The chief took several steps forward, putting him almost opposite Kuzmin. He examined his shipmate and had to admit that he looked far from normal.
Not only was he slovenly dressed and unusually dirty, but there could be no ignoring the thick patches of sweat that stained his shirt and still dripped from his forehead. The warrant officer did appear sick, yet could even a fevered delirium prompt him to take such a grave action as attempting to disrupt their launch-control system? He responded accordingly.
“I’m in no way doubting your authority, Comrade Leonov, but because of the serious nature of this disturbance, I would still like to see the Captain, no matter how ill he may be.”
Novikov’s face reddened with anger. Before he could voice his displeasure, the compartment filled with the dreaded sound of a loud, hollow ping.
“It must be the Americans!” Leonov cried.
“We’ve been found!”
Making the most of this moment of shocked stillness, Kuzmin snapped into action. Though he hated to do it, he reached over and, after grabbing hold of Chuchkin’s left arm, swung the portly chief into the path of his two adversaries. The resulting chaos was all that he needed to sprint the dozen meters that separated him from the firecontrol panel. With his bare hand, he began stripping the already-loosened remaining screw. After a few turns it popped free, and with eager hands he went to rip off the metal cover plate. Just as he wrenched it free from its base, a stabbing pain thudded into his back and sent him tumbling to his knees. As the plate he had been holding crashed to the floor, he looked back over his right shoulder and saw the ornate hilt of the zampolit’s carving knife protruding from his rib cage.
Even as his life force streamed from him, Kuzmin reached up in a last attempt to get to the now exposed circuitry. Inches away from his goal, a searing pain forced his hand downward. As he vainly fought the black, spinning veil that rose in his consciousness, his inner sight began focusing on a magnificent glowing light brighter than any he had ever seen before. He only surrendered to its shimmering radiance after identifying the voice that called him homeward. With a longing smile, he went to his final sleep picturing the angelic face of his beloved Galina.
“We’ve got a return, Captain! We’ve got them!”
From the opposite end of the control room, Cooksey looked up from the plotting table and shouted, “Give us a range, Callahan.”
“Bearing, three-four-zero, sir. Range, six-three nautical miles.”
Cooksey reached out and marked the spot with red grease pencil on the map’s glass projection screen.
“Shall we launch the SOW device. Skipper?” his XO asked.
With his eyes still locked on the map, Cooksey said, “Let’s give them another minute to change their course. Rich. They know we’re out here now. If they have any second thoughts at all, now’s the time to express them.”
The sixty seconds passed like an eternity for Cooksey. Surprised to find himself hesitant to give the order to send the Soviet sub crew to their deaths, he remembered the admiral’s firm reply when he had asked Miller what they were to do once the Delta was tagged.
“Blow them away,” the admiral had ordered, just as if a state of war indeed existed. With this directive in mind, Cooksey said, “Mr. Callahan, ping them again and give us a course update.”
Callahan triggered the active sonar unit, and once more a powerful pulse of acoustic energy streamed from the Triton’s bow.
“Course remains due east, Captain. Range extended to six-five nautical miles.”
Cooksey turned to face his XO.
“Let’s rub them out, Rich. Get me Spencer on the phone.”
The exec picked up the handset on his left and activated it. When he was certain that the proper party was on the other end of the line, he handed the receiver to the captain.
“Mr. Spencer, prepare a final targeting solution-sonar has got the coordinates,” Cooksey said grimly.
“Let’s see what that newfangled weapon we took on is made of.”
To this, the weapon’s officer responded apologetically, “I’m afraid that’s going to be impossible at the moment. Captain. We’re showing a failure in the SOW device’s acoustic array system. We’ve got it pulled apart and are checking it now.” “I should have expected that,” Cooksey said.
“This new stuff is too damn complicated. Ready a pair of old’-fashioned Mark-48 Advanced Capability torpedoes. The targeting angle is good and I don’t foresee any outside difficulties.”
