Choke point, p.1
Choke Point, page 1
CHOKE POINT
By Charles D. Taylor
A Gordian Knot Military Thriller
Gordian Knot is an imprint of Crossroad Press
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Smashwords edition published at Smashwords by Crossroad Press
Digital Edition Copyright © 2015 Charles D. Taylor
LICENSE NOTES
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Meet the Author
Charles Taylor is the bestselling author of thirteen naval action/adventure novels, primarily featuring the nuclear submarine service and the U.S. Navy SEALS. After serving as a Naval Reserve destroyer officer in the Atlantic and Caribbean, he followed a career in both educational and literary publishing. He currently divides his time between summers in Wyoming and winters on the Caribbean island of St. Croix.
Book List
Boomer
Choke Point
Counterstrike
Deep Sting
First Salvo
Shadow Wars
Shadows of Vengeance
Show of Force
Sightings
Silent Hunter
Summit
The Twilight Patriots (formerly published as The Sunset Patriots)
War Ship
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This book is dedicated to two people who have been long on encouragement for more than forty years—my aunt, Margaret Lewis, and my uncle, Don Hunter.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While plots and characters emerge from the imagination, ships and weapons systems, geography, history, and politics are acquired by research. There were two extremely valuable sources in learning more about the setting for this book: The Path Between the Seas—The Creation of the Panama Canal 1870-1914 by David McCullough (Simon and Schuster 1977), and Inevitable Revolutions—The United States in Central America by Walter LaFeber (Norton, 1983). The United States Naval Institute remains my most valuable source for technical details. The expert panel at their 1985 annual meeting offered valuable insight into U.S. strategic interests. The articles, professional notes, and supplementary materials from their monthly Proceedings provide thorough and rapid access to naval subjects around the world. Two of their recent reference books by Norman Polmar, The Ships and Aircraft of the U.S. Fleet (thirteenth ed.) and Guide to the Soviet Navy (third ed.), have proven invaluable. Armed Forces Journal International provides up-to-date information on a variety of military topics.
Shipmates manage to stick together over the years and two of them have been especially helpful—Bill McDonald, a former commanding officer, remains a fine friend, and Dan Mundy can pack more solid criticism into a lunch without forgetting the latest joke. On the business side, Dominick Abel continues to provide a steadying influence, and Mel Parker’s detailed suggestions are incomparable. Gordon Levine offered an excellent detailed technical review. Alice Loomis understands my concept of a simple map to visualize where the action is taking place for the reader, and Candy Bergquist continues to type each of my manuscripts to meet my erratic schedules.
No book can be written without the support of a family, and mine deserves an award for endurance. My wife, Georgie, keeps smiling and remains under the same roof with me, even though that involves giving up a great deal. My sons, Jack and Ben, display remarkable understanding. I know of no other way to let as many people as possible know about the three of them as through these words.
“Deterrence is the set of beliefs in the minds of the Soviet Leaders, given their own values and attitudes, about our capabilities and our will. It requires us to determine, as best we can, what would deter them from considering aggression, even in a crisis—not to determine what would deter us.”
—Scowcroft Commission
“If history is any teacher… it teaches that when you become indifferent and lose the will to fight, some other son-of-a-bitch who has the will to fight will take you over.”
—Col. Arthur D. “Bull” Simons,
United States Army
CHOKE POINT
Havana, Cuba
Naval Headquarters
Victor Khasan brushed at a languid fly, taking his eyes off Commodore Navarro’s face for only a moment. The Cuban’s immediate reaction had been just what he’d predicted it would be—that of a tired man. Navarro listened to what others said, sorting out what he wanted to retain, cataloging it in his orderly mind. But he no longer offered any expression of approval or disapproval. It wasn’t so much that he was controlling his emotions any better. Quite simply, he was tired. The intervening time since 1960 evolved gradually from years of challenge and excitement to years of hard work in creating modern Cuban society. Though tired, he still had never lost sight of his premier’s ultimate goal—to bring the United States to her knees.
“Of course,” Khasan continued, “American intelligence will be fully aware of the approximate date your combat brigade will return from Africa. It’s just that there will be no indication of where we will land them. Here … Guyana …” He shrugged, then smiled. “Maybe even Key West…”
Navarro looked back at him evenly, holding the Russian admiral’s stare. He neither acknowledged the statement about American intelligence nor offered his own opinion about the returning troops. It really wasn’t his decision. He opened his humidor, selected a cigar, then slid the box across to Khasan.
