Counterforce

by Richard P. Henrick

  But forty-five minutes ago, Chuchkin had called together the twelve seamen who were assigned to the taiga and had chewed them out. Never had the seaman heard such words come from the previously goodnatured chief. After it was pounded into their ears what a bunch of idiots they were, the men were given their orders. Not only were they to repeat the same tasks that were concluded several hours before, but this time they were to scrub down the magazine with three times the effort! Balashikha knew that the military had strange ways, but this was too much.

  He had received the worst assignment of all-de greasing the launch tube sealant gaskets. Not only was the work boring, it soon got one covered from head to toe with foul-smelling, slimy grease. Even as a child, getting dirty had driven the fastidious Uzbek crazy. Not one to go sliding in the mud with his fellow playmates, he preferred to stay clean and dry. This was a delight to his mother, who always commented on what an easy child he was to raise.

  He would never forget how she broke out in tears when he had received the orders sending him to Sevastopol. Father took it all in stride.

  Having served in the navy himself, he promised his son that the three years would go all too quickly. Wait till he visited his first exotic port — that would make the training all worth it.

  Neither father nor son could have foreseen that Valeri would receive duty aboard a missile-toting submarine. In a way, the assignment was a compliment.

  Only the most intelligent and promising conscripts were trained for the undersea service.

  Certainly, the job was of extreme importance, but it would bring them to no foreign ports. Submerged beneath the sea for months on end, the submariner learned to share what little vacant space there was with one hundred and thirty-two fellow sailors.

  After a while, this crowd got on Balashikha’s nerves. He was even forced to share his own bunk.

  The Siberian who was presently using the mattress was a foul-smelling creature. Raised on goat’s milk and venison, he apparently didn’t know what it was to shower or wash one’s uniform. The odor wasn’t very conducive to a sound sleep.

  Valeri had completed servicing eight of the sixteen missile tubes. The thick, black grease had already spotted his clothing and gotten under his fingernails.

  Though he had another eight tubes to go, he stopped to wipe his hands clean for some temporary relief.

  He sought some solvent and a clean rag from the storage closet in the taiga’s rearmost corner. It was unlikely that anyone else would be there. Still, he feared the possibility of bumping into Chief Chuchkin. In his current mood, there was no telling what he’d do to Valeri if he caught him there.

  The cool, creamy solvent effectively stripped the grease from his hands. Feeling like a new person, Valeri went on to find a clean rag.

  As he reluctantly prepared to return to the launch tubes, he heard someone approaching. Alertly, he hid behind the door and cautiously peeked through the crack to see who it was. He was totally surprised to find the quickly moving figure of which man Stefan Kuzmin.

  The blond-haired warrant officer was known to be quite personable, although Valeri had had little contact with him. Seeing the which man here was shocking, but not because it was a part of the ship restricted to those who worked there. Rather, it had to do with the recent announcement by the senior lieutenant. An unusual broadcast had informed the crew that both the which man and their captain were being quarantined with infectious hepatitis — an extremely contagious liver disease.

  If this was the case, what was Stefan Kuzmin doing here in the taiga?

  Valeri could think of only one thing:

  Somehow, the which man had escaped his voluntary confinement and was wandering through the ship completely delirious with fever.

  Fearful for his health, Valeri Balashikha instinctively held his breath. He peeked out to make certain that the warrant officer had passed, then sprinted toward the intercom. The seaman third class exhaled only after making certain that the Vulkan’s senior lieutenant was personally on the other end of the line.

  Chapter Twelve

  “All stop! Callahan, she’s all yours.”

  Michael Cooksey’s orders barked out loud and clear. In response, the Triton’s propulsion shaft came to a halt and the sub glided forward in almost total silence. The sonar officer took advantage of this quiet to fully concentrate on the vessel’s sensors.

  The sub was using a tactic called sprint and drift. In order to cover as much territory as possible, the sub would sprint at all-out flank speed for a period of time. Then the captain would call for the engines to halt and the drift portion of the operation would begin.

