Counterforce

Chapter Twelve

“All stop! Callahan, she’s all yours.”

Michael Cooksey’s orders barked out loud and clear. In response, the Triton’s propulsion shaft came to a halt and the sub glided forward in almost total silence. The sonar officer took advantage of this quiet to fully concentrate on the vessel’s sensors.

The sub was using a tactic called sprint and drift. In order to cover as much territory as possible, the sub would sprint at all-out flank speed for a period of time. Then the captain would call for the engines to halt and the drift portion of the operation would begin.

Because the sound of their own engines would be absent, it was at this time that the sensor operators would have their best chance of picking up the signatures of any nearby bogeys.

As Charlie Callahan and his two assistants leaned over their monitor screens, the captain and his XO positioned themselves behind the brass railing set to the rear of the sonar station. Both officers looked on as the head phoned sensor operators activated the tools of their trade.

These included a wide array of powerful hydrophones mounted on the ship’s hull.

Such sensitive microphones could pick up the most minute sounds, from the click of a tiny crab to the mournful cry of a passing whale. In the midst of the ocean’s natural symphony, the relatively loud, alien noise produced by a manmade device was hard to miss. Callahan and his crew also had the use of a towed array sled that was reeled out from the Triton’s stern.

This not only carried hydrophones, but also a thermometer capable of determining unnatural changes in the ocean’s temperature. Such an anomaly would be produced when a passing sub stirred up a layer of water from a different depth. This could be of extreme significance, since the temperature of seawater drops at least one degree centigrade with each meter of depth.

Also in front of the men was a large glass screen belonging to the ship’s BQQ-5 active sonar system. Mounted in the sub’s bow, it transmitted a concentrated acoustic pulse into the surrounding waters.

In the headphones, this pulse was recognizable as a quavering note, followed by the distinctive plink of a returning echo. The presence of any alien object crossing in the path of the surge would be instantly reflected back to the operator. One of the drawbacks to this device was that the hunted can detect an active sonar transmission earlier than the hunter can pick up the target.

Aware of each passing minute, Cooksey studied the sensor crew at work and stirred impatiently. Beside him, Richard Craig pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped a line of sweat from his forehead.

Both men looked on hopefully when Callahan suddenly bent forward and pushed his headphones closer to his ears.

“I’ve got one of the task force’s choppers, Captain!

The signal from the interface with the Ticonderoga is weak, but it sounds as if their dunking hydrophones have tagged something.”

“Have the computer boost the signal to maximum and filter the resulting distortion. Then maybe we’ll have something to run a signature I.D. on,” ordered the captain. He then turned to address the Triton’s navigator.

“Smitty, how far are we from the Ticonderoga now?”

Chief Petty Officer Warren Smith looked at his plotting table and said, “They’re approximately eight-five nautical miles to the northeast, sir.”

As Cooksey chewed this over, Callahan spoke out excitedly.

“I’ve made the boost and Big Brother has been most cooperative. It’s a bogey submersible, all right! Jesus — even from this distance you can hear it churnin’ up the water something fierce. Still waiting on that positive I.D.” sir.”

Cooksey reached out to put on an auxiliary set of headphones. It didn’t take him long to pick out the characteristic hissing sounds produced by a myriad of collapsing air bubbles generated at the swirling tip of a submarine’s propeller. Cooksey managed a relieved smile as he pulled oft the headphones and handed them to his XO.

“We’ve got the bastard. Rich! I just know it’s that Delta.”

The exec put the phones to his ears and heard the alien racket for himself.

“Whatever it is, it sure has a bone in its teeth. What’s next.

Skipper?”

Cooksey’s eyes remained locked on the computer monitor screen as he replied, “First, we wait for a definite verification indicating that we’ve tagged the right sub. Then, we’ll a need a targeting solution.

We’re well within range of that new ASW/SOW device. I’d like to get close enough to them to use our active sonar.”

“But won’t our ping give us away?” the XO asked.

“That’s the way I want it. Rich. It’s time to let that Soviet captain know he’s been tagged. Maybe then he’ll have serious thoughts about continuing with this madness.”

A full minute of silence had passed when the computer monitor unexpectedly flashed to life. All eyes were on the green-tinted screen as it printed out the following:

Sound I.D.: tip-vortex cavitation Source: dual propeller shafts powered by pressurized water reactor (60,000 slip.) Origin: Seventy-six percent probability. Soviet Delta Illclass submarine.

“I knew it!” Cooksey said, and playfully patted the back of the redheaded petty officer seated before him.

“Good job, Callahan. Let me know when we’re within range to hit them with active.”

Turning from the sonar console, the captain addressed his exec.

“Let’s move it. Rich. All ahead flank to intercept point. I’ll take care of getting Mr. Spencer and his gang ready.”

By the time Cooksey had moved to pick up the intercom handset, the Triton was already reawakening.

The distant groan of the sub’s propulsion unit was followed by a noticeable surge of forward movement.

Steadying himself against the bulkhead, Cooksey spoke crisply into the intercom.

“Mr. Spencer, this is the captain. It’s time for your bunch to earn their keep. Ready that ASW/SOW in number one tube. You’d better load two Mark-48 AD CAPS for good measure. Do you still have that MOSS decoy available? … Good, we just might need it. Hold tight and well be getting you a targeting solution. This is finally going to be a real one. Lieutenant. Good shooting!”

The captain disconnected the line and turned to watch the control room’s staff in action. Confident of their abilities, he crossed over to the plotting board.

Now would begin the complex process of stalking their prey. Compass and ruler in hand, Cooksey drew up an intricate topographical cross-section of the southernmost section of the Emperor Seamount Chain.

Cruising in the waters to the immediate north of the USS Triton, the Vulkan plunged ever eastward.

