Counterforce

by Richard P. Henrick

  Counterforce

  Richard P. Henrick

  Inside the world's most advanced submarine, Vulkan, a man holds a list of U.S. targets — each one will mean millions of casualties and a world thrown into nuclear chaos. Capt. Cooksey knows that his elusive prey can be brought down only one way-betrayal. Someone within the Russian hierarchy is about to give the Americans the one tool they need to stop the Vulkan.

  Richard P. Henrick

  Counterforce

  Counterforce — the nuclear war-fighting strategy of targeting an enemy’s military command posts and communications relay stations in order to make a retaliatory strike impossible.

  “I am convinced… that even one nuclear bomb dropped by one side over the other would result in a general nuclear exchange — a nuclear holocaust not only for our two nations, but the entire world….

  The starting of a nuclear war would spell annihilation for the aggressor himself.”

  — Former Soviet Premier Leonid Brezhnev

  “I call heaven and earth to witness this day, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing. Choose therefore life, that both thou and thy seed may live.”

  — Deuteronomy 30.19

  Chapter One

  A familiar, dreaded growl sounded up ahead, and Konstantin Belchenko instantly froze in midstep.

  Intently, he peered through the thick tree line to his left. For the first few seconds, all that he could make out were the shaggy white birch trunks. When the muted grunt repeated itself, Belchenko shifted his line of sight to the section of the wood directly before him.

  There he spotted the fully grown black bear, furiously flaying at the ground, approximately one hundred meters away.

  Aware of the creature’s great strength and unforgiving temper Belchenko respectfully kept his distance.

  Crouching behind a fallen tree trunk, he reached inside the pocket of his greatcoat and removed a compact pair of binoculars. Barely the length and width of his own hand, the powerful field glasses were of German origin. They hardly needed to be adjusted as he brought them to his eyes and focused on. the beast blocking his progress. Upon sighting a fist-sized patch of shocking white fur on the bear’s right haunch, Belchenko smiled.

  “Well, hello Pasha,” he whispered to the wind.

  “It seems that we are destined to meet once again.”

  It had been over two decades since Belchenko last set eyes on this particular creature. He would never forget that fateful morning, for he had just returned to these woods of his birth after a year’s stay in the jung led hell of Southeast Asia.

  How very different were his ponderings at that time. Still guided by the exuberant high hopes of youth, Belchenko had looked to the future with great anticipation. Little did he realize the obstacles that would all too soon strip him of his ambitions.

  Today, a more hardened, mature individual watched the huge bear with the white spot on his rump forage among the birches. Like a man reborn, Belchenko now looked at the world with a vision stripped of all illusion. Even nature’s basic realities took on a different perspective when viewed in this manner.

  One thing that did not change though, was his love for this forest in which he had been raised. The woods outside the small city of Penza were as unspoiled today as they had been over fifty years ago. It was then that his father had been given exclusive use of the stone dacha Belchenko currently occupied. Located 525 kilometers southeast of Moscow on the banks of the Sura River, the cottage served as a welcome second home. Here the great tensions generated in the capital city could be temporarily appeased.

  Belchenko had been there for almost a month now.

  Sent packing from the Kremlin on the insistence of his doctor, the sixty-four-year-old bureaucrat had spent the first two weeks in bed, convalescing from a lung infection that had haunted him all summer. The rest, pure air and hearty country food that his nurse Katrina had prepared for him had certainly done the trick. Already his strength and vitality were returning.

  For the past week, he had even felt good enough to begin hiking once again.

  Well over six feet tall, Belchenko prided himself on his tight stomach and long, slender legs. As a youth, he had enjoyed walking for hours on end. As the gray began painting his ever-receding hairline, his jaunts had gradually decreased in length. Since his sickness he had felt fortunate just to be able to sit outside on a bench in Gorky Park.

  Belchenko didn’t realize how much he missed his hikes until he had resumed them during the past week. Chancing upon the bear this morning was merely an added bonus. Just to wander the thick birch wood, far from the encroaching cries of humanity, was gift enough.

  Above him a raven cried harshly, and Belchenko lowered his binoculars to look upward. Here, a small patch of bright blue sky was barely visible, the rest was blotted out by the tall, solid stand of trees. A cooling breeze swept through the forest and the slender trunks swayed in unison like the masts of a fleet of sailing ships. A shower of leaves cascaded from the upper boughs, and once more he was aware of the passing season. The first stirrings of fall were already in the air. Soon the icy winter winds would be upon them. Already the nights were conducive to a roaring fireplace. It wouldn’t be long before the hearth would be blazing twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

  Shivering with this thought, Konstantin placed the binoculars back in his pocket and pulled the coat’s woolen collar up over his neck.

  Angling his line of sight back into the woods, he was just able to catch a glimpse of the bear as it ambled off in the opposite direction.

  “Goodbye old-timer, until next time,” the grayhaired bureaucrat offered softly.

  “May your hibernation be sound and peaceful.”

