Charles Taylor - First Salvo

The crackling of flames so close, so very close, came to the Colonel’s ears. He opened his eyes. Half in and half out of the fractured helo, Bulgan moved tentatively. The flames hadn’t reached him yet.

He moved his arms. They were free. His left wrist hurt like hell — it must be broken. The other was all right. He moved his legs one at a time. Both seemed to function. He heaved himself up on an elbow and a sharp pain bit into his side. Rib , he thought — maybe a couple. Check those out later. You can move. Go!

With a superhuman effort, knowing his body was free, he threw himself out onto the ground, rolling as he did so to get away from the helo. Then he realized his mistake. The rifle was still in there. He had to take the chance and go back. Without it, the American was sure to get away. And Colonel Bulgan felt a deep personal desire to get Bernie Ryng for ruining his mission. He ran back to the burning craft, peering into the shattered front cockpit.

There it was! It had been under him. As quickly as he had leaped from the helo, he grabbed the AK-74 and jumped back from the heat of the flames. As he did so, there was a popping sound as flames engulfed the entire machine.

Bulgan patted his pockets, feeling for his ammunition. Would the weapon work? He went through each function, finally squeezing the trigger and listening to the satisfying click. Perfect! He slipped an ammo clip into the gun, cradling it against his body with the bad arm. He would have to fire with one arm and it would be awkward, but he was sure his quarry was not armed.

Looking up, he saw Ryng working his way through the snow. Bulgan knew the man would never think to look back. He brought the gun up to his shoulder, attempting to bring Ryng into his sights. Instead, the barrel wavered back and forth across the rapidly moving figure. Realizing that the odds of hitting the man from this distance with an AK-74 were almost nil, Bulgan slung the weapon over his shoulder and headed up the grade at his best possible speed.

It would have to be a close-up shot, one with the rifle on single fire, and probably one where he could lie in the snow for a decent aim. There would be no second chance. The pain in his side increased as his breathing deepened in the cool, thin air.

Admiral John Turner, Saratoga ’s battle group commander, spoke quietly, dark circles under his eyes conveying sleepless nights. His voice was steady, almost emotionless, as he described a litany of events that presaged an imminent Soviet attack on NATO. “You were wise to get out of Istanbul when you did.” He slid a sheaf of messages across the metal desk to Cobb. “That attack on the city as you arrived apparently had everything to do with General Keradin. It was also another diversion while they moved a lot of their remaining heavier surface ships to the western end of the Black Sea, waiting until Istanbul fell. Then they moved ’em through. About twelve hours and the whole of their Black Sea Fleet steamed into the Aegean — less time than that until Turkey fell.”

Cobb was unsurprised. The scenario, as he had learned back in Washington, prophesied exactly the moves the Russians had made so far: Turkish ports on the Black Sea immediately neutralized; fast motorized forces crossing the Bulgarian border to the north, one group driving southeast in a pincer movement in concert with Soviet marines landing to the east of Istanbul, the other advancing in tandem with tank divisions aimed at Gallipoli. NATO indicated that the Turks, weakened by their short tiff with the Greeks, would fall faster than initial computer projections.

The second part of the Russian scenario called for destruction of the carrier battle groups in the Mediterranean. The closest, and thus the first, would be Saratoga’s group.

Admiral Turner’s voice droned on. “I think my first responsibility is to get you and General Keradin off this ship, and I think your young lady deserves some land-based medical care.”

“Could we grab a few hours’ sleep, Admiral? It’s been two days since we’ve really had any rest.” The passage from Istanbul had involved too many hours, including a refueling stop at the island of Samos. Much of the run through the Aegean had been in the dark. The winds had slackened enough to maintain speed, but it was still rough enough to prohibit sound sleep. They had come alongside Saratoga in the early morning hours, just as the sun was rising. Verra, seasick and in pain, had been sent to sick bay. Cobb was fed and then had reported to Admiral Turner’s quarters.

“I’d like to give you some rest, son, but I intend to come into the wind in about an hour. I’m going to launch relief for our Hawkeyes out on the perimeter, and I’m going to launch every fighter I’ve got except for my own CAP.”

Cobb looked up, caught by surprise. He understood what that meant. “I take it that we’re pretty close?”

“Too close. Satellite recon picked up a new launch yesterday from their Tyuratum Rocket Center. As far as we can determine, they put up antisatellite systems and something is flying around up there that has a nuclear instrument of some kind aboard. And,” he sighed, “we have a flight of their Backfire bombers approaching their initial launch point now. We know they won’t fire right away, not at that range, because they couldn’t get a hit on us. But…” His voice drifted off.

The description was accurate, Cobb realized, as accurate as could be. Knock out our early-warning satellite system with ASATs, send in a flight of Backfires with anti-radiation missiles to knock out the Hawkeyes, then launch cruise missiles once their own satellites had a guidance solution for them. Those would be targeted for Saratoga ’s battle group. But a nuclear weapon in space? That didn’t figure. The Russian scenario didn’t call for a first launch of anything nuclear unless the U.S. gave an indication they would.

“Have we sent in — or has NATO sent in — any requests to use nuclear weapons?”

“Nothing. That wouldn’t come anyway until we had an idea how long we could hold them on the ground in Germany.”

“How much hardened gear do you carry?” Cobb was referring to electronic equipment designed to withstand a high-level atomic detonation. Such a burst could knock out all communications, radar, and launching systems.

“I think you understand why I want you off to Kennedy .” Turner’s face was grim. “The Air Force has already launched F15s. They’re going to try to take out whatever it is up there. But who knows if they’ll be on time. We could end up being sitting ducks in a matter of hours.” Again his voice drifted off. Then he got to his feet. “So when I come into the wind, you folks are on your way. It may be the last chance I’ll have to get you off, and your Russian friend seems to be a key.”

“He’s very important, Admiral.”

“That’s what Pratt told me. So my first responsibility is to get you off of here in one piece. Be ready in half an hour. An escort will pick up you and the girl in sick bay. General Keradin will already be aboard the aircraft.”

Cobb stood. “I wish you luck, sir.”

“I sincerely hope that luck holds.” Turner grinned wryly. “If it doesn’t, it won’t take long for them to go after their next target.” They both knew that would be the second carrier battle group — Kennedy ’s.

The fireball was not brilliant, not what military people had been trained to expect. But even in the early morning sunlight, it caught the eye like the flash of a camera. Cobb was in the copilot’s seat at the time, talking with the pilot while they awaited clearance for takeoff. He noticed it immediately, but said nothing. It was, after all, a blast at 150 or more miles in the sky, and could easily be mistaken for any number of natural occurrences.