Charles Taylor: First Salvo

“Hank Cobb,” Pratt answered. “Why was I ever so lucky to end up on the same carrier that you’re heading for? I thought my final days were going to be easier.” Pratt had specifically recommended Cobb for the most dangerous, and probably impossible job only because no other man could possibly pull it off. But until this morning, he had no idea how Cobb was operating or how he planned to travel. A Navy chief was as good a cover as any.

The chief grinned at the admiral. “I read your orders in the Navy Times , called a buddy well placed in Norfolk, and asked if he’d cut me some orders to the Kennedy — just to protect you from yourself.” The waiter exited the room quietly, deciding not to wait for the signature on the bill or his tip.

Henry Cobb would continue to turn up when he was least expected. That was the type of man he was. Years back, he had been part of Navy Intelligence, but it simply didn’t work. Hank was too sophisticated for it. But even that wasn’t quite the word Pratt really wanted when he tried to explain Henry to the president. Afterward, Hank had been transferred to Delta Group, and that had been a failure too. The group had been a force of men, while Cobb was much too independent — a one-man force.

Then the CIA heard about him and a deal was made. Overnight he was a civilian. Since Cobb was a linguist and Russian was his specialty, he had appealed to the CIA. And he was a man who could appear in just about any location at any time, getting there totally on his own, with no help from the desk, and pass himself off as a native. He was so successful in some of his more unsavory works, in fact, that he was discharged from the CIA. It would not do to have a man like Cobb traced back to them. And he liked that.

The idea of being an independent operative appealed to him. Though there were rumors that Cobb was for hire to anyone who could pay the price, Dave Pratt knew this to be absolutely false. In his own way, Cobb was a true patriot — as long as he could work on his own terms.

Henry Cobb was what one might call nondescript. Perhaps that was the reason no other organization had an exact picture of him. He was of medium height and build. His hair was short and brown, eyes brown, complexion medium, and there were no distinguishing features that would cause someone to remember his face. Only the other four men in the room would believe what Henry was going to do.

Cobb picked up Ryng’s copy of Morskoi Sbornik and flipped the pages. “Hey, did you know this supply ship just left Murmansk and—”

“Believe me, Hank, I know.”

Wendell Nelson was filling the glasses with ice. “Let’s get into it, men. We may have to wait another four years to do this again. Say, Dave, you’ve been around this town for a few weeks. What’s the word on the torpedo that hit the ferry yesterday? I don’t believe a word I read in the papers.”

“Don’t ever,” remarked Ryng sarcastically.

“He’s pretty much right, Nellie. They interrogated that fisherman for quite a while. He was no dummy. He’d seen those things before and could give a pretty good description. It wasn’t anything we ever produced. It was a plant, and a damn good one. Like you say about the papers, they’ve already performed the roll of judge and jury and they’ve hanged New London without a trial. The only thing we haven’t doped out is how the Russians managed to get it that close without anyone noticing anything unusual. They figure it might have been towed in by a fishing boat and dropped right where that poor guy fouled it in his gear.”

“But whatever the answer,” Carleton said, “their plan’s working like it’s supposed to — to turn the public against the Navy. Can’t say I blame them, with that many dead from the ferry — not to mention all the noise the papers are making about those two Senators, Hodges and Hall, who were off on the ferry on that boondoggle. With the great stories I’ve heard about those two, I can imagine what they might have done if that ferry ever made it to the island. What a way to go,” he laughed.

“And,” Ryng added, “the thing was timed precisely right. Washington’s about to start stamping and shouting about Soviet terrorism and aggression and our own papers are going to be raising hell about our torpedoing the Block Island ferry.” He shook his head in disgust. “Perfect timing by the Russians while the American public hasn’t the vaguest idea what’s going on. Am I right?” He turned to Pratt.

The older man nodded in assent, absentmindedly sipping at the drink Nellie had handed him. “The president wanted to keep the Block Island thing under wraps.”

Carleton eased his feet back onto the coffee table. “I know what Nellie and I are going to do for you, Dave. We’re going to drive ships through knotholes. We’re going to dodge missiles like the Lone Ranger. Then we’re going to deal out justice to the Russian fleet. But what are these other two clowns going to do while we’re in the middle of it?”

Pratt smiled. “I suppose you could say they’ll both do what they do best. You see, I came into this through the back door. I’ll tell you right now I wasn’t waiting in line. As a matter of fact, there was no line.” He eased back into one of the large, soft chairs and related how he’d been picked out by the president because of the work he’d done at the War College. “Nellie can tell you. We did a lot of the work together. I got the credit because I’m an admiral and he’s junior to me. Ostensibly, I’m in command of the carrier battle group you all know about, but I also got to stick my nose in everything else too because of those strategy papers.”

Each man was aware of the work Pratt was explaining. With the exception of Cobb, they all followed each other’s comings and goings pretty closely. It pleased them that one of their own had been recognized, especially a good guy like Dave Pratt.

“The problem in the North Atlantic is supposed to be a Navy problem. When the subs come out, sink ’em. But there’s a first step — the Reds have to get their subs through the barrier we’ve set up.” They were also aware of the minefield strung across the GIUK gap that could be activated only by the Soviet attack subs as they passed through. “Something’s going on up north, way up in Spitzbergen. We haven’t the vaguest idea what, but it has to have something to do with neutralizing our barrier. I suggested to the president that there was one man who could do the job quietly up there.” He nodded toward Ryng. “It’s a job for a SEAL team because it involves more than just snooping. Bernie and his boys can normally handle themselves in a good firefight, and that’s what I told the man in the White House when he asked how to take the problem one step farther.”

Tom Carleton shook his head, puffing out his chubby cheeks before exhaling. “It’s not for me.” He wagged a finger at Cobb. “And him?”

“Henry is going into the wine business.” Pratt waited for a reaction, but the others outwaited him. “Russian wine. He has acquired a special taste for sweet dessert wines, the type from vineyards in the Crimea. It seems that the wine maker there just dabbles in the business as a hobby. His main job is head of the Strategic Rocket Forces of the Soviet Union.”

Ryng whistled. “Assassination?”

Cobb looked up, expressionless. “A straight assassination would be too easy.”

“There’s a simple theory in Washington right now. I don’t know which group developed it — and I’m not saying it’s wrong — but the president is convinced that this next war, if we have to have it, must be the last. Now wait a minute,” Pratt added quickly. “Part of the theory is not that we’ll never have to fight again. Instead, the idea is both to keep ourselves from escalating this into a nuclear thing and also to do something that will permanently stop the posturing with nuclear missiles. If I could ever classify something as a ‘mission impossible,’ this is it. Our friend Henry Cobb is going to waltz right in and snatch the head of the Strategic Rocket Forces from under the Russians’ own noses. What do you think of that?”