Counterforce

Chapter Ten

For President Robert Palmer, the day had already been a most trying one. During the preceding weeks he had looked forward to this afternoon with great anticipation. At last the United States and the Soviet Union could be on their way to a new beginning. The way it was turning out, the present world outlook appeared anything but hopeful.

Palmer reflected on the morning’s confusing events as he watched the plane carrying Premier Viktor Rodin touch down on the nearby runway.

His vantage point was a private gate, set into one end of Los Angeles airport’s international terminal. Standing before a huge picture window, he watched the massive Soviet aircraft hit the pavement with a noticeable jolt. A puff of smoke rose from the landing gear as the brakes were applied, and the lumbering jet coasted to an eventual halt. While it turned to begin the journey back to the terminal, the President mentally prepared himself for the encounter that would soon follow.

At forty-eight, Palmer was one of the youngest Chief Executive’s in history. In office for a little over seven months, he had already taken it upon himself to tackle a problem that had been facing the country for almost a century. Soviet-American relations were the paramount concern of the times. This was especially true in the U.S.” where citizen involvement had reached an all-time high. Palmer’s landslide victory in the recent election proved this.

Running on a platform that emphasized cooperation over confrontation, the young politician had attained the nation’s highest office with a clear victory in all but two states. Quite an accomplishment, considering Palmer’s previous political experience was limited to a single Senate term.

Graced with the gift of spontaneous rhetoric and movie star good looks, the tall, lanky Midwesterner had a firm understanding of his constituents. Faced with the problems of a spiraling national debt, double-digit inflation and growing unemployment, the public had demanded a change. They were tired of the old-guard politicians who talked at great lengths about the problems but did little to solve them.

Palmer proposed to focus the country’s attention on the one issue responsible for the nation’s shortcomings.

His speeches concentrated on a single fact-because of the needless arms race with the Soviets, the country was experiencing its worst economic difficulties.

He promised to cut the massive spending on missiles and other war toys and divert them to other sectors, such as medical research, agriculture and even space exploration. Relieved of its huge military expenditures, he pledged that America would flourish as never before.

Of course, the success of his strategy depended fully upon the cooperation of the Soviet Union. Only with a bilateral disarmament could such a dream come to pass. Fortunately, the Russian economy was in even worse shape than America’s. In a mad rush to obtain military parity with the U.S.” the Soviets had promoted military growth as their number one priority.

As a result, their consumer hardships had increased.

Tired of breadlines, poor quality household goods and other shoddy personal merchandise, the Russian people cried out for change. For the first time since the revolution, angry mobs of dissatisfied Russians roamed the streets of the large cities and demanded a change for the better.

Though the Soviet bureaucracy moved at a ponderous pace, the sudden rise of Viktor Rodin soon brought the changes that the people demanded.

Like Palmer, the relatively young General Secretary realized that military spending was draining his country dry. He called for a series of daring, unprecedented economic programs. Robert Palmer’s predecessor in the White House had reacted to Rodin’s ascension cautiously. Fearful to take the initiative and open a dialogue with the new Soviet leader, Washington sat back and watched the new Premier consolidate his position with a wary eye.

By supporting increased military spending, the previous Administration had made Rodin’s job even more difficult. How could he propose cuts in Russia’s military establishment when America continued to pump billions of dollars into new weapon systems of their own?

The young contender for the White House realized this dilemma and molded his campaign around it.

“Dare for Greatness” was the slogan with which he challenged the American people. Early in the primaries, Palmer announced his desire to meet with Viktor Rodin immediately after he won the presidency.

Face to face, the two leaders of the most powerful nations the world had ever known would rationally address the dangerous plight in which they found themselves.

It wasn’t long after Palmer had taken the oath of office that his invitation was presented to the General Secretary. Much to the new President’s delight, Rodin accepted at once. In response to this Palmer introduced an immediate freeze on all new weapons development. A day later, the Premier did likewise.

Confident that his colleague’s goals and aspirations were like his own.

Palmer had spent the past two months preparing for their historic meeting. During that period, a feeling of general euphoria was shared by a majority of the world’s population. Encouraged by daily newscasts hinting at drastic results from the upcoming summit, the peoples of the earth had hope that the age of imminent nuclear warfare was finally over.

Robert had awakened this morning feeling strong and self-assured. But then a phone call, relayed to him via the Pentagon, had severely dampened his enthusiasm. The admiral who had conveyed the initial information had related a nightmarish tale of conspiracy, mutiny and the likely threat of a possible Soviet first strike. The President had decided that it was time to initiate a call of his own. Viktor Rodin had appeared genuinely shocked upon hearing Palmer’s information.

The Premier’s response was strained and confused.

Palmer was certain that the man was learning about the takeover of the IL-36 relay plane — and the subsequent release of launch orders to the Vulkan — for the very first time. His decision to continue on to L.A. was most heartening. With a promise to find out just what was occurring aboard the submarine, and to call Palmer back when he had done so, the Premier broke the line.

Palmer had learned the true extent of the crisis when the General Secretary had called back. In a heavy, condescending tone, Rodin confirmed that the Vulkan was unable to be contacted. The President could hardly believe it when the Premier asked for American help in tracking down the errant vessel.

