Counterforce

Chapter Two

Three hundred and twenty-five miles to the northeast of Midway Island, the Los Angeles-class attack sub USS Triton silently drifted one hundred and fifty feet beneath the water’s surface. Longer than a football field, and staffed by a complement of one hundred and twenty-seven highly trained officers and enlisted men, the Triton was one of the most sophisticated underwater vessels ever put to sea.

Packed within its hull was the latest in high-tech machinery.

This included a dual set of supersensitive sonar arrays, a powerful nuclear propulsion plant and a wide variety of offensive and defensive weaponry. Primarily designed to hunt down and destroy other submarines and to protect the boomers (missile-carrying subs), the Triton was also quite capable of striking targets well inland. Such diverse capabilities made it an extremely potent fighting machine.

For two months now, the Triton had been on patrol.

This extensive tour of duty brought its crew to no exotic ports. In fact, not once during the voyage did the sub even break the surface.

Stealth and secrecy were two major elements that guaranteed the vessel’s continued existence. The crew were most aware of this fact and accepted their isolation without negative comment.

Captain Michael Cooksey, commanding officer of the Triton, was well satisfied with the superb operational capabilities of the equipment and the unequalled competency of his present crew. If all continued smoothly, surely their second battle-efficiency award in a row would be waiting for them at Pearl Harbor. They would be arriving there in less than a week’s time.

As usual when a cruise was winding down, Cooksey experienced a touch of depression. After all, these patrols were what he lived for. Having no wife or children anxiously waiting for him in port set him apart from the majority of his crew. Now that he was about to begin his twentieth year of naval service, he knew that the inevitable transfer orders would soon be coming his way. At best, he could hope for command of a destroyer, or even a fleet supply ship. Orders directing him to permanent shore duty would be as good as a commendation to death.

Sprawled out on his narrow bunk, with his hands locked behind his head and his eyes scanning the Spartan contents of his cramped quarters, the captain forced himself to focus on their present mission. The unusual degree of quiet merely emphasized their current situation. Absent was the constant, muted drone of the ship’s turbines. In its place, only the hiss of the Triton’s ventilation system produced evidence that the vessel was operational.

For twelve hours now they had been drifting, rigged in a state of ultra-quiet. During that time all unnecessary activity was eliminated. Water evaporators were shut down, the garbage disposal system was deactivated, and even the soft-drink machines had been shut off. All men not on duty were sent to their cots as the Triton attempted to float noiselessly.

This exercise had a dual purpose. Since anti-submarine-warfare platforms depended largely upon hydrophone listening devices to pick up the sound signature of an approaching vessel, their present state helped to insure their non detection As a formidable ASW platform in their own right, the condition of ultra-quiet allowed their own hydrophone operators to receive an uncluttered signal from any advancing naval units.

Using this tactic, Cooksey hoped to pick up the sounds of the American carrier unit he was assigned to intercept. In effect, they were in the midst of a war game, with the Triton taking the role of the enemy. If possible, they were to record proof of their interception without the surface fleet knowing the Triton was even present. An accomplishment of this difficult task would signal the end of their present patrol.

Since the men were anxious to return to port, they were really putting their hearts into the exercise. The quicker they “tagged” the task force, the sooner they’d be reunited with their long-absent loved ones.

The captain hoped that his decision to remain stationary was correct.

Although this severely limited the territory they could cover effectively, he had a gut feeling that the surface units would eventually be passing through this area.

Their present position was 32 degrees north latitude, 173 degrees west longitude. To the layman, these coordinates seemed unimportant.

Cooksey knew otherwise. No U.S. flagship commander cruising these waters would dare pass up the chance to direct his units over the legendary position know as “Point Luck.”

It was at this spot, in 1942, that Admirals Fletcher and Spruance rendezvoused to await the Japanese invasion force headed toward Midway Island. What followed was one of the greatest naval battles of modern times. Eighty-six Japanese warships faced a meager force of twenty-seven U.S. vessels. Amazingly enough, when the smoke cleared not only had the invasion force been turned away, but four Japanese carriers lay on the bottom. Though the U.S. lost the Yorktown, and dozens of brave fighter pilots. Pearl Harbor was avenged and the tide of the war had turned.

