First Salvo (5 page)

“There weren’t any white men big enough to stop me today, Dave. I had such a head of steam up, I just bowled them over.” Nelson reached automatically for a cigarette and shook hands with the others before sinking into the nearest chair. He was as handsome as Pratt and about the same size. He had high cheekbones that emphasized deep brown, intelligent eyes. He folded his large hands behind his head. “Where’s the booze? I’ve never seen this group sitting on its hands before.”

Pratt looked at his watch. “Any moment now it ought to be coming right through that door. As much of it as your little hearts desire, which is normally a quart apiece.” Pratt cocked his head to one side, and the same laugh he’d always gotten from that remark came from each of them. They knew each other as well as they knew themselves, and their affection after four years was no different than it had been when their unit rotated back to the States in 1971. Now the youngsters, Carleton and Nelson, were commanding their own ships. Still absent was the baby of the group, Cobb. He had always been an enigma, though he had eased his way into their hearts. He frequently disappeared underground, and when he surfaced, this group seemed to be the only people he ever needed, and they tactfully never asked for details. He was the only one who acted totally independent, but he needed them as much as they needed each other. And Ryng—Ryng would always be the same, the famed SEAL team leader, drifting in and out of their lives from his world of special operations.

“Well, my dear Admiral, the next commanding officer of the U.S.S.
John Hancock
,” Nelson responded, “will be taking off from Andrews in less than six hours, hopefully a bit drunk.”

“Don’t hold your breath, Nellie. I’m scheduled out then too—also hopefully a bit under the weather. Perhaps you’ll have the honor of joining me.” Pratt had written their orders, never expecting they would accidentally all be in Washington at the same time.

Nelson rolled his eyes humorously. Then he sat up straight, his face serious. “We going to make it in time, Dave? I’d hate to have the world blow while we’re at forty thousand feet.” There was no doubt in his mind, after the time he and Dave Pratt had spent together in Newport at the Naval War College, that it was Pratt who had gotten him
Hancock.

Carleton’s head bobbed up and down as he spoke. “No higher a personage than Bernie Ryng guarantees that we’ll all make it. He’s even cabled the Kremlin to slow down a bit so that we can be in position in time.”

A knock on the door announced a Navy chief in immaculately tailored whites, pushing a cart loaded with glasses, ice, and bottles of liquor. Right behind came the very nervous waiter who had just been relieved of the cart. Coming to a halt before Admiral Pratt, Chief Petty Officer Henry Cobb removed a bottle of scotch, tossing it onto an empty chair. “I don’t know what the others are having, but this ought to do me until lunch.” The waiter gaped in amazement as the enlisted man walked up to the Admiral, throwing his arms around the taller man’s neck. “David, my friend, how’s the world been treating you?” The waiter had worked in Washington long enough to know that he’d never see that again—not to an admiral in uniform. There was no way he could have known that Cobb was really a civilian.

“Hank Cobb,” Pratt answered. “Why was I ever so lucky to end up on the same carrier that you’re heading for? I thought my final days were going to be easier.” Pratt had specifically recommended Cobb for the most dangerous, and probably impossible job only because no other man could possibly pull it off. But until this morning, he had no idea how Cobb was operating or how he planned to travel. A Navy chief was as good a cover as any.

The chief grinned at the admiral. “I read your orders in the
Navy Times
,
called a buddy well placed in Norfolk, and asked if he’d cut me some orders to the
Kennedy
—just to protect you from yourself.” The waiter exited the room quietly, deciding not to wait for the signature on the bill or his tip.

Henry Cobb would continue to turn up when he was least expected. That was the type of man he was. Years back, he had been part of Navy Intelligence, but it simply didn’t work. Hank was too sophisticated for it. But even that wasn’t quite the word Pratt really wanted when he tried to explain Henry to the president. Afterward, Hank had been transferred to Delta Group, and that had been a failure too. The group had been a force of men, while Cobb was much too independent—a one-man force.

Then the CIA heard about him and a deal was made. Overnight he was a civilian. Since Cobb was a linguist and Russian was his specialty, he had appealed to the CIA. And he was a man who could appear in just about any location at any time, getting there totally on his own, with no help from the desk, and pass himself off as a native. He was so successful in some of his more unsavory works, in fact, that he was discharged from the CIA. It would not do to have a man like Cobb traced back to them. And he liked that.

