First Salvo (24 page)

The colonel traced a path on the map with his finger—up a streambed, then left into the hidden valleys that rose in an easy progression toward the final range before the Greenland Sea. Once on the opposite side, the down side, Bulgan knew that Ryng might very well have protection.

Colonel Bulgan was a hard-looking man. In an American uniform he would have resembled a U.S. Marine with his close-cropped hair, square jaw, and well-muscled, fit body. In many ways, he thought like a Marine, and that was to his advantage in this case.

The thrum of the rotors outside interrupted his thoughts, and Bulgan rose to greet the returning helo. As he watched the craft settle outside his command post, he knew immediately by the still-loaded weapons that they had found no sign of Ryng. Damn! Not only had the man succeeded admirably in his mission, he had ruined Bulgan’s.

Inside, the two men showed Bulgan where they had been, carefully transferring their rough marks onto his larger chart. They studied the recon photos closely, comparing chart terrain to satellite view. Colonel Bulgan could see how inexperienced men could have been fooled by Ryng, even with the limited hiding spots. But he also knew that his assumption about Ryng’s path was probably 90 percent correct. It was going to take a man with similar training and temperament to ferret out this American.

Bulgan used his dividers to cover the projected course to the peak, then marked off the distance on the chart. He guessed roughly how much distance Ryng could travel each hour, marking in current time where he thought the man would be. Once he checked, then rechecked the assumed track, he again closed his eyes, unconsciously removing the black beret and running his hands through his hair. In his mind’s eye, he determined where he would like to trap the American. When he was sure, he marked that general area with a red pencil and again checked off the distance.

In about six hours, give or take half an hour, Ryng should be beginning the climb on that last peak through the snowfields. There were no places to hide there. It had to be an open climb, some of the time working sideways to avoid perpendicular cliff faces. Bulgan yawned and stretched, then gave orders to his aide to awaken him in four and a half hours. He wanted a helo ready then. If Bulgan had realized that the ship with the remaining decoys had blown up outside the harbor and that there was no chance at all to resurrect the Longyearbyen mission, he never would have allowed himself the final luxury of a nap.

ABOARD A HYDROFOIL ON THE BLACK SEA

T
he run across the Black Sea to the Bosporus entrance to the Turkish straits would take about eight hours—and 90 percent of their fuel supply. The last three hours would be in daylight and more dangerous. Lassiter explained to Henry Cobb that the only advantage they had was that they were riding a Russian boat in a Russian sea under Russian air cover. Once they approached the Turkish coast, a Soviet boat would be in unfriendly waters. War, though not yet declared, was a foregone conclusion as far as the Turks were concerned.

The last message to Lassiter explained that the Turkish government had been advised that their boat would be approaching Turkish waters early that morning and that it would be refueling at Istanbul. Somehow, Lassiter explained, he doubted that every single gunner in the Turkish military had been informed that a Soviet hydrofoil flying an American flag was to be allowed to pass without a second look. It just didn’t make sense, considering all that Turkey had been through over the past few days and considering that much of the trouble had been due to the Russians’ interference.

During the night passage, Soviet aircraft would swoop down to missile range, breaking off each time Lassiter’s electronic identification system would provide a friendly response. Turkish aircraft did not yet have the luxury of closing in on them. Though there was no declared war, the Soviets would chase the Turks back whenever they approached Russian airspace.

First light brought with it the sight of land, a low, hazy line to westward. The only one at all rested was Keradin. Since Lassiter spent almost all of his time in the wheelhouse, it was up to Cobb and Verra to keep watch over the Russian. When a turn came to rest, sleep was almost impossible. Lassiter insisted on the fastest speed consistent with arriving in one piece. He was unconcerned if the boat disintegrated thirty seconds after they finished with it, so they were able to maintain about forty knots an hour. The constant vibration, the roll of the boat from side to side as it slid down the swells, the bouncing to bring it back on course, each made sleep a wish rather than a reality. Cobb was used to going for two, even three days without much sleep but this was a test of his endurance. Even with an earlier nap, the hot day in the vineyards had done nothing to improve his strength.

