Counterforce

Chapter Fifteen

A wave of hushed jubilation sounded through the Vulkan’s attack center when Lev Zinyakin reported that the enemy homing torpedo had spent its fuel.

Relieved of this threat, the crew returned to their stations and awaited the senior lieutenant’s next order.

From his position behind the sonar console, Vasili Leonov grinned in triumph. Beside him, the zampolit was as impatient as ever.

“At last we can return to launch depth and complete our mission,” Novikov said emphatically.

“We must still wait to hear from Yuri Chuchkin,” Leonov said.

“And besides, we still have to determine where that infernal homing torpedo came from.”

Lev Zinyakin offered an opinion.

“It could be from that American attack sub, sir, even though we are no longer picking them up on our sensors. Maybe it’s because of our crash dive, which sent us below the thermocline. If the Americans had also ascended into the warmer waters, that could account for our failure to pick them up.”

“But surely, we were far enough away from them to be well beyond the range of their Harpoon torpedo.”

Leonov reasoned.

“Then perhaps it didn’t come from a submarine at all,” Novikov interjected.

“Isn’t it possible that the device was dropped from the air?”

As Leonov considered this the intercom chimed. It was the weapons chief.

“Excellent work. Comrade Chuchkin,” Leonov said.

“Please be so good as to return to your station to await my further orders.”

He hung up the handset and informed his two shipmates that their gyrocompass was repaired. The zampolit was the first to respond.

“Well, it’s about time. All this endless delay is the hardest part to cope with. Well, what are you waiting for now, Senior Lieutenant?

Shall we get on with the launch?”

Leonov balked, still bothered by the unknown source of the attack they had just thwarted.

“I don’t have to tell you how lucky we were to escape that torpedo.

Though ingenious, the Zu-23 dye has been shown to be effective less than fifty percent of the time. We still risk divulging our present location if we break from silent running and ascend to launch depth.”

It was clear from the clouded look on his face that Novikov didn’t like this response.

“Come now, Senior Lieutenant, aren’t you being a little too overly cautious?

Look at the time. Comrade! Over half an hour has passed since our mission was to have been completed.

We are accomplishing absolutely nothing by just sitting here with a full load of missiles in our magazine. It we don’t act soon, our strike will be completely ineffective. The Motherland is counting on us. Comrade!”

The political officer strained to control himself. He had to be careful not to alienate the senior lieutenant, for without Leonov’s aid he would be practically helpless. Aware of no rational reason why they should delay any longer, he knew that with each passing second the risk of failure increased. No longer was he concerned merely with the Americans. Sooner or later, Viktor Rodin would find out about their little group. Until Counterforce was successfully completed, the Premier still held the reigns of power.

Intervention on Rodin’s part could be fatal. Not wanting to voice this concern in front of the sonar officer, Novikov could only silently implore his coconspirator to see things his way.

He watched Leonov check the sonar screen and then the console’s digital clock. He listened hopefully as Leonov turned slowly to address him.

“I must admit that the minutes do have a way of flying by. Though I still hate to needlessly expose us, there is a maneuver that I know of … that could possibly see us out of our current dilemma. One of my instructors at the Sevastopol Higher Naval School is said to have formulated it.

“In a war situation, when a missile boat must release its load of warheads, survival can be greatly enhanced by first launching a decoy.

Directed on an opposite course, this specially designed device, which imitates our sound signature exactly, will draw the attention of the stalking enemy. Then we merely have to blow our ballast, ascend to launch depth, and fire away.”

These were just the words that Novikov wanted to hear, and he responded accordingly.

“Well then. Comrade, what are we waiting for?”

Conscious of the zampolit’s expectant grin, Leonov reached for the intercom and ordered the weapons chief to prepare a decoy.

Thirty-three miles away, the sound of this device’s activation was clearly audible to Charles Callahan.

The signal was being relayed from their towed sensor sled, which dipped below the warmer layer of water through which the Triton was traveling.

After hurriedly requesting the computer to analyze the new signal, Callahan turned to inform Michael Cooksey.

