First Salvo (37 page)

“Always.”

“I’d love to work with you, Captain.” He looked more closely at Nelson. “You look exhausted, sir. How about stealing a couple of hours in my bunk?”

“I had that in mind. And while I’m napping, why don’t you have some of your men paint a few submarines on the bridge wings like they used to do forty years ago. I think Admiral Pratt might like that when we join up.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know where Admiral Pratt is, sir.”

“Call me Nellie—Pratt does. Where is he, then?”

“We don’t know yet. Just before we made contact down here, he was shifting his flag from
Kennedy
—her fires were out of control.”

“See if you could find out for me.” Nelson yawned, then added, “I’ll take you up on that bunk now.”

W
endell Nelson did not sleep as long as he’d hoped. He came to slowly. Opening his eyes, he found Captain Stritzler shaking his shoulder. “Have you located Admiral Pratt?” he asked groggily.

“No, but I think I have something equally interesting down in the wardroom, if you’ll come with me. Some fellow with a gun claims to know you, and none of my people can get near him. He and some others were spotted in a raft a little while ago. He told us their plane was shot down. If you can talk with this guy,” Stritzler added as they descended the final ladder, “I think we’ll be even.”

The sight in the wardroom stopped Nelson cold. As he pushed through the door, the first person he saw was Henry Cobb, shirtless, bruised, his battered face fixed intently on a man who sat across from him. Cobb had a pistol in his hand aimed at the chest of this bedraggled man who stared helplessly down the barrel. The gun never wavered, nor did Cobb look up. An equally battered blonde girl was asleep on the couch at one end of the wardroom, covered by a blanket.

“He won’t talk to anyone, won’t give us the gun, won’t let us do anything with his prisoner. The girl was unconscious when we took them aboard. That one,” said Stritzler, pointing at Keradin, “doesn’t seem to understand us. The one with the gun kept asking us to get Pratt for him. We still haven’t located Admiral Pratt. When I mentioned your name, said you were a friend of Pratt’s, he said he’d speak with you.”

During Stritzler’s explanation, Cobb had never looked up. He remained in the same position, the gun unwavering. Then, without turning, he said in a monotone, “That’s right, I’ve got to talk with Pratt.”

Nelson stepped over to him, placing his hand on Cobb’s bare shoulder. “Is that Keradin, Hank?”

Cobb looked down at the black hand resting on his shoulder. He put his own over it and squeezed. “Yeah, Nellie, that’s him.” The gun in his hand began to shake. He gently rested it on the table. There was no reaction from Keradin. “Nellie, would you keep an eye on him for me? Can’t let him get away. We’ve come so far.” He looked up into Nelson’s face. “It’s been so long since I slept…”

“They’ll take good care of you here, Hank. They’ve done the same for me.”

“Wait a minute.” Cobb rose, half turning, his eyes searching the room. “Verra… where’s Verra?” He spotted the girl on the couch. Gesturing toward her, he said, “Without her, we wouldn’t have gotten Keradin. We’re a team, her and me. Never thought I’d say that—a team…” Then he looked back at Nelson, eyes widening. “Nellie, is there a doctor on board this thing? She’s got to be…”

An officer standing to one side said, “She’s all right, sir. She’s just sleeping now. Exhaustion.”

Cobb sat down beside her and began to stroke her head, smoothing her hair back from her face. He looked once more at Nelson. “You son of a bitch, Nellie, I never thought I’d be so happy to see you. Now, would you please get ahold of Dave Pratt?” He pointed at Keradin, who had fallen asleep upright in the chair.

Nelson turned to Captain Stritzler. “It’s time to break radio silence. Do anything you can to find Admiral Pratt. If you can’t, I know who to get to at NATO. If there’s a key to stopping this whole damn thing, it’s sitting right there.” He gestured toward the sleeping Keradin. “That’s what will stop them from the big launch.”

T
here was a strange balance between fear and confidence in both Washington and Moscow. Because the battle reports were no more accurate in their initial states than they were over four hundred years before at Lepanto—neither side had yet adjusted to the loss of their reconnaissance satellites—each remained confident. The fear was generated by the ready status of their ICBMs. Though they had reached this plateau of readiness in the past, never before had it been the culmination of a major battle, a decision that might create a winner and a loser.