From the sub’s missile compartment, the roar of its twin-shafted engines echoed with a persistent whine.

Oblivious to the racket, Stefan Kuzmin carefully crossed the taiga’s length. He didn’t stop until he reached the room’s rearmost corner.

Here, situated beside launch tube number one, was the steel-plated electrical box that he sought. Six screws held the galvanized cover that protected the firecontrol system’s fragile interior components.

To remove them, the warrant officer needed a screwdriver that he hoped to appropriate from a tool box in an adjoining storage space.

Kuzmin’s head pounded with a continuous, throbbing ache as he peered into the storage space and found no tool box. Cursing the missile crew’s incompetence, he began searching for it elsewhere. Though he never did find the box itself, he eventually located a tool that would do the job.

The task of removing the screws took longer than he would have liked.

Plagued by a shaky, sweat stained hand, the which man did his best to concentrate on the job. He had to kneel down to get to the pair of screws that were placed on the cover’s bottom.

Not only did his bruised body hurt from the aftereffects of his fight with the senior lieutenant, the concussion he had suffered was causing blurred and double-vision. To compensate, he did his best to keep the head of the screwdriver steady with touch alone.

An eternity seemed to pass before the bottom two screws were finally removed. Standing up to reach the other four, he found himself swept by waves of nausea and dizziness. Flushed and lightheaded, Kuzmin struggled to remain standing with a superhuman effort. Slowly, he regathered his composure.

Pushed onward by the overriding importance of his present mission, he did his best to get back to work.

With Petyr Valenko’s apocalyptic warning still ringing in his ears, the which man successfully removed the two screws that bolted down the cover’s sides. Only the top two remained. He was well on his way to pulling one of these out, when the screwdriver popped out of his wet grasp.

“Damn it!” Kuzmin was once more forced to kneel down to find the errant instrument. Again he was possessed by a wave of dizziness as he dropped to his hands and knees. With sweat rolling down his forehead in thick waves, he searched the floor in vain.

“For the sakes of Galina and Nikolai, you’ve got to be down here somewhere!” he pleaded as he groped about like a blind man.

Frustrated, tired, his body racked with discomfort, Kuzmin momentarily halted his frantic pursuit when the sound of footsteps echoed in the distance. Desperately now, he turned to search the floor beside the launch silo — and found his fallen tool. Without hesitation he rose to complete his task. Fortunately the dizziness was gone, and Kuzmin soon found himself with one screw to go. He angled the tip of the screwdriver into the screw’s head and was in the process of twisting it loose, when the bright beam of a flashlight cut through the darkness.

This was followed by the zampolit’s strained voice.

“Comrade Kuzmin, please show yourself! We know that you are here. You must stop this foolishness at once!”

Frantically, Kuzmin hurried to remove the last obstacle, but his shaking hand slowed him considerably.

As he struggled for inner control, the sharp voice of Vasili Leonov rang out behind him.

“There he is — behind number one! He’s at the firecontrol panel!”

Realizing that he wouldn’t have time to finish, the which man ducked for cover behind the missile tube.

Squeezing himself down the narrow metal catwalk between the silos and the hull, he tried to lead his pursuers away. He made it nearly halfway down the compartment’s length before a flashlight beam caught him in the back.

“Comrade, he’s up by number four!” Leonov shouted, and then proceeded to follow the same precarious route that the which man had taken.

Sensing his pursuit, Kuzmin turned for the central catwalk that lay before the fourth and fifth tubes. He reached this walkway just as the beam of a flashlight caught him full in the eyes. Temporarily blinded, he stumbled back toward the rear of the compartment.

“Hold it there, Kuzmin,” called the zampolit.

“My aim is most unerring!”

As if to emphasize the warning, Kuzmin heard the distinctive click of a pistol’s hammer being cocked.

Reluctantly, he halted beside the second tube.

By the time he had regained his breath, both the political officer and the senior lieutenant stood before him, gloating.

“Good try,” Novikov observed wryly.

“But I guess that you just didn’t have it in you. Now, prepare to die, fool.”

Slowly, deliberately, the zampolit raised the short barrel of the compact pistol. Conceding his untimely death, the which man sighed.

He faced his executioner, unflinchingly, when suddenly the compartment was filled with a firm, deep voice.

“What the hell is going on here?” boomed Yuri Chuchkin as he ducked into the compartment from its rear hatchway. He saw the bruised which man and the two officers who faced him, and said incredulously, “Are you mad. Comrade? Put that pistol down at once! An errant bullet down here can sink us in the blink of an eye!”

Cognizant of the truth of the chief’s warning, Novikov lowered the pistol and handed it to Vasili Leonov.

“Now, will someone kindly tell me what the meaning of all this is?” the astounded chief asked.

Novikov attempted an explanation.

“Thank goodness that you got down here to assist us. Comrade Chuchkin.

We were just going to call for help. As we announced earlier, the which man here is the victim of a horrible fever. So crazed is he that, when we found him, he was in the process of sabotaging the firecontrol system.”

A look of doubt crossed the chief’s face as he hastily scanned Kuzmin’s blank expression, then turned to check out the firecontrol panel. It didn’t take him long to spot the loose screws lying on the floor.

“Is this the truth, Stefan?” the chief said incredulously.

The warrant officer responded with defiance.

“Yes, Yuri — I was trying to disable the launch system, but I wasn’t prompted by any ridiculous fever. It was from our Captain’s own mouth that the orders sending me on this desperate task originated.

The Vulkan has been the subject of a mutiny, my friend. The two men who stand before us want nothing else but to use our SS-N-18s to initiate World War III!”

“Oh, come now. Comrade Kuzmin,” the zampolit interrupted.

“Please spare us any more of your twisted fantasies. Do you have any doubts. Chief, that what you are hearing is the product of a sick, feverish mind?”

