First Salvo

by Charles D. Taylor

  FIRST SALVO

  By Charles D. Taylor

  A Gordian Knot Thriller

  Gordian Knot is an imprint of Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition Copyright 2015 by Charles D. Taylor

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  Charles Taylor is the bestselling author of thirteen naval action/adventure novels, primarily featuring the nuclear submarine service and the U.S. Navy SEALS. After serving as a Naval Reserve destroyer officer in the Atlantic and Caribbean, he followed a career in both educational and literary publishing. He currently divides his time between summers in Wyoming and winters on the Caribbean island of St. Croix.

  Book List

  Boomer

  Choke Point

  Counterstrike

  Deep Sting

  First Salvo

  Igniter

  Shadow Wars

  Shadows of Vengeance

  Show of Force

  Sightings

  Silent Hunter

  Summit

  The Twilight Patriots (formerly published as The Sunset Patriots)

  War Ship

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  This book is dedicated most affectionately to my sons, Jack and Ben

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It is sometimes easier to undertake the actual writing of a book than to gather the necessary support. I’m luckier than most, for I have constantly had the support of a wonderful family and valued friends. Captain William M. McDonald has, over the years, progressed from my commanding officer to good friend and a valuable source of information. Bob Donovan has the greatest patience for answering technical questions for a nontechnical writer. Dan Mundy would never let me get away with the slightest oversight and I value his criticism immensely. Bill Story enjoyed reversing positions and assuming the role of critic. Mel Parker’s assistance meant a great deal to the finished manuscript. I would be lost without the other talented assistance that comes with each book I write—Candy Bergquist’s typing and Laurie Meehan’s mapwork. And my wife, Georgie, is the best and toughest critic.

  The United States Naval Institute in Annapolis is the finest source of naval literature in this country. I often rely on the accuracy of the monthly issue of their Proceedings, a professional journal without peer, and I made use of the following titles from the Naval Institute Press: Keepers of the Sea by Fred J. Maroon and Edward L. Beach (1983), Guide to the Soviet Navy by Norman Polmar (third ed., 1983), The Ships and Aircraft of the U.S. Fleet by Norman Polmar (twelfth ed., 1981), and Combat Fleets of the World, 1980/81 edited by Jean Labayle Couhat and translated by A. D. Baker III (1980). Other books were Soviet Military Power by the U.S. Government Printing Office (1984), How to Make War by James F. Dunnigan (Morrow 1982), The Third World War: The Untold Story by General Sir John Hackett (Macmillan 1982), War in Space by James Canan (Harper and Row 1982), The New High Ground by Thomas Karas (Simon and Schuster 1983), and two titles by Christopher Dobson and Ronald Payne, The Terrorists: Their Weapons, Leaders and Tactics and Counterattack: The West’s Battle Against the Terrorists (Facts on File 1982).

  “We must decide whether we intend to remain the strongest nation in the world. The alternative is to let ourselves slip into inferiority, into a position of weakness in a harsh world where principles unsupported by power are victimized, and to become a nation with more of a past than a future. I reject that alternative.”

  —U.S. Secretary of Defense Harold Brown,

  January, 1980

  “The battle for the first salvo is taking a special meaning in naval battle under present-day conditions.… Delay in the employment of weapons in a naval battle or operation inevitably will be fraught with the most serious and even fatal consequences, regardless of where the fleet is located, at sea or in port.”

  —Admiral Sergei Gorshkov,

  Admiral of the Fleet of the Soviet Union

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The power structure in Washington had been privy to the Soviet Union’s intentions well before D minus 7. In a world made smaller by satellite reconnaissance and instant communications, no nation could conceal such tactics for long.

  It had been predicted by the CIA that, about one week preliminary to a concerted ground attack against NATO forces in Central Europe, the Soviet Union would initiate a series of military-political feints in various parts of the globe. The intent would be to confuse intelligence networks as to their exact goal. It could involve an increase in terrorist activities, an instigation of localized civil wars, previously unannounced military games in critical areas, and probable overt acts against U.S. forces—all of which would be followed immediately by release of misinformation via KGB stations in major cities.

  D MINUS 7

  SIX MILES OFF THE RHODE ISLAND COAST

  The Joseph and Mary wallowed in the heavy swells, her barnacled hull heaving from one side to the other, displaying a coating of green algae. Gaspar Porcino, her captain, was exhausted. His thin, hawk-like face, heavily tanned by months of summer fishing, bristled with two days’ growth of beard, and the dark circles under his eyes revealed a man who lived by the sea. But his catch was poor that trip; the hold was only half full. Nothing had gone right.

  An hour before departure, Porcino was forced to call his oldest son to join them when two of the crew showed up drunk. Once at sea, constant engine trouble restricted fishing time, and part of their equipment was lost in a squall the first night.