The idea of being an independent operative appealed to him. Though there were rumors that Cobb was for hire to anyone who could pay the price, Dave Pratt knew this to be absolutely false. In his own way, Cobb was a true patriot—as long as he could work on his own terms.

Henry Cobb was what one might call nondescript. Perhaps that was the reason no other organization had an exact picture of him. He was of medium height and build. His hair was short and brown, eyes brown, complexion medium, and there were no distinguishing features that would cause someone to remember his face. Only the other four men in the room would believe what Henry was going to do.

Cobb picked up Ryng’s copy of
Morskoi Sbornik
and flipped the pages. “Hey, did you know this supply ship just left Murmansk and—”

“Believe me, Hank, I know.”

Wendell Nelson was filling the glasses with ice. “Let’s get into it, men. We may have to wait another four years to do this again. Say, Dave, you’ve been around this town for a few weeks. What’s the word on the torpedo that hit the ferry yesterday? I don’t believe a word I read in the papers.”

“Don’t ever,” remarked Ryng sarcastically.

“He’s pretty much right, Nellie. They interrogated that fisherman for quite a while. He was no dummy. He’d seen those things before and could give a pretty good description. It wasn’t anything we ever produced. It was a plant, and a damn good one. Like you say about the papers, they’ve already performed the roll of judge and jury and they’ve hanged New London without a trial. The only thing we haven’t doped out is how the Russians managed to get it that close without anyone noticing anything unusual. They figure it might have been towed in by a fishing boat and dropped right where that poor guy fouled it in his gear.”

“But whatever the answer,” Carleton said, “their plan’s working like it’s supposed to—to turn the public against the Navy. Can’t say I blame them, with that many dead from the ferry—not to mention all the noise the papers are making about those two Senators, Hodges and Hall, who were off on the ferry on that boondoggle. With the great stories I’ve heard about those two, I can imagine what they might have done if that ferry ever made it to the island. What a way to go,” he laughed.

“And,” Ryng added, “the thing was timed precisely right. Washington’s about to start stamping and shouting about Soviet terrorism and aggression and our own papers are going to be raising hell about our torpedoing the Block Island ferry.” He shook his head in disgust. “Perfect timing by the Russians while the American public hasn’t the vaguest idea what’s going on. Am I right?” He turned to Pratt.

The older man nodded in assent, absentmindedly sipping at the drink Nellie had handed him. “The president wanted to keep the Block Island thing under wraps.”

Carleton eased his feet back onto the coffee table. “I know what Nellie and I are going to do for you, Dave. We’re going to drive ships through knotholes. We’re going to dodge missiles like the Lone Ranger. Then we’re going to deal out justice to the Russian fleet. But what are these other two clowns going to do while we’re in the middle of it?”

Pratt smiled. “I suppose you could say they’ll both do what they do best. You see, I came into this through the back door. I’ll tell you right now I wasn’t waiting in line. As a matter of fact, there was no line.” He eased back into one of the large, soft chairs and related how he’d been picked out by the president because of the work he’d done at the War College. “Nellie can tell you. We did a lot of the work together. I got the credit because I’m an admiral and he’s junior to me. Ostensibly, I’m in command of the carrier battle group you all know about, but I also got to stick my nose in everything else too because of those strategy papers.”

Each man was aware of the work Pratt was explaining. With the exception of Cobb, they all followed each other’s comings and goings pretty closely. It pleased them that one of their own had been recognized, especially a good guy like Dave Pratt.

“The problem in the North Atlantic is supposed to be a Navy problem. When the subs come out, sink ’em. But there’s a first step—the Reds have to get their subs through the barrier we’ve set up.” They were also aware of the minefield strung across the GIUK gap that could be activated only by the Soviet attack subs as they passed through. “Something’s going on up north, way up in Spitzbergen. We haven’t the vaguest idea what, but it has to have something to do with neutralizing our barrier. I suggested to the president that there was one man who could do the job quietly up there.” He nodded toward Ryng. “It’s a job for a SEAL team because it involves more than just snooping. Bernie and his boys can normally handle themselves in a good firefight, and that’s what I told the man in the White House when he asked how to take the problem one step farther.”