Chuchkin looked again into the which man bloodshot eyes and silently implored his old friend for some kind of reassurance.

“I must admit that this is a most bewildering predicament. I’m afraid only one man aboard can sort this thing out. It is imperative that I be allowed to speak with the Captain.”

This time it was the senior lieutenant who responded.

“That is an impossible request. Chief. You heard my announcement earlier. Our esteemed Captain is in no shape for idle conversations.

Right now, he’s fighting for his very life. As is my duty, I am in command here. So, without further delay, you will please give us a hand in restraining our poor which man That is, unless you’re afraid of catching the virulent, infectious strain that he presently carries.”

The chief took several steps forward, putting him almost opposite Kuzmin. He examined his shipmate and had to admit that he looked far from normal.

Not only was he slovenly dressed and unusually dirty, but there could be no ignoring the thick patches of sweat that stained his shirt and still dripped from his forehead. The warrant officer did appear sick, yet could even a fevered delirium prompt him to take such a grave action as attempting to disrupt their launch-control system? He responded accordingly.

“I’m in no way doubting your authority, Comrade Leonov, but because of the serious nature of this disturbance, I would still like to see the Captain, no matter how ill he may be.”

Novikov’s face reddened with anger. Before he could voice his displeasure, the compartment filled with the dreaded sound of a loud, hollow ping.

“It must be the Americans!” Leonov cried.

“We’ve been found!”

Making the most of this moment of shocked stillness, Kuzmin snapped into action. Though he hated to do it, he reached over and, after grabbing hold of Chuchkin’s left arm, swung the portly chief into the path of his two adversaries. The resulting chaos was all that he needed to sprint the dozen meters that separated him from the firecontrol panel. With his bare hand, he began stripping the already-loosened remaining screw. After a few turns it popped free, and with eager hands he went to rip off the metal cover plate. Just as he wrenched it free from its base, a stabbing pain thudded into his back and sent him tumbling to his knees. As the plate he had been holding crashed to the floor, he looked back over his right shoulder and saw the ornate hilt of the zampolit’s carving knife protruding from his rib cage.

Even as his life force streamed from him, Kuzmin reached up in a last attempt to get to the now exposed circuitry. Inches away from his goal, a searing pain forced his hand downward. As he vainly fought the black, spinning veil that rose in his consciousness, his inner sight began focusing on a magnificent glowing light brighter than any he had ever seen before. He only surrendered to its shimmering radiance after identifying the voice that called him homeward. With a longing smile, he went to his final sleep picturing the angelic face of his beloved Galina.

“We’ve got a return, Captain! We’ve got them!”

From the opposite end of the control room, Cooksey looked up from the plotting table and shouted, “Give us a range, Callahan.”

“Bearing, three-four-zero, sir. Range, six-three nautical miles.”

Cooksey reached out and marked the spot with red grease pencil on the map’s glass projection screen.

“Shall we launch the SOW device. Skipper?” his XO asked.

With his eyes still locked on the map, Cooksey said, “Let’s give them another minute to change their course. Rich. They know we’re out here now. If they have any second thoughts at all, now’s the time to express them.”

The sixty seconds passed like an eternity for Cooksey. Surprised to find himself hesitant to give the order to send the Soviet sub crew to their deaths, he remembered the admiral’s firm reply when he had asked Miller what they were to do once the Delta was tagged.

“Blow them away,” the admiral had ordered, just as if a state of war indeed existed. With this directive in mind, Cooksey said, “Mr. Callahan, ping them again and give us a course update.”

Callahan triggered the active sonar unit, and once more a powerful pulse of acoustic energy streamed from the Triton’s bow.

“Course remains due east, Captain. Range extended to six-five nautical miles.”

Cooksey turned to face his XO.

“Let’s rub them out, Rich. Get me Spencer on the phone.”

The exec picked up the handset on his left and activated it. When he was certain that the proper party was on the other end of the line, he handed the receiver to the captain.

“Mr. Spencer, prepare a final targeting solution-sonar has got the coordinates,” Cooksey said grimly.

“Let’s see what that newfangled weapon we took on is made of.”

To this, the weapon’s officer responded apologetically, “I’m afraid that’s going to be impossible at the moment. Captain. We’re showing a failure in the SOW device’s acoustic array system. We’ve got it pulled apart and are checking it now.” “I should have expected that,” Cooksey said.

“This new stuff is too damn complicated. Ready a pair of old’-fashioned Mark-48 Advanced Capability torpedoes. The targeting angle is good and I don’t foresee any outside difficulties.”

But, from the sonar console across the room, Callahan shouted, “Captain, we’ve got ourselves another bogey, bearing zero-one-zero.

Relative range roughly seven-eight hundred yards. I believe I heard torpedo doors opening! Where in the hell did they come from?”

“It’s the Alfa!” Cooksey cried. He spoke rapidly into the receiver he still held.

“Mr. Spencer, belay those launch orders. I hope to God you’ve still got that Mk-70 loaded. Prepare the stern tubes and stand by for action.”

Then Cooksey put down the handset and barked, “Rich, sound General Quarters. Mr. Lawrence, take us down, crash dive! Engineering, I want flank speed!”

Sharp tones sounded throughout the Triton, sending the crew scurrying to their action stations as the sub’s planes bit into the surrounding water. Their angle of descent increased sharply, sending the vessel plummeting downward as the crew did their best to brace themselves.

With a tight grip on the plotting board to keep his balance, Cooksey watched his men struggle to remain at work and prayed that his desperate maneuver was successful. As his compass and ruler slid off the table and fell to the deck, he mentally calculated the odds and knew that they were far from being in his favor.

Only seconds before, they had been on the attack.

Now they were running for their lives.

Captain Grigori Dzerzhinsky, of the Alfa-class attack sub Cheka, beamed with delight as his senior lieutenant informed him of their target’s hasty dive.

