A powerful explosion near the stern jolted him. The boat shuddered convulsively. Lassiter could feel they were losing speed. Then he saw the first boat, the one that had been turning only a second before, begin to bear down on them. In seconds it made a pass, guns bracketing them. Catching sight of her empty missile canister, Lassiter realized what had hit them.
He had no steering control. In the next instant, it was also obvious that they were slowing so much that they had no power. They were dead in the water with their attacker bearing down on them! Sporadic fire from weapons still functioning did nothing to slow down the oncoming boat. A steady stream of fire encircled them.
Cobb, his ammunition expended, watched helplessly as the killer bore down on them. There was nowhere to move or hide. All he could do was fall forward, face down on the deck. He saw Lassiter do the same in what was left of the pilothouse. Yet in the most revealing location, Keradin stood, arms folded, seeming to welcome death.
But as suddenly as the incessant pounding had begun, it ceased. Cobb waited. There was no reason the other boat should stop firing. He counted—one… two… three… four… five. Nothing. He looked up cautiously! A section of deck was bent upward in front of him, blocking his vision. He got to his knees, crawling slowly as if his executioner were waiting on the other side. Peering out at where the other boat should be, he saw a flaming hulk. From stem to stern, the Soviet boat was in flames.
Looking to the rear, the answer became immediately obvious. A Turkish boat, one of those that had been dockside when they had first come by the piers, was cruising slowly no more than a hundred yards off their bow, pouring small-arms fire into the hulk that seconds before had been bearing down to finish them off. Her missile canisters on the port side were empty. She had made a direct hit on the Russians’ fuel tanks.
The Turkish boat turned in their direction. Pulling within range of her fire-fighting hoses, she arched a stream of water toward them. Sailors on her deck were pointing at them, but Cobb could not understand what attracted their attention. Facing amidship, he saw Lassiter’s huge U.S. flag still fluttering atop the mast. And at the base, still chained, stood the defiant Keradin, arms folded, smoke from their burning boat occasionally shrouding his head. No doubt the Turks were sure that he was the brave little craft’s captain.
Verra! She was still below, and they were sinking stern first. He had to get her! How long had they been involved in the running battle? No more than three or four minutes.
He covered the space to the pilothouse in a few steps. It was a shambles. Three bodies sprawled on the deck. Lassiter was one of them, a hole in his chest, a surprised expression on his lifeless face. A bloodied sailor was leaning against the remains of the control panel. “I hit the button for auto washdown—nothing. Those tanks can go any second now!”
“I’m going after the girl,” Cobb shouted. “Smash that chain.” He pointed in Keradin’s direction, handing the sailor his pistol. “I want him more than ever now. If he tries anything, shoot him in the knees.”
Cobb leaped for the hatchway leading below the pilothouse. At the base of the ladder, he saw Verra struggling to climb up. Her face was covered with blood; one arm hung at her side. The boat shuddered and heaved to port, taking an instant angle of almost twenty degrees. She stumbled against the bulkhead, falling to her knees.
“I’m coming,” he bellowed, taking the rungs three at a time. Kneeling, he wiped her face with a towel she had been carrying. There was a deep cut on her forehead, the skin hanging over her eye. With his fingers, Cobb pressed the flap of skin back against her forehead and wrapped the towel tightly around her head. Her left arm was broken, no doubt about that, but it and the head cut seemed to be the only injuries.
She mumbled something about a shell ripping out the outer bulkhead where she’d been but her words were distant, incoherent. “Never mind now,” Cobb said sharply. “We’re sinking—understand?”
She looked up at him through cloudy eyes and nodded. “There’s a Turkish boat coming alongside. We’ll try to get on that. If we can’t, we have to jump. Do you hear me?” he shouted.
Again she nodded, mumbling inaudibly.
“I’m going to stay with you like I promised. You’re not going to be left.” He pulled her good arm around his shoulder and stumbled back up the ladder. It was difficult going. The angle of the sinking boat seemed to increase with each rung. Nearing the top, a sailor leaned down and, putting his hands under Verra’s arms, lifted her bodily through the hatch onto the deck. As Cobb stumbled to the top and leaped through the hatch, the boat heaved again, the bow slowly rising into the air. She was going to go down by the stern!