“Captain — I think we’ve got ‘em again!”

Cooksey was instantly at Callahan’s side. Clipping on the auxiliary headphones, his tense mood lightened.

“That’s music to my ears, gentlemen. Get us an exact I.D. and a decent targeting vector.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” returned the sonar operator as he expertly manipulated the computer keyboard.

While waiting for the requested data, the XO sighed, “Well, Skipper, it looks like you’ve got that other shot you’ve been praying for. Shall I inform Spencer?” Eyes locked on the blank monitor screen, Cooksey said, “Let’s wait for Big Brother to do his thing. Once we get a definite, good-bye Vulkan”

The monitor had begun filling with information as Chief Petty Officer Warren Smith, the Tritons navigator, joined them. Callahan interpreted the data for his growing audience.

“There’s a little better than a fifty percent probability that it’s the Vulkan. This thermocline is playing havoc with our sensors, but they can’t be more than thirty-five miles distant, and moving to the southeast with their pants on fire.”

“So, the elusive Delta has shown itself again,” Smith said.

“We gonna take them out for good this time. Skip?”

“Just give me the word,” Richard Craig said, “and I’ll order Spencer to launch that SOW.”

Though Cooksey would have liked nothing better, his intuition cautioned him to wait.

“Callahan, is there any chance that we can get a more positive I.D. on them?”

After feeding the request into the computer, the sonar operator shook his head.

“Afraid not. Captain.

Results are the same as before. It’s this damn thermocline.

I’ve never seen one so defined.”

“What’s the problem. Skipper?” his exec asked.

Cooksey met Craig’s puzzled stare.

“I can’t say for sure. Rich, but something’s telling me to hold back just a little bit longer before risking that last SOW. I don’t know; this new signal could be a decoy. What do you think, Smitty?”

The big-boned navigator ran a hand through his spikey crew cut and thoughtfully replied, “As long as Big Brother tells us the odds are in our favor, I say go for it. The course makes sense. Most probably that Ruskie captain is merely tryin’ to hightail it to safer waters.

Once they hit their launch depth, it won’t take long for them to empty their hold, and then we might as well pack up to see if there’s anything left at home.”

“I agree with Smitty,” the exec chimed in.

“We’ve got nothing to lose, and everything to gain.”

Taking in this advice, Cooksey knew that the decision was ultimately his. Minutes ago he had been begging for this second chance, yet something about the situation struck him as not right.

What he feared most was a decoy. If that were the case, and he committed the Triton to attack it, the real Vulkan would be speeding in the opposite direction.

The handful of minutes that it would take for them to initiate a strike would give the real bogey ample opportunity to proceed with its mission. Of course, if this wasn’t a decoy, he could be foolishly jeopardizing everything by not immediately launching the SOW.

Conscious of a steady, pounding ache in his temples, Cooksey strained to come up with a firm decision.

As his officers waited anxiously beside him, Callahan monitored the bogey’s continued progress away from them.

The captain closed his eyes and vainly attempted to clear his cluttered mind. As he sucked in a series of deep breaths, he willed away the distractions that were keeping him from total concentration. Filtering out the hushed conversation of the control room’s crew and the distant whine of the engines beyond, Cooksey called for the wisdom to make the right choice. In response, a single, unexpected vision dawned in his mind’s eye.

In a heartbeat, he returned to Kauai’s Kalalau Beach and the night in which he had experienced his strange, passion-filled dream. Not knowing if it was fantasy or reality, he envisioned the beautiful, brownskinned native girl who had come to him so willingly.

Remembering her sweat scent and the smooth touch of her lips, Cooksey recreated that magical moment as if it had just happened. He remembered the line of mysterious little people who had watched their lovemaking, the purple lei she had left behind, and the all-important lesson he had learned that evening. In order to tap his true self he must be relaxed and, above all, trust his instincts. Suddenly he broke from his reverie. As his eyes blinked open and his ears again filled with the normal sounds of the Triton, he knew just what their course of action would be:

“Rich, call Spencer and have him ready an Mk-70!”