But, from the sonar console across the room, Callahan shouted, “Captain, we’ve got ourselves another bogey, bearing zero-one-zero.
Relative range roughly seven-eight hundred yards. I believe I heard torpedo doors opening! Where in the hell did they come from?”
“It’s the Alfa!” Cooksey cried. He spoke rapidly into the receiver he still held.
“Mr. Spencer, belay those launch orders. I hope to God you’ve still got that Mk-70 loaded. Prepare the stern tubes and stand by for action.”
Then Cooksey put down the handset and barked, “Rich, sound General Quarters. Mr. Lawrence, take us down, crash dive! Engineering, I want flank speed!”
Sharp tones sounded throughout the Triton, sending the crew scurrying to their action stations as the sub’s planes bit into the surrounding water. Their angle of descent increased sharply, sending the vessel plummeting downward as the crew did their best to brace themselves.
With a tight grip on the plotting board to keep his balance, Cooksey watched his men struggle to remain at work and prayed that his desperate maneuver was successful. As his compass and ruler slid off the table and fell to the deck, he mentally calculated the odds and knew that they were far from being in his favor.
Only seconds before, they had been on the attack.
Now they were running for their lives.
Captain Grigori Dzerzhinsky, of the Alfa-class attack sub Cheka, beamed with delight as his senior lieutenant informed him of their target’s hasty dive.
As if this pathetic move would save them, Dzerzhinsky mused while relishing his moment of supreme power. Feeling like a cat playing with a doomed mouse, he watched his men — seated alertly at their stations — anxiously awaiting his next command.
Dzerzhinsky was aware that time was on their side. The longer they could keep the Americans running, the closer the Vulkan would be to its final launch position. Of course, destroying the imperialist vessel would be the easiest way to remove this final obstacle. He was in the midst of deciding which weapon he would use to finish them off, when a dreaded, familiar voice sounded from behind.
“Whatever is the matter, Captain? What is the meaning of this delay in eliminating the Yankee attack sub?”
The zampolit’s concerned words did little to arouse the captain.
“Perhaps you would like to take command of the Cheka, Comrade Karpovich. Let’s see how you would handle the attack.”
Dzerzhinsky watched with disgust as the pasty skinned political officer nuzzled up beside him.
“I only wish that I were more fully trained to do so, Captain. Shouldn’t we at least be continuing our pursuit? Even the men are confused by our present inaction.”
“That’s funny, I haven’t heard a complaint yet,” Dzerzhinsky said as he calmly looked at his watch.
Frustrated by the captain’s restraint, Boris Karpovich nervously asked, “At least tell me why you didn’t release the torpedoes when we had them dead in our sights.”
Dzerzhinsky realized that the whining political officer would pester him endlessly until his curiosity was satisfied.
“Comrade Karpovich, if the Americans had remained stationary for ten more seconds, they would no longer be a concern for us. Their sudden crash dive has forced me to drastically change our attack plan. No use wasting two homing torpedoes that would only get lost in the swirling clutter produced by their emergency descent.”
“But won’t we certainly lose then now?” continued the tense zampolit.
“Li
ghten up. Comrade,” the Captain responded.
“Must you always worry so? If you’d only trust in my ability, you’d soon find out that we’re only waiting for the water to clear before going down to finish them off. They aren’t going anywhere that we can’t reach them.”
Karpovich wiped his soaked forehead with a crumpled handkerchief.
“For a second there, I actually thought that you were letting the Americans go free.”
“Now why in the world would you think that, Comrade?” the captain asked with a puzzled frown.
The political officer wiped his sweaty neck.
“I guess I’m just getting to be a paranoid old tool, Captain. The operation is so close to it’s completion that I just can’t bare to see something go wrong now.”
“Well, you’d better learn to relax. Comrade, or we’ll be picking you up from the deck after a heart attack someday. Just think — then you’d never see the new world order take shape.”
