Have you gone crazy?”
Hit with the full force of the captain’s anger, Karpovich took a step back.
“I’m sorry for that, Captain, but you must give me a second of your time. The minutes continue to tick away and the Vulkan continues on to its launch position. Unless the enemy sub can be eliminated, the entire operation will be doomed to failure. Our futures will be doomed! We must stop them now!”
“What do you think I’m doing. Comrade, twiddling my fingers? Believe it or not, we share the same goals. Now, just stand back and leave the operation of this ship to me!”
A look of resignation crossed the political officer’s puffy face and the captain instinctively softened.
“I know that you mean well. Comrade, but on this bridge I’m not used to being challenged.”
“I only wanted to know what’s going on out there.
Have we lost them for good?”
“No, Comrade Karpovich, they haven’t disappeared.
Their clever captain has merely pulled them out of their dive as they were approaching then depth limit. This was followed by a quick scram of their reactor. Like ourselves, they are floating silently — somewhere nearby. Certainly, they’re in no position to threaten the Vulkan.”
“But what about the approaching ships of the Yankee surface fleet?” the zampolit whined.
“Then helicopters were already dropping sonobuoys when we arrived here.
We’ve got to continue our role as an escort, or we risk losing everything.”
Dzerzhinsky considered this for a moment.
“Though I would prefer to have the Yankees make the first move, there is a tactic I know of that can rout them. Of course, it does entail a certain amount of risk.”
“Risk is something that each of us has learned to live with on a daily basis. Captain. Our lives mean nothing anyway if the Vulkan fails to reach its launch site.”
Dzerzhinsky signaled his senior lieutenant to remove his headphones.
“Vadim, the Zampolit considers it imperative that we eliminate the American submarine threat at once. I concur with him in this instance.
To insure that our wire-guided homing torpedoes have a solid target, I propose that we hit them with our active sonar. When the pulse is returned, we will launch our weapons. Before the Americans can react they will be blown to the bottom.”
Impressed with the captain’s bold plan, Karpovich managed to smile.
“The First Deputy himself will know of your unselfish bravery. Comrade Dzerzhinsky.”
The political officer’s enthusiastic commendation went unnoticed by the captain, who was already deep into the mental calculations that would guarantee their attack’s success.
“I can’t understand it. Captain. They were there one second, and now there’s absolutely nothing.”
Callahan’s words prompted Cooksey to fit on the auxiliary sensor headphones. After a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree scan, he removed them and said, “They’re out there sure enough, Callahan. Most likely they’ve pulled the plug on their reactor, just like we have. Keep listening. They’ll break silence soon enough.”
Cooksey checked his watch and solemnly shook his head. Instead of lying there motionless, locked in combat with the Alfa, he knew that he should be continuing to close in on the Vulkan. If only he hadn’t hesitated earlier, after first tagging them. Yet, with the SOW device down, their conventional torpedoes would have been at or past the extreme limit of their range.
To continue the hunt, the Triton would have to somehow shake the Soviet attack sub. The course of action offering the least risk would be to wait them out. The American vessel’s superior acoustic capabilities would eventually be the deciding factor. Of course, they could always take a chance and make a run for it. As the minutes continued to tick away, this tactic would appear more attractive. Yet how could Cooksey forget the incident that took place beneath Point Luck? At that time, this same Alfa had easily outdistanced them. The more he thought about it, the more a frantic run appeared to be suicidal.
A gentle hand tapped his shoulder, and Cooksey broke from his ponderings to face his XO.
“Just got a final report from damage control, Skipper. All leaks are under control. Weaver has even managed to replace that failed turbine seal. The only system still nonoperational is our garbage disposal unit. Chief Bartkowski is down in the galley doing his best, but he thinks it’s going to be out of commission for the rest of the patrol.” “Very good. Rich,” the captain said softly.
The XO noticed Cooksey’s unease and carefully probed.
