Charles Taylor - First Salvo

A final missile burst on the opposite side of the ship, hurling both of them into the water. When Carleton surfaced, he saw that Yorktown had broken in half with the blast. Her stern section was drifting away, totally consumed by flame. The forward part rose slowly, almost majestically, displaying the ragged metal where her bow had once been; then it slid backward into the water.

Carleton searched for Pratt among the heads bobbing in the water as men swam away from the remnants of their ship, searching for lifeboats, but none of them was Pratt. Carleton’s life jacket held him well above the surface, allowing him to turn from side to side in the water. As he stroked toward one of the rafts, he saw gray hair bobbing twenty feet away.

He kicked his way through the floating rubble on the surface to Pratt’s side. The man seemed uninjured. There were no marks about his face. Carleton placed his hand under Pratt’s nose and found shallow, halting breathing. Grabbing the back of the lifejacket, Carleton kicked toward a life raft just filling with survivors. Hands reached over the side to lift the admiral aboard. He was stretched gently on the bottom of the raft, with a life jacket as a pillow. Only now was Carleton able to see the lump forming on the side of Pratt’s head. It had been a heavy blow, and Pratt’s color darkened as the swelling grew.

Tom Carleton looked briefly over his shoulder as the stern section of Yorktown , a flaming pyre, slipped beneath the surface with a rush of bubbling water. Then he turned back and cradled Dave Pratt in his arms until they were picked up two hours later by the frigate Samuel Eliot Morison , which had somehow survived the day unscathed.

The Soviet premier leaned forward, one hand resting in his lap, the elbow of the other on the long conference table, his chin cradled in his hand. He glowered myopically through thick glasses at an invisible spot above General Colonel Melekhin’s head. The premier said nothing.

To one side, high enough to provide an unobstructed view for each member of the State Committee for Defense, was a television set with an enormous screen. A hazy picture flickered as if it might disappear at any moment. But there was no doubt about the black-and-white image that it carried. General Keradin was dressed in the working khaki uniform of an American naval officer. A cordon of American faces ringed the prisoner on the tiny, pitching flight deck of the American frigate. Arms folded, Keradin responded to the unheard instructions for the satellite camera that whirred away a hundred miles above.

General Keradin was very much alive, his face changing expression as various people conversed with him. The KGB had acknowledged the voice signature was indeed that of the general. There was no doubt among any of the Soviet leaders that watched. The Americans intended to show that the head of the Strategic Rocket Forces was very much under their control.

Melekhin looked down the table, his eyes blinking as though he intended to speak. He could not gain the attention of the premier, whose stare remained locked on the spot above Melekhin’s head.

Admiral Chemavin, the commander in chief of the Soviet Navy, broke the silence, letting his breath out with a hiss. “You are sure about Konstantin?”

“I am sure of nothing at this stage,” Admiral Khovrin responded. There was no effort to mask the irritation in his voice. “Since I entered—” his hand swept the length of the room, “no one has interrupted us. The last message, more than an hour ago, was that Konstantin was abandoning the flagship. There were no reports that he had been rescued by any other vessel. There have been no messages since I arrived here. That is obvious, and the obvious seems to me that he may be lost.” Khovrin’s fists were clenched in frustration.

“Well, then…” Chemavin began but chose silence, his eyes returning momentarily to the screen where Keradin appeared to be in conversation with an American.

The premier lifted the receiver from a phone to one side of him and spoke briefly into the mouthpiece. His expression gave no indication of the response, but his eyes snapped from face to face around the table as he replaced the instrument. “Nothing,” he said calmly. “Absolutely no response from Washington.” He slid his glasses up slightly so that he could massage his eyes. It did nothing to relieve the headache that had been building for the last hour. “But it seems that the Americans have been able to beam that picture,” he inclined his head toward the television screen, “all over the world.” Wetting his lips, he repeated the last four words individually. “And, gentlemen, that has attracted a tremendous response.”

Melekhin shot to his feet, his chair falling backward. “And in twenty-nine minutes, sir, I think you can expect a response from Washington, and from every other capital. They will be groveling….”

“Sit down,” the premier responded calmly and succinctly. All eyes turned from the screen to Keradin’s second in command.

Melekhin gazed back at the premier, a trace of hesitation disappearing as he nodded his head once in acknowledgment. Silently, he righted his chair and sat down.

The premier turned next to a man seated beside him who had yet to say a word. “Will you explain to those here what you outlined for me before we came in here?” Then he looked down the table.

“You are each aware of what he is about to say. You have heard it before, but I want it for the record how I came to my decision.” His last words became a whisper.

The man rose. Not once did he look at the premier or any other man in the room. “The Americans catalogue the locations of most of our missiles. They also are aware of most of their targets. We launch by a preselected system, known only to a few people, which is based on the size and purpose of the strike we intend. It is quite possible that by certain means they could gain information concerning this system from General Keradin. With such prior knowledge—” He shrugged. “Well, they could defend against — intercept—” He shrugged again. “If they choose to retaliate, we do not have the benefit of such prior knowledge.” He looked finally to the premier for assistance. Finding no response, he sat back down, the fingers of one hand drumming a silent tattoo on the wrist of the other.

The Premier looked to the commander of the Black Sea Fleet. “There is little likelihood that the Fifth Escadra can secure control?”

Admiral Khovrin shook his head.

“Nor can we hope to halt the American convoys?” His eyes fell on the Commander of the Northern Fleet.

Admiral Mikhaylovsky whispered, “No.”

“Then I will contact the president and inform him that we will stand down and accept the new borders as they currently exist.” Historically, Soviet armies never returned to their old borders. The premier intended to hold a line that began at Bremen in the north of West Germany and followed a circuitous route through Munster, Dusseldorf, Frankfurt, Munich and across northern Italy to Venice — once again farther than ever from the heart of Mother Russia.

But Melekhin was on his feet once again, protesting, “We cannot…”

The premier looked firmly to Chemavin. “Admiral, would you be kind enough to escort General Melekhin outside so that he might give orders to halt his countdown?”

When Chemavin returned moments later, he was accompanied by Melekhin’s subordinate — just as the premier had planned beforehand.

The summer season was over and the help back in college. The owner of the little country inn had to double as a waiter, and for some reason he was uncomfortable with these guests. He’d never expected to have a wedding party at this time of year. It wasn’t a large one, only eight people, but it was more than the owner and his wife really wanted after a busy summer.