  The catch had been off for weeks, and the engine was still acting up. At noon, he ordered the crew to haul in. There was no sense in challenging bad luck any further.

  He headed the Joseph and Mary’s bow west northwest. His course would keep Block Island to port and put enough distance between them and the little pleasure boats. Then he would head west through Block Island Sound and finally due north after Fishers Island into New London and home. Captain Porcino could see Sandy Point on Block Island to port and even make out Point Judith, Rhode Island, on the horizon to starboard through the muggy, end-of-August haze. There was no need for radar, but out of habit he snapped it on just the same. The screen painted a large object off his starboard bow abo
ut four miles distant. Raising his binoculars, he could make out the familiar lines of the ferry following its standard course from Point Judith to Block Island. As usual, it would be full of families on vacation, their station wagons parked bumper to bumper on the main deck and jammed with luggage and pets. Once the trawl was in, he would increase speed and pass her astern.

  “Captain… Captain….” An anxious voice interrupted his reverie. Manuel Modica was waving his arms frantically, giving the sign to stop the engine. As he cut engine, Porcino could hear the man shouting in his Portuguese accent, “The net… she eese foul wit someting….”

  Porcino jumped down the few steps from his pilothouse to the main deck and hurried aft. His men were alternately winching and peering over the side to search for whatever had become trapped in the gear.

  “Very beeg,” Modica reported, stretching his arms wide before the captain. “Heavy… perhaps too beeg to bring in.”

  “You handle the winch, Manuel,” Porcino ordered. “You just watch me and I’ll tell you when to haul and when to stop. We can’t take a chance on losing anything more this trip.” He shrugged to himself. “And so close to home.” He leaned over the stern to peer into the murky water. There was nothing visible.

  The captain, never looking behind him, held his right arm in the air, closing his fist to indicate that Modica should engage the winch. Whatever was fouled, Porcino could feel its bulk through the hull under his feet. The boards throbbed as the winch engine strained. The stern sank slightly with the weight.

  The wail of the winch engine and the aroma of hot oil indicated their catch was unusually heavy. Porcino opened his fist, palm back toward Modica. The winch stopped. There was still nothing heaving into view. The captain arched his back, swinging his shoulders from side to side to ease the ache of almost two solid days of work. Tired, closing his eyes and squeezing them tight to ward off exhaustion, he barely heard the ceaseless chatter in Portuguese from the other hands.

  Stretching again, he raised his arm and closed his fist. The whine of the winch pierced the air. Once more Porcino could feel the deck under his feet broadcasting as it had done for years, talking to him.

  “There… down there,” one of the men shouted excitedly. Porcino searched for a moment before he saw a form taking shape just off the stern. He closed his fist to halt the engine. Peering down, he could barely make out the object. He opened his fist, wagging it softly behind him for a slow speed on the haul.

  Gradually, as more of his gear came into view, Porcino saw it was no fish. The hazy sun reflected brightly off the object. Hastily he closed his fist. He knew what it was even before the sun caught the metal—a torpedo!

  The others recognized the object. “What we have there, Captain?” one of them inquired nonchalantly. “Another one of those practice torpedoes?”

  “More than likely,” he sighed half to himself, slamming his fist on the railing. His catch wasn’t bad enough, now the Navy was finishing his day! He glanced back at the object again. It was too big and too shiny for one of those practice loads the subs used. It should have been dirty and covered with mud. This one looked new. “Haul it in a little closer, Manuel,” he shouted behind him, arm raised, fist closed once again. “Very slowly.”

  Rising through the cloudy water, the object took on a new perspective as the sun outlined its form in more detail. Captain Porcino had fouled dummy torpedoes before, and once even an old German one, but none compared in size to this. Longer than any he had seen, it was wider and more lethal looking, and judging by the metal, which was shiny and untarnished, it was of recent vintage. He recognized what looked like Navy markings on its body. It had not been in the water long.

  “That’s it, Manuel,” he shouted, opening his fist as the torpedo bobbed to the surface, tearing the netting with its weight. A cable was still tangled around the fins. It was drawn against the fishing boat, bumping the hull each time the boat rolled in the opposite direction. Porcino ordered his men to swing the outrigger to haul the torpedo away from the boat, but the outrigger jammed.

  Captain Porcino was not taking any chances. He had no desire to see this evil machine punch a hole in the side of the Joseph and Mary. As he started his cranky engine, an especially large swell heaved the round-bottomed boat first to starboard toward the torpedo, then even more wildly to port, yanking it sharply against the hull. With a cracking sound, the weapon smashed into the boat. That was immediately followed by a growling sound from the torpedo.

  “Captain, she ees running!” Manuel shouted.

