First Salvo (10 page)

Winters checked off the interminable minutes it took to get back to shore—twenty, eighteen, fifteen, ten, eight, six…

Then the electric motor simply stopped. Unlike an internal combustion engine, there was no stuttering or jumping or sputtering. All of a sudden, it just wasn’t working.

He let the sled go, watching dejectedly as it slowly slid toward the bottom, the sun’s rays penetrating the clear, cold waters and glinting off its surface. Then it was gone.

Winters took some preliminary strokes, kicked his legs. What was supposed to be a smooth bodily reaction, the combined efforts of arms and legs, was a clumsy thrash, like a fish flapping helplessly on the sand, Harry thought.

There was no way he could do it. It was beyond the function of his brain to force arms and legs to coordinate. It was beyond his mind to inspire his baser instincts to save himself. Winters knew there was no way he could make it back!

The one thing he knew he was still capable of was insuring that his body was not found by the Russians before the freighter got underway.

Clumsily, in the same awkward motions Marty had attempted, but failed at, Harry extracted the plastic container from his belt. As he did so, he found that his mind was acceding to what he was about to do. As he allowed himself to sink gradually, he decided that he would wait until the sunlight was barely discernible above, because he did not want to see himself do it. It was one thing to do his duty to a friend, quite another to do it to himself.

As he awaited the profound peace that all the books claimed would settle over him, the realization came that he was going about it all wrong! His orderly mind had slipped away for a moment. This wasn’t the way he’d been taught. The classroom experience came back to him vividly. They had even done it in the tanks, step-by-step, even to plunging a phony needle into their flesh.

Step one: the tank! He slipped gradually out of the straps, each movement of his body a painful reminder that there was a definite purpose in this. His fingers fumbled for the plunger. They wouldn’t close!
You’ve got to! You’ve got to get through step one
. With an effort he shoved and shoved until enough force was exerted. The tanks sank, only the bubbles showing where his former life-support system was disappearing.

Step two: the wet suit! He had to hurry. It was hard to hold your breath when your body was so cold, when each motion was painful.
Don’t screw it up now for Chrissakes.
There was no way he could reach the cord in back, but there was another under the belt in front. His fingers couldn’t grasp it. Finally, the heels of both hands pressed together, he yanked, and felt the flood of cold water against his skin. But it wasn’t cold. It was hot, almost a burning sensation!

Step three: the container. He’d slipped it back in the belt when he remembered he had other things to do.
Step three, the container
, his mind screamed at him. Now the air— the last gulp of oxygen before he let the tanks go—was escaping his lungs. He could sense the bubbles on his lips. There was no way he’d allow himself to suck in any water, not Harry Winters! He had no intention of drowning, of causing his own death by the very element that he’d lived in and made a career of!

He couldn’t bring his hand far enough around to push the needle against his arm. So, as the last breath left his body, he pushed it against his chest. There was a sharp prick, no pain. His whole body was already one big pain! He kept his mouth shut. The last conscious message to his brain was not to open his mouth—don’t let any water in. Then there was darkness as the drug took him. Step four…
die.

Harry Winters sank slowly to the bottom of the harbor—the second American casualty.

SPITZBERGEN, THE AIRPORT

B
ernie Ryng’s first notion was to knock off the horseplay. In a very short time, they’d be in the midst of a firefight. On second thought, it was better to let Denny Bush go ahead.

Bush, a black beret pulled down just above his right eyebrow, was conducting a mock inspection of the other two. Rick’s beret was a bit too large, so Bush, the inspecting officer, had pulled it over his eyes. And Wally simply wasn’t going to pass. The black uniform blouse was wrinkled and slightly soiled from the scuffle. “You look so sloppy, one would think you were wearing someone else’s uniform,” Denny scowled, his lips quivering in an effort to maintain a straight face.

It was too much for him. He turned to Ryng, saluting with his fingers at the edge of his eyebrow. “I apologize, comrade. These men are not ready for inspection. I will have them shot immediately.”