As if this pathetic move would save them, Dzerzhinsky mused while relishing his moment of supreme power. Feeling like a cat playing with a doomed mouse, he watched his men — seated alertly at their stations — anxiously awaiting his next command.

Dzerzhinsky was aware that time was on their side. The longer they could keep the Americans running, the closer the Vulkan would be to its final launch position. Of course, destroying the imperialist vessel would be the easiest way to remove this final obstacle. He was in the midst of deciding which weapon he would use to finish them off, when a dreaded, familiar voice sounded from behind.

“Whatever is the matter, Captain? What is the meaning of this delay in eliminating the Yankee attack sub?”

The zampolit’s concerned words did little to arouse the captain.

“Perhaps you would like to take command of the Cheka, Comrade Karpovich. Let’s see how you would handle the attack.”

Dzerzhinsky watched with disgust as the pasty skinned political officer nuzzled up beside him.

“I only wish that I were more fully trained to do so, Captain. Shouldn’t we at least be continuing our pursuit? Even the men are confused by our present inaction.”

“That’s funny, I haven’t heard a complaint yet,” Dzerzhinsky said as he calmly looked at his watch.

Frustrated by the captain’s restraint, Boris Karpovich nervously asked, “At least tell me why you didn’t release the torpedoes when we had them dead in our sights.”

Dzerzhinsky realized that the whining political officer would pester him endlessly until his curiosity was satisfied.

“Comrade Karpovich, if the Americans had remained stationary for ten more seconds, they would no longer be a concern for us. Their sudden crash dive has forced me to drastically change our attack plan. No use wasting two homing torpedoes that would only get lost in the swirling clutter produced by their emergency descent.”

“But won’t we certainly lose then now?” continued the tense zampolit.

“Lighten up. Comrade,” the Captain responded.

“Must you always worry so? If you’d only trust in my ability, you’d soon find out that we’re only waiting for the water to clear before going down to finish them off. They aren’t going anywhere that we can’t reach them.”

Karpovich wiped his soaked forehead with a crumpled handkerchief.

“For a second there, I actually thought that you were letting the Americans go free.”

“Now why in the world would you think that, Comrade?” the captain asked with a puzzled frown.

The political officer wiped his sweaty neck.

“I guess I’m just getting to be a paranoid old tool, Captain. The operation is so close to it’s completion that I just can’t bare to see something go wrong now.”

“Well, you’d better learn to relax. Comrade, or we’ll be picking you up from the deck after a heart attack someday. Just think — then you’d never see the new world order take shape.”

Without excusing himself, Dzerzhinsky walked over to the sensor console. There, seated beside the two regular operators, was Senior Lieutenant Vadim Nikulin. With headphones clamped securely over his shiny bald skull, Nikulin was concentrating on the sonar monitor when the captain nudged his arm.

“Well Vadim, what do our Yankee friends have to say for themselves?”

The senior lieutenant pushed back his headset and said, “They certainly left a knuckle in the water when they initiated that crash dive.

Captain. Never before have I witnessed such a speedy descent.”

“Their commanding officer’s a sharp one all right,” Dzerzhinsky agreed.

“A good captain trains his crew to be an extension of himself.

Unfortunately, there are some situations from which even the most skillful of crews cannot extricate themselves. Shall we go down and teach our nosy friends a lesson?”

Nikulin’s eyes narrowed as the fat figure of the zampolit squeezed up beside the captain.

Dzerahinsky sensed him and said, “Comrade Karpovich, you will be happy to hear that we have decided to put the imperialists out of their misery once and for all. Now, if I were you. Comrade, I’d find something sturdy to hold onto. The ride that’s going to follow could get a little rough.”

Boris Karpovich heeded the captain’s warning and hurriedly stepped back to brace himself on the steel railing that enclosed the periscope well.

Satisfied that they would finally be on with the hunt again, he listened as the captain delivered a series of complex diving orders.

Seconds later, the Cheka’s engines roared and the deck dipped precariously forward.

It took all of Karpovich’s strength to keep himself upright as the sub dove deeper into the ocean. At the same time, he watched Grigori Dzerzhinsky stand behind the seated helmsman, keeping his balance with but a single hand. It was at moments such as this that the zampolit admired the captain. Appearing completely at ease, the captain alertly shifted his weight to compensate for each new pitch of the deck.

In the midst of all this, he continued giving orders.

Proud of Dzerahinsky’s skill, and that of his fellow crew members, Karpovich felt more confident. No enemy could escape the Cheka once a blood trail had been scented. Certain of this fact, he pondered the strange road that had brought him there.

Far from the intrigues of Moscow, his experiences aboard the attack sub gave him a whole new perspective on life. Not only was the environment alien, the men surrounding him were unlike any individuals he had ever met before.

As a junior member of Konstantin Belchenko’s personal staff, Karpovich was afforded an inside look at the forces that ran their government. It proved to be during Viktor Rodin’s phenomenal rise to power that he had become disillusioned and had written an impassioned letter to Belchenko. Never would he forget the one-on-one meeting that followed.

Not only did his superior listen to his thoughts, Belchenko even agreed with him on many points. This was especially in the area of international relations with the West. Four meetings later, the first deputy had shared with him a fictional scenario of the operation that was to become known as Counterforce.

Impressed with its scope and solidly behind its motives, Karpovich had been invited into Belchenko’s inner circle.

The legendary figures with whom he was soon meeting included Admiral Stanislav Sorokin. In fact, it was at the admiral’s invitation that Karpovich had begun the intensive training for his current assignment.

And here it was, only months later, and the dream of Counterforce was now a reality.

Karpovich took strength from his realization as the Cheka canted hard on its side. Though his shoulders strained with pain and his stomach roiled, he dared not protest. For how often did one actually get to see the hand of destiny unfold?

