Charles Taylor: First Salvo

“We finally convinced the one we picked up to talk a little,” Winters answered. “He was no ordinary sailor. Seems he was attached to the group that builds and services those things.” There was a second of silence. “Bernie, this guy is very difficult to talk with. Very stubborn…”

“Have you tried a shot of that stuff you and Wally have in your kits? It worked here.”

“Yeah, we have, Bernie. But this guy wasn’t too happy about it. We had to put him out cold first before we could give him a shot. And you know Marty — never has been very gentle about those things. The guy was willing to talk when he came around, but it’s very difficult to understand Russian spoken with a broken jaw.”

“Shit, Harry.”

“Now, it’s okay, Bernie. Listen. From what I can gather, they’re planning on sending just about every sub in the Northern Fleet down through the gap between Iceland and England. They must be up around here right now, or maybe even past here by now, if my geography is right. Anyway, they know damn well we got that choke point full of CAPTOR mines.” CAPTOR was the designation for a mine that the U.S. had developed as a defense against Soviet attack subs passing through choke points, the somewhat restricted waters through which a ship or submarine had to pass to get to open ocean. Nothing could activate the CAPTOR except for the target they had been programmed for. When its tiny computer identified the sound from the craft’s program — that of a nuclear attack submarine for instance — the engine activated. Immediately the mine became a homing torpedo, its one objective to silence the sound. Over the years, the U.S. had recorded the identifying sounds of every Soviet sub, and the CAPTORs now lying in wait were listening for the attack subs of Russia’s Northern Fleet. Sinking them would protect the Atlantic frontier and the American supply convoys to Europe.

“I think these things are some sort of decoy,” Winters continued. “Apparently they’re designed to imitate the sub’s sound. Could be the CAPTORs will just chase down a bunch of decoys so the real subs can waltz right through later.”

“Harry, get all of this back to base on the SSB. Make sure they copy. Then schedule a pickup for us about twenty-four hours from now. Tell them we’re somehow going to take care of the bombers here, and hopefully the troops too. You go back to that ship tonight and make sure she doesn’t plan to travel far. I think when the shooting starts here, she might want to beat it out in a hell of a hurry. We’ll meet you right where you’re talking now. If we’re not there in twelve hours, take off.”

“Right, Bernie. Out.” Winters never said a word about the cold water. The only way to attach a device to that ship was to swim, and these were arctic waters. Even with a wet suit, they could last only so long. He knew Ryng had considered that even before he gave the order.

Darkness came quickly as Pratt’s plane flew east. Cobb and Carleton slept most of the time, while Pratt was just the opposite. Once he committed his mind to something new, he found that body and brain could not relax. He sorted through reams of classified materials in his briefcase as the shortened night passed. Nelson also experienced a sleepless night, but it was sheer emotion that kept him awake. He was about to take command of the only destroyer in the fleet whose name was raised in black script on the fantail. It was a perfect replica of the original John Hancock , a proud name and a proud ship. Nelson imagined how impressed his father would have been if he could have seen his son in command. Then he wondered what Tricia would have thought, but then he dropped that idea. She had divorced him. A woman with as much pride as her husband, Tricia Nelson could never accept second-class status in the Navy communities. Though he was sure she still cared for him, she divorced him to divorce them. At that stage of his life, career and success had seemed so much more important in this white navy. He wondered now.

They landed the next morning under the blazing Mediterranean sun in the humidity of Naples. Pratt would spend most of the day in briefings at Sixth Fleet Headquarters, then fly out to the carrier Kennedy , on station off Malta with her battle group. John Hancock and Yorktown were part of that group. Nelson and Carleton had already found a plane that would shortly ferry the mail out to the carrier. From there it was just a hop by helo to their ships.

Pratt was not surprised to learn that Henry Cobb would not be waiting for him. Instead, Cobb disappeared into another building which Pratt later learned was inhabited by ONI, the Office of Naval Intelligence. And when they found a bit of shade for a last handshake, Cobb announced that he had to run to make a flight out to Saratoga. That carrier, normally part of their battle group, was in the eastern Mediterranean, south of Cyprus.

“I promise I’ll be back aboard Kennedy in two days, Admiral. I gotta get in the habit of calling you that again. There’re some loose ends I have to wrap up out there, and then back to business as usual.”

Pratt smiled as he grasped Cobb’s hand. “Take care, Hank. Always keep your back to the bulkhead.”

“Yeah, my friend.” Nelson gave him a pat on the butt. “I’ll be waiting for Dave to flash me that you’re back on board — intact,” he added.

With a wave over his shoulder, Cobb was gone, going off by himself as usual.

Once aboard Saratoga , Cobb slept most of the afternoon. When he was awakened, he ate a full meal, knowing he might not have another for a day or two. Back in his quarters, he donned a jet flight suit. There was no one to bid him farewell as the red sun disappeared into the Mediterranean. He simply climbed in the back seat of a jet after waving a greeting to the pilot, and waited calmly for the carrier and her escorts to settle on a new course into the wind. It was unusual for an entire battle group to go through such an evolution for just one flight, but this was a special mission.

The pilot set course just a few points east of north. It was not long before they passed over the southern coast of Turkey. The pilot never touched his radio, even though they were overflying a country at war. All that was required was a steady identification signal for military ground stations on a pre-established frequency. The flight had been cleared the day before from Washington. They landed at a small port on the southern coast of the Black Sea. The pilot refueled quickly and disappeared back to Saratoga.

A jeep took Cobb to a darkened pier. At the end, a small hydrofoil bobbed in the calm waters of the Black Sea. He was greeted by a man wearing the dark uniform of the Turkish navy, though he was American and spoke perfect English. Extending his hand in greeting, he said, “Welcome, Henry. Somehow, someone picked the weather perfectly.”

“All the way across?” Cobb asked Lassiter, shaking hands. “As far as we can tell. When you get out in the middle, you’ll find the normal swells but no chop. Just sweet summer zephyrs.”

“Let’s go then.”

Lassiter gave a signal. Instantly the powerful diesel engines grumbled into life. At full speed on the calm waters, foils extended, they would be on the other side of the Black Sea, the Russian side, in three-and-a-half hours, just before sunrise. Then Lassiter would be on his own in that boat. He didn’t expect any problem, but one never knew. The odds were that the Russians didn’t know that he’d taken their hydrofoil the night before. Everything on board was intact. His men were trained to respond to the Soviet radio codes every four hours. So, as far as Soviet Black Sea Fleet headquarters knew, this boat was still following its normal independent patrol assignment. But it couldn’t last forever. Lassiter wanted desperately to be able to dump the hydrofoil at just the right time. That was highly preferable to hearing the final roar of MiGs diving on them.