Washington needed proof that General Keradin was actually in American hands. Soviet television had already countered with television photos of Keradin that morning attending a meeting of the STAVKA, the Main Military Council, and there was no way to prove that the pictures had not been taken previously. At the same time, Moscow announced that their Strategic Rocket Forces were prepared to launch missiles on both NATO countries and the North American continent at the least provocation, with satellite photos and intercepted radio messages from the Soviet Union confirming their state of readiness. The only option for Washington was to counter, bringing the American triad — ICBMs, Trident submarines, and nuclear bombers — to an equivalent state. Only if General Keradin could be delivered into American hands at the appropriate moment and displayed to the world did U.S. leaders feel that the strategic nuclear forces of both countries could stand down. It was absolutely critical that both sides limit the confrontation to conventional weapons.
In the North Atlantic, American naval convoys plowed on toward Europe, surrounded by antisubmarine forces and preceded by specially trained packs of hunter-killer subs. There was still no firm indication whether or not they would be intercepted. First-light photographs of the Svalbard region through partial clouds revealed damage to the Longyearbyen airfield and the Soviet bombers that had been there at the time; but there had been no further communications from the SEAL team, and no final confirmation of how many of the Soviet decoys had been destroyed. Even then, some may already have been delivered along the GIUK gap to counter the American CAPTOR defense line. More Soviet bombers were in the air on the way to Svalbard. If those decoys still existed, and if those bombers could get them to the GIUK gap, there was a good chance the Soviet subs could get through to the U.S. convoys.
Only the political and military leaders of the Soviet Union, NATO, and the U.S. knew how critical the situation was. Actions over the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours would determine the fate of Europe and whether there would be a nuclear barrage. The citizens of those countries knew nothing but the terror that comes of not knowing.
ABOARD U.S.S. JOHN F. KENNEDY, SOUTHEAST OF MALTA
Admiral Pratt tentatively picked up the stub of his cigar from his favorite ashtray, with its solid-brass base made of an old five-inch shell, a going-away present from the chief petty officers on his first destroyer. That ashtray traveled the world with Pratt, and today on the eighty-thousand-ton carrier, it remained his pride and joy. Perhaps, he often thought to himself, it’s a symbol of the old and the new, the guns-and-guts Navy versus the microchip Navy. The guns have become missile launchers, the guts have become brains — but it still takes a human being to manage either one.
Wendell Nelson studied the cigar along with Pratt. He’s not going to light it, he thought, not without burning his nose — it can’t be done.
Pratt touched a match to the tip of the cigar, his lips pursed. The end glowed, a flame caught on the dried ends, then smoke issued from the admiral’s mouth. He beamed. “So it works in practice, Nellie.”
“Sure as hell does,” the other agreed. “But I wouldn’t want to try it again before the first real shot. Otherwise some smart Russian skipper is going to run that through his computer.” He sipped cold coffee from his mug, gesturing at the graphic printout from Kennedy’s computer. “And it’s so simple, a fresh-caught sailor could run it if I spent ten minutes with him.”
“No complaints from the other COs?”
“You know how it is. No one wants to try something new without playing with it in a trainer on shore first, but when the Russians provided us with a couple of live subs, they went along with me.”
Pratt lay the display back on his desk. “I’ll have copies run off and heloed over to each commanding officer. I want you and Tom Carleton to run a class for all COs first light tomorrow aboard Yorktown.”
“That is one thing that might rub a bit.” Nelson paused. “I don’t think some of those senior skippers were too happy about me taking command of that screen.”
“No problem,” Pratt said. “When you get back, your XO will probably already have a copy of your new promotion. You’re a full captain for the time being, a four-striper, the only one in the screen outside of Tom.”
Nelson grinned. “They’ll be shouting discrimination.”
“That’s the other thing, Nellie. When you read the small print, you’ll see it’s only temporary. I couldn’t convince the powers-that-be in D.C. Maybe after it’s all over, they’ll make it permanent.”
“Maybe there won’t be any Wendell Nelson after it’s all over.”
“In that case, I’ll insist they make it permanent — sort of an honor for the deceased hero.” Pratt chuckled through the cigar smoke. “Think how happy those survivors’ benefits will make the wife and kids!” He immediately knew he had made a mistake. Tricia had divorced Nellie. She had the kids. But Nelson never blinked an eye.
“Too kind… too kind. Will you shed some tears at my funeral?”
“I would, Nellie. I really would. But I figure if they get you, then they’re more than likely going to get me too….” He was interrupted by a knock. “Come.”
Tom Carleton entered the stateroom. As usual, he looked anything but the captain of a ship, especially Yorktown. His tan uniform blouse was wrinkled; his belly protruded over his rumpled work pants, and he managed only a pale imitation of a salute as he fell into the couch across from the desk, his legs sprawled straight in front of him.
“How’s she going, Tom?”
Carleton beamed. “She’s everything the designers claimed — and more. I can’t thank you enough. She drives like a tin can and she’ll fight like a whole goddamn fleet. No kidding. When we put that system in automatic this morning — Aw, what the hell am I telling you for? You already know what she did.”
Pratt nodded. “I was watching in plot. It’s kind of hard for an old sailor like me to believe it all.” He put the cigar to his lips, winced, and dropped the wet remainder into the ashtray. He sighed, rubbing tired, red-rimmed eyes. “That’s why I asked for you two.” He picked up a sheaf of messages, weighing them in his hand for a moment, then dropped them back on the cluttered desk. “I expect any of the others could probably handle the job. If the Navy has qualified them, they can run those ships, but there’s hardly a soul familiar with that stuff we’ve been fooling around with in Newport.”
“Newport” meant the War College, the think tank where select officers studied global strategy and tactics. There were also war-gaming facilities that lent reality to war scenarios dreamed up by men like Dave Pratt. The Navy power structure claimed the Russians were predictable, and they were in many ways. But no man was that predictable if he was reacting under actual wartime conditions — or if he was losing. That’s what Pratt had assumed when he began to play with new tactics. The ships under his Mediterranean command were capable of much more than was required from them under published tactics. The Soviets were expected to attack, and they expected the Americans to wait for the attack, then defend themselves. Pratt’s theory was to dig them out before they could possibly gain an upper hand. Computer simulation was the trick.