Clearly visible in the skies beyond was a massive formation of swirling black clouds. From within the towering, dark column, the stacatto flash of lightning indicated the storm front’s violent fury.
As he watched this raw display of natural violence, Rodin reflected on one disturbing element of the message that Olga had just relayed to him. In fact, so disturbing was its essence that he had been unable to reveal it to the Americans. Admiral of the Fleet Stanislav Sorokin had to have been the one to authorize the take-off of Rodin’s IL-78 command plane.
This could only mean that the esteemed naval officer himself was one of the conspirators.
Shocked by this revelation, Rodin shivered involuntarily.
Struggling to clear his mind, the General Secretary mentally assembled the evidence that pointed toward the admiral’s guilt. From the very beginning, Rodin had known that the malefactors had to be a small cabal of individuals occupying high positions of power. A thorough knowledge of naval procedures would be a most valuable necessity. Sorokin had been an outspoken opponent of Viktor Rodin’s conciliatory position with the West from the start. Fearful of what the world would be like if the current massive military machines were abolished, the admiral must have decided upon a Counterforce strike as a last resort.
Earlier, when the Soviet Kresta-class cruiser had been sunk, Rodin had wondered what had blown the Natya apart seconds before its attack against the Vulkan was to begin. Since he and the admiral were the only ones who knew of the Natya’s attack orders, Sorokin must have notified his fellow conspirators-who in turn had the cruiser conveniently eliminated.
The loss of the Natya had tragic implications beyond the lives and equipment involved. For, if the warship had been successful, their current predicament would have been resolved.
The Premier realized how shocked Sorokin must have been at being invited on the flight to Los Angeles. Surely he had only accepted so as not to arouse unnecessary suspicion. Knowing full well that the nuclear strike would include a bevy of warheads targeted on Southern California, Sorokin had commandeered the IL-78. His cowardly act would cost the admiral dearly.
The General Secretary stirred when a huge, fiery fork of lightning lit the surrounding heavens. Shaking off his lethargy, Rodin planned the series of directives he would now issue to seal the fates of Sorokin and his fellow traitors. Under a blanket of secrecy, he would authorize his most trusted agents to tap the IL-78‘8 radio transmissions. Each call would be duly monitored and traced. If Stanislav Sorokin was indeed one of those responsible, Rodin would catch him in the act of contacting his fellow conspirators as they gloated over their apparent victory.
Not knowing who else the finger of guilt would point to, Rodin mentally prepared himself for the shock of disclosure that would, hopefully, follow.
Catching the entire group would give him great satisfaction.
But at the moment he was faced with a much graver problem. In only a few minutes the yulkan would reach its launch coordinates. Oblivious to the real state of political relations, the crew would then carry out the second part of the Red Flag directive and release their lethal load of sixteen SS-N-18s. In response, the Americans would cry for a counter strike and the world would be plunged into the ultimate horror.
Trembling with anger at the audacity of the individuals who had hatched this insane plot, Rodin knew that, somehow, the Vulkan had to be stopped!
Chapter Fourteen
The control room of the USS Triton was possessed by a tense silence as the vessel hurried toward the assumed intercept point. Pacing the length of the equipment-packed compartment was Captain Michael Cooksey.
Hands cocked stiffly behind his back and eyes focused on the deck before him, he appeared lost in distant thought.
Lieutenant Commander Richard Craig watched his senior officer’s slow, monotonous stride, and couldn’t help but be concerned. The captain looked as nervous as he had ever seen him. And that included the conclusion of their last patrol, when Cooksey’s hairtrigger temper and sullen moods were the talk of the ship.
Looking rested and fit after returning from leave, Cooksey had been just like his old self again. Even his sense of humor had returned.
But their confrontation with the Soviet attack sub had quickly changed all that.
While they were in the midst of their crash dive, the XO had caught a glimpse of the captain’s face and didn’t like what he’d seen. Not only had the lines of tension returned, so had the dark pouches that had previously underscored his bloodshot eyes. Certainly drained by a lack of proper rest and nourishment, Craig wondered how long the captain could keep himself together.
