“Are you chilly?”
“No. But a man needs a certain amount of dignity. I am a general in the Soviet armed forces. I would expect you to treat me in the same manner and extend the same courtesies that I would offer you as a prisoner.”
“I am,” Cobb growled, fingering the side of his head where the foreman had hit him the evening before. “Be glad you have your shorts.”
The general scowled back without a word.
Henry Cobb could afford to present a cavalier attitude before Keradin, for the most difficult part seemed to be complete. He had accomplished the near impossible and removed the general from a supposedly secure position. But this man—so vital to American strategy—must now be kept alive and turned over to Pratt’s people as quickly as possible. Cobb did not pretend to understand the fine points of the plan, but he knew intuitively that the loss of such a high-placed man was intended to put the Soviets off balance at a crucial point in this crisis. Since Dave Pratt had entrusted Keradin’s return to Cobb, Cobb would do his damnedest to deliver Keradin.
Lassiter had the crew fully armed at this point. Somehow, Cobb noted, they had come up with some pretty fair armaments, considering the nature of the operation—old fashioned bazookas, modern antitank weapons, some wire-guided rockets, and an assortment of grenade launchers and mortars. Lassiter did not trust a soul. That was why he, like Cobb, was a survivor.
They sped down the Bosporus, weaving constantly. This satisfied Cobb, who did not take the idea of being a target lightly. He operated furtively. This open-air approach was not to his liking. At every bend, he expected a surge of weapons fire to sweep the deck. But the passage was a safe one.
Within half an hour, the distant hills of Istanbul rose through the morning haze. As they came closer, the farms on the shore gave way to small factories, then to smokestacks, then to a combination of new construction interspersed with dwellings put up before the United States became a nation.
Istanbul is called the City of Seven Hills, once surrounded by nearly impregnable walls built down to the water. It’s Old City surrounded on three sides by water and thus well fortified, stands on the Golden Horn. The New City, to the northeast and across the Galata Bridge, is not nearly so fascinating.
Their boat slowed to a crawl to navigate through the heavy commercial traffic of this major seaport. Slender, graceful minarets towered above the mosques of the Moslem city. They were to fuel at the Sirkeci Ferry Pier. It was directly ahead as they exited the Bosporus into the widening Sea of Marmara.
Lassiter was the tour guide. He pointed out the first hill atop the Golden Horn, which ended in Seraglio Point. The Ataturk Monument and the Topkapi Palace were to their left. The waterways of the ancient city bustled as if there were nothing of concern, no recent war with Greece, no Soviet planes gradually encroaching on their airspace, no fear of the Russian warships that continually passed on their way to the Mediterranean. The small Russian boat flying the American flag was a fearful-looking craft with her assortment of weapons displayed on deck. She was given a wide berth as she stood half a mile off the pier. Lassiter intended to drift and watch for a while.
Verra, her eyes continually wandering back to Keradin, remained close to Cobb. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured sleepily. “I’ve never seen anything like this, never traveled before.”
Cobb smiled. Now that he had a few moments with nothing to concern him other than eventually getting back to Saratoga, he studied her more closely. She was young—young enough to be his daughter—but so grown up after being at Keradin’s vineyards. And she was tough too. She had to be to come out of that experience the way she had. Verra was relaxed. Her face had softened considerably from the vixen who had wanted to emasculate Keradin on the spot. She would have too, Cobb acknowledged, smiling. He felt an affection for her, much different than he imagined a man would have for a daughter. It was something he had not felt for a long time, something he had long ago told himself he should avoid.
He pondered the idea for a second, imagining a life he knew he wasn’t cut out for, studying the wisps of hair that blew over her face as she stared, fascinated, at the ancient city. Cobb, he reminded himself, you’re getting too old, too old to handle sleepless nights because you’re letting a kid, a female kid, turn your head. There’s work to do, my friend, much work before you can think about such things.