A hastily called emergency staff meeting had produced mixed results. As Palmer had expected, his National Security Advisor, Patrick Carrigan, feared some sort of Soviet shenanigans. Distrustful of Rodin’s good intentions from the very beginning, Carrigan pleaded with Palmer to cancel the summit and leave Los Angeles at once. To underscore his warning, Carrigan had detailed the incredible destructive power of a Soviet Delta-class sub. Not only L.A.” but cities all over the continent would be wiped out if the vessel’s missiles were targeted to do so. To insure the country’s military command response if the SS-N-18s were released, Carrigan had advised that the U.S. strategic forces be brought to a state of emergency alert.

George Michaelson, the Secretary of State, had taken a much softer stand. Conscious of the ultimate consequences of a Soviet missile strike, he pleaded with the President to proceed with utmost delicacy.

Since all signs pointed to this being an isolated incident, it was their responsibility to help Viktor Rodin resolve the embarrassing situation, whose dire consequences threatened them all. A strategic alert on the part of America would only give the suspicious Russians an excuse to order one of their own. The idea of both countries with their fingers on the nuclear hairtrigger didn’t appeal to the Secretary of State at all.

He did, however, agree with Carrigan that Palmer should leave Los Angeles as soon as possible. If the worse-case scenario came to pass, the President had to be far away from any potential target areas.

Robert Palmer concurred with this, and had ordered his E-4B command aircraft known as Kneecap (for National Emergency Airborne Command Post) to be ready for a quick take-off. The converted Boeing 747 was parked in a secured, isolated section of the same airport in which he presently awaited the arrival of the Soviet Premier. Packed with a variety of highly sophisticated communications systems, Kneecap was designed to serve as a survivable flying command post in times of crisis. Its purpose was much the same as that of the mammoth aircraft now nosing into the gate before him.

Taking in the large red star on its fuselage. Palmer watched the plane ground to a halt. So intense was his concentration that Palmer didn’t notice the gaunt figure of his National Security Advisor taking a position at his side.

“Well, Mr. President, it appears that Comrade Rodin is right on time for your little party. I still wish that you’d reconsider asking him to board Kneecap with you. There’s more top-secret gear crammed into that aircraft than anywhere else on the planet.”

Palmer replied without taking his eyes off the IL76.

“Come off it, Pat. What else can I do with him?”

“Leave him in Los Angeles as a hostage until this crisis is resolved,” Carrigan stated firmly.

“That will give those mutineers something to think about.”

“You know that’s impossible. Pat. I’ve waited two long months for this day. I’m not about to go oft now and leave the Premier out in the cold.”

“I’d say that our current situation warrants some extra thought, Mr. President. I don’t think you planned on having a magazine full of SS-N-18s staring us down the throat. Have you given any more thought as to how we’re going to respond in the event those missiles are released?”

The President glanced to his right and caught Carrigan’s inquisitive stare.

“I don’t exactly have that many options, do I?”

“You could reconsider issuing that launch-on warning directive, sir.

Clearing our ICBMS out of their silos can save them from certain total destruction..

“Jesus, Patrick, you’re not going to start with that again! I’ve already agreed to your suggestion of bringing our strategic forces up to an alert status of DEFCON 3. With all operational subs out to sea, our B-52s dispersed and all Minuteman crews on alert, I think that’s a sufficient show of force at the moment.

Remember, this is an isolated threat we’re facing, not the whole damn Russian Army!”

Carrigan didn’t flinch.

“We still don’t know that fact for certain, Mr. President. The Russian mind works very differently from our own. Don’t forget that we’re talking about the best chess players in the world here. I still can’t help but smell a trap. Since all that the Soviets respect is a firm show of force in return for any aggression on their part, I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a variety of target options. If those SS-N18s are launched, at least we’ll be able to take out an equivalent number of Soviet installations.”

“I pray to God that we’ll be able to get a handle on this situation long before we’re forced to start playing that game, Mr. Carrigan.

What’s the latest news from Pearl?”

“Admiral Miller reports that our carrier task force is closing in on the coordinates that Premier Rodin gave us. It’s spearheaded by the Triton, one of our newest attack subs. If the supposed launch position of the Vulkan is correct, we should have an intercept within two hours.”

A slight look of relief crossed Palmer’s face.

“I’ve got a feeling that the U.S. Navy is going to take care of all of our problems for us.”

When the cordon of uniformed policemen lining the exit ramp began to stir, the President backed away from the window.

“It looks like the General Secretary and his party are on their way down. Come on, Carrigan, at least try to put a neighborly smile on that Irish face. These folks came an awfully long way to see us.”

Robert Palmer followed his remark with a playful wink, and his advisor couldn’t help but grin in response. Anxiously, both men walked over to greet the group of dark-suited newcomers who were led by the handsome, nattily dressed figure of Viktor Rodin.

As the President approached his Soviet counterpart, he found himself relieved. The sincere warmth that glowed from Rodin’s dark, intense eyes couldn’t be ignored. They met with a handshake, a hug, and a kiss on each cheek.

“Welcome to America, General Secretary Rodin,” the President said.

“I can’t tell you how much I’ve looked forward to this day.”

“The feeling is mutual. Comrade President,” Rodin replied in flawless English.

“I just wish that my arrival could have taken place under different circumstances.

The plight of the Vulkan has cast a dark shadow over this summit of peace.”

