Charles Taylor - First Salvo

“She’s the Samuel Eliot Morison , sir.”

Nelson’s eyebrows rose for a second. Then he smiled faintly. He had read literally every word written by the famous naval historian Samuel Eliot Morison. Now he had been saved by the ship given the great man’s name. He stepped out on the bridge wing, leaning on the railing, and stared out at the horizon. Finally, he turned to the commanding officer, who had moved beside him. “I owe you one sometime, Captain, because I didn’t get your name either, and it’s one I want to remember.”

“Two days ago I was sure you were going to have me relieved. I was the one who argued so much with you at that commanding officers’ meeting about your new tactics. My name’s Bill Stritzler.”

Nelson smiled wanly. “It’s been a couple of years for me since that meeting — or it seems like it. Did you execute those tactics?”

“Yes, sir. They worked beautifully — especially since we depend on our helos.”

“Any idea how many submarines you might have gotten?”

“I like to think we were involved in three of them.”

“Well, Bill, when we get back home, your penance for arguing with me that day will be to write a paper on your tactics. You see, I lost two ships in one day and you’ve come out smelling like a rose. Either you’re damn lucky or damn smart, but I think we might make a good team.” Nelson extended his hand.

Stritzler squeezed the proffered hand. “Were you ever a skeptic, sir?”

“Always.”

“I’d love to work with you, Captain.” He looked more closely at Nelson. “You look exhausted, sir. How about stealing a couple of hours in my bunk?”

“I had that in mind. And while I’m napping, why don’t you have some of your men paint a few submarines on the bridge wings like they used to do forty years ago. I think Admiral Pratt might like that when we join up.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know where Admiral Pratt is, sir.”

“Call me Nellie — Pratt does. Where is he, then?”

“We don’t know yet. Just before we made contact down here, he was shifting his flag from Kennedy — her fires were out of control.”

“See if you could find out for me.” Nelson yawned, then added, “I’ll take you up on that bunk now.”

Wendell Nelson did not sleep as long as he’d hoped. He came to slowly. Opening his eyes, he found Captain Stritzler shaking his shoulder. “Have you located Admiral Pratt?” he asked groggily.

“No, but I think I have something equally interesting down in the wardroom, if you’ll come with me. Some fellow with a gun claims to know you, and none of my people can get near him. He and some others were spotted in a raft a little while ago. He told us their plane was shot down. If you can talk with this guy,” Stritzler added as they descended the final ladder, “I think we’ll be even.”

The sight in the wardroom stopped Nelson cold. As he pushed through the door, the first person he saw was Henry Cobb, shirtless, bruised, his battered face fixed intently on a man who sat across from him. Cobb had a pistol in his hand aimed at the chest of this bedraggled man who stared helplessly down the barrel. The gun never wavered, nor did Cobb look up. An equally battered blonde girl was asleep on the couch at one end of the wardroom, covered by a blanket.

“He won’t talk to anyone, won’t give us the gun, won’t let us do anything with his prisoner. The girl was unconscious when we took them aboard. That one,” said Stritzler, pointing at Keradin, “doesn’t seem to understand us. The one with the gun kept asking us to get Pratt for him. We still haven’t located Admiral Pratt. When I mentioned your name, said you were a friend of Pratt’s, he said he’d speak with you.”

During Stritzler’s explanation, Cobb had never looked up. He remained in the same position, the gun unwavering. Then, without turning, he said in a monotone, “That’s right, I’ve got to talk with Pratt.”

Nelson stepped over to him, placing his hand on Cobb’s bare shoulder. “Is that Keradin, Hank?”

Cobb looked down at the black hand resting on his shoulder. He put his own over it and squeezed. “Yeah, Nellie, that’s him.” The gun in his hand began to shake. He gently rested it on the table. There was no reaction from Keradin. “Nellie, would you keep an eye on him for me? Can’t let him get away. We’ve come so far.” He looked up into Nelson’s face. “It’s been so long since I slept…”

“They’ll take good care of you here, Hank. They’ve done the same for me.”

“Wait a minute.” Cobb rose, half turning, his eyes searching the room. “Verra… where’s Verra?” He spotted the girl on the couch. Gesturing toward her, he said, “Without her, we wouldn’t have gotten Keradin. We’re a team, her and me. Never thought I’d say that — a team…” Then he looked back at Nelson, eyes widening. “Nellie, is there a doctor on board this thing? She’s got to be…”

An officer standing to one side said, “She’s all right, sir. She’s just sleeping now. Exhaustion.”

Cobb sat down beside her and began to stroke her head, smoothing her hair back from her face. He looked once more at Nelson. “You son of a bitch, Nellie, I never thought I’d be so happy to see you. Now, would you please get ahold of Dave Pratt?” He pointed at Keradin, who had fallen asleep upright in the chair.

Nelson turned to Captain Stritzler. “It’s time to break radio silence. Do anything you can to find Admiral Pratt. If you can’t, I know who to get to at NATO. If there’s a key to stopping this whole damn thing, it’s sitting right there.” He gestured toward the sleeping Keradin. “That’s what will stop them from the big launch.”

There was a strange balance between fear and confidence in both Washington and Moscow. Because the battle reports were no more accurate in their initial states than they were over four hundred years before at Lepanto — neither side had yet adjusted to the loss of their reconnaissance satellites — each remained confident. The fear was generated by the ready status of their ICBMs. Though they had reached this plateau of readiness in the past, never before had it been the culmination of a major battle, a decision that might create a winner and a loser.

The nuclear posturing that was part of peacetime bravado had degenerated into a realistic threat — perhaps a certainty. Washington was aware not only that the Strategic Rocket Forces were in a countdown, but also that the STAVKA had recommended this and the State Committee for Defense had so ordered it. The only alternative was to commence the same process, insuring that the Russians too understood that the posturing was over — that Washington was responding in kind.

For those in control in Washington who could not conceive of the final orders, these were frantic moments. Not only did they not know if General Keradin was dead or alive, or even if he remained in American custody, but they had no idea whether Admiral Pratt remained in command. He had left Kennedy , ostensibly to shift his flag to Yorktown. The latter was apparently afloat, for they knew AEGIS was still in control.

The safety of hours — those hours before the Russians concluded they had only one choice… those hours before the Americans concluded they must retaliate — had now become the uncertainty of minutes …

The Harpoon missile has a range of sixty nautical miles. With more than five hundred pounds of high explosive in its warhead, it delivers a blast ten times that of a five-inch gun shell. It can wreak havoc on a large ship; it is devastating to a small one.