The sailor had released Keradin. His gun never wavered from the general, who watched with disdain. It had been made abundantly clear to him that they did not intend to lose him at this point, or allow him to escape on his own. Keradin also was quite sure of the sailor’s promise to shoot him if the opportunity presented itself. He had decided once again to take his chances.
The Turkish boat could not come closer, fearing for herself if either of Lassiter’s tanks blew. With hoses playing at the flames on the stern in an effort to slow their advance to those outside the demolished pilothouse, the Turks gestured frantically for the survivors to jump. Nets had been lowered over the side.
Cobb stared grimly at Keradin. Again he reminded himself that they had come too far to take a chance on the general’s either escaping or dying now. Cobb led him to the bow of the boat, waving his arms wildly to draw the Turks’ attention. When he was sure they were watching, he turned the general slightly and caught him firmly on the side of the jaw with a roundhouse punch. As Keradin staggered backward, Cobb pointed first at him and then at the Turks, hoping they would understand his intentions. Then he pushed the general over the side, again gesturing at the spot where the body had hit the water. Two Turkish sailors immediately leaped over the side and swam for Keradin.
“Give me a hand when we’re in the water,” Cobb shouted to a sailor. Then, facing Verra, he wrapped his arms tightly around her and without a word, jumped over the side. On the surface, the sailor was beside him. Each slid a hand under her arms and struck out for the Turkish boat.
From its deck, they witnessed the death of Lassiter’s craft. She slipped by the stern deeper into the water, bubbles swarming furiously around her, flames reaching the tip of the bow. Then the boat and Lassiter were gone.
ISTANBUL
Cobb studied Verra’s features closely. Even with the bandage covering part of her forehead, he admired how naturally lovely she was. Her hair, blonde and soft looking, had been pulled back by one of the nurses and tied in a ponytail. Her face was definitely Slavic, cheekbones high and accentuated even more by the rainbow bruises on the side where the stitches had been taken. Her mouth was wide, her lips full, slightly parted now as she slept. Christ, how he hated to leave her.
He held her hand, occasionally stroking it as he had been doing since he came in to sit with her. Tough! That’s what she was—tough to be able to hold up so well after what she had been through over the last fifteen hours.
Her eyes fluttered open, looking first at him, lips opening slightly in a smile, then scanning the room. “Cobb…”
“Right here. I’ve been here, right beside you, since they fixed you up.”
“Where are we? Who…?”
He hushed her with a finger to her lips. “Shh, it’s all right. We’re in Istanbul. You’re in a hospital. You got a busted arm when that bulkhead caved in on you, and they stuck a couple of stitches in that cut on your head. But other than that, you’re fine. A few days and—”
“Do we have a few days?”
“Sure you do. An attaché from the American Embassy has already been over. He’ll take good care of you until you’re able to—”
“Cobb, no. You promised you’d take me away.”
He hesitated. “You’ll be in American custody.”
“And you—where are you going?”
/> “I have to get back. Lassiter’s dead. And Keradin—I have to get him back to my boss who’s on a carrier somewhere near Malta. I’ve got another boat, a loaner from the Turks. It’s still too dangerous to fly with Keradin until we’re back in our own airspace.” He brushed her hair back from her face. “Our other carrier, Saratoga, will provide air cover on the rest of the run. She’s east of Cyprus now.”
“Why are you going back on your promise?” Her eyes above the classic cheekbones were damp. She pushed his hand away. Her expression was sheer disappointment.
“But you’ll be under American control here.”
“If the Russians decide they want Turkey, they will take it very quickly. There will be no questions about that, no time for American officials to worry about an injured Polish girl.” She turned away from him. “Maybe twenty-four hours from now, when you are back secure within your airspace or whatever you want to call it, I may be under their control again.” She turned back, expressive eyes narrowed, half accusing, half imploring. “Is that how you keep your promises, Cobb? I kept mine.”
