To insure instant detection of such aircraft, such devices as the Vulkan’s external buoyant hydrophone were deployed. This neutrally buoyant transducer was presently being towed above them, scanning the ocean’s surface for the sound of advancing airplanes.
Since this system was run independently from the Vulkan’s hull-mounted hydrophones, a separate monitoring channel was necessary. Analyzing the input from the surface was Zinyakin’s current responsibilities.
Steadfastly ignoring the rumbles and groans from his stomach, Zinyakin sat back and listened to the various noises being fed into his headphones. Identifying the swooshing slap of agitated water, the sonar officer determined that the seas were fairly heavy topside. At their current depth the surface turmoil was hardly noticeable, except for this noise.
Aware of his fatigue, Zinyakin was proud of the fact that never once had he fallen asleep while on duty.
This was in vast contrast to his shipmates, who generally looked for every opportunity to catch a catnap.
Lulled by the slap of the breaking waves, the sonar officer fought an unsuccessful battle to stay awake.
His eyelids clamped shut and he instantly fell into a dream. In his vision he found himself a lad again, sailing from Palanga on his grandfather’s battered boat. Though the Baltic Sea had been as smooth as glass when they had started out, the morning sky quickly turned black when an icy northern gale descended in all its fury. Thrown to the deck by the first arriving swells. Lev tried in vain to stand, for his legs would not cooperate. Feeling leaden, nauseous and scared, he looked to the interior of the cabin and saw that nobody was at the wildly spinning wheel.
Fearful that his grandfather had been swept overboard, he managed to get to his hands and knees.
Continuously pounded by the crashing waves, he found his progress ponderously slow.
Lev made it to the cabin’s hatchway soaked and bruised, but try as he might he was unable to make it indoors. Only when the first tears of frustration began falling on his cheeks was he aware of a distant voice, crying over the howling gale.
“Listen to the wind, lad!” bellowed his grandfather.
“To the wind!”
Even though his elder was still nowhere to be seen, Lev paid attention to the advice. He closed his stinging eyes and focused his concentration on the boisterous gusts.
It was then that he heard an alien chopping sound approaching. The familiar racket merely added to his puzzlement, for how could a helicopter be flying in the midst of such an angry tempest?
A muted electronic tone was ringing in the background when Zinyakin snapped from his dream. His eyes popped open and he swiftly reoriented himself.
Slouched before the sonar console, he blushed with embarrassment upon realizing his loss of self-control.
Thankfully, only two minutes had passed, and it didn’t appear that anyone else had spotted him.
He sat up straight, readjusted his headphones, and was reminded of the end of his dream by a shocking reality. The sound of a helicopter hovering was clearly audible topside! Rubbing his eyes to make certain that he was not still asleep, Zinyakin took a deep breath and reached forward to turn up the external buoyant hydrophone to maximum volume.
Assured that the incoming signal was real, he turned and called out loudly.
“Senior Lieutenant!”
Seconds later, Vasili Leonov was at his side.
“What is it, Zinyakin?”
“There’s a helicopter hovering directly above us!” the frantic sonar officer explained.
“Would you like to hear for yourself?”
“No, Comrade, I believe you,” Leonov said heavily.
Squeezing in beside the senior lieutenant now was the scrawny figure of the zampolit.
“What is going on here. Comrades?”
“Our hydrophones have discovered a helicopter above us,” Leonov explained.
Novikov seemed relieved.
“Then why the look of gloom, Comrade Leonov? Surely such a vehicle can’t threaten us.”
The senior lieutenant shook his head.
“If only that were the case. Because of our present depth, we are extremely vulnerable to their dunking sonar arrays.
Not only can they call for help, they can attack us with homing torpedoes.” “Then let’s dive for cover,” Novikov suggested reasonably.
“It’s too late for that. If their sensor operator is the least bit awake, they have already spotted us. Besides, we still have that Yankee attack sub to contend with.”
Zinyakin’s mind raced for an answer — and found it.
“Sir, why don’t we utilize one of the new self-initiated anti-aircraft missiles?”
