Show of Force (38 page)

She was truly a supertanker in every respect, and her full capacity of oil could have supplied all the energy needs to sustain a substantial city for more than a year. Her oil rode in the forward 95 percent of the ship, while her after 5 percent housed her small crew in absolute luxury. Her pilothouse was as spotless as an operating room and as automated as the Concorde jet.

The
Prince of Peace
had taken on her oil fifteen miles out from the port of Bahrain, simply because she could get no closer to the city. Safety experts had agreed these supertankers should be far enough away to avoid endangering the population. Resupplied by helicopter, she stood out into the Persian Gulf the morning before the mines were slipped below the surface of the Strait of Hormuz. Giant propellers bit into the warm water, but her sheer weight prevented the ship from gaining her economical cruising speed of fourteen knots for the better part of half an hour. While her speed through the water was unimpressive compared to the faster military ships, an urgent attempt to stop her would still cause the ship to remain in forward motion for over six minutes.

First light was just coloring the sky as the
Prince of Peace
was passing through the coral reefed strait toward the safety of deeper water and open ocean. The tremendous vibrations of the hull passing through the water activated two of the mines. The navigator had just appeared on the wing of the bridge to take his first star sight when the initial explosion shattered number-one tank in the bow. From one hundred feet above the water's surface and over thirteen hundred feet astern of the explosion, the navigator was fascinated most by the amount of time it took the sound to arrive. Before he could ponder the physics of the problem further, the second mine detonated under tank number three.

Enough volatile gas had collected in the few air spaces in the tank- to instantly create a secondary explosion far beyond any that the designers of the mine could have comprehended. The navigator was never aware of the secondary blast, nor were any other members of the crew. The force buckled the hull, lifting the central section up, the weight fore and aft snapping the ship in half, the hull for a moment resembling a cracked egg.

Then a fireball rocketed skyward, fueled by the gases generated by intense heat. As it rose, more oil was sucked up with it, both from the number-three tank and those on either side as they ruptured. The first streaks of dawn were instantly changed into midday on the coasts on either side of the strait. The heat that arrived shortly after the light was so acute from its point of origin that for a moment It was as if the midday sun had stalled.

Steam from the ocean followed the fireball as it soared skyward, helping to intensify the winds now developing in the vortex of the flame. While the
Prince of Peace
was already settling in two vast, partially melted sections, the oil from all five burst tanks was now burning furiously. Where hardly a breath of air had existed a moment before, winds were now increasing in a circular motion, fanning the flames and drawing more oil and oxygen into the fire. Not a minute had passed before this firestorm had developed hurricane-force winds, encouraging a blaze unlike any man had ever thought of creating, beyond even Dresden or Hiroshima.

Later in the day, the dense, smoky, oil-laden clouds would drift eastward, creating a black rain that would cover the southernmost tip .of Iran, reaching across the border into Pakistan. There would be little fishing for years to come and the blackened shores on both sides of the strait and the Gulf of Oman would reflect the disaster for an equal amount of time.

The loss of a freighter, or even a small tanker, might not have created as much furor around the world as this one unexpected mistake in communications. Within hours, the nations of the world—First-World, Second World, Third World—were clamoring for a halt in this sudden war between the two world powers, a war over a misunderstood plot of guano in the Indian Ocean.

The concept first appeared on wall posters in Peking only hours after the loss of the
Prince of Peace,
which had followed on the heels of the unfortunate Soviet landing at Islas Piedras. There was no longer concern about security of communications either in Moscow or Washington. Their losses had been tremendous. Che world was only too well aware of the danger that now existed. The wall posters stated:

A blatant message has been sent to the peaceful nations of the world that the two superpowers are willing to go to any length to establish superiority over the other, including hazarding the hegemony of Third World countries in their own affairs. If they are not willing to come to the peace tables within twenty-four hours, then it is time for the remainder of the world to bring them to their knees.

Peking saw the chance. Once and for all, Russia would be established as a dangerous aggressor. And the United States would have to listen to China now, instead of assuming a big brother role.