In the dark, cold seas beneath the advancing Soviet attack sub, the USS Triton continued its frantic plunge. With an outside pressure of over three hundred and fifty pounds per square inch, the vessel’s valves, seals and other vulnerable fittings strained to the breaking point.

Ever conscious of the great pressure was the Tritons crew. This was especially evident inside the control room. Here, the tension took the form of strained, concerned expressions and a deathlike silence. The unnatural quiet was broken only by the distant rumbling of the propulsion unit, the creaking strain of the hull itself, and the muted voice of the diving officer as he read off the depth.

“We’re breaking one thousand feet. Captain.”

Cooksey stood at the officer’s side and nodded somberly. As he watched the digital depth meter, a series of soft, electronic tones diverted his attention to the compartment’s interior. Richard Craig picked up the intercom. The XO spoke into the receiver, listened for a moment, then dropped the handset to his side and addressed the captain.

“Skipper, it’s Chief Weaver. He’s got a minor seal failure in the engine room and is requesting permission to shut down the main turbine to initiate repairs.”

“Absolutely not! They’re going to have to hold on a bit longer.”

As the XO conveyed his response, the diving officer called out, “Eleven hundred feet, sir.”

Cooksey nervously shifted his weight. Around him the bulkhead seemed to moan in protest and the intercom sounded again. Once more the exec answered it.

“Skipper, it’s Chief Bartkowski. We’re taking in water from the galley. Seems that the garbage disposal is backing up on us.”

“Well, have the Chief patch it up the best he can!

Damn it. Rich, we’re at war here.”

“Twelve hundred feet,” called the diving officer.

Cooksey’s shirt was matted with sweat as his eyes went back to the depth counter. For the first time in days, a throbbing ache began rising in his forehead. He massaged his temples the best he could.

Damage control reported five more leaks as they passed the eighteen-hundred-foot mark. The strain on their welded hull was just as great as the tension inside as the Triton’s exec made his way to the captain’s side.

“Skipper, we’ve just about hit our depth threshold.

Surely you’re not thinking of out-diving the Alfa.

With that titanium hull of theirs, they’ve got at least a thousand feet on us.”

Cooksey ignored his exec’s pleas; his eyes remained riveted on the depth counter. At a depth of eighteen hundred and fifty feet, he said, “Okay Rich, we’ll have it your way. Remove the diving angle! Full rise on both planes. Back emergency. Blow the forward group. Vent forward tanks when you get an up angle!”

In response, both planes men pulled back hard on their control sticks.

As the sub’s angle slowly changed, the Triton groaned in protest. Only when the rest of Cooksey’s orders were carried out did the 6,900-ton vessel stop its descent. After checking the depth counter, Cooksey ordered, “All stop! Rig for ultra quiet A series of muted electronic chimes sounded through the sub. This was followed by a distant whirring rumble as the ship’s single propeller shaft spun to a halt. Except for the occasional creak of their hull, all was silent as Cooksey moved over to the sonar console. Joining him behind its redheaded operator was the XO. Richard Craig’s face was etched with relief as he followed his captain’s example and clipped on a pair of auxiliary headphones.

“We’ve lost them. Captain!” Vadim Nikulin said incredulously.

“There’s absolutely nothing out there!”

“Open your ears. Comrade!” Dzerzhinsky shouted from the other side of the attack center.

“A vessel of that size doesn’t just disappear.”

Since the Cheka was still in the midst of a full diving angle, it took some effort for the captain to reach his senior lieutenant. By the time he reached his side and put on a pair of headphones, another figure had joined them.

“What has happened. Comrade?” asked a concerned Boris Karpovich.

Completely ignoring the zampolit, Dzerzhinsky reached up and turned the volume of their hydrophones to maximum intensity. For a full minute he continued listening, then yanked off the headset and addressed the helmsman.

“What is our present depth?”

“Five hundred and ninety meters, sir,” the helmsman responded without hesitation.

“Secure from the dive,” the captain ordered.

The Cheka shuddered as its bow planes bit into the icy water. Slowly but surely their diving angle decreased.

“Stop all engines! Rig for silent running!”

Dzerzhinsky added as he remounted the headphones.

Before he could clip them securely over his ears, the zampolit’s voice rang out loudly.

“But, Captain — why just sit here, still in the water, while the Americans continue to make good their escape? Certainly, you’re allowing them to get away.”

Again Karpovich’s pleas were ignored. He could only watch in frustration as the captain refocused his attention on the hydrophones.

Valuable minutes passed, and still Dzerzhinsky didn’t move. Desperate for his attention, Boris Karpovich reached out and turned the hydrophone volume meter to zero. Flinging the headphones off, the captain screamed, “What has gotten into you, Karpovich?

Have you gone crazy?”

Hit with the full force of the captain’s anger, Karpovich took a step back.

“I’m sorry for that, Captain, but you must give me a second of your time. The minutes continue to tick away and the Vulkan continues on to its launch position. Unless the enemy sub can be eliminated, the entire operation will be doomed to failure. Our futures will be doomed! We must stop them now!”

“What do you think I’m doing. Comrade, twiddling my fingers? Believe it or not, we share the same goals. Now, just stand back and leave the operation of this ship to me!”

A look of resignation crossed the political officer’s puffy face and the captain instinctively softened.

“I know that you mean well. Comrade, but on this bridge I’m not used to being challenged.”

“I only wanted to know what’s going on out there.

Have we lost them for good?”

“No, Comrade Karpovich, they haven’t disappeared.

Their clever captain has merely pulled them out of their dive as they were approaching then depth limit. This was followed by a quick scram of their reactor. Like ourselves, they are floating silently — somewhere nearby. Certainly, they’re in no position to threaten the Vulkan.”

