Counterforce

Chapter Fourteen

The control room of the USS Triton was possessed by a tense silence as the vessel hurried toward the assumed intercept point. Pacing the length of the equipment-packed compartment was Captain Michael Cooksey.

Hands cocked stiffly behind his back and eyes focused on the deck before him, he appeared lost in distant thought.

Lieutenant Commander Richard Craig watched his senior officer’s slow, monotonous stride, and couldn’t help but be concerned. The captain looked as nervous as he had ever seen him. And that included the conclusion of their last patrol, when Cooksey’s hairtrigger temper and sullen moods were the talk of the ship.

Looking rested and fit after returning from leave, Cooksey had been just like his old self again. Even his sense of humor had returned.

But their confrontation with the Soviet attack sub had quickly changed all that.

While they were in the midst of their crash dive, the XO had caught a glimpse of the captain’s face and didn’t like what he’d seen. Not only had the lines of tension returned, so had the dark pouches that had previously underscored his bloodshot eyes. Certainly drained by a lack of proper rest and nourishment, Craig wondered how long the captain could keep himself together.

From his position behind the sonar console, the XO scanned the rest of the compartment’s interior. With quiet efficiency, the crew went about their individual duties. Conscious of the loud, distant whining of the Triton’s turbines, he knew they were pushing ahead at close to top speed.

A muted, electronic tone rang from his wrist, and Craig looked down at his preset watch. As he somberly took in the time, he cleared his throat and addressed Cooksey, who was headed back toward him.

“Skipper, it’s 2120 hours.”

“I’m well aware of that, Mr. Craig,” the captain snapped. He paced for three more strides, then halted and commanded, “All stop! Rig for ultra quiet While his directives were being carried out, Cooksey returned to the sonar station. Without comment, he clipped on the auxiliary headphones and initiated a hasty sensor scan.

“Damn it, they’ve got to be out there somewhere!” Cooksey shouted as he disgustedly peeled the listening gear off.

“Callahan, is this gear working properly?”

The sonar officer responded tactfully.

“All hydrophones appear operational, sir. We also show a negative on active search.”

“Well, keep on it, Lieutenant, I know they’re close!”

Charles Callahan returned to his console, while the captain quizzed his exec.

“What’s your opinion of this damned mess, Mr. Craig?”

The XO answered as the familiar whine of their engines dissipated and the Triton glided to a halt. “I agree that they can’t be too far away. Skipper It wasn’t all that long ago that we pinged them. Since our top speed is well over that of a Delta-class boat, they couldn’t have gotten too far away — unless they headed out in the opposite direction.”

“That’s unlikely,” Cooksey observed.

“They’re going to need to attain that launch position as far east as time allows. Those SS-N-18s will be at the extreme edge of their range and they won’t be taking any chances. Damn it to hell — I should have blown them away earlier when I had the chance. What was I thinking about?”

“You were only giving them a fair chance to show their colors, Skipper.

Don’t take it so personally. I would have made the exact same decision.”

The exec’s words were met with silence. Both men turned their attentions to the green-tinted sonar screen. As Richard Craig watched the pulsing white line, which monitored the surge of high-frequency power being sent out from their bow, an idea came to him.

“You know, Skipper, the Vulkan may have taken the chance of ascending up through the thermocline.

The last reading of our XBT showed an unusually thick band of warmer water above us. If that’s still present, and the Soviets are taking advantage of its veil … that could account for their absence on our sensors.”

Impressed with this thought, Cooksey nodded.

“You could have something. Rich. Although, that would open them up to surface detection by one of our choppers or aircraft; those Russians might just be trying to pull the wool over our eyes. Launch the XBT and find us that thermocline. Then get the Triton ready to ascend. I’d better call Spencer and have him ready one of those ASW/SOWS.”

As Cooksey glanced down to check his watch, Craig was already carrying out his directives. As the captain reached out for the intercom, he softly mumbled to himself, “Please God, give me another shot at them.

Just one damn shot!”

Seventy-three nautical miles due east of the USS Triton, the Vulkan silently balanced itself in the cool, dense layer of seawater that signaled the limit of the thermocline. This rather delicate maneuver was being monitored from the ship’s attack center, where the sub’s command functions had now been transferred.

Bathed in a veil of dim red light, the compartment was a smaller copy of the vessel’s control room. The main difference was the decreased size of the staff present. A hand-picked complement of selected personnel was all that was necessary to assist the commanding officers in carrying out the Vulkan’s primary mission.

