Counterforce

Chapter Thirteen

Captain Robert Powell of the destroyer USS Eagle knew how rare it was to receive a personal call from the commander of the entire Third Fleet. Of course, he was currently on the strangest mission he had ever been involved with in his twenty-five-year naval career, so the call really wasn’t that unexpected.

Admiral Miller had been most firm. With time rapidly running out, he had pleaded, begged, then finally demanded that the captain tag the bogey Soviet sub within the next thirty minutes. Aware of the tragic proportions of the crisis they faced, Powell had assured the admiral that he would do all that he could.

The captain coordinated his efforts from the Eagle’s combat information center. This equipment packed compartment was buzzing with intense activity as he made the rounds of its various stations.

Satisfied that the ship’s sonar and other underwater sensors were working properly, he joined his XO beside the clear plastic plotting board. On it was a detailed representation of the southern portion of the Emperor Seamount Chain.

“What’s the matter. Skipper? You look a bit peaked,” said the exec.

“Aren’t you feeling well?”

Powell responded flatly, “Mr. Morley, what ails me isn’t of a physical origin. I just got off the horn with Admiral Miller. Things don’t look good, my friend.”

The XO circled the waters to the immediate east of the subterranean mountain range.

“If they’re out here. Skipper, I don’t understand how we could have missed them. Between our own efforts and that of the task force, we’ve got this sector completely saturated.

I’ve got a feeling that the Vulkan is in an altogether different portion of the Pacific.”

With both hands on the edge of the plotting table, the captain studied the map intently.

“We’re going by what the boys in intelligence tell us, lieutenant. With our present time limitations, we’ve just got to pray that their info is correct. There’s certainly no time left to start a new search. What’s the status of our choppers?”

The XO pointed to the northern portion of the map.

“Bravo team is one hour into its present patrol.

They’re in the process of’re saturating this sector with sonobuoys.

We’ve also got them working their MAD system, dunking hydrophones, and turbulence-wake detector.”

“What about Delta team?”

“They came in about fifteen minutes ago. Captain.

Not only did they need fuel and oil, but the crew is totally exhausted.

After all, they’ve already completed two full sorties.”

“Well, make it three. Lieutenant,” the captain replied caustically.

“Everyone of us is beat; but as long as that equipment remains operational, we’ve got to keep it in use. Have them take the southern sector.

Of all the remaining areas, that one has been covered the least.” “Aye, aye, Skipper,” the exec said, then he went to make the call that would scramble the weary chopper crew.

Captain Powell continued to study the plotting board. Taking in the positions of the Eagle and the other ships in the task force, he wondered if his exec’s observation could be correct. Between the Eagle, the cruiser Ticonderoga, the frigate Gatewater and the John F. Kennedy, these waters were certainly well covered. The Kennedy alone held over eighty planes and helicopters, many of which were specifically designed for anti-submarine operations. And then, of course, there was the USS Triton. Commanded by his old schoolmate Michael Cooksey, the Los Angeles-class attack sub was a potent ASW platform. Unsure of their current location, Powell still felt that the Triton had the best chance of ridding the seas of the Soviet threat with a single shot.

Balancing himself on the sides of the table as the Eagle’s bow bit into a large swell, Powell closed his eyes and offered a single prayer. A little divine help-and a lot of luck — sure would be appreciated.

Two floors beneath the Eagle’s CIC, Air Tactical Officer Gerald Grodsky was seated in the destroyer’s galley, wolfing down a hearty breakfast. Though he was bleary-eyed and looking forward to a nice long sleep, he had decided on appeasing his appetite before surrendering to the solace of his bunk.

Deserted except for a handful of fellow sailors, the brightly colored galley was Grodsky’s second home.

Never one to miss a meal, the ATO’s full figure was flourishing on the navy’s simple yet tasty chow. His present feast was comprised of half a grapefruit, a bowl of oatmeal, a cheese omelette, bacon, sausage, and a trio of thick brown biscuits for good measure.

And a mug of steaming hot, black coffee to wash it all down.

Seated opposite him was the Seasprite’s diver. Satisfied with only oatmeal and a cup of decaffeinated tea, Wally Simpson shook his head as he watched his shipmate devour the full tray of food.

“I don’t know where you put it, Grodsky. If I ate like that, I’d never be able to fit into my wet suit.”

“It’s all in the genes,” the ATO said between bites of sausage.

“Some of us Just burn food more quickly than others. My pop was just like me. That guy would put away his three squares a day and never leave out a midnight snack, and you know, he fit into the same pair of pants for twenty years straight.”

“That’s not the way it is in my family,” Simpson replied.

“My folks always seem to be on a diet. It’s fine with me — I’ll most likely live a lot longer without all that sugar and fat anyway.”

“Yeah, but it sure as hell tastes good,” Grodsky said as he delicately buttered a biscuit. As he took a bite of the bottom half, he looked down and saw his tray shift hard to the right. It stayed on the table because of a protruding steel edge, mounted for that very reason.

“Looks like we’re running into some weather,” the diver observed.

“Wouldn’t you know that we’d hit some rough stuff just when we’re getting ready for some sack time.”

Grodsky scooted his tray back in front of him.

“Not even a full-scale typhoon could keep me from wink land now, good buddy.”

He burped with satisfaction, then began working on the other half of the biscuit as the destroyer again plunged through a large swell. This time the ATO’s hand alertly shot out to make certain his tray remained steady. He was just about to polish off his eggs, when he noticed a familiar face dashing into the mess hall.

Lieutenant Bill Payton was their pilot. Since he was a loner by habit, his presence there could only mean trouble. Without stopping at the chow line, he scurried over to their table.

“Let’s move it, gentlemen! The Captain wants us up for one more go at it.”

Grodsky looked up in disbelief.