  Aware of the hour, Belchenko turned to retrace the narrow trail that led back to the dacha. With a full, strong stride he proceeded down the dirt footpath, conscious of the endless stands of white birch surrounding him on all sides. A covey of fat quail shot into the air on his right. This unexpected movement was followed by the sudden appearance of a large gray rabbit. Bounding by him in a burst of startled speed, the hare quickly disappeared into the underbrush.

  Feeling younger and more energetic than he had in years, Konstantin Belchenko, First Deputy Director of the KGB, pushed himself homeward.

  With lips tightly puckered, he whistled a spirited folk tune his mother used to sing to him when he was a boy. Even though he hadn’t heard the tune in years, the melody instantly came back to him. After repeating the song several times over, he rounded a broad bend and began climbing a steep hill. Halfway up the incline, he stopped whistling. By the time he had reached the summit, a thick line of sweat painted his brow.

  With lungs wheezing for air, he halted and spat up a wad of viscous white mucus A sharp pain pierced the lower left portion of his ribcage.

  Sobered by the gnawing spasm, Belchenko was abruptly brought back to reality. Cognizant of the fact that his ailment was still painfully present, he took a moment to regain his breath before starting on again.

  The nearby rumbling of cascading waters helped to settle him down.

  Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he looked out to a scene that calmed him like a strong tonic. Beyond, less than two kilometers distant, was the Sura. Its bubbling blue waters smacked white upon the huge boulders that shaped this portion of the mighty current. Spanning this band of water was a narrow suspension bridge. Barely able to accommodate a single vehicle, the bridge was connected to the opposite bank by a crude earthen roadway. Following this road for another kilometer, Belchenko could just make out the gabled wooden roof of his dacha. A thin ribbon of smoke could be seen rising from the cottage’s chimney; Katrina was already preparing for this afternoon’s guests.

 
Gradually, the pain in his left side subsided. Only a few weeks ago this spasm had been his constant companion for hours on end. Surely its quick abatement today meant that he was well on his way to total health. Chastising himself for hiking a bit too far, Belchenko knew that he couldn’t afford to get sick again. In the weeks that would follow, his physical well-being had to be assured. The very destiny of the Motherland would depend on his complete awareness.

  Merely contemplating the daring plan caused goose bumps to form on his forearms. He’d show those foolish youngsters in Moscow what true leadership was all about! To think that they’d been so totally deaf to his cries for action. After all, what did they know about the teachings of history? Too young to have even fought in the Great War, Viktor Rodin and his followers didn’t know the first thing about real struggle. And to think that this spineless idiot was actually serious in his desire to parley with the imperialists!

  Didn’t the General Secretary realize that the capitalists were their sworn enemies? How could anyone in his right mind trust a system whose very survival depended upon decadent greed?

  Ever thankful for the invaluable assistance of his two allies, Belchenko knew they’d have just a single chance to stop Rodin before the traitor sold them out completely.

  In the next several weeks the plot would be finalized — there would be no time for sickness. Breathing in a deep lungful of crisp, cool air, Belchenko felt his strength return. He made a mental note to limit his future hikes to reasonable distances. Surely this personal sacrifice would pay off handsomely in the long run. In the new world order that would follow, the true principles of Lenin could at long last be applied.

  Freed from class struggle, the earth’s population would finally be allowed to coexist in a society of perfect equality.

  Well aware that the first steps to this achievement were already being set into action, Belchenko pushed on. There were still friends to greet and plans to finalize. With fluid, careful steps, the first deputy proceeded down the path leading to the Sura.

  The sun was directly overhead when Belchenko arrived back at his dacha.

  As it turned out, he had no time to spare, for just as he entered the courtyard leading to the cottage, the chopping sound of a helicopter’s rotor blades sounded in the near distance.

  Shading his eyes from the sun’s glare, Belchenko looked up and spotted a large vehicle approaching from the northwest. It took only seconds to identify it as a Mil Mi-8 utility chopper. Painted dark green, the helicopter featured a squat, elongated fuselage sporting seven prominent portholes. Beside the last observation window was a red, five-pointed star.

  Belchenko was conscious of the powerful downdraft created by the whirling, five-bladed rotor as the Mi-8 circled above the large clearing to the immediate west of the courtyard. Rubbing the debris-blown dust from his eyes, he glanced away as the chopper hovered and slowly descended. The rotors were already spinning to a halt when he crossed through the hedge that enclosed the courtyard.

  Cautiously, he looked up in time to see the door, set behind the pilot’s side window, pop open. First out the doorway was a smartly uniformed army guard.

  With eyes set rigidly forward, the young officer snapped a smart salute as a stout, blue-suited individual followed him from the cockpit.

  Belchenko couldn’t help but grin as he took in the familiar mane of unruly white hair and ruddy red face.

  Admiral of the Fleet Stanislav Sorokin had been a close friend of Belchenko’s for the past forty years.

  They had fought together in the Great War. Afterward, they shared a mutual talent for self-preservation while assigned to military intelligence under the watchful, paranoid eye of Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria.

  While Belchenko had continued on with intelligence, Sorokin had applied his considerable talent in a much different direction. Sorokin had been instrumental in the creation of the modern Soviet Navy. From a mere coastal fleet of a few hundred flimsy vessels to a powerful armada second to none, the Soviet Navy could extend its influence on any sea it chose. Sorokin’s vision and perseverance had made this dream possible.