Senior Lieutenant Vasili Leonov was aware of this as he quickly checked the individual consoles. Proud that his men had accepted his new position of command without undue questions, Leonov knew that the moment of destiny would soon be upon them.

Continuing down the narrow walkway that circled the compartment, Leonov passed the seated sonar officer. Lev Zinyakin was completely immersed in his work and not aware of Vasili’s presence.

Knowing that this was Zinyakin’s third consecutive work shift, the senior officer shook his head in wonder. It had taken only a single plea on his part to convince the exhausted sonar operator to follow them into the attack center. After all, this would be the moment when the Vulkan’s most talented crew members were needed to insure success.

Allowing Zinyakin a quick break to wash his beard-stub bled face and gobble down a sandwich and some tea, Leonov felt more assured just knowing that the brilliant Lithuanian was manning the all-important station.

Next to the sonar console was the navigation plotting board. Peering over the navigator’s shoulder, Leonov monitored their progress. Only minutes away from the attainment of their launch position, the Vulkan appeared to have the ocean all to itself. A firm hand on his back diverted his attention, and Leonov turned to face the beaming zampolit.

“We have done it, Comrade! If it is all right with you, I would like to take a few seconds to address the rest of the crew.”

Ivan Novikov’s request didn’t sound unreasonable, and the senior lieutenant beckoned him to go ahead.

Relishing the spotlight, the political officer took hold of the intercom and situated himself in the center of the room. Novikov’s words penetrated every inch of the sub’s interior.

“My dear Comrades, this is your zampolit speaking.

I’m certain that you’ve all heard the rumors by now, and I’m only here to confirm them. Yes, my friends, we are indeed in a state of war. Since the Soviet Union has vowed never to be the first user of atomic weapons, this tragic state of affairs in which we currently find ourselves must have been sparked by the imperialists. For decades we have watched the greedy capitalists stockpile the weaponry for a first strike. Ever true to their confused bloodthirsty doctrine, the Americans have made the first move.

“Since this most likely means that our beloved Rodina was a primary target of their despicable action, there’s no doubt where our thoughts must presently be. Rest assured that we shall avenge the deaths of our loved ones. To your battle stations, Comrades, for the glory of the Motherland!”

An awkward moment of silence followed, punctuated by the excited cries of their navigator.

“We’ve attained our launch position, sir.”

Leonov responded in a firm voice.

“Ascend to launch depth!”

As the Vulkan’s bow planes bit into the surrounding sea, Leonov joined the zampolit at the tire-control panel. In unison, both men pulled out the two folding chairs that were attached to the console’s steel frame.

Exactly two arm’s lengths away from each other, they seated themselves.

Each man then removed a shiny chrome key, which they had kept around their necks on sturdy chains. Before inserting his key into its proper slot, Leonov triggered the intercom.

“Comrade Chuchkin, are you ready?”

From deep within the taiga, the weapons chief reported that he was, and the senior lieutenant beckoned the zampolit to continue. In one smooth motion, both men reached forward and unlocked the dual firing panels. Facing them now was a row of sixteen clear-plastic buttons, numbered from left to right.

Above this was a large digital counter.

“Initiating release code insert on the count of three,” Leonov barked.

“One.. two … three!”

Simultaneously, they dialed in the proper digits.

When this was completed, Leonov again spoke.

“Release code insertion completed. Activate arming switch.”

A large black button next to the digital counter was depressed and, in response, the sixteen lights began blinking a bright crimson. All eyes now went to the clock mounted above the panel, as the minute hand indicated 2129 hours.

Leonov and Novikov angled their index fingers over the blinking button numbered “one.” Thirty seconds before they hit their switches to send the first SS-N-18 skyward, a sharp, shrill buzz broke the tense silence.

“It’s the emergency abort system!” shouted Leonov as he quickly scanned the panel to trace the source of the problem.

Puzzled by this unforeseen postponement, the zampolit asked, “Did we do something wrong? Perhaps we have given the improper release code.”

Ignoring Novikov, Leonov intently searched the warning panel and finally discovered the malfunction.

“We’ve lost power to our gyroscope! Without it, the warheads will be completely disorientated.”

“Let’s call Chuchkin and have him check it out,” Novikov suggested as he bent toward the intercom.

But Leonov shook his head vehemently.

