Red Tide, стр. 8

Ryson turned to find that Admiral Canby was standing behind him, glass in hand. The admiral was built like a fire plug, and was good looking in a Rugby-player sort-of-way.

Canby’s face was flushed. Because he’d been drinking? Or as a function of his mercurial personality? There was no way to know.

Ryson started to come to attention but Canby waved the formality off. “No need for that sort of thing, old fruit. Save it for the Queen Elizabeth’s flight deck. How’s Squadron 3? Ready to go I should imagine.”

“It is,” Ryson assured him.

“You’re a lucky man,” Canby said. “Forty feet up off the waves, wind rushing through your hair, pumping 76mm shells downrange! Who could ask for more! You’re a lucky dog. I wish I could trade places with you.”

Judging from the look on Canby’s face the admiral meant every word of it. “I’m sorry, sir … But I refuse to trade. The paperwork would drive me crazy.”

“I don’t blame you,” Canby said, as his face darkened. “The paper shuffling bastards at the admiralty are relentless. But, should we take control of the Black Sea, all the bureaucratic bullshit will be worth it. As it stands the Black Sea is like a cyst filled with Russian pus. And the longer we wait, the more pus there is. We need to act before the cyst bursts.”

Ryson got the feeling that the analogy had been used before. Canby’s eyes had a messianic quality to them. “‘The clock is ticking,’ old boy. We need to act now.”

Ryson frowned. “Are the Russians about to break out? And enter the Med?”

“No,” Canby said. “Not so far as I know. The problem is Turkey.”

Turkey was the most controversial member of NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization). And Turkish troops deserved a huge amount credit for defending Bulgaria and Georgia from the Russians.

But the Turks were obsessed with the Kurd separatists to the south. And stood accused of using the war effort as cover for a thinly disguised strategy to seize control of Kurdish territory.

Canby took a quick look around as if to ensure that no one else could hear. “Keep this under your hat, Commander … But there’s a significant group of people within the Turkish government who want to renounce NATO membership and move against the Kurds.

“If that occurs, they sure as hell won’t let us travel through the Bosporus. But, if we have control of the Black Sea, they’ll be forced to tolerate our presence. And that, Commander Ryson, is what makes this outing so urgent.”

Ryson finished his drink. “We’ll do our best sir. What about our supply line—should the Bosporus be closed to us?”

“Then we’ll take supplies in through Bulgaria,” Canby replied. “That would be extremely tiresome. But it’s feasible.”

Suddenly the sunny personality was back. “You’re out of gin, Commander,” Canby said. “I suggest that you take on fuel. The bar will close in forty-five minutes.” Then the admiral vanished into the crowd.

Ryson had no desire for a second drink. His goal was to exit the warehouse and return to the Mammatus. He was halfway to the door when Rav-Seren (Lt. Commander) Yaakov Segal stepped out of the crowd to block his way. “Max! Surely you aren’t leaving yet … We must toast the old days.”

Five years earlier, when Ryson had been a lieutenant commander, and Segal was a seren (lieutenant), they’d been assigned to a joint task force operating out of Israel’s Haifa naval base. Both were ambitious and competitive. And the competition continued when they were off duty.

The girl’s name was Noa Shapira. In addition to a quick mind, and a wicked sense of humor, she was beautiful. So much so that both men were willing to do just about anything to win her affections.

Looking back Ryson realized that Noa had been playing them off against each other. But that wasn’t the way it seemed at the time. The situation came to a head in a bar when Segal bragged about having sex with Noa. A claim that may, or may not, have been true. Ryson hit him in the face and a brawl ensued.

Ryson won the fight, but lost the girl. So, the last thing Ryson wanted to do was toast old times. “Hello, Yaakov. I didn’t know you were part of Command 2.”

“I wasn’t,” the Israeli said, “until yesterday. One of our squadron commanders has appendicitis. I jumped at the opportunity to replace him. I have six kills now. I plan to double that number by the end of the day tomorrow.”

Ryson knew that Squadron 5 consisted of four Israeli Super Dvora Mark III-class patrol boats. They could make 50 knots, and were armed with everything from automatic grenade launchers to Hellfire missiles, all packed on ninety-foot hulls that looked the way a fast patrol boat should look. Better than Ryson’s hydrofoils, truth be told, although his Pegs were faster and more maneuverable.

“It doesn’t matter how many kills you make,” Ryson said. “The purpose of the mission is to seize control of the Black Sea.”

“So, you still have a stick up your ass,” Segal replied. “Some things never change.”

“No,” Ryson replied. “They don’t. Goodnight Yaakov.” And with that Ryson made his way toward the door.

“My squadron will score more kills than yours!” Segal shouted.

Ryson felt dozens of eyes on him as he stepped out into the night. Special Sea Command 2 was a relatively small unit. And some people, the stupid ones, would think that the challenge was important. Well, Ryson thought. Fuck them.

***

Aboard the Russian cruiser Omsk, on the Black Sea

The Allies were about to invade the Black Sea, and Vice Admiral Viktor Belkin was in a good mood, because his men were ready. But first it was necessary for Belkin to complete his morning workout. Phase one involved pumping iron in his cabin to keep his six-foot two-inch frame in good shape. No, excellent shape, especially for a man in