“That it has. I don’t suppose you have any updates on your efforts to reach the Vulkan’]” Rodin shook his head gravely.

“As before, our navy is still doing its best to reach them. By the way, I would like you to meet the man who is responsible for this effort, Admiral Stanislav Sorokin.”

Rodin stepped aside and beckoned into the crowd that had followed him out of the gateway. A heavyset, whitehaired officer stepped from the ranks and approached them.

“President Palmer, this is Admiral Stanislav Sorokin, Commander of the Fleet of the Soviet Union.”

The blue-suited naval officer offered the President a cold, emotionless handshake.

Immediately cognizant of Sorokin’s enmity, Palmer did his best to break the ice.

“It is an honor to meet you. Admiral. I have heard nothing but respectful comments concerning you from my own naval officers.

Your foresight and persistent vision are to be admired.”

To this, Sorokin merely nodded and did his best to merge back into the crowd from which he had emerged.

The admiral’s stubborn indifference reminded Palmer of Patrick Carrigan. Though they came from opposite ends of the political spectrum, the two advisors had much in common.

After a quick introduction to the rest of the Premier’s staff. Palmer took Rodin gently by the arm and guided him over to an empty corner.

“I’m afraid that the crisis aboard your submarine has necessitated a change in our original schedule. I believe it’s best for both of us to initiate our meeting in my personal command plane. I have already arranged to have a secured line available for you, connected directly with the PVO underground national command center outside of Moscow.”

The Premier noticed the strain visible on his host’s face, and answered as openly as possible.

“I think that, under the circumstances, this is an excellent idea, Mr. President. There is much that I’d like to share with you, but our privacy and safety must first be assured.”

“Excellent,” returned a noticeably relieved Robert Palmer.

“Because of space limitations, you will be limited to one staff person of your choice. I hope this won’t inconvenience you. General Secretary.”

“That is no trouble at all, Comrade President. I will have my personal secretary, Olga Tyumen, accompany us. And please, call me Viktor.”

Put at ease by his guest’s frankness, Palmer managed a gracious smile.

“I’ll do that only if you will also call me by my first name.”

“Robert it is.”

The man’s charm was infectious. Palmer’s instincts said that it was safe to trust the Premier.

“Well then, Viktor, I think it’s best if we begin our way over to Kneecap at once.”

“Kneecap?”

“I’m sorry, Viktor. That’s merely my plane’s nickname.”

Rodin grinned, then excused himself to inform his staff that he would be leaving them for a while.

Stanislav Sorokin took the news with some alarm, and implored the Premier to have a second with him alone. In the privacy of the jet walkway, the two men solemnly faced each other.

“Comrade General Secretary, why must you go up in the imperialist command plane? This whole mess smells more and more like a certain Yankee trap!”

Rodin answered firmly.

“I disagree with you. Admiral.

Under the circumstances, the President is making the only practical decision. Of course, I’m sorry to have to leave the rest of you in Los Angeles, but that can’t be avoided.”

“And what if I have news of the Vulkanv implored Stanislav.

“It should be easy enough to reach me. Admiral.

The facilities aboard the flying Kremlin should be more than adequate for this task.”

“But the Yankees will surely be listening in!”

“That doesn’t concern me in the least, Admiral Sorokin. This is a predicament that each side shares equally. Just think how you’d feel if the situation were reversed, and it was one of their Tridents off of our coast. So far, the Americans have been most understanding of our inept efforts to contact the Vulkan.

You should be more concerned with your own effort in making certain that this mess doesn’t get completely out of hand. I don’t know how this cowardly act of mutiny came to pass, but I want it stemmed, and stemmed now! Find me the malefactors, Admiral.

Your incompetency so far can’t be excused!”

Sheepishly, Sorokin angled his glance down to his feet as the Premier turned to rejoin the American President. Though he fumed inwardly, Sorokin did his utmost to contain his rising temper.

How dare that insolent moron talk to him in that manner! Didn’t the fool realize whom he was addressing?

The admiral was already serving his country when Rodin was still wetting the bed. Soon Viktor Rodin would know just who the foolish one was!

Even if the Premier missed the warhead that had been intended to take him out, it would already be too late to interfere. The elimination of the imperialist command posts would signal the end of the capitalists ability to defend themselves. The soldiers of the Rodina wouldn’t just sit back and mourn the Yankees losses — they would attack and end the American threat forever! Now, if only he could convince the pilot of the flying Kremlin to take to the air, perhaps he, too, could share in the upcoming victory. Stimulated by this thought, his great depression of the last few hours dissipated like a summer fog. Feeling like a condemned prisoner suddenly given a full reprieve, he continued on down the walkway to have a few words with the IL-76’s flight crew.

A quarter of an hour later, Viktor Rodin found himself strapped in a chair in the forward conference room of the aircraft known as Kneecap.

More spacious and comfortable than his IL-76 command plane, the E-4B appeared to be a most well designed vehicle. So far, he had seen only the forward portion of the fuselage where the President’s private quarters were located. But his host had promised to show him the rest of the plane after their initial meeting was concluded.

Minutes after they entered Kneecap it was taxiing to their take-oft position. There was little doubt that the Americans were in a hurry to get airborne. Rodin couldn’t blame them. Not knowing exactly when, where, or if the Vulkan’s missiles would be released, they could only prepare for the worst. Since he was directly responsible for this tragic mess, the Premier could only express his sincere apologies and do his best to defuse the volatile situation before it was too late.