From his position behind the sonar console, the XO scanned the rest of the compartment’s interior. With quiet efficiency, the crew went about their individual duties. Conscious of the loud, distant whining of the Triton’s turbines, he knew they were pushing ahead at close to top speed.
A muted, electronic tone rang from his wrist, and Craig looked down at his preset watch. As he somberly took in the time, he cleared his throat and addressed Cooksey, who was headed back toward him.
“Skipper, it’s 2120 hours.”
“I’m well aware of that, Mr. Craig,” the captain snapped. He paced for three more strides, then halted and commanded, “All stop! Rig for ultra quiet While his directives were being carried out, Cooksey returned to the sonar station. Without comment, he clipped on the auxiliary headphones and initiated a hasty sensor scan.
“Damn it, they’ve got to be out there somewhere!” Cooksey shouted as he disgustedly peeled the listening gear off.
“Callahan, is this gear working properly?”
The sonar officer responded tactfully.
“All hydrophones appear operational, sir. We also show a negative on active search.”
“Well, keep on it, Lieutenant, I know they’re close!”
Charles Callahan returned to his console, while the captain quizzed his exec.
“What’s your opinion of this damned mess, Mr. Craig?”
The XO answered as the familiar whine of their engines dissipated and the Triton glided to a halt. “I agree that they can’t be too far away. Skipper It wasn’t all that long ago that we pinged them. Since our top speed is well over that of a Delta-class boat, they couldn’t have gotten too far away — unless they headed out in the opposite direction.”
“That’s unlikely,” Cooksey observed.
“They’re going to need to attain that launch position as far east as time allows. Those SS-N-18s will be at the extreme edge of their range and they won’t be taking any chances. Damn it to hell — I should have blown them away earlier when I had the chance. What was I thinking about?”
“You were only giving them a fair chance to show their colors, Skipper.
Don’t take it so personally. I would have made the exact same decision.”
The exec’s words were met with silence. Both men turned their attentions to the green-tinted sonar screen. As Richard Craig watched the pulsing white line, which monitored the surge of high-frequency power being sent out from their bow, an idea came to him.
“You know, Skipper, the Vulkan may have taken the chance of ascending up through the thermocline.
The last reading of our XBT showed an unusually thick band of warmer water above us. If that’s still present, and the Soviets are taking advantage of its veil … that could account for their absence on our sensors.”
Impressed with this thought, Cooksey nodded.
“You could have something. Rich. Although, that would open them up to surface detection by one of our choppers or aircraft; those Russians might just be trying to pull the wool over our eyes. Launch the XBT and find us that thermocline. Then get the Triton ready to ascend. I’d better call Spencer and have him ready one of those ASW/SOWS.”
As Cooksey glanced down to check his watch, Craig was already carrying out his directives. As the captain reached out for the intercom, he softly mumbled to himself, “Please God, give m
e another shot at them.
Just one damn shot!”
Seventy-three nautical miles due east of the USS Triton, the Vulkan silently balanced itself in the cool, dense layer of seawater that signaled the limit of the thermocline. This rather delicate maneuver was being monitored from the ship’s attack center, where the sub’s command functions had now been transferred.
Bathed in a veil of dim red light, the compartment was a smaller copy of the vessel’s control room. The main difference was the decreased size of the staff present. A hand-picked complement of selected personnel was all that was necessary to assist the commanding officers in carrying out the Vulkan’s primary mission.
Senior Lieutenant Vasili Leonov was aware of this as he quickly checked the individual consoles. Proud that his men had accepted his new position of command without undue questions, Leonov knew that the moment of destiny would soon be upon them.
Continuing down the narrow walkway that circled the compartment, Leonov passed the seated sonar officer. Lev Zinyakin was completely immersed in his work and not aware of Vasili’s presence.
