As they came abreast of the maintenance building, where the off-loaded decoys were apparently stored, Ryng spotted an open vehicle. The keys were in the ignition. “We’ll borrow that when we’re getting the hell out of here.” He pointed at Denny. “You drive.” Over his shoulder to the others, he added with a grin, “And why don’t you all try to be careful and not blow the damn thing up. I don’t feature running all the way back with a platoon of marines on my heels.”
“Makes sense,” Denny agreed nonchalantly. He winked at Ryng. “Maybe I ought to take the keys now.”
“Don’t worry about the keys, my friend. Just make sure you drop anyone who wants to take it.” Then to the others, “We’ll wander over by the shed and get an idea how many are inside. And I want to know exactly where those aircrews are.” There were now three bombers pulled up one behind the other on the field. “They know how to shoot too. Rick, you find them for me. They can’t be far. The crews last night were supervising the placing of those decoys on the wings, so these will probably want to also.”
There were six Black Berets, each armed with the AK-74s, inside the shed where the decoys were stored. Another dozen, unarmed, were preparing them for loading. Wally made a mental note that their weapons were stacked nearby. Rick found the aircrews in the rear of the building, relaxing at a long table over coffee and cigarettes. He saw nothing to indicate they were armed. That made eighteen marines, six of whom would have to be dispatched immediately, leaving twelve who would make trouble within seconds if they were allowed to pick up anything that would shoot. Ryng knew they could save the aircrews until last, but they couldn’t take them for granted.
Back outside, Ryng explained, “We’re going to wait until they start loading those two bombers. That’ll get the crews out here and the coolies farther away from their guns. When I give the word, Wally and I will hit the shed. All I want to do is hold it long enough to blow the decoys. Denny, you and Rick handle the ones out here. Don’t give them the slightest chance. More often than not, those flyers have pistols or other survival weapons in their flight suits. Take them first, then the work party. Then get those explosives inside the planes. I want them burning from the inside out. Then we’ll scatter some time-delay grenades to keep their cleanup crews busy for a while — can’t let them reopen the field,” he added.
“Sounds simple,” remarked Bush.
“Very,” agreed Ryng, “if you believe no one else is going to come running as soon as the shooting starts.”
TOM CARLETON
An overhead speaker in the Yorktown’s pilothouse crackled into life. “Permission granted to detach for maneuvering exercises. Request you maintain standard ECM and long-range AA guards per my Op Order 12-2. Over.”
“Roger. I thank you. Out.” Tom Carleton handled the transmission himself, since the maneuvering exercises were for no one other than him. The man he relieved hours earlier had assured him that his OODs were superb ship handlers, so it was apparent that only Yorktown’s new captain needed to be qualified in handling the cruiser.
“This is Captain Carleton. I have the conn,” he called out to the bridge watch, following the Navy’s time-honored tradition. The acknowledgment echoed back to him, then he said, “Right standard rudder… come to course one zero zero.” He eased his well-fed bulk out of the captain’s chair and moved calmly about the pilothouse to refamiliarize himself with the myriad dials and displays.
Before putting his ship through her paces, he would take her about five miles outside the perimeter of the formation. The process wouldn’t be a long one. Carleton had commanded ships before, and he was a superb ship handler — any ship, any sea conditions. His purpose was simply to get the feel of Yorktown, to know before he gave an order how she would respond, how quickly she could accelerate, how she reacted in tight turns at high speeds. He had to know her personally not only under combat conditions, but also in close quarters with other U.S. ships.
Each vessel had a personality of its own. Though they were built following the same specifications, they were as different as human beings, each rudder biting just a tad differently, each mighty engine with its own quirk, each hull taking the sea with slight aberrations. Very few men could sense such minute differences. Most who could were commanding officers. Carleton was at home when he could feel a ship’s personality through his feet or identify with her sounds through his pillow as he slept at night. But now there was little time to understand Yorktown, for everything pointed to the fact that she might have to fulfill her design obligations any hour now.
There were engine controls on the bridge. With a flick of the wrist, the powerful gas turbines could accelerate the ship instantly, the only limiting force being the drag of the water against her hull. Carleton first put the engines through their paces, increasing speeds slowly, then faster, then backing down, then forward again, full speed. He watched her wake, he felt her talk to him through his feet, and he learned very quickly how she would answer him.
Then he toyed with her rudders, turning sharply one way, then another, making Z’s and O’s, selecting various speeds — even backing down halfway through a turn. Such an action might be needed to avoid a collision or even be the last chance to confuse a homing torpedo, at least enough so that it might detonate in Yorktown’s wake rather than her engine room. He felt her cant as he increased her rudder angle, estimating in his own mind how she would respond when the seas were twenty feet and green water was breaking over her bow.
He spent over an hour gamboling about the Mediterranean, enjoying a luxury that he might not again have the opportunity for. She was magnificent! Yorktown outperformed everything he’d read in the designer’s specs and the sea trials. Now it was time to go back to business as usual. Grudgingly, he returned the conn to the OOD and sat comfortably back in his captain’s chair, his hands folded happily over his ample belly. For a moment, a very short one, he thought about his wife’s cooking — it was almost as dear to him as she was. He imagined that, if he ever got a soft shore billet, that would be it! Lucille’s food would fatten him up and they’d retire him permanently! He dozed off contentedly.
THE CRIMEA, USSR
A couple of hours before first light, Henry Cobb was paddled ashore northeast of Yalta, up the coast toward Alushta. Lassiter had shaken his hand, cuffing him playfully on the side of the head before Cobb went over the side into the rubber craft. It hadn’t been necessary for Lassiter to repeat it as many times as he had, but he had to assure Cobb that he would be back in the same spot in less than twenty-four hours, then once more twenty-four hours later. If there was no Cobb by then, then the mission was a failure. Henry Cobb would be considered a casualty — an unreported casualty.
Cobb scurried up the hillside through the undergrowth to the winding road that led through the villages toward Yalta. A sliver of moon hung low in the sky, and the night was clear and black. He needed very little light to find his way. The track he would follow was embedded in his memory. Days before, in the map room in Washington, he had pieced together the satellite photos himself, recording each step he intended to take. If he’d had the slightest doubt about a potential obstacle in his path, he had had the photo blown up until he was sure what it was. Or if still hesitant, he would call over one of the photo interpreters and ask his opinion.