Only after the plane had attained its cruising altitude did Robert Palmer join him. Though they had met but a short time before, Rodin felt as if they were old friends, reunited after years of separation.

As Palmer slipped into a chair on the opposite side of the rectangular walnut table, Rodin did his best to express his true feelings.

“Once again, Robert, I can’t tell you how sorry I am for this inexcusable dilemma we find ourselves in.

It is my direct responsibility, and therefore I can only plead for your understanding.”

“Pleas aren’t necessary, Viktor. In a way, each of us equally shares responsibility. Such a crisis was bound to happen sooner or later.

Actually, I’m amazed that this is the first time such a horrible thing has come to pass. As holders of the world’s primary nuclear arsenals, such a crisis had to be expected as an eventuality.

I’m only sorry that you and I didn’t meet much earlier. A world without The Bomb would be free from such madness.” “Well said, Comrade,” Rodin sighed.

“If we can get through this dark day, there will be no excuses for us to delay the immediate banning of nuclear weapons from the face of the planet. I can only hope that we are not too late.”

When the plane shook in a slight pocket of turbulence, Rodin swiveled around to peer out a small window. It was a cloudless day; the blue waters of the Pacific were clearly visible, 37,000 feet below.

“Our destiny awaits us beneath those waters, Robert. I feel it’s my duty to relate to you a detailed list of the Vulkan’s intended targets.

Perhaps you might even consider the evacuation of specific locations.

Who knows how many lives such an act could save The Premier reached over and handed Palmer a single sheet of lined paper. As the President’s eyes skimmed the list, the scope of the potential catastrophe was disturbingly evident. With his voice trembling, he responded softly.

“Do you mind if I give this information to my staff?”

“Of course not. Comrade. This is why I’ve given it to you. Any other data that you require is also at your service.”

The President picked up one of the four telephones that graced the table and punched in a single digit.

“Delores, please have Pat Carrigan see me at once.”

As he replaced the handset, he looked up thoughtfully.

“I know that nuclear-targeting plans are among the most secretive areas of military operations. Your openness is most appreciated. I hope that the disclosure of such information won’t affect the ultimate outcome of this matter. We still have several hours until those missiles are due to be launched. It is imperative that we spend this time wisely. I think that the first step would to be to set up a conference call between ourselves, the Pentagon, and your PVO command headquarters. Our efforts must be coordinated in order to reach the Vulkan well before the missiles are released. Have you been able to determine the individuals responsible for the unauthorized release of those launch codes?”

Somberly, Rodin shook his head.

“My most trusted aides are currently in the midst of such an investigation.

We’ve only been able to determine that it is attributable to a small group of malcontents. The Soviet Union’s military and intelligence arms are just as shocked by this traitorous action as we are.

“Of course, the primary inquiry is taking place among my cryptographic staff. To make certain that other weapons cannot be released, the members of this hand-picked unit were immediately replaced and the launch codes altered. I have authorized the MVD, our internal police force, to initiate a probe separate from that of the KGB to insure a thorough investigation.

One thing I guarantee is that the madmen responsible will be uprooted!

We shall not rest until this is accomplished.”

There was a knock on the cabin door.

“Yes, come in,” the President said.

The door swung open and a nondescript, gray-suited, middle-aged man curiously eyed the Premier before addressing Robert Palmer.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. President?”

“Patrick Carrigan, I’d like you to meet General Secretary Rodin.” The two nodded leadenly toward each other as Palmer continued.

“Pat here is my National Security Advisor. I think that he’d better take a look at this target list before we set up that conference call.”

Palmer handed his advisor the sheet of paper.

Carrigan remained standing while he read its contents and appeared shaken. His face was noticeably drained of color as he looked back at the President.

“Pretty scary stuff, huh Pat?” Palmer said calmly.

“In the spirit of openness and cooperation, the General Secretary has offered us this information. You are free to give it to the Pentagon and to take all necessary precautions — short of full civilian evacuation. One thing I don’t want on our hands is a public panic. As is the case in this entire crisis, information will be strictly on a need-to-know basis.”

Carrigan responded hesitantly.

“Sir, considering that the only major population center listed here is Los Angeles, shouldn’t we reconsider evacuation?

Even just a couple of hours’ notice could save millions of lives!”

“I don’t agree with you. Pat. We could lose that many just in the ensuing panic. I’ve studied all the civil defense manuals and have a pretty good grasp of the problems involved with crisis relocation. We’d need at least a week to properly evacuate the Los Angeles basin. A couple of hours isn’t going to make much of a difference.”

This observation was delivered in a flat, grim tone.

Palmer’s next words were more hopeful.

“Right now, I want all of us to put such thoughts out of our minds. We must instead concentrate on doing everything within our capabilities to stop the Vulkan from firing. We’re going to need a conference line opened between Kneecap, the Joint Chiefs and the Soviet PVO headquarters. Then, I’m going to want to talk with Admiral Miller. The ball is in Pacific Command’s court now. I’m counting on them to end this game with a single shot.”

Viktor Rodin watched the President’s advisor absorb these words, and could tell that he entertained a solution of a vastly different nature.