The XO, who had been watching his captain’s plunge into meditation with a bit of concern, hesitantly said, “But Skipper, that’s our last MOSS decoy. We’ll be practically defenseless without it.”

Cooksey remained firm.

“Then that’s just the chance we’ll have to take, Mr. Craig. I’m not going to order an attack until we know exactly what we’re facing. If that sound out there is coming from a decoy, then we can fool the Vulkan into thinking that we took the bait by shooting our Mk-70 at it.

The second that we pick them up ascending to launch depth, well release our remaining SOW.”

“And if it’s not a decoy?” Craig asked.

Cooksey didn’t flinch.

“Let’s just pray that my gut is calling it as it is. Rich. Now, will you get on the horn to Spencer? The sooner we get this whole damned thing over with, the better it’s going to be for all of us.”

The captain turned back to the sonar screen.

There, on the green-tinted glass of the monitor, the success or failure of his desperate ploy would now be revealed.

Important as his responsibilities may have been, Lev Zinyakin knew that he was fighting a losing battle to stay alert. Not only were his eyelids heavy, his entire body was weary and pleading for sleep. When the senior Lieutenant had first come to him and asked him to transfer to the attack center, he had taken it as a compliment. Not really thinking about what he was doing, he had too readily accepted. Now, allowed a brief break, he rushed to the head and gratefully relieved himself, then splashed some cool water on his face. He barely recognized the bloodshot eyes and beard-stub bled face that was reflected in the mirror.

After a quick, tasteless sandwich and a mug of lukewarm tea, he was soon back at the sonar station, headphones clamped tightly over his ears.

Stimulated by the tea, and the recent approach of the presumed homing torpedo, Zinyakin managed to stay alert. But as the seconds continued to tick away, he seriously doubted that he would hold out much longer.

Whenever he found himself drifting off, he did his best to sit up straight and force more oxygen into his exhausted body. He constantly reminded himself how fatal it could be if he surrendered to his fatigue. The recent incident with the hovering helicopter had proved just how perilous falling asleep on duty could be. It was a minor miracle that he had awakened from his short slumber in time to pick out the sounds of the chopper’s engines.

To make matters worse, his present duty was far from stimulating. In the process of monitoring the decoy that had just been launched from their stem tubes, Zinyakin found himself being lulled to sleep by the constant, buzzing drone of the simulator’s dual propellers. Because of the Vulkan’s silence, and the lack of other audible traffic in the area, this monotonous sound was all that filled his headphones. As he listened to the decoy racing off into the distance, his leaden eyelids gradually closed. No sooner had they shut completely, when the harsh sounds of a sudden argument broke out right behind him. Snapping awake, Zinyakin clearly heard the whining voice of the zampolit.

“Now what are you waiting for, Comrade Leonov?

Since no Americans have yet shown themselves, let’s ascend and get on with the launch!”

“We will break our silence when I command us to!” the angry senior lieutenant said.

“In my opinion it’s still too soon to make any abrupt moves.”

“Too soon!” Novikov cried.

“We’ve been sitting here long enough. You’ve launched your decoy; now, where is this phantom enemy?”

“Comrade Novikov, are you questioning my ability to command this ship?”

Zinyakin failed to hear the political officer’s response, for a burst of alien noise echoed in his left headphone. Fully awake now, he activated the computer to determine the sound’s source and point of origin. When the answer appeared on his screen, he swiveled around and shouted, “Bogey hydrophone contact, sir! Range approximately four-eight kilometers; heading to the southeast at flank speed. We show a sixty-seven percent probability that it’s a Los Angeles-class attack sub!”

“I knew they were out there!” Leonov cried.

“Now, just as Professor Strelka said, the aggressive Americans have once again taken the bait — hook, line, and sinker.”

Reacting to his triumphant outburst, Novikov said humbly, “So, you were indeed right. Comrade Leonov. It only goes to show the brilliant minds at work at our military schools. Now — can we proceed with the completion of our mission?”