The nuclear posturing that was part of peacetime bravado had degenerated into a realistic threat—perhaps a certainty. Washington was aware not only that the Strategic Rocket Forces were in a countdown, but also that the STAVKA had recommended this and the State Committee for Defense had so ordered it. The only alternative was to commence the same process, insuring that the Russians too understood that the posturing was over—that Washington was responding in kind.

For those in control in Washington who could not conceive of the final orders, these were frantic moments. Not only did they not know if General Keradin was dead or alive, or even if he remained in American custody, but they had no idea whether Admiral Pratt remained in command. He had left
Kennedy
,
ostensibly to shift his flag to
Yorktown.
The latter was apparently afloat, for they knew AEGIS was still in control.

The safety of hours—those hours before the Russians concluded they had only one choice… those hours before the Americans concluded they must retaliate—had now become the uncertainty of minutes …

ABOARD U.S.S.
YORKTOWN

T
he Harpoon missile has a range of sixty nautical miles. With more than five hundred pounds of high explosive in its warhead, it delivers a blast ten times that of a five-inch gun shell. It can wreak havoc on a large ship; it is devastating to a small one.

Admiral Konstantin’s missiles were not quite the match for the Harpoons in Pratt’s battle group. As the Soviet force raced at flank speed to close the range, their ships took hits that gradually cut down their firepower. Fifteen minutes after the Americans opened fire, it was finally returned, but with little authority.

The unseen battle beneath the sea was uncompromising. To those on the surface, only sonar reports of underwater explosions and submarines breaking up gave evidence of its intensity. Nor would a soul below ever witness the weapons of his own destruction. For an instant, seconds at most, it would suddenly become apparent to each man that there was no longer a chance to outmaneuver the torpedo bearing in on his metal coffin. There would be an explosion and the submarine would careen downward. For those who survived the blast or the water that poured under tremendous pressure into shattered compartments, perhaps the lights would blink out one by one or the air would gradually fail. Then there would be the sound of the hull collapsing, eggshell brittle against the increasing pressure as the sub spiraled deeper, until there was nothing.

Few of these hunter-killers survived the day. In the confines of the Mediterranean, their presence was known and expected by their opposite numbers. They neutralized each other. Their fate would be noted only when they failed to report.

The concluding stage of the Battle of the Mediterranean was fought by the Americans in a unique way. Because it was an electronic war, the key to victory for NATO lay in the wizardry of
Yorktown
’s AEGIS system. But
Yorktown
was dead in the water, immobilized so that her remaining electrical power was marshaled to run AEGIS. While she floated in the Mediterranean, moved only by the vagaries of the sea current, rolling with the gentle swells like a sailboat, she still controlled the entire battle for those ships that surged ahead of her to meet the Russian surface force.

Though
Yorktown
’s sonar was inoperative, she received input from other ships, her computers recording the locations of those subs that still survived, assigning ships to prosecute those that threatened the group. Though she could not fire a missile in her own defense, she searched out and evaluated every threat still in the air, controlling the weapons of the ships that fired upon those threats; and though she could not place herself in the forefront of the battle, she protected her ships out front, bringing down the attacking missiles by controlling their weapons.

And of even greater note was the fact that the Admiral who controlled the battle defied tradition by remaining to the rear, choosing to stay with the undefended ship that was so critical to the success or failure of his mission. While generations of admirals had led their fleets into battle, accepting the inherent risks in the front of the battle line, Admiral Pratt took an even greater risk by remaining with that ship which would become the primary target.

Admiral Konstantin realized even before the first missiles were launched that he must get
Yorktown
at all costs. It was now his one remaining opportunity. He was unaware that the cruiser lay thirty miles astern of the attacking force, and he initially searched for his target amidst the oncoming ships. Perhaps that was what gave the Americans the edge—in a war of milliseconds, they gained minutes, minutes that allowed
Yorktown
to protect the battle group from the Soviet missile salvo.

Dave Pratt sat next to Carleton, studying the consoles before them. “For every missile we launch, they seem to have two or three,” he commented.