“But what about the approaching ships of the Yankee surface fleet?” the zampolit whined.

“Then helicopters were already dropping sonobuoys when we arrived here.

We’ve got to continue our role as an escort, or we risk losing everything.”

Dzerzhinsky considered this for a moment.

“Though I would prefer to have the Yankees make the first move, there is a tactic I know of that can rout them. Of course, it does entail a certain amount of risk.”

“Risk is something that each of us has learned to live with on a daily basis. Captain. Our lives mean nothing anyway if the Vulkan fails to reach its launch site.”

Dzerzhinsky signaled his senior lieutenant to remove his headphones.

“Vadim, the Zampolit considers it imperative that we eliminate the American submarine threat at once. I concur with him in this instance.

To insure that our wire-guided homing torpedoes have a solid target, I propose that we hit them with our active sonar. When the pulse is returned, we will launch our weapons. Before the Americans can react they will be blown to the bottom.”

Impressed with the captain’s bold plan, Karpovich managed to smile.

“The First Deputy himself will know of your unselfish bravery. Comrade Dzerzhinsky.”

The political officer’s enthusiastic commendation went unnoticed by the captain, who was already deep into the mental calculations that would guarantee their attack’s success.

“I can’t understand it. Captain. They were there one second, and now there’s absolutely nothing.”

Callahan’s words prompted Cooksey to fit on the auxiliary sensor headphones. After a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree scan, he removed them and said, “They’re out there sure enough, Callahan. Most likely they’ve pulled the plug on their reactor, just like we have. Keep listening. They’ll break silence soon enough.”

Cooksey checked his watch and solemnly shook his head. Instead of lying there motionless, locked in combat with the Alfa, he knew that he should be continuing to close in on the Vulkan. If only he hadn’t hesitated earlier, after first tagging them. Yet, with the SOW device down, their conventional torpedoes would have been at or past the extreme limit of their range.

To continue the hunt, the Triton would have to somehow shake the Soviet attack sub. The course of action offering the least risk would be to wait them out. The American vessel’s superior acoustic capabilities would eventually be the deciding factor. Of course, they could always take a chance and make a run for it. As the minutes continued to tick away, this tactic would appear more attractive. Yet how could Cooksey forget the incident that took place beneath Point Luck? At that time, this same Alfa had easily outdistanced them. The more he thought about it, the more a frantic run appeared to be suicidal.

A gentle hand tapped his shoulder, and Cooksey broke from his ponderings to face his XO.

“Just got a final report from damage control, Skipper. All leaks are under control. Weaver has even managed to replace that failed turbine seal. The only system still nonoperational is our garbage disposal unit. Chief Bartkowski is down in the galley doing his best, but he thinks it’s going to be out of commission for the rest of the patrol.” “Very good. Rich,” the captain said softly.

The XO noticed Cooksey’s unease and carefully probed.

“We’ll get back to the Vulkan soon enough, Skipper. What’s the status of that Alfa?”

“They’re playing the same game that we are; our hydrophones pick up no alien engine noises whatsoever.”

“We can’t stay down here too much longer,” Craig said.

“How about the old end-run? If we could get on top of the thermocline before they did, there’s a chance that their sonar would miss us.”

“I thought about running for it. Rich, but right now it’s still too risky. Though the smart thing to do would be to keep us pinned down, I’ve got a feeling that the Alfa is going to try to put a move on us.”

“You could be right. Soviet sub captains aren’t known for their patience, and I imagine that this one would just love to take us out with a single shot.”

Jolted by his XO’s observation, Cooksey reached over and activated the intercom. As he talked into the transmitter, his eyes remained locked on the XO.

“Mr. Spencer, do you still have that Mk-70 MOSS ready to go in the forward tubes? Excellent. How about that pair of AD CAPS Yes, the stern tubes will be fine. You can seal them up. Lieutenant. I’ll be transferring launch command to the control room.

If they’re needed, the quicker we get those weapons off, the better it will be for all of us.” As the captain hung up, Craig said, “I still wouldn’t rule out making a run for it, Skipper. This little lady can give that Alfa a run for its money any day of the week.”

“I’m aware of that, Rich. Let’s just not be too hasty. Now, how about helping me arm the firecontrol panel?”

The exec nodded and followed Cooksey to the deserted armament console.

They sat and began the process of routing the launch-access system so that the Triton’s torpedoes could be instantaneously fired from their stations. As they finished rerouting, the compartment was filled with the hollow sound of a deafening ping. Temporarily startled, Cooksey was pushed into action by the excited cry of Charlie Callahan: “It’s the Alfa!”

Without further hesitation, the captain depressed a red-flashing button and launched the contents of their number one forward tube. The sub shuddered slightly as the Mk-70 device, designed to simulate the Triton’s sonar signature, surged into the surrounding depths.

Before hitting the switches to activate the two stem tubes, Cooksey checked with his sonar officer.

“How’s the Mk-70 running, Mr. Callahan?”

Satisfied with the sound in his headphones, the freckle-faced petty officer said, “She’s proceeding straight and true, Captain.”

Cooksey allowed himself a thin smile. Now, if the Russian captain only took the bait, he’d need but a single source vector to confirm the Alfa’s precise location. Only then would the two AD CAPS be released.

Called to a target they couldn’t help but strike, the Mark-48 torpedoes would eliminate the Alfa in a blinding flash of explosive fire.

Vadim Nikulin sat expectantly before the Cheka’s sonar console. With sensitive, bulky headphones strapped tightly to his ears, the senior lieutenant waited for the return of the powerful sonar pulse they had just released. Though his concentration remained focused on the sounds in his headset, he was well aware of of his shipmates’ anxious stares.

Captain Dzerzhinsky stood in front of the firecontrol panel, a few meters away. It would take only a word from Nikulin to prompt the captain to launch the two homing torpedoes loaded in their bow.