“Of course, the SIAMS!” The senior lieutenant reached out and picked up the intercom.
“Comrade Chuchkin, we need the immediate launch of one of our SIAM rockets… I understand that one must first be loaded into a torpedo tube, Chuchkin. Just get it done and launch it at once!”
As Leonov hung up the handset, the puzzled zampolit asked, “What is this SIAM?”
“In my haste, I almost forgot it existed,” Leonov admitted.
“SIAM is a new defensive system that became operational only a few months ago. If Yuri Chuchkin can get one loaded in time, the topside threat will soon be eliminated.
“Now, Comrade Zinyakin, you must keep on the alert for any air-dropped homing torpedoes. If destiny is still with us, we shall pass this final obstacle and yet strike the enemy a crippling blow!”
Two floors beneath the Vulkan’s control room, Weapons Chief Yuri Chuchkin hurried his crew into action.
“Come on, you shirkers, get the lead out of your pants!”
Moving his portly frame to one side of the cramped torpedo room, he watched the six-man loading team at work. They efficiently pulled a homing torpedo from the number one tube. It was moved back by a hydraulic conveyor and replaced by the encapsulated SIAM presently being drawn up from the magazine.
Except for a single test firing, this would only be Chuchkin’s second launch of a SIAM device. Still hot off the drawing board, the new system gave them an unheard of capability. Sounding more like science fiction than fact, the SIAM was one of the Rodina’s most ingenious inventions. Anxious to see it operate under combat conditions, Chuchkin shifted his pipe to the corner of his mouth and peered down the unmoving conveyor belt. “Where the hell is that anti-aircraft rocket?”
Chuchkin screamed.
“Any more delay and you’ll be signing your own death warrants!”
In response to his invective, the belt began to move.
From its storage rack on the deck below, a slim, twelve-foot-long, shiny metallic cannister became visible.
Without hesitation, it was guided into the now empty mouth of the number one tube. As his men sealed the tube and prepared it for firing, Chuchkin reflected on the strange course of their current patrol.
It was the irony of it all that got to him. Here he was, only a few months away from full retirement, and the Americans had to go and start a war. Deciding it was better to be here than merely sitting at ground zero, he could but apply the years of endless drills and practice alerts. In this way, he would do his part to insure the Motherland’s survival.
“Number one tube is sealed, pressurized and ready for firing!” cried the seaman in charge of the loading team.
Quickly, Chuchkin joined him at the console.
“Very good, Comrades. Now let us see if our scientists did their homework.”
After unlocking the firecontrol panel, the chief armed the SIAM and depressed the launch switch.
He looked up when a loud hiss of compressed air sounded from inside the tube. This was followed by a noticeable lurch as the rocket shot out into the surrounding waters. Closing his eyes momentarily, he visualized the course this weapon would be taking as it streaked toward its target.
Already the missile should have broken out of its protective capsule.
As its engines ignited, th
e rocket would break the ocean’s surface. A split-second later, the SIAM’s self-contained radar unit would activate.
Steered by a set of aerodynamic tins, the missile would home-in on its target at supersonic speeds. A blindingly bright explosion would follow as the weapon’s 30-kilogram warhead triggered, dooming the enemy to an instant, fiery demise.
Chuchkin doubted that they would be able to hear the blast from their present depth. Since they would have to rely on the Vulkan’s sensor operators to let them know if the shot was a success, the chief reached for the intercom. He grimaced involuntarily when his call to the control room was picked up by the boat’s zampolit.
“My, my, you’re an impatient one. Comrade Chuchkin,” the political officer said.
“I imagine that you’re calling for the results of the launch.”
The weapons chief took his pipe from his mouth and meekly answered, “Yes, sir. I only wanted to know if it would be necessary to load another SIAM device.”
Novikov took his time in answering.
“Comrade Chuchkin, I’m most upset with you. Don’t you have more faith in the Rodina’s scientists than that? What need is there for another rocket when this one was more than adequate to do the trick. Lev Zinyakin told us of the glorious results only seconds ago. At that time his sensors recorded a massive series of explosions.
