First Salvo (25 page)

“There are others, some old friends of mine.”

“Will I get to meet them?”

“I don’t know if I want to share the likes of them with you.” Now what the hell did he mean by that? She didn’t belong to him, and he didn’t belong to her. “Yes. I hope you will,” he concluded.

The boat rocked in the gentle wavelets created by the heavy flow of traffic off the Golden Horn. Wafting across the harbor were a variety of aromas similar to those that had fascinated Cobb in so many other seaports. Each one was different, each had its own special appeal.

Lassiter dropped his binoculars and gestured for Cobb to come up with him. “Here, sweep those docks starting about a hundred yards to the left of our pier. Then go to the right, up to about the Galata Bridge.”

Cobb closed his eyes. He squeezed them tight, then opened them, pressed against the lenses. They adjusted quickly. He first saw what he expected, a variety of craft tied to various piers, trucks outside warehouses, stacks of goods on pallets.
Wait a second—fire trucks, wisps of smoke here and there, uniforms. Must be military
. Not a lot of smoke, not enough to cause concern, but nevertheless, he could locate at least three distinct spots where light smoke was driven to the north before it rose far into the sky.

“What do you make of it?” Lassiter asked.

“If there was much of a fire in any of those locations, they’re pretty much out now or they never amounted to much to begin with. Looks safe enough to me now.”

“Yeah. It does to me too. But how often do you have that many fires all near the same spot, namely the one we want to refuel at?”

Cobb knew Lassiter wasn’t looking for an opinion. “Not every day, Cap’n.”

“We’re gonna’ ease in. I want everybody ready, but I don’t want them to look like we’re going to sack Turkey either. I never trust anybody.”

Cobb jerked his head in Keradin’s direction. “What about him?”

“Looks fine to me.” The general was leaning against one of the mast stanchions, his arms folded casually, attempting to look as dignified as a man could chained to a mast in his underwear. “He’ll make people think we mean business. And if we have Russian problems up there, he’ll either keep away unfriendly fire or draw it—one or the other.”

Cobb again looked through the binoculars. This time he had a better view of some armed craft similar to their own. At first he thought they were tied up to the piers, but now he could tell they were idling nearby, the exhaust from their engines clearer now at this range. “What do you make of those gunboats in there?”

“Turkish patrol craft. Built right here in yards in the city. They’re pretty well armed, and as fast as this, but they keep them pretty close to home, I’m told. Guard the capital city, that sort of thing.”

“They’re sure as hell not tied up.”

“Here, let me take a look.” Lassiter studied them through the glasses. “All the more reason to be careful. They must be waiting for something.”

They were now no more than a hundred yards off the pier.

They could see line handlers waiting for them to come alongside. “Yeah,” Lassiter’s face was grim as he sniffed the smoke in the air. “Perhaps they’re screwing with us.”

“Perhaps.” Both men were standing easy now as the hydrofoil idled slowly along the piers, far enough away to make room for a fireboat directing a stream into one of the warehouses. Cobb watched army regulars stack their weapons and move in to assist the firemen.
Maybe this was the right time
, he thought.
Wait until everyone’s having the time of his life being a volunteer fireman, then move in
.

“What the hell?” Lassiter recognized the sound at the same time Cobb did. It was a rushing noise, a splitting of the air for just an instant by something moving at high speed. Then the warehouse in front of them erupted. A section of the roof peeled back as if an invisible fist had punched it straight up in the air. It tottered precariously for an instant, held by a gust of wind, then tumbled backward onto the street, crushing soldiers and firefighters alike. The outward force of the explosion sent flames, until now unseen, gushing out along the ground. It was like a colossal flamethrower, and everything in its path was ignited—vehicles, firemen, soldiers, and surrounding buildings.

A second and then a third blast followed in rapid succession. In less than thirty seconds, the building was leveled. Their bos’n had already rammed his throttle forward. As their boat leaped ahead parallel to the piers, they were showered with sparks. Simultaneously, two other buildings were hit by similar blasts.

