“Patrick Carrigan, I’d like you to meet General Secretary Rodin.” The two nodded leadenly toward each other as Palmer continued.
“Pat here is my National Security Advisor. I think that he’d better take a look at this target list before we set up that conference call.”
Palmer handed his advisor the sheet of paper.
Carrigan remained standing while he read its contents and appeared shaken. His face was noticeably drained of color as he looked back at the President.
“Pretty scary stuff, huh Pat?” Palmer said calmly.
“In the spirit of openness and cooperation, the General Secretary has offered us this information. You are free to give it to the Pentagon and to take all necessary precautions — short of full civilian evacuation. One thing I don’t want on our hands is a public panic. As is the case in this entire crisis, information will be strictly on a need-to-know basis.”
Carrigan responded hesitantly.
“Sir, considering that the only major population center listed here is Los Angeles, shouldn’t we reconsider evacuation?
Even just a couple of hours’ notice could save millions of lives!”
“I don’t agree with you. Pat. We could lose that many just in the ensuing panic. I’ve studied all the civil defense manuals and have a pretty good grasp of the problems involved with crisis relocation. We’d need at least a week to properly evacuate the Los Angeles basin. A couple of hours isn’t going to make much of a difference.”
This observation was delivered in a flat, grim tone.
Palmer’s next words were more hopeful.
“Right now, I want all of us to put such thoughts out of our minds. We must instead concentrate on doing everything within our capabilities to stop the Vulkan from firing. We’re going to need a conference line opened between Kneecap, the Joint Chiefs and the Soviet PVO headquarters. Then, I’m going to want to talk with Admiral Miller. The ball is in Pacific Command’s court now. I’m counting on them to end this game with a single shot.”
Viktor Rodin watched the President’s advisor absorb these words, and could tell that he entertained a solution of a vastly different nature.
Like his own Stanislav Sorokin, the man most probably thought that a show of force would be a much better answer to their problem. Thankful to have Robert Palmer for his ally, the General Secretary wondered if his new friend would change his mind once the first of the warheads began dropping on American soil. His stomach soured and he struggled to wipe this line of thought from his consciousness.
Some 2,500 miles away from Kneecap, a Sikorsky SH-60B Seahawk helicopter soared over the Pacific.
From its central hatch window, Captain Michael Cooksey peered down at the ocean’s surface.
For the last hour, their course had been to the northwest, as they followed the Hawaiian Ridge up toward Midway Island. Cooksey knew these waters well, but not from this particular vantage point. They were passing over a handful of the tiny coral atolls from which the Ridge derived its name. Formed by volcanic activity millions of years ago, the Ridge stretched westward to merge with the Emperor Seamount Chain. Separating these two subterranean features was Midway itself.
So far, the flight had progressed smoothly. The crew of three had been quite courteous, staying mostly to themselves. That was fine as far as Cooksey was concerned. At the moment, he had plenty to think about.
The unexpected trip up from Kauai had happened so quickly that he needed the time alone to put his thoughts in order. His primary concern had been his hasty briefing with Admiral Miller. The Commander of the Third Fleet had seemed unusually tense as he told Cooksey the facts regarding the current crisis.
There was no doubting the seriousness of the situation, especially when the proper launch code had already been conveyed. That such a situation had come to pass did not really shock Cooksey. Having sailed aboard a missile-carrying vessel himself, he knew that the launch of a submarine-based nuclear warhead could be achieved with a minimum of obstacles.
This was unlike the release procedure that took place inside an ICBM launch capsule or a strategic bomber. Those delivery systems required the receipt of complex codes before a warhead’s triggering mechanism would work. The device that received this code was called a PAL, for Permissive Action Link. It insured that the weapon couldn’t be utilized without proper authorization from command.
While visiting a cousin assigned to Whiteman Air Force base in western Missouri, Cooksey had been given a tour of a Minuteman launch capsule.
Here he had seen the elaborate safeguard system at work. The process of releasing an ICBM was unbelievably complex.