The Russian loved them almost as much as Navarro. The Commodore produced a long wooden match, lighting it before offering the box to Khasan. Both men remained silent as they held the cigars above the flames, twisting them slowly for an even burn. Navarro stuck the cigar in his mouth, sucking deeply to insure it was properly lit. Then he puffed slowly for a moment, enjoying the aroma. A smile spread over his face as he studied the Russian. “This thrust is something I have been looking forward to for more than twenty-five years,” he said to the other man. “We Latins are impatient … passionate …. It hasn’t been easy to wait.” He rolled the cigar between his lips, watching the smoke rise to the ceiling. “You are sure,” he queried in a higher voice, “that the Americans will not be able to reinforce so quickly … that your submarines can hold their own until the surface forces are ready?
You know as well as I do that they have all your submarines well tracked. You can’t surprise them….”
“The object is not surprise,” the Russian said. “Secrecy isn’t necessarily the greatest power of a submarine. Just knowing that they are present is enough to make the most aggressive commander take heed. That,” he emphasized, poking the air with an index finger, “is the implied threat.” Khasan studied Navarro’s features closely, as he had done so many times. It seemed that the Russian had been an advisor in Cuba forever. The two men had known each other for years, been as close to being friends as the Commodore would allow any outsider to be.
It occurred to Khasan that there was more gray in the Cuban’s always neatly trimmed hair. And the hairline was definitely receding faster now, no doubt about that. The face seemed puffy, perhaps indicative of declining health, and the circles under the tired eyes were darker. Each telltale indication of approaching age reinforced the decision in Moscow to proceed now, to bait the American eagle in its own backyard. This Cuban, the commander of their little navy, was tired, anxious, and fanatic to a fault to challenge the Americans, just like his leader. Castro, Khasan knew, wanted to be the linchpin, the pebble that started the avalanche, the single most important factor in humiliating the Americans, forcing them back within the borders of their own country. And Moscow knew that now was the time to take advantage of Castro, and of Navarro, to utilize these men they had been so patient in grooming for more than twenty-five years … now that they were tired and seemed increasingly worried that the Russians might not support them in this final effort.
The Commodore stroked his chin thoughtfully. Frankly, he had no concern about the problems he often voiced to Khasan—and none whatsoever about the Americans. He had long ago discarded any worries he might have had about American reactions. In his opinion, the Cubans had the Soviets in their back pocket, and as long as they were committed to this venture into the Caribbean, he regarded the Americans with disdain. Although Khasan had often reminded him of the Soviet Premier’s statement—”Cuba is our aircraft carrier in the Caribbean”—eventually, Navarro realized, Cuba would be more than that, much, much more … and so would he.
Navarro looked back to Khasan. “Victor, I’m tired. You may not believe it, but I truly am.”
Now, there was no expression on the Russian’s face, no acknowledgment of what he knew to be true.
“I have waited for so long. The years have taken their toll.” He sighed almost to himself, puffing contentedly on his cigar. “Would you be surprised if I told you I would like to step down after it is all over? Or that Fidel has said the same thing?”
The Russian nodded slowly, almost as if he were agreeing with his friend about a change in the weather.
“I’d like to spend more free time … watching baseball games,” Navarro added wistfully. “Maybe after we’re finished, Fidel will insist the Americans establish a baseball team in Havana.…”
25,000 Feet Above the Caribbean
Bernie Ryng drifted in that pleasant state between sleep and consciousness. It had been induced by a hand on his shoulder—soft, persistent, perfume heightening the sensation—and a lightly accented voice calling his name. Smiling inwardly, he was convinced that in the recesses of his mind it was the lovely girl across the aisle, the one who had only nodded at his efforts in conversation, offering an occasional yes or no until he had drifted off to a restless sleep over the hum of the jet engines.
“Mr. Ryng … Mr. Ryng …” The hand was shaking him more persistently now. The voice, no longer as soft, became insistent. “Mr. Ryng, we’re thirty minutes out of Panama.”
Ryng gazed up at the stewardess leaning over him and smiled automatically. She was cute, but she wasn’t smiling—just doing her job. “Thank you. Hope I didn’t cause you too much trouble.” He sat up, stretching his arms in front of him.
“No trouble, sir.” She smiled pertly, then turned to the woman across the aisle, speaking to her in rapid Spanish. Ryng had been slightly jealous that the stewardess was friendlier with the other passenger. Then he’d overheard them talking about her taking this flight often.
Ryng smiled across the aisle, nodding at the woman as he ran a hand through his hair. Her features were classic—high cheekbones, deep, brown eyes, glossy, long black hair. Regal Spanish, he thought to himself, noting her long neck and graceful hands. Quite a bit younger than me, he decided—probably not more than thirty. But it was tough to tell with women like her. Back in his twenties, more years ago than he cared to remember, they used to call the aura that emanated from women like her “class.” It was the only way to define that certain something, a combination of clothes, jewelry, hair style, the way she held herself … the way she’d sipped her drink earlier in the flight.