“Jesus, Lieutenant, if this is your idea of a joke, I seriously worry about your sense of humor.”

“I wish it were a joke, gentlemen, but I’m sorry to let you down. Look, I’m as beat as any of you, but right now there’s nothing we can do but get the lead out of our pants. The old man is going to personally meet us outside the hangar, so let’s move it!”

With this revelation, Wally Simpson pushed away his tray and quickly stood. Payton eyed Grodsky impatiently, but only after the ATO had stuffed the remaining two biscuits into his shirt pocket did he join them.

Struggling to keep their balance, the chopper crew climbed the two flights of stairs that brought them to the tossing deck. Keeping a hand firmly gripped on the guard rail, they made it to the stern launch pad.

Awaiting them was their Kaman Seasprite helicopter and the gangly figure of Captain Robert Powell.

“Sorry to ask this of you, men, but I have no alternative. It’s imperative that we put to use every anti-sub device that we have. It’s the next thirty minutes that will be the most critical. That’s why I’m counting on you to get this SH-2 up and working.”

The Eagle’s captain took in the chopper crew’s disheveled, weary-eyed appearance and explained further.

“I know that this will make your third sortie of the day, but if that Delta isn’t tagged soon, all hell is going to break loose. That Russian survivor you pulled from the Pacific has checked out thoroughly, so you can understand why I’m asking this of you. Find that submarine, men, or God help the planet!”

Stimulated by the sincere force of Powell’s words, the three-man chopper crew saluted and pivoted to get down to work. After the pilot had some hasty words with the burly, cigar-chomping maintenance chief, they loaded into the Seasprite and switched on its dual turboshaft engines. With a high-pitched whine, the rotor blades began spinning.

As they revved up to take-off velocity, the AID peered out of the plexiglass hatch window and viewed the captain, who still stood stiffly beside the hangar, taking the full brunt of their rotors’ downdraft.

Having had little personal contact with the captain before this, Grodsky was impressed with the officer’s forceful character. The ATO held on as the Seasprite lifted, Powell’s somber warning still fresh in his mind. The ship was soon out of sight, replaced by nothing but the surging blue Pacific.

Their course was due south and Grodsky began preparing the various ASW devices that they would soon be deploying. But the ATO’s thoughts remained locked on the nature of their current predicament.

When Junior Lieutenant Andrei Yakalov was first pulled from the downed Soviet relay plane, Grodsky had failed to realize the seriousness of their situation.

He justified the young sensor operator’s mad babblings as being the aftereffects of a trauma-inducing crash.

Though their superiors had yet to brief them fully, scuttlebutt had it that Yakalov’s warning tied in directly with the sub they were presently tracking down. This same rumor hinted that a mutiny had taken place on that vessel. Why the United States Navy had been called in to quell what appeared to be an exclusive Soviet problem was still somewhat confusing.

Grodsky knew that the Soviet people were difficult for Westerners to understand. Although he was the grandson of Russian emigres, he had few insights into the Soviet psyche. What he did understand was their love of the land. This was something his grandfather had expounded upon until his death. Paranoid after centuries of constant invasions, the Russian people wanted only to enjoy their fields and forests in peace.

As it turned out, the first part of the twentieth century offered them little of that most-precious commodity.

With tens of millions slain on battlefields, it was no wonder that they were still so cautious and distrustful.

Grodsky had watched the rapid ascension of Viktor Rodin and had looked to the future with optimism.

With their own candidate of peace in the White House, the time seemed ripe for an end to nuclear madness. That was yet another reason why the current crisis was so completely unexpected.

Stifling a weary yawn, the ATO hoped it would all be resolved with a minimum of bloodshed. After he was certain that his gear was in place, he approached the cockpit.

“When do you want me to get started. Lieutenant?”

From the seat on the left. Bill Payton replied, “We’ll be in a position to take our first hydrophone reading in a couple of minutes.

Everything ready back there?”

Nodding in confirmation, Grodsky looked out at the Pacific. He had no doubts that their task was a formidable one. More difficult than finding the proverbial needle in a haystack, locating a single submarine beneath those depths seemed utterly impossible.

Awed by the challenge, Grodsky ducked back into the Seasprite’s central compartment and sat down in front of the sensor panel.

Barely a minute later, his helmet-mounted intercom speakers activated and he received the okay to begin lowering the hydrophone unit. While the chopper hovered some twenty-five feet over the surging swells, the sensitive transducer slowly descended on a sturdy steel cable.

Grodsky replaced his helmet with a set of bulky headphones. Turning the volume gain to its maximum intensity, he took in the sizzling, crackling sounds that were produced as the device plunged under the water’s surface. It took only seconds more for him to pick up the alien whining sound produced by a submarine’s propeller.

His first instinct was that there had to be some sort of glitch in the equipment. Next, he briefly wondered if he could be imagining the whole thing. Only when the steady whine persisted did he convey this amazing discovery to the cockpit.

“Bingo, Lieutenant! We’re sitting right on top of something! I’ll bet my next dozen leaves that the sucker is a submarine — and a big one, at that.”

The pilot, normally a cool character, answered excitedly “Good work, Grodsky! Are you set up back there to relay this sound signature back to Momma Bird for a definite I.D.?”

“I’m ready when you are,” the breathless ATO returned.

Payton switched on the secure radio line back to the Eagle.

“Mother Bird, this is chick Delta, do you read me?”

A brief crackle of static was followed by a crystal clear reply.

“Go ahead Delta, this is Mother Bird.”

“Roger, Mother Bird. Prepare the nest to copy the sounds of your feeding chicks—” From the Seasprite’s sensor panel, the ATO diverted the hydrophone signal so that it would be transferred back to the destroyer via radio wave. In this manner they could take instantaneous advantage of the Eagle’s massive computer. Their ability to identify the source of the hydrophone signal in a matter of minutes was as important as their ability to find it in the first place.