“The missile crew has got its own problems right now, keeping those SS-N-18s ready for instant launch. I’d feel better if I inspected the gyroscope myself.”

“Whatever you say,” the zampolit replied.

“But let’s get moving!”

Following Leonov’s lead, Novikov stood and rushed from the attack center. By the time he had ducked through the hatch, the senior lieutenant was already moving down the metal stairwell. As quickly as he could, Novikov turned to make his own descent.

Reaching the proper level, the zampolit ran down the hallway toward the Vulkan’s bow. Barely able to make out the back of Leonov’s body ahead of him, Novikov did his best to duck through the series of hatches that now followed. Ignoring the puzzled comments of the seamen who watched their progress from adjoining cabins, the political officer concentrated solely on his forward movement. With heavy limbs and wheezing lungs, he somehow kept going.

He caught up to Leonov at a sealed doorway that blocked their forward progress. Struggling to regain his breath, Novikov watched as Leonov attempted to unlock this obstacle. Mounted beside the door was a small, metallic keypad. Only a proper combination of numerals would allow them further access. As the senior lieutenant rummaged through his pockets, the zampolit asked frantically, “What’s holding us up, Comrade?” “I need the code!” Leonov shouted as he searched his billfold.

“This section of the ship is so infrequently entered that even I have forgotten it.”

Breathlessly, Leonov pulled out a thick plastic card.

Holding it up to the keypad with shaking hands, he began punching in a complex series of digits. His haste forced him to repeat the process three times before the door finally slid open with a loud hiss.

Both men immediately ducked inside and the door automatically closed behind them. They found themselves in a narrow compartment that was noticeably different from the rest of the sub. Antiseptically clean, its walls were lined with padded banks of equipment that stretched from the deck to the acoustic-tiled ceiling. A high-pitched hum of machinery sounded in the background as the two officers carefully moved forward.

Surrounding them were the navigational components that comprised the heart of the ship. Without the use of this gear, not only the missiles but the Vulkan, itself, would be unable to determine in which direction they were traveling.

Never having been allowed entrance into this portion of the vessel before, the zampolit seemed confused.

“Now what. Comrade?”

Leonov pointed to the sealed doorway that lay ahead of them.

“On the other side of that bulkhead is the gyrocompass. The Vulkan depends on that motor operated device to point out the geographic north pole, from which all navigation is determined. Inside that room is where our problem lies.”

“But what could cause it to fail like this?” the political officer whined.

Not stopping to answer, Leonov continued moving forward and cautiously peered through the porthole that was midway up the door’s length.

As he peered into the compartment through the reinforced glass, he froze. Without turning, Leonov said softly, “I think this will answer your question, Comrade Novikov.”

The senior lieutenant stepped aside to allow the zampolit a chance to see. Leonov surveyed the cramped compartment, which was bathed in dim red light and completely lined with thick, sound-absorbent tiles. At its center was a large, circular mechanism, covered by what appeared to be a thick bubble of clear glass. Kneeling beside this device, in the process of removing the protective skirt that encircled the glass bubble, was Petyr Valenko.

As he focused on the captain, Leonov’s hand went to his knife. Leonov, his pistol already drawn, held up the plastic code card and began punching a series of digits into the door’s security keypad.

Petyr Valenko was completely absorbed in the task before him. Pleased with his progress, he knew that if he could have but a few more seconds, the job would be a total success.

The hardest part of the operation had not been crawling through the cramped air-conditioning duct to escape from his cabin, but rather waiting for the crew change — which was absolutely necessary in order for him to enter unnoticed. Counting the slowly moving minutes from the cover of a storage closet, he had planned the sequence of events that would bring him to his goal. His first move had been to disconnect the gyro’s power source. This had been relatively easy to do. Assured that the missiles would now be held back at least temporarily, he proceeded with the next stage, which was to cripple the system permanently. To guarantee this, he planned to complete the removal of the metal skirt, tear out the rubberized sealant, and then break the vacuum needed for the gyrocompass to operate. This would force not only a cancellation of the launch, but also make it imperative that the submarine surface immediately.

Though the removal of the protective skirt had taken him longer than he had anticipated, Valenko knew that the majority of the work was all but over.