On several previous occasions Cooksey had commanded his submarine to stop at this site; after explaining its significance to the crew, he would ask for a moment of silent prayer. Other captains were said to do likewise. Traditions died hard in the navy, and Cooksey was gambling that the admiral in charge of the carrier force would take a few minutes to pay his respects, and in the process, teach his men some living history.

Remaining stationary, submerged one hundred and fifty feet beneath the surface, was no easy task. To accomplish this feat they were currently “riding a layer.” Since it was impossible for a sub to be so delicately trimmed that it could remain indefinitely static, neither rising or falling, it was necessary to obtain Mother Nature’s assistance. In this case, a heavier layer of cooler, more saline water was located. Trimming the sub for a warmer, lighter layer, they were presently balancing on the boundary between the two. The Triton could remain in this strata as long as the sea state remained constant and their equipment cooperated.

Cooksey found himself hoping that they wouldn’t have to stay there much longer. Rigging for ultra quiet only produced an additional degree of tension, which was enhanced by their recently concluded two-month patrol period. In times of war, such prolonged isolation would often be necessary. Yet they were merely playing a war game.

The captain stirred uneasily, realizing that his hopes for catching a cat nap had been frustrated. Not that he was ever a sound sleeper.

While on patrol, he satisfied himself with barely four hours of shut-eye.

That, and an occasional nap, was usually more than sufficient to keep him alert and rested. Lately, though, he had been finding it increasingly difficult to drift off to sleep. Whenever he laid down on his bunk, it seemed that all types of irritating thoughts immediately snapped into his head. When he wasn’t worrying about the day he would lose command of the Triton, a thousand and one trivial technical problems would haunt him. Too often he would find himself rushing through the sub to check the condition of some insignificant valve, which was usually in perfect condition.

Hesitant to discuss his problem with any of the other officers, Cooksey promised himself he would bring it up during his next physical. Though this would be the logical course of action to take, in reality he doubted that he’d ever have the nerve to make such an admission.

Most probably the navy would see his sleeping difficulties as representative of a much deeper psychological disturbance. Such a condition would instantly cost him his hard-won command.

Lately, dozens of cups of extra-strong black coffee had been his savior. When fatigue began catching up with him, a quick caffeine fix had yet to fail. To see him through the watch that would soon follow, the bitter brew would be sorely needed. Try as he could, Cooksey had trouble remembering the last time he hit the sack and had a really sound slumber.

Sitting up with a grunt, he yawned and ran his hands through his brown crew cut. Since he had been dressed in only his sciwies, he reached over and pulled on a pair of dark-blue coveralls. Except for his captain’s insignia, he was now dressed exactly like his shipmates.

Walking over to the head, he took a minute to splash some cold water on his face. Although he could feel a line of stubble on his jaw, he decided against shaving. After brushing his teeth, he evaluated his reflection in the mirror.

Though he was well into his forties, he was certain that he could still pass for a thirty-year-old. His lack of facial wrinkles and full head of close-cropped brown hair promoted this appearance of eternal youth.

He supposed he owed this to a set of inherited genes. His mother, whom he greatly favored, could easily knock fifteen years off her current age and no one would be the wiser. The single feature that divulged his true age were his eyes. It was here that he was beginning to observe a noticeable change. Slowly but surely, the first hints of crow’s-feet were beginning to form beneath his brows. He also noticed that lately his eyes seemed to be constantly bloodshot. And, was it his imagination, or wasn’t the bright, vibrant blue gradually fading from his stare?

As if calling him out of a dream, two soft electronic tones chimed in the background, and Cooksey jumped, startled. Realizing that it was only his intercom, he turned to pick up the plastic handset.

“Captain here.”

The voice on the other end was deep and tinged by a slight Southern accent.

“Sorry to bother you, Skipper, but we’re experiencing some problems with the integrity of our ultra-quiet state. Chief Weaver is reporting an unusual ticking noise in the main engine room. The disturbance is loud enough for Callahan to pick up on the hydrophones.”

“Any idea where it’s coming from?” the captain asked.

“Negative, Skipper. The Chief is currently investigating.”

“Sounds like I’d better get down there and give them a hand. Thanks, Mr. Craig.”

Cooksey knew that his executive officer wouldn’t disturb him unless something serious had developed.

Richard Craig had proven himself to be a cool headed young officer, an XO who could be relied on for quick, precise assessments. Since in times of real combat an unknown noise could jeopardize their safety, the captain was aware of how important it was to find the source of this disturbance and to quickly quiet it.