“We’ll get back to the Vulkan soon enough, Skipper. What’s the status of that Alfa?”
“They’re playing the same game that we are; our hydrophones pick up no alien engine noises whatsoever.”
“We can’t stay down here too much longer,” Craig said.
“How about the old end-run? If we could get on top of the thermocline before they did, there’s a chance that their sonar would miss us.”
“I thought about running for it. Rich, but right now it’s still too risky. Though the smart thing to do would be to keep us pinned down, I’ve got a feeling that the Alfa is going to try to put a move on us.”
“You could be right. Soviet sub captains aren’t known for their patience, and I imagine that this one would just love to take us out with a single shot.”
Jolted by his XO’s observation, Cooksey reached over and activated the intercom. As he talked into the transmitter, his eyes remained locked on the XO.
“Mr. Spencer, do you still have that Mk-70 MOSS ready to go in the forward tubes? Excellent. How about that pair of AD CAPS Yes, the stern tubes will be fine. You can seal them up. Lieutenant. I’ll be transferring launch command to the control room.
If they’re needed, the quicker we get those weapons off, the better it will be for all of us.” As the captain hung up, Craig said, “I still wouldn’t rule out making a run for it, Skipper. This little lady can give that Alfa a run for its money any day of the week.”
“I’m aware of that, Rich. Let’s just not be too hasty. Now, how about helping me arm the firecontrol panel?”
The exec nodded and followed Cooksey to the deserted armament console.
They sat and began the process of routing the launch-access system so that the Triton’s torpedoes could be instantaneously fired from their stations. As they finished rerouting, the compartment was filled with the hollow sound of a deafening ping. Temporarily startled, Cooksey was pushed into action by the excited cry of Charlie Callahan: “It’s the Alfa!”
Without further hesitation, the captain depressed a red-flashing button and launched the contents of their number one forward tube. The sub shuddered slightly as the Mk-70 device, designed to simulate the Triton’s sonar signature, surged into the surrounding depths.
Before hitting the switches to activate the two stem tubes, Cooksey checked with his sonar officer.
“How’s the Mk-70 running, Mr. Callahan?”
Satisfied with the sound in his headphones, the freckle-faced petty officer said, “She’s proceeding straight and true, Captain.”
Cooksey allowed himself a thin smile. Now, if the Russian captain only took the bait, he’d need but a single source vector to confirm the Alfa’s precise location. Only then would the two AD CAPS be released.
Called to a target they couldn’t help but strike, the Mark-48 torpedoes would eliminate the Alfa in a blinding flash of explosive fire.
Vadim Nikulin sat expectantly before the Cheka’s sonar console. With sensitive, bulky headphones strapped tightly to his ears, the senior lieutenant waited for the return of the powerful sonar pulse they had just released. Though his concentration remained focused on the sounds in his headset, he was well aware of of his shipmates’ anxious stares.
Captain Dzerzhinsky stood in front of the firecontrol panel, a few meters away. It would take only a word from Nikulin to prompt the captain to launch the two homing torpedoes loaded in their bow.
When the distinctive plink of the sonar return arrived, Nikulin responded to the distant, roaring surge clearly audible in his headset.
“We’ve got a return, Captain! It sounds like the Americans are running!”
Dzerzhinsky nodded and placed his right index finger on the torpedo release lever. For a full thirty seconds he remained motionless. This inexplainable inaction prompted an immediate visit from Boris Karpovich, who was monitoring the situation from the room’s rear.
“What are you waiting for now. Captain? Finish them off!”
A look of malicious spite crossed Dzerzhinsky’s face as the zampolit squeezed in beside him.
“I’m warning you, Karpovich, this is not the time to interfere. Now get away from here, before I have you thrown in irons!”
Unable to believe what he was witnessing, the political officer flushed with confused rage. Certainly, his hesitance to fire in this instance meant that the man had to be deranged. Karpovich’s instincts had warned him of this much earlier. To not fire now was an act of idiotic incompetence. If the Americans were subsequently able to make good their escape, the entire operation would once more be threatened.