He remained silent, caught in her gaze. “I don’t know how we’ll get you out of here.”
“I’ll walk out. I don’t need your help, just your word.”
“It’ll still be dangerous, even with air cover. They could—”
“I’ll take my chances, Cobb. Keradin seems to have done just fine taking his.”
He remembered the Russian general standing stoically behind the wheelhouse, exposing himself to fire, welcoming death as a release from captivity. Cobb smiled at her. “He’s almost as tough as you. Okay. I guess at this point I can arrange anything.”
“Thank you.” Her face softened again. “I don’t know how to thank you…”
He patted her hand again and smiled back. “Later. My boat’s ready and I’ve got some volunteers who are willing to fill up my crew. I told them I was just waiting to say good-bye to you as soon as—”
“Never mind, Cobb,” she insisted. “I’ll manage.” She sat up, dangling her feet over the edge of the bed. Her head hung down for a minute. Then she looked up at him, smiling painfully. “You know, Cobb, it hurts a little.” She pointed first to her head and then to the arm tightly strapped to her ribs with a sling. She took a couple of deep breaths. “There. See? All gone—or almost.” She stood up. The ridiculous hospital gown the nurses had half wrapped around her fell open. “No secrets, eh, Cobb? I guess there’s no need—after our little episode in Keradin’s room.” She looked around. “My clothes?”
“I suppose they burned them. What was left of them was covered with blood. We’ll find something.”
“How about Keradin?” she asked, wincing slightly as she walked back and forth. “Did you give his back yet, or do you still have him running around in his shorts?” Her face brightened with a malicious grin.
“General Keradin is now dressed as a Turkish sailor.”
She turned, her eyes again slightly narrowed. “If you were me, Cobb, you would not offer him the slightest comfort.” Looking away, she said, “Forget it. He’s your prisoner, not mine. Please find me some clothes. I want only your promise.” She broke into tears.
Cobb went over to her, turning her around slowly. She looked up at him, tears running down her cheeks. Tentatively, she placed her free hand on his shoulder, blinking back her tears. Cobb pulled her to him, his arms encircling her, and said, “I’m sorry I ever thought about leaving you here, breaking my promise.”
“Shh,” she whispered in his ear. “Just hold me for a moment. I was afraid you might not take me after everything you saw at the dacha.”
He kissed her lightly. “Never entered my mind. Here, let me go find something for you.” There would be time to be together later; there was none now. He released her very slowly, gazing into those deep eyes. He was not accustomed to the emotion he felt. Perhaps he was just tired. Perhaps that was why he was experiencing this odd and very warm feeling.
D-DAY
Through Pentagon intelligence reports, the president was fully aware of the dawn meeting in the Kremlin of the STAVKA, the Main Military Council. He also knew that the purpose of the conference was to make final recommendations to the State Committee for Defense. But these recommendations were a foregone conclusion, for the meeting was simply to determine any final alterations to their operations plan. Since the Soviet leadership preferred efficiency and constancy, the president anticipated there would be no changes.
Of those seen entering the Kremlin that early morning, the Soviet Navy was noted to be heavily represented. The intelligence report reinforced Admiral Pratt’s earlier assessments for those in Washington who supported his views. Admiral Chemavin, the commander in chief of the Soviet Navy, was in attendance along with Admiral Milchaylovskiy, commander of the Northern Fleet, Admiral Khovrin, commander of the Black Sea Fleet, and General Colonel (Aviation) Mironenko, commander of Naval Aviation. General Keradin’s second in command, General Colonel Melekhin, surprised the president when it was learned he attended the meeting, because intelligence reports predicted weeks before that Melekhin’s status was weak and that he would likely be purged.
While the White House was not privy to the minutes of the STAVKA, much of the discussion in the meeting could be predicted. The Commander of the Northern Fleet couldn’t report how many of his submarines had broken through the American CAPTOR barrier. His submarines were under strict orders not to report to Murmansk until they commenced their attacks, since the first radio signal would give away their position. The weather over Spitzbergen had cleared enough so that the devastation of the attack on the Longyearbyen airport was known. But the White House knew that the STAVKA was at a loss concerning the whereabouts of the freighter carrying the balance of their decoys. Another flight of Bear bombers was approaching Longyearbyen even as the STAVKA was meeting, but those in the Kremlin still did not know that reinforcement was futile.