On the boards before them, they watched as the colored objects representing the opposing forces closed each other. Smaller symbols, representing missiles, appeared more brightly on the boards, moving rapidly, some merging with the large opposite-color symbols.

So involved were they that a few moments later Tom Carleton was certain he was responding immediately to Pratt’s last comment. The warning buzzer, indicating that a missile was locked on
Yorktown
,
had just gone off. “And they seem to have finally located us. I think you’d better be prepared to shift to another ship.”

Yorktown could not defend herself from the approaching missiles. Though she could control the defense of a battle group, she was now as helpless as a baby. The ship could only track the approaching missiles, waiting impotently for the impact. The first missile buried itself in
Yorktown
’s bow, rekindling fires that had finally been controlled. A second landed amidships, plunging into the engineering spaces before it burst.

Once again lights flickered in CIC. The unnoticed hum of cooling motors in the electronic gear suddenly took on a new meaning as the men became aware of man-made equipment struggling, then faltering as the power dropped.

Carleton punched the button for the chief engineer. Again and again, he called. There was no answer. He contacted the executive officer on the bridge and was told that they too were out of touch with both engineering and damage control. He turned to Pratt. “That’s it, I think.” The burst of another missile interrupted him. The lights flickered, then went out. There was dead silence in CIC. Battle lanterns pierced the heavy air. No longer would
Yorktown
coordinate the battle group.

Seconds later there was a tremendous explosion directly above them. Shelves and equipment broke away. Though there were no flames, there was the smell of dust and smoke in the air. A voice came over the IC in front of Carleton. “The bridge is gone. They—” Then it too broke off.

“Come on, Dave,” Carleton said, jumping to his feet. “Let’s get you the hell out while there’s still a chance.”

A sailor yanked open one of the hatches leading to the bridge.

Flames licked hungrily in at them. The door was wedged shut. “Back here,” Carleton said, taking Pratt’s arm. “We’ll cut out the back way.”

When the hatch was pushed open, they were greeted with thick black smoke. The crackling of flames mixed with the cries of the wounded and the shouted orders of the damage-control parties. All combined to create a raucous sound that was both confusing and terrifying. It was heightened by the gruesome sights that greeted them as they raced down the ladders to the main deck.

Behind and above them, the bridge area was a mass of twisted metal. Searing flames rose above the masts. Occasional drafts of wind revealed only torn, twisted metal where
Yorktown
’s
bow had once parted the waves. They were forced aft by wind-driven flames, only to be stopped by a fresh conflagration from a jagged hole in the main deck. Parties of sailors patiently extracted those life rafts that were still usable, heaving them over the side to swimmers.

Pratt raised an arm to his eyes to shield them from the heat and smoke. Staring off into the distance, he gestured silently. Carleton followed his gaze. There, close enough to leave no doubt as to its identity, was
Kennedy.
The giant carrier was burning its entire length. Through the clouds of smoke, smaller ships circled the carrier, searching for survivors. Every few seconds they could make out new flames leaping into the air, followed by clouds of new black smoke. Then those same explosions would echo faintly across the water to mingle with the chaos aboard
Yorktown.

“I think you’re going to have to jump, Dave.” Carleton had his hand on the admiral’s arm, gently leading him to the side.

“How long will you stay?”

“Not forever, I hope. But it’s my ship, Dave. There’re still a lot of people aboard, a lot that need help.” He grinned through the soot that was beginning to cover him. “You know what tradition says, Dave, about the captain being the last…”

A final missile burst on the opposite side of the ship, hurling both of them into the water. When Carleton surfaced, he saw that
Yorktown
had broken in half with the blast. Her stern section was drifting away, totally consumed by flame. The forward part rose slowly, almost majestically, displaying the ragged metal where her bow had once been; then it slid backward into the water.

Carleton searched for Pratt among the heads bobbing in the water as men swam away from the remnants of their ship, searching for lifeboats, but none of them was Pratt. Carleton’s life jacket held him well above the surface, allowing him to turn from side to side in the water. As he stroked toward one of the rafts, he saw gray hair bobbing twenty feet away.