In response, Leonov grinned and ordered, “Blow the forward and rear groups! Ascend to launch depth! Comrade Novikov, will you join me at the tire control panel?”

With a gurgling burst of venting ballast, the Vulkan trembled alive once more. Oblivious to the deafening surge of cast-off seawater. Lev Zinyakin strained to hear the playback of the bogey’s sound signature.

Though he couldn’t say what, something about this tape bothered him. It was as if the pitch of the propeller whine was just a bit off. Unable to ignore the analysis of the computer, and the joyous outburst its revelation had generated among the crew, the hydrophone operator decided that it was all a product of his overworked imagination.

Stifling a wide yawn, Zinyakin ignored his doubts and listened to the enemy submarine as it sped off on the trail of their decoy.

Hidden in a warm layer of seawater less than two hundred feet below the Pacific’s surface, the USS Triton plunged ahead due east. Still standing behind the sonar console. Captain Michael Cooksey monitored the progress of their Mk-70 MOSS decoy. As the simulator sped to the southeast in the direction of the still fleeing, presumed enemy bogey, Cooksey wondered if his intuition was wrong after all. As the mystery bogey continued to outdistance them, a proper attack became less of a possibility — if, indeed, it was the Vulkan.

Still crippled by a pounding headache, Cooksey pondered his decision.

Was he being overly cautious, as Richard Craig had warned? Should it have been the ASW/SOW that was launched in place of their decoy? He had sworn once before that he wouldn’t hesitate to attack if the opportunity again presented itself. Why, then, had he held back this second time?

Not really certain of what had induced him to choose this tactic, Cooksey prepared himself for the outcome — whatever it might be.

Torn by fear and weakened by doubt, the captain could hardly believe it when Charlie Callahan called excitedly for his attention.

“Venting ballast due east of us, sir. Something massive is presently rising through the thermocline there.”

Without a second thought, Cooksey’s hand shot out for the intercom.

“You may fire that SOW, Mr. Spencer, as soon as sonar conveys the coordinates.”

Fifteen seconds later, the control room vibrated as the sub’s forward torpedo tube fired a single, encapsulated rocket. Cooksey heard the swooshing sound of released compressed air, as well as the whispered comment of his exec, who stood behind him.

“Well, I’ll be damned; the Old Man was right.”

Grinning at this, Cooksey calculated the time left for their attack to be a success. To hit the Vulkan before it reached its launch depth, they would need a lot of luck and some heavenly assistance.

Ivan Novikov could hardly control himself. Seated at the firecontrol panel, with the missiles armed and the sixteen launch buttons blinking before him, he estimated that in less than four minutes their great dream would be realized. Long was the road that had brought him to this present moment. After months of intense planning. Operation Counterforce was about to change the socio-political structure of the entire world.

The zampolit wondered if the young man who sat beside him realized the true consequences of their present course of action. Vasili Leonov had been recruited to their cause more on personal reasons than political ones. No matter the motive, Novikov was thankful for his invaluable assistance.

As the senior lieutenant called off their rapidly decreasing depth, the political officer visualized what the new world order would be like.

Freed from competition with the money-hungry capitalists, socialism would unite the earth with a single, common goal.

The great vision of Lenin would have at last come to fruition. Stirred by his thoughts, Novikov’s right index finger itched to depress the first of the blinking missile release switches. Aware of the time remaining before the Vulkan attained its launch depth, Novikov inched forward in his seat, with his heart beating rapidly. Expecting to hear Leonov’s command to hit the first button any moment now, he froze in horror when the sonar officer’s panicked voice rose behind him.

“Sensor contact in the seas above us! I show an active sonar search, and now the signature of another homing torpedo!” Vasili Leonov’s voice broke as he asked, “Are you certain that this is a torpedo, Zinyakin?”

“The propeller whine is exactly the same as that other one,” Zinyakin replied.

“Estimated contact is in three and a half minutes!”

The senior lieutenant cursed and shook his head disgustingly.

“Damn it all, if we haven’t been outfoxed!

Prepare to crash dive! We must run for the cover of the depths once again.”