The engine room was located in the stern half of the Triton, two floors beneath Cooksey’s quarters. Without hesitation, the captain guided his solid, six-foot frame down the cramped hallway, so narrow that two men could not pass shoulder to shoulder. Oblivious to the shining banks of stainless steel pipes and the thick cables of exposed wiring that lined the roof of the corridor, he stepped through an open hatch and began climbing down the metal stairway. Faced with another long hallway, he proceeded with quick strides past the crew’s mess. Here, he couldn’t help but savor the rich, inviting scent of fresh-perked coffee. He noticed at a glance that the majority of green, rubber-meshed tables were empty, then ducked through a pair of open hatchways and descended another flight of stairs.

Down there, the distinctive smell of hot oil and warm polyethylene met his nostrils.

A young machinist’s mate snapped to attention as Cooksey nodded and passed through still another hatch. Turning to his right, he entered a large, spotlessly clean room. Shiny stainless steel, gleaming white paint, miles of snaking copper tubing and dozens of various-sized gauges lined the walls. Six men were seated at a huge console, scanning the hundreds of dials, gauges and meters that belonged to the nuclear power plant. Here neutron flux, steam pressure, flow rates, liquid levels and various temperatures were monitored. Not stopping to bother the technicians, he opened a sealed hatch and stepped into the main engine room.

Dwarfed by the massive turbine generators, Cooksey spotted Chief Petty Officer Samuel Weaver kneeling beside the main shaft. At his side was a figure that Cooksey immediately identified. The muscular broad shoulders and shiny bald pate could belong to no one else but Chief Peter Bartkowski. Both men were completely involved in their work and didn’t notice the captain as he approached them. It was only when Cooksey got within a dozen feet of the two that he realized each man was wearing a stethoscope.

“It’s the toward bushing!” the chief boomed excitedly.

Samuel Weaver was quickly at his side. Carefully, he examined with his own listening device the tubular shaft that the chief had been perched before. While Weaver immersed himself in his study, Bartkowski sat up, removed the stethoscope from his ears and only then set eyes on the captain.

“Sorry this took so long. Skipper, but it looks like we’ve got it licked. Damn bushing must of been packed wrong.”

“I knew you’d locate it. Chief. How long will it take you to fix?”

Before Bartkowski could answer. Weaver sat up, noticed the captain’s presence, and nervously saluted.

“Sorry about this. Captain. Believe me, it’s the first we’ve heard of it. It must have been botched up while we were last in refit at Pearl.”

“Easy, Sam,” Cooksey advised cooly.

“I know you run a taut ship back here. We’re just lucky this didn’t fail earlier. Can you fix it?”

Chief Bartkowski grinned.

“Just give us ten minutes, Skipper. She’ll be just as good as new.”

“I’m sure she will,” said the captain, who was distracted by the soft ring of two familiar tones. He reached over to pickup the intercom and listened to his XO’s breathless observation.

“We’ve got a contact. Captain Looks like we just got hit with a pair of sonobuoys topside.”

Cooksey let out a relieved sigh.

“I’m on my way up, Rich. And by the way, the Chief promises us ultra quiet integrity in ten minutes. Sound General Quarters.

Pass the word by mouth.”

By the time Bartkowski and Weaver had concluded their repair of the improperly packed bushing, Cooksey had already taken his command position in the Tritons control room. From his vantage point, directly behind the sonar console, he had a clear view of the various operational stations. To his right sat the two helmsmen, their hands tightly gripping the aircraft-style steering yokes that controlled the sub’s direction. Beside them were digital consoles reserved for navigation, engineering, weapons and communications.

Each of these stations was manned and ready for action.

At the captain’s side stood the Triton’s executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Richard Craig. The thin, blond-haired Californian looked like he would be equally at home with a surf board in his hands.

Though this was his first stint as XO, he had already gained the respect of the crew. Leaning on the tubular steel railing that separated the two officers from the sonar operators, Craig addressed the redheaded sailor seated to his left.

“What’s AUSEX got to say about those sonobuoys, Callahan?”

Petty Officer First Class Charles Callahan held back his response until he finished typing a request into his computer keyboard.

“We’re still waiting for a response, Mr. Craig. All that we know for certain is that they don’t appear to be active arrays.”

