by JE Gurley
From the Depths
A novel by J E Gurley
Dedication
I wish to dedicate this book to my wife, Kim, who endures my constant pecking at the keyboard and allows me to create worlds and characters, while forgiving my failure to remember the names of friends and family. She is my constant source of light against the darkness of which I write.
I also wish to thank Severed Press for turning my Southern drawl scribbling into a readable work.
J.E. Gurley
1
Oct. 25, 1962, Caribbean Sea –
Captain Ilya Voshok searched the sky for the pair of American Navy Skyhawk jets with his battered Komz binoculars, but the fog, as gray as his beard and as heavy as his belly, hid them from his view. Their distinctive Pratt and Whitney J52-P8A turbojet engines rumbled briefly to the north, and then to the east. He couldn’t help wincing in dread, as they turned and passed over his ship. He thanked providence for the fog. Without seeing them, he knew that their armament consisted of 2x20 mm Mk12 cannons, four AIM-9 Sidewinder air-to-air missiles, and two AGM65 Maverick air-to-surface missiles. The report from the submarine Velikovsky had been very thorough. He even knew what time the jets had taken off from the carrier U.S. Enterprise thirty kilometers to his east.
His ship, the a thirty-year-old rust bucket freighter A.V. Pokhomov, renamed for a 1948 Samolyot rocket plane pilot, had been playing a game of cat and mouse with the blockading U.S. fleet for two days. His cargo, four 30-kiloton nuclear warheads, had to reach Cuba without delay. He was not happy with his orders, but he would obey them to the best of his ability. The freighter Bucharest had safely slipped through the blockade, but the Marcula had been boarded and its cargo searched before being released. The Russian freighters Gagarin and Komiles had turned back. He could not. His orders were to scuttle his ship before allowing the Americans to board her. The idea of scuttling his ship was preposterous, especially in light of her cargo.
The jets did not return. His ship was safe for now. He replaced his binoculars in their worn case and hung them on the railing beside him. They had been with him since his first command, a converted fishing trawler ferrying troops across the Volga during the siege of Stalingrad. He had survived that battle, but the odds of surviving this conflict did not look so good. The American President, Kennedy, and the Kremlin leader, Khrushchev, were seeing who had the bigger balls, daring one another to knock the nuclear chip from their shoulders, and neither man was willing to back down. At stake was the fate of the world. President Kennedy’s failed coup at the Bay of Pigs in Cuba had made him look like a fool in the eyes of the free world, as did his apparent apathy at the construction of the Berlin Wall. He could not afford to lose face once again in this matter. Fidel Castro was the pawn that the two were using in their private game of chess, and Cuba was the playing board.
For his part, Voshok cared little about Castro, Cuba, or the glorious revolution. He had endured his revolution as a twelve-year-old boy from then Finnish Vyborg forced to fight in a Red Army brigade. He had survived that slaughter, and hoped to survive this test of wills. His only true love was the sea. His ship was home, family, and country, and his only allegiance was to his ship and his crew. He turned to his second-in-command, Stanos Kommakov, a tall, thin man from the White Sea port city of Belomorsk.
“We will attempt a run to Cuba after dark. Please have all the area charts on hand. I do not wish to run aground on some cursed sand bar and wait for the Americans to destroy my ship.”
Kommakov, a stolid man of few words, wiped his perspiring brow, nodded, and retreated through the door to the relative coolness of the cabin. Kommakov, by trade a fisherman in the Barents Sea, did not enjoy the muggy tropical air of the Caribbean. He preferred the chilly breezes off the Arctic ice. Voshok took pleasure in the warm breeze, but the humidity clogged his lungs. October in Vyborg, his home, was a far cry from Cuba. The northern winds that howled across the Karelian Isthmus could cut a man in half in mid-winter, but in October, the winds blew mild from the sea. The nights were cold and crisp, a time for vodka and a warm fire, but the days were clear and alive with only a hint of the winter to come. When he had left port, Voshok had watched with regret as the stark white tower of Vyborg Castle slowly vanished over the horizon, as if sinking in the sea. In his heart, he knew he would never see Vyborg again.
