Charles Taylor - First Salvo

Out of the corner of his eyes, Cobb saw a direct hit on a mosque, the minaret tilting slowly, then a cloud of dust and smoke as it hit the ground. He was aware of Verra hanging tightly to his arm.

She looked up at him, fear on her face. But when she spoke, her voice was steady, her words rational. “You didn’t tell me about all this yesterday in the vineyard.” She managed a smile. “Perhaps I was better off—”

Cobb never let her finish. “Get below,” he shouted above the din. “You can take him with you.” He handed her his pistol.

She turned to Keradin, who was still shackled to the mast, but it was obvious the man had understood Cobb’s order. He shook his head firmly from side to side, though he said nothing. He was a proud man, Cobb knew — and now perhaps suicidal. There was no time to argue. “Forget him. Just get the hell below.”

Already their bos’n was turning their own boat to meet the attackers. Cobb identified two hydrofoils gracefully banking from side to side as they zigzagged toward their target, deck guns blazing. Neither had yet seen Lassiter’s boat. Instead their fire was concentrated on the army troops pouring onto the docks.

Then the small arms on Cobb’s own boat came to life and their brief moment of anonymity was shattered. One of the hydrofoils, detecting return fire, banked gracefully in their direction. A hundred yards distant, it turned again, running parallel but in the opposite direction to their own course, its weapons concentrated fully on them. Neither was an easy target at high speed. The shells from the other craft passed overhead, but Cobb knew they might not be so lucky when the other boat came back to match their course. It was obviously faster and more heavily armed.

The hydrofoil reversed direction, turning in a tight, hard circle. Settling now on their course, it resumed fire. The man nearest to Cobb abruptly flew backward, arms and legs extended seaward as he was slammed into the deckhouse. Lassiter stared in fascination as the structure around him began to splinter.

“For Christ’s sake, will you get down!” Lassiter heard Cobb’s voice at the same time he felt the hands on his shoulders yanking him backward and down. He hit hard, his head bouncing against the deck. Before he could blink, the bulkhead above him disintegrated in a shower of metal splinters, peeling inward like a tin can to reveal the men in the pilothouse.

Turning his head to the side, Lassiter felt Cobb, before he was sure who it was, crawling forward past him. At the same instant, his eyes flew from Cobb back to the interior of the pilothouse. The bos’n appeared in the middle of a slow pirouette, his hands grasping at the back of his head. Then he pitched through the hole in the bulkhead, sprawling across Lassiter’s legs. Lassiter yanked himself from underneath the corpse.

Cobb was now inching forward on his belly, both arms out to the sides as the boat slewed to the left, then headed sharply to the right. Another sailor, clothes blood-spattered, had the wheel. The boat settled on course for an instant, then heeled sharply as the wheel was thrown over to avoid a burning pier.

“Reverse course!” Cobb was shouting above the din, frantically pointing at the pilothouse. But Lassiter was not about to move. Machine gun bullets splattered the bulkhead above him. He tucked his head, turtle-like, into his shoulders.

“Reverse, reverse,” Cobb insisted, looking over his shoulder.

Lassiter was well aware of the danger they were in. But he was also even more sure of the aim of the other boat’s machine gunner, and pointed up at the bullets splattering a foot above him. He knew what to do. Reverse course, change direction of the boat — he understood that. The bullets trailed down the side toward the stern. Without another thought, Lassiter drew himself onto his knees and launched his body through the shattered bulkhead, landing at the sailor’s feet. Pulling himself up to a crouch, he saw another boat coming at them from the bow. He grasped the sailor’s arm, shouting as he jerked his fist in the opposite direction. The boat heeled sharply in reply to their rudder.

The spray of machine gun bullets that had passed over Lassiter’s head had also swept their bow clear of gunners. The boat charging at them behind a steady flow of shells was now unchallenged, maintaining both a closing course and a steady rate of fire.

Cobb appeared now in front of the pilothouse, moving in a crouch toward one of the guns. Reaching it, he stood just long enough to shove away the gunner’s body. Then he slid in behind the small armor shield, checked the ammunition belt, and, satisfied, commenced fire on the oncoming boat.

Their wheel was over tight, the boat reversing course just as Cobb wanted. The attacking boat was unable to slow down, and as it passed, Cobb and another gunner stitched it with deadly accuracy.

Lassiter admired their shooting and cheered above the din. The deck of the passing craft became a helpless target for an instant, its gunner now unable to return Cobb’s fire. The pilothouse glass of the opposing vessel burst out. One of Lassiter’s men fired an antitank missile at close range. The other boat’s bulkhead disappeared much the same as that of their own boat moments ago. But this time when Lassiter looked closely there was no one upright inside. It was pilotless. The boat slewed one way, then the other, its speed still full. For some inexplicable reason, it turned sharply to the right. As it leaned hard into the turn, it also headed directly for one of the piers. At full speed it jammed beneath the dock, shearing off the upper deck. There was a flash, an explosion, and both the boat and the dock disintegrated.

Lassiter recognized a screaming beside him that increased in pitch. He turned, feeling the man at the wheel clawing blindly at his arm. Blood covered the man’s face. Lassiter pushed him away roughly, grasping the wheel himself.

A powerful explosion near the stern jolted him. The boat shuddered convulsively. Lassiter could feel they were losing speed. Then he saw the first boat, the one that had been turning only a second before, begin to bear down on them. In seconds it made a pass, guns bracketing them. Catching sight of her empty missile canister, Lassiter realized what had hit them.

He had no steering control. In the next instant, it was also obvious that they were slowing so much that they had no power. They were dead in the water with their attacker bearing down on them! Sporadic fire from weapons still functioning did nothing to slow down the oncoming boat. A steady stream of fire encircled them.

Cobb, his ammunition expended, watched helplessly as the killer bore down on them. There was nowhere to move or hide. All he could do was fall forward, face down on the deck. He saw Lassiter do the same in what was left of the pilothouse. Yet in the most revealing location, Keradin stood, arms folded, seeming to welcome death.

But as suddenly as the incessant pounding had begun, it ceased. Cobb waited. There was no reason the other boat should stop firing. He counted — one… two… three… four… five. Nothing. He looked up cautiously! A section of deck was bent upward in front of him, blocking his vision. He got to his knees, crawling slowly as if his executioner were waiting on the other side. Peering out at where the other boat should be, he saw a flaming hulk. From stem to stern, the Soviet boat was in flames.

Looking to the rear, the answer became immediately obvious. A Turkish boat, one of those that had been dockside when they had first come by the piers, was cruising slowly no more than a hundred yards off their bow, pouring small-arms fire into the hulk that seconds before had been bearing down to finish them off. Her missile canisters on the port side were empty. She had made a direct hit on the Russians’ fuel tanks.