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.
His was a photographic memory in many ways. But as Dave Pratt had once pointed out, they were very strange ways. Cobb’s mastery of languages was incredible, right down to his ability to immerse himself in local dialect. He could have crossed a minefield blindfolded once he had the opportunity to study its layout. The structure of Kremlin hierarchy, the layout of each office, and the names of each individual could have been committed to memory in an amazingly short time span. Pratt often said that Henry could have made a fortune if his mind had been channeled in the proper direction, but the prospect of making money had never occurred to Cobb.
He followed the dirt road for a short distance, mentally checking off the identifying features he’d selected days earlier. Turning into the hills on a path that appeared to have been a goat track, he began an easy climb, now heading in the direction of the moon sliver that was hovering just over his objective.
Below him stretched the Black Sea, occasional lights bobbing in the distance signifying fishing boats. Farther away he could see the glow of lights in the sky, hinting at a large city, Yalta. This was where the gentry of the Communist Party came to play in the summer—senior officials, scientists, managers, prominent Party members, and, most important, the generals and admirals. Their dachas were scattered over the hillsides that looked down into the warm, blue waters of the Black Sea. This part of the Crimea was the playground of those who made the USSR tick.
His
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.
His was a photographic memory in many ways. But as Dave Pratt had once pointed out, they were very strange ways. Cobb’s mastery of languages was incredible, right down to his ability to immerse himself in local dialect. He could have crossed a minefield blindfolded once he had the opportunity to study its layout. The structure of Kremlin hierarchy, the layout of each office, and the names of each individual could have been committed to memory in an amazingly short time span. Pratt often said that Henry could have made a fortune if his mind had been channeled in the proper direction, but the prospect of making money had never occurred to Cobb.
He followed the dirt road for a short distance, mentally checking off the identifying features he’d selected days earlier. Turning into the hills on a path that appeared to have been a goat track, he began an easy climb, now heading in the direction of the moon sliver that was hovering just over his objective.
Below him stretched the Black Sea, occasional lights bobbing in the distance signifying fishing boats. Farther away he could see the glow of lights in the sky, hinting at a large city, Yalta. This was where the gentry of the Communist Party came to play in the summer—senior officials, scientists, managers, prominent Party members, and, most important, the generals and admirals. Their dachas were scattered over the hillsides that looked down into the warm, blue waters of the Black Sea. This part of the Crimea was the playground of those who made the USSR tick.
His
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