His destination, the Golfo de Batabano, lay on Cuba’s southwestern coast, protected by the Isla de la Juvented and a series of small islands. Reaching a safe anchorage would be difficult, especially at night. His cargo had to reach San Cristobal. To fail would mean his removal as captain or worse. Without his ship, he would have no reason to live. He would fulfill his mission or die trying. The biggest problem, aside from the American Fleet, would be the fog. It would provide cover for his ship, but his obsolete radar would make threading the small islands and almost invisible mud flats very difficult. He would need to be eagle-eyed to see his ship safely through.
Kommakov burst from the cabin with a hastily scrawled message in his hand. His face, normally so impassive, was one of abject terror. “This just came through from the Velikovsky.”
Voshok took the note, his hand trembling from dread, a sinking feeling in his stomach as if worms were writhing. He knew from his mate’s expression that the message bore ill tidings. His first glance bore out his suspicions.
‘U.S.S. Allen M. Sumner is in pursuit. Estimated interception six hours. Continue a bearing of 84 degrees Southwest until such time Velikovsky can provide assistance.’
Voshok was stunned. “Provide assistance? Do they propose sinking an American destroyer?”
“The Sumner, designation DD-692, can make 34 knots. Our top speed is 21.”
Voshok glared at Kommakov. “Yes, yes, I know, Kommakov. You state the obvious. We cannot outrun her. She also carries six 127 mm guns, batteries of 44 mm and 20 mm antiaircraft guns, and ten torpedo tubes. We cannot fight them off with our pistols.”
He had gone over the statistics for every American warship involved in the blockade before shipping out. He knew what he was facing. With only two submarines in the area and a few shore-based aircraft, the Russians were greatly overmatched.
“Full speed ahead bearing 084.” He slapped the railing. “I will not lose my ship, and I will not start a war.”
He had no choice but run. If the Americans thought he was making for South America, they might leave him alone. After all, they were concerned only with ships attempting to break their blockade. If he had to scuttle, it would be in deep water. The Cayman Trench reached a depth of 7,600 meters. Let the Americans try to recover my cargo from there. The ship shuddered as the propellers picked up speed and smiled.
We just might survive this after all.
* * * *
Oct. 26, 1962, Cayman Trench, Caribbean –
Captain Raymond S. Crabtree of the U.S.S. Allen M. Sumner stared at the tiny blip on the radarscope fade and reappear with each sweep of the dial. “Are we closing?”
“Aye, aye sir. She’s steaming a straight course. We’ll make contact in twenty minutes.” The radar man frowned as the screen blurred for a few seconds.
“What is it, son?”
“I’m getting some peculiar bounces off the waves. If the seas get any rougher, she might slip by.”
As if to emphasize his point, the ship lurched to starboard as a wave struck her amidships. Crabtree braced himself against the bulkhead. He faced a dilemma. He could order a course change and follow the waves to steady the ship, but he might lose the Russian if it suddenly changed course. Or he could continue closing on the Russian and hope his ship held together. They would just have to ride it out.
“W
hat is her captain thinking? We know the Pokhomov is carrying nuclear warheads. Does he think we will simply let him slip away into the night?”
He hoped the freighter would make a fight of it. He was eager to draw blood. His father had died in Korea fighting the communists. Now, it was his turn to make them pay.
Lieutenant Mark Bisbee spoke up. “Maybe it’s a trap. There’s a Russian sub somewhere out there. Maybe we had better move cautiously.”
Bisbee’s prudence might be called for under normal circumstances, but his reluctance concerned Crabtree. “Now is not the time for caution. The fate of the Free World is at stake. Last plot places the Russian sub forty miles north of us and presents no present threat. The Sumner is not afraid of a Russian submarine.”
Even in his bloodlust, he had no desire to tangle with a Russian sub. Not for fear it would sink his ship, but because he didn’t want to precipitate a nuclear holocaust. Intercepting a Russian freighter was one thing, but tangling with a submarine was different.