“Son of a bitch, look!” Cobb shouted. Lassiter’s eyes strained in the direction of his pointing finger. He saw the flash half a mile beyond Seraglio Point, then the telltale stream of flame. “Missiles—that’s what they’re using.” Lassiter saw the white wakes of the oncoming craft before he could pick out the boats themselves. “What—”

“Missile boats. Small ones. They’re great little weapons for something like this, aren’t they? High speed, fast attack in and out. Unload your weapons and get away as fast as you can. I guess they don’t like the idea of our taking Keradin with us. But I wonder how they figured out where we took him. Why here? Why wait until here?”

“Simple,” Lassiter explained. “They intercept a couple of our plain-language radio reports. Use their satellite photography. Check with headquarters in Yalta about that fast little boat that seemed to be going balls-to-the-wall toward the Bosporus, and find out that none Yalta knows of is supposed to be doing same. Then they start checking fleet lists. Do you want me to go on?”

“How dumb of me to ask.”

The roar of engines came to their ears now as a squadron of boats bore down on the docks. Cobb could see their deck guns now, spouting flame as they poured small-caliber fire into the waterfront. Missiles from farther out continued to pass overhead, striking deeper into the city.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Cobb saw a direct hit on a mosque, the minaret tilting slowly, then a cloud of dust and smoke as it hit the ground. He was aware of Verra hanging tightly to his arm.

She looked up at him, fear on her face. But when she spoke, her voice was steady, her words rational. “You didn’t tell me about all this yesterday in the vineyard.” She managed a smile. “Perhaps I was better off—”

Cobb never let her finish. “Get below,” he shouted above the din. “You can take him with you.” He handed her his pistol.

She turned to Keradin, who was still shackled to the mast, but it was obvious the man had understood Cobb’s order. He shook his head firmly from side to side, though he said nothing. He was a proud man, Cobb knew—and now perhaps suicidal. There was no time to argue. “Forget him. Just get the hell below.”

Already their bos’n was turning their own boat to meet the attackers. Cobb identified two hydrofoils gracefully banking from side to side as they zigzagged toward their target, deck guns blazing. Neither had yet seen Lassiter’s boat. Instead their fire was concentrated on the army troops pouring onto the docks.

Then the small arms on Cobb’s own boat came to life and their brief moment of anonymity was shattered. One of the hydrofoils, detecting return fire, banked gracefully in their direction. A hundred yards distant, it turned again, running parallel but in the opposite direction to their own course, its weapons concentrated fully on them. Neither was an easy target at high speed. The shells from the other craft passed overhead, but Cobb knew they might not be so lucky when the other boat came back to match their course. It was obviously faster and more heavily armed.

The hydrofoil reversed direction, turning in a tight, hard circle. Settling now on their course, it resumed fire. The man nearest to Cobb abruptly flew backward, arms and legs extended seaward as he was slammed into the deckhouse. Lassiter stared in fascination as the structure around him began to splinter.

“For Christ’s sake, will you get down!” Lassiter heard Cobb’s voice at the same time he felt the hands on his shoulders yanking him backward and down. He hit hard, his head bouncing against the deck. Before he could blink, the bulkhead above him disintegrated in a shower of metal splinters, peeling inward like a tin can to reveal the men in the pilothouse.

Turning his head to the side, Lassiter felt Cobb, before he was sure who it was, crawling forward past him. At the same instant, his eyes flew from Cobb back to the interior of the pilothouse. The bos’n appeared in the middle of a slow pirouette, his hands grasping at the back of his head. Then he pitched through the hole in the bulkhead, sprawling across Lassiter’s legs. Lassiter yanked himself from underneath the corpse.

Cobb was now inching forward on his belly, both arms out to the sides as the boat slewed to the left, then headed sharply to the right. Another sailor, clothes blood-spattered, had the wheel. The boat settled on course for an instant, then heeled sharply as the wheel was thrown over to avoid a burning pier.

“Reverse course!” Cobb was shouting above the din, frantically pointing at the pilothouse. But Lassiter was not about to move. Machine gun bullets splattered the bulkhead above him. He tucked his head, turtle-like, into his shoulders.

“Reverse, reverse,” Cobb insisted, looking over his shoulder.