When the distinctive plink of the sonar return arrived, Nikulin responded to the distant, roaring surge clearly audible in his headset.

“We’ve got a return, Captain! It sounds like the Americans are running!”

Dzerzhinsky nodded and placed his right index finger on the torpedo release lever. For a full thirty seconds he remained motionless. This inexplainable inaction prompted an immediate visit from Boris Karpovich, who was monitoring the situation from the room’s rear.

“What are you waiting for now. Captain? Finish them off!”

A look of malicious spite crossed Dzerzhinsky’s face as the zampolit squeezed in beside him.

“I’m warning you, Karpovich, this is not the time to interfere. Now get away from here, before I have you thrown in irons!”

Unable to believe what he was witnessing, the political officer flushed with confused rage. Certainly, his hesitance to fire in this instance meant that the man had to be deranged. Karpovich’s instincts had warned him of this much earlier. To not fire now was an act of idiotic incompetence. If the Americans were subsequently able to make good their escape, the entire operation would once more be threatened.

As the Zampolit frantically considered the consequences, a new thought crossed his mind.

Dzerzhinsky had proved many times before that he was a capable officer.

If this was the case, perhaps his actions were not prompted by insanity. This could mean that their captain inwardly wanted to assure the failure of Counterforce. Allowing the Yankee attack sub to escape now would practically guarantee their failure. Whether inspired by motives of treason or mere cowardice, it was evident that the captain was not the man to complete the job at hand.

Acting on one’s instincts was a trait that Konstantinbelchenko had personally taught the zampolit. It was this talent that had allowed the first deputy to attain his present position of power. If the operation on which they had worked so hard was not to fail, Karpovich would have to take strength from Belchenko’s example.

His course of action suddenly became clear: if the captain wasn’t going to launch those torpedoes, he would!

Astounded by his own audacity, Karpovich wiped the sweat from his forehead’ and inched his way forward. Peering over the captain’s shoulder, he caught sight of the launch button. Without further delay, he adroitly pushed Dzerzhinsky aside and quickly depressed the fateful switch.

The series of events that followed passed in a haze.

First, Karpovich was aware of his heart pounding madly in his chest. Then the deck trembled slightly, to a distant hiss of escaping compressed air. Satisfied that the torpedoes were on their way, he readied himself for the inevitable confrontation.

As he had expected, the captain was quivering with rage. With eyes wide and bulging, Dzerzhinsky screamed, “You stupid fool! If the sound we were picking up was merely a decoy, that launch will give us away for certain.”

Unable to reply, the zampolit expected next to be physically struck.

The captain was balling his fists, when the excited observations of the senior lieutenant temporarily diverted his fury.

“We’ve got them now. Captain! Both torpedoes have a definite sonic lock-on. There’s no way that the Yankees will be able to escape this time!”

Dzerzhinsky looked at the cowering figure of the Zampolit. Though his fists still ached for revenge, he held back as Karpovich bravely offered an explanation.

“I only did it for the good of our mission. Comrade.

Counterforce must succeed, no matter the sacrifice. You may do with me. as you like. I have only done what my heart demanded.”

Dzerzhinsky took a step forward, his face only inches away from that of the trembling political officer.

“I’ll tell you what you did, Karpovich — you needlessly threatened the lives of the entire crew. A ship can only have one master. To have it otherwise is to invite disaster. If we are fortunate enough to survive this day, I will personally see to your imprisonment in the Lubyanka.

Even the KGB must recognize the proper authority of a chain of command.”

Sickened by the sweat-stained figure that stood before him, the captain pivoted and addressed his senior lieutenant.

“What is the status of our attack, Comrade?”

When Nikulin failed to reply, the captain’s gut tightened. Hurriedly, he rushed over to the sonar console where Nikulin was anxiously hunched over the bank of instruments. As one hand shot out to activate various volume gains and filters, the other pressed one of his headphones closer to his ear.

Before Dzerzhinsky could don a headset of his own, the senior lieutenant looked up, pale and drawn.

“I don’t understand it. Captain. Our bow hydrophone is picking up a pair of high-speed torpedoes headed toward us. Yet they are coming from a portion of the ocean far away from the fleeing Americans!”

The information hit Dzerzhinsky like a fist in his belly. The frantic orders that followed were voiced in pure frustration.

“Engineering, we must have speed! Dive! Dive!

Dive!”

The crew valiantly scurried to their stations, but the captain knew it was useless. Vectored in by both the ping of their sonar and the sound of the torpedoes launching, the enemy’s aim would be fatal.

Conscious that his life expectancy could now be counted out in seconds, he focused his gaze on the fat, pathetic frame of the man responsible for this calamity.

Though he would never know for certain what had prompted the zampolit’s rash action, Dzerzhinsky got the distinct impression that it was their very system that was at fault. Paranoid and distrustful, Boris Karpovich had been trained to believe in nothing but his own self-importance. It was the strength of a team effort that made a submarine crew successful, and it was the same for a country. Fearful that this was a lesson his comrades had yet to learn, Dzerzhinsky prepared himself for his final dive.

Ninety-three nautical miles due east of the doomed Cheka, the Vulkan surged onward, ignorant of its sister ship’s plight. Acting as the eyes and ears of the 13,250-ton vessel. Lev Zinyakin sat at the sonar panel controls, busily scanning the surrounding seas.

About to conclude his second consecutive six hour work shift, the petty officer looked forward to one of Chef Anatoly’s good hot meals.

Since last night’s supper he had eaten practically nothing. When his shift ended he would feast, and then surrender to the call of his mattress.

With a wide yawn, Zinyakin activated the Vulkan’s towed-array sensor platform. Reeled out from their stem planes, the device would search the seas behind them for any signs of their elusive enemy. Again he yawned, and pleaded with his weary body to stay alert just a little longer.