Like his own Stanislav Sorokin, the man most probably thought that a show of force would be a much better answer to their problem. Thankful to have Robert Palmer for his ally, the General Secretary wondered if his new friend would change his mind once the first of the warheads began dropping on American soil. His stomach soured and he struggled to wipe this line of thought from his consciousness.

Some 2,500 miles away from Kneecap, a Sikorsky SH-60B Seahawk helicopter soared over the Pacific.

From its central hatch window, Captain Michael Cooksey peered down at the ocean’s surface.

For the last hour, their course had been to the northwest, as they followed the Hawaiian Ridge up toward Midway Island. Cooksey knew these waters well, but not from this particular vantage point. They were passing over a handful of the tiny coral atolls from which the Ridge derived its name. Formed by volcanic activity millions of years ago, the Ridge stretched westward to merge with the Emperor Seamount Chain. Separating these two subterranean features was Midway itself.

So far, the flight had progressed smoothly. The crew of three had been quite courteous, staying mostly to themselves. That was fine as far as Cooksey was concerned. At the moment, he had plenty to think about.

The unexpected trip up from Kauai had happened so quickly that he needed the time alone to put his thoughts in order. His primary concern had been his hasty briefing with Admiral Miller. The Commander of the Third Fleet had seemed unusually tense as he told Cooksey the facts regarding the current crisis.

There was no doubting the seriousness of the situation, especially when the proper launch code had already been conveyed. That such a situation had come to pass did not really shock Cooksey. Having sailed aboard a missile-carrying vessel himself, he knew that the launch of a submarine-based nuclear warhead could be achieved with a minimum of obstacles.

This was unlike the release procedure that took place inside an ICBM launch capsule or a strategic bomber. Those delivery systems required the receipt of complex codes before a warhead’s triggering mechanism would work. The device that received this code was called a PAL, for Permissive Action Link. It insured that the weapon couldn’t be utilized without proper authorization from command.

While visiting a cousin assigned to Whiteman Air Force base in western Missouri, Cooksey had been given a tour of a Minuteman launch capsule.

Here he had seen the elaborate safeguard system at work. The process of releasing an ICBM was unbelievably complex.

Generally, each two-man launch crew was in charge of ten separate missile silos. When an Emergency Action message or launch order arrived, it had to be decoded and validated. It was then entered into the PAL. Once authorized, each officer would position himself before one of a pair of widely spaced keyholes.

The keys had to be turned simultaneously, eliminating the possibility of a launch by a single, renegade officer.

In contrast, missiles launched from submarines had no elaborate PAL devices. Because of the constraints caused by communications difficulties, they could be fired without specific go codes from command. All they needed was a single message informing them that a war alert existed. Then it was up to each individual captain to reconfirm that such a state indeed existed and to act accordingly.

Since the same communications restraints limited the Soviets, their submarine-launched missiles were most likely operated in a similar manner. If somehow a war alert had been conveyed to one of their Delta Illclass vessels, it was very possible that its skipper thought a nuclear conflict between the two superpowers existed. Whether by intention or accident, a failure to correct this mistake could lead to a most unpleasant outcome. Since the Soviets had so far failed in their efforts to reach the submarine, the U.S. Navy had been called in to do their dirty work.

Cooksey was surprised that the Russians had so openly asked for help.

It wasn’t every day that the General Secretary of the Soviet Union gave the United States his blessing to blow away one of their most sophisticated strategic platforms. Something must have occurred inside his own command chain that made contacting the sub an impossibility.

Cooksey was aware of a change in the steady pitch of the Seahawk’s rotors. Glancing outside, he saw that they were losing altitude. As he studied the rolling swells, he weighed the Triton’s chances of completing its mission.

He really didn’t think that locating the Soviet sub would be very difficult. Such ships were large and noisy. If they were where they were supposed to be, the Triton’s superior sensors would quickly track them down.

The element that was critical was the time factor.

The admiral had given him a rough idea as to when the Soviets were due to launch. Even with the Triton’s head start, they would have to proceed with their throttles wide open if they were going to have any chance of reaching the Vulkan in time.

He remembered that the Triton was now loaded with a new, experimental weapons system that effectively extended their range of attack to a full three hundred miles. The ASW/SOW device could prove crucial to their mission’s success.

A coordinated effort on the part of the carrier task force would aid them also. At last report, the John F. Kennedy and its escorts were steaming in from the waters northeast of Midway. Their choppers would soon be within range of the southern sector of the Emperor Seamount Chain. Here they would saturate the ocean with hundreds of sonobuoys. Assisted by ultra-sensitive dunking hydrophones and the ever probing magnetic ana moly detectors, the helicopters would radio news of a find back to the carrier. The Triton would then be informed and a proper kill initiated.

Though it all sounded relatively simple, Cooksey knew that it was an enormous task. If the Vulkan wasn’t where it was supposed to be, finding it could take days, or even weeks. And even if they were able to tag the sub, there was always the likely possibility that a companion Alfa-attack vessel would be standing by to defend it.

Cooksey stirred restlessly as he recalled their last encounter. It wasn’t far from these very seas that the Alfa had shot under the task force at unheard of speeds. He would never forget his feeling of utter frustration as the Triton had tried in vain to pursue them, or his exasperation when they realized he didn’t even have a weapon capable of touching the Soviet attack sub.