As the current watch officer in charge of the sub’s passive listening devices, Callahan was most familiar with the workings of the so-called acoustic methods of vessel identification. The lightweight, ultra-sensitive headphones he wore were directly connected with the dozens of hydrophone devices attached to the Triton’s hull. Although the majority of these powerful, miniature microphones were implanted permanently, several systems were designed to be either towed or to float away from the hull itself. One such system was labeled AUSEX, for Aircraft Undersea Sound Experiment.

AUSEX was designed around a neutrally buoyant hydrophone tube that was released on a cable and floated up toward the surface. This allowed any nearby aircraft to be sonic ally monitored and analyzed.

Callahan was continually impressed with the sophisticated equipment at his disposal. He couldn’t help but express his admiration of this gear. As his computer screen lit up, his freckled face beamed.

“We’ve got a sound signature I.D.” sir. Those sonobuoys are the property of a U.S. Navy Kaman SH-2F Seasprite chopper.”

“Then we’ve got them!” the XO exclaimed.

“The mother ship has got to be close.”

Cooksey reacted calmly.

“I’ll bet my pension that Seasprite belongs to the carrier task force.

Standard operating procedure would have them saturating the ocean with sonobuoys to tag any unwanted visitors.

We should be picking up the first of the escorts any minute now.”

Not ten seconds passed when Callahan suddenly bent forward and cupped his headphones tightly around his ears.

“We’re picking up twin screws, coming in from the northwest at approximately 10,000 yards.”

“Get us a computer I.D. of the sound signature,” the captain ordered.

Efficiently, Callahan typed this request into his keyboard. Several tense seconds passed before the screen lit up with the desired information.

“Big Brother shows an eighty-five percent probability that we’ve got a Spruance-class destroyer topside.”

“That will be the Eagle,” Cooksey said casually.

“I went to school with her present skipper, Jim Powell.

The reason we didn’t pick her up earlier were those paired LM2500 gas-turbine engines. She’s a silent one all right.”

Catching his XO’s satisfied, boyish grin, the captain wasn’t surprised when Callahan excitedly reported that they had several other visitors topside.

With exacting precision, the computer identified a Knox-class frigate, a combat stores ship, a Cimarronclass fleet oiler, the Aegis guided-missile cruiser USS Ticonderoga, and finally the flagship carrier John F. Kennedy.

“Rich, I want you to stow that sound I.D. tape, plus an exact record of our intercept time. The admiral’s going to want concrete proof that we were really here.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper. Does this mean that we’ll be on our way back to Pearl now?”

Cooksey noticed the hopeful tone in Craig’s voice.

“I guess you’re kind of anxious to know if you’re a new papa yet. Exactly when was Susan due?”

“Sometime this week. Skipper. But if Susie runs true to form, she’ll be late as always. Do you know that she almost missed our wedding?

That girl needs an alarm clock glued to her wrist.”

Cooksey instinctively checked the large, digital clock mounted in the sonar console.

“Give the task force another hour to clear these waters. Then we’ll follow in their baffles, all the way back to port. Well get you back to Hawaii in time, you’ll see.”

No sooner had these words passed the captain’s lips when Petty Officer Callahan said, “We’ve got an underwater bogey contact. Captain! She’s coming in from the south with a bone in her teeth, at nine thousand yards. Awaiting computer verification of the screw signature.”

“Could it be one of ours?” the XO asked as he joined Cooksey beside the lucite target-acquisition map next to the sonar console.

Cooksey didn’t respond. With searching eyes he studied the gridded, three-dimensional cross-section of that portion of the Pacific basin.

The computer-enhanced map clearly showed the Triton’s present position, the six ships of the carrier task force presently passing above them, and the rapidly approaching bogey.

“Screw signature doesn’t appear to be of Western origin,” cried Callahan.

“Big Brother is still crosschecking.”

“Ping her!” Cooksey ordered, his hands tightly gripped around the railing.

“But the exercise,” interjected the XO.

“Using active sonar now will clearly give our position away.

The task force can’t help but know that we’re down here” The captain’s face reddened.

“I don’t give a damn about any friggin’ war games! There’s a bogey out there headed straight for an intercept with six of our top-of-the-line ships. I’ve got to know who they are and what the hell they’re doing here. Ping them, damn it!”