Though there was always the outside chance that they had tagged one of their own subs, Grodsky felt otherwise. He knew that Bill Payton was thinking the same thing when the pilot sent Wally Simpson back to give him a hand with the arming of their Mk 46 homing torpedoes. The ATO surrendered to the task willingly as they anxiously waited for the analysis to be completed.

Lev Zinyakin couldn’t believe how slowly the minutes were passing. It always seemed that way when he was waiting for his shift to change.

Though the two consecutive duty segments that he was about to complete had been far from dull, he couldn’t ignore the emptiness in his belly and the heaviness of his eyes.

For the last quarter of an hour, the Vulkan had been traveling at a rather shallow depth to take advantage of the warm waters of the thermocline. In this portion of the sea, Zinyakin had to focus the sub’s sensors on a radically different threat source. Since it was unlikely that they could be spotted from below, what they had to fear most was contact from above.

And the American sonar devices were extremely sophisticated.

Carried by both fixed wing planes and helicopters those systems had to be respected.

To insure instant detection of such aircraft, such devices as the Vulkan’s external buoyant hydrophone were deployed. This neutrally buoyant transducer was presently being towed above them, scanning the ocean’s surface for the sound of advancing airplanes.

Since this system was run independently from the Vulkan’s hull-mounted hydrophones, a separate monitoring channel was necessary. Analyzing the input from the surface was Zinyakin’s current responsibilities.

Steadfastly ignoring the rumbles and groans from his stomach, Zinyakin sat back and listened to the various noises being fed into his headphones. Identifying the swooshing slap of agitated water, the sonar officer determined that the seas were fairly heavy topside. At their current depth the surface turmoil was hardly noticeable, except for this noise.

Aware of his fatigue, Zinyakin was proud of the fact that never once had he fallen asleep while on duty.

This was in vast contrast to his shipmates, who generally looked for every opportunity to catch a catnap.

Lulled by the slap of the breaking waves, the sonar officer fought an unsuccessful battle to stay awake.

His eyelids clamped shut and he instantly fell into a dream. In his vision he found himself a lad again, sailing from Palanga on his grandfather’s battered boat. Though the Baltic Sea had been as smooth as glass when they had started out, the morning sky quickly turned black when an icy northern gale descended in all its fury. Thrown to the deck by the first arriving swells. Lev tried in vain to stand, for his legs would not cooperate. Feeling leaden, nauseous and scared, he looked to the interior of the cabin and saw that nobody was at the wildly spinning wheel.

Fearful that his grandfather had been swept overboard, he managed to get to his hands and knees.

Continuously pounded by the crashing waves, he found his progress ponderously slow.

Lev made it to the cabin’s hatchway soaked and bruised, but try as he might he was unable to make it indoors. Only when the first tears of frustration began falling on his cheeks was he aware of a distant voice, crying over the howling gale.

“Listen to the wind, lad!” bellowed his grandfather.

“To the wind!”

Even though his elder was still nowhere to be seen, Lev paid attention to the advice. He closed his stinging eyes and focused his concentration on the boisterous gusts.

It was then that he heard an alien chopping sound approaching. The familiar racket merely added to his puzzlement, for how could a helicopter be flying in the midst of such an angry tempest?

A muted electronic tone was ringing in the background when Zinyakin snapped from his dream. His eyes popped open and he swiftly reoriented himself.

Slouched before the sonar console, he blushed with embarrassment upon realizing his loss of self-control.

Thankfully, only two minutes had passed, and it didn’t appear that anyone else had spotted him.

He sat up straight, readjusted his headphones, and was reminded of the end of his dream by a shocking reality. The sound of a helicopter hovering was clearly audible topside! Rubbing his eyes to make certain that he was not still asleep, Zinyakin took a deep breath and reached forward to turn up the external buoyant hydrophone to maximum volume.

Assured that the incoming signal was real, he turned and called out loudly.

“Senior Lieutenant!”

Seconds later, Vasili Leonov was at his side.

“What is it, Zinyakin?”

“There’s a helicopter hovering directly above us!” the frantic sonar officer explained.

“Would you like to hear for yourself?”

“No, Comrade, I believe you,” Leonov said heavily.

Squeezing in beside the senior lieutenant now was the scrawny figure of the zampolit.

“What is going on here. Comrades?”

“Our hydrophones have discovered a helicopter above us,” Leonov explained.

Novikov seemed relieved.

“Then why the look of gloom, Comrade Leonov? Surely such a vehicle can’t threaten us.”

The senior lieutenant shook his head.

“If only that were the case. Because of our present depth, we are extremely vulnerable to their dunking sonar arrays.

Not only can they call for help, they can attack us with homing torpedoes.” “Then let’s dive for cover,” Novikov suggested reasonably.

“It’s too late for that. If their sensor operator is the least bit awake, they have already spotted us. Besides, we still have that Yankee attack sub to contend with.”

Zinyakin’s mind raced for an answer — and found it.

“Sir, why don’t we utilize one of the new self-initiated anti-aircraft missiles?”

“Of course, the SIAMS!” The senior lieutenant reached out and picked up the intercom.

“Comrade Chuchkin, we need the immediate launch of one of our SIAM rockets… I understand that one must first be loaded into a torpedo tube, Chuchkin. Just get it done and launch it at once!”

As Leonov hung up the handset, the puzzled zampolit asked, “What is this SIAM?”

“In my haste, I almost forgot it existed,” Leonov admitted.

“SIAM is a new defensive system that became operational only a few months ago. If Yuri Chuchkin can get one loaded in time, the topside threat will soon be eliminated.

“Now, Comrade Zinyakin, you must keep on the alert for any air-dropped homing torpedoes. If destiny is still with us, we shall pass this final obstacle and yet strike the enemy a crippling blow!”

