A bushy silver eyebrow rose interrogatively over President Horatio Francis Turnbull’s left eye. “Is that all? For a moment there I thought you were going to ask for a whole damned task force.”
“Well, now that you mention it, maybe a task force would be appropriate.”
“I should have known better than to try to sink you with sarcasm,” Turnbull muttered. “Let me get this straight. You observed a switch of ‘rice’ for wheat taking place in Chittagong. Your Forte Ocean Engineering hydrographic satellites tracked the ship on which the wheat-disguised-as-rice was loaded, the S.S. Malcolm Miller of French registry, to Sevastopol in the Crimea. And now you want me to lend you one of the navy’s missile frigates to-”
“Task force,” Forte corrected.
“-missile frigates to do exactly what-bombard Sevastopol and start a new Crimean War?. Over a shipload of wheat?”
Forte shifted in the straight-backed wooden chair in front of the president’s desk in the Oval Office. Turnbull had ordered the White House cabinetmaker to design the most uncomfortable chairs possible, so that his visitors would not overstay their welcome. “I don’t anticipate any shooting, Mr. President. But you’ll appreciate that while I cannot sail a ship just outside the Soviet Union’s twelve-mile limit in the Black Sea, the U.S. Navy does all the time, just to demonstrate it has a legal right to do so. My idea was, when the task force-a task force would be less suspicious, you see, than a single ship- gets close enough, I’ll disembark in scuba gear and have a little look-see. When I get the dope I want, I’ll rendezvous with the task force and they can drop me off in Istanbul.”
President Turnbull waved his hand dismissively. “If you think you’ve convinced me of the need for such a provocative operation, you’re mistaken, Rip. So the Malcolm Miller took aboard a load of wheat in Bangladesh. So it took a roundabout route to Sevastopol, presumably to throw off any surveillance. So what?”
“So something is distinctly fishy, Mr. President, that’s what. Look,” he said, glad for the chance to get out of the chair and walk to the big map of the world on the wall. “Wheat from Australia bought by elaborate subterfuge by the Soviet Union, shipped to Bangladesh, transshipped to Sevastopol via South Yemen, Oran, and Genoa. Wheat bought at premium prices by the Soviet Union, which this year has the .best harvest in prospect in fourteen years, in addition to stockpiled purchases from the West sufficient to last sixteen to eighteen months. They don’t need the wheat, yet they take extraordinary precautions to prevent our knowing that they bought it. We’ve simply got to know what’s going on, sir.”
“I disagree. At the moment, the world wheat situation is not critical-what with the Midwest crop soon to be harvested. And if Russia is not threatening us in any way, I cannot afford to let you commandeer one of our ships-let alone a whole task force. Sorry, Rip, but that’s final.”
The lights of the carrier Parris Island were ablaze, as were those of the guided-missile cruiser, and eight ASW frigates that accompanied her. At unnerving intervals Russian destroyers loomed out of the darkness of the Black Sea and cut across the carrier’s bow, in flagrant contravention of the rules of the road and at more risk than they dreamed.
“Let’s have a little mo-board exercise, Lieutenant,” said Captain Dan Doon to the Junior Officer of the Deck on the bridge of the Parris Island. “When radar plot picks up that Red tin can turning to make another highspeed run across our bows, I want you to compute a collision course, and instruct the chief engineer to have the engine room ready to pour on the power to clip the bastard’s fan-tail.”
“Aye aye, sir,” replied the JOOD, his hands not quite steady as he laid out the problem on his maneuver board. Themistocles’ remark that “a collision at sea can ruin your whole day” floated across his mind. His hands began to sweat.
“You’re not really going to ram that can, are you?” said Ripley Forte, standing beside the tall young captain with the wild-Cossack moustache.
“I’m going to try. Have to teach those people a little respect for their betters.” He smiled. “Don’t think me hard-hearted, Mr. Forte. We’ll drop over life rafts for survivors….Don’t you think you should be getting in some sack drill?”