“No, Comrade Leonov — there’s no more time for running!” commanded the zampolit, shocked by his own boldness.

“By using a ripple fire sequence we can empty our missile magazine in less than one hundred and sixty seconds. That will still give us time to try and evade.”

Leonov waved him away.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Novikov. If we don’t dive now we’ll never escape that torpedo!”

Novikov strained to contain his rising anger.

“I beg to differ with you. Comrade. Have you forgotten already our little discussion back in Petropavlovsk? At that time you swore to put your life on the line for the sake of the Rodina. Have you abandoned those lofty convictions already, Vasili? Now’s the time to prove yourself. Shall you grovel in your own pitiful cowardice, or stand tall — proud to make your sacrifice a worthy one?”

Without waiting for a response, the zampolit shouted out commands.

“Belay that order to dive!

Continue our ascent to launch depth. Notify the taiga to prepare for ripple tire!”

Listening to the instructions, unable to contradict them, was Vasili Leonov. Sweat pouring from his forehead, the trembling senior lieutenant couldn’t summon the nerve to intercede. There was no question now as to who was in authority.

“How much longer until we can launch?” Novikov asked firmly.

Hardly able to get the words out of his mouth, Leonov checked the depth gauge and softly answered, “Approximately thirty seconds.”

Taking in the information, Ivan Novikov cried for all to hear, “For the glory of the Motherland, we shall prevail 1” Seeing the demonic gleam that lit the zampolit’s eyes, Leonov inwardly conceded defeat. Not really certain how he became involved with this insane plot in the first place, the senior lieutenant swiveled around to face the firecontrol panel to which his destiny was now unalterably bound.

On the opposite side of the Vulkan’s attack center, Lev Zinyakin continued to do his best to monitor the approach of the homing torpedo, all the while absorbing the commotion that was coming from the launch station. There, the zampolit and the senior lieutenant were locked in an apparent power struggle. Not certain what had provoked the two officers, Zinyakin knew that if they didn’t do something quickly, the Vulkan would surely be hit.

There could be no doubting the torpedo’s intended target. Directed by an independent sonar device, the weapon was advancing toward them at a rapidly increasing speed. Already his initial intercept estimate was no longer accurate. Unless the ship’s officers had some sort of last-second maneuver in mind, Zinyakin knew that they were probably doomed.

Strangely enough, he found himself not really fearful of this final confrontation. Death at this depth would be quick and painless. With a vision of his beloved grandfather in mind, he gave full attention to monitoring the advance of the Grim Reaper.

As Zinyakin prepared himself to meet his maker, the Vulkan’s senior lieutenant did likewise. Even though it was only fifteen seconds before the first of the SS-N-18s would be released, he was certain that their motions were in vain. At the most, they would only be able to get a handful of missiles airborne. Far from their intended goal, he wondered if the resulting carnage would satisfy the plotter’s bloodlust. He listened to the zampolit anxiously counting off the remaining seconds as if it really mattered.

“Five … four … three … two … one … fire!”

Not wanting to make his sacrifice a worthless one, Vasili Leonov managed to depress the first of the blinking switches. Closing his eyes, he pictured the sequence of events that he had set into action.

Deep within the taiga, the first of the SS-N-18s received the signal to launch. In instant response, an outer hatch in the Vulkan’s superstructure popped open. This unmasked the tube closure — a rigid, dome-shaped shell structure designed as a protective cocoon for the missile. To shatter this closure, a series of linear-shaped explosive charges were detonated.

With the SS-N-18 now exposed, a small fixed rocket engine ignited. Its sole purpose was to direct its exhaust into the base of the launch tube, where a pool of cool water sat. The resulting steam pressure would ex pell the missile from the tube. Only after the SS-N18 had cleared the ocean’s surface would its liquid fuel boost motor ignite.

