Charles Taylor - First Salvo

As they approached the coast, Turkish jets came out to meet the Russian fighters that seemed to have escorted them. This time they did not scare away. No doubt the Turks’ aggressiveness was a surprise to the Russians. To Keradin, it was even more of a surprise as he was allowed on deck to see the midair missile exchange. There was no way to determine who was winning, but the fight allowed Lassiter to bring their little boat to maximum speed as he rocketed for the safety of the Bosporus channel ahead.

As their Soviet flag was lowered, Lassiter made a thing of showing Keradin his pleasure in dropping it over the side. In its place, an American ensign appeared, a large one so that, as Lassiter explained, there would be no doubt about who owned the boat now.

The entrance to the Bosporus is at the far western end of the Black Sea. It is a natural strait dividing Turkey and narrowing in some sections to less than a half mile wide. It is defensible from both sides and at the moment the Turks still owned those defenses.

Cobb yawned, trying to stretch the tired ache out of his muscles. “I’d like to keep our Russian friend on deck,” he said to Lassiter. “Sort of rub his nose in it a little. Got anything aboard that we might use to keep him in one piece?”

“As a matter of fact, I have just the thing for you.” Lassiter laughed. “It seems the Russians are very discipline conscious, even in little boats like this one. They’ve got a little brig up forward, not much bigger than a head. Even comes equipped with handcuffs, chains — that sort of thing.”

“How about if we hook him up to the mast?” He pointed just outside the wheelhouse to the stanchions anchoring the electronics mast. “It’ll give him a bit of a tether if people start shooting, but it’ll also relieve one of us from watching him.” He grinned. “And it’ll let him see the new world he’s going into.”

“Going to put any clothes on him?”

“No more than he has now. A man in his underwear somehow isn’t as brave. Besides,” and he tested the air with a wet finger, “it’s going to be a lovely day. He could use a bit of sun. He’s a little pale.”

The general displayed a weariness, or perhaps it was resignation. Something about captivity can alter the features of even the strongest person. His jaw no longer jutted out. His eyes no longer played the game of trying to hold Cobb’s. There was no chance of escaping. It was evident that they wanted to keep him alive now that they’d gotten him this far. For the most part, Keradin would have preferred death now that the chance of escape was so slim.

Keradin peered down at the shackle on his ankle, studying the three feet of chain. “I see you are most thorough,” he addressed Cobb. His mouth was a thin line. “May I now have some clothes?”

“Are you chilly?”

“No. But a man needs a certain amount of dignity. I am a general in the Soviet armed forces. I would expect you to treat me in the same manner and extend the same courtesies that I would offer you as a prisoner.”

“I am,” Cobb growled, fingering the side of his head where the foreman had hit him the evening before. “Be glad you have your shorts.”

The general scowled back without a word.

Henry Cobb could afford to present a cavalier attitude before Keradin, for the most difficult part seemed to be complete. He had accomplished the near impossible and removed the general from a supposedly secure position. But this man — so vital to American strategy — must now be kept alive and turned over to Pratt’s people as quickly as possible. Cobb did not pretend to understand the fine points of the plan, but he knew intuitively that the loss of such a high-placed man was intended to put the Soviets off balance at a crucial point in this crisis. Since Dave Pratt had entrusted Keradin’s return to Cobb, Cobb would do his damnedest to deliver Keradin.

Lassiter had the crew fully armed at this point. Somehow, Cobb noted, they had come up with some pretty fair armaments, considering the nature of the operation — old fashioned bazookas, modern antitank weapons, some wire-guided rockets, and an assortment of grenade launchers and mortars. Lassiter did not trust a soul. That was why he, like Cobb, was a survivor.

They sped down the Bosporus, weaving constantly. This satisfied Cobb, who did not take the idea of being a target lightly. He operated furtively. This open-air approach was not to his liking. At every bend, he expected a surge of weapons fire to sweep the deck. But the passage was a safe one.

Within half an hour, the distant hills of Istanbul rose through the morning haze. As they came closer, the farms on the shore gave way to small factories, then to smokestacks, then to a combination of new construction interspersed with dwellings put up before the United States became a nation.

Istanbul is called the City of Seven Hills, once surrounded by nearly impregnable walls built down to the water. It’s Old City surrounded on three sides by water and thus well fortified, stands on the Golden Horn. The New City, to the northeast and across the Galata Bridge, is not nearly so fascinating.

Their boat slowed to a crawl to navigate through the heavy commercial traffic of this major seaport. Slender, graceful minarets towered above the mosques of the Moslem city. They were to fuel at the Sirkeci Ferry Pier. It was directly ahead as they exited the Bosporus into the widening Sea of Marmara.

Lassiter was the tour guide. He pointed out the first hill atop the Golden Horn, which ended in Seraglio Point. The Ataturk Monument and the Topkapi Palace were to their left. The waterways of the ancient city bustled as if there were nothing of concern, no recent war with Greece, no Soviet planes gradually encroaching on their airspace, no fear of the Russian warships that continually passed on their way to the Mediterranean. The small Russian boat flying the American flag was a fearful-looking craft with her assortment of weapons displayed on deck. She was given a wide berth as she stood half a mile off the pier. Lassiter intended to drift and watch for a while.

Verra, her eyes continually wandering back to Keradin, remained close to Cobb. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured sleepily. “I’ve never seen anything like this, never traveled before.”

Cobb smiled. Now that he had a few moments with nothing to concern him other than eventually getting back to Saratoga , he studied her more closely. She was young — young enough to be his daughter — but so grown up after being at Keradin’s vineyards. And she was tough too. She had to be to come out of that experience the way she had. Verra was relaxed. Her face had softened considerably from the vixen who had wanted to emasculate Keradin on the spot. She would have too, Cobb acknowledged, smiling. He felt an affection for her, much different than he imagined a man would have for a daughter. It was something he had not felt for a long time, something he had long ago told himself he should avoid.

He pondered the idea for a second, imagining a life he knew he wasn’t cut out for, studying the wisps of hair that blew over her face as she stared, fascinated, at the ancient city. Cobb , he reminded himself, you’re getting too old, too old to handle sleepless nights because you’re letting a kid, a female kid, turn your head. There’s work to do, my friend, much work before you can think about such things .

His mind drifted back to other operations — steamy jungles in Vietnam, midnight landings in rubber rafts in the Caribbean, one in South Africa, another in Libya, and then the drinking afterward, disdaining sleep in the heady excitement of close-in fighting, and finally coming out of it all alive! There were moments now when he knew he wasn’t functioning on that level. This time he wanted to get it over with, get it done, and get the hell out with his skin intact. And a kid, a female — no, a woman in every sense of the word — was occupying his mind.