His mind drifted back to other operations—steamy jungles in Vietnam, midnight landings in rubber rafts in the Caribbean, one in South Africa, another in Libya, and then the drinking afterward, disdaining sleep in the heady excitement of close-in fighting, and finally coming out of it all alive! There were moments now when he knew he wasn’t functioning on that level. This time he wanted to get it over with, get it done, and get the hell out with his skin intact. And a kid, a female—no, a woman in every sense of the word—was occupying his mind.
“Why are we waiting out here?” she inquired.
Cobb pointed at Lassiter, who was still surveying the docks through his binoculars. “After you’ve been in this business long enough, you tend not to trust anyone or anything but yourself. That’s where we’re supposed to fuel.” He pointed straight ahead to the pier, easily identified by the Sirkeci railroad station looming over it. “The Turks expect us. Our own people spent hours explaining how we’d be in a Soviet boat with an American flag. But anything can happen. An old philosopher friend of ours, Bernie Ryng, once said, ‘Never trust a soul and you’ll live to tell someone else the same thing.’”
“Do you believe that?” Verra asked.
“Absolutely.” He did not mention that Ryng, the perennial bachelor, had also said that there was no place for women in their business, that you saved them only for when you needed them.
“Do you trust me?” she asked him.
Cobb looked down. She waited calmly for his answer, her eyes never leaving his. Even Ryng would allow him an occasional lapse. “Yes. I trust you, but I also had an alternate plan if you turned on me.” He shrugged. “We’ll never know if it would have worked, will we?”
“I don’t know you, but I trusted you,” she whispered. “And you brought me out of there.”
Cobb smiled. “That statement from the great Ryng did not include every single person on the face of this earth. You may always trust me. If you ever meet the great Ryng, please trust him too. And,” he gestured toward Lassiter, “that is a man I trust, so you can stick with him also.”
“Just the three of you?” She smiled. “Only three men in the whole wide world?”
“There are others, some old friends of mine.”
“Will I get to meet them?”
“I don’t know if I want to share the likes of them with you.” Now what the hell did he mean by that? She didn’t belong to him, and he didn’t belong to her. “Yes. I hope you will,” he concluded.
The boat rocked in the gentle wavelets created by the heavy flow of traffic off the Golden Horn. Wafting across the harbor were a variety of aromas similar to those that had fascinated Cobb in so many other seaports. Each one was different, each had its own special appeal.
Lassiter dropped his binoculars and gestured for Cobb to come up with him. “Here, sweep those docks starting about a hundred yards to the left of our pier. Then go to the right, up to about the Galata Bridge.”
Cobb closed his eyes. He squeezed them tight, then opened them, pressed against the lenses. They adjusted quickly. He first saw what he expected, a variety of craft tied to various piers, trucks outside warehouses, stacks of goods on pallets. Wait a second—fire trucks, wisps of smoke here and there, uniforms. Must be military. Not a lot of smoke, not enough to cause concern, but nevertheless, he could locate at least three distinct spots where light smoke was driven to the north before it rose far into the sky.
“What do you make of it?” Lassiter asked.
“If there was much of a fire in any of those locations, they’re pretty much out now or they never amounted to much to begin with. Looks safe enough to m
e now.”
“Yeah. It does to me too. But how often do you have that many fires all near the same spot, namely the one we want to refuel at?”
Cobb knew Lassiter wasn’t looking for an opinion. “Not every day, Cap’n.”
“We’re gonna’ ease in. I want everybody ready, but I don’t want them to look like we’re going to sack Turkey either. I never trust anybody.”
Cobb jerked his head in Keradin’s direction. “What about him?”
“Looks fine to me.” The general was leaning against one of the mast stanchions, his arms folded casually, attempting to look as dignified as a man could chained to a mast in his underwear. “He’ll make people think we mean business. And if we have Russian problems up there, he’ll either keep away unfriendly fire or draw it—one or the other.”
Cobb again looked through the binoculars. This time he had a better view of some armed craft similar to their own. At first he thought they were tied up to the piers, but now he could tell they were idling nearby, the exhaust from their engines clearer now at this range. “What do you make of those gunboats in there?”