This was followed by nothing but the sound of slapping waves. Whatever was hovering above us certainly no longer exists. Good shooting, my friend.
Now, please don’t disappoint me when the time arrives for the release of our SS-N-18s.”
Pleased with their success, yet uncomfortable talking with the zampolit, the chief humbly excused himself. As he gave his crew the news, an excited about of joy followed. He allowed his men several minutes to revel in their accomplishment, then barked out, “Your enthusiasm is duly noted. But are we holding a party here? Reload that vacant tube with the homing torpedo! Then I’m going to want to see the whole lot of you in the taiga. The Rodina is going to earn its ruble’s worth with you shirkers today, that I can promise you!”
Conscious of his effect on the crew’s mood, Chuchkin pivoted and proceeded out the rear hatchway. All in all, they were a good bunch; yet, like any conscripts, they had to be leaned on constantly. This was one lesson he had learned well in his three decades of service.
After placing the stem of his pipe back between his teeth, Chuchkin elected to fill its bowl and have a real smoke. Since the portion of the Vulkan he was presently in was off limits to smokers, he headed straight for his cabin. That was where he kept his precious stash of imported tobacco anyway.
Climbing down a flight of stairs, he turned toward the sub’s stern. The room that he shared with three other petty officers was located amidships, on the sub’s bottom deck. This put him close to the missile magazine in case an emergency called him there in the middle of one of his rest periods.
Though cramped and sparsely furnished with four narrow bunks and two wallmounted desks, the space at least afforded him a semblance of privacy. Compared to past classes of submarines on which he had sailed, his current quarters could be regarded as nothing short of elegant.
Closing the door behind him, he found he had the entire cabin to himself. This would give him a chance to sort out his confused thoughts. Since the day’s events were unlike any he had ever experienced, he decided that he more than deserved the valuable tobacco he was packing into his pipe.
Purchased in Viet Nam while the Golf-class sub he had been stationed on was visiting Cam Rahn Bay, the tobacco was unique. Packed by an English company, it contained the perfect mixture of fine-cut, golden Virginian leaf, vanilla, and just a hint of rum.
This produced not only a smooth taste, but a sweet, pleasurable aroma as well. For the past six months he had been rationing the contents of the eight-ounce tin.
Because of the current precarious state of world affairs, he decided that he’d better enjoy it now-while he was still alive to do so.
He inhaled the first lungful of smoke, further savoring the taste by exhaling it through his nostrils.
While enjoying several more slowly exhaled puffs, his eyes strayed to the desk that he shared with the reactor chief. Here, smiling back at him with a warm, familiar grin was a picture of his beloved mother.
Now, more than ever before, he was sorry that he hadn’t made time to visit her during his last leave. How disappointed she had been! Yet, naval matters had called, and there was little he could do about it but wish her his sincere love.
Now he was glad that she lived so far from a large city. The village of Malka was some fifty kilometers from Petropavlovsk. With no military installations to speak of, it would surely be ignored if a nuclear war were indeed taking place. Of course, there was always the chance that the enemy would overshoot its intended target… but there was also the nightmare of radioactive fallout to consider.
Regardless of location, there was little doubt that if a nuclear war began, her life, and that of every other human being, would be changed forever.
Shivering at the thought, Chuchkin took another deep draw on his pipe and allowed his restless ponderings to settle. For years he had lived in fear of this day — yet, somehow he had fooled himself into thinking that it could never come to pass.
But the launching of the SIAM rocket had proved that they were in an actual state of war. The senior lieutenant had been hinting at this earlier. Passing off their present alert as merely another meaningless drill, Chuchkin had been fooling no one but himself.
The time was rapidly approaching when their own strategic missiles would be released. Few on board were as aware of their destructive capabilities as Chuchkin was. After all, the SS-N-18s were his lethal responsibility. Snuggled securely in their protective silos, the sixteen missiles would account for millions of deaths. Guided by the Rodina’s most accurate guidance systems, this single flight of warheads would eliminate targets throughout the entire continental United States. After they struck, America would never be the same.
