The hiss of escaping air added a new dimension to the sounds around them. Looking down, Ryng saw a large tear in the rubber, no more than an inch to the left of his knee. There was no way any self-sealer was going to solve that problem. Before he could call attention to it, Denny was reaching around him, jamming his shirt into the hole.
“That’ll buy us a couple of minutes,” Denny shouted above the sound of the helo making its next approach. “I hope to hell they’re not developing a style up there. That last was too close.”
This time the helo came in much closer. Now they could even hear the pop as the rockets were fired and the whooshing noise of the weapon as it raced at them. Above it all, Ryng heard the steady chatter of Denny’s gun, clip after clip, working so rapidly that he functioned like a machine gunner.
Whump! A rocket burst directly in front, not more than ten yards away. A second exploded into the water within yards of Denny, the third passing well astern. Clouds of water poured down on them. The helo was bearing down now, diving behind the rocket fire, machine guns blazing. Ryng rolled into the bottom of the boat, hands over his head, knees drawn up. Operating only by instinct at that moment, trying to hide like an ostrich, thinking he couldn’t be seen if his head were buried.
Then he looked up as the helo roared overhead, a perfect target, but Denny was no longer shooting. Ryng noticed a wisp of black smoke, then a rush of it from the exhausts behind the engine. The helo banked sharply, increasing altitude at the same time. The smoke! They’d hit it!
“Look at that! No shit, will you look…”
Bernie Ryng turned impulsively, overcome with joy. Just as quickly it became horror. He found himself staring in fear at what was beside him. Denny was as dead as could be. There hadn’t been a sound, no shout, no thrashing to indicate he’d been hit. A shard of metal protruded in grisly fashion from his forehead. There was no blood. It was impossible to tell how deeply the chunk of shrapnel had penetrated, but it was enough to have killed Denny instantly.
Ryng rolled into a sitting position from the corpse. The boat was riddled with innumerable holes. Air hissed out, water sputtered in as it hopelessly tried to seal itself. The jagged tears were so deep that there was no chance the boat could float. Water was already lapping over one corner, its weight dragging the craft down.
The helo now hovered a few hundred yards off, still smoking. The engine was powerful enough to keep it airborne, but Ryng could sense the ragged sound of a machine struggling with itself.
There was only one option left. Ryng threw the last ammo bag around his neck and rolled off the shoreward side into the piercing-cold water less than fifty yards from land. He doubled over to pull off his shoes, then thought better of it. Once on land, he had a long way to go. He knew that the terrain was rough, all sharp stone and gravel, midsummer tundra that had defrosted down a foot or so. And there were innumerable rocky hills and cliffs along the shoreline.
The tempo of the helo’s engine increased as it dove toward him, machine guns once again blazing. The line of bullets raced toward him. He dove, struggling against the double fear of icy water as a contrast to bullets. When his lungs burned more than he could stand, he surfaced, his face in the direction where he expected the helicopter to be. It was there, hovering like a bird of prey. He sucked down another breath and arched his body to dive again. But he stopped at the last minute.
More smoke was pouring out of the craft now, dense black clouds. It was in as much trouble as he was. Maybe it would have to turn back. The odds of any man surviving alone in this water much longer were poor.
Ryng struggled toward shore, his eyes never leaving the helo. Then he saw what he had never expected. The helo was making one last pass, but it wasn’t shooting. He watched in numb curiosity, ready to dive until he saw an object fall from the side of the fuselage. As it seemed to grow in size, he realized from a distance what it was. A depth charge! The helo was equipped for antisubmarine duty. He thrashed frantically for shore.
The charge tumbled end over end, hitting the water with a huge splash, followed by a graceful waterspout.
Ryng’s mind went blind with fear. Then he grabbed his knees, rolling into a ball. The ensuing explosion thundered through his head, driving the air out of his lungs, pressing inward, forcing water down his throat, into his eyes, creating pressure like a giant sledgehammer. Time seemed to stop from the pain. He had no idea if he was conscious—no idea if he was alive or dead.