Admiral Khovrin would report that the majority of his Black Sea Fleet, including the carrier Minsk, had now passed through the Turkish straits and the Mediterranean Fifth Escadra was at full strength. He would also point out that harassment in the Aegean Sea by the Greek navy had indeed delayed plans somewhat, but he was confident Admiral Konstantin, now commanding the Fifth Escadra, was a superb on-scene commander. What that really meant was that he would follow orders from Moscow without question. The entire scope of the coming confrontation had already been specified, for that was the Soviet command system—centralization of command, all orders to front-line units on land and at sea issued from the Kremlin where the full strategic picture could be evaluated. There was no localized decision making of a strategic nature in the Soviet military. It was unheard of that a shot could be fired without direction from Moscow. Of course, in the heat of battle the responsibility fell on the shoulders of the on-scene commander, in this case, Admiral Konstantin. If Moscow’s strategy failed, it would be his fault.
The Pentagon also reassured the White House that the previous day’s face-off between Soviet aircraft and their American counterparts would make little impression on General Colonel (Aviation) Mironenko. He was absolutely convinced there was no possible way the U.S. Sixth Fleet could withstand his first salvo. The Americans would wait until it was too late (he had once written for Morskoi Sbornik,) and then his follow-up attack, combined with submarine- and surface-launched missiles, would destroy the survivors. The American chief of staff assured the president that it was preferable to have Mironenko believe this right up to the end.
There was confidence in the White House that the supply routes to Europe could remain open. Though final information remained sketchy due to the lack of a final report from the SEAL team sent into Spitzbergen, the Pentagon now projected that approximately 75 percent of the U.S. convoy ships would survive the passage. The president, more than any other man, maintained absolute confidence in Admiral Pratt. Pratt, through his own efforts, had learned more about his foe, spent more time in developing original stra
tegy, and certainly deserved to command the main force. Perhaps a major reason for the president’s confidence was simply that there was no other man to do the job.
The final piece of the puzzle, one that could only be speculated on, was an unknown and purely theoretical factor—General Keradin of the Strategic Rocket Forces. A major Soviet effort had been made to locate and recover him in Istanbul. Word had come in hours before from Pratt that the undercover man, Cobb, had succeeded in escaping the Turkish port and was now en route to Saratoga with substantial air cover as protection. But that was no guarantee that the Russians wouldn’t once again learn where Keradin was and try to kill him. And, the president suggested, once we have him under our control, can we be sure that that will have the desired effect? Would the Soviet leaders’ dislike of General Colonel Melekhin as Keradin’s replacement, coupled with the instability created by a new face in the command system, allow the U.S. that extra bit of time to prevent a nuclear exchange? Much of the answer to this question also hinged on Admiral Pratt’s defense of his battle group and its ability to destroy Admiral Konstantin’s Fifth Escadra.
SPITZBERGEN
Bernie Ryng had to make up his mind which was the most dangerous—the suddenly treacherous soft spots in the tundra surface or the arctic terns. This time of year, the birds nesting on the tundra were invisible, blending in with the arctic growth until he was almost on top of them. Then they would swirl angrily into the air, squawking their anger at the sudden disturbance. Though they settled quickly to the ground as he passed, they could serve as a signpost to his location if a helo were to slip over the nearby ridges to either side. Even an idiot, thought Ryng, would know there was almost nothing in the area to upset the birds, nothing but a man.
Most of their eggs were already hatched, but some untended nests still held the rich food that Ryng knew would offer enough sustenance to last him until he crossed the peak. He’d never been a fan of raw eggs, and these had an odd, brackish flavor to them, but they were small enough to slip down his throat quickly. A little pressure on the soft, tangled vegetation at his feet was enough to form a puddle of drinking water to wash them down. His stomach growled back at the unusual food, but Ryng paid little attention to it. He’d eaten much worse in the past.
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