Lassiter was well aware of the danger they were in. But he was also even more sure of the aim of the other boat’s machine gunner, and pointed up at the bullets splattering a foot above him. He knew what to do. Reverse course, change direction of the boat—he understood that. The bullets trailed down the side toward the stern. Without another thought, Lassiter drew himself onto his knees and launched his body through the shattered bulkhead, landing at the sailor’s feet. Pulling himself up to a crouch, he saw another boat coming at them from the bow. He grasped the sailor’s arm, shouting as he jerked his fist in the opposite direction. The boat heeled sharply in reply to their rudder.

The spray of machine gun bullets that had passed over Lassiter’s head had also swept their bow clear of gunners. The boat charging at them behind a steady flow of shells was now unchallenged, maintaining both a closing course and a steady rate of fire.

Cobb appeared now in front of the pilothouse, moving in a crouch toward one of the guns. Reaching it, he stood just long enough to shove away the gunner’s body. Then he slid in behind the small armor shield, checked the ammunition belt, and, satisfied, commenced fire on the oncoming boat.

Their wheel was over tight, the boat reversing course just as Cobb wanted. The attacking boat was unable to slow down, and as it passed, Cobb and another gunner stitched it with deadly accuracy.

Lassiter admired their shooting and cheered above the din. The deck of the passing craft became a helpless target for an instant, its gunner now unable to return Cobb’s fire. The pilothouse glass of the opposing vessel burst out. One of Lassiter’s men fired an antitank missile at close range. The other boat’s bulkhead disappeared much the same as that of their own boat moments ago. But this time when Lassiter looked closely there was no one upright inside. It was pilotless. The boat slewed one way, then the other, its speed still full. For some inexplicable reason, it turned sharply to the right. As it leaned hard into the turn, it also headed directly for one of the piers. At full speed it jammed beneath the dock, shearing off the upper deck. There was a flash, an explosion, and both the boat and the dock disintegrated.

Lassiter recognized a screaming beside him that increased in pitch. He turned, feeling the man at the wheel clawing blindly at his arm. Blood covered the man’s face. Lassiter pushed him away roughly, grasping the wheel himself.

A powerful explosion near the stern jolted him. The boat shuddered convulsively. Lassiter could feel they were losing speed. Then he saw the first boat, the one that had been turning only a second before, begin to bear down on them. In seconds it made a pass, guns bracketing them. Catching sight of her empty missile canister, Lassiter realized what had hit them.

He had no steering control. In the next instant, it was also obvious that they were slowing so much that they had no power. They were dead in the water with their attacker bearing down on them! Sporadic fire from weapons still functioning did nothing to slow down the oncoming boat. A steady stream of fire encircled them.

Cobb, his ammunition expended, watched helplessly as the killer bore down on them. There was nowhere to move or hide. All he could do was fall forward, face down on the deck. He saw Lassiter do the same in what was left of the pilothouse. Yet in the most revealing location, Keradin stood, arms folded, seeming to welcome death.

But as suddenly as the incessant pounding had begun, it ceased. Cobb waited. There was no reason the other boat should stop firing. He counted—one… two… three… four… five. Nothing. He looked up cautiously! A section of deck was bent upward in front of him, blocking his vision. He got to his knees, crawling slowly as if his executioner were waiting on the other side. Peering out at where the other boat should be, he saw a flaming hulk. From stem to stern, the Soviet boat was in flames.

Looking to the rear, the answer became immediately obvious. A Turkish boat, one of those that had been dockside when they had first come by the piers, was cruising slowly no more than a hundred yards off their bow, pouring small-arms fire into the hulk that seconds before had been bearing down to finish them off. Her missile canisters on the port side were empty. She had made a direct hit on the Russians’ fuel tanks.

The Turkish boat turned in their direction. Pulling within range of her fire-fighting hoses, she arched a stream of water toward them. Sailors on her deck were pointing at them, but Cobb could not understand what attracted their attention. Facing amidship, he saw Lassiter’s huge U.S. flag still fluttering atop the mast. And at the base, still chained, stood the defiant Keradin, arms folded, smoke from their burning boat occasionally shrouding his head. No doubt the Turks were sure that he was the brave little craft’s captain.

Verra! She was still below, and they were sinking stern first. He had to get her! How long had they been involved in the running battle? No more than three or four minutes.