“Turkish patrol craft. Built right here in yards in the city. They’re pretty well armed, and as fast as this, but they keep them pretty close to home, I’m told. Guard the capital city, that sort of thing.”
“They’re sure as hell not tied up.”
“Here, let me take a look.” Lassiter studied them through the glasses. “All the more reason to be careful. They must be waiting for something.”
They were now no more than a hundred yards off the pier.
They could see line handlers waiting for them to come alongside. “Yeah,” Lassiter’s face was grim as he sniffed the smoke in the air. “Perhaps they’re screwing with us.”
“Perhaps.” Both men were standing easy now as the hydrofoil idled slowly along the piers, far enough away to make room for a fireboat directing a stream into one of the warehouses. Cobb watched army regulars stack their weapons and move in to assist the firemen. Maybe this was the right time, he thought. Wait until everyone’s having the time of his life being a volunteer fireman, then move in.
“What the hell?” Lassiter recognized the sound at the same time Cobb did. It was a rushing noise, a splitting of the air for just an instant by something moving at high speed. Then the warehouse in front of them erupted. A section of the roof peeled back as if an invisible fist had punched it straight up in the air. It tottered precariously for an instant, held by a gust of wind, then tumbled backward onto the street, crushing soldiers and firefighters alike. The outward force of the explosion sent flames, until now unseen, gushing out along the ground. It was like a colossal flamethrower, and everything in its path was ignited—vehicles, firemen, soldiers, and surrounding buildings.
A second and then a third blast followed in rapid succession. In less than thirty seconds, the building was leveled. Their bos’n had already rammed his throttle forward. As their boat leaped ahead parallel to the piers, they were showered with sparks. Simultaneously, two other buildings were hit by similar blasts.
“Son of a bitch, look!” Cobb shouted. Lassiter’s eyes strained in the direction of his pointing finger. He saw the flash half a mile beyond Seraglio Point, then the telltale stream of flame. “Missiles—that’s what they’re using.” Lassiter saw the white wakes of the oncoming craft before he could pick out the boats themselves. “What—”
“Missile boats. Small ones. They’re great little weapons for something like this, aren’t they? High speed, fast attack in and out. Unload your weapons and get away as fast as you can. I guess they don’t like the idea of our taking Keradin with us. But I wonder how they figured out where we took him. Why here? Why wait until here?”
“Simple,” Lassiter explained. “They intercept a couple of our plain-language radio reports. Use their satellite photography. Check with headquarters in Yalta about that fast little boat that seemed to be going balls-to-the-wall toward the Bosporus, and find out that none Yalta knows of is supposed to be doing same. Then they start checking fleet lists. Do you want me to go on?”
“How dumb of me to ask.”
The roar of engines came to their ears now as a squadron of boats bore down on the docks. Cobb could see their deck guns now, spouting flame as they poured small-caliber fire into the waterfront. Missiles from farther out continued to pass overhead, striking deeper into the city.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Cobb saw a direct hit on a mosque, the minaret tilting slowly, then a cloud of dust and smoke as it hit the ground. He was aware of Verra hanging tightly to his arm.
She looked up at him, fear on her face. But when she spoke, her voice was steady, her words rational. “You didn’t tell me about all this yesterday in the vineyard.” She managed a smile. “Perhaps I was better off—”
Cobb never let her finish. “Get below,” he shouted above the din. “You can take him with you.” He handed her his pistol.
She turned to Keradin, who was still shackled to the mast, but it was obvious the man had understood Cobb’s order. He shook his head firmly from side to side, though he said nothing. He was a proud man, Cobb knew—and now perhaps suicidal. There was no time to argue. “Forget him. Just get the hell below.”
Already their bos’n was turning their own boat to meet the attackers. Cobb identified two hydrofoils gracefully banking from side to side as they zigzagged toward their target, deck guns blazing. Neither had yet seen Lassiter’s boat. Instead their fire was concentrated on the army troops pouring onto the docks.