As they approached the coast, Turkish jets came out to meet the Russian fighters that seemed to have escorted them. This time they did not scare away. No doubt the Turks’ aggressiveness was a surprise to the Russians. To Keradin, it was even more of a surprise as he was allowed on deck to see the midair missile exchange. There was no way to determine who was winning, but the fight allowed Lassiter to bring their little boat to maximum speed as he rocketed for the safety of the Bosporus channel ahead.

As their Soviet flag was lowered, Lassiter made a thing of showing Keradin his pleasure in dropping it over the side. In its place, an American ensign appeared, a large one so that, as Lassiter explained, there would be no doubt about who owned the boat now.

The entrance to the Bosporus is at the far western end of the Black Sea. It is a natural strait dividing Turkey and narrowing in some sections to less than a half mile wide. It is defensible from both sides and at the moment the Turks still owned those defenses.

Cobb yawned, trying to stretch the tired ache out of his muscles. “I’d like to keep our Russian friend on deck,” he said to Lassiter. “Sort of rub his nose in it a little. Got anything aboard that we might use to keep him in one piece?”

“As a matter of fact, I have just the thing for you.” Lassiter laughed. “It seems the Russians are very discipline conscious, even in little boats like this one. They’ve got a little brig up forward, not much bigger than a head. Even comes equipped with handcuffs, chains—that sort of thing.”

“How about if we hook him up to the mast?” He pointed just outside the wheelhouse to the stanchions anchoring the electronics mast. “It’ll give him a bit of a tether if people start shooting, but it’ll also relieve one of us from watching him.” He grinned. “And it’ll let him see the new world he’s going into.”

“Going to put any clothes on him?”

“No more than he has now. A man in his underwear somehow isn’t as brave. Besides,” and he tested the air with a wet finger, “it’s going to be a lovely day. He could use a bit of sun. He’s a little pale.”

The general displayed a weariness, or perhaps it was resignation. Something about captivity can alter the features of even the strongest person. His jaw no longer jutted out. His eyes no longer played the game of trying to hold Cobb’s. There was no chance of escaping. It was evident that they wanted to keep him alive now that they’d gotten him this far. For the most part, Keradin would have preferred death now that the chance of escape was so slim.

Keradin peered down at the shackle on his ankle, studying the three feet of chain. “I see you are most thorough,” he addressed Cobb. His mouth was a thin line. “May I now have some clothes?”

“Are you chilly?”

“No. But a man needs a certain amount of dignity. I am a general in the Soviet armed forces. I would expect you to treat me in the same manner and extend the same courtesies that I would offer you as a prisoner.”

“I am,” Cobb growled, fingering the side of his head where the foreman had hit him the evening before. “Be glad you have your shorts.”

The general scowled back without a word.

Henry Cobb could afford to present a cavalier attitude before Keradin, for the most difficult part seemed to be complete. He had accomplished the near impossible and removed the general from a supposedly secure position. But this man—so vital to American strategy—must now be kept alive and turned over to Pratt’s people as quickly as possible. Cobb did not pretend to understand the fine points of the plan, but he knew intuitively that the loss of such a high-placed man was intended to put the Soviets off balance at a crucial point in this crisis. Since Dave Pratt had entrusted Keradin’s return to Cobb, Cobb would do his damnedest to deliver Keradin.

Lassiter had the crew fully armed at this point. Somehow, Cobb noted, they had come up with some pretty fair armaments, considering the nature of the operation—old fashioned bazookas, modern antitank weapons, some wire-guided rockets, and an assortment of grenade launchers and mortars. Lassiter did not trust a soul. That was why he, like Cobb, was a survivor.

They sped down the Bosporus, weaving constantly. This satisfied Cobb, who did not take the idea of being a target lightly. He operated furtively. This open-air approach was not to his liking. At every bend, he expected a surge of weapons fire to sweep the deck. But the passage was a safe one.

Within half an hour, the distant hills of Istanbul rose through the morning haze. As they came closer, the farms on the shore gave way to small factories, then to smokestacks, then to a combination of new construction interspersed with dwellings put up before the United States became a nation.