Not willing to further irritate the captain, Richard Craig held his tongue, while the sonar operator seated next to Charlie Callahan sat forward and switched on the active sonar. A large green cathode-ray screen came instantly alive, as a high-speed pulse of energy surged out of the Triton’s huge, hull-mounted sonar transducer. This surge was audible as a quavering note, followed by the plink of a return echo.

After this process was repeated, the excited sonar operator reported, “We’ve got ‘em. Captain! Target is moving toward intercept point at a speed of four-three knots.

Relative depth is nine-five-zero feet.”

With this revelation, Cooksey’s face paled.

“Only one sub class on this planet can accomplish those specs. Damned if we don’t have a Soviet Alfa coming right down our throats.

Engineering, prepare the ship to get underway. I’m going to want flank speed.

Navigation, plot us a course to intercept that Red bastard. Who the hell does he think he’s playing with?”

As the full-throated rumble of the Triton’s long dormant turbines sounded in the background, Cooksey caught his XO’s concerned glance.

Richard Craig looked younger and more vulnerable than he ever had.

Of course, the lad had babies on his mind. Cooksey knew that was a dangerous combination. A lack of total concentration could easily lead to a botched order. The activation of a single wrong valve could easily doom all one hundred and twenty-seven crew members.

If Craig was made out of the right stuff for command, he’d have to get tough fast. Cooksey could think of no better time to see if the young officer was indeed ready. Placing his hand firmly on the lieutenant commander’s shoulder, the captain addressed him directly.

“Mr. Craig, even though all the books say the Soviet Alfa can easily outrun and dive the Triton, I’d sure hate to just sit here and watch them run under our flotilla like they’re doing. I’d like you to take the con and show those Ruskies what the U.S. Navy is all about. We’re not authorized to blow them away, but at least we can chase them out of here by putting the fear of God in them. How about it?”

Although Craig’s first thought, about the Soviet sub was that it would inevitably delay his reunion with Susie, Cooksey’s words redirected his train of thought.

Proud that the captain had chosen him to lead the chase, he silently pledged he would do his best to teach the enemy a lesson.

“All ahead, flank speed to intercept point!” commanded the XO, his voice firm with authority.

As the Triton trembled beneath him, Michael Cooksey realized that he had made the right decision.

Reaching one’s mature potential was what these peacetime patrols were all about. Conscious of the stirring around him as the attack team scrambled to accomplish their assigned tasks, he stifled a yawn and concluded that it would take a near miracle to intercept the Alfa before it was long gone from their sector.

Captain Grigori Dzerzhinsky, commanding officer of the Alfa-class attack sub Cheka, stood stiffly in the midst of the vessel’s attack center. Small and wiry with wavy black hair, the captain found himself quite pleased with his mission’s outcome. As always, the Cheka was everything he could ask for in a submarine.

Faster than the enemy’s torpedoes, their titanium-alloy hull allowed them to reach depths of over three thousand feet. No other undersea vessel could attain even a third of that. Dzerzhinsky was equally satisfied with his crack crew. The sixty-man complement went about their jobs like the true professionals they were. In most cases, each was an officer, a Great Russian, and a Party member. Sworn to keep all they witnessed aboard the ship a secret, they pledged their loyalty to him alone. This blind obedience produced a morale and competency level that far exceeded that of any ship of the line.

The light of the attack center was a ghostly red, designed to enhance the brightness of the computer consoles and protect the crew’s night vision in the event an emergency forced them to the surface. The only sound audible was the churning grind of turbines as the Cheka surged through the icy waters of the Pacific. The carrier task force that they had been assigned to penetrate had long since left their radar screens. He could just imagine the imperialist admirals now, gathered in their luxuriant wardrooms, wondering what kind of vessel could have broken their security perimeter so easily. That would give them something to talk about when they returned to port.

Dzerzhinsky smiled as he attempted to visualize their confused faces.

So vivid were his imaginings that he didn’t even notice it when the heavyset, pasty skinned figure of his zampolit, Boris Karpovich, positioned his bulky body beside him.

“So that was the infamous Point Luck,” the political officer observed snidely.

“It certainly wasn’t lucky for the Americans on this occasion. Why, we could have easily wiped out their entire task force before they even knew what hit them.”

Dzerzhinsky noticed the smug look of arrogance that painted the zampolit’s sweaty face — as if this slob had had any part in the success of their penetration.

Knowing that he had to be civil, the captain attempted a forced smile.