It was good sport. Ryng appreciated the twinkle in Denny’s eyes. Denny Bush was always the one to break up the party when they were ashore, or to find the bright side and loosen up the others when an operation neared the flash point. He was the type that cemented a group. Ryng commanded naturally, led by example, but his willingness to let Denny down made him even more of a leader in the men’s eyes. Every leader needed a Denny Bush.

“Very well, comrade,” he answered, returning the salute with an even more exaggerated one of his own. “Shoot them. It’s the only solution.”

They were now outfitted in the Black Beret uniform of the Soviet Naval Infantry. That would allow them to get close enough to the planes to carry out their attack. The bombers that were on the runway had to be destroyed and the field left inoperable, and this would scare the ship out of the harbor. It was Harry Winters’s job to make sure it never came back. Next, they would destroy the remaining decoy torpedoes and eliminate any Black Berets in their way. Ryng had no illusions about taking on an entire marine platoon with four men, so the final objective was to get the hell out of there.

Obtaining the uniforms was simple. Though it required an extra effort to insure the clothes were neither damaged nor bloodied, Ryng’s team was skilled in that type of work. They selected privates, men who would have no command responsibilities and wouldn’t be immediately missed. The team moved fast, for a crack military organization like the Black Berets wouldn’t take long to realize more than one man was missing. The uniforms themselves were impressive, black fatigues with naval insignia and striking black berets with an anchor design on the left side and a red star in front. Each man in his team spoke Russian. Ryng wouldn’t have selected a man who didn’t.

Ryng checked his watch. Harry would be under that hull by now, preparing his own little surprise. Time to move. They’d already gone over the basics of his plan, and there was nothing complex about it. Their explosives—antipersonnel grenades, Wally’s homemade plastic pipe bombs, and some with time delay fuses—were carried in cloth satchels. Each man carried the Russian automatic rifles they had taken when they appropriated the uniforms. Underneath were their personal weapons.

A formidable little force, if I do say so myself
, Bernie thought.
Not big, but I’ve worked with them enough to know they’re each worth four or five average infantrymen and maybe three Black Berets apiece
. He shrugged inwardly.
We have the advantage of surprise. Maybe five to one will be acceptable.

“Let’s go.”

Nothing else was necessary. No instructions. Each could hold his own and look out for the other guy at the same time.

They passed through what Ryng decided must have been the town square when it wasn’t buried in snow. The best approach was the confident one. Look like you’re heading somewhere important, following instructions. Head there as fast as possible, acting as if there’s no time to pass the time of day with anyone, and don’t look back!

No one bothered them. One of the guards at the warehouse by the harbor waved and shouted a friendly greeting as they passed. Ryng returned the wave and muttered something about stopping on their way back for a smoke.

As they came abreast of the maintenance building, where the off-loaded decoys were apparently stored, Ryng spotted an open vehicle. The keys were in the ignition. “We’ll borrow that when we’re getting the hell out of here.” He pointed at Denny. “You drive.” Over his shoulder to the others, he added with a grin, “And why don’t you all try to be careful and not blow the damn thing up. I don’t feature running all the way back with a platoon of marines on my heels.”

“Makes sense,” Denny agreed nonchalantly. He winked at Ryng. “Maybe I ought to take the keys now.”

“Don’t worry about the keys, my friend. Just make sure you drop anyone who wants to take it.” Then to the others, “We’ll wander over by the shed and get an idea how many are inside. And I want to know exactly where those aircrews are.” There were now three bombers pulled up one behind the other on the field. “They know how to shoot too. Rick, you find them for me. They can’t be far. The crews last night were supervising the placing of those decoys on the wings, so these will probably want to also.”

There were six Black Berets, each armed with the AK-74s, inside the shed where the decoys were stored. Another dozen, unarmed, were preparing them for loading. Wally made a mental note that their weapons were stacked nearby. Rick found the aircrews in the rear of the building, relaxing at a long table over coffee and cigarettes. He saw nothing to indicate they were armed. That made eighteen marines, six of whom would have to be dispatched immediately, leaving twelve who would make trouble within seconds if they were allowed to pick up anything that would shoot. Ryng knew they could save the aircrews until last, but they couldn’t take them for granted.