  Because the sound of their own engines would be absent, it was at this time that the sensor operators would have their best chance of picking up the signatures of any nearby bogeys.

  As Charlie Callahan and his two assistants leaned over their monitor screens, the captain and his XO positioned themselves behind the brass railing set to the rear of the sonar station. Both officers looked on as the head phoned sensor operators activated the tools of their trade.

  These included a wide array of powerful hydrophones mounted on the ship’s hull.

  Such sensitive microphones could pick up the most minute sounds, from the click of a tiny crab to the mournful cry of a passing whale. In the midst of the ocean’s natural symphony, the relatively loud, alien noise produced by a manmade device was hard to miss. Callahan and his crew also had the use of a towed array sled that was reeled out from the Triton’s stern.

  This not only carried hydrophones, but also a thermometer capable of determining unnatural changes in the ocean’s temperature. Such an anomaly would be produced when a passing sub stirred up a layer of water from a different depth. This could be of extreme significance, since the temperature of seawater drops at least one degree centigrade with each meter of depth.

  Also in front of the men was a large glass screen belonging to the ship’s BQQ-5 active sonar system. Mounted in the sub’s bow, it transmitted a concentrated acoustic pulse into the surrounding waters.

  In the headphones, this pulse was recognizable as a quavering note, followed by the distinctive plink of a returning echo. The presence of any alien object crossing in the path of the surge would be instantly reflected back to the operator. One of the drawbacks to this device was that the hunted can detect an active sonar transmission earlier than the hunter can pick up the target.

  Aware of each passing minute, Cooksey studied the sensor crew at work and stirred impatiently. Beside him, Richard Craig pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped a line of sweat from his forehead.

  Both men looked on hopefully when Callahan suddenly bent forward and pushed his headphones closer to his ears.

  “I’ve got one of the task force’s choppers, Captain!

  The signal from the interface with the Ticonderoga is weak, but it sounds as if their dunking hydrophones have tagged something.”

  “Have the computer boost the signal to maximum and filter the resulting distortion. Then maybe we’ll have something to run a signature I.D. on,” ordered the captain. He then turned to address the Triton’s navigator.

  “Smitty, how far are we from the Ticonderoga now?”

  Chief Petty Officer Warren Smith looked at his plotting table and said, “They’re approximately eight-five nautical miles to the northeast, sir.”

  As Cooksey chewed this over, Callahan spoke out excitedly.

  “I’ve made the boost and Big Brother has been most cooperative. It’s a bogey submersible, all right! Jesus — even from this distance you can hear it churnin’ up the water something fierce. Still waiting on that positive I.D.” sir.”

  Cooksey reached out to put on an auxiliary set of headphones. It didn’t take him long to pick out the characteristic hissing sounds produced by a myriad of collapsing air bubbles generated at the swirling tip of a submarine’s propeller. Cooksey managed a relieved smile as he pulled oft the headphones and handed them to his XO.

&
nbsp; “We’ve got the bastard. Rich! I just know it’s that Delta.”

  The exec put the phones to his ears and heard the alien racket for himself.

  “Whatever it is, it sure has a bone in its teeth. What’s next.

  Skipper?”

  Cooksey’s eyes remained locked on the computer monitor screen as he replied, “First, we wait for a definite verification indicating that we’ve tagged the right sub. Then, we’ll a need a targeting solution.

  We’re well within range of that new ASW/SOW device. I’d like to get close enough to them to use our active sonar.”

  “But won’t our ping give us away?” the XO asked.

  “That’s the way I want it. Rich. It’s time to let that Soviet captain know he’s been tagged. Maybe then he’ll have serious thoughts about continuing with this madness.”

  A full minute of silence had passed when the computer monitor unexpectedly flashed to life. All eyes were on the green-tinted screen as it printed out the following:

  Sound I.D.: tip-vortex cavitation Source: dual propeller shafts powered by pressurized water reactor (60,000 slip.) Origin: Seventy-six percent probability. Soviet Delta Illclass submarine.