Without excusing himself, Dzerzhinsky walked over to the sensor console. There, seated beside the two regular operators, was Senior Lieutenant Vadim Nikulin. With headphones clamped securely over his shiny bald skull, Nikulin was concentrating on the sonar monitor when the captain nudged his arm.
“Well Vadim, what do our Yankee friends have to say for themselves?”
The senior lieutenant pushed back his headset and said, “They certainly left a knuckle in the water when they initiated that crash dive.
Captain. Never before have I witnessed such a speedy descent.”
“Their commanding officer’s a sharp one all right,” Dzerzhinsky agreed.
“A good captain trains his crew to be an extension of himself.
Unfortunately, there are some situations from which even the most skillful of crews cannot extricate themselves. Shall we go down and teach our nosy friends a lesson?”
Nikulin’s eyes narrowed as the fat figure of the zampolit squeezed up beside the captain.
Dzerahinsky sensed him and said, “Comrade Karpovich, you will be happy to hear that we have decided to put the imperialists out of their misery once and for all. Now, if I were you. Comrade, I’d find something sturdy to hold onto. The ride that’s going to follow could get a little rough.”
Boris Karpovich heeded the captain’s warning and hurriedly stepped back to brace himself on the steel railing that enclosed the periscope well.
Satisfied that they would finally be on with the hunt again, he listened as the captain delivered a series of complex diving orders.
Seconds later, the Cheka’s engines roared and the deck dipped precariously forward.
It took all of Karpovich’s strength to keep himself upright as the sub dove deeper into the ocean. At the same time, he watched Grigori Dzerzhinsky stand behind the seated helmsman, keeping his balance with but a single hand. It was at moments such as this that the zampolit admired the captain. Appearing completely at ease, the captain alertly shifted his weight to compensate for each new pitch of the deck.
In the midst of all this, he continued giving orders.
Proud of Dzerahinsky’s skill, and that of his fellow crew members, Karpovich felt more confident. No enemy could escape the Cheka once a blood trail had been scented. Certain of this fact, he pondered the strange road that had brought him there.
Far from the intrigues of Moscow, his experiences aboard the attack sub gave him a whole new perspective on life. Not only was the environment alien, the men surrounding him were unlike any individuals he had ever met before.
As a junior member of Konstantin Belchenko’s personal staff, Karpovich was afforded an inside look at the forces that ran their government. It proved to be during Viktor Rodin’s phenomenal rise to power that he had become disillusioned and had written an impassioned letter to Belchenko. Never would he forget the one-on-one meeting that followed.
Not only did his superior listen to his thoughts, Belchenko even agreed with him on many points. This was especially in the area of international relations with the West. Four meetings later, the first deputy had shared with him a fictional scenario of the operation that was to become known as Counterforce.
Impressed with its scope and solidly behind its motives, Karpovich had been invited into Belchenko’s inner circle.
The legendary figures with whom he was soon meeting included Admiral Stanislav Sorokin. In fact, it was at the admiral’s invitation that Karpovich had begun the intensive training for his current assignment.
And here it was, only months later, and the dream of Counterforce was now a reality.
Karpovich took strength from his realization as the Cheka canted hard on its side. Though his shoulders strained with pain and his stomach roiled, he dared not protest. For how often did one actually get to see the hand of destiny unfold?
In the dark, cold seas beneath the advancing Soviet attack sub, the USS Triton continued its frantic plunge. With an outside pressure of over three hundred and fifty pounds per square inch, the vessel’s valves, seals and other vulnerable fittings strained to the breaking point.
Ever conscious of the great pressure was the Tritons crew. This was especially evident inside the control room. Here, the tension took the form of strained, concerned expressions and a deathlike silence. The unnatural quiet was broken only by the distant rumbling of the propulsion unit, the creaking strain of the hull itself, and the muted voice of the diving officer as he read off the depth.
“We’re breaking one thousand feet. Captain.”
Cooksey stood at the officer’s side and nodded somberly. As he watched the digital depth meter, a series of soft, electronic tones diverted his attention to the compartment’s interior. Richard Craig picked up the intercom. The XO spoke into the receiver, listened for a moment, then dropped the handset to his side and addressed the captain.