Tom Carleton shook his head, puffing out his chubby cheeks before exhaling. “It’s not for me.” He wagged a finger at Cobb. “And him?”

“Henry is going into the wine business.” Pratt waited for a reaction, but the others outwaited him. “Russian wine. He has acquired a special taste for sweet dessert wines, the type from vineyards in the Crimea. It seems that the wine maker there just dabbles in the business as a hobby. His main job is head of the Strategic Rocket Forces of the Soviet Union.”

Ryng whistled. “Assassination?”

Cobb looked up, expressionless. “A straight assassination would be too easy.”

“There’s a simple theory in Washington right now. I don’t know which group developed it—and I’m not saying it’s wrong—but the president is convinced that this next war, if we have to have it, must be the last. Now wait a minute,” Pratt added quickly. “Part of the theory is not that we’ll never have to fight again. Instead, the idea is both to keep ourselves from escalating this into a nuclear thing and also to do something that will permanently stop the posturing with nuclear missiles. If I could ever classify something as a ‘mission impossible,’ this is it. Our friend Henry Cobb is going to waltz right in and snatch the head of the Strategic Rocket Forces from under the Russians’ own noses. What do you think of that?”

“I’d say a snatch like that is impossible,” Nellie remarked blandly.

Carleton looked over at him and nodded in agreement. “Me, too.”

“The president says it is, too. But he asked me what the next step would be if we stopped the subs up north, and if we held our own in the Med. I told him frankly that the Russian doctrine calls for nuclear weapons. First, they’ll call our bluff, then they’ll threaten, and then they’ll use them to show they mean business.” Cobb said nothing.

“Who came up with this brilliant idea?” Ryng asked sarcastically. Then he added, “Been nice knowing you, Hank.”

“I have no idea. The day after we talked about the nuclear threat, he asked me if I thought grabbing this guy—Keradin his name is—would stop them long enough to think. I said that it might be a better idea to take him out. The president looked at me, you know, over the tops of his glasses, and said that was his feeling precisely. But the others arguing that morning thought that murdering the guy would make them so mad they’d just blast away.” Pratt stopped for a moment and scratched the back of his neck. “But the more we talked about it, the better the idea of kidnapping sounded. You know,” he leaned forward, “it might just put them off guard long enough to make them think. But first we’d have to neutralize them up north and in the Med.” He got up and shrugged. “Anyway, the president was looking for the best man for the job.” Pratt pointed at Cobb. “He’d heard Hank’s name before, so I reinforced what he already knew.”

“It’s still impossible,” Carleton said softly.

“Well,” Cobb clapped his hands, “we’ll never know until we try it, will we?”

There was no point, Pratt realized, in going over any more details of why Cobb would make this attempt. Dave Pratt had agreed because some of the studies justifying the idea stemmed from his own—that the organization controlling the Soviet ICBM arsenal might be weakened to the point of indecision if their commander was neutralized. Pratt had once emphasized three goals concerning the Strategic Rocket Forces: create confusion and vacillation within a system that relied upon one man; determine primary Soviet targets before they could make their initial launch, thereby instilling the threat of complete failure; and create disaffection within the Soviet high command based on the premise that their strategic system might have been compromised. Even if the kidnapping was near inconceivable, it was in Cobb’s hands now.

For the next two hours, the conversation often returned to the days along the Mekong. Pratt had been a lieutenant commander in charge of the riverboat squadron; Carleton, just promoted to lieutenant, was his executive officer. Nelson and Ryng were both young ensigns, and Henry Cobb had been a petty officer in charge of one of the boats.

One of their final operations brought them closer to each other than ever. It was a raid deep into VC territory. Nelson and Ryng each led a division of boats; Pratt and Carleton directed the operation by helicopter. Ryng, his boat sunk in one of the early firefights, was pulled from the muddy water by Nelson. The boats continued upriver into a second, heavier action. This time the helo was shot down, crashing in the water near the river’s edge. Carleton was thrown free of the wreckage as it hit the water. Hank Cobb, disregarding heavy fire from shore, leaped into the water, diving into the sinking wreckage to pull out Pratt.