First Salvo (20 page)

Lassiter perched on a stool in the hydrofoil’s wheelhouse moments later as the larger craft slipped out to sea. He pointed at Keradin. “Is that guy in the shorts really him?”

“He sure is,” Cobb answered.

“Doesn’t look like a general to me.” Lassiter got up and circled their prize. Keradin, who affected a haughty air, refused to acknowledge the other. They had just boarded a Soviet hydrofoil, and as they had come alongside, Keradin had the faint hope that perhaps a mistake had been made—until he heard someone hail Cobb in English. To his knowledge, no one in Moscow was aware the Americans had commandeered a Soviet boat.

“And the lovely lady, Cobb—who is the lovely lady?” Verra was still wearing the dress she’d worn to Keradin’s dacha that evening. In Russian, he remarked, “Cobb has done some pretty strange things since I’ve known him, but he never found someone like you before. I expect you’ll be wanting to change into something a little more in keeping with our trip. I’ll have one of my men take you below and see if they can fit you out.”

She still had an eye on Keradin. “I hate to let him out of my sight.”

“Well, ma’am,” Lassiter continued, “I don’t think you have to worry about him at all. You see, even though we still seem to be in the Black Sea, he’s just got himself into American custody. The only Russian you’re going to find around this boat is the general himself. Everyone else is as American as you can get—just like your friend Cobb here.” Lassiter talked like a boy just off the farm. His accent and demeanor were easygoing, as if he were welcoming someone to the country fair. “You leave him up to me and I promise you that nothing good’s going to happen to him. A couple of my boys will hog-tie him for you, just to be sure.”

When Keradin and Verra had gone, Lassiter’s expression changed. “Cobb, my boy, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but the best-laid plans of mice and men…”

“We’re not crossing,” Cobb interrupted.

“Nothing to cross to. That lovely little Turkish village you landed in when you flew up from
Saratoga
is no more. No landing field, no town, not even a dock to tie up to. All gone, blown into tomorrow. I don’t think they were onto you specifically. Otherwise, your friend the general might have been a little better informed about us. But I think their satellites gave them the message that American aircraft were landing there. What better reason to blow it up?”

“Okay.” Cobb pulled up a stool in front of the chart desk. “Where do we go from here?”

Lassiter pointed at the chart. His finger settled on the western end of the Black Sea. “New orders came through from
Sara
— from Pratt, I suppose. We’re going to have to make it back by boat. They figure the Russians have airspace control all the way to the Turkish straits and they don’t want to lose your general. I’m hoping to refuel at Istanbul.” He clapped Cobb on the shoulder. “Then you’re in for the ride of your life. NATO really would like to have Keradin in one piece.”

D MINUS 1

P
ratt postured with a rash of plain language messages directed to the Pentagon to convey his optimism, knowing Moscow would intercept them. Battle group preparation was at a pinnacle. French and Italian naval units were making a magnificent contribution, beyond anything Pratt had expected. Soviet Backfire bombers, testing the readiness of the Americans, had been led by the hand and then shocked at their own inability to either surprise or penetrate the early-warning screen. Totally original antisubmarine tactics had baffled Russian attack submarines lurking in the Gulf of Sidra. And his final message revealed that his man had apparently been successful in removing the head of the Soviet Strategic Rocket Forces alive, though he was not yet in American custody.

The picture in Washington, however, was not so rosy, with the United States and much of NATO presented with an entirely different set of circumstances. KGB disinformation had progressed beyond the USSR’s wildest dreams. The Japanese government, after the resignation of the Premier, demanded the departure of the U.S. Seventh Fleet; they claimed it was making a target out of their country. Terrorist activities in the major cities of NATO member countries had succeeded in frightening the general populace, if not their leadership. Industry and business had ceased to function. Transportation was at a standstill. Citizens feared to leave their homes after the threats of assassination and bombing became a reality. As reserve forces were activated and U.S. Military Police appeared in the streets to reinforce local police and militia, newspapers and left-wing organizations called for a halt to war preparations. Evacuation of U.S. dependents further heightened the crisis as the European media hinted darkly that the American intent was to make Central Europe the
only
battlefield.