Knowing that this was Zinyakin’s third consecutive work shift, the senior officer shook his head in wonder. It had taken only a single plea on his part to convince the exhausted sonar operator to follow them into the attack center. After all, this would be the moment when the Vulkan’s most talented crew members were needed to insure success.
Allowing Zinyakin a quick break to wash his beard-stub bled face and gobble down a sandwich and some tea, Leonov felt more assured just knowing that the brilliant Lithuanian was manning the all-important station.
Next to the sonar console was the navigation plotting board. Peering over the navigator’s shoulder, Leonov monitored their progress. Only minutes away from the attainment of their launch position, the Vulkan appeared to have the ocean all to itself. A firm hand on his back diverted his attention, and Leonov turned to face the beaming zampolit.
“We have done it, Comrade! If it is all right with you, I would like to take a few seconds to address the rest of the crew.”
Ivan Novikov’s request didn’t sound unreasonable, and the senior lieutenant beckoned him to go ahead.
Relishing the spotlight, the political officer took hold of the intercom and situated himself in the center of the room. Novikov’s words penetrated every inch of the sub’s interior.
“My dear Comrades, this is your zampolit speaking.
I’m certain that you’ve all heard the rumors by now, and I’m only here to confirm them. Yes, my friends, we are indeed in a state of war. Since the Soviet Union has vowed never to be the first user of atomic weapons, this tragic state of affairs in which we currently find ourselves must have been sparked by the imperialists. For decades we have watched the greedy capitalists stockpile the weaponry for a first strike. Ever true to their confused bloodthirsty doctrine, the Americans have made the first move.
“Since this most likely means that our beloved Rodina was a primary target of their despicable action, there’s no doubt where our thoughts must presently be. Rest assured that we shall avenge the deaths of our loved ones. To your battle stations, Comrades, for the glory of the Motherland!”
An awkward moment of silence followed, punctuated by the excited cries of their navigator.
“We’ve attained our launch position, sir.”
Leonov responded in a firm voice.
“Ascend to launch depth!”
As the Vulkan’s bow planes bit into the surrounding sea, Leonov joined the zampolit at the tire-control panel. In unison, both men pulled out the two folding chairs that were attached to the console’s steel frame.
Exactly two arm’s lengths away from each other, they seated themselves.
Each man then removed a shiny chrome key, which they had kept around their necks on sturdy chains. Before inserting his key into its proper slot, Leonov triggered the intercom.
“Comrade Chuchkin, are you ready?”
From deep within the taiga, the weapons chief reported that he was, and the senior lieutenant beckoned the zampolit to continue. In one smooth motion, both men reached forward and unlocked the dual firing panels. Facing them now was a row of sixteen clear-plastic buttons, numbered from left to right.
Above this was a large digital counter.
“Initiating release code insert on the count of three,” Leonov barked.
“One.. two … three!”
Simultaneously, they dialed in the proper digits.
When this was completed, Leonov again spoke.
“Release code insertion completed. Activate arming switch.”
A large black button next to the digital counter was depressed and, in response, the sixteen lights began blinking a bright crimson. All eyes now went to the clock mounted above the panel, as the minute hand indicated 2129 hours.
Leonov and Novikov angled their index fingers over the blinking button numbered “one.” Thirty seconds before they hit their switches to send the first SS-N-18 skyward, a sharp, shrill buzz broke the tense silence.
“It’s the emergency abort system!” shouted Leonov as he quickly scanned the panel to trace the source of the problem.
Puzzled by this unforeseen postponement, the zampolit asked, “Did we do something wrong? Perhaps we have given the improper release code.”
Ignoring Novikov, Leonov intently searched the warning panel and finally discovered the malfunction.
“We’ve lost power to our gyroscope! Without it, the warheads will be completely disorientated.”
“Let’s call Chuchkin and have him check it out,” Novikov suggested as he bent toward the intercom.
But Leonov shook his head vehemently.
“The missile crew has got its own problems right now, keeping those SS-N-18s ready for instant launch. I’d feel better if I inspected the gyroscope myself.”