Although not really certain of the Alpha’s offensive capabilities, Cooksey knew he was up against a potent adversary. The Triton would have to be kept in a state of constant alert to retain the advantage of surprise.

The next few hours proved to be most trying ones.

Thankful for a rested body and mind, Cooksey anxiously awaited the challenge. At long last, twenty years of intense study and endless practice exercises were about to be applied. He was feeling most confident that his crew and equipment were the best that the country had to offer when the pitch of the rotors again changed.

Cooksey turned at the sound of movement from behind him, and saw the Seahawk’s ATO go into action. The officer was attaching a transfer harness onto the thick, nylon winch cord. Aware of the captain’s interest, the airborne tactical officer asked, “Ever go for a ride in one of these little ladies, sir?”

“Not since basic,” Cooksey shouted over the din of the chopping rotors.

The ATO smiled.

“Well, you have nothing to worry about. Captain. We’ll set you down there as light as a feather.”

“I’m sure that you will,” Cooksey said as the helicopter began a wide-banked turn.

“This must be the place, sir,” the ATO observed.

“We’d better take a look.”

The young officer joined Cooksey at the sliding hatch window. Both men locked gazes on a surging sea that was clearly more turbulent than it had appeared from a higher altitude. White caps topped four-foot swells that constantly rolled in on long fingers from the northwest. They were only a few hundred feet above the surface now. Cooksey looked down expectantly. A full minute passed, when suddenly he saw a thin line of frothing white turbulence cutting through the green depths. Seconds later, he spotted the tip of a periscope.

He pointed it out to the ATO, who reached over and grabbed an intercom.

Once the pilot spotted it, the chopper descended still lower.

As the Seahawk made a series of wide-banking turns, Cooksey’s eyes remained locked on the sea.

Like finding an old friend who has been too-long absent, he watched breathlessly as the top edge of the sub’s sail became visible. Next, the sail’s two diving planes could be seen. The vessel seemed to remain at this depth for some time, the sail knifing smoothly through the water, when a torrent of crashing turbulence indicated a sudden change. In the blink of an eye, the rest of the three-hundred-sixty-foot-long vessel emerged. As a curl of seawater smashed over the Triton’s curved hull, Cooksey beamed with pride.

The intercom buzzed and the ATO answered it, then handed the receiver to Cooksey. The chopper pilot wished him luck, adding that fuel considerations demanded as quick a transfer as possible.

Cooksey thanked him for the lift, and then, with the ATO’s expert help, fitted on the shoulder harness.

Ready to initiate transfer, the hatch door was swung open and Cooksey was instructed to sit with his feet dangling outside as the chopper positioned itself above the waiting sub.

The sound of whirling rotors was considerably louder now, as the Seahawk continued to descend.

Cooksey saw that the Triton’s hatch cover had been removed, and two familiar khaki-clad figures were looking up. As he identified his XO and the massive physique of Chief Bartkowski, a wave of emotion swelled in his breast. Like a pilgrim whose long journey had finally brought him home, he muttered a simple prayer of thanks.

“See you around the golf course. Captain,” said the ATO as he began working the winch mechanism.

Cooksey flashed him a thumbs-up as the harness pulled tightly around his shoulder blades. Before he knew it, he was suspended outside the hovering chop per. Buffeted by the rotors’ powerful downdraft, he shielded his eyes and felt himself dropping.

The accuracy of the Seahawk’s crew was perfect-their first attempt brought Cooksey right to the open platform cut into the top of the sub.

The chief’s massive hands grabbed him securely as the XO hit the harness release lever. The strain on Cooksey’s shoulders was instantly relieved.

“Requesting permission to come aboard,” Cooksey said with a salute.

“Permission granted,” said Executive Officer Richard Craig. For a moment, the three of them watched the sleek, white SH-60B as it sped northeast with a roar.

“I just hope they make it back to the JFK” Cooksey said at last. “The way I figure it, those fuel tanks have got to be close to dry. Oh, and by the way Rich — congratulations, papa!”

The XO shook Cooksey’s outstretched hand.

“Thanks, Skipper. I kind of find it hard to believe myself.” “How’s Susan doing?” Cooksey asked.

“At last report she was all smiles, Skipper. Do you know that she waited to go into labor until we had pulled into Pearl? I even got to drive her to the hospital.”

“Sorry that we had to drag you away from your new family, but that’s the navy.”

The XO responded lightly.

“I’m fine now, knowing that everything turned out so well. You’re sure looking tanned and rested. Captain.”

“I haven’t felt this good in years. This was the first R-&-R that I really enjoyed in too long. Unfortunately all good things come to an end. What’s the status of the Triton, Chief?”

Pete Bartkowski, who had been scanning the sea before them, said, “All systems are operational. Captain.

Had time to take on a full load of supplies, and also a pair of newfangled, long-range ASW weapons.

Lieutenant Spencer has ‘em stowed away in the forward torpedo room.”

“I think that you’ll find some unfamiliar faces aboard. Skipper,” the XO added.

“Because of the sudden nature of our sailing orders, we had to grab a dozen noncoms off the Trigger fish. They’re fully competent and seem to have mixed in well with the rest of the crew. Are you going to be able to tell us what this mission is all about now? Our orders didn’t say much.”

Cooksey’s words flowed smoothly.