Two floors beneath the Vulkan’s control room, Weapons Chief Yuri Chuchkin hurried his crew into action.

“Come on, you shirkers, get the lead out of your pants!”

Moving his portly frame to one side of the cramped torpedo room, he watched the six-man loading team at work. They efficiently pulled a homing torpedo from the number one tube. It was moved back by a hydraulic conveyor and replaced by the encapsulated SIAM presently being drawn up from the magazine.

Except for a single test firing, this would only be Chuchkin’s second launch of a SIAM device. Still hot off the drawing board, the new system gave them an unheard of capability. Sounding more like science fiction than fact, the SIAM was one of the Rodina’s most ingenious inventions. Anxious to see it operate under combat conditions, Chuchkin shifted his pipe to the corner of his mouth and peered down the unmoving conveyor belt. “Where the hell is that anti-aircraft rocket?”

Chuchkin screamed.

“Any more delay and you’ll be signing your own death warrants!”

In response to his invective, the belt began to move.

From its storage rack on the deck below, a slim, twelve-foot-long, shiny metallic cannister became visible.

Without hesitation, it was guided into the now empty mouth of the number one tube. As his men sealed the tube and prepared it for firing, Chuchkin reflected on the strange course of their current patrol.

It was the irony of it all that got to him. Here he was, only a few months away from full retirement, and the Americans had to go and start a war. Deciding it was better to be here than merely sitting at ground zero, he could but apply the years of endless drills and practice alerts. In this way, he would do his part to insure the Motherland’s survival.

“Number one tube is sealed, pressurized and ready for firing!” cried the seaman in charge of the loading team.

Quickly, Chuchkin joined him at the console.

“Very good, Comrades. Now let us see if our scientists did their homework.”

After unlocking the firecontrol panel, the chief armed the SIAM and depressed the launch switch.

He looked up when a loud hiss of compressed air sounded from inside the tube. This was followed by a noticeable lurch as the rocket shot out into the surrounding waters. Closing his eyes momentarily, he visualized the course this weapon would be taking as it streaked toward its target.

Already the missile should have broken out of its protective capsule.

As its engines ignited, the rocket would break the ocean’s surface. A split-second later, the SIAM’s self-contained radar unit would activate.

Steered by a set of aerodynamic tins, the missile would home-in on its target at supersonic speeds. A blindingly bright explosion would follow as the weapon’s 30-kilogram warhead triggered, dooming the enemy to an instant, fiery demise.

Chuchkin doubted that they would be able to hear the blast from their present depth. Since they would have to rely on the Vulkan’s sensor operators to let them know if the shot was a success, the chief reached for the intercom. He grimaced involuntarily when his call to the control room was picked up by the boat’s zampolit.

“My, my, you’re an impatient one. Comrade Chuchkin,” the political officer said.

“I imagine that you’re calling for the results of the launch.”

The weapons chief took his pipe from his mouth and meekly answered, “Yes, sir. I only wanted to know if it would be necessary to load another SIAM device.”

Novikov took his time in answering.

“Comrade Chuchkin, I’m most upset with you. Don’t you have more faith in the Rodina’s scientists than that? What need is there for another rocket when this one was more than adequate to do the trick. Lev Zinyakin told us of the glorious results only seconds ago. At that time his sensors recorded a massive series of explosions.

This was followed by nothing but the sound of slapping waves. Whatever was hovering above us certainly no longer exists. Good shooting, my friend.

Now, please don’t disappoint me when the time arrives for the release of our SS-N-18s.”

Pleased with their success, yet uncomfortable talking with the zampolit, the chief humbly excused himself. As he gave his crew the news, an excited about of joy followed. He allowed his men several minutes to revel in their accomplishment, then barked out, “Your enthusiasm is duly noted. But are we holding a party here? Reload that vacant tube with the homing torpedo! Then I’m going to want to see the whole lot of you in the taiga. The Rodina is going to earn its ruble’s worth with you shirkers today, that I can promise you!”

Conscious of his effect on the crew’s mood, Chuchkin pivoted and proceeded out the rear hatchway. All in all, they were a good bunch; yet, like any conscripts, they had to be leaned on constantly. This was one lesson he had learned well in his three decades of service.

After placing the stem of his pipe back between his teeth, Chuchkin elected to fill its bowl and have a real smoke. Since the portion of the Vulkan he was presently in was off limits to smokers, he headed straight for his cabin. That was where he kept his precious stash of imported tobacco anyway.

Climbing down a flight of stairs, he turned toward the sub’s stern. The room that he shared with three other petty officers was located amidships, on the sub’s bottom deck. This put him close to the missile magazine in case an emergency called him there in the middle of one of his rest periods.

Though cramped and sparsely furnished with four narrow bunks and two wallmounted desks, the space at least afforded him a semblance of privacy. Compared to past classes of submarines on which he had sailed, his current quarters could be regarded as nothing short of elegant.

Closing the door behind him, he found he had the entire cabin to himself. This would give him a chance to sort out his confused thoughts. Since the day’s events were unlike any he had ever experienced, he decided that he more than deserved the valuable tobacco he was packing into his pipe.

Purchased in Viet Nam while the Golf-class sub he had been stationed on was visiting Cam Rahn Bay, the tobacco was unique. Packed by an English company, it contained the perfect mixture of fine-cut, golden Virginian leaf, vanilla, and just a hint of rum.

This produced not only a smooth taste, but a sweet, pleasurable aroma as well. For the past six months he had been rationing the contents of the eight-ounce tin.

Because of the current precarious state of world affairs, he decided that he’d better enjoy it now-while he was still alive to do so.

He inhaled the first lungful of smoke, further savoring the taste by exhaling it through his nostrils.