“Can’t sleep. If I get back in one piece, I’ll make up for it on the run back to Istanbul.”
It was a big “if,” but Forte was confident. For one thing, he wasn’t going alone but with four native-speaking Russians, two of whom were defectors, one of them a former naval infantry officer stationed for two years at Sevastopol. For another, their mission would be brief and involve a minimum of movement. Analysis of satellite reconnaissance films had shown that the wheat from the S.S. Malcolm Miller went from the ship directly to waterfront silos. But, as in Chittagong, as one silo was filled, another was emptied and its contents trucked thirty miles up the peninsula to what seemed to be a factory two miles inland. That, again, was unremarkable. It could have been a flour mill-except that while a steady stream of trucks dropped their loads of Russian wheat and returned to Sevastopol empty, nothing came out of the “flour mill.” Nothing…
At 2230 Ripley Forte suited up in the ejection compartment below the waterline aft. Captain Doon checked his oxygen supply and other equipment himself, for President Turnbull had given him strict instructions to do everything possible to avoid detection and giving the Russians the opportunity to embarrass his administration. “The trip in should take no more than forty minutes on the sea sled,” said the Parris Island’s skipper. “The sled’s detection gear will pick up magnetic anomalies, alerting you to mines. Recon reports indicate that the beach you’re landing on is rocky, with scrub brush right down to water’s edge, affording good concealment for your gear. You’ll each carry a satnav box, which gives your position to three meters. Any questions?”
“Yes,” said Forte, pulling on his black rubber hood. “I’m a little concerned about the rendezvous.”
“No problem. When you get the dope you’re after, suit up and head out from the beach on a bearing of approximately 210 degrees true. By the time you reach international waters twelve miles out, the sea sleds will home in on the underwater marker beacon. Once contact is made-we’ll be cruising in the vicinity-the beacon will trip a signal, and we’ll make a sweep in to pick you up. Won’t take more than twenty or thirty minutes-less if you hit the ETA at 0400 as planned.”
Forte nodded. He climbed through the open hatch of the sea sled and lay down on his stomach, facing forward, his hands on the diving plane and throttle controls. Already in his position next to him was Chief Fire Controlman Harry Elmer Smit, and behind them the other three men, crowded together side by side in the torpedo-like undersea vehicle.
“Masks on, oxygen on,” Captain Doon ordered.
The men checked their masks and oxygen supply.
“Cycle hatch control.”
Forte hit the switch that lowered the leaves of the hatch over them, then raised them again. “All set.”
“Good luck-and see you all back aboard at 0400,” said Captain Doon, crossing his fingers.
Forte closed the hatch again. Inside he could see nothing but the faint glow of the navigation dials and the sea sled instruments. He felt the sled being raised by hoist and inserted into the ejection port. “Stand by,” came the signal in his headset. He tensed.
“Eject!”
Forte felt himself slammed backward as they were ejected from the stern of the carrier, cruising at two-thirds ahead, and tumbled widely as the sled fought the turbulence of the wake. He switched to automatic pilot, and the sleek craft descended from two meters to nine meters, curving in toward shore as it followed the programmed course.
Forty-five minutes later the craft slowed and nudged the bottom at three meters. Forte touched the switch that opened the two leaves of the hatch. Sea water flooded in. The five men disengaged their belts and one by one floated to the surface. Ahead, in the light of the quarter moon, the rocky beach seemed deserted. It was CPO Smit’s job to see that it was.
He swam parallel with the beach, systematically scanning it with an infrared detector and low-light goggles. Ten minutes later he was back. “All clear,” he whispered.
The five men swam in among the rocks, quickly shed their gear and cached it among the bushes, and moved out toward the factory whose lights were barely visible to the east. They were dressed in black, their faces were blackened, and they wore black rubber-soled sneakers. There was a footpath from the beach inland, but they didn’t follow it. They moved as silently as shadows in a long, looping curve that brought them to a high wire fence.