Charles Taylor - First Salvo

It quickly became a one-on-one situation that day. With detection capabilities greater than the range of their weapons, submarines attempted to outmaneuver each other to keep out of range, at the same time searching for a position to fire on the enemy. It was a prolonged, desperate cat-and-mouse game that could end only when one was sunk. In such engagements, the water would suddenly be full of torpedoes, each one intent on seeking out the target inserted by the mother-ship computer in its memory bank. A torpedo would attack on its own as long as its fuel held out. It was a deadly game — its outcome remained unknown to those who fought on the surface.

Tom Carleton looked from the shiny slick in the bottom of his coffee cup to the dim red lights above him. The last sip had been cold, the powdered cream at the bottom rancid tasting. The dregs reflected the reddish glow.

The status boards reflected the strategic situation in a ninety-degree arc from the Baltic Sea to North Africa. A second board displayed the area that he was specifically concerned with, the Mediterranean, and the enemy forces that would affect Yorktown and Kennedy ’s battle group in the next few hours. The Soviet carrier group that had been off Alexandria the previous day was close to striking range — but not quite. Their job was not to initiate the attack on the American battle group. Both the Americans and the Russians knew that Kennedy ’s group was much too strong, their attack aircraft superior to anything the Russians could yet launch from a carrier. But they should not retain that superiority after the initial salvo of cruise missiles — and that’s what the Russian group was moving up for now.

Saratoga ’s group was no longer effective — what remained of it. An ASW squadron had been sent to their aid in an attempt to keep Soviet submarines from sinking the survivors. Though Saratoga’s group had been battered, they achieved what Admiral Pratt had most hoped for. They had absorbed the combined ravages of two cruise-missile salvos and submarine wolf-pack attacks, and enough of the ships were still afloat that they were keeping more units of the Soviet Navy busy than the enemy had obviously anticipated. That meant that the Russians were behind schedule. The elements of their fleet were not proceeding at the pace that Moscow had planned — and that was critical if the efforts in the Mediterranean were to coincide with the movement of the ground forces in Central Europe.

Saratoga had also contributed through the efforts of her attack squadrons. Their targets had been the closest air bases within the Iron Curtain; their purpose had simply been to take out as much Soviet airpower as possible and to destroy runways and base facilities. They had been successful. With assistance from the Air Force, they might have been overwhelming, but the latter had been withheld to support NATO ground forces in the event of attack. Kennedy had been much too far away to recover those few Saratoga aircraft that returned. They had either made their way to the few safe fields that were left within range, or they ditched. Their success had also verified a second factor that was accepted but never mentioned — once the shooting began, there would be no carrier for the surviving pilots to return to.

Carleton mulled over that as he studied the projected flight pattern of the air groups recently launched from Kennedy. He preferred to take his chances on the surface. Each pilot understood that his mission was essentially one way — that the Soviet battle plan was to eliminate the carriers first, and that delivering his weapons and escaping the Soviet defenses were just the beginning of his problems.

Carleton considered the location of the Soviet Backfire bombers. They had been launched from untouched fields deeper within the Soviet Union and there was a bit more time for planning than Saratoga had been given, but their numbers were still impressive. It was what had been called a “maximum effort” in World War Two, an all-out attempt to achieve their goal in one attack. Either to allow the conflict in the Mediterranean to be drawn out for more than twenty-four hours, or to concede the prerequisite of the first salvo, would imperil the Soviet thrust into Germany.

With the exception of his visit to Pratt’s quarters aboard Kennedy , Tom Carleton’s time on Yorktown had been spent in a small section of the cruiser. He allowed himself enough time on the bridge to become familiar with the watchstanders and to learn the eccentricities of his ship. The balance of his time had been spent in his cabin, one deck under the bridge, or in CIC (the Combat Information Center) two decks below his cabin. If Yorktown and its AEGIS system were the central nervous system of the battle group, CIC was the brain. It was as desirable and necessary a target to be eliminated as the carrier. The Russians would learn that soon if they were not already aware of it.

“Fresh coffee, Captain?” It was one of the radarmen. “Just brewed a fresh pot.”

Carleton looked in his mug again. “Can you swab this one out?”

“No problem, sir. Cream or sugar?”

He remembered the rancid aroma from the dregs of the cup. “No thanks, son. Black.” An acid rumbling in his stomach reminded him how long it had been since he’d eaten. Except for a courtesy call on the wardroom, any food he’d taken had been on the run. “Wait one, son. I know it isn’t your job, but could you give my steward a buzz and ask him if he’d send a couple of sandwiches in?”

“Don’t worry about a thing, Captain. Any of us are more than happy to do anything we can for you.” He smiled, then added seriously, “It’s good to have you here, sir. We’ve all heard a lot about you.” With that, he was off.

Carleton wondered for a moment at the last comment, then let it pass. There was so much to do, so little time. He saw the blinking lights on the boards indicating the approaching wave of Soviet Backfires. Not too much time until they crossed the line, the imaginary line delineated by the computer when the Russian bombers conceivably could launch their missiles. He knew they wouldn’t. At that distance, the computer projected only one to three percent hits. But as each minute passed, the success ratio improved.

“There you go, Captain.” The radarman appeared at his side with a steaming mug of coffee. There was also a doughnut in a napkin.

Carleton sniffed the aroma appreciatively. “Where’d you find this?” he asked, gesturing with the doughnut.

“Came up from the crew’s mess, sir. The cooks have been baking like crazy since last night. Figured they probably wouldn’t have a chance today. Hope you don’t mind. We’re not allowed to eat ’em in here, but the chief said he thought you might be careful.”

“I never considered that, son. If there’s no food in here, I’ll be glad to have my sandwiches outside. I could use a little air anyway.”

“If it’s all the same, sir, everyone sort of hopes you’ll stay in here — unless you really want to go outside. It makes everyone feel pretty good today to have you around.”

So that was it! It was no secret. There probably wasn’t a soul on the ship who didn’t know that the next couple of hours would make all the difference in the world to them. The captain of the ship was a father figure. Until he proved otherwise, he could do no wrong. They were putting complete faith in a man they’d never heard of until a few days before. Then rumors about him generated stories that each man would accept as gospel.

“Okay, son. If you insist, I’ll break the rules. And the next time I have a few bucks in my pocket, I’ll drop some in the kitty to cover costs.” He looked more closely at the mug. It wasn’t the same one he’d handed the sailor. This one had the seal of Yorktown on one side. Hand-painted on the reverse was “Captain Thomas H. Carleton, U.S.N. — Commanding Officer — U.S.S. YORKTOWN CG-48 — Honorary Radarman.” It was his ship, all right!