While enjoying several more slowly exhaled puffs, his eyes strayed to the desk that he shared with the reactor chief. Here, smiling back at him with a warm, familiar grin was a picture of his beloved mother.

Now, more than ever before, he was sorry that he hadn’t made time to visit her during his last leave. How disappointed she had been! Yet, naval matters had called, and there was little he could do about it but wish her his sincere love.

Now he was glad that she lived so far from a large city. The village of Malka was some fifty kilometers from Petropavlovsk. With no military installations to speak of, it would surely be ignored if a nuclear war were indeed taking place. Of course, there was always the chance that the enemy would overshoot its intended target… but there was also the nightmare of radioactive fallout to consider.

Regardless of location, there was little doubt that if a nuclear war began, her life, and that of every other human being, would be changed forever.

Shivering at the thought, Chuchkin took another deep draw on his pipe and allowed his restless ponderings to settle. For years he had lived in fear of this day — yet, somehow he had fooled himself into thinking that it could never come to pass.

But the launching of the SIAM rocket had proved that they were in an actual state of war. The senior lieutenant had been hinting at this earlier. Passing off their present alert as merely another meaningless drill, Chuchkin had been fooling no one but himself.

The time was rapidly approaching when their own strategic missiles would be released. Few on board were as aware of their destructive capabilities as Chuchkin was. After all, the SS-N-18s were his lethal responsibility. Snuggled securely in their protective silos, the sixteen missiles would account for millions of deaths. Guided by the Rodina’s most accurate guidance systems, this single flight of warheads would eliminate targets throughout the entire continental United States. After they struck, America would never be the same.

Chuchkin had no doubt as to who had been the aggressor, for the Soviet Union had sworn never to initiate a nuclear conflict. But deterrence had failed, and their mission would now be one of revenge.

Chuchkin cringed at the thought of the crazed which man who had come within inches of wrecking their firecontrol system. Though he hated seeing Stefan Kuzmin stopped as he had been, the zampolit had been justified. To be stuck in a war situation with a load of missiles that couldn’t be released would be the ultimate waste. If the warrant officer had been in his right mind, he would have been most aware of that.

Chuchkin had seen the mad aftereffects of a fever at work before. He had been at his own sister’s bedside while she was dying of typhus. Driven insane by an uncontrollable body temperature, she had looked at him like he was a total stranger.

Even their own mother had been unrecognizable to her.

When Kuzmin had grabbed Chuchkin by the arm and thrown him into the path of his pursuers, the chief had been sure that this was but another tragic instance of a fever-induced frenzy gaining the upper hand. When Kuzmin then went for the firecontrol panel, all the time madly babbling about a mutiny, Chuchkin was certain. The which man had crossed that fragile line that threatened not only himself and his shipmates, but his fellow countrymen as well.

Relighting his pipe, Chuchkin wondered about the condition of their captain. For Petyr Valenko’s sake, Chuchkin hoped that the fever was not as intense as that of the which man s. Since he heard that the two men had spent time together while they were last in Petropavlovsk, there was no doubt as to where the disease had been contracted. As to who else on board had been infected … that was anyone’s guess.

It was ironic that the captain had not been around to witness the call to war. Fortunately, it appeared as if Vasili Leonov had more than adequately taken over Valenko’s responsibilities. The senior lieutenant was rising to the occasion, and then some. His handling of the SIAM launch had appeared flawless. Only a few days before there had been some concern as to Leonov’s mental state. Many of the crew had believed that the abrupt end of his love affair would cause Vasili to go off the deep end — or even to desert. How very wrong they had been.

The chief’s pipe was soon empty, and his desk clock indicated that it was time to get back on the job.

Mentally and physically relieved, he prepared himself for the speech that he would soon deliver. Even as he sat there, his men were surely waiting for him in the taiga. Since their assistance would be invaluable in directing the SS-N-18s skyward, the missile crew deserved to be briefed on their situation as he now understood it. With this task in mind, Chuchkin rose and, after stashing away what little tobacco remained, proceeded out the cabin’s hatchway.

Thirty-eight hundred miles southeast of the Vulkan, the modified Boeing 747 transport known as Kneecap soared over the crystal blue waters off Baja California. Flying over a portion of the planet far from any potential ground targets, Kneecap cruised southward at a speed of five hundred and eighty-three miles per hour, at an altitude of thirty-five thousand feet.

Viktor Rodin and Robert Palmer had just returned to the plane’s conference room after a brief tour of the rest of the aircraft.

Beginning in the cockpit, the Premier had been introduced to both the crew and equipment that made Kneecap unique.

As Rodin settled into one of the high-backed chairs that surrounded the President’s walnut table, his thoughts remained on the excursion just completed.

He was most impressed with the 747’s spaciousness, all the while aware of the incredible amount of gear stashed within its walls. This was most evident in the compartments reserved for the battle staff. Dressed in matching gray flight suits, the complement of men and women sat alertly before their consoles. In one cabin the Premier had counted over twenty-four individuals manning their stations. Robert Palmer was quick to explain that this was where the plane’s thirteen separate radio systems were monitored. Other compartments held equipment belonging to Kneecap’s twenty-five onboard telephones, encryption machinery for secure voice transmission, plus a large bay reserved for the sophisticated power-control system that managed the craft’s extremely high electrical demands. Interspersed were several large rest areas, galleys, and, in the nose of the craft, separate cabins with comfortable sleeping accommodations for the senior officials.

All through his tour, the staff had remained cordial and polite. This surprised Rodin, who had expected to find a bit more callousness — especially given their current predicament. The Premier supposed that a great deal of this decorum was prompted by the presence of his host. Everywhere they went, Robert Palmer led the way, always quick with his introductions.

Knowing the majority of the crew on a first name basis, Palmer seemed never at a loss for the light banter that was so effective in making a tense situation more bearable.