Istanbul is called the City of Seven Hills, once surrounded by nearly impregnable walls built down to the water. It’s Old City surrounded on three sides by water and thus well fortified, stands on the Golden Horn. The New City, to the northeast and across the Galata Bridge, is not nearly so fascinating.

Their boat slowed to a crawl to navigate through the heavy commercial traffic of this major seaport. Slender, graceful minarets towered above the mosques of the Moslem city. They were to fuel at the Sirkeci Ferry Pier. It was directly ahead as they exited the Bosporus into the widening Sea of Marmara.

Lassiter was the tour guide. He pointed out the first hill atop the Golden Horn, which ended in Seraglio Point. The Ataturk Monument and the Topkapi Palace were to their left. The waterways of the ancient city bustled as if there were nothing of concern, no recent war with Greece, no Soviet planes gradually encroaching on their airspace, no fear of the Russian warships that continually passed on their way to the Mediterranean. The small Russian boat flying the American flag was a fearful-looking craft with her assortment of weapons displayed on deck. She was given a wide berth as she stood half a mile off the pier. Lassiter intended to drift and watch for a while.

Verra, her eyes continually wandering back to Keradin, remained close to Cobb. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured sleepily. “I’ve never seen anything like this, never traveled before.”

Cobb smiled. Now that he had a few moments with nothing to concern him other than eventually getting back to
Saratoga
,
he studied her more closely. She was young—young enough to be his daughter—but so grown up after being at Keradin’s vineyards. And she was tough too. She had to be to come out of that experience the way she had. Verra was relaxed. Her face had softened considerably from the vixen who had wanted to emasculate Keradin on the spot. She would have too, Cobb acknowledged, smiling. He felt an affection for her, much different than he imagined a man would have for a daughter. It was something he had not felt for a long time, something he had long ago told himself he should avoid.

He pondered the idea for a second, imagining a life he knew he wasn’t cut out for, studying the wisps of hair that blew over her face as she stared, fascinated, at the ancient city.
Cobb
, he reminded himself,
you’re getting too old, too old to handle sleepless nights because you’re letting a kid, a female kid, turn your head. There’s work to do, my friend, much work before you can think about such things
.

His mind drifted back to other operations—steamy jungles in Vietnam, midnight landings in rubber rafts in the Caribbean, one in South Africa, another in Libya, and then the drinking afterward, disdaining sleep in the heady excitement of close-in fighting, and finally coming out of it all alive! There were moments now when he knew he wasn’t functioning on that level. This time he wanted to get it over with, get it done, and get the hell out with his skin intact. And a kid, a female—no, a woman in every sense of the word—was occupying his mind.

“Why are we waiting out here?” she inquired.

Cobb pointed at Lassiter, who was still surveying the docks through his binoculars. “After you’ve been in this business long enough, you tend not to trust anyone or anything but yourself. That’s where we’re supposed to fuel.” He pointed straight ahead to the pier, easily identified by the Sirkeci railroad station looming over it. “The Turks expect us. Our own people spent hours explaining how we’d be in a Soviet boat with an American flag. But anything can happen. An old philosopher friend of ours, Bernie Ryng, once said, ‘Never trust a soul and you’ll live to tell someone else the same thing.’”

“Do you believe that?” Verra asked.

“Absolutely.” He did not mention that Ryng, the perennial bachelor, had also said that there was no place for women in their business, that you saved them only for when you needed them.

“Do you trust me?” she asked him.

Cobb looked down. She waited calmly for his answer, her eyes never leaving his. Even Ryng would allow him an occasional lapse. “Yes. I trust you, but I also had an alternate plan if you turned on me.” He shrugged. “We’ll never know if it would have worked, will we?”

“I don’t know you, but I trusted you,” she whispered. “And you brought me out of there.”

Cobb smiled. “That statement from the great Ryng did not include every single person on the face of this earth. You may always trust me. If you ever meet the great Ryng, please trust him too. And,” he gestured toward Lassiter, “that is a man I trust, so you can stick with him also.”

“Just the three of you?” She smiled. “Only three men in the whole wide world?”