To help the time pass more quickly, he allowed his thoughts to wander.

As they always seemed to do, his memories brought him back to the beloved land of his birth. Zinyakin lost himself in cherished childhood memories of his family and the seaside cottage in which he had been raised.

Grinning at his recollections the petty officer yawned again and checked the console’s digital clock. After calculating that he had precisely twenty seven minutes to go until his replacement was scheduled to arrive, he looked up to check the towed array’s status.

As he determined that the tethered platform was indeed fully extended, the thunderous blast of a massive explosion sounded in his headphones.

Alertly, he activated the tape recorder and then swiveled to inform the present officer of the deck.

“We’re picking up a major explosion in our baffles!

Approximate range is one-six-zero kilometers.”

Senior Lieutenant Vasili Leonov was the first one at his side. He was soon followed by Ivan Novikov.

The cocky political officer commented first. “So, the Cheka has finally eliminated the Yankee attack sub. This is a glorious moment. Comrades.”

Vasili Leonov was irritated by this brash statement.

“We mustn’t be too hasty to jump to conclusions.

Comrade Zinyakin, will it be possible to identify the exact source of this blast?”

Zinyakin listened a moment to the distant sound of rending steel then said, “It’s all being recorded in the computer, sir. It will take a minute or so to filter out the distortion and pinpoint any background noises.”

While waiting for the requested computations, Zinyakin couldn’t help but overhear the zampolit’s idle boasting.

“I tell you. Comrade Leonov, this means that the final obstacle has been removed from our path. Nothing will stand before us and our dream’s fulfillment.

We have proven beyond doubt the superiority of the socialist way of life.”

Zinyakin’s attention was diverted back to the screen as it began filling with pertinent data.

“Well, Comrade Petty Officer, read us the good news,” the grinning zampolit prompted.

Zinyakin cleared his throat and spoke firmly.

“Because of the extreme distances involved, we are unable to determine the source of the blast. But we do have a confirmed analysis of the background track. Clearly audible here is a single surviving sound signature.”

“That would be the Cheka,” Novikov beamed.

Zinyakin’s response was flat and grim.

“I’m afraid not, sir. The computer shows an eighty-five percent probability that this signature belongs to an American vessel.”

“That’s impossible!” screamed the angry zampolit.

“Surely you have mistakenly programmed the computer. Try it again and you’ll find your error.”

Shrugging his shoulders, the petty officer cleared the screen and again requested an analysis of the hydrophone tape. As the information popped onto the screen, he said, “There has been a slight change, sir.

The probability has increased to ninety-three percent that the submarine now trailing us is of American origin.”

“I still can’t accept this,” the zampolit said.

“Comrade Leonov, surely there’s a malfunction in our equipment. Perhaps it’s merely a single broken computer chip.”

The senior lieutenant somberly shook his head.

“That is most doubtful, Comrade. I think it’s best to merely accept this tragic news and continue on with our job at hand.”

“But it can’t be! The Cheka was our most advanced attack sub. Her crew was hand-picked from the Rodina’s finest sailors. No vessel on this planet was — is — its equal.”

“What can I say? We must accept the facts at hand. Comrade,” Leonov said softly.

“You mustn’t forget that strange things happen in times of war.

Anyway, I’ve always said that we have seriously underrated the capabilities of the Americans’ Los Angeles-class attack ship.”

As the reality of their loss began to sink in, Novikov responded, noticeably humbled.

“If what you say is true, this is a black moment for the Motherland.

Since we have lost our escort, perhaps we should ascend to launch depth and release our missiles now, before the enemy has a chance to catch up with us.”

But the senior lieutenant wanted no part in such a half-baked scheme.

“That makes absolutely no sense at all. The only way that our operation can succeed is to eliminate each of the intended targets, totally.

In order to be within range of those sites on America’s eastern shore, we must attain our preplanned launch coordinates.

“Don’t look so worried. Comrade. We are only thirty minutes away from this position. And as for that American attack sub, I think we are more than capable of handling it ourselves.”

Turning from the concerned political officer, Leonov issued a solitary command.

“Comrade Zinyakin, release the external buoyant thermometer and find me the location of a thermocline.”

Then, turning back to the sulking zampolit, Leonov said, “Your lack of confidence disturbs me, Comrade Novikov. Don’t you think I’m capable of handling our present situation?”

“With the Cheka gone, I doubt if even Admiral Sorokin could escape the grasp of the Americans,” Novikov replied, his voice heavy with defeat.

“Oh, come now, you continue to disappoint me.

This is far from the confident spirit that you showed me in Petropavlovsk. Don’t forget, it wasn’t so long ago that I was the one who was ready to give up. I’ll never forget that it was you who saved me.”

The unexpected comment snapped Novikov out of his foul mood.

“You are right, Vasili Leonov. I am acting like a foolish crybaby.

Please accept my sincere apologies.”

From behind them, Zinyakin called, “I’ve found a thermocline, sir.

There seems to be a pronounced band of significantly warmer waters stretching some forty-three meters from the ocean’s surface. From that point down it cools abruptly.”

“Wonderful news, my friend,” the senior lieutenant said as he did some hasty mental calculations.

Puzzled, Novikov asked, “But what does a band of warmer water have to do with escaping the reach of the enemy?” Leonov winked and said, “Everything, Comrade.

By bringing the Vulkan up into this layer, the Los Angeles-class sub will be unable to use its sonar to detect us. Because the warmer water is more dense, their sensors will be reflected back into the cold layer, and they will be unable to locate us. In effect, we will be invisible!”

Inspired by the simple logic of this tactic, the zampolit managed a smile of his own.

“That’s more like it. Comrade Novikov! Now-how about going up there and winning ourselves a war!