First Salvo

by Charles D. Taylor

  The next day the president asked for the admiral’s service jacket. Rear Admiral David Pratt’s record presented a picture of a rather different sort of officer than appeared in the forefront of the Washington scene. Most admirals that found their way into the Pentagon and then, if they were lucky, into providing military advice to the Oval Office, wore the wings of a naval aviator or a submariner’s dolphins. David Pratt displayed neither on his uniform blouse, nor was he festooned with ribbons. His only combat assignments had been early in his career in Vietnam.

  Pratt was considered a maverick within the military power structure. Though not an engineer, he was involved in more new weapons planning than any other senior officer. He was also a devotee of computers as the first line of defense, and offense, for the Navy of the future—and he committed himself up front when he felt he was right. That was a rare trait among those looking forward to a successful career.

  The one final aspect that became apparent to the president was that there were occasional gaps in Pratt’s service record—small, but there nevertheless—something not normally occurring with most Hag officers. A little digging brought forth the fact that Admiral Pratt was a maverick in more ways than one: he had deep contacts in intelligence sectors, both military and civilian. And word of mouth elicited the fact that Pratt still consorted with an odd variety of men, some of whom had reached the top in covert-action specialties that the military did not freely admit to.

  All in all, Pratt had intriguing possibilities. As far as the president was concerned, he was the right man for the job.

  D MINUS 4

  WASHINGTON, D.C., A HOTEL ON K STREET

  Bernie Ryng glanced up for a moment when Pratt crumpled the latest Strategic Situation Report in his fist, jamming it in his jacket pocket. He chuckled as the Admiral growled to himself, then wandered over to look out the floor-to-ceiling window. Always grumbling about something, Ryng thought to himself. It’s nice to see nothing has changed.

  Pratt stared down into the jam of noontime traffic on K Street. The day was hot in Washington. He watched the secretaries in skimpy summer blouses and skirts hurrying alongside the young bureaucrats with jackets over their arms.

  Pratt’s gaze was riveted on a pretty blonde whose mincing walk was attracting the stares of passersby, but in fact his mind was on his meeting with the president. It seemed just yesterday, but it was longer than that. It had been before the Russians had become serious.

  Long ago, he had become inured to the fact that he would not be one of those admirals who would be invited to the Oval Office to rub elbows with the president and offer reassurance. Therefore, it was doubly surprising when the president not only brought him to the office alone, but then, after the interview centered on that part of his background that the official navy disclaimed, indicated that Dave Pratt was the man he wanted. In Navy circles, the term was called “reaching down.” It meant that the man in power was overlooking the most senior officers and dipping into the batch of juniors for the man he wanted. It was an exceedingly uncommon occurrence.

  “You’re going to be in overall command, Admiral Pratt. While your major responsibility, when and if the shooting starts, will be in the Mediterranean, I’m going to ask you to put your actions where your mouth has been.” Suddenly, all Pratt could think of was how many times he had been told that someday he’d regret opening his big mouth so much.

  “I’ve reviewed the three-point program you outlined not so long ago.” There had been a pause that seemed to last an eternity before the president continued. “And I happen to agree with you. Things may not occur exactly as you’ve presented them in your scenarios, but—” here he moved his head from side to side as if to show he was balancing each point, “—but I know of no other presentation that comes so close to what seems to be taking place right now.”

  The discussion had gone on for another half hour about the military aspects of the proposed Soviet offensive and the importance of the Mediterranean, but Pratt sensed there was really much more to come. Then the president had raised his eyebrows. “You remember early on I indicated you were to be in overall command? Well, I meant that in every sense of the word. We’ve got to keep the sea-lanes in the North Atlantic open, and that means keeping all those attack submarines from passing through the GIUK gap.”

  He went on to review the intelligence reports they were both familiar with—one noted that the flow of goods to Murmansk indicated the Soviet submarine fleet was being supplied for an extended deployment, that some of their vessels were already under way, and that the balance would probably follow soon. Another report mentioned a new development, perhaps a weapon, that no one really understood. And still another noted increased activity in the Soviet sector of the Norwegian island of Spitzbergen, raising the question of the movement of the Murmansk submarines in the GIUK gap. Finally the president concluded from the briefings that someone better act on the growing threat.

  So, because of the scenario Pratt had developed at the Naval War College, this new overall command the president was giving him meant worrying about what was happening on Spitzbergen. That was when he decided that Bernie Ryng had to be included.

  Pratt turned back to Ryng and scowled when he saw what the younger man was reading—Morskoi Sbornik, the official Russian naval journal. “Any sex in that rag, Bernie?”

  Ryng looked up with a smile. “I guess you might say that, Dave,” he answered, wiping rimless reading glasses on his sleeve, then holding them to the light. “Look at this picture and you might change your mind about these people.” He grinned back at Pratt, savoring the opportunity to tease him even though he was a friend.

  “Here… look.” He held up the magazine for inspection. “Just another ship.” Pratt shrugged.

  “Not just another, Dave. This one’s a supply ship, and I also happen to know she left Murmansk two days ago fully loaded, and she had what looked like some new model torpedoes on her deck—that is, before they covered them with tarps.”

  Pratt turned back, a questioning look on his face.

