First Salvo

by Charles D. Taylor

  It was a totally different Navy from the one his father served in during the Second World War. As a child, Tom had thrilled to tales of naval battles in the South Pacific. Today, Nimitz and Halsey and the rest of his great heroes from forty years before wouldn’t have the vaguest idea of how Yorktown operated. Within microseconds, her radars and radios and computers could analyze intelligence from distant submarines or surface ships, planes hundreds of miles away, invisible recon satellites, and strategic and tactical details compiled at shore bases halfway around the world. With all that data, her computers could then coordinate the weapons on those distant platforms.

  All of that hidden power was designed to protect the carrier in the battle group from missile attacks long enough to launch her air group to bring the war to the enemy.

  For months, Tom Carleton dealt in a mysterious world of microchips and milliseconds, one where electronic gadgets made lifesaving or life-threatening decisions much faster and more accurately than any human being could. The system was designed to battle systems, not men. He also learned that this electronic gadget named Yorktown was only as good as the people who sailed her, that he was still only a valuable cog in her success or failure, as were each of her men. And it was his responsibility to make this marvel work when she was finally called on.

  Current doctrine indicated that when it all began, the first salvo from Soviet forces would be awesome. His response, Yorktown’s, would have to be both instant and absolutely correct.

  D MINUS 2

  The president addressed a special meeting of the UN Security Council regarding the current military situation in Central Europe, and to speak for the censure of the Soviet Union for overt aggressive acts documented by recon satellites. The Soviet Ambassador refused to attend, indicating that any censure of his country would cause the Soviet Union’s withdrawal from the international body.

  Massive efforts were undertaken to evacuate as many American dependents in NATO countries as possible, but severe restraints on civilian air traffic limited selection of these evacuees. Special permission had to be granted for landings by American commercial aircraft at specific airfields in Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium, Spain, Italy, the Scandinavian countries, and England. The French government, not bound by NATO agreements, guaranteed protection to American dependents though Paris refused to acknowledge the activation of Soviet reserve divisions in eastern Russia or the fact that French military forces still were not under Condition Two.

  The damaged SOSUS array off Bermuda was now back in operation after the emplacement of hydrophones. Similar damage had occurred over the previous forty-eight hours to arrays off Iceland, the Azores, Hokkaido, Adak in Alaska, and Seattle. In each case, escort aircraft were able to determine that Soviet bombers on routine patrols (i.e., following their normal tracks over international waters) released objects that apparently caused the arrays to go silent. Commencing early on D minus 4, all such Soviet patrols were intercepted on the perimeter of a three-hundred-mile circle around SOSUS arrays and escorted under accepted international rules. No further damage was reported.

  Seagoing units of the Japanese Military Self-Defense Force steamed in company with units of the Seventh Fleet at the express request of the Japanese Premier. This overture appeared to be an effort to convince the Japanese public that the missile which damaged the Haruna on D minus 3 was definitely not fired by any American aircraft. Within an hour after the incident, Soviet-controlled propaganda identified the source of the missile as an American F-18 on routine patrol over the Sea of Japan. However, the memory bank of an electronic listening device aboard Haruna recorded the missile’s lock-on radar signature as a Russian AS-5. This unfortunately did not have any effect on the rioting by left-wing students. Japanese government reports also indicated the insertion into their country of professional terrorists recently trained in Libya. Commerce remained at a standstill due to rioting and the effective disruption of civilian transportation services. Though it was obvious to the planners in the Pentagon that there would be no attack by Soviet forces in the Far East, these decoy efforts continued. They would have far-reaching effect on the future makeup of the Japanese government.

  Due to the disruption of transportation in Japan, NATO countries gave unlimited authority to antiterrorist units in an effort to contain or at least limit damage to surface transportation networks. CIA white papers reported in the past that this would be the goal of Soviet planning before D-Day; though transport was harassed, military logistic movement was almost as steady as intended. The Russians had hurt themselves by being too effective in Japan too early!

  An Israeli negotiating team, apparently sent at the behest of the United States on D minus 4, had success in halting raids by Turkey and Greece on each other. Israeli intelligence indicated to both sides (in a report prepared by their own intelligence agency) that the Soviet Union was responsible for terrorist activities that had fomented the military action over the previous three days. CIA reports anticipated that termination of Greek-Turkish activities would affect Soviet plans for controlling the Turkish straits, thereby likely requiring Soviet military action to control the exits from the Black Sea.

  The U.S. CAPTOR blockade of the GIUK gap was reportedly in danger of breakdown by D minus 2. SOSUS reports, combined with infrared satellite intelligence, indicated that more than twenty CAPTOR mines had been activated by decoy units radiating an exact signature of a Soviet submarine. Since all but two of the submarines stationed in Murmansk were reported at sea and headed for the gap, it became clear to Washington that those submarines could exit into the North Atlantic via a destroyed CAPTOR barrier. The decoy devices were carried by Soviet bombers from a base on the island of Spitzbergen and deployed from the air. Upon entering the water, they moved at the speed of a submarine and radiated a signature that activated the CAPTOR listening devices. Though a submarine hunter-killer division had departed New London within hours of the first communication from Norway, most Murmansk attack submarines were projected to disappear into the Atlantic beforehand. At that time, Bernie Ryng’s SEAL team had less than twenty-four hours to complete its mission.