As he adroitly unscrewed the last of the bolts, he pondered the strange series of circumstances that had prompted his act of sabotage. From the moment that the Zampolit had originally confronted him in his cabin and revealed their mad scheme, Valenko had had trouble believing that the conspirators were really serious. His first impression was that this had to be some sort of test to check his loyalty and reactions in an emergency situation. Though knocking him out and binding him up gave this theoretical test a bit too much relish, Valenko still wasn’t sure of the zampolit’s motives until the which man interceded. Stefan Kuzmin had assured him that the mutiny was indeed real.

Still not knowing how anyone in his right mind could back such an insane plot, Valenko wondered how his rescuer was doing. Kuzmin had aided him way beyond the call of duty. The blood still streaming from his head wound, Kuzmin had bravely followed Valenko down the cramped duct, displaying a stubborn tenacity the likes of which the captain had never seen.

If the which man task had been completed, Valenko’s piece of sabotage would be superfluous. Yet the results of their failing would be so devastating that this redundant operation was well worth the risk.

Hoping that his friend was currently safe and sound, the captain removed the remaining screw and the heavy skirt crashed to the deck.

Without hesitation, he began searching for the seam in the rubberized strip that was now visible. Just as he caught sight of the spot where the circular gasket was joined together, a heart-stopping hissing noise sounded behind him … followed by a familiar, dreaded voice.

“Comrade Valenko, stop your foolishness at once!”

Oblivious to the zampolit’s command, Valenko reached out and began tearing the sealant upward.

Then he heard another voice.

“Captain, it’s Vasili Leonov. I order you to stop this act of sabotage!”

When it was apparent that the captain would not heed their warnings, the political officer cocked his arm and let his knife fly. The blade smashed into Valenko’s back with a dull thud. He fell on his side, the blade firmly embedded between his ribs.

Still holding the rubber strip in his hands, the captain forced himself onto his knees and, grunting in agony, continued yanking at the molding. Aware of what he was attempting, the frantic senior lieutenant took careful aim and pulled the trigger of his pistol a single time. The bullet exploded from the chrome muzzle and smacked into the back of Valenko’s skull.

The captain was dead before his body hit the bloodstained deck.

“Good shooting!” cried Novikov as he ran to make certain that Valenko was out of commission for good.

Assured of this, he turned to face the senior lieutenant — and found him standing there, trembling.

“Come now. Comrade Leonov, get hold of yourself!

This blow was a most necessary one. Have you already forgotten our glorious mission? One more life lost means absolutely nothing to our great cause.”

Unaffected by these words, Leonov was still clearly stunned and shaking visibly. Seeing the senior lieutenant’s fragile state, Novikov moved to him. Taking the gun from his hand, the zampolit slapped Leonov hard across the face. Like a man awakening from a horrible nightmare, he snapped out of it. His gaze narrowed while he inspected the scene, as if viewing it for the very first time.

“Is the captain dead?”

“He was expired before he knew what hit him,” the political officer said smugly.

“Can this damage to the gyrocompass be repaired?”

The senior lieutenant inspected the containment seal and sighed a breath of relief.”

“Yes, Comrade.

Fortunately, he had yet to break the vacuum. If that had taken place, we would have been lucky just to find Petropavlovsk again. I will get Yuri Chuchkin and his crew up here to repair the damage and reestablish power. Then, our mission can be completed.” “Thank the fates!” said Novikov with a sigh. Then he thought of something else.

“I think it’s best that we clean up the blood, cover Valenko’s body and stash the corpse in a storage closet for the time being. We certainly don’t want the Chief more curious than he already is.”

“Good point,” Leonov said.

“That can be accomplished most readily.”

As he turned to initiate this unpleasant task, Novikov was relieved to see that the senior lieutenant appeared to have fully returned to his senses. That was quite a relief, for the zampolit would need his expert assistance now more than ever before.

Charlie Callahan remained seated at his console, yet he couldn’t help noticing the captain’s nervousness as Cooksey paced the deck behind him. Apparently, this restlessness was beginning to get contagious, for now even Mr. Craig, their usually cool-headed XO, appeared unduly agitated. Both officers tensely scanned the control room’s stations, vainly doing everything within their power to locate the enemy. Of course, the majority of their attention remained focused on the sonar monitors.

Every thirty seconds or so, the captain would approach Callahan and give him another one of those pleading, inquisitive stares. Since there was nothing new to report, Callahan could only shrug his shoulders and return to his scanners with an even greater degree of intensity. Then Richard Craig would repeat the exact same inquiry; this increased attention was starting to get on the sonar operator’s nerves.