  “I knew it!” Cooksey said, and playfully patted the back of the redheaded petty officer seated before him.

  “Good job, Callahan. Let me know when we’re within range to hit them with active.”

  Turning from the sonar console, the captain addressed his exec.

  “Let’s move it. Rich. All ahead flank to intercept point. I’ll take care of getting Mr. Spencer and his gang ready.”

  By the time Cooksey had moved to pick up the intercom handset, the Triton was already reawakening.

  The distant groan of the sub’s propulsion unit was followed by a noticeable surge of forward movement.

  Steadying himself against the bulkhead, Cooksey spoke crisply into the intercom.

  “Mr. Spencer, this is the captain. It’s time for your bunch to earn their keep. Ready that ASW/SOW in number one tube. You’d better load two Mark-48 AD CAPS for good measure. Do you still have that MOSS decoy available? … Good, we just might need it. Hold tight and well be getting you a targeting solution. This is finally going to be a real one. Lieutenant. Good shooting!”

  The captain disconnected the line and turned to watch the control room’s staff in action. Confident of their abilities, he crossed over to the plotting board.

  Now would begin the complex process of stalking their prey. Compass and ruler in hand, Cooksey drew up an intricate topographical cross-section of the southernmost section of the Emperor Seamount Chain.

  Cruising in the waters to the immediate north of the USS Triton, the Vulkan plunged ever eastward.

  From the sub’s missile compartment, the roar of its twin-shafted engines echoed with a persistent whine.

  Oblivious to the racket, Stefan Kuzmin carefully crossed the taiga’s length. He didn’t stop until he reached the room’s rearmost corner.

  Here, situated beside launch tube number one, was the steel-plated electrical box that he sought. Six screws held the galvanized cover that protected the firecontrol system’s fragile interior components.

  To remove them, the warrant officer needed a screwdriver that he hoped to appropriate from a tool box in an adjoining storage space.

  Kuzmin’s head pounded with a continuous, throbbing ache as he peered into the storage space and found no tool box. Cursing the missile crew’s incompetence, he began searching for it elsewhere. Though he never did find the box itself, he eventually located a tool that would do the job.

  The task of removing the screws took longer than he would have liked.

  Plagued by a shaky, sweat stained hand, the which man did his best to concentrate on the job. He had to kneel down to get to the pair of screws that were placed on the cover’s bottom.

  Not only did his bruised body hurt from the aftereffects of his fight with the senior lieutenant, the concussion he had suffered was causing blurred and double-vision. To compensate, he did his best to keep the head of the screwdriver steady with touch alone.

  An eternity seemed to pass before the bottom two screws were finally removed. Standing up to reach the other four, he found himself swept by waves of nausea and dizziness. Flushed and lightheaded, Kuzmin struggled to remain standing with a superhuman effort. Slowly, he regathered his composure.

  Pushed onward by the overriding importance of his present mission, he did his best to get back to work.

  With Petyr Valenko’s apocalyptic warning still ringing in his ears, the which man successfully removed the two screws that bolted down the cover’s sides. Only the top two remained. He was well on his way to pulling one of these out, when the screwdriver popped out of his wet grasp.

  “Damn it!” Kuzmin was once more forced to kneel down to find the errant instrument. Again he was possessed by a wave of dizziness as he dropped to his hands and knees. With sweat rolling down his forehead in thick waves, he searched the floor in vain.

  “For the sakes of Galina and Nikolai, you’ve got to be down here somewhere!” he pleaded as he groped about like a blind man.

  Frustrated, tired, his body racked with discomfort, Kuzmin momentarily halted his frantic pursuit when the sound of footsteps echoed in the distance. Desperately now, he turned to search the floor beside the launch silo — and found his fallen tool. Without hesitation he rose to complete his task. Fortunately the dizziness was gone, and Kuzmin soon found himself with one screw to go. He angled the tip of the screwdriver into the screw’s head and was in the process of twisting it loose, when the bright beam of a flashlight cut through the darkness.