“Believe it or not, gentlemen, the Triton is going hunting for a Soviet Delta-class missile sub that is believed to be the victim of a mutiny.

We’ve been called in to eliminate this vessel — at the direct request of their General Secretary. I’ll be giving you all the sweet details during the meeting I’d like you to set up in the wardroom. Include all officers and senior chiefs. I’d like this to take place within the hour, so let’s get cracking. Will you take her down, Rich?”

“Aye-aye, Skipper,” the XO replied. But he couldn’t hide his astonishment at the captain’s revelations.

With a slight shiver, he picked up the intercom and punched in two digits.

“Mr. Lawrence, prepare to dive.”

Cooksey followed the bulky figure of Chief Bartkowski down the stairway into the sub’s interior.

The familiar hum of the Triton’s systems surrounded him as he ducked through a hatchway and emerged into the control room. As he examined the equipment packed compartment and watched its occupants in action, Cooksey knew that he had finally returned home. He watched the diving officer prepare to take them down into their natural element. Beside him sat the planes men perched alertly in leather-upholstered chairs, with the rubber steering yoke and plane control sticks well within reach.

Cooksey was scanning the consoles reserved for engineering, sonar, weapons and navigation, when a loud, raucous honk echoed twice. Richard Craig had already sealed the hatch and was in the process of taking a position beside the diving officer. Cooksey remained a detached observer as the diving console’s toggle switches were triggered and a series of lights indicated that the valves were opening. Seconds later, the muffled roar of rushing water signaled that the ballast tanks had begun to Hood. The stern planes were activated and the Triton began to descend.

While the deck began angling downward, Cooksey made his way over to the navigation plotting table. He was in the midst of drawing up a detailed topographical cross-section of the southern portion of the Emperor Seamount Chain when the angle of their descent increased noticeably. Forced to hold onto the edge of the console to keep from falling over, he immediately knew that something out of the ordinary had occurred. Struggling to join his XO, his progress was forced to a halt when the bow began to nose down even more sharply. His thoughts flashed wildly: Had there been a mistake with the ballast calculations?

Perhaps the Triton hadn’t been sealed properly, and it was the weight of inrushing seawater that was dragging them down to the bottom. One thing he knew for certain was that a dive at this descent and speed would be fatal in a, matter of minutes.

Then he heard Richard Craig shout “Hard rise on the stern planes!”

Tense seconds passed, when slowly but surely, then-angle of descent lessened.

“Shut all vents!” the XO called out as he made certain that the proper switches were flicked.

Cooksey quickly strode to Craig’s side.

“Jesus, Rich, what the hell happened?”

It proved to be Dirk Lawrence, their diving officer, who offered an explanation.

“It appeared to be the planes men sir. I believe they overcompensated for the dive.”

To verify this, the three officers proceeded to the diving console.

Here they found the two seated seamen visibly shaken. The sweat-stained sailor sitting on the left turned his head and, with voice trembling, sheepishly said, “I’m sorry, sir, but the control stick of the Triggerfish has a completely different feel to it.”

“It’s my fault. Captain,” Dirk Lawrence said.

“As diving officer, I should have been watching them more closely. I’ve taken one of those Permit-class subs down myself and can vouch for the difference in plane pressure.”

Cooksey looked at his exec and then to his watch.

“Well, thank God everything turned out okay. Lieutenant Lawrence, I want you to make certain that all new personnel are monitored closely.

Rich, you’d better bring us up to two hundred feet, and then we’d better get going with that officers meeting. We don’t have much time.”

Confident that this isolated incident would not be repeated, Cooksey excused himself. It had been a long day already, and there was still much more to do.

After a quick visit to his cabin and a change into a fresh pair of khakis, he allowed himself the luxury of a cup of coffee and a ham sandwich. By then his XO had called to notify him that the personnel he had requested were present in the wardroom.

As the officers filed inside the wardroom, a rumble of nervous chatter rose from their ranks. Each was aware that the order calling them out of Pearl Harbor was most unusual. When their orders also demanded that they leave without the captain, they knew something deadly serious was up.

Without fanfare, their captain entered and made his way over to the wall beside the wardroom’s video screen. As he turned to face his men, the room’s only picture could be seen over his right shoulder. It showed a full-length silhouette of the sub plunging into blue depths.

Superimposed on it was a lithe Greek god holding a triton-shell trumpet in one hand, and the trident spear of sea power in the other.

Cooksey cleared his throat and spoke distinctly.

“Thank you, gentlemen, for your prompt attendance.

I’m sure that you’re anxious to know about the nature of our present mission, and I’m not going to keep you in suspense any longer. We have been authorized to hunt down and eliminate a Soviet Delta-class submarine, the Vulkan. This directive comes from the highest sources, which can be traced all the way back to the General Secretary of the Soviet Union himself.

In effect, we have been asked to do what his navy has failed to accomplish, to stem a mutiny aboard one of their most modern missile-carrying vessels. Since it is feared that the Vulkan plans to release its load of sixteen SS-N-18 ballistic missiles once it attains its launch position, we must act with all due haste to cancel this threat. I’ve drawn up the following map segment to show what we are up against.”

As the captain turned to activate the video screen, the wardroom tilled with astounded whispers. The babble hushed as the monitor flashed on and Cooksey again addressed them.