While other world leaders might not have interpreted Peking's basic reasons, they were willing to add their names to the list. Moscow and Washington were overwhelmed by the anger directed at them.

I
have won. They will not get to Islas Piedras. Alex has won. He proved that the Soviet fleet can stand against us, toe to toe. Nobody has won. We have simply proven that we can hammer each other into a surreal state without the use of nuclear weapons. Maybe if we had used the atomic warheads and hit the other's capital ships first, there would not have been such unacceptable loss.

I feel like Chief Joseph. He was correct. He should be considered the great American, and maybe he would be if people had only listened to him. He said he would fight no more. He was a man of wisdom. He was also shouting into a hurricane, for his words were carried away before he could be understood. He knew.

Apparently we have to prove it to ourselves each time, just in case something might be balanced in our favor. I know how hard it is to turn the other cheek. We were well prepared, and I suppose we can say the day is ours. But is that what they're saying right now? I think so.

I wouldn't be sitting here now, making this entry, if I hadn't gone to the captain's cabin to borrow some clothes. The only item I took with me from
Nimitz
was this log, wrapped in the old watertight case that Maria gave me. I remember her card: “To the next Mahan.” I had the log under my arm when I came in here, and decided I had to write even as I sit here in my skivvies. It just hit me. Who won and what was won? I kept staring back at
Nimitz
engulfed in flames. Over and over in my mind, I kept thinking of Chief Joseph as we pulled away.

I've made my decision. It's time for new warriors. The old ones are tired.

TASHA, MY LOVE,

There is a loneliness in command that goes beyond what any book has ever been able to describe. I cannot put it into words myself, but you would know it if I were beside you now, for my eyes must be telling that awful truth. Most of all, I want my father to know, even though I am not sure he would understand.

You must insist that my father tell you what has happened here on the Indian Ocean. You will not be able to read it thoroughly in the papers, but I want you to know my part in it. Briefly, we have fought over a period of a few days a vast sea battle, possibly one of the greatest in history. It was against the Americans, and my enemy (even-briefly in my own mind, I think) was David Charles. I say “briefly” for that arrogance on my part passed quickly. I believe I have accomplished much for my country, but I am not sure what I have given up to do so. While we have proven to the world that in less than half a century we have been able to stand up to the greatest seapower in history, I find little to take personal pride in. The person that I had been trained to think I was is no longer me. While written words can't describe these feelings, perhaps you, in your own special way, will understand when I return.

The only way I can describe the feelings I have is to remind you of that American politician David told us about once. The man probably lived in the wrong era, for when asked what he wanted to do after literally giving his waking moments to his country, he said, “I want to sip red wine and watch the people dance,” or something to that effect. He died before he could ever achieve that dream, and I don't want to.
I
want to sip the wine with the people, and I want to dance with them.

I count the moments until I am home with you and can give the love that has too often been bottled up inside me. Tell Pietr that he, too, is constantly in my thoughts.

With love,

Alex

DEAREST MARIA,

It is entirely possible that by the time this letter arrives, we may already be together again. You will have read in the newspapers and watched on television what I have been involved in. Whatever is twisted by the media can be corrected by Sam Carter.

I have always felt a deep pride for my Navy and my own small contribution to it. There is now a deep, deep hurt that will forever dig at me for my intensity in trying to destroy Alex's force and even Alex himself. There is something ingrained in most of us from childhood that brings out love or faith in country, an abiding nationalism perhaps, that I now know takes precedence over friendship. I have been increasingly concerned about that the last few days as I led my men directly at the Soviet force. Beyond Sam Carter, Alex, a Russian naval officer, may be one of the men I am closest to emotionally and intellectually. I can't describe it beyond that, and I don't know if I will ever be able to describe such a feeling to you.

Should anything happen to me before we are together again, I want you to know I am ashamed of nothing I have done. While the Navy may say what I am about to do is contrary to my oath, I followed orders and served my country as best I could. To me, choosing the military as a career never meant that I was choosing war—that I accepted, if there was no other alternative. While I may have some misgivings as I write this note, I can say with certainty that my concept of duty will eventually overcome any self-doubt.

