First Salvo (38 page)

He kicked his way through the floating rubble on the surface to Pratt’s side. The man seemed uninjured. There were no marks about his face. Carleton placed his hand under Pratt’s nose and found shallow, halting breathing. Grabbing the back of the lifejacket, Carleton kicked toward a life raft just filling with survivors. Hands reached over the side to lift the admiral aboard. He was stretched gently on the bottom of the raft, with a life jacket as a pillow. Only now was Carleton able to see the lump forming on the side of Pratt’s head. It had been a heavy blow, and Pratt’s color darkened as the swelling grew.

Tom Carleton looked briefly over his shoulder as the stern section of
Yorktown
,
a flaming pyre, slipped beneath the surface with a rush of bubbling water. Then he turned back and cradled Dave Pratt in his arms until they were picked up two hours later by the frigate
Samuel Eliot Morison
,
which had somehow survived the day unscathed.

THE KREMLIN

T
he Soviet premier leaned forward, one hand resting in his lap, the elbow of the other on the long conference table, his chin cradled in his hand. He glowered myopically through thick glasses at an invisible spot above General Colonel Melekhin’s head. The premier said nothing.

To one side, high enough to provide an unobstructed view for each member of the State Committee for Defense, was a television set with an enormous screen. A hazy picture flickered as if it might disappear at any moment. But there was no doubt about the black-and-white image that it carried. General Keradin was dressed in the working khaki uniform of an American naval officer. A cordon of American faces ringed the prisoner on the tiny, pitching flight deck of the American frigate. Arms folded, Keradin responded to the unheard instructions for the satellite camera that whirred away a hundred miles above.

General Keradin was very much alive, his face changing expression as various people conversed with him. The KGB had acknowledged the voice signature was indeed that of the general. There was no doubt among any of the Soviet leaders that watched. The Americans intended to show that the head of the Strategic Rocket Forces was very much under their control.

Melekhin looked down the table, his eyes blinking as though he intended to speak. He could not gain the attention of the premier, whose stare remained locked on the spot above Melekhin’s head.

Admiral Chemavin, the commander in chief of the Soviet Navy, broke the silence, letting his breath out with a hiss. “You are sure about Konstantin?”

“I am sure of nothing at this stage,” Admiral Khovrin responded. There was no effort to mask the irritation in his voice. “Since I entered—” his hand swept the length of the room, “no one has interrupted us. The last message, more than an hour ago, was that Konstantin was abandoning the flagship. There were no reports that he had been rescued by any other vessel. There have been no messages since I arrived here. That is obvious, and the obvious seems to me that he may be lost.” Khovrin’s fists were clenched in frustration.

“Well, then…” Chemavin began but chose silence, his eyes returning momentarily to the screen where Keradin appeared to be in conversation with an American.

The premier lifted the receiver from a phone to one side of him and spoke briefly into the mouthpiece. His expression gave no indication of the response, but his eyes snapped from face to face around the table as he replaced the instrument. “Nothing,” he said calmly. “Absolutely no response from Washington.” He slid his glasses up slightly so that he could massage his eyes. It did nothing to relieve the headache that had been building for the last hour. “But it seems that the Americans have been able to beam that picture,” he inclined his head toward the television screen, “all over the world.” Wetting his lips, he repeated the last four words individually. “And, gentlemen, that has attracted a tremendous response.”

Melekhin shot to his feet, his chair falling backward. “And in twenty-nine minutes, sir, I think you can expect a response from Washington, and from every other capital. They will be groveling….”

“Sit down,” the premier responded calmly and succinctly. All eyes turned from the screen to Keradin’s second in command.

Melekhin gazed back at the premier, a trace of hesitation disappearing as he nodded his head once in acknowledgment. Silently, he righted his chair and sat down.

The premier turned next to a man seated beside him who had yet to say a word. “Will you explain to those here what you outlined for me before we came in here?” Then he looked down the table.

“You are each aware of what he is about to say. You have heard it before, but I want it for the record how I came to my decision.” His last words became a whisper.