His lighthearted attitude also had its effect on Rodin. Infected by the President’s charm, the Premier felt instantly relaxed and, considering the situation, generally well accepted. He could just imagine the gloom and doom that would characterize his own command plane if the situation were reversed. In fact, he seriously doubted if his aides would even let Palmer step aboard the flying Kremlin. If they survived this day, Rodin promised himself that he would do his best to eliminate such unnecessary paranoia wherever possible.

The President had been on the phone since they had returned to the conference room. Now he hung up the receiver and met Rodin’s curious gaze.

“It appears that we’re getting close, Viktor, but still no cigar. That was Admiral Miller, commander of the Pacific’s Third Fleet. He reports that one of our Kamin Seasprite helicopters tagged an unidentified submarine in the extreme southern sector of the Vulkan’s intended launch area. The chopper pilot was in the process of conveying the object’s sound signature when the radio abruptly went dead. At present, we’re rushing every available anti-sub platform into that sector, on the assumption that what they picked up was indeed the Vulkan”

“Do they know why your helicopter broke radio contact?” the Premier asked.

“I’m afraid the Kaman is presumed down,” Palmer said heavily.

“The way things now appear, I’m afraid that our approaching units are never going to make it in time. If only we had an additional hour!”

Empathizing with the President’s frustration, Rodin replied, “Once more, I can’t tell you how sorry I am that this whole nightmare came about. I take full responsibility for the entire situation. I know my apology isn’t much, but what more can I offer?”

“Easy, now, Viktor, we’re not licked yet.”

But the Premier’s feelings of helplessness caused him to disagree.

“The seconds continue to tick away, and what have we to show for it?

Our best efforts have netted us absolutely nothing. All this leads up to one more question that I have to ask you, Robert: What will be your government’s response if the unthinkable comes to pass … and the Vulkan’s load of missiles are released?”

Palmer answered directly.

“I think the best way to answer that would be to call in my top foreign policy advisors and see what’s on their minds. Is that agreeable with you, my friend?”

Rodin nodded and watched the President speak into his intercom.

“Delores, I’d like to see the Secretary of State and Mr. Carrigan at once.”

“Very good, Mr. President,” returned a high pitched, nasal voice.

A moment of strained silence followed, as Rodin swiveled around and peered out of the porthole. Since they were in front of the wings, he had an unobstructed view of the land below. He recognized the long, narrow peninsula of barren land visible beneath the cloudless skies as belonging to Mexico’s westernmost shoreline. He was the process of scanning the blue waters of the Pacific, when there was a knock on the compartment’s door. The Premier turned to see two men enter. One was Patrick Carrigan, the President’s National Security advisor whom he had met not long after landing in Los Angeles. The other person was an older, robust, whitehaired figure whose frequently photographed face was most familiar.

As always. Palmer was quick with the introductions.

“Viktor, you know Mr. Carrigan, yet I believe this is the first time that you’ve met my Secretary of State, George Michaelson.”

The two statesmen shook hands and the Premier offered a sincere greeting.

“It is a pleasure to at last meet you, Mr. Michaelson. Since you have taken your present post, your work has been greatly admired.”

Pleasantly surprised by the unexpected compliment, the Secretary of State responded in kind.

“The pleasure is mine, sir. Like all of us, I’ve looked forward to this day with the greatest of expectations.

I’m only sorry that it has been clouded by this unnecessary crisis.” “You and I both,” Rodin said as he took his seat along with the others.

The President sat forward and initiated the conversation.

“I’m sure that you’ve heard about the Seasprite going down. It’s damn bad luck that they didn’t get a definite on that bogey, but chances are that it was the Vulkan. I just got off the horn with Admiral Miller.

He’s in constant contact with our task force, which is currently closing in on the last coordinates reported by the helicopter. He’s also monitoring the approach of the USS Triton, our Los Angeles-class attack sub that had previously tagged the Vulkan in this same general area. Unfortunately, the Admiral reports that the surface ships are too distant to close by 2130 hours — the intended launch time. We’ve got to be realistic: With the Triton as our only hope, the odds of stopping the Vulkan in time are continually decreasing.

“I’ve asked you two to join us in an effort to clear the air of all misconceptions. Both of you are free to be completely candid. Trust amongst ourselves is all that we have left.

“The question that we have for you is extremely basic. I know that each one of you has been considering it for sometime now, so here it goes. What course of action do you advise the United States of America to take if the Vulkan’s missiles are indeed released?

Patrick, why don’t you start us off?”

Momentarily surprised by the nature of Palmer’s request, Carrigan stared at Rodin suspiciously before beginning.

“I think it would be best for me to start with the manner in which we have already reacted to the list of targets that the General Secretary was kind enough to give us. Because of the sensitive nature of the sites involved, we have taken the following actions.

Per the request of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, alternative communications systems have been activated worldwide.

This includes sac’s Silk Purse, Scope Light, and Blue Eagle flying-command posts, and our minimum, essential emergency communications network.

These steps will hopefully insure that military communications will not be totally decapitated.

“When the delicate issue of evacuation was brought up, it was unanimously agreed that the nation’s underground command posts would remain on duty.

This includes the Pentagon, Cheyenne Mountain, Offut Field, and the various alternative national command centers. The only instances whereby evacuation has been permitted concerns non-essential dependents living in or around the various targeted military installations. To guarantee security, this operation is being carried out under the cover of being just another exercise.

“My biggest concern remains with the residual radioactive fallout created by the blasts and spread throughout the country on the easterly winds; the panic that will ensue once the first warhead explodes; and, last but not least, the tragedy we’re facing in Southern California. A strike by only a handful of nuclear weapons over the Los Angeles basin will produce over one million instant casualties. I fear that our decision not to immediately evacuate the city could be a costly one.”