“This, gentlemen, is the southern portion of the Emperor Seamount Chain. In order for the Vulkan’s missiles to be within range of their intended targets, their release point must be somewhere between this sector and Midway Island. I know this includes a large expanse of territory, and that we are still several hours away, but the task has fallen upon our shoulders and I don’t intend to fail.

“Assisting us will be a task force of surface ships currently steaming into these waters from the northeast. This includes the carrier John F. Kennedy, the Aegis guided-missile cruiser Ticonderoga, and the Spruance-class destroyer. Eagle.

“To make the most effective use of this force’s formidable ASW capabilities, we will interface with their sensors whenever possible.

The Ticonderoga has deployed a specially designed low-frequency antenna that will allow them to notify us of any detections.

Our helicopters will probably be the first elements to tag the Vulkan.

As you all know, the Delta-class sub make their own distinctive racket in the water, which should be readily picked up by our dunking hydrophones.

The choppers will also enable our forces to cover an extremely large patch of ocean.

“Since the Triton is specifically designed to carry out just such a mission, we are being counted on to deliver the fatal blow. To insure this, I’m going to need the help of each of you.

“Lieutenant Weaver, we’re going to need every available knot out of our reactor, and then some. For the next couple of hours, I’m counting on maximum speed to bring us within range of our bogey.

“Mr. Callahan, you will have the demanding job of coordinating the sensor interface with the surface fleet. While this is being accomplished, your people will also be responsible for monitoring the Tritons own sensor systems. There is a very good chance that the Vulkan is not out here alone. I’m certain that you remember the bogey we encountered during our last exercise at Point Luck. This same Alfa sub was seen escorting the Vulkan back to its pen in Petropavlovsk.

I doubt if they would send the missile-carrying Delta on patrol without the Alfa along for protection.”

A hand shot up in the back of the room and Cooksey signaled a freckle-faced, redheaded officer to stand.

“Excuse me, Captain, but tagging the Alfa could pose some serious problems. Not only is its hull coated with an anechoic covering that makes our sonar useless, but she can out dive and outrun us as well.

Even if we did manage to pick them up, what could we do about them?”

“Good question, Mr. Callahan. I think Lieutenant Spencer has the answer to that. Lieutenant, are the Triton’s most recent additions ready for action?”

Randal Spencer, the ship’s weapons officer, stood and answered calmly.

“That they are, Captain. If the ASW/SOWS do everything the manual promises, those Ruskies will be fair game. I don’t care how fast they’re running, but if you can bring them within a 300-mile radius of our forward tubes, I’ll do the rest.”

This remark brought a surprised comment or two before the captain continued.

“Earlier, during a routine descent, the Triton was almost involved in a disastrous mishap. A simple mistake on the part of a planes man could have abruptly ended this cruise for all of us. Because we were forced to take on several sailors who are new to our class of sub, I must ask you to keep your eyes peeled for any sign of incompetence.

Hopefully, this was an isolated incident, but continued vigilance is necessary.

“Now, if there are no additional questions, you may be off to your stations. I’ll kindly ask you to keep knowledge of this briefing to yourselves. An announcement will shortly be made to the rest of the crew. Thank you, gentlemen, and good luck for the hunters!”

To a mild roar of chatter, the officers stood and filed from the room.

Cooksey watched the procession and signaled his XO to join him beside the monitor.

“That was an excellent briefing. Skipper,” Craig said.

“The men were a bit shocked, to say the least.”

“Thanks, Rich. I think I got my point across. And I don’t blame them for being surprised. I’ll never forget that moment when Admiral Miller sat me down and gave me the initial details. To tell you the truth, I still have trouble believing that this thing is really coming down.”

“Ditto for me. Skipper. The part I’m having trouble with is the fact that the Soviet Premier has actually asked for our assistance. Things must really be out of hand for him to call us in to blow away one of their own subs.”

“I’ve got to admit its one for the books all right. I just hope we don’t let them down.”

As the captain reached over and turned off the monitor, Craig asked, “Say we don’t make it in time, and those missiles get released — what then. Skipper?”

Cooksey reflected a while before answering.

“I shudder when I think of the possible consequences, Rich. A magazine full of SS-N-18s can cause one hell of a lot of damage. From their intended launch position, they could probably hit targets anywhere in the continental United States.”

The XO’s face suddenly paled.

“Oh, sweet Jesus!

Susan and the baby! They’re laying there right at ground zero.”

“Easy now, Rich, we’ve still got a bit to say in the matter.”

“Oh, come on, Skipper, you know what an impossible task we face. They could be hundreds of miles away from us right now. And not only are the chances of tagging them slim, but then there’s that Alfa to contend with. If we get anywhere close to the Vulkan, we’re going to have one deadly tiger on our tail!”

Almost fatherly, Cooksey put his hand on his XO’s shoulder.

“That kind of thinking will only get you an ulcer. It’s highly speculative, and self-defeating, too.

If that Delta-class sub is there, we’re going to take them out. I don’t give a damn what they’ve got between us and them. Nothing is getting in the way of the USS Triton!”

These words were delivered with such conviction that the XO couldn’t help but lighten.

“You said it, Skipper. Let’s go get them!”

Playfully, Cooksey cuffed his exec on the side of his head, then pointed to the door. Without comment, Richard Craig managed a brave smile and followed the captain outside.