The man rose. Not once did he look at the premier or any other man in the room. “The Americans catalogue the locations of most of our missiles. They also are aware of most of their targets. We launch by a preselected system, known only to a few people, which is based on the size and purpose of the strike we intend. It is quite possible that by certain means they could gain information concerning this system from General Keradin. With such prior knowledge—” He shrugged. “Well, they could defend against—intercept—” He shrugged again. “If they choose to retaliate, we do not have the benefit of such prior knowledge.” He looked finally to the premier for assistance. Finding no response, he sat back down, the fingers of one hand drumming a silent tattoo on the wrist of the other.

The Premier looked to the commander of the Black Sea Fleet. “There is little likelihood that the Fifth Escadra can secure control?”

Admiral Khovrin shook his head.

“Nor can we hope to halt the American convoys?” His eyes fell on the Commander of the Northern Fleet.

Admiral Mikhaylovsky whispered, “No.”

“Then I will contact the president and inform him that we will stand down and accept the new borders as they currently exist.” Historically, Soviet armies never returned to their old borders. The premier intended to hold a line that began at Bremen in the north of West Germany and followed a circuitous route through Munster, Dusseldorf, Frankfurt, Munich and across northern Italy to Venice—once again farther than ever from the heart of Mother Russia.

But Melekhin was on his feet once again, protesting, “We cannot…”

The premier looked firmly to Chemavin. “Admiral, would you be kind enough to escort General Melekhin outside so that he might give orders to halt his countdown?”

When Chemavin returned moments later, he was accompanied by Melekhin’s subordinate—just as the premier had planned beforehand.

D-DAY PLUS FIVE WEEKS, A SMALL INN IN THE MARYLAND HILLS

T
he summer season was over and the help back in college. The owner of the little country inn had to double as a waiter, and for some reason he was uncomfortable with these guests. He’d never expected to have a wedding party at this time of year. It wasn’t a large one, only eight people, but it was more than the owner and his wife really wanted after a busy summer.

The lovely lady who stopped by to make the reservations one afternoon the week before, a Mrs. Pratt, hadn’t really misled him, but a few moments before, he’d told his wife out in the kitchen that he never would have allowed it if he’d realized the type of people who were attending. It wasn’t so much the black man, even though the inn tended to discourage mixed groups; it was something special about these men, something subtly frightening. He couldn’t quite put his finger on just why. They were military—that was obvious. But there was also something in their eyes, the way they looked at you, especially the one that was about to make the toast.

“May I please have your attention—or I’ll break up the place.” Bernie Ryng was getting drunk. Though he laughed at his little joke, his eyes were, as usual, expressionless.

He had been the first one to come through the door that evening, and just the sight of him had scared the innkeeper. “It is the solemn duty of the best man to toast the bride and groom. Admiral—” he sloshed his glass in Pratt’s direction, “—I am not one to go against tradition, but Henry and I want everyone to drink to you first, Dave—to a speedy recovery.”

Dave Pratt smiled back crookedly from his wheelchair. Alice, his wife, was beside him. “Amen,” she whispered silently to herself and reached forward to clink glasses with the others. Thank God he was alive. Tom Carleton, who had hovered at Dave’s bedside until assured Pratt would live, said later that the doctors had not expected him to survive. That had been the first miracle. A few weeks later, Alice decided a second one had occurred when the doctors, to their own astonishment, told her the chances of a full recovery had increased tremendously. This evening she had cut his food for him, but he had fed himself. Earlier that day, as the best man, he allowed Verra to wheel him down the aisle of the little church, since he couldn’t walk with her on his arm. She had refused to listen when he said that one of the others, who could walk, should do the job.

Now, with protracted pauses between phrases as he searched for words, Dave Pratt responded. “If they could have waited another month or so instead of being so randy—” he smiled somewhat lopsidedly at the newly married couple, “—Verra would have had an arm to lean on… instead of having to drive me down that aisle. When you—Bernie or Nellie—are ready… I’ll be walking.” The strain of speaking was mirrored in his features. He grinned at his wife and pointed at the glass on the table before him. “Alice…please…” She put the drink in his right hand, gently holding on to it until she was sure the grip was tight.