Ryng was still an attractive man. Only his thinning hair gave any indication that he was in his mid-forties. When he was a kid, it turned white every summer, bleached by the sun. One year, he’d forgotten which year, it never turned back to its original sandy hue, so he kept it short. He was average in height, but his rugged body and ruddy complexion made up for his hair color, and his expressionless blue eyes belied any definite age.
He slid over to the window seat to gaze down on the Caribbean. Just beneath the wing he thought he could see land interrupting the smooth blue of the water below. The thought of what awaited him wasn’t appealing. He’d much rather the flight continued on, past Panama, over the equator… maybe on down to Rio. Glancing across the aisle again, he thought perhaps that would give him enough time to crack that shell she’d created. She’d talk with him, he reasoned, if the flight continued, if cocktails and dinner were next … just to pass the time before they reached Rio.
But they weren’t going to Rio. They were landing in Panama and he would go to work the minute his feet hit the ground. On the horizon the mountain clouds were puffy, becoming thicker inland. Ryng had asked to be awakened specifically to see the isthmus from the air as the plane swept in. He wondered, as they approached, whether he might see out of the numerous little skirmishes that occurred every day in those mountains. But he knew that they would never give a passenger flight clearance near anything that might hazard it. It was wise to avoid those black-uniformed revolutionaries, the PRA—People’s Revolutionary Army.
The flight from Miami was, in fact, almost a straight shot south, except for the diversion around Cuba. Panama was just a bit east of Miami and only twelve hundred miles away, a short distance to be sent for such a bitter war … and just about on our doorstep, Ryng thought.
The northern coast of Panama came up quickly, almost too fast to pick out the landmarks his boss, Admiral Pratt, had shown him in Pratt’s office. But once he picked out Gatun Lake, he could identify everything else. He couldn’t see the north coastal city of Colón or the Gatun Locks. They were on the other side of the plane. But he saw where the lake narrowed down into the canal proper, then the raw, brown sides of the Gaillard Cut sloping down to the narrow waterway. As the plane banked first to the west, then back east, he could pick out the Pedro Miguel Locks, then follow the canal down, past the Miraflores Locks to the capital city itself, gracefully overlooking the Bahia de Panama.
The city came up at them white and shiny, sparkling wet in the sun, following an afternoon shower. He could see puddles on the runway, then the fine mists as the wheels raced through the water.
Ryng looked across the aisle and smiled. “Welcome to Panama,” he said, this time using his Spanish.
“Thank you most kindly,” she returned, finally smiling back in a pleasant manner. She stretched her arms casually, inspecting her fingernails absentmindedly as she touched the seat.in front of her. Then she arched her chest forward, pulling her shoulders back like a cat, and smiled again, white teeth flashing. “You should have used Spanish before,” she grinned. “I was tired of English after a week in Washington.” She was slim, Ryng noted, but well-shaped too.
“I apologize, senorita,” he said, noticing again that she wore no wedding ring. “Spanish is a difficult language for me when it’s been so many years.” He sighed to himself, realizing it was now too late to establish anything in the short taxi to the gate.
But he never had the opportunity to continue the conversation, for something caught his eye as the craft pivoted to bring a view of the terminal to his side of the plane.
The broad glass windows in the building were bulging out toward him, as was one supporting wall. That first impression lasted only a millisecond as the explosion hurled the side of the terminal toward the plane. The motorized gateway that had been inching out toward the approaching craft had been blown from the building, and as it began to pitch sideways and topple, Ryng saw a man leap outward. At the same time, even before gravity took over, the man appeared to rise up higher. But the jerking of the body also meant that another force was affecting it—bullets. Dropping his eyes, Ryng saw someone below in that familiar black uniform he’d noted in Pratt’s photos, an automatic rifle shuddering in his grasp as he finished off the running man.
With the horror outside firmly recorded on his mind, Ryng could now recognize the ear-splitting chatter of the Soviet AK-74s overwhelming that of the jet engines. Other sights registered as split images. Ricocheting bullets were tracing a pattern up the whitewashed wall toward the control tower. The baggage tractor that had been snaking its way toward the plane was now riderless, or so Ryng thought. But as he watched, the vehicle turned rapidly to one side, tipping over as it did. It was then he saw the arm linked through the steering wheel. The driver slid into view just before the machine rolled on top of him.
Another sound came to him now, high-pitched, frantic, urgent. It rose from the other passengers, and the sound was fear, the fear of violent death. Ryng remembered Admiral Pratt’s words just a few days before. “They’ve limited their attacks to military and purely industrial targets so far. But there’s been an increase in terrorism there lately. Don’t be surprised by anything.” So it was only the instant of recognition that surprised him. Bullets ripped into the forward section of the fuselage, and he accepted that fact. It was only logical they should get the cockpit, the crew.