Generally, each two-man launch crew was in charge of ten separate missile silos. When an Emergency Action message or launch order arrived, it had to be decoded and validated. It was then entered into the PAL. Once authorized, each officer would position himself before one of a pair of widely spaced keyholes.
The keys had to be turned simultaneously, eliminating the possibility of a launch by a single, renegade officer.
In contrast, missiles launched from submarines had no elaborate PAL devices. Because of the constraints caused by communications difficulties, they could be fired without specific go codes from command. All they needed was a single message informing them that a war alert existed. Then it was up to each individual captain to reconfirm that such a state indeed existed and to act accordingly.
Since the same communications restraints limited the Soviets, their submarine-launched missiles were most likely operated in a similar manner. If somehow a war alert had been conveyed to one of their Delta Illclass vessels, it was very possible that its skipper thought a nuclear conflict between the two superpowers existed. Whether by intention or accident, a failure to correct this mistake could lead to a most unpleasant outcome. Since the Soviets had so far failed in their efforts to reach the submarine, the U.S. Navy had been called in to do their dirty work.
Cooksey was surprised that the Russians had so openly asked for help.
It wasn’t every day that the General Secretary of the Soviet Union gave the United States his blessing to blow away one of their most sophisticated strategic platforms. Something must have occurred inside his own command chain that made contacting the sub an impossibility.
Cooksey was aware of a change in the steady pitch of the Seahawk’s rotors. Glancing outside, he saw that they were losing altitude. As he studied the rolling swells, he weighed the Triton’s chances of completing its mission.
He really didn’t think that locating the Soviet sub would be very difficult. Such ships were large and noisy. If they were where they were supposed to be, the Triton’s superior sensors would quickly track them down.
The element that was critical was the time factor.
The admiral had given him a rough idea as to when the Soviets were due to launch. Even with the Triton’s head start, they would have to proceed with their throttles wide open if they were going to have any chance of reaching the Vulkan in time.
He remembered that the Triton was now loaded with a new, experimental weapons system that effectively extended their range of attack to a full three hundred miles. The ASW/SOW device could prove crucial to their mission’s success.
A coordinated effort on the part of the carrier task force would aid them also. At last report, the John F. Kennedy and its escorts were steaming in from the waters northeast of Midway. Their choppers would soon be within range of the southern sector of the Emperor Seamount Chain. Here they would saturate the ocean with hundreds of sonobuoys. Assisted by ultra-sensitive dunking hydrophones and the ever probing magnetic ana moly detectors, the helicopters would radio news of a find back to the carrier. The Triton would then be informed and a proper kill initiated.
Though it all sounded relatively simple, Cooksey knew that it was an enormous task. If the Vulkan wasn’t where it was supposed to be, finding it could take days, or even weeks. And even if they were able to tag the sub, there was always the likely possibil
ity that a companion Alfa-attack vessel would be standing by to defend it.
Cooksey stirred restlessly as he recalled their last encounter. It wasn’t far from these very seas that the Alfa had shot under the task force at unheard of speeds. He would never forget his feeling of utter frustration as the Triton had tried in vain to pursue them, or his exasperation when they realized he didn’t even have a weapon capable of touching the Soviet attack sub.
Although not really certain of the Alpha’s offensive capabilities, Cooksey knew he was up against a potent adversary. The Triton would have to be kept in a state of constant alert to retain the advantage of surprise.
The next few hours proved to be most trying ones.
Thankful for a rested body and mind, Cooksey anxiously awaited the challenge. At long last, twenty years of intense study and endless practice exercises were about to be applied. He was feeling most confident that his crew and equipment were the best that the country had to offer when the pitch of the rotors again changed.
Cooksey turned at the sound of movement from behind him, and saw the Seahawk’s ATO go into action. The officer was attaching a transfer harness onto the thick, nylon winch cord. Aware of the captain’s interest, the airborne tactical officer asked, “Ever go for a ride in one of these little ladies, sir?”