Back outside, Ryng explained, “We’re going to wait until they start loading those two bombers. That’ll get the crews out here and the coolies farther away from their guns. When I give the word, Wally and I will hit the shed. All I want to do is hold it long enough to blow the decoys. Denny, you and Rick handle the ones out here. Don’t give them the slightest chance. More often than not, those flyers have pistols or other survival weapons in their flight suits. Take them first, then the work party. Then get those explosives inside the planes. I want them burning from the inside out. Then we’ll scatter some time-delay grenades to keep their cleanup crews busy for a while—can’t let them reopen the field,” he added.

“Sounds simple,” remarked Bush.

“Very,” agreed Ryng, “if you believe no one else is going to come running as soon as the shooting starts.”

TOM CARLETON

A
n overhead speaker in the
Yorktown
’s pilothouse crackled into life. “Permission granted to detach for maneuvering exercises. Request you maintain standard ECM and long-range AA guards per my Op Order 12-2. Over.”

“Roger. I thank you. Out.” Tom Carleton handled the transmission himself, since the maneuvering exercises were for no one other than him. The man he relieved hours earlier had assured him that his OODs were superb ship handlers, so it was apparent that only
Yorktown
’s new captain needed to be qualified in handling the cruiser.

“This is Captain Carleton. I have the conn,” he called out to the bridge watch, following the Navy’s time-honored tradition. The acknowledgment echoed back to him, then he said, “Right standard rudder… come to course one zero zero.” He eased his well-fed bulk out of the captain’s chair and moved calmly about the pilothouse to refamiliarize himself with the myriad dials and displays.

Before putting his ship through her paces, he would take her about five miles outside the perimeter of the formation. The process wouldn’t be a long one. Carleton had commanded ships before, and he was a superb ship handler—any ship, any sea conditions. His purpose was simply to get the feel of
Yorktown
,
to know before he gave an order how she would respond, how quickly she could accelerate, how she reacted in tight turns at high speeds. He had to know her personally not only under combat conditions, but also in close quarters with other U.S. ships.

Each vessel had a personality of its own. Though they were built following the same specifications, they were as different as human beings, each rudder biting just a tad differently, each mighty engine with its own quirk, each hull taking the sea with slight aberrations. Very few men could sense such minute differences. Most who could were commanding officers. Carleton was at home when he could feel a ship’s personality through his feet or identify with her sounds through his pillow as he slept at night. But now there was little time to understand
Yorktown
,
for everything pointed to the fact that she might have to fulfill her design obligations any hour now.

There were engine controls on the bridge. With a flick of the wrist, the powerful gas turbines could accelerate the ship instantly, the only limiting force being the drag of the water against her hull. Carleton first put the engines through their paces, increasing speeds slowly, then faster, then backing down, then forward again, full speed. He watched her wake, he felt her talk to him through his feet, and he learned very quickly how she would answer him.

Then he toyed with her rudders, turning sharply one way, then another, making Z’s and O’s, selecting various speeds—even backing down halfway through a turn. Such an action might be needed to avoid a collision or even be the last chance to confuse a homing torpedo, at least enough so that it might detonate in
Yorktown
’s wake rather than her engine room. He felt her cant as he increased her rudder angle, estimating in his own mind how she would respond when the seas were twenty feet and green water was breaking over her bow.

He spent over an hour gamboling about the Mediterranean, enjoying a luxury that he might not again have the opportunity for. She was magnificent!
Yorktown
outperformed everything he’d read in the designer’s specs and the sea trials. Now it was time to go back to business as usual. Grudgingly, he returned the conn to the OOD and sat comfortably back in his captain’s chair, his hands folded happily over his ample belly. For a moment, a very short one, he thought about his wife’s cooking—it was almost as dear to him as she was. He imagined that, if he ever got a soft shore billet, that would be it! Lucille’s food would fatten him up and they’d retire him permanently! He dozed off contentedly.