Palmer quickly interjected, “My decision on that matter remains firm, Patrick. I am wholeheartedly convinced that an evacuation at this time, and the resulting panic it would inevitably produce, will cost us more lives than it will save.”

Carrigan responded icily.

“Even if a few hundred thousand souls could be saved by such a move, my final estimate is that this single attack will cost us twenty-five million lives, at the minimum.”

Staggered by the figure, George voice trembled.

“Never before in the history of diplomacy has a country been faced with such monumental decisions as we must make. I can only return to Great Britain’s decision during World War II to knowingly allow the Nazis to bomb the city of Coventry, resulting in the loss of hundreds of lives.

Of course, that was to make certain that the Germans didn’t find out that the British had cracked their most secret Ultra code, and, in fact, knew of the attack beforehand.

“Because of the unbelievable loss of life and property that a nuclear strike will produce, it’s very hard for me just to turn the other cheek and recommend that we merely ignore the bombs because of the unpremeditated circumstances. Once the first mushroom cloud forms over American soil, my gut instinct will be to side with the surviving public — who will be crying out for some type of hard response to avenge this despicable crime. The number-one priority will be finding the bastards who are responsible for this insanity.”

“I agree with you!” the Premier said firmly.

“No matter the personal sacrifice demanded, I swear to you that I will focus my every effort into tracking down the conspirators. I have already initiated just such an investigation. Led by a handful of trusted agents, elements of the Soviet Union’s internal police force, the MVD, are working around the clock to discover the malefactors. The results of this inquiry are expected shortly.

“It is my guess that we are dealing with a small clique of embittered, sick souls. Since the top-secret information that they acquired lies at the very heart of my command staff, I don’t think that I’ll have to be looking far.”

Allowing himself a calming breath, Rodin added, “Comrade Michaelson, you mentioned that if the bombs do fall, you favor a hard retaliatory response.

Do you mean militarily?”

Far from proud of his decision, the Secretary of State somberly nodded his assent.

Patrick Carrigan offered an explanation.

“George and I have discussed this subject intensively. Our decision was far from an easy one. The crux of the matter revolves around the general public’s initial reaction to the attack. I think it’s safe to say, with some certainty, that the citizens of the United States will not sit back and let this strike go unanswered. If we don’t react, and react strongly, not only do we face a general insurrection, but also the very real threat of a military coup d’etat. That is why we favor response based upon the eye for an eye principle. For each target that Soviet missiles destroy on American soil, we should take out an equivalent site within the USSR. Not only will this course of action appease civilian demands, it will also guarantee military parity.”

But Robert Palmer could not accept his advisor’s decision.

“I beg to differ with you, Carrigan. How the hell can you justify killing millions more just to get even? Don’t you see — that will only give the ones responsible for this madness exactly what they want!

Bomb will follow bomb, and before it’s over the entire planet will fall victim to this conflict. You don’t really think that a military response is the only answer, do you George?”

Staring the President right in the eye, the Secretary of State said, “In this instance, I’m afraid that I do, Mr. President. It goes against my grain to admit it, but right now I have no alternatives.

“Several months ago, while I was still teaching at Harvard, I chaired a seminar comprised of a select group of the West’s top defense analysts.

Our own Patrick Carrigan attended. At that time, a nuclear attack scenario, much like the one we currently face, was presented to the group. Though a great deal of controversial discussion ensued, the panel eventually reached an agreement. No population, no matter how socially conscious, could accept a nuclear attack without any visible response on their government’s part. As we learned during the mid-1980’s in dealing with the crisis of terrorism, if the guilty parties can be found and isolated, they must be subsequently eliminated.

Turn your cheek from this nuclear strike, Mr. President, and you’ll be facing an insurrection that will make the Viet Nam protests seem like a children’s birthday party!”

Of all the unlikely places, George Michaelson found support from the lips of Viktor Rodin.

“I am certain that if the tables were turned, I would be faced with the very same dilemma. I would not expect my people to allow a flight of Trident missiles into the Rodina and, as you Say merely turn the other cheek.

Yet, I fear that a secondary strike on your part will prompt our generals to answer with a counter strike I fear President Palmer is correct in his assumption that this is exactly what the conspirators are hoping for. If America can’t be crippled by a single first-strike attack, the next best thing would be to accept some casualties and answer with an even larger attack.”

“And there goes the ball game!” Palmer concluded succinctly.

His terse comment was punctuated by an abrupt shaking of the cabin, as Kneecap plowed into a pocket of rough, unstable air. As the floor and walls began vibrating around them, a sudden change in the previously steady whine of the plane’s engines indicated that the pilot was already seeking a smoother flight path. As the jumbo jet stabilized, a loud chime sounded through the intercom. This was followed by the firm, calm voice of the pilot.

“Please excuse the turbulence, ladies and gentlemen.

We’re passing on the fringe of a low pressure system that’s currently moving into Mexico. The instability extends a bit higher than we expected, so please make certain that your seat belts are securely fastened. We intend to make every effort to reach some smoother air as soon as we are able.”

As the pilot’s explanation ended, there was a loud knock on the conference room door. Palmer said, “Enter,” and the Premier’s secretary, Olga Tyumen, poked her head sheepishly inside.

“Do come in, my dear,” the President prompted.

The shapely blonde appeared a bit uncomfortable as she surveyed the grim faces before her. Noticing her uneasiness. Palmer said lightly, “I hope that group back in the staff quarters are behaving themselves.

It’s not often that Kneecap is graced by such a beautiful woman. If anyone gets out of hand, Olga, you be certain to notify me personally.” She blushed and said, “Thank you. Comrade President.

But everything is most comfortable. Your crew has been most cooperative.”

As the plane was buffeted by another powerful gust of turbulence, Olga found herself thrown off balance.