The first stages of this complex operation had gone quite smoothly. The tube closure had shattered and enough steam pressure had gathered to begin forcing the missile upward. But as the tip of the SS-N-18 cleared the Vulkan’s hull, the Tritons ASW/SOW plowed into the Soviet vessel’s sail. This violent concussion was followed by a massive explosion that vaporized the ascending SS-N-18 in a blinding wave of boiling flame. The Vulkan imploded in an earsplitting cacophony of rending steel. Exposed to the ocean’s great pressure, the crew had little time to suffer. In a matter of seconds their shredded bodies became one with the depths, as what little remaining wreckage plummeted ever downward.

Nineteen nautical miles due west of this spot, Lieutenant Charles Callahan was the first of the Triton’s crew to hear the results of their attack.

Warned by the abrupt halt of the SOW’s propeller, he ripped off his headphones in time to save his eardrums from the shattering explosion that followed. A fraction of a second later the blast was clearly audible in the interior of the control room itself.

Though a chorus of joyous shouts filled the compartment, Captain Cooksey’s words rang out loud and clear.

“All stations, General Quarters! Rig for a shock wave!”

A raucous horn sounded throughout the vessel as the crew scurried to secure their equipment and themselves. Callahan had barely braced himself against the edge of his console when a surging wall of compressed water smacked into the Triton’s bow.

Thrown hard to his left and then to his right, Callahan strained to remain upright. The sound of tumbling crewmates and loose gear broke all around him as the sub’s lighting system failed. Disorientated by the sudden plunge into darkness, he found himself once again struggling for balance — when their hull was pounded by yet another series of shock waves.

The damage-control panel was blaring loudly in warning by the time the turbulence passed.

Not long after, the lights blinked back on. Turning to check the room’s interior, Callahan caught sight of a tangled mess of fallen equipment and several prone seamen. One of the officers slowly picking himself off the floor was the captain. After helping Richard Craig get to his feet, Cooksey snapped into action.

“Someone please turn off that infernal warning buzzer! Damage control, I need to know our status on the double! Callahan, do you have a definite on that explosion’s source yet? Is the bogey still there?”

Abruptly called back to duty, Callahan swiveled around and remounted his headphones. Using the utmost caution, he scanned the waters in all directions.

The hydrophone search failed to pick anything up but the distant surge of the shock wave.

“All clear on passive. Captain. Can I utilize active?”

“Go ahead and zap them. Lieutenant,” Cooksey replied.

As the sensor operator activated the sonar system, the captain and the exec crowded in behind him.

Ignoring the incessant buzzing of the ship’s intercom, both senior officers studied the sonar screen. For a full minute, they watched the quivering white line that monitored the powerful sound waves being emitted from their bow.

The atmosphere was tense, but Callahan looked up and said matter-of-factly, “Whatever was out there sure as hell isn’t there anymore. Captain. We blew them to kingdom come!”

Grinning now from ear to ear, the sonar operator watched the captain and the exec react to the news.

“We got ‘em!” shouted Richard Craig triumphantly.

This incited another chorus of cheers from the control room’s staff.

Taking a few moments to join the celebration, Cooksey then turned to his next concern.

“Damage control, are we still in one piece?”

Warren Smith, the present watch officer, said, “It’s gonna take more than a little swell to take this little lady out. Skip. All stations remain dry and secure, except for the galley. The damned seal on the garbage disposal blew again. At last report Chief Bartkowski was up to his knees in seawater and potato peelings, but he’ll get a handle on it soon enough.”

Relieved, Cooksey allowed himself a real smile-almost as wide as that of his executive officer.

“Well, Skipper, it looks like we did it.”

“It certainly does. Rich. How does it feel, knowing that your new family has a reprieve?”

Shaking his head in wonder, the XO asked, “Was it really that close Skipper?”

Cooksey snorted.

“Rich, if even one of those warheads had hit its mark, the world would have been swallowed by a conflict the likes of which your worst nightmare couldn’t begin to approach. We got by this time, but we might not be so lucky the next.”

Then Cooksey’s tone lightened.

“Leaving you with that one to think about … why don’t you chart us the quickest route back to Pearl? I’ll handle the communique to Admiral Miller. By the way Rich, how’s your golf game lately?”