  “That’s right. It was the sexy one in this picture. Of course, those high-resolution shots I saw this morning were much better.”

  “And you’re interested because…”

  “Right. Because I think this ship might just be anchored in Longyearbyen harbor in Spitzbergen when I get there.” Ryng grinned again, very pleased with himself. The fleet types like Pratt didn’t understand the intelligence types like him, and, of course, they felt the spooks didn’t understand them. The hell with it, he thought. Be honest with Pratt. He’s not a bad guy for an admiral and you probably wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for him.

  “I think, all things considered, Bernie, I’d rather be right where I’m going, right in the middle of the action.” Admiral Pratt’s actual orders were for the Mediterranean, to command a carrier battle group. Ryng was headed for Spitzbergen, the main island of the Svalbard archipelago, a Norwegian territory six hundred miles north of Norway in the Barents Sea. It was the first of two choke points that might prevent Soviet military vessels, especially submarines, from moving into the North Atlantic in time of war. Ryng was to go in with a Navy SEAL team that was scheduled to depart in less than twenty-four hours.

  Considering the situation now, Pratt knew he had been absolutely right in asking for Bernie Ryng—and he had told the president that. On the day Norway requested assistance in determining what was happening on their small territory far to the north, Washington had also determined that a guerilla-type unit should be inserted, since the Russians seemed to be concentrating so much effort on that region. Pratt had explained to the president that a SEAL team was by far the best solution— small, fast, capable of both intelligence gathering and fighting. And in this situation, the best man by far was not the one the others would pick. But Bernie Ryng was exceptional and Admiral Pratt could work with him. In that case, the president had concluded, Pratt could relay his, the president’s, orders to Ryng. The Navy, bolstered
by word from the White House, would fully support Ryng and the intelligence man was to be told by the Admiral to follow his own nose. Dave Pratt knew Bernie would like that.

  This meeting between Pratt and Ryng was a reunion of sorts, a catch-as-catch-can affair. Pratt hadn’t really planned it that way; it just happened. Ryng had heard in the Officer’s Club the night before that Tom Carleton had been delayed on his way through D.C. When Ryng tracked down Carleton, the latter told him that he had seen Henry Cobb the night before. To his surprise, Cobb had mentioned he was working for Dave Pratt. Though neither Ryng nor Carleton had ever expected to see Cobb again, it all became even clearer to them. Dave Pratt wanted the heavy hitters! They had all been very close when they served with a riverboat squadron in Vietnam, as close as any men could be who owed their lives to each other.

  Now Ryng looked at Pratt. “If those spooks up in that blackbox room I visited this morning are right, I think I might find a bit of action myself,” Ryng said. Studying Ryng, Pratt thought the latter could have been a native of the island he was heading for, with his fair complexion and longish blond hair. Bernie Ryng was one of those people whose age was hard to determine. His hair was thin, but not thinning. His complexion was fair and his expressionless blue eyes peered out over high cheekbones. As long as Pratt had known him, Ryng’s features had never changed. He was of medium height and his build had remained the same. He never seemed to put on or lose a pound, and his physical condition remained superb. Most men his age had left the SEALs for less demanding careers. Pratt remembered that Ryng too had gone back to sea, but he soon drifted back into intelligence.

  Pratt wandered over to the large window again, his hands fidgeting behind his back. “Harry Winters saddling up with you this trip?” Pratt asked, indulging in small talk.

  “Sure. Where Bernie goes, Harry is sure to follow. Wouldn’t want it any other way.” He paused. “I doubt that you’ll see any of them coming through that crowd down there,” Ryng offered. He added, “Don’t you ever relax?”

  The admiral turned slowly, a half-smile on his face. “You been messing around with my wife?” The smile was quizzical, amused. “That’s exactly what she said this morning, Bernie. Of course,” he added, “she hasn’t been reading the intelligence reports either.” Dave Pratt had been awake since five that morning. He’d woken up in a cold sweat from a dream that had been repeating since he’d been ordered to a battle group command. It was the same each time. He could see the Russian cruise missiles bearing down on his carrier. They never became any larger, never seemed to be moving. It was just a surreal image hanging up there, aiming at him. But now that war seemed imminent, each dream brought them closer. They seemed to be gaining on him.

  “This all reminds me of sixty-two,” Ryng remarked. “I was still in school then. But I remember clearly that it was such a hell of a surprise when Kennedy went on TV to tell us how close war was and what the U.S. was doing. Obviously it had been going on for weeks in Washington, but there was never a peep. We were all fat, dumb, and happy, and then all of a sudden it was popped on us: hey, we may be in the middle of a war anytime now! I got a feeling it’s going to be the same thing again for the civilians. Except this time, I don’t expect there’s going to be any chest thumping.”

  Dave Pratt nodded. “That’s what I wanted to tell Alice this morning. Somehow I thought she deserved to know before I left.” He sat down heavily, shaking his head sadly. “I wanted to send her up to Pennsylvania, to the mountains for the first few weeks I was gone. But can you imagine the shit I’d get if that ever got out?” Pratt was the perfect officer for the recruiting posters. He was over six feet, flat bellied, with short gray hair, a square chin, brown eyes under heavy dark brows, and his broad shoulders filled his uniform, giving it a tailored look.

  “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?”
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br />   “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.