  Recon photos, commencing at first light on D minus 2, indicated Soviet shock forces in Eastern Europe were no longer involved in exercises of any kind. Offensive units were taking position near the western borders. Their political units had apparently already infiltrated government offices in Warsaw Pact countries, for communications from these capital cities to the outside world were limited at best. Computer projections now anticipated a full-scale attack across a broad frontier in no less than forty-eight hours.

  SPITZBERGEN, THE HARBOR

  Harry Winters knew, at the end of Ryng’s last transmission, that there was little time to complete his end of the job. Bernie was not one to let grass sprout up around him. If the Russians were already sewing their decoys in the gap more than two thousand miles to the south, he had to move even in the inadequate cover of the midnight sun.

  There was no chance, or even reason, to try to get back aboard the Russian freighter as they had done before when they had appropriated the supply boat. With one man missing, the Russians would likely be a bit more security conscious, and so a device would have to be planted under the hull. He couldn’t use anything activated from shore. Considering the odds of a storm or fog or even the possible great distance were they to be interrupted for some reason, detonation would be too uncertain. It had to be an intelligent device.

  The only problem was time. Once Bernie and his boys began to warm things up around the airfield, Harry knew it was probable that the ship would immediately get under way and move offshore. How long would Bernie take? He had no idea where Ryng might be at any given moment and over the years they’d learned never to bother each other at these times. Even though he’d never seen the field, Winters knew there was no way four Americans were going to sneak up on those Russian bombers in broad daylight, not with Black Berets guarding them. It seemed likely to him that Bernie might want to
borrow some of the Soviet uniforms. That would take some time. Would he try to release the Norwegians beforehand? No way! That would only add to the chance of getting one of his own hurt unnecessarily and even compromise the objective of getting the bombers and the decoy torpedoes that had already been offloaded.

  Two of Winters’s men were experts at assembling the device he determined would sink the ship. There was no leeway for error. He gave Bernie three hours to get some sleep, another hour to waylay some Black Berets and borrow their uniforms, and another hour to carry out the mission. The first sign of action at the airfield would get that ship out to sea, or at least under way in the harbor. So he designed the timer for six hours from now, just to insure it held off until the ship made it to deep water.

  Making the bomb, installing the timer, then waterproofing it was no problem. Any one of them could do it in his sleep, and each man could do the other’s job with no hesitation.

  The problem was getting out there and getting the damn thing properly planted so it wouldn’t fall off on its own or be jarred loose by the motion of the ship. That’s what took time and planning. But it could be done and done right.

  Two hours later, Winters slipped into the water across the harbor from the freighter. Martin Gable was right behind him. The bomb was strapped to an electrically-powered sled. Ryng had fashioned it years ago to glide through the water ahead of them, towing both divers and their gear. Winters realized that Bernie had considered the frigid water. He had made it a two-man mission because one man might not make it to the ship and back on his own. If neither was back on shore in three hours, the remaining two had been ordered to take off to the meeting place Ryng had planned for them.

  It was dark under the hull and very, very cold. Their wetsuits were insulated and designed to survive forty-degree water for a period of time—but not over a long span of continuous immersion. Winters’s flashlight settled on Marty’s hands for a moment and held it there just long enough to see the difficulty the man was having. Each movement was slow and deliberate, an intense effort to insure that nothing could go wrong after the bomb was set. After each step, Marty would close his fists, squeezing them together rhythmically a few times to recover as much circulation as possible. Winters realized that if the hands already functioned in that manner, then the rest of the man’s body could not endure forever. Once the cold took hold of one part of the body, impairment of other functions followed quickly.

  The final step was Harry’s—to install the timer. Totally absorbed, he forgot Marty, his mind wholly involved with overriding the ache in his hands as he set the delicate instrument. When he finally looked up, there was no Marty beside him. Flashing his light about the darkness under the hull, he caught sight of the man floating a few feet below, arms outstretched, fists still rhythmically clasping and unclasping, though now it appeared more a macabre, slow-motion ballet.

  The spectacle was unmistakable. Harry had seen it in training films time and again. It was the final dance—that of a diver dying from the cold, his heart pumping more slowly, his brain functions dimming.

  Winters floated down and held the flashlight to Marty’s face. The man stared back blankly, head shaking slowly up and down to indicate that he knew what was next. It was understood, an integral part of their training.

  Marty reached slowly for his belt, his fingers fumbling. Unable to make them do what he wanted, his fist opened painfully and with an index finger he gestured in slow motion that Winters should do it for him.

  Harry grasped the belt, extracting a tubular plastic container no more than an inch in diameter. He held it out to his friend. Marty’s fingers attempted to close over the object, but there was no way he could grip it. He pulled back his hand and with an effort opened and closed his fist. He desperately wanted to restore just enough circulation to handle the job himself. It was something that a man would want to do, hating to ask his partner to do it for him.