As the Zampolit frantically considered the consequences, a new thought crossed his mind.
Dzerzhinsky had proved many times before that he was a capable officer.
If this was the case, perhaps his actions were not prompted by insanity. This could mean that their captain inwardly wanted to assure the failure of Counterforce. Allowing the Yankee attack sub to escape now would practically guarantee their failure. Whether inspired by motives of treason or mere cowardice, it was evident that the captain was not the man to complete the job at hand.
Acting on one’s instincts was a trait that Konstantinbelchenko had personally taught the zampolit. It was this talent that had allowed the first deputy to attain his present position of power. If the operation on which they had worked so hard was not to fail, Karpovich would have to take strength from Belchenko’s example.
His course of action suddenly became clear: if the captain wasn’t going to launch those torpedoes, he would!
Astounded by his own audacity, Karpovich wiped the sweat from his forehead’ and inched his way forward. Peering over the captain’s shoulder, he caught sight of the launch button. Without further delay, he adroitly pushed Dzerzhinsky aside and quickly depressed the fateful switch.
The series of events that followed passed in a haze.
First, Karpovich was aware of his heart pounding madly in his chest. Then the deck trembled slightly, to a distant hiss of escaping compressed air. Satisfied that the torpedoes were on their way, he readied himself for the inevitable confrontation.
As he had expected, the captain was quivering with rage. With eyes wide and bulging, Dzerzhinsky screamed, “You stupid fool! If the sound we were picking up was merely a decoy, that launch will give us away for certain.”
Unable to reply, the zampolit expected next to be physically struck.
The captain was balling his fists, when the excited observations of the senior lieutenant temporarily diverted his fury.
“We’ve got them now. Captain! Both torpedoes have a definite sonic lock-on. There’s no way that the Yankees will be able to escape this time!”
Dzerzhinsky looked at the cowering figure of the Zampolit. Though his fists still ached for revenge, he held back as Karpovich bravely offered an explanation.
“I only did it for the good of our mission. Comrade.
Counterforce must succeed, no matter the sacrifice. You may do with me. as you like. I have only done what my heart demanded.”
Dzerzhinsky took a step forward, his face only inches away from that of the trembling political officer.
“I’ll tell you what you did, Karpovich — you needlessly threatened the lives of the entire crew. A ship can only have one master. To have it otherwise is to invite disaster. If we are fortunate enough to survive this day, I will personally see to your imprisonment in the Lubyanka.
Even the KGB must recognize the proper authority of a chain of command.”
Sickened by the sweat-stained figure that stood before him, the captain pivoted and addressed his senior lieutenant.
“What is the status of our attack, Comrade?”
When Nikulin failed to reply, the captain’s gut tightened. Hurriedly, he rushed over to the sonar console where Nikulin was anxiously hunched over the bank of instruments. As one hand shot out to activate various volume gains and filters, the other pressed one of his headphones closer to his ear.
Before Dzerzhinsky could don a headset of his own, the senior lieutenant looked up, pale and drawn.
“I don’t understand it. Captain. Our bow hydrophone is picking up a pair of high-speed torpedoes headed toward us. Yet they are coming from a portion of the ocean far away from the fleeing Americans!”
The information hit Dzerzhinsky like a fist in his belly. The frantic orders that followed were voiced in pure frustration.
“Engineering, we must have speed! Dive! Dive!
Dive!”
The crew valiantly scurried to their stations, but the captain knew it was useless. Vectored in by both the ping of their sonar and the sound of the torpedoes launching, the enemy’s aim would be fatal.
Conscious that his life expectancy could now be counted out in seconds, he focused his gaze on the fat, pathetic frame of the man responsible for this calamity.