More than anything, the captain reminded Callahan of a roommate he once had at the University of Virginia. Both the roommate and he had been enrolled in the naval ROTC program, and were attending a similar schedule of classes. Though they were most compatible for the majority of the school year, toward exam time his roommate became unbearable.

Unable to eat or sleep normally, he would restlessly pace the floor for hours at a time, agitated by needless worries. He was an excellent student and received superior grades, yet his nervousness soon took its toll.

As Callahan was preparing to accept his commission as a second lieutenant, his poor roommate was being admitted to the university hospital with a bleeding ulcer. That condition had kept him from naval service, and the last Callahan had heard from him, he was working for a civilian computer firm.

Captain Cooksey was headed for a similar physical breakdown if he didn’t learn to relax. Their present situation was a critical one, but worrying about it would only make matters worse.

Callahan had learned to pace himself. When the pressures of his job became too great, he would regain control through a series of deep breathing and mental visualization exercises. Once more relaxed and alert, he would then return to his job.

Wanting to give this advice to his senior officers, but knowing he didn’t dare, Callahan reached forward and began yet another routine scan with the bow hydrophones. He was conscious of one of the officers breathing down the back of his neck, when the loud, crackling sound of a single explosion rang inside his headphones. Startled by the unexpected sound, he vectored in on its origin and excitedly shouted, “Captain!”

A pair of strong hands instantly squeezed his shoulder, and Callahan knew that Cooksey was standing right behind him. As he rewound the tape recording of the alien noise, Callahan said, “You’d better listen to this, sir. Something out of the ordinary just happened out there.”

Cooksey hastily clamped on the headphones as Callahan activated the recorder. Once more, the sharp bang could be heard.

“Sounds like a gunshot,” the bewildered captain offered.

“Where in the hell did it come from?”

The sonar officer checked his computer monitor.

“Big Brother shows an approximate origin in the upper strata of water, some seventy miles to the northeast.”

“They’ve been hiding in the damned thermocline!”

Cooksey exclaimed. He signaled his XO to join him.

“We’ve got them. Rich! You were right — those Ruskies have been taking advantage of the warm water. They’re still too far to use a Harpoon, so one of those newfangled ASW/SOWS is going to have to do its thing.

Thank the Lord that our prayers have been answered!”

Charles Callahan watched Richard Craig’s face light up in response, and felt his own spirits lighten.

With practiced ease, he began the task of making certain that the exact targeting data was fed into the firecontrol system. From what little he knew of the experimental weapon that the captain planned to utilize, it was of a similar design to the Tomahawk missiles they also carried.

Shot from a torpedo tube, the SOW would angle up toward the surface, break the water, then fly to coordinates programmed from the sub. At that point the booster rocket would separate, and a REGAL torpedo would descend by parachute. When it again hit the water, an acoustic array — containing a small computer and a sonar transmitter — would be jettisoned to sink to a preset depth. Meanwhile, the torpedo would propel itself in a slow search pattern, waiting for the array to call it in for a certain strike.

With a theoretical range of up to three hundred miles, the SOW gave them an anti-sub capability second to no other attack submarine on the planet.

Aware of this, Callahan did his part to insure that the weapon would not fail.

In contrast to the excited atmosphere inside the Triton, the mood of the Vulkan’s attack center was most somber, following the lead of the two officers who were seated anxiously before the firecontrol panel.

Conscious of each passing second, the Vulkan’s political officer looked out with a sour grimace. If it hadn’t been for Valenko’s interference, their portion of Operation Counterforce would already have been completed, and the first warheads would now be descending to their targets. Frustrated, Novikov turned to address the man seated on his right.

“What is taking Chuchkin and his crew so long, Comrade? Surely they should have completed the repairs by now.”

Used to the zampolit’s whining by now, the senior lieutenant casually answered, “Have patience. Comrade Novikov. The Chief is one of our most capable technicians. He knows what has to be done, and will call us the second the gyrocompass is back in working order. Until then, we can only bide our time. Fortunately for us, our sonar still shows no sign of the enemy. I can’t help but feel that the hand of destiny itself is keeping the Americans away from us.”

“If destiny were a bit kinder, this intolerable waiting wouldn’t be necessary,” said Novikov.

“The way I figure it, the warheads would be landing any minute now.”

“After all the decades of waiting, surely another half hour won’t make any difference,” the senior lieutenant reasoned.

“You are right, Comrade,” Novikov sighed.