Only the quick reflexes and tight grasp of Robert Palmer kept her from toppling over. Still holding her firmly in his arms, the President gently said, “You’d better get back to your seat and buckle in, my dear.

When our pilot gives us these warnings, he’s usually not wasting his breath. What was it that you needed?”

Olga took a step back and, holding onto an empty chair, spoke to Viktor Rodin.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Comrade General Secretary, but I thought that you’d want to know about the contents of a strange report I just received from PVO headquarters.”

Carefully reaching over the table, she handed Rodin a folded sheet of notepaper. The Premier quickly read it and confusion filled his face.

“My, this is an odd turn of events. I certainly did not order it.”

President Palmer said calmly, “Perhaps we could be of some assistance.”

“Oh, of course,” Rodin returned.

“I’m not sure what this means, but our national command headquarters reports that the pilot of my personal IL-78 aircraft has just announced that he has taken oft from Los Angeles and has requested a flight plan back to the USSR. Perhaps it’s all a misunderstanding, but this is surely not on my authority.”

Patrick Carrigan reacted first. “We were informed of the IL-78’s request for take-off a quarter of an hour ago. It was assumed that it had been initiated by the General Secretary, so it was routinely approved.”

“There must be some rational reason behind this unexpected turn of events,” the Premier reflected.

“Olga, please be so good as to try to reach the aircraft.

Perhaps the pilot can tell us just what is going on there.”

“Could this have something to do with the takeover on the Vulkan’!” Carrigan asked.

Rodin held his response until Olga Tyumen left the compartment.

“Right now, I really can’t say. All I know for certain is that, at the moment, I can’t take anything for granted.”

Sensing his guest’s frustration. President Palmer said, “This is a most confusing day for all of us, my friend. If somehow the fates are with us, and we see ourselves past this crisis, we must do everything within our power to insure that such a nightmare can never threaten us again. The immediate abolition of all nuclear weapons will be a first step in guaranteeing the security of the planet for the generations that follow.”

“You will certainly have my complete cooperation,” said the Premier, who now seemed drained of all energy.

“I just hope that it isn’t already too late.”

With this, the President excused his advisors — after accepting a plea on their part for him to keep his mind open to the military options just presented. Alone once more, the two leaders of the world’s mightiest nations somberly faced each other.

“Would you really order a nuclear counter strike if the Vulkan’s missiles are released?” Rodin asked quietly.

The President thought for a moment, then said, “Even though my heart says absolutely no, I wonder if I will have much choice in the matter.

I can only continue to pray that I won’t be forced to make such a grave decision.”

Rodin swiveled in his chair to gaze out of the porthole. As he did so, the plane shook violently.

Tightly grasping the arms of his chair, he peered outside. It took the Premier only seconds to locate the apparent source of the turbulence.

Clearly visible in the skies beyond was a massive formation of swirling black clouds. From within the towering, dark column, the stacatto flash of lightning indicated the storm front’s violent fury.

As he watched this raw display of natural violence, Rodin reflected on one disturbing element of the message that Olga had just relayed to him. In fact, so disturbing was its essence that he had been unable to reveal it to the Americans. Admiral of the Fleet Stanislav Sorokin had to have been the one to authorize the take-off of Rodin’s IL-78 command plane.

This could only mean that the esteemed naval officer himself was one of the conspirators.

Shocked by this revelation, Rodin shivered involuntarily.

Struggling to clear his mind, the General Secretary mentally assembled the evidence that pointed toward the admiral’s guilt. From the very beginning, Rodin had known that the malefactors had to be a small cabal of individuals occupying high positions of power. A thorough knowledge of naval procedures would be a most valuable necessity. Sorokin had been an outspoken opponent of Viktor Rodin’s conciliatory position with the West from the start. Fearful of what the world would be like if the current massive military machines were abolished, the admiral must have decided upon a Counterforce strike as a last resort.

Earlier, when the Soviet Kresta-class cruiser had been sunk, Rodin had wondered what had blown the Natya apart seconds before its attack against the Vulkan was to begin. Since he and the admiral were the only ones who knew of the Natya’s attack orders, Sorokin must have notified his fellow conspirators-who in turn had the cruiser conveniently eliminated.

The loss of the Natya had tragic implications beyond the lives and equipment involved. For, if the warship had been successful, their current predicament would have been resolved.

The Premier realized how shocked Sorokin must have been at being invited on the flight to Los Angeles. Surely he had only accepted so as not to arouse unnecessary suspicion. Knowing full well that the nuclear strike would include a bevy of warheads targeted on Southern California, Sorokin had commandeered the IL-78. His cowardly act would cost the admiral dearly.

The General Secretary stirred when a huge, fiery fork of lightning lit the surrounding heavens. Shaking off his lethargy, Rodin planned the series of directives he would now issue to seal the fates of Sorokin and his fellow traitors. Under a blanket of secrecy, he would authorize his most trusted agents to tap the IL-78‘8 radio transmissions. Each call would be duly monitored and traced. If Stanislav Sorokin was indeed one of those responsible, Rodin would catch him in the act of contacting his fellow conspirators as they gloated over their apparent victory.

Not knowing who else the finger of guilt would point to, Rodin mentally prepared himself for the shock of disclosure that would, hopefully, follow.

Catching the entire group would give him great satisfaction.

But at the moment he was faced with a much graver problem. In only a few minutes the yulkan would reach its launch coordinates. Oblivious to the real state of political relations, the crew would then carry out the second part of the Red Flag directive and release their lethal load of sixteen SS-N-18s. In response, the Americans would cry for a counter strike and the world would be plunged into the ultimate horror.

Trembling with anger at the audacity of the individuals who had hatched this insane plot, Rodin knew that, somehow, the Vulkan had to be stopped!