“Whatever you say,” the zampolit replied.
“But let’s get moving!”
Following Leonov’s lead, Novikov stood and rushed from the attack center. By the time he had ducked through the hatch, the senior lieutenant was already moving down the metal stairwell. As quickly as he could, Novikov turned to make his own descent.
Reaching the proper level, the zampolit ran down the hallway toward the Vulkan’s bow. Barely able to make out the back of Leonov’s body ahead of him, Novikov did his best to duck through the series of hatches that now followed. Ignoring the puzzled comments of the seamen who watched their progress from adjoining cabins, the political officer concentrated solely on his forward movement. With heavy limbs and wheezing lungs, he somehow kept going.
He caught up to Leonov at a sealed doorway that blocked their forward progress. Struggling to regain his breath, Novikov watched as Leonov attempted to unlock this obstacle. Mounted beside the door was a small, metallic keypad. Only a proper combination of numerals would allow them further access. As the senior lieutenant rummaged through his pockets, the zampolit asked frantically, “What’s holding us up, Comrade?” “I need the code!” Leonov shouted as he searched his billfold.
“This section of the ship is so infrequently entered that even I have forgotten it.”
Breathlessly, Leonov pulled out a thick plastic card.
Holding it up to the keypad with shaking hands, he began punching in a complex series of digits. His haste forced him to repeat the process three times before the door finally slid open with a loud hiss.
Both men immediately ducked inside and the door automatically closed behind them. They found themselves in a narrow compartment that was noticeably different from the rest of the sub. Antiseptically clean, its walls were lined with padded banks of equipment that stretched from the deck to the acoustic-tiled ceiling. A high-pitched hum of machinery sounded in the background as the two officers carefully moved forward.
Surrounding them were the navigational components that comprised the heart of the ship. Without the use of this gear, not only the missiles but the Vulkan, itself, would be unable to
determine in which direction they were traveling.
Never having been allowed entrance into this portion of the vessel before, the zampolit seemed confused.
“Now what. Comrade?”
Leonov pointed to the sealed doorway that lay ahead of them.
“On the other side of that bulkhead is the gyrocompass. The Vulkan depends on that motor operated device to point out the geographic north pole, from which all navigation is determined. Inside that room is where our problem lies.”
“But what could cause it to fail like this?” the political officer whined.
Not stopping to answer, Leonov continued moving forward and cautiously peered through the porthole that was midway up the door’s length.
As he peered into the compartment through the reinforced glass, he froze. Without turning, Leonov said softly, “I think this will answer your question, Comrade Novikov.”
The senior lieutenant stepped aside to allow the zampolit a chance to see. Leonov surveyed the cramped compartment, which was bathed in dim red light and completely lined with thick, sound-absorbent tiles. At its center was a large, circular mechanism, covered by what appeared to be a thick bubble of clear glass. Kneeling beside this device, in the process of removing the protective skirt that encircled the glass bubble, was Petyr Valenko.
As he focused on the captain, Leonov’s hand went to his knife. Leonov, his pistol already drawn, held up the plastic code card and began punching a series of digits into the door’s security keypad.
Petyr Valenko was completely absorbed in the task before him. Pleased with his progress, he knew that if he could have but a few more seconds, the job would be a total success.
The hardest part of the operation had not been crawling through the cramped air-conditioning duct to escape from his cabin, but rather waiting for the crew change — which was absolutely necessary in order for him to enter unnoticed. Counting the slowly moving minutes from the cover of a storage closet, he had planned the sequence of events that would bring him to his goal. His first move had been to disconnect the gyro’s power source. This had been relatively easy to do. Assured that the missiles would now be held back at least temporarily, he proceeded with the next stage, which was to cripple the system permanently. To guarantee this, he planned to complete the removal of the metal skirt, tear out the rubberized sealant, and then break the vacuum needed for the gyrocompass to operate. This would force not only a cancellation of the launch, but also make it imperative that the submarine surface immediately.
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