“Too often my impatience gets the best of me.”

The two lapsed into a moment of silence, suddenly broken by Lev Zinaykin’s shouts of alarm.

“We show a splashdown in the water above us! I’ve got active propeller sounds — they could be from a homing torpedo!”

Abruptly broken from his lassitude, Leonov stood and screamed, “Crash dive! Full speed! Take us down, Comrades, for our very lives!”

He ran over to the helmsman as the engines throbbed to full life.

“You won’t be able to wait for speed. Take on ballast and put those planes down!”

As a roaring torrent of seawater was vented, the angle of the deck steepened noticeably. Holding onto the railing for balance, Leonov made his way over to the sonar console. Here he was joined by the white-faced zampolit.

“Can we outrun them?” Novikov asked frantically.

“Or are we doomed to failure so close to the completion of our task?”

Ignoring him, Leonov turned to the sonar operator.

“Zinyakin, what’s our status?”

Lev Zinyakin was gripping the console with one hand to hold himself up, and pressing a headphone to his ear with the other.

“Even though we’re beginning to pull away, the screw sounds are increasing. I’m afraid it’s following us down and gaining quickly.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Leonov saw Ivan Novikov tumble to the deck. Not taking the time to help him, the senior lieutenant picked up the intercom, punched in a series of digits and barked roughly into the transmitter.

“Who is speaking? Well, listen closely. Comrade Balashikha — this is the Senior Lieutenant. I know that Chief Chuchkin is away from the torpedo room at the moment, but I need you to initiate a launch at once. Can you do this, Seaman Third Class? Well, let’s hope so, Comrade. Do you know of the cannister of Zu-23 dye kept stored in the emergency tube?

Excellent, my friend. Release it at once!”

Replacing the handset, Leonov noticed that Ivan Novikov had returned to his feet. While smoothing down his crumpled uniform, the zampolit gave vent to his endless curiosity.

“What in the world is this Zu-23 dye. Comrade?

And what can it do to save us from our current predicament? ” Still struggling to keep his own balance, Leonov answered, “Believe it or not, this substance is a synthetic copy of the natural defense mechanism of an octopus. Veiled in its inky wake, the Vulkan should be effectively invisible.”

“Only the Rodina’s scientists could have thought of such a brilliant thing,” Novikov replied.

“But does it indeed work?”

“You’d better hope so.” Turning away from the political officer, Leonov shouted, “Prepare to break descent! Engineering, make ready for a reactor scram!”

Approaching the Vulkan at flank speed, the USS Triton surged through the turbid waters. From the sub’s control room, Charlie Callahan scanned the seas before them in an effort to monitor the hunt they had initiated. With sensitive headphones covering his ears, he adjusted the bow hydrophones to maximum amplification.

Even with this additional volume, he shook his head disappointedly.

“I don’t understand it, Captain. We were copying them as plain as day a few seconds ago. I even had a definite on the increased propeller whine of our torpedo as it was beginning to close in for the kill.

Now, all I’m picking up is a homing pattern, while the REGAL searches out the Vulkan once again. It’s like the Russians just disappeared!” “Damn it all!” said Cooksey.

“I was wondering if that darn contraption would work or not.”

Callahan was quick to defend their high-tech equipment.

“It’s not the SOW’S fault, sir. If that was the case, it would mean our sensors had failed as well.

Right now I’m picking up absolutely nothing on the Vulkan, while just seconds ago they were churning up the water something fierce.”

“Sounds to me like they’ve scrammed their reactor,” the XO observed.

“But still, that active sonar array should have pinged them easily enough.”

Michael Cooksey rubbed his forehead where a throbbing ache had developed.

“The Ruskies could be playing with some sort of anechoic device that somehow deflects our sonar. Although, I don’t see why they wouldn’t have tried such a trick earlier. All we know for certain is that they’re out there, sure enough. If they have scrammed, and in the process of running from our missile have dived below their launch depth, this merely gives us a reprieve, gentlemen.

We’ve got to keep on closing the gap and pray that they eventually show themselves.”

Richard Craig nodded and checked his watch: it was 2147 hours.

Seventeen minutes ago, the Soviets had been scheduled to empty their missile magazine.

By luck and the grace of God, they had so far been unable to complete their mission. Hopeful that good fortune would remain with them, the exec followed his captain over to the plotting table to formulate a final strategy for keeping the SS-N-18s bound to the sea.