You have been able to understand me when I can't express myself well, and feel what I feel when I say nothing. Then you know as you read this how you and the children are with me always, and that our own love becomes stronger each day.

With love,

David

A
haggard David Charles listened to Bill Dailey's casualty reports. The Chief of Staff was subdued, his eyes more tired than ever" before, his shoulders a bit more rounded, his voice without its normal crispness.

“. . . fuel for the gas turbine ships is dangerously low. We were unable to top off each one when we spent the night in the Seychelles, and some of the small boys have been operating at flank speed since then. They haven't got more than a day before it's critical.”

Dailey was continuing with the report, but David was hearing only what shocked him most. The personnel casualty reports were the items that stunned him particularly. Too many burn cases from
Nimitz
needed shore care. So many ships had been sunk that those 'still afloat were unable to provide adequate medical care or food for the survivors and their own men. Loss of his
Nimitz
had been a catastrophe, but the number of smaller cruisers, destroyers, frigates, even the stealthy submarines, that were lost was staggering.

He wondered if any other naval leader had ever suffered such losses as Dailey continued, “. . . it doesn't look like we can save
Texas , .
.”He had forgotten her. She had taken two missile hits, the second penetrating forward magazines between the missile launcher and her five-inch gun. Personnel losses had been exceptionally high from exploding ammunition, yet her crew had never given up fighting the fires. Now that her damage-control parties were gaining, her captain had just reported that he might have to abandon ship. He conjured up a picture of Larry Waterman and his family. Before he had been given
Texas,
he had lived in the same neighborhood with David and Maria Charles. Their children had played together and gone to the same school. The wives had been in the P.T.A., and the two couples had gotten along well, backyard barbecues and that sort of thing. When Larry had received orders for
Texas,
it was the Charles family that had thrown the celebration and good-bye party, for the Watermans would be moving to the ship's home port.

Texas
was down by the bow, still taking on water too fast. “Captain Waterman says he'd like to stay on board
Texas
with volunteers, that maybe they can hold their own if someone can get more pumps to her. ...”

David held up his hand. “What is the exact casualty count among the men?”

Dailey looked up from his notes. “I can't say exactly, Admiral. Some ships don't know how many men they have left to operate. And it will be another four hours or so before we can start to get an accurate count of survivors picked up by other ships.”

“This is all crazy, Bill.” David Charles stared at an invisible spot on the bulkhead before he turned to the other to continue. “We were out here for a display of power,” his hands raised in despair, “a military show of force to back up a political decision.” He shook his head and repeated, "It's all crazy, Bill. We were supposed to dig a couple of trenches out here to keep the Russians away while we finished the work on that island. This wasn't supposed to be Trafalgar or Jutland or Midway or Leyte, yet this was probably the largest sea battle in history . . . after surface battles were supposed to be finished." He stood and paced the tiny stateroom that the cruiser
California
called the admiral's cabin. "Christ, Bill, say something. Don't stare at me like that. Don't you think the whole thing is crazy, this wholesale slaughter, this, this . . ." He shrugged his shoulders, searching for the right words.

“I don't quite know what to say, Admiral. I didn't expect this either.” He stopped to gather his thoughts, could think of little to say, then, “But the Russians have taken tremendous losses themselves. It's not all on our side.”

“That's just it, Bill. Each of us has clobbered the other. Why? What have we got to show for it? I don't even know if Alex is alive to know or even perhaps be pleased with what he's done to us.” He turned to look directly at Dailey. “I'm not proud of what we've done to him.” He jammed an index finger at his chest. “Not me. Hell, I'd have to show something for it to be proud. A victory. Or whatever the hell you call it these days.” He raised his brows, wrinkling his forehead. "But what do I have to show for it, Bill?"

“I'm afraid I don't know what to say, sir. We've heard so little from Washington the last few hours. I assume they've had everything relayed to them.”