“We certainly caught them napping. Comrade Zampolit.”

“It was more than that,” shot back the political officer.

“Even if we had advertised our arrival, there would have been nothing that they could have done to avoid us. The Cheka proves the superiority of the socialist way of life. Is the imperialist attack submarine still attempting to intercept us?”

“No, Comrade. The Americans wisely abandoned their puny attempt over ten minutes ago. It appears we have these waters all to ourselves now.”

“This is a most glorious day. The First Deputy will be most satisfied.

Will you join me in my cabin for a toast, Captain?”

Though having to share a drink with Karpovich was not the least bit desirable, Dzerzhinsky knew that he was bound by etiquette to do so.

“I would be honored. Comrade. There is a task that I must complete first, then I will be free to join you.”

Karpovich’s eyes darkened.

“What is that, may I ask. Comrade?”

Unable to believe the man’s boldness, Dzerzhinsky strained to hold back his rising temper.

“The rendezvous coordinates with the Vulkan remain to be finalized.

The presence of that American attack sub forced us to alter our original course. If the imperialists are still in the vicinity, we must be extra cautious so that we don’t lead them to one of the Motherland’s most advanced strategic-missile firing platforms.”

“Of course. Captain,” the zampolit replied.

“I’ll be waiting for you in my stateroom.”

After wiping his soaked brow with a wrinkled handkerchief, Karpovich turned and disappeared toward the sub’s bow. Alone once again, Grigori Dzerzhinsky breathed a sigh of relief.

How many times had he questioned the ridiculous necessity of having such an idiot aboard? The zampolit did nothing but take up valuable space. How he had pleaded with the admiral to allow him to sail without a political officer. Even for a vessel such as the Cheka, Stanislav Sorokin wouldn’t bend. Knowing that the admiral’s word was final, the captain had reluctantly consented. He would have to put up with the nosey zampolit for the rest of the patrol, just as he had put up with so many others on dozens of cruises before. Accepting this fact, the captain took a deep, canning breath and straightened his narrow shoulders.

With quick, assured steps, he crossed the equipment-packed attack center to the digital console reserved for navigation.

In another portion of the North Pacific, three hundred and seventy miles due west of the coordinates known as Point Luck, the captain of the Delta Illclass submarine Vulkan found himself hunched over the communications panel. Lit by the dim red combat lighting, Petyr Valenko could barely make out the operator’s familiar face. From the stream of coded data audible in the distance, the captain was certain that the which man was totally immersed in the signal’s translation.

Radio messages were rarely transmitted to submarines.

Only in matters of utmost urgency would command dare risk exposing their submerged positions.

This was especially true of the missile-carrying vessels.

Anxious to know what the jumbled series of dashes, dots, and spaces were all about, Valenko waited expectantly. At least he had one of his best men manning the communications console. The which man Stefan Kuzmin, had sailed with him on three previous patrols. In each instance, his work had been most admirable. As warrant officer, Kuzmin was in the unique position of being middle man between the officers and the enlisted personnel.

Historically, the Soviet Navy had faced a chronic shortage of senior enlisted men. In an effort to overcome this deficiency, and to upgrade the status of a career serviceman, the rank of which man was created.

Extensively trained in every aspect of the ship’s operation, the warrant officer received increased pay, privileges, and eventually an opportunity to be promoted to the officers’ ranks.

Having shared many a meal with Kuzmin, Valenko was aware of the young man’s innate intelligence.

Though he never had the opportunity of extensive elementary schooling, the native Ukrainian was a quick learner. More than that, he was a very likable fellow. When tensions mounted, he could always be relied upon to lighten the situation with a joke or funny comment.

Unfortunately, there was no time for pleasantries this evening.

The crypto graph abrupt silence was followed by Kuzmin’s softly spoken words.

“That seems to be the extent of the transmission, Captain. We should have a computer translation in a minute or so.”

“Any idea where the message originated from?” the captain asked.

Kuzmin looked up from the monitor and briefly caught Valenko’s probing stare.

“I believe the first call letters belonged to Captain Dzerzhinsky, sir.”

Valenko silently absorbed this revelation. If it was indeed the Cheka calling, the attack sub was probably relaying to them a set of rendezvous coordinates. This conjecture was verified by the which man who spoke carefully.

“It’s an intercept position from the Cheka, Captain