“Skipper, it’s Chief Weaver. He’s got a minor seal failure in the engine room and is requesting permission to shut down the main turbine to initiate repairs.”
“Absolutely not! They’re going to have to hold on a bit longer.”
As the XO conveyed his response, the diving officer called out, “Eleven hundred feet, sir.”
Cooksey nervously shifted his weight. Around him the bulkhead seemed to moan in protest and the intercom sounded again. Once more the exec answered it.
“Skipper, it’s Chief Bartkowski. We’re taking in water from the galley. Seems that the garbage disposal is backing up on us.”
“Well, have the Chief patch it up the best he can!
Damn it. Rich, we’re at war here.”
“Twelve hundred feet,” called the diving officer.
Cooksey’s shirt was matted with sweat as his eyes went back to the depth counter. For the first time in days, a throbbing ache began rising in his forehead. He massaged his temples the best he could.
Damage control reported five more leaks as they passed the eighteen-hundred-foot mark. The strain on their welded hull was just as great as the tension inside as the Triton’s exec made his way to the captain’s side.
“Skipper, we’ve just about hit our depth threshold.
Surely you’re not thinking of out-diving the Alfa.
With that titanium hull of theirs, they’ve got at least a thousand feet on us.”
Cooksey ignored his exec’s pleas; his eyes remained riveted on the depth counter. At a depth of eighteen hundred and fifty feet, he said, “Okay Rich, we’ll have it your way. Remove the diving angle! Full rise on both planes. Back emergency. Blow the forward group. Vent forward tanks when you get an up angle!”
In response, both planes men pulled back hard on their control sticks.
As the sub’s angle slowly changed, the Triton groaned in protest. Only when the rest of Cooksey’s orders were carried out did the 6,900-ton vessel stop its descent. After checking the depth counter, Cooksey ordered, “All stop! Rig for ultra quiet A series of muted electronic chimes sounded through the sub. This was followed by a distant whirring rumble as the ship’s singl
e propeller shaft spun to a halt. Except for the occasional creak of their hull, all was silent as Cooksey moved over to the sonar console. Joining him behind its redheaded operator was the XO. Richard Craig’s face was etched with relief as he followed his captain’s example and clipped on a pair of auxiliary headphones.
“We’ve lost them. Captain!” Vadim Nikulin said incredulously.
“There’s absolutely nothing out there!”
“Open your ears. Comrade!” Dzerzhinsky shouted from the other side of the attack center.
“A vessel of that size doesn’t just disappear.”
Since the Cheka was still in the midst of a full diving angle, it took some effort for the captain to reach his senior lieutenant. By the time he reached his side and put on a pair of headphones, another figure had joined them.
“What has happened. Comrade?” asked a concerned Boris Karpovich.
Completely ignoring the zampolit, Dzerzhinsky reached up and turned the volume of their hydrophones to maximum intensity. For a full minute he continued listening, then yanked off the headset and addressed the helmsman.
“What is our present depth?”
“Five hundred and ninety meters, sir,” the helmsman responded without hesitation.
“Secure from the dive,” the captain ordered.
The Cheka shuddered as its bow planes bit into the icy water. Slowly but surely their diving angle decreased.
“Stop all engines! Rig for silent running!”
Dzerzhinsky added as he remounted the headphones.
Before he could clip them securely over his ears, the zampolit’s voice rang out loudly.
“But, Captain — why just sit here, still in the water, while the Americans continue to make good their escape? Certainly, you’re allowing them to get away.”
Again Karpovich’s pleas were ignored. He could only watch in frustration as the captain refocused his attention on the hydrophones.
Valuable minutes passed, and still Dzerzhinsky didn’t move. Desperate for his attention, Boris Karpovich reached out and turned the hydrophone volume meter to zero. Flinging the headphones off, the captain screamed, “What has gotten into you, Karpovich?
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