There was a sharp knock on the door.

“Come,” David called out.

A sailor with a message board entered, saluting as he shut the door with his other hand. “Two emergency messages, sir.”

David took them and scanned the contents, frowning. Initialing them, he passed the board to Dailey. “I guess things can't get any worse.”

Dailey's jaw dropped perceptibly as he read first about the loss of
Prince of Peace
and then the ill-fated invasion of Islas Piedras. He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head slightly, his brows raised in a what-the-hell-do-we-do-now look.

“I'm going to get hold of Alex.”

“Sir?”

“I'm going to contact Alex. For Christ's sake, Bill, we've reached a stalemate. He can't get through to Islas Piedras, so we'll probably be able to finish the work there. But, on the other hand, Gorenko seems to have secured the Middle East. It's a trade-off!” The expression on his face seemed to say that it was all so simple now. “We get Africa. They get the Arabs. We. protect the South Atlantic. They get their warm-water port.”

“Don't you feel we should wait for further orders, sir?”

In a voice very unlike his usually conservative demeanor, David replied, “Shit no, Bill. Those sons of bitches in Washington must be so goddamn scared of what everybody's saying about them that they're1 going to worry about saving their own hides. Sam Carter won't be able to get a word in edgewise. Shit, when he mentions us, all those scurvy politicians are going to say, 'Who?' When it comes down to your neck, they could care less what's happened out here.” He was pacing more rapidly now in the confined space. “Same with Alex, I'll bet.” For just a moment, he returned to the Admiral Charles of the previous day. “Hell, Bill, I'll put five on it right now the Party Secretary won't even let Gorenko talk about Alex's ships. After that great speech about protecting the Third World from American aggressors, he's only thinking about how he's going to explain an armed invasion—that didn't work—and that goddamn tanker. Christ, Bill, anyone in the world who isn't white ought to be pretty happy now. For once, we didn't drag everybody else in. We just blasted away at each other, which must have made them feel damn good.” He stopped, looked at Dailey politely listening, and sat back down.

“Want me to go on, Bill?” He grinned.

“If you'd like, sir.”

“Forget it. I guess everybody in the service feels used at one time or another, but we've been drawing pay for years just for this day, haven't we?”

“You could put it that way.”

“Well, that's why I'm going to call Alex. We could continue to shoot at each other, and we probably might once we get finished licking our wounds, so I want to stop it before it starts again. Why should we kill any more Russians?”

“And why should we let them kill any more of us?” The Chief of Staff looked thoughtfully at David. “Point well taken . . . especially mine.”

“Okay. Step number one, Bill. Issue orders to anyone afloat that they are not to fire unless fired upon first. Number two, get one of your comm officers up here on the double. I want direct voice contact with Alex somehow. Number three, get a message off to Washington that we feel Islas Piedras is safe for the time being, and that we are dropping back to regroup. Tell 'em casualties are extreme, just in case they've forgotten, and that if they want to fight anyone, they'd better get some more ships out here fast. And see if you can find a fresh set of whites my size in this ship. Like the lady said, 'I don't have a thing to wear.'”

“Aye, aye, sir. I'll get that comm officer for you first.”

Svedrov was crushed, emotionally exhausted. The first message that his Admiral handed him simply stated that the landing on Islas Piedras had failed. It had come from the submarines, not from the landing force. The second slip of paper he had picked off the deck, where it had slipped from Alex Kupinsky's hands. It told of the
Prince of Peace.
“I will contact David.”

It had been a simple statement, not a question. Svedrov knew his advice was not being asked but that a response was necessary. He would continue as Admiral Kupinsky's alter ego, to act both as a right arm and as the royal opposition, whatever the occasion requited.

“Why do you say that? We have won!”

Alex whirled. “Won what, Svedrov? Tell me what we have accomplished today.”

“Why ... the Americans have been badly beaten.
Nimitz
is sunk.”

“Lenin
is also.”

“We have destroyed so many of their ships, we could launch an attack on Islas Piedras this instant.”