Then he found himself struggling for shore. Was there enough strength left in him to make the beach? Would he crawl out onto the sand to die in agony, spilling blood across the sand from his ruptured guts?
Strangely enough, he had some energy left, though he could hear nothing but a ringing in his head. He splashed awkwardly through the water, but there was little feeling in his hands and feet. He rolled over onto his back, expecting to see his nemesis swooping down, machine guns blazing.
But there was nothing. In the distance toward Longyearbyen, he made out a smoky cloud descending toward the land. It must be, he thought. The damned helo couldn’t stay up any longer. Then he realized the ammo bag, with his only weapon, was gone!
He turned back on his belly and pulled for the shore, not more than twenty yards away now, though it seemed like miles. Each yard closer to the beach became interminable. But his will to live won out. Only sheer determination got him the last few feet to the water’s edge.
Dragging himself out of the water onto the beach was an even greater effort. There was some sand, but mostly rocks. Yet they were like a down pillow to him, so soft and welcoming after the terror of nearly drowning.
There was some scrub brush farther up the beach beyond the high-tide mark. He half crawled, half dragged himself into it, then fell forward on his face. It seemed natural to him that he should pass out. It would be his body’s way of telling him that he had abused it past redemption. But he remained conscious. His first physical sensation as he lay there collecting his thoughts, mentally identifying the various parts of his body that were still intact, was from his stomach. It was churning violently.
Could this be the way it would be? Safety, then death? Was it now that the insides that he couldn’t feel would suddenly turn on him? His body jerked in a spasm as he felt the sudden contractions of vomiting overwhelming him. But it didn’t matter. He had never in his life been so overjoyed at being ill. Great quantities of seawater—not blood—came up.
As his stomach completed nature’s job, he slumped down again in relief. The pressure from the depth charge must have forced all that water down his throat. He remembered the unbelievable weight on his head, his eyes. And he realized that the water must have been too shallow for the depth charge to do the job they’d intended. At that depth, the bottom must have deflected the blast upward. He vaguely remembered the tremendous waterspout. The explosion probably occurred right on the bottom so that it went straight back up rather than spreading out as it was designed to do. There had been only one blast. If they dropped any others, the water must have been too shallow to set them off!
He realized that if the water had been deeper he wouldn’t have made it. Then the exhaustion rolled over him in waves with colors flashing on his eyelids. There was no way to fight it.
Bernie Ryng was out before his eyes closed, face down in the dirt and rock—but alive!
ABOARD U.S.S. YORKTOWN, SOUTHEAST OF MALTA
Tom Carleton leaned back in the chair, touching the bulkhead under the console with his toes. Stretching his arms back behind his head, he yawned, squinting up at the ducts in the overhead of Yorktown’s combat information center. The vague glow of red lights in the darkened room cast indistinct shadows into the gloom above him.
This isn’t where I should be, he repeated to himself once more. How many times have I said that in the last half hour? The bridge, his bridge, was two decks above his head. That’s where the captain of a warship should be.
Carleton was seated at the console of Yorktown’s fire-co
ntrol display system. In today’s Navy, at least on an AEGIS cruiser, that’s where the commanding officer fought his ship. He’d been through it all at school in the past year. There he’d been taught that today the secret to victory was the three C’s—command, control, and communications— and it all hinged on a supersophisticated electronics system within his ship’s hull that managed the defense of the whole damned battle group. But that didn’t mean that he had to like it!
It seemed to him that he was encased in this console, part of the electronic organism. In front of him, numbers and letters skipped efficiently across the display screen in digital perfection. Answers to any question he might ask the computer instantly appeared on that screen, and before him was a smaller screen which displayed what various elements of the fire-control system were doing at any given time, whether responding automatically to the computer or accepting orders from him.
