Charles Taylor: First Salvo

“You’d get more than that, Admiral Pratt. You’d be commanding a desk out in North Dakota, the only admiral for hundreds of miles,” a deep voice boomed from the doorway.

Neither man heard the door open, and the new sound startled them. Ryng, on his feet in a crouch before the speaker finished his first sentence, relaxed as he recognized Tom Carleton at the door. In contrast to the other two, Carleton was somewhat overweight, almost to the point of being dumpy. He always had been, even in the days upriver when they once survived for a week in the jungle on a diet of rice and nuoc mam sauce. Carleton tossed his hat and bag on a vacant armchair.

Pratt looked at Ryng. “Time to start an anchor pool on Tom’s last hair. I’ll put five down that says there’re none left when he gets back.”

Carleton’s orders — written directly by Dave Pratt — were to take command of a guided-missile cruiser in the Mediterranean, part of Pratt’s battle group. Short and chubby, almost bald, red-faced in the Washington summer heat, he appeared anything but a commanding type, nothing akin to Pratt. Yet this would be his third ship. Each of them had won awards for excellence. Now, taking command of the cruiser Yorktown was the ultimate honor. Pratt’s carrier battle group was structured on the defensive capabilities of a computerized combat system named AEGIS, which was installed aboard Yorktown , the newest, most modern ship in the fleet. The system was sophisticated to the point where it could take control of the electronics and weapons systems of the entire battle group.

“Dave,” Carleton said, “there’re a lot of unhappy pilots hanging around the clubs mumbling about a nonpilot getting command of a carrier battle group. Better start checking your drinks.” Turning to the other, he said, “Bernie, I figure every time I come back through the States, I’m going to find you in some padded cell, having scared yourself half to death with your latest assignment.” He gave Ryng a bear hug, lifting him off his feet. “Hey, I thought you spooks were tough!”

“I’ve got a license to kill. Want to see it?” the blond man kidded him.

“Naw. I’d much rather drink. Come on, Admiral, where’s the booze?” Carleton inquired of Pratt. “We’ve only got a few hours to tell a couple of years’ worth of lies.” Pratt glanced at his watch. “Five minutes. I asked for a cart of bottles to be delivered here exactly at noon.” Carleton flopped onto the couch, placing his feet on the coffee table. Pratt had reserved a suite in the hotel just for this short luncheon, but after four years, it would be worth the price. “Say,” Carleton asked, loosening his belt a notch, “think we’re going to get to our duty stations before it all breaks loose?” The expression on his face was mock serious.

“I think the answer is yes.” Ryng, the precise intelligence specialist, always had the right information. “We’ve got about five days, if our reconnaissance satellites are correct. The Russians aren’t going to make a move until they know they can supply their second-echelon forces. They never do anything till they’re absolutely sure. And then they’re just going to let loose.”

“I sure am glad I’m going where the action is,” Carleton said with a grin. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ryng and Pratt shrug as they caught each other’s eye. “What’s so funny?”

“I’m trying to remember where I heard that before,” answered Pratt. “It seems that…”

He was interrupted as the door swung open again. “Gentlemen, no need to get up. As you were.” Commander Wendell Nelson entered the suite, both his arms in the air like a prize fighter. His immaculate summer white uniform set off his ebony skin. With a wide, bright smile, he added, “The party can now proceed.” Damn , Ryng thought, nobody thought to tell me Nellie was coming. How many of us did they let Dave call up?

These are confident men , Pratt thought as he appraised the men around him. Carleton, spread out on the couch like a walrus and with his feet on that antique coffee table, would do that even in the White House; Nellie, always tried to be the life of the party, being the only black man in the group; and Bernie, sitting there quietly analyzing them all, would probably always be impassive and secretive. Pratt rose from his chair, grabbing Nelson’s hand in his own and clapping him on the shoulder. “Have any trouble getting through the lobby?”

“There weren’t any white men big enough to stop me today, Dave. I had such a head of steam up, I just bowled them over.” Nelson reached automatically for a cigarette and shook hands with the others before sinking into the nearest chair. He was as handsome as Pratt and about the same size. He had high cheekbones that emphasized deep brown, intelligent eyes. He folded his large hands behind his head. “Where’s the booze? I’ve never seen this group sitting on its hands before.”

Pratt looked at his watch. “Any moment now it ought to be coming right through that door. As much of it as your little hearts desire, which is normally a quart apiece.” Pratt cocked his head to one side, and the same laugh he’d always gotten from that remark came from each of them. They knew each other as well as they knew themselves, and their affection after four years was no different than it had been when their unit rotated back to the States in 1971. Now the youngsters, Carleton and Nelson, were commanding their own ships. Still absent was the baby of the group, Cobb. He had always been an enigma, though he had eased his way into their hearts. He frequently disappeared underground, and when he surfaced, this group seemed to be the only people he ever needed, and they tactfully never asked for details. He was the only one who acted totally independent, but he needed them as much as they needed each other. And Ryng — Ryng would always be the same, the famed SEAL team leader, drifting in and out of their lives from his world of special operations.

“Well, my dear Admiral, the next commanding officer of the U.S.S. John Hancock ,” Nelson responded, “will be taking off from Andrews in less than six hours, hopefully a bit drunk.”

“Don’t hold your breath, Nellie. I’m scheduled out then too — also hopefully a bit under the weather. Perhaps you’ll have the honor of joining me.” Pratt had written their orders, never expecting they would accidentally all be in Washington at the same time.

Nelson rolled his eyes humorously. Then he sat up straight, his face serious. “We going to make it in time, Dave? I’d hate to have the world blow while we’re at forty thousand feet.” There was no doubt in his mind, after the time he and Dave Pratt had spent together in Newport at the Naval War College, that it was Pratt who had gotten him Hancock.

Carleton’s head bobbed up and down as he spoke. “No higher a personage than Bernie Ryng guarantees that we’ll all make it. He’s even cabled the Kremlin to slow down a bit so that we can be in position in time.”

A knock on the door announced a Navy chief in immaculately tailored whites, pushing a cart loaded with glasses, ice, and bottles of liquor. Right behind came the very nervous waiter who had just been relieved of the cart. Coming to a halt before Admiral Pratt, Chief Petty Officer Henry Cobb removed a bottle of scotch, tossing it onto an empty chair. “I don’t know what the others are having, but this ought to do me until lunch.” The waiter gaped in amazement as the enlisted man walked up to the Admiral, throwing his arms around the taller man’s neck. “David, my friend, how’s the world been treating you?” The waiter had worked in Washington long enough to know that he’d never see that again — not to an admiral in uniform. There was no way he could have known that Cobb was really a civilian.