Then the small arms on Cobb’s own boat came to life and their brief moment of anonymity was shattered. One of the hydrofoils, detecting return fire, banked gracefully in their direction. A hundred yards distant, it turned again, running parallel but in the opposite direction to their own course, its weapons concentrated fully on them. Neither was an easy target at high speed. The shells from the other craft passed overhead, but Cobb knew they might not be so lucky when the other boat came back to match their course. It was obviously faster and more heavily armed.
The hydrofoil reversed direction, turning in a tight, hard circle. Settling now on their course, it resumed fire. The man nearest to Cobb abruptly flew backward, arms and legs extended seaward as he was slammed into the deckhouse. Lassiter stared in fascination as the structure around him began to splinter.
“For Christ’s sake, will you get down!” Lassiter heard Cobb’s voice at the same time he felt the hands on his shoulders yanking him backward and down. He hit hard, his head bouncing against the deck. Before he could blink, the bulkhead above him disintegrated in a shower of metal splinters, peeling inward like a tin can to reveal the men in the pilothouse.
Turning his head to the side, Lassiter felt Cobb, before he was sure who it was, crawling forward past him. At the same instant, his eyes flew from Cobb back to the interior of the pilothouse. The bos’n appeared in the middle of a slow pirouette, his hands grasping at the back of his head. Then he pitched through the hole in the bulkhead, sprawling across Lassiter’s legs. Lassiter yanked himself from underneath the corpse.
Cobb was now inching forward on his belly, both arms out to the sides as the boat slewed to the left, then headed sharply to the right. Another sailor, clothes blood-spattered, had the wheel. The boat settled on course for an instant, then heeled sharply as the wheel was thrown over to avoid a burning pier.
“Reverse course!” Cobb was shouting above the din, frantically pointing at the pilothouse. But Lassiter was not about to move. Machine gun bullets splattered the bulkhead above him. He tucked his head, turtle-like, into his shoulders.
“Reverse, reverse,” Cobb insisted, looking over his shoulder.
Lassiter was well aware of the danger they were in. But he was also even more sure of the aim of the other boat’s machine gunner, and pointed up at the bullets splattering a foot above him. He knew what to do. Reverse course, change direction of the boat—he understood that. The bullets trailed down the side toward the
stern. Without another thought, Lassiter drew himself onto his knees and launched his body through the shattered bulkhead, landing at the sailor’s feet. Pulling himself up to a crouch, he saw another boat coming at them from the bow. He grasped the sailor’s arm, shouting as he jerked his fist in the opposite direction. The boat heeled sharply in reply to their rudder.
The spray of machine gun bullets that had passed over Lassiter’s head had also swept their bow clear of gunners. The boat charging at them behind a steady flow of shells was now unchallenged, maintaining both a closing course and a steady rate of fire.
Cobb appeared now in front of the pilothouse, moving in a crouch toward one of the guns. Reaching it, he stood just long enough to shove away the gunner’s body. Then he slid in behind the small armor shield, checked the ammunition belt, and, satisfied, commenced fire on the oncoming boat.
Their wheel was over tight, the boat reversing course just as Cobb wanted. The attacking boat was unable to slow down, and as it passed, Cobb and another gunner stitched it with deadly accuracy.
Lassiter admired their shooting and cheered above the din. The deck of the passing craft became a helpless target for an instant, its gunner now unable to return Cobb’s fire. The pilothouse glass of the opposing vessel burst out. One of Lassiter’s men fired an antitank missile at close range. The other boat’s bulkhead disappeared much the same as that of their own boat moments ago. But this time when Lassiter looked closely there was no one upright inside. It was pilotless. The boat slewed one way, then the other, its speed still full. For some inexplicable reason, it turned sharply to the right. As it leaned hard into the turn, it also headed directly for one of the piers. At full speed it jammed beneath the dock, shearing off the upper deck. There was a flash, an explosion, and both the boat and the dock disintegrated.
Lassiter recognized a screaming beside him that increased in pitch. He turned, feeling the man at the wheel clawing blindly at his arm. Blood covered the man’s face. Lassiter pushed him away roughly, grasping the wheel himself.
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