Charles Taylor - First Salvo

Two of Winters’s men were experts at assembling the device he determined would sink the ship. There was no leeway for error. He gave Bernie three hours to get some sleep, another hour to waylay some Black Berets and borrow their uniforms, and another hour to carry out the mission. The first sign of action at the airfield would get that ship out to sea, or at least under way in the harbor. So he designed the timer for six hours from now, just to insure it held off until the ship made it to deep water.

Making the bomb, installing the timer, then waterproofing it was no problem. Any one of them could do it in his sleep, and each man could do the other’s job with no hesitation.

The problem was getting out there and getting the damn thing properly planted so it wouldn’t fall off on its own or be jarred loose by the motion of the ship. That’s what took time and planning. But it could be done and done right.

Two hours later, Winters slipped into the water across the harbor from the freighter. Martin Gable was right behind him. The bomb was strapped to an electrically-powered sled. Ryng had fashioned it years ago to glide through the water ahead of them, towing both divers and their gear. Winters realized that Bernie had considered the frigid water. He had made it a two-man mission because one man might not make it to the ship and back on his own. If neither was back on shore in three hours, the remaining two had been ordered to take off to the meeting place Ryng had planned for them.

It was dark under the hull and very, very cold. Their wetsuits were insulated and designed to survive forty-degree water for a period of time — but not over a long span of continuous immersion. Winters’s flashlight settled on Marty’s hands for a moment and held it there just long enough to see the difficulty the man was having. Each movement was slow and deliberate, an intense effort to insure that nothing could go wrong after the bomb was set. After each step, Marty would close his fists, squeezing them together rhythmically a few times to recover as much circulation as possible. Winters realized that if the hands already functioned in that manner, then the rest of the man’s body could not endure forever. Once the cold took hold of one part of the body, impairment of other functions followed quickly.

The final step was Harry’s — to install the timer. Totally absorbed, he forgot Marty, his mind wholly involved with overriding the ache in his hands as he set the delicate instrument. When he finally looked up, there was no Marty beside him. Flashing his light about the darkness under the hull, he caught sight of the man floating a few feet below, arms outstretched, fists still rhythmically clasping and unclasping, though now it appeared more a macabre, slow-motion ballet.

The spectacle was unmistakable. Harry had seen it in training films time and again. It was the final dance — that of a diver dying from the cold, his heart pumping more slowly, his brain functions dimming.

Winters floated down and held the flashlight to Marty’s face. The man stared back blankly, head shaking slowly up and down to indicate that he knew what was next. It was understood, an integral part of their training.

Marty reached slowly for his belt, his fingers fumbling. Unable to make them do what he wanted, his fist opened painfully and with an index finger he gestured in slow motion that Winters should do it for him.

Harry grasped the belt, extracting a tubular plastic container no more than an inch in diameter. He held it out to his friend. Marty’s fingers attempted to close over the object, but there was no way he could grip it. He pulled back his hand and with an effort opened and closed his fist. He desperately wanted to restore just enough circulation to handle the job himself. It was something that a man would want to do, hating to ask his partner to do it for him.

But eventually there was no choice. Time was against him and Marty knew it. At least one of them had to get back. And it would be impossible for a man in his condition to both give himself the injection and make sure his body sank before it took effect.

His head bobbed sluggishly, this time in sadness. Harry would have to do it. As Winters came closer, Marty clumsily patted him on the shoulder to show that he understood and that he was sorry. Then he rolled sideways.

Winters pulled off the top of the plastic container. In the artificial light, he could see the tiny needle reflecting sharply back at him. He put the object against Marty’s arm, hesitated for a split second, then pushed. They were told it would take almost no effort. The experts were right. Before Winters fully understood how easily the instrument worked, he saw Marty’s body tense and then relax. He was already dead.

Quickly, feeling the adrenaline pulsing through his own system, Winters released the tanks from Marty’s back, puncturing the valve that would sink them. Finally he pulled the cord on the back of Marty’s wet suit where the tank had been. It would insure that the body would sink — no chance of its coming to the surface beside the Russian ship. Martin Gable became the first American casualty of the operation.

Then he pushed the button on the electric motor and whisked away from the freighter. The return trip would not be that long. The sled had lost much of its burden. But now that he was motionless, he could feel the intensity of the cold, the numbing pain that came as his system wore down, the heart unable to pump blood fast enough to make the machine called the human body efficient enough to survive.

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.