Washington needed proof that General Keradin was actually in American hands. Soviet television had already countered with television photos of Keradin that morning attending a meeting of the STAVKA, the Main Military Council, and there was no way to prove that the pictures had not been taken previously. At the same time, Moscow announced that their Strategic Rocket Forces were prepared to launch missiles on both NATO countries and the North American continent at the least provocation, with satellite photos and intercepted radio messages from the Soviet Union confirming their state of readiness. The only option for Washington was to counter, bringing the American triad—ICBMs, Trident submarines, and nuclear bombers—to an equivalent state. Only if General Keradin could be delivered into American hands at the appropriate moment and displayed to the world did U.S. leaders feel that the strategic nuclear forces of both countries could stand down. It was absolutely critical that both sides limit the confrontation to conventional weapons.

In the North Atlantic, American naval convoys plowed on toward Europe, surrounded by antisubmarine forces and preceded by specially trained packs of hunter-killer subs. There was still no firm indication whether or not they would be intercepted. First-light photographs of the Svalbard region through partial clouds revealed damage to the Longyearbyen airfield and the Soviet bombers that had been there at the time; but there had been no further communications from the SEAL team, and no final confirmation of how many of the Soviet decoys had been destroyed. Even then, some may already have been delivered along the GIUK gap to counter the American CAPTOR defense line. More Soviet bombers were in the air on the way to Svalbard. If those decoys still existed, and if those bombers could get them to the GIUK gap, there was a good chance the Soviet subs could get through to the U.S. convoys.

Only the political and military leaders of the Soviet Union, NATO, and the U.S. knew how critical the situation was. Actions over the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours would determine the fate of Europe and whether there would be a nuclear barrage. The citizens of those countries knew nothing but the terror that comes of not knowing.

ABOARD U.S.S.
JOHN F. KENNEDY
,
SOUTHEAST OF MALTA

A
dmiral Pratt tentatively picked up the stub of his cigar from his favorite ashtray, with its solid-brass base made of an old five-inch shell, a going-away present from the chief petty officers on his first destroyer. That ashtray traveled the world with Pratt, and today on the eighty-thousand-ton carrier, it remained his pride and joy.
Perhaps
, he often thought to himself,
it’s a symbol of the old and the new, the guns-and-guts Navy versus the microchip Navy. The guns have become missile launchers, the guts have become brains—but it still takes a human being to manage either one
.

Wendell Nelson studied the cigar along with Pratt.
He’s not going to light it
, he thought,
not without burning his nose—it can’t be done
.

Pratt touched a match to the tip of the cigar, his lips pursed. The end glowed, a flame caught on the dried ends, then smoke issued from the admiral’s mouth. He beamed. “So it works in practice, Nellie.”

“Sure as hell does,” the other agreed. “But I wouldn’t want to try it again before the first real shot. Otherwise some smart Russian skipper is going to run that through his computer.” He sipped cold coffee from his mug, gesturing at the graphic printout from
Kennedy
’s computer. “And it’s so simple, a fresh-caught sailor could run it if I spent ten minutes with him.”

“No complaints from the other COs?”

“You know how it is. No one wants to try something new without playing with it in a trainer on shore first, but when the Russians provided us with a couple of live subs, they went along with me.”

Pratt lay the display back on his desk. “I’ll have copies run off and heloed over to each commanding officer. I want you and Tom Carleton to run a class for all COs first light tomorrow aboard
Yorktown
.”

“That is one thing that might rub a bit.” Nelson paused. “I don’t think some of those senior skippers were too happy about me taking command of that screen.”

“No problem,” Pratt said. “When you get back, your XO will probably already have a copy of your new promotion. You’re a full captain for the time being, a four-striper, the only one in the screen outside of Tom.”

Nelson grinned. “They’ll be shouting discrimination.”

“That’s the other thing, Nellie. When you read the small print, you’ll see it’s only temporary. I couldn’t convince the powers-that-be in D.C. Maybe after it’s all over, they’ll make it permanent.”