But there was no longer that heady aroma of salt water, no whistling of sea breezes across the bridge, none of the familiar sounds. He was isolated within the machine, an intimate and important part, but nevertheless only a part.
“I have missile lock on, range one eight zero miles, speed mach three.” The voice in his earphones droned on. They were going through a drill, but perfection was demanded along with repetition. Even as Carleton reached to question the time of arrival of the missile, another figure appeared on the screen, announcing the answer as six minutes. “Six minutes to impact of missile,” came over the phones. It was just the same as when he’d served aboard his first ship, someone repeating what was already obvious. You could change the hardware, but changing the system was like pulling teeth.
As the minutes passed, more cruise missiles appeared on radar, emanating from numerous flights of Soviet Backfire bombers. What was now evolving was nothing more than the doctrine they had been trained to respond to—that of the first salvo. When the Russians attacked a battle group, they intended to fill the air with missiles, which was no different from saturation bombing forty years ago. It was a simple theory—some of the missiles would be intercepted, some would get through the defenses, and some would impact on vital targets. The Soviet objective was first to destroy the aircraft carrier, the major weapon of the battle group, then hit the AEGIS command ship, in this case Yorktown. That would destroy the nerve center of the battle group. After that, they could relax and take out the stragglers one by one.
At an expected, given point, the computer took over.
There was no way man could respond to the saturation attack, to the decoys, the electronic countermeasures, the countercountermeasures—to the doctrine of the first salvo.
He watched the screen as battle casualties were indicated, both Soviet and American. None of the enemy’s bombers would return to base, but that was of little concern to the Soviets. Attrition was part of the first salvo theory. On the other hand, not all the missiles were being intercepted either. The minutes and seconds to impact were displayed coldly and efficiently. The carrier took one hit forward, but it did not impair her ability to launch aircraft. Moments later, a second and then a third made it through. The carrier’s flight deck was now incapable of recovering aircraft. There was heavy damage to engineering spaces. Its max speed was now eighteen knots.
One or two destroyers and cruisers were hit and sunk and now Yorktown was hit! Her after launcher was knocked out, there were fires in emergency steering, but her electronics were still functioning.
Carleton had been through these exercises before, but none of them had been so realistic. Before, they had always been in trainers, where they knew that soon the lights would be turned up and an evaluation would be conducted by their instructor. This time, however, he was at sea. There was the familiar ship’s hum in the air and the deck rolled gently under them, but a computer controlled the entire exercise. It struck him that the computer did no better than the instructors on shore. Both of them made sure the battle group was inoperable before the exercise was over. This was a little more realistic in that Russian Backfire bombers were actually a hundred or so miles away from the ship, and the computer had brought a sense of realism that a shore-bound trainer simply couldn’t provide.
Carleton heaved his bulk out of the soft chair and stretched again. Soon the coordinator from the staff would be over to evaluate the exercise. Anything they could imagine to improve the battle group defense would be considered, anything at all. Intelligence estimates left them with no more than two days—three at the most—to iron out any mistakes, dream up any viable tactic, anything that might be more effective when the first salvo became a reality.
THE CRIMEA
USSR KERADIN’S DACHA
With a deep sigh, Cobb settled heavily on the edge of the cistern, carefully folded his dirt-smeared handkerchief, and mechanically mopped his brow and the back of his neck. There was an unpleasant sting of sweat and sunburn. The conditioning from his few days of toil in the California vineyard reminded him that a field hand’s skin was often tanned and wrinkled by the sun. That little touch was something that had never entered his mind until just then. Plunked down by General Keradin’s favorite vines, he realized that this simple part of his careful disguise could easily give him away.
The day had been long and hot. There was little air movement. Now, as the sun began to set, he felt a light, cooling breeze from the north. The really cool nights of fall were maybe four weeks off, but there was a definite change in the weather. And the grapes seemed to reflect it. They were plump and juicy, ripe for the picking. Those of prime interest to Cobb and Keradin were almost ready. In some instances, as he’d pointed out earlier in the day, those benefiting from the full rays of the day-long sun were just about perfect.