“With what?”

Silence from the other.

“We have used two air groups. The Maldives force is decimated. Gorenko can send us nothing. It is more likely that he is right now trying to explain what happened to that supertanker.”

“Admiral, we now have the warm-water port we have needed for so many years.”

“And I think, my friend, that Islas Piedras may soon be completed.”

Again there was silence from the Chief of Staff. Svedrov did not know what more he could say to his Admiral, a man he revered. He could not comprehend the fact that, after such heavy losses, a task-force commander could look like Kupinsky. To inflict damage, you must accept losses yourself. It was doctrine. But perhaps the older man was right. They could not go on. - '

“I sincerely believe, Svedrov, that only David Charles and I can avoid any more death. It must stop.” He slammed both hands hard on the table in front of him. "We cannot afford to lose any more ships or men, or we will have nothing left to sail into that warm-water port of yours. And, if Islas Piedras is completed by the Americans, we must have a strong fleet in the Indian Ocean.

“Svedrov, is there anyone on this little
Rezvy
who can contact the Americans for me? I will talk to David myself.”

The other raised his hands in despair. “I will find out.”

“And, I also want you to inform all units that they are to drop back and to use their weapons only to protect themselves.” He raised his hands, keeping Svedrov from speaking right away. “I do not think, Svedrov, that we will receive any orders from Moscow. Admiral Gorenko is probably trying to explain right now why so little has been accomplished today.”

“But we have done so much.”

“And so have the Americans. What do you think is going on with Admiral Charles right now? He is probably waiting for orders from his seniors in Washington, who are trying to explain all of this to their politicians. Can you imagine what the U.N. is saying to the Americans right now? Can you imagine what the whole world thinks about both our countries? Think, Svedrov, what might have happened if either of us had been the first to use atomic weapons.”

There was only silence from the other. Svedrov understood. It was just so hard to take when so many ships had been lost, and so many friends he had known from the days at his Higher Naval School. He had not told his Admiral about his brother. He had been made captain of
Boiky,
before they sailed.
Boiky
had been lost in the wolfpack attack.

David Charles sat in the bow of
California's
whaleboat, a craft much smaller than his own admiral's barge. Try as he would, the young coxswain could not keep the water out. At first he attempted to steer around the ocean chop, but that was impossible in such a breeze. Then he had the engineman throttle down, hoping the speed could be raised and lowered to make the ride drier and more comfortable for the Admiral. But that was impossible also. David had told them to proceed normally, not to worry about him. They would see the other boat they were to meet soon anyway.

It had been a most unusual conversation with Alex.
California's
comm officer had suggested one of the international-distress frequencies. Most ships would be guarding it anyway with so many aircraft down.

“I want to speak with Admiral Kupinsky.” He had used Russian and identified himself. The pause was momentary.

“This is Admiral Kupinsky.”

The voice had come back too quickly, he thought. Again he identified himself and asked for the Soviet Admiral. As he released the key, the other voice came back instantly.

“This is Admiral Kupinsky,” again in Russian. Then, in English, “This is Admiral Kupinsky.”

There was no way to identify a voice over the air, but there was no mistaking the familiar accent. Charles then said first in English, then in Russian, “Alex, this is David Charles. It was necessary to call you.”

“Yes..I recognize your accent, David. I intended to speak with you also. That is why I was nearby.”

“We should talk, Alex. We know from listening to your radio circuits that you have no more contact with Moscow than we do with Washington.”

“We realize your problem also.”

“I can sink the remainder of your force if I have to, but I feel we should talk first.”

“It doesn't really matter who could still sink the other, David. Rather than concern ourselves with that, let us attempt to save the remaining lives, if that is at all possible. But, I will not come on board one of your ships.”

“Nor I yours. I have asked my ships to drop back. If you will do the same, I suggest we use small boats and meet by ourselves in between.”

“I have already asked my ships to reform, David. Let us bring our flag ships within five kilometers to limit the distance traveled in small boats. Then we will have them fall back ten kilometers. Do you agree?”