  Following the portly admiral out of the Mi-8 was the pencil thin, black-suited figure of Politburo member Pavel Zavenyagin. With his ever-present briefcase at his side, Zavenyagin seemed grateful to reach solid ground. He seemed even more fragile than he had appeared last month. Almost completely bald, the thin-boned bureaucrat sported a drooping gray mustache, thick bushy eyebrows and a pair of black, beady eyes. Appearing as if a good wind would blow him away, Zavenyagin seemed insignificant beside the flamboyant admiral. In reality, his position in the Kremlin made him one of the most powerful figures in the world.

  Belchenko met his two illustrious guests with a hearty hug and a warm smile.

  “Welcome to Penza, Comrades. I trust your flight was a smooth one.”

  “That it was. Comrade,” returned the deep bass voice of the admiral.

  “My only complaint was that they ran out of vodka and herring much too quickly.”

  “Well, you have nothing to fear here, old friend.

  I’m certain that you’ll find my dacha well stocked for your convenience.”

  Accepting Sorokin’s nod of approval, Belchenko noticed that his companion was looking a bit peaked.

  “What’s the matter. Comrade Zavenyagin? Are you not feeling well?”

  Zavenyagin meekly caught his host’s glance.

  “It’s nothing. Comrade. I get this way every time I fly. I’ll be feeling as good as new in a half-hour or so.”

  “I know what you’re going through,” Belchenko said.

  “I get the same feeling when I travel by sea.

  Stanislav, do you remember that winter storm we plowed through in the North Sea, back in ‘41? I could have sworn that I was going to vomit out my small intestine.”

  “Don’t tell me that you call that little shower a storm, old friend,” the admiral responded with a playful wink.

  “You should have seen some of the seas that I have crossed in nothing larger than a trawler.

  The trouble with you two is that you don’t know how to properly pacify your stomachs. Try a little vodka and herring next time. That combination never fails to calm the nerves.”

  Catching Zavenyagin’s nauseous wince, Belchenko beckoned to his guests to follow him toward the dacha. As the three passed by the hedge and entered the courtyard, the admiral said, “You’re certainly looking fit, Konstantin. How have you been feeling since we last saw each other?”

  In answer Belchenko pointed toward a freshly cut cord of birch logs neatly stacked beside the inner fence.

  “I felled the trees myself. I tell you, Stanislav, I feel like a totally new man.”

  Examining the line of squarely cut logs, the admiral appreciatively scratched his chin.

  “Now that’s more like the Belchenko I knew in the old days. I was certain you’d lick that infection sooner or later.”

  “Just be careful you don’t overexert yourself,” Zavenyagin cautioned.

  “Less than four weeks ago you were flat on your back with a dangerously high fever. We can’t afford to lose you now.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing earlier,” Belchenko said with a sigh.

  “Perhaps I have been pressing myself these past few weeks, but that just speaks for how well I’ve been feeling lately. I promise to take extra good care of myself until the operation has been concluded.

  Speaking of the devil, let’s proceed indoors.

  I’ve got some exciting news to tell you.”

  Ten minutes later, the three men were seated in high-backed, red leather chairs, surrounded by the intimate furnishings of Belchenko’s well-stocked library.

  Before them, the fireplace crackled, alive with smoke and flame. A delicate silver serving tray was set up beside the hearth. On its glass surface were a crystal decanter filled with vodka, a samovar of sweetened tea, and a platter of thickly sliced black bread, topped with a mixture of herring fillets,
sour cream and chopped onions. Stanislav Sorokin was already on his second helping of both herring and vodka, while Pavel Zavenyagin sipped contentedly on a cup of tea. It proved to be their host who initiated the conversation.

  “What is the latest news from Moscow, Comrades?”

  “As if you didn’t know already,” the admiral commented with a wink.

  “Events are plodding along just as we expected. I imagine you heard that our esteemed General Secretary recently welcomed a U.S. trade delegation of over two dozen ‘accredited’ individuals.

  Doesn’t Rodin realize that they’re nothing but a bunch of CIA spies?”

  Zavenyagin sat forward on the edge of his chair.

  “Yesterday we received the production results from the quarter just completed. For the first time in this century, consumer goods show a healthy increase while military output continues to drop. There is talk on the street that the average citizen is most happy with the bevy of television sets, radios, washers, driers and automobiles now readily available on the open market.”

  “If the fools only realized they were signing their own death warrants,” Belchenko commented dryly.

  “The imperialists will take this opportunity to flood our markets with their decadent goods. Infected by the greed of possession, our people will soon lose sight of their socialist direction.”

  “This drop in military outlay has me greatly concerned,” the admiral offered between bites of herring.

  “Just when the Motherland had finally achieved a position of unquestionable superiority, Rodin comes along and negates our advances with a single blow.

  While we are drowning in consumer goods the West will continue its huge military expenditures until parity is eventually achieved. Our past sacrifices will mean nothing!”

  “What is the mood of the Politburo these days, Pavel?” Belchenko asked.

  Setting down his tea cup, Zavenyagin’s brow tensed.