  But eventually there was no choice. Time was against him and Marty knew it. At least one of them had to get back. And it would be impossible for a man in his condition to both give himself the injection and make sure his body sank before it took effect.

  His head bobbed sluggishly, this time in sadness. Harry would have to do it. As Winters came closer, Marty clumsily patted him on the shoulder to show that he understood and that he was sorry. Then he rolled sideways.

  Winters pulled off the top of the plastic container. In the artificial light, he could see the tiny needle reflecting sharply back at him. He put the object against Marty’s arm, hesitated for a split second, then pushed. They were told it would take almost no effort. The experts were right. Before Winters fully understood how easily the instrument worked, he saw Marty’s body tense and then relax. He was already dead.

  Quickly, feeling the adrenaline pulsing through his own system, Winters released the tanks from Marty’s back, puncturing the valve that would sink them. Finally he pulled the cord on the back of Marty’s wet suit where the tank had been. It would insure that the body would sink—no chance of its coming to the surface beside the Russian ship. Martin Gable became the first American casualty of the operation.

  Then he pushed the button on the electric motor and whisked away from the freighter. The return trip would not be that long. The sled had lost much of its burden. But now that he was motionless, he could feel the intensity of the cold, the numbing pain that came as his system wore down, the heart unable to pump blood fast enough to make the machine called the human body efficient enough to survive.

  Winters checked off the interminable minutes it took to get back to shore—twenty, eighteen, fifteen, ten, eight, six…

  Then the electric motor simply stopped. Unlike an internal combustion engine, there was no stuttering or jumping or sputtering. All of a sudden, it just wasn’t working.

  He let the sled go, watching dejectedly as it slowly slid toward the bottom, the sun’s rays penetrating the clear, cold waters and glinting off its surface. Then it was gone.

  Winters took some preliminary strokes, kicked his legs. What was supposed to be a smooth bodily reaction, the combined efforts of arms and legs, was a clumsy thrash, like a fish flapping helplessly on the sand, Harry thought.

  There was no way he could do it. It was beyond the function of his brain to force arms and legs to coordinate. It was beyond his mind to inspire his baser instincts to save himself. Winters knew there was no way he could make it back!

  The one thing he knew he was still capable of was insuring that his body was not found by the Russians before the freighter got underway.

  Clumsily, in the same awkward motions Marty had attempted, but failed at, Harry extracted the plastic container from his belt. As he did so, he found that his mind was acceding to what he was about to do. As he allowed himself to sink gradually, he decided that he would wait until the sunlight was barely discernible above, because he did not want to see himself do it. It was one thing to do his duty to a friend, quite another to do it to himself.

  As he awaited the profound peace that all the books claimed would settle over him, the realization came that he was going about it all wrong! His orderly mind had slipped away for a moment. This wasn’t the way he’d been taught. The classroom experience came back to him vividly. They had even done it in the tanks, step-by-step, even to plunging a phony needle into their flesh.

  Step one: the tank! He slipped gradually out of the straps, each movement of his body a painful reminder that there was a definite purpose in this. His fingers fumbled for the plunger. They wouldn’t close! You’ve got to! You’ve got to get through step one. With an effort he shoved and shoved until enough force was exerted. The tanks sank, only the bubbles showing where his former life-support system was disappearing.

  Step two: the wet suit! He had to hurry. It was hard to hold your breath when your body was so cold, when each motion was painful. Don’t screw it up now for Chrissakes. There was no way he could reach the cord in back, but there was another under the belt
in front. His fingers couldn’t grasp it. Finally, the heels of both hands pressed together, he yanked, and felt the flood of cold water against his skin. But it wasn’t cold. It was hot, almost a burning sensation!

  Step three: the container. He’d slipped it back in the belt when he remembered he had other things to do. Step three, the container, his mind screamed at him. Now the air— the last gulp of oxygen before he let the tanks go—was escaping his lungs. He could sense the bubbles on his lips. There was no way he’d allow himself to suck in any water, not Harry Winters! He had no intention of drowning, of causing his own death by the very element that he’d lived in and made a career of!

  He couldn’t bring his hand far enough around to push the needle against his arm. So, as the last breath left his body, he pushed it against his chest. There was a sharp prick, no pain. His whole body was already one big pain! He kept his mouth shut. The last conscious message to his brain was not to open his mouth—don’t let any water in. Then there was darkness as the drug took him. Step four… die.

  Harry Winters sank slowly to the bottom of the harbor—the second American casualty.

  SPITZBERGEN, THE AIRPORT

  Bernie Ryng’s first notion was to knock off the horseplay. In a very short time, they’d be in the midst of a firefight. On second thought, it was better to let Denny Bush go ahead.

  Bush, a black beret pulled down just above his right eyebrow, was conducting a mock inspection of the other two. Rick’s beret was a bit too large, so Bush, the inspecting officer, had pulled it over his eyes. And Wally simply wasn’t going to pass. The black uniform blouse was wrinkled and slightly soiled from the scuffle. “You look so sloppy, one would think you were wearing someone else’s uniform,” Denny scowled, his lips quivering in an effort to maintain a straight face.