  The torpedo drove against the boat’s hull once, then twice, as the projectile’s propellers picked up speed.

  “Cut the cable!” Porcino shouted.

  But Manuel had already seen the problem. With a huge fire ax, he slashed again and again at the woven metal cable until the combination of his blows and the surging of the boat parted the final strands.

  Porcino watched helplessly as the torpedo banged once more against the Joseph and Mary’s hull, then turned and ran in a line directly off the bow. At the same time, the last section of cable slid off the fins. Captain Porcino crossed himself and muttered a Hail Mary as the torpedo moved away, increasing speed rapidly as it slipped just below the surface.

  Looking ahead, the captain gasped. Not more than a mile off his bow was the Block Island ferry, her rails lined with vacationers enjoying their brief ride. Mouth ajar, Porcino stared helplessly at the ferry as the telltale wake of the torpedo left no doubt of its direction.

  He reached for the mike on his radio, checking to make sure he was still on the Coast Guard emergency frequency. “New London Coast Guard… New London Coast Guard this is Joseph and Mary… Emergency… please…” he pleaded.

  A voice came back instantly. “Go ahead, Joseph and Mary.”

  There was no answer for a moment. Then the Coast Guard operator heard a voice repeat over and over again. “Mother of God… Mother of God… Mother of God…” It was all Captain Porcino could say as the large pleasure boat erupted in a sheet of flame. He gazed in horror at the bodies blown skyward, the flaming cars tumbling lazily through the air.

  The Block Island ferry disintegrated.

  D MINUS 6

  ISTANBUL, TURKEY

  The man squinted at the sun’s reflection on the face of his watch. Religious services would end soon and the premier and his party would be leaving the mosque. It was the largest, most ornate building in that part of Istanbul. The plaza in front and the wide main street were heavily guarded by Turkish security forces. No one for the past five minutes had been allowed into an area cordoned off by the army.

  It was a high holy day, one of the most significant. That’s what he had been told the day before in Simferopol, a city in the Crimea northeast of Sevastopol. Not only was it a major Russian port on the Black Sea, Simferopol was also the headquarters for a major Soviet terrorist school run by the KGB. Each member of his so-called “guild” had been trained there and, like him, had departed only the day before.

  Some of them would be performing the same acts near the other mosques in other major Turkish cities—Izmir, Konya, Adana, Ankara. He couldn’t begin to remember all those foreign names, nor had anyone ever answered his question about why the premier had chosen to attend services in Istanbul rather than the capital in Ankara. But he didn’t care either. His one and only requirement was to follow through with his orders.

  This wasn’t his first assassination, and he was sure it wouldn’t be his last. Most of the new guild members, the first-timers, would be caught, he knew. They would be too excited, too interested in seeing the spoils of their work. Security forces would notice them quickly. The bodies and the gore and the blood meant nothing to him. He enjoyed his job and would be satisfied simply to read about it in the papers when he returned to Russia. His superiors always had copies of the foreign papers.

  He saw the premier exiting, a retinue of guards surrounding him. The assassin never looked up, never made any motion that might attract at
tention. It was simple caution. He was more than a block away and it was unlikely anyone would notice him. As the Turkish leader walked briskly with his escort toward the car, the assassin thought briefly about his comrades in those other cities. In the next few hours, and certainly by the end of the day, Turkey would be in chaos. Government and military bases would be damaged. Many important officials would be dead, along with hundreds of innocent people unfortunate enough to be nearby.

  The premier was within twenty yards of his car as the man watching him shook out a cigarette, sticking it in his mouth at enough of an angle to maintain his view. He extracted a cigarette lighter from a breast pocket, snapping it into flame. When he judged the positioning of everyone was as close to perfect as possible, he depressed a small pin on the underside of the lighter.

  The explosion of the fire hydrant closest to the premier’s limousine was tremendous, the blast flattening people as far as fifty yards away. But the most exacting part of his job involved attaining the correct angle of explosion, for men could survive even mightier blasts at equivalent ranges. At the moment of the detonation, secondary charges propelling tiny cylindrical pieces of metal blossomed out in an arc that took in the Premier and his guards ten yards to either side of him. Like grapeshot, the metal shards ripped through them, tearing flesh to ribbons, shattering vital organs, amputating limbs. There was no chance of survival within that arc of metal.

  Even as the agonizing, terrified screams echoed back to him, the man calmly finished lighting his cigarette. Then he arose, acting as startled and horrified as anyone around him.

  As confusion mounted into chaos, he chose the appropriate moment to slip away. It would be many hours before he was delivered back to the coast of the Black Sea, north of the entrance to the Bosporus. Then he could sleep. But he knew he wouldn’t sleep well until he returned to Simferopol and read the papers.