“Yes, sir,” Bisbee replied, but his nervousness was not lost on Crabtree.
“Have we made radio contact with the Russian freighter?”
“They’re not replying.”
Crabtree nodded. He wouldn’t reply either, if the situations were reversed. He braced against a bulkhead once more as the bow dipped into a wave trough. “When we’re within torpedo range, we will attempt one more hail, and then fire a shot over her bow with the 127 mm. If she refuses to yield at that time, I want two torpedoes placed in her side. I want to see that ship on the bottom of the ocean.”
“If she’s carrying a nuclear cargo …”
“Mr. Bisbee,” Crabtree said, not bothering to hide the exasperation in his voice. “Her nukes will not go off if we sink her. Had you rather see one of those missiles detonate over Washington, D.C., or Annapolis?”
Bisbee licked his lips. “No, sir.”
“Very well then, let the depths have them. Instruct the torpedo crew of my orders, and sound battle stations.”
A few seconds later, the ‘Battle Station’ claxon went off, sending the crew scurrying for their stations. Crabtree was proud to see them moving calmly and efficiently. Since arriving in the Caribbean, he had trained his crew ruthlessly day and night. They would know what to do when the time came to act. He left the radar room and struggled up the stairs to the bridge, as the ship suddenly climbed a wave. An ensign handed him a metal battle helmet as soon as he entered the bridge. He removed his hat, laid it on the console, and donned the helmet, carefully slipping the strap under his chin. Stepping outside into the open air, he leaned against the rail, bracing himself against the ship’s heavy list. The fog was so thick he could barely see the fantail of the ship. Without radar, they could pass within a stone’s throw of the Russian freighter without seeing it.
His choices were limited. He could pursue at full speed, praying that the ship’s twenty-year-old hull didn’t come apart at the seams, and that the rough seas didn’t render his radar useless, or he could reduce speed, and hope the Russian captain didn’t realize he was being followed. He chose hard pursuit. The Russian wanted him to think he was on his way to South America, but Bisbee wasn’t buying it. Unless somebody had slipped up, and intel had been on the nose so far, the Russian was carrying nukes destined for Cuba. He couldn’t allow that to happen.
The full force of the squall struck from the northeast half an hour later. The rain hammered his face as he stared into the deepening darkness, but he ignored it. The Russian was running without lights, but for just a split second, he thought he saw a dark blur atop a wave, silhouetted against the deep purple sky. It disappeared so quickly he thought it might simply have been his desire to see the Russian placing it on the horizon. He chose to think it was real.
“I’ve got you, you bastard,” he whispered into the night. He clenched his right fist around the rail.
The distance between the two ships closed slowly. The Sumner was capable of making thirty-four knots on a calm sea, but now she was reduced to less than twenty. The Russian captain must have been a fool to risk his rust bucket of a ship at that speed.
The speaker on the bridge sang out, “Sonar here, sir. I picked up a ping about two clicks out, just astern of the Russian.
The Russian sub. Captain Crabtree gripped the railing tighter. “Stand by depth charges.” He smiled as he imagined the look on Bisbee’s face when he heard that order. “Do not unload the racks unless the sub makes an aggressive move first. When the Russian freighter is within range, you have my orders.”
God help me if I’m wrong.
* * * *
He could not see them, but Captain Voshok could feel the American’s presence as a small itch between his shoulder blades. He had experienced the same discomfort during the siege of Stalingrad, as the German Stukkas dive bombed his ship and strafed his passengers, raw recruits for the meat grinder that was Stalingrad. He had survived Stalingrad. Could he survive this? A heavy wave crashed into the bow, sending him sprawling across the deck like a bit of flotsam. He fetched up against a bulkhead and fought his way to his feet. He caught sight of the American destroyer less than four-thousand meters to port in a sudden flash of lightning. They could not escape. He had to scuttle his ship, but he could not give the order. Better to let the Americans do the job for him. At least, he would not be around to watch his ship sink.
“The Americans are hailing us again,” the radioman announced.