“Maybe there won’t be any Wendell Nelson after it’s all over.”

“In that case, I’ll
insist
they make it permanent—sort of an honor for the deceased hero.” Pratt chuckled through the cigar smoke. “Think how happy those survivors’ benefits will make the wife and kids!” He immediately knew he had made a mistake. Tricia had divorced Nellie. She had the kids. But Nelson never blinked an eye.

“Too kind… too kind. Will you shed some tears at my funeral?”

“I would, Nellie. I really would. But I figure if they get you, then they’re more than likely going to get me too….” He was interrupted by a knock. “Come.”

Tom Carleton entered the stateroom. As usual, he looked anything but the captain of a ship, especially
Yorktown.
His tan uniform blouse was wrinkled; his belly protruded over his rumpled work pants, and he managed only a pale imitation of a salute as he fell into the couch across from the desk, his legs sprawled straight in front of him.

“How’s she going, Tom?”

Carleton beamed. “She’s everything the designers claimed—and more. I can’t thank you enough. She drives like a tin can and she’ll fight like a whole goddamn fleet. No kidding. When we put that system in automatic this morning— Aw, what the hell am I telling you for? You already know what she did.”

Pratt nodded. “I was watching in plot. It’s kind of hard for an old sailor like me to believe it all.” He put the cigar to his lips, winced, and dropped the wet remainder into the ashtray. He sighed, rubbing tired, red-rimmed eyes. “That’s why I asked for you two.” He picked up a sheaf of messages, weighing them in his hand for a moment, then dropped them back on the cluttered desk. “I expect any of the others could probably handle the job. If the Navy has qualified them, they can run those ships, but there’s hardly a soul familiar with that stuff we’ve been fooling around with in Newport.”

“Newport” meant the War College, the think tank where select officers studied global strategy and tactics. There were also war-gaming facilities that lent reality to war scenarios dreamed up by men like Dave Pratt. The Navy power structure claimed the Russians were predictable, and they were in many ways. But no man was that predictable if he was reacting under actual wartime conditions—or if he was losing. That’s what Pratt had assumed when he began to play with new tactics. The ships under his Mediterranean command were capable of much more than was required from them under published tactics. The Soviets were expected to attack, and they expected the Americans to wait for the attack, then defend themselves. Pratt’s theory was to dig them out before they could possibly gain an upper hand. Computer simulation was the trick.

Pratt loved to call himself an old salt, a grizzled old man of the sea ready for retirement after one more tour. But in reality, he was anything but that. That’s why Washington had sent him to
Kennedy
,
and that was why they let him take Nelson and Carleton and why they let Pratt choose their ships.

The Russians were experimenting with innovative submarine tactics. Pratt saw what those new tactics were for. When he went to Washington, senior admirals shook their heads. That was not the way they saw the scenario, nor the way they wanted to see it. Pratt went back to Newport and ran his ideas through the computer. The results confirmed that the Russians could do what he projected. The computer also agreed with Pratt on how they might be stopped.

“How’re the others doing?” Carleton asked.

“We’re halfway there. The base at Svalbard has been damaged. We can see that by satellite, but we don’t know how badly. The British have been chasing every sub near there and seem to be holding them off, and I think our own attack subs have set up a barrier to stop anything that gets by our CAPTORS. We already have convoys coming across the North Atlantic that have a chance of making it now.”

“And Bernie?” Nelson asked.

“Not a word, Nellie. Satellites have picked up some Soviet movement in the mountains across from that base he was after, but we don’t have anything else for sure. The Brits are looking out for him.”

“Cobb?”

“He got in and somehow got out with his man. Only Henry could manage that.
Saratoga
forwarded just one message that said they were still in the Black Sea. Admiral Turner also said something about his man picking up Cobb, the Russian, and some woman in an evening dress.”

“That means it couldn’t be anyone else but Hank,” Carleton remarked, shifting his frame on the couch. “Now it’s our turn.”

“
Saratoga
’s group will catch it first. We may learn something from that. I just hope to hell they can recover Cobb and Keradin and get them here. Then that only leaves us.”