“Not since basic,” Cooksey shouted over the din of the chopping rotors.
The ATO smiled.
“Well, you have nothing to worry about. Captain. We’ll set you down there as light as a feather.”
“I’m sure that you will,” Cooksey said as the helicopter began a wide-banked turn.
“This must be the place, sir,” the ATO observed.
“We’d better take a look.”
The young officer joined Cooksey at the sliding hatch window. Both men locked gazes on a surging sea that was clearly more turbulent than it had appeared from a higher altitude. White caps topped four-foot swells that constantly rolled in on long fingers from the northwest. They were only a few hundred feet above the surface now. Cooksey looked down expectantly. A full minute passed, when suddenly he saw a thin line of frothing white turbulence cutting through the green depths. Seconds later, he spotted the tip of a periscope.
He pointed it out to the ATO, who reached over and grabbed an intercom.
Once the pilot spotted it, the chopper descended still lower.
As the Seahawk made a series of wide-banking turns, Cooksey’s eyes remained locked on the sea.
Like finding an old friend who has been too-long absent, he watched breathlessly as the top edge of the sub’s sail became visible. Next, the sail’s two diving planes could be seen. The vessel seemed to remain at this depth for some time, the sail knifing smoothly through the water, when a torrent of crashing turbulence indicated a sudden change. In the blink of an eye, the rest of the three-hundred-sixty-foot-long vessel emerged. As a curl of seawater smashed over the Triton’s curved hull, Cooksey beamed with pride.
The intercom buzzed and the ATO answered it, then handed the receiver to Cooksey. The chopper pilot wished him luck, adding that fuel considerations demanded as quick a transfer as possible.
Cooksey thanked him for the lift, and then, with the ATO’s expert help, fitted on the shoulder harness.
Ready to initiate transfer, the hatch door was swung open and Cooksey was instructed to sit with his feet dangling outside as the chopper positioned itself above the waiting sub.
The sound of whirling rotors was considerably louder now, as the Seahawk continued to descend.
Cooksey saw that the Triton’s hatch cover had been removed, and two familiar khaki-clad figures were looking up. As he identified his XO and the massive physique of Chief Bartkowski, a wave of emotion swelled in his breast. Like a pilgrim whose long journey had finally brought him home, he muttered a simple prayer of thanks.
“See you around the golf course. Captain,” said the ATO as he began working the winch mechanism.
Cooksey flashed him a thumbs-up as the harness pulled tightly around his shoulder blades. Before he knew it, he was suspended outside the hovering chop per. Buffeted by the rotors’ powerful downdraft, he shielded his eyes and felt himself dropping.
The accuracy of the Seahawk’s crew was perfect-their first attempt brought Cooksey right to the open platform cut into the top of the sub.
The chief’s massive hands grabbed him securely as the XO hit the harness release lever. The strain on Cooksey’s shoulders was instantly relieved.
“Requesting permission to come aboard,” Cooksey said with a salute.
“Permission granted,” said Executive Officer Richard Craig. For a moment, the three of them watched the sleek, white SH-60B as it sped northeast with a roar.
“I just hope they make it back to the JFK” Cooksey said at last. “The way I figure it, those fuel tanks have got to be close to dry. Oh, and by the way Rich — congratulations, papa!”
The XO shook Cooksey’s outstretched hand.
“Thanks, Skipper. I kind of find it hard to believe myself.” “How’s Susan doing?” Cooksey asked.
“At last report she was all smiles, Skipper. Do you know that she waited to go into labor until we had pulled into Pearl? I even got to drive her to the hospital.”
“Sorry that we had to drag you away from your new family, but that’s the navy.”
The XO responded lightly.
“I’m fine now, knowing that everything turned out so well. You’re sure looking tanned and rested. Captain.”
“I haven’t felt this good in years. This was the first R-&-R that I really enjoyed in too long. Unfortunately all good things come to an end. What’s the status of the Triton, Chief?”
