“I’ve reviewed the three-point program you outlined not so long ago.” There had been a pause that seemed to last an eternity before the president continued. “And I happen to agree with you. Things may not occur exactly as you’ve presented them in your scenarios, but—” here he moved his head from side to side as if to show he was balancing each point, “—but I know of no other presentation that comes so close to what seems to be taking place right now.”
The discussion had gone on for another half hour about the military aspects of the proposed Soviet offensive and the importance of the Mediterranean, but Pratt sensed there was really much more to come. Then the president had raised his eyebrows. “You remember early on I indicated you were to be in overall command? Well, I meant that in every sense of the word. We’ve got to keep the sea-lanes in the North Atlantic open, and that means keeping all those attack submarines from passing through the GIUK gap.”
He went on to review the intelligence reports they were both familiar with — one noted that the flow of goods to Murmansk indicated the Soviet submarine fleet was being supplied for an extended deployment, that some of their vessels were already under way, and that the balance would probably follow soon. Another report mentioned a new development, perhaps a weapon, that no one really understood. And still another noted increased activity in the Soviet sector of the Norwegian island of Spitzbergen, raising the question of the movement of the Murmansk submarines in the GIUK gap. Finally the president concluded from the briefings that someone better act on the growing threat.
So, because of the scenario Pratt had developed at the Naval War College, this new overall command the president was giving him meant worrying about what was happening on Spitzbergen. That was when he decided that Bernie Ryng had to be included.
Pratt turned back to Ryng and scowled when he saw what the younger man was reading — Morskoi Sbornik, the official Russian naval journal. “Any sex in that rag, Bernie?”
Ryng looked up with a smile. “I guess you might say that, Dave,” he answered, wiping rimless reading glasses on his sleeve, then holding them to the light. “Look at this picture and you might change your mind about these people.” He grinned back at Pratt, savoring the opportunity to tease him even though he was a friend.
“Here… look.” He held up the magazine for inspection. “Just another ship.” Pratt shrugged.
“Not just another, Dave. This one’s a supply ship, and I also happen to know she left Murmansk two days ago fully loaded, and she had what looked like some new model torpedoes on her deck — that is, before they covered them with tarps.”
Pratt turned back, a questioning look on his face.
“That’s right. It was the sexy one in this picture. Of course, those high-resolution shots I saw this morning were much better.”
“And you’re interested because…”
“Right. Because I think this ship might just be anchored in Longyearbyen harbor in Spitzbergen when I get there.” Ryng grinned again, very pleased with himself. The fleet types like Pratt didn’t understand the intelligence types like him, and, of course, they felt the spooks didn’t understand them. The hell with it, he thought. Be honest with Pratt. He’s not a bad guy for an admiral and you probably wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for him.
“I think, all things considered, Bernie, I’d rather be right where I’m going, right in the middle of the action.” Admiral Pratt’s actual orders were for the Mediterranean, to command a carrier battle group. Ryng was headed for Spitzbergen, the main island of the Svalbard archipelago, a Norwegian territory six hundred miles north of Norway in the Barents Sea. It was the first of two choke points that might prevent Soviet military vessels, especially submarines, from moving into the North Atlantic in time of war. Ryng was to go in with a Navy SEAL team that was scheduled to depart in less than twenty-four hours.
Considering the situation now, Pratt knew he had been absolutely right in asking for Bernie Ryng — and he had told the president that. On the day Norway requested assistance in determining what was happening on their small territory far to the north, Washington had also determined that a guerilla-type unit should be inserted, since the Russians seemed to be concentrating so much effort on that region. Pratt had explained to the president that a SEAL team was by far the best solution — small, fast, capable of both intelligence gathering and fighting. And in this situation, the best man by far was not the one the others would pick. But Bernie Ryng was exceptional and Admiral Pratt could work with him. In that case, the president had concluded, Pratt could relay his, the president’s, orders to Ryng. The Navy, bolstered by word from the White House, would fully support Ryng and the intelligence man was to be told by the Admiral to follow his own nose. Dave Pratt knew Bernie would like that.
This meeting between Pratt and Ryng was a reunion of sorts, a catch-as-catch-can affair. Pratt hadn’t really planned it that way; it just happened. Ryng had heard in the Officer’s Club the night before that Tom Carleton had been delayed on his way through D.C. When Ryng tracked down Carleton, the latter told him that he had seen Henry Cobb the night before. To his surprise, Cobb had mentioned he was working for Dave Pratt. Though neither Ryng nor Carleton had ever expected to see Cobb again, it all became even clearer to them. Dave Pratt wanted the heavy hitters! They had all been very close when they served with a riverboat squadron in Vietnam, as close as any men could be who owed their lives to each other.
Now Ryng looked at Pratt. “If those spooks up in that blackbox room I visited this morning are right, I think I might find a bit of action myself,” Ryng said. Studying Ryng, Pratt thought the latter could have been a native of the island he was heading for, with his fair complexion and longish blond hair. Bernie Ryng was one of those people whose age was hard to determine. His hair was thin, but not thinning. His complexion was fair and his expressionless blue eyes peered out over high cheekbones. As long as Pratt had known him, Ryng’s features had never changed. He was of medium height and his build had remained the same. He never seemed to put on or lose a pound, and his physical condition remained superb. Most men his age had left the SEALs for less demanding careers. Pratt remembered that Ryng too had gone back to sea, but he soon drifted back into intelligence.
Pratt wandered over to the large window again, his hands fidgeting behind his back. “Harry Winters saddling up with you this trip?” Pratt asked, indulging in small talk.
“Sure. Where Bernie goes, Harry is sure to follow. Wouldn’t want it any other way.” He paused. “I doubt that you’ll see any of them coming through that crowd down there,” Ryng offered. He added, “Don’t you ever relax?”
The admiral turned slowly, a half-smile on his face. “You been messing around with my wife?” The smile was quizzical, amused. “That’s exactly what she said this morning, Bernie. Of course,” he added, “she hasn’t been reading the intelligence reports either.” Dave Pratt had been awake since five that morning. He’d woken up in a cold sweat from a dream that had been repeating since he’d been ordered to a battle group command. It was the same each time. He could see the Russian cruise missiles bearing down on his carrier. They never became any larger, never seemed to be moving. It was just a surreal image hanging up there, aiming at him. But now that war seemed imminent, each dream brought them closer. They seemed to be gaining on him.
“This all reminds me of sixty-two,” Ryng remarked. “I was still in school then. But I remember clearly that it was such a hell of a surprise when Kennedy went on TV to tell us how close war was and what the U.S. was doing. Obviously it had been going on for weeks in Washington, but there was never a peep. We were all fat, dumb, and happy, and then all of a sudden it was popped on us: hey, we may be in the middle of a war anytime now! I got a feeling it’s going to be the same thing again for the civilians. Except this time, I don’t expect there’s going to be any chest thumping.”