Though he would never know for certain what had prompted the zampolit’s rash action, Dzerzhinsky got the distinct impression that it was their very system that was at fault. Paranoid and distrustful, Boris Karpovich had been trained to believe in nothing but his own self-importance. It was the strength of a team effort that made a submarine crew successful, and it was the same for a country. Fearful that this was a lesson his comrades had yet to learn, Dzerzhinsky prepared himself for his final dive.
Ninety-three nautical miles due east of the doomed Cheka, the Vulkan surged onward, ignorant of its sister ship’s plight. Acting as the eyes and ears of the 13,250-ton vessel. Lev Zinyakin sat at the sonar panel controls, busily scanning the surrounding seas.
About to conclude his second consecutive six hour work shift, the petty officer looked forward to one of Chef Anatoly’s good hot meals.
Since last night’s supper he had eaten practically nothing. When his shift ended he would feast, and then surrender to the call of his mattress.
With a wide yawn, Zinyakin activated the Vulkan’s towed-array sensor platform. Reeled out from their stem planes, the device would search the seas behind them for any signs of their elusive enemy. Again he yawned, and pleaded with his weary body to stay alert just a little longer.
To help the time pass more quickly, he allowed his thoughts to wander.
As they always seemed to do, his memories brought him back to the beloved land of his birth. Zinyakin lost himself in cherished childhood memories of his family and the seaside cottage in which he had been raised.
Grinning at his recollections the petty officer yawned again and checked the console’s digital clock. After calculating that he had precisely twenty seven minutes to go until his replacement was scheduled to arrive, he looked up to check the towed array’s status.
As he determined that the tethered platform was indeed fully extended, the thunderous blast of a massive explosion sounded in his headphones.
Alertly, he activated the tape recorder and then swiveled to inform the present officer of the deck.
“We’re picking up a major explosion in our baffles!
Approximate range is one-six-zero kilometers.”
Senior Lieutenant Vasili Leonov was the first one at his side. He was soon followed by Ivan Novikov.
The cocky political officer commented first. “So, the Cheka has finally eliminated the Yankee attack sub. This is a glorious moment. Comrades.”
Vasili Leonov was irritated by this brash statement.
“We mustn’t be too hasty to jump t
o conclusions.
Comrade Zinyakin, will it be possible to identify the exact source of this blast?”
Zinyakin listened a moment to the distant sound of rending steel then said, “It’s all being recorded in the computer, sir. It will take a minute or so to filter out the distortion and pinpoint any background noises.”
While waiting for the requested computations, Zinyakin couldn’t help but overhear the zampolit’s idle boasting.
“I tell you. Comrade Leonov, this means that the final obstacle has been removed from our path. Nothing will stand before us and our dream’s fulfillment.
We have proven beyond doubt the superiority of the socialist way of life.”
Zinyakin’s attention was diverted back to the screen as it began filling with pertinent data.
“Well, Comrade Petty Officer, read us the good news,” the grinning zampolit prompted.
Zinyakin cleared his throat and spoke firmly.
“Because of the extreme distances involved, we are unable to determine the source of the blast. But we do have a confirmed analysis of the background track. Clearly audible here is a single surviving sound signature.”
“That would be the Cheka,” Novikov beamed.
Zinyakin’s response was flat and grim.
“I’m afraid not, sir. The computer shows an eighty-five percent probability that this signature belongs to an American vessel.”
“That’s impossible!” screamed the angry zampolit.
“Surely you have mistakenly programmed the computer. Try it again and you’ll find your error.”
Shrugging his shoulders, the petty officer cleared the screen and again requested an analysis of the hydrophone tape. As the information popped onto the screen, he said, “There has been a slight change, sir.
The probability has increased to ninety-three percent that the submarine now trailing us is of American origin.”
“I still can’t accept this,” the zampolit said.
“Comrade Leonov, surely there’s a malfunction in our equipment. Perhaps it’s merely a single broken computer chip.”
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