  This was followed by the zampolit’s strained voice.

  “Comrade Kuzmin, please show yourself! We know that you are here. You must stop this foolishness at once!”

  Frantically, Kuzmin hurried to remove the last obstacle, but his shaking hand slowed him considerably.

  As he struggled for inner control, the sharp voice of Vasili Leonov rang out behind him.

  “There he is — behind number one! He’s at the firecontrol panel!”

  Realizing that he wouldn’t have time to finish, the which man ducked for cover behind the missile tube.

  Squeezing himself down the narrow metal catwalk between the silos and the hull, he tried to lead his pursuers away. He made it nearly halfway down the compartment’s length before a flashlight beam caught him in the back.

  “Comrade, he’s up by number four!” Leonov shouted, and then proceeded to follow the same precarious route that the which man had taken.

  Sensing his pursuit, Kuzmin turned for the central catwalk that lay before the fourth and fifth tubes. He reached this walkway just as the beam of a flashlight caught him full in the eyes. Temporarily blinded, he stumbled back toward the rear of the compartment.

  “Hold it there, Kuzmin,” called the zampolit.

  “My aim is most unerring!”

  As if to emphasize the warning, Kuzmin heard the distinctive click of a pistol’s hammer being cocked.

  Reluctantly, he halted beside the second tube.

  By the time he had regained his breath, both the political officer and the senior lieutenant stood before him, gloating.

  “Good try,” Novikov observed wryly.

  “But I guess that you just didn’t have it in you. Now, prepare to die, fool.”

  Slowly, deliberately, the zampolit raised the short barrel of the compact pistol. Conceding his untimely death, the which man sighed.

  He faced his executioner, unflinchingly, when suddenly the compartment was filled with a firm, deep voice.

  “What the hell is going on here?” boomed Yuri Chuchkin as he ducked into the compartment from its rear hatchway. He saw the bruised which man and the two officers who faced him, and said incredulously, “Are you mad. Comrade? Put that pistol down at once! An errant bullet down here can sink us in the blink of an eye!”

  Cognizant of the truth of the chief’s warning, Novikov lo
wered the pistol and handed it to Vasili Leonov.

  “Now, will someone kindly tell me what the meaning of all this is?” the astounded chief asked.

  Novikov attempted an explanation.

  “Thank goodness that you got down here to assist us. Comrade Chuchkin.

  We were just going to call for help. As we announced earlier, the which man here is the victim of a horrible fever. So crazed is he that, when we found him, he was in the process of sabotaging the firecontrol system.”

  A look of doubt crossed the chief’s face as he hastily scanned Kuzmin’s blank expression, then turned to check out the firecontrol panel. It didn’t take him long to spot the loose screws lying on the floor.

  “Is this the truth, Stefan?” the chief said incredulously.

  The warrant officer responded with defiance.

  “Yes, Yuri — I was trying to disable the launch system, but I wasn’t prompted by any ridiculous fever. It was from our Captain’s own mouth that the orders sending me on this desperate task originated.

  The Vulkan has been the subject of a mutiny, my friend. The two men who stand before us want nothing else but to use our SS-N-18s to initiate World War III!”

  “Oh, come now. Comrade Kuzmin,” the zampolit interrupted.

  “Please spare us any more of your twisted fantasies. Do you have any doubts. Chief, that what you are hearing is the product of a sick, feverish mind?”

  Chuchkin looked again into the which man bloodshot eyes and silently implored his old friend for some kind of reassurance.

  “I must admit that this is a most bewildering predicament. I’m afraid only one man aboard can sort this thing out. It is imperative that I be allowed to speak with the Captain.”

  This time it was the senior lieutenant who responded.

  “That is an impossible request. Chief. You heard my announcement earlier. Our esteemed Captain is in no shape for idle conversations.

  Right now, he’s fighting for his very life. As is my duty, I am in command here. So, without further delay, you will please give us a hand in restraining our poor which man That is, unless you’re afraid of catching the virulent, infectious strain that he presently carries.”