Chuchkin had no doubt as to who had been the aggressor, for the Soviet Union had sworn never to initiate a nuclear conflict. But deterrence had failed, and their mission would now be one of revenge.
Chuchkin cringed at the thought of the crazed which man who had come within inches of wrecking their firecontrol system. Though he hated seeing Stefan Kuzmin stopped as he had been, the zampolit had been justified. To be stuck in a war situation with a load of missiles that couldn’t be released would be the ultimate waste. If the warrant officer had been in his right mind, he would have been most aware of that.
Chuchkin had seen the mad aftereffects of a fever at work before. He had been at his own sister’s bedside while she was dying of typhus. Driven insane by an uncontrollable body temperature, she had looked at him like he was a total stranger.
Even their own mother had been unrecognizable to her.
When Kuzmin had grabbed Chuchkin by the arm and thrown him into the path of his pursuers, the chief had been sure that this was but another tragic instance of a fever-induced frenzy gaining the upper hand. When Kuzmin then went for the firecontrol panel, all the time madly babbling about a mutiny, Chuchkin was certain. The which man had crossed that fragile line that threatened not only himself and his shipmates, but his fellow countrymen as well.
Relighting his pipe, Chuchkin wondered about the condition of their captain. For Petyr Valenko’s sake, Chuchkin hoped that the fever was not as intense as that of the which man s. Since he heard that the two men had spent time together while they were last in Petropavlovsk, there was no doubt as to where the disease had been contracted. As to who else on board had been infected … that was anyone’s guess.
It was ironic that the captain had not been around to witness the call to war. Fortunately, it appeared as if Vasili Leonov had more than adequately taken over Valenko’s responsibilities. The senior lieutenant was rising to the occasion, and then some. His handling of the SIAM launch had appeared
flawless. Only a few days before there had been some concern as to Leonov’s mental state. Many of the crew had believed that the abrupt end of his love affair would cause Vasili to go off the deep end — or even to desert. How very wrong they had been.
The chief’s pipe was soon empty, and his desk clock indicated that it was time to get back on the job.
Mentally and physically relieved, he prepared himself for the speech that he would soon deliver. Even as he sat there, his men were surely waiting for him in the taiga. Since their assistance would be invaluable in directing the SS-N-18s skyward, the missile crew deserved to be briefed on their situation as he now understood it. With this task in mind, Chuchkin rose and, after stashing away what little tobacco remained, proceeded out the cabin’s hatchway.
Thirty-eight hundred miles southeast of the Vulkan, the modified Boeing 747 transport known as Kneecap soared over the crystal blue waters off Baja California. Flying over a portion of the planet far from any potential ground targets, Kneecap cruised southward at a speed of five hundred and eighty-three miles per hour, at an altitude of thirty-five thousand feet.
Viktor Rodin and Robert Palmer had just returned to the plane’s conference room after a brief tour of the rest of the aircraft.
Beginning in the cockpit, the Premier had been introduced to both the crew and equipment that made Kneecap unique.
As Rodin settled into one of the high-backed chairs that surrounded the President’s walnut table, his thoughts remained on the excursion just completed.
He was most impressed with the 747’s spaciousness, all the while aware of the incredible amount of gear stashed within its walls. This was most evident in the compartments reserved for the battle staff. Dressed in matching gray flight suits, the complement of men and women sat alertly before their consoles. In one cabin the Premier had counted over twenty-four individuals manning their stations. Robert Palmer was quick to explain that this was where the plane’s thirteen separate radio systems were monitored. Other compartments held equipment belonging to Kneecap’s twenty-five onboard telephones, encryption machinery for secure voice transmission, plus a large bay reserved for the sophisticated power-control system that managed the craft’s extremely high electrical demands. Interspersed were several large rest areas, galleys, and, in the nose of the craft, separate cabins with comfortable sleeping accommodations for the senior officials.
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