He tensed. Answering them was his last chance at surviving. He could not. “Ignore them,” he snapped.
A few seconds later, a flash of light and an explosion a hundred meters off their starboard bow. A geyser of water rose into the air. The Americans were being serious.
“Continue on course,” he called out. Did the Americans want to start a war?
“Torpedoes!” rang out from the top look out.
Voshok swung his binoculars to port toward the American warship, expecting to see twin lances of death streaking toward him. He saw nothing.
“What bearing?” he yelled.
“Starboard.”
He quickly spotted the wake of a single torpedo six hundred meters away. He smiled as realization dawned on him. Rather than risk his cargo being intercepted, his own countrymen in the Velikovsky would assure his death. The ship shuddered and lurched as the torpedo struck the stern, lifting it into the air. The deck rose to smack him in the face. He felt his cheekbones shatter. He spit out a broken tooth with a mouthful of blood. His ears rang from the blow. The aft of the ship disappeared in a bright orange ball of flame. The heat and concussion washed over him, rendering him deaf and scorching his clothing and skin. He struggled to his feet and saw the American torpedoes pass by the bow. The American captain had been a good shot. If not for the Velikovsky, the American’s torpedoes would have done the job. The American had been robbed of his victory. Voshok forced a smile to his smashed face.
The second explosion shattered the ship’s spine. The aft section split apart with a screech of rending metal and fell away. He watched two crewmen, friends, swallowed by a large crack in the deck, engulfed in flames. Lifeboats broke free of their hoists and crashed into the ocean. His countrymen were taking no chances. There would be no time to abandon ship. His crew, which had become his family, would die with him. He regretted that their lives would be sacrificed to the ever-starving beast of politics, but no story of the Pokhomov’s deadly cargo could ever told by survivors. Her cargo would soon rest at the depths of the Cayman Trench, forgotten by time.
Voshok clung to the railing as the sea washed over him. The captain rode his ship to the bottom.
* * * *
The second explosion ripped the Pokhomov in half. Captain Crabtree watched both halves slide into the water. Men and equipment on her decks slid over the side. One burning crewman leaped over the side into the water and vanished. Flames spilled from portholes and rents in the ship’s hull. He had never witnessed a large ship sink. It left a dull ache in his s
tomach. His battle lust died quickly. Instead of elation, he felt as if he were trapped in her hold, water rising around him, filling his lungs with oily water.
He lowered his binoculars and wiped his brow, gasping for air. When he raised his glasses again, the freighter was gone, leaving only a cloud of steam, quickly dispersed by the wind, and scattered debris that would just as quickly be scattered by the waves. He was surprised that both fish had hit. He had fired two torpedoes from a range of two thousand yards. It wasn’t a perfect firing solution, but he couldn’t afford to let the Russian slip away in the squall. They had ignored his hail and his warning shot. He told himself had no choice, but was he fooling himself?
The dying ship emitted one last groan, a protest at the murder done to her. Or a promise of revenge. Of course, the Russians would deny the sinking; deny even that the ship existed. They could not admit to its deadly cargo. His report would quickly be lost amid the reams of paper amassed during the blockade. The world would never know how close to the brink of war it had come.
Captain Crabtree lowered his binoculars and stepped back into the wheelhouse out of the squall, trying to distance himself from his deed. It would soon be over, as would the blockade. The President was rumored to be considering removing American missiles from Turkey, and in return, the Russians would withdraw their missiles from Cuba. No one would know of the deal, but no one would care. The danger was over.
He fumbled a cigarette from a pack of Camels and lit it, trying to hide his shaking hand from the crew. Now I get the shakes. He took a puff and glanced at his watch. “Note the time of the sinking, Mr. Bisbee, 2440 hours.” He called out to the helmsman, “Take us back to the fleet, Mr. Lee.” Standing by the open door, shielding his cigarette from the rain, he thought he heard a long, loud scream rise from amid the debris of the dying ship, but marked it down to his imagination. Still, the sound raised goose bumps on his flesh, and he knew the dead ship would haunt his memory for a long, long time.