“Just a minute, Dave. Gotta make sure everyone’s full up for this one.” Tom Carleton deftly popped another champagne cork as he spoke. As usual, Carleton was anything but spit-and-polish. His shirt had quickly taken on a two-day-old look and his suit pants once again were slung low, emphasizing his ample belly. “I know you’re supposed to be on the wagon,” he said as he got to Pratt, “but a tad of bubbly won’t hurt just this one time.” Making sure the grip was still firm, he filled the glass for Pratt. “There—now everything’s done up proper.”

The admiral smiled his thanks. “If I continue… to get this service, it will be tough to… to get back on my feet.” He gestured slightly in Verra’s direction. “And when I do… Henry’s going to have to be on his toes… to keep me away from you.”

As he took a deep breath to search for his next words, Verra came from the other end of the table and kissed him gently on the cheek, then whispered, “Thank you, thank you so very much.”

“Normally… I would do this on my feet,” Pratt continued. “Seeing it’s family… I don’t think there will be any objections.” He turned to his wife. “Alice, would you stand for me?” She rose to her feet, extending her glass toward Cobb and Verra. “Here’s to one old member… and one new member of the family… whom we welcome with all our heart.” Pratt paused to take a couple of deep breaths. “And here’s to two people… who tamed the lion Keradin in his own den… Russia… and made it possible for us… to be here today—Hank, Verra… to forever.” His head sank toward his chest wearily, then lifted to hold both of them in his gaze. There were tears in the corners of his eyes. Slowly, with an effort, he brought the glass to his lips and sipped his champagne.

The owner of the inn caught snippets of the conversation from the kitchen, relaying each new tidbit to his wife—the newly married couple had done something very dangerous in Russia! The black man had survived two ships blown out from under him in one day! The strange one whose eyes looked right through you was the only survivor of a mission that was still secret! And the fat one had apparently saved Pratt’s life. Then realization suddenly came to the innkeeper. Pratt—so that’s who the gray-haired man was. The commander of the Battle of the Mediterranean, that man in the wheelchair, was actually in his inn!

As the evening progressed, the owner found himself down to his last bottle of champagne.
These people must have hollow legs!
He was going to have to explain this to one of them, but for some reason he was hesitant, afraid. Finally, he decided on the fat man’s wife. He was now a bit in awe of Mrs. Pratt, and this other woman seemed by far the quietest. When he was able to explain his problem to her—that there was only one bottle left, but that he knew where he could get more—Lucille Carleton laughed. “Oh, Tommy never remembers to carry money. I’ll send someone out to the kitchen in a moment with some cash so you can run out and get some more. We plan to stay here for a while.” Her eyes twinkled merrily.

The innkeeper’s face fell when the black man came through the kitchen doors, a wide grin on his face. The owner’s wife remarked later what a handsome devil that Mr. Nelson was! “So we’re drinking you out of house and home,” Nellie’s voice boomed. “Here.” He extracted a wad of bills from his pocket. “Buy a case. What we don’t drink here, we’ll take with us. You see,” and his grin punctuated his high cheekbones and deep brown eyes, “this will never happen to us again—a wedding, I mean. No lady would be able to live with Bernie—and for me I think once is enough. So keep it flowing, my friend.” Nelson had noticed the innkeeper’s attitude toward him at the beginning of the evening and now his arm encircled the man’s shoulders. “The rest of us made a deal with each other. We’re not going to let the happy couple run off to bed. We’re going to stay here all night.” He gave the man a bear hug and departed the kitchen with a deep laugh.

Each of the party understood how Verra had felt. There were no secrets among them. When Cobb had acknowledged weeks earlier that no matter how hard he tried to convince himself to the contrary, he was once again in love, Verra had insisted that they stay apart until they were married. After all she had been through at Keradin’s dacha, she needed a delay before this fresh start. She loved this strange man, Cobb, who had saved her life, but it also meant a great deal to her if she waited until they were married. Perhaps that would put it all behind her; perhaps it would erase the pain of the past.

Cobb saw the sense to it, and so did the others—after all, they were all family. And now that Cobb and Verra were legally husband and wife, the others like slightly malicious siblings were conspiring to keep them up all night. It was no different than in years gone by, like the days in Vietnam when they drank the hours away and played juvenile tricks on each other.