Pete Bartkowski, who had been scanning the sea before them, said, “All systems are operational. Captain.
Had time to take on a full load of supplies, and also a pair of newfangled, long-range ASW weapons.
Lieutenant Spencer has ‘em stowed away in the forward torpedo room.”
“I think that you’ll find some unfamiliar faces aboard. Skipper,” the XO added.
“Because of the sudden nature of our sailing orders, we had to grab a dozen noncoms off the Trigger fish. They’re fully competent and seem to have mixed in well with the rest of the crew. Are you going to be able to tell us what this mission is all about now? Our orders didn’t say much.”
Cooksey’s words flowed smoothly.
“Believe it or not, gentlemen, the Triton is going hunting for a Soviet Delta-class missile sub that is believed to be the victim of a mutiny.
We’ve been called in to eliminate this vessel — at the direct request of their General Secretary. I’ll be giving you all the sweet details during the meeting I’d like you to set up in the wardroom. Include all officers and senior chiefs. I’d like this to take place within the hour, so let’s get cracking. Will you take her down, Rich?”
“Aye-aye, Skipper,” the XO replied. But he couldn’t hide his astonishment at the captain’s revelations.
With a slight shiver, he picked up the intercom and punched in two digits.
“Mr. Lawrence, prepare to dive.”
Cooksey followed the bulky figure of Chief Bartkowski down the stairway into the sub’s interior.
The familiar hum of the Triton’s systems surrounded him as he ducked through a hatchway and emerged into the control room. As he examined the equipment packed compartment and watched its occupants in action, Cooksey knew that he had finally returned home. He watched the diving officer prepare to take them down into their natural element. Beside him sat the planes men perched alertly in leather-upholstered chairs, with the rubber steering yoke and plane control sticks well within reach.
Cooksey was scanning the consoles reserved for engineering, sonar, weapons and navigation, when a loud, raucous honk echoed twice. Richard Craig had already sealed the hatch and was in the process of taking a position beside the diving officer. Cooksey remained a detached observer as the diving console’s toggle switches
were triggered and a series of lights indicated that the valves were opening. Seconds later, the muffled roar of rushing water signaled that the ballast tanks had begun to Hood. The stern planes were activated and the Triton began to descend.
While the deck began angling downward, Cooksey made his way over to the navigation plotting table. He was in the midst of drawing up a detailed topographical cross-section of the southern portion of the Emperor Seamount Chain when the angle of their descent increased noticeably. Forced to hold onto the edge of the console to keep from falling over, he immediately knew that something out of the ordinary had occurred. Struggling to join his XO, his progress was forced to a halt when the bow began to nose down even more sharply. His thoughts flashed wildly: Had there been a mistake with the ballast calculations?
Perhaps the Triton hadn’t been sealed properly, and it was the weight of inrushing seawater that was dragging them down to the bottom. One thing he knew for certain was that a dive at this descent and speed would be fatal in a, matter of minutes.
Then he heard Richard Craig shout “Hard rise on the stern planes!”
Tense seconds passed, when slowly but surely, then-angle of descent lessened.
“Shut all vents!” the XO called out as he made certain that the proper switches were flicked.
Cooksey quickly strode to Craig’s side.
“Jesus, Rich, what the hell happened?”
It proved to be Dirk Lawrence, their diving officer, who offered an explanation.
“It appeared to be the planes men sir. I believe they overcompensated for the dive.”
To verify this, the three officers proceeded to the diving console.
Here they found the two seated seamen visibly shaken. The sweat-stained sailor sitting on the left turned his head and, with voice trembling, sheepishly said, “I’m sorry, sir, but the control stick of the Triggerfish has a completely different feel to it.”
“It’s my fault. Captain,” Dirk Lawrence said.
“As diving officer, I should have been watching them more closely. I’ve taken one of those Permit-class subs down myself and can vouch for the difference in plane pressure.”
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