country, frequently to Reykjavik, and involved him in a number of embassy social functions as well. Still, he had been with a woman only twice in seven months’ time. When Richards had first come to Iceland, he had dutifully written his wife once a week. Now he was writing two or three times a week, and his letters were often highly erotic.
Commander Richards was the base intelligence officer. He had just turned forty, but perceptions of his age depended entirely upon whether he was standing or sitting, for he was one of those very tall persons whose height is mostly in his legs. Seated, he seemed middle-aged, overweight, and balding. Standing, he struck people as a younger, brawny man with blond hair. It was rumored that he had been passed over for an early promotion to captain because of his penchant for rumpled uniforms and unpolished shoes.
His pocket beeper commenced its irritating little peeping just as he was opening his door. The base joke was that he and the unit meteorologist were the only ones with anything to do.
Dropping his coat on a side table, unmindful of its slide to the floor, Richards slumped into his creaking chair and called the message center. He sat scowling at the scrambler phone a long moment before picking it up again. It was ridiculous enough that Whelan had been sent to Iceland with the title of embassy cultural attaché as his cover, but for the cultural attaché to be making regular calls to the base intelligence officer was slightly unsubtle. And the Russians listened to everything. The week before, an Icelandic trawlerman had picked up what looked like a rusting World War II relic floating mine. Upon opening it up, they had found a Soviet listening device good enough to pick up the sound of the admiral shaving.
Richards sighed and dialed the long number code. Whelan answered almost instantly and, typically, got immediately to his point.
“I’m looking for funnies,” he said. “Yesterday, today, tonight, tomorrow.”
“Funnies” was Whelanese for suspicious Soviet naval movements. Richards might have said that all Soviet naval movements were suspicious, except that he must have said that to Whelan a dozen times.
“I’ll check,” Richards said. “Will you be around?”
“Until you call. Hurry.”
“Roger, Roger dodger, over and out.”
Yawning, Richards ambled down the hall to the situation watch room, the most interesting place on the base. He had persuaded the admiral to replace nearly all the conventional North Atlantic wall maps with polar ones—graphic reminders of the startling proximity of the Soviet Union to North America across the pole, and of Iceland’s extraordinary if too often ignored strategic importance. Iceland sat like an enormous aircraft carrier between Greenland and Norway, an island controlling the only three sea passages through which the Soviets could move their northern fleet vessels into the North Atlantic: the Greenland-Iceland Gap, the Faroes-Iceland Gap, and the Faroes-Scotland Gap.
The fluorescent dark-green screens of the room’s video display terminals were the most graphic reminders of all. They showed blips of Soviet and NATO vessels in their approximate positions.
There were many Soviet blips. The northern fleet, the largest and most powerful of the Soviet four, was based just fifteen hundred miles away at Murmansk and adjacent ports on the Kola Peninsula. The northern fleet now included more than seventy combat surface ships—two aircraft carriers, nine guided missile cruisers, seven missile destroyers, and a horde of conventional frigates and destroyers. There were also no fewer than one hundred two submarines, other than sex, the major preoccupation of Richards’ Icelandic life.
The NATO blips were sparse: a couple of submarines and a flotilla of eight frigates steaming toward Iceland for a goodwill visit.
Keflavik’s principal mission was to monitor Russian naval traffic, which despite the approaching winter was assuming the proportions of a New York rush hour. This was one of the few missions the navy actually had equipment to perform. At its disposal were satellites, surface radar installations, and undersea SOSUS sensors that no one was supposed to know about, but everyone—including, no doubt, the local Saturday night dance girls—did. Recon hunter-killer subs worked the area as well—as did high-flying AWACS 707 jets carrying stuff in their radar domes that Russian scientists could only dream about, and the lumbering low-level P-3 Orion propeller patrol planes, which could drop sound detectors into the heaviest seas and follow a submarine wherever it went. The equipment was so sophisticated it could identify each individual Russian submarine by its engine and other noise “fingerprints.”
Richards went to the VDT console of the ranking enlisted man in the room, a very youthful-looking chief petty officer named William Truscott. On the screen, the blip of a Russian “Charlie”-class submarine was being plotted by the computer on a course direct for the Icelandic coast.
“How long has he been on this course?” Richards asked.
“This Charlie?” said Truscott. “Twenty-two minutes, sir. We project him within two miles of the Seltjarnarnes Peninsula in maybe three hours. He’s really breathing up our ass.”
Truscott was a thin, pink-cheeked, black-haired man of thirty-one who looked twelve years younger and was as pronouncedly neat as Richards was not, though his language was not so pristine. Truscott probably owned twice as many dress uniforms as Richards, and a fairly elaborate civilian wardrobe. He seemed always able to wangle the rare pass or duty assignment off-base to make use of his civilian clothes. Richards had once encountered him in the bar of Reykjavik’s Hotel Thor.
“Any others?” Richards asked.
“Nothing this close, sir. That flotilla off Jan Mayen Island has been edging toward us, and we’re getting the usual grab-ass to the south.”
Richards leafed through the computer printouts in the tray on Truscott’s desk. The sub was the same one that had been loitering near Reykjavik a few days before. He went to a scrambler phone and called Whelan.
“We’re afraid of a snatch,” Whelan said. “This looks likely.”
“Do you want me to request some additional patrols?” Richards said. “An intercept? Should we alert the Icelandic Coast Guard?”
“Negative. Let’s stay normal. But if that sub gets close enough for a snatch, I want to know. Instanter. What about yesterday? What previous?”
“Nothing nearby,” Richards said. “Nothing suspiciously suspicious. Tonight’s the first. He’s really suspicious. He’s coming at us so straight on he might as well be using his siren and searchlights.”
“Always suspect the obvious. I’m going to the admiral’s. Call.”
Richards returned to Truscott, who was looking through a new copy of Penthouse magazine.
“You’re sure this is all?” said Richards, studying the VDT screen. “Nothing off the east coast?”
“No, sir. Just some trawlers. They’ll be in for a bad night. There’s a real mother-fucker of a storm out there.”
The dark-green glow of the screen struck Richards as the way the seas in those waters must look. “I’m going back to the officers’ club,” he said. “If the sub comes within twelve miles, call me at once.”
“Aye aye, sir. Sir? This election. Do you think the Communists are going to win?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” said Richards.
“Well, if they win, do we all get to go home?”
Richards glanced down at the magazine. Truscott had it opened to a picture of a very beautiful young woman who appeared to be posing for her gynecologist. “Never happen,” he said. “No such luck.”
The crew of the Icelandic Coast Guard’s small patrol vessell Heimdallur knew about the storm off the east coast first hand. The one-hundred-seventy-five-foot ship had rounded the cape at Bakkagerdi and was plowing through thick rain and heavy seas on a course due south. The captain, Birgir Ragnarsson, had thought he would make a run past one or two of the major fjords in case any of the fishing craft were in trouble. If not, he would head into one of the fjords himself and seek shelter for the night. They would not be able to tie up in time for dinner—which was just as well, since it was salt cod night and he would prefer a sandwich on the bridge—but they might take some late coffee and ice cream in comfort. There was an American movie on television. Ragnarsson’s crew had earned some relief.
The Heimdallur was meeting quartering seas, kicking up a violent explosion of spray and rolling hugely to one side or the other with each encounter. The weather forecast had been for force-ten winds, but these seemed even higher, shrieking out of the southeast and driving the rain almost horizontally across the bridge windows.
The captain perched with practiced ease on a stool bolted to the deck near the starboard windows, sipping as casually from a steaming cup of coffee as though the Heimdallur were anchored in some quiet lake. Ragnarsson had a peculiar face, as lined and weathered as one might expect from twenty-two years in the Coast Guard, yet very childlike, even elfin—especially when his humor was showing.
He was wearing slippers, white wool socks, khaki uniform pants, a frayed khaki shirt, and an old sweater—his customary garb when away from shore. Very unmilitary, as his country preferred. Despite its Viking heritage and the fury it had recently shown in the face of the British, Iceland had a pacifist tradition and cherished it. The country had no army; only a four-hundred-seventy-five-man police force. Instead of a navy, it had merely the Coast Guard.
During the cod war, the international press had insisted upon calling the patrol craft “gunboats,” but to Iceland they were merely an extension of the police force, and the armaments on the Heimdallur were typical: an 1898 Swedish two-pounder deck gun, two World War II surplus bolt-action rifles, and some .45 caliber automatic pistols.
Though commands were regularly rotated in the Icelandic Coast Guard, Ragnarsson had had the Heimdallur throughout much of the cod war. He had fired that old deck gun only twice, and just once in anger. Mostly the cod war had been a business of bumpings, rammings, and trawler line cuttings—a nasty business, but something for which the Heimdallur was well suited. Launched in 1965, it was the fastest in the Icelandic fleet, as fast as any of the British frigates. Unlike the thin-skinned frigates, the Heimdallur was built very much like a tank. A ram from it was not a frivolity. The British had had to bring in four huge ocean-going tugs to compete.
Ragnarsson gulped the last of his coffee. “Mind the drift to starboard,” he said quietly to the helmsman. “We don’t want to put ashore tonight upside down on some rock.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man shifted the wheel, edging the little ship closer to the wind. Ragnarsson could instantly tell the difference, though no landsman could have.
The captain had put his second officer, a bearded youth named Throstur, in charge for the evening watch, but with the deteriorating weather Ragnarsson had thought it better to be on the bridge. Throstur was from the rugged Westmann Islands just off Iceland’s south coast and an excellent seaman, but Ragnarsson was fussy. He had never lost a crewman, not even in the cod war.
Ragnarsson was one of the heroes of that strange affair, having cut the nets of more British trawlers than any other Icelandic captain save one. The others had fought their war with gruff bravado, bearing down on the British fishermen and frigates like crazed Vikings. Ragnarsson had relied entirely on wile, sneaking into the midst of the British fishing fleet disguised as a small freighter on one night, abruptly appearing out of the densest fog on the next. He was very good in fog.
Ragnarsson poured himself more coffee and then joined Throstur at the radar screen. The radar was set at its shortest and most accurate range, able to detect in detail the smallest rocky islets in their path. A small blip flared with the sweep, then slowly faded until ignited again by the next sweep.
“We’ve picked up someone,” said Throstur.
“So I see,” said Ragnarsson. “A little fellow. He seems close enough to Heklafjordur to make it on his own.”
“Yes, sir, but he is not making for the fjord. He is heading the opposite way.”
It was true. Ragnarsson studied the radar screen, rubbing his chin. By its size and speed, he judged the craft to be a small trawler. But there was no fishing to be done on a night like this; certainly no Icelander would be fool enough to try it.
“Maybe he is trying for another fjord,” suggested Throstur.
“No. His course is southeast, directly out to sea. Alter course to overtake him.” Ragnarsson leaned back against the bulkhead with his coffee, watching as new navigational numbers appeared on the digital face of the Loran gear. Then he leaned close to the radar screen again. “I wonder who he is, this boy. Is he crazy?”
“Wind’s up to force eleven, Captain,” said Throstur.
“Probably will go higher,” said Ragnarsson. “We won’t stay out long. We’ll make for Faskrudsfjordur after this. Ice cream and coffee.” He drummed his fingers by the edge of the screen for a moment, then on impulse clicked the radar range up to the maximum—fifty miles. Two large blips appeared with the first sweep. The little trawler’s course was toward them.
“Well, well, well,” said Ragnarsson. “This little fellow has friends. Two big friends.”
There had been one of those huge Russian factory trawlers operating in these waters in recent days. Now there were two. Under their fishing agreement with Iceland, the Russians were limited to redfish and capelin, but there hadn’t been enough of a catch to keep one of those big factory ships busy for a month.
“Is the radio monitor on?” Ragnarsson asked, still watching the screen.
“Yes, sir,” said Throstur.
One of the few pleasures of the cod war had been the radio chatter among the British trawlermen. They talked to one another all day long and far into the night, bantering back and forth in their thick Hull and Grimsby accents as though they were idling in a bar: “fooking fish,” and “the fooking weather,” and “fooking Icelanders.” Now, years later, the radio was mostly silent, in keeping with the dark and empty sea. In some ways, Ragnarsson missed those Britishers. He lit his pipe.
“More speed,” he said to Throstur.
Ragnarsson had once stopped and boarded one of those Russian factory trawlers. He had long been curious about the Soviets’ penchant for fishing in strange weather and fishless waters. Catching one excessively close to shore, he had it heave to and went aboard. He found no violations of fishing regulations, no illegal catch, in fact practically no fish at all. The Russians had complained to the Icelandic government, and it had complained to Ragnarsson. The Russians were NATO’s enemy, but supplied Iceland with all its oil.
Something blurted forth from the radio monitor—a few quick words uttered in a language Ragnarsson did not understand. After a brief silence, the words were repeated, followed this time by a low, gruff reply.
“What language is that?” said Ragnarsson. “Russian?”
“I think Polish,” said the young second officer.
“How do you know Polish? You’ve never been beyond the Faroe Islands.”
“I got drunk once with some Polish sailors in the bar of the Hotel Thor,” Throstur said.
“It is expensive to get drunk in the bar of the Hotel Thor,” said Ragnarsson. His tone was stern. His feelings were fatherly toward Throstur, whose own father had died when he was an infant.
“They paid.”
“Yes? What did they ask you? How we beat the British? If we have a secret weapon?”
“All they asked was how I felt about the Americans.”
“Yes? What did you tell them?”
“That I liked them.”
“Very good. But in the future, don’t drink with Polish sailors. Drink with Finns. They get drunk without asking questions. They get drunk so quickly they are never able to ask questions.”
The helmsman called out: “I see his lights, Captain.”
Ragnarsson padded in his slippers to the forward windows of the bridge, peering through the arc of the slowly moving wiper blades. The trawler was off the starboard bow, quite small, rolling and pitching with wide swings of its running lights.
“Come alongside, as close as you can,” Ragnarsson said. He went to the radio, tapping the microphone against his cheek for a moment as the Heimdallur rose upon a huge wave and turned broadside to the nearing trawler.