He picked up a wooden bucket and poured cooling water over his head. Shaking it from his hair, he let the rest run down his back. He was so immersed in the cooling sensation that he failed to notice someone approaching until a long shadow stretched before him.
“Hello,” the girl said in Russian. “I haven’t seen you around the vineyards before.” She was relatively short and well built, like many of the peasants he’d seen in the fields that day. Her long, rough skirt and her blouse were similar to the others. A colorful scarf covered most of her blonde hair. Her face glistened with perspiration, little droplets beading on her upper lip. High cheekbones set off the loveliest blue eyes Cobb thought he’d ever seen.
“Hello,” he muttered in reply, mopping the back of his neck. There was no time to become acquainted. Besides, he felt insecure enough that he didn’t want to become involved in extensive conversations.
“Is there any water left in your bucket?” she asked.
Cobb shook his head, tipping it upside down to show it was empty.
“It’s very hot. May I use it, please?”
He nodded, rising from the cistern and extending it in her direction. She waited hesitantly, then reached out to take it from him. Perhaps she had hoped he might dip it for her. The friendly smile remained on her face, though now it reflected slight disappointment.
There was no need for such rudeness on his part. It was a perfect way to attract attention. He smiled back. “Here,” he said, lifting the wooden cover. “Let me get some for you.” He took the bucket back and dipped it half full.
“Thank you,” she murmured, raising the bucket to her lips. Her smile was most pleasant, Cobb thought, unlike the dull, sour faces he’d noticed most of the day. “Um, that tastes good.” After drinking her fill, she knelt beside the cistern, bringing water out of the bucket with her hands and rinsing her face in a much more ladylike manner than he would have expected.
“Yes, it is,” he replied. “At the end of the day, a nice relaxing shower…” He stopped. Not only did he not want to talk, but he was sure few peasants in this area had any idea what a shower was.
She looked up at him from where she was kneeling with an amused smile on her face. She was really quite pretty, he realized. The blue eyes above the high cheekbones twinkled
when she smiled. “You are not from around here, are you?”
He shook his head. “Georgia—near Kutaisi,” he answered, referring to the republic and city at the eastern end of the Black Sea.
She looked him up and down, still smiling, then rose slightly to sit on the cistern. “And not a field hand I should expect, at least not if you’re used to showers after a day in the fields.”
Cobb cursed himself for saying the wrong thing to the wrong person. “I was sent to a school once, to study the grapes. They had modern conveniences there.” He grinned back at her. Perhaps it was a good idea to talk with her, to learn as much as he could from someone who seemed to have a knowledge of the area but was more sophisticated than the average peasant. “You’re right. A lot of men had no idea how to use them. Some of us learned and grew to like them. Others dipped water out of the toilets.”
She laughed at that. “I’ve seen the same thing myself.” Then she looked at him more quizzically, tilting her head to one side. “But you don’t talk as if you are from Georgia, either. We have had others from there before.”
“You do not have the local accent either.”
“No,” she shook her head. “I am Polish.” This time she studied him a bit longer, with an inquiring look on her face. “You really are a stranger here, aren’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “There are many of us here in the work party. We were students in Warsaw—until three months ago,” she added bitterly. “Many of us were rounded up and sent to this damned country, and I don’t know whether or not we’re the lucky ones.”
“Lucky?”
“I don’t know how many are still alive,” she responded, her voice now deep and bitter, the sparkle gone out of her eyes. “We are forced labor,” she added.
This was something Cobb hadn’t expected. Nothing like this had been mentioned in his briefing. He had seen no indication that there were prisoners around Keradin’s dacha— no guards or guns. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware…” Perhaps this was the reason for those unknown buildings in the far corner of the compound. Neither he nor the photo interpreters were familiar with their purpose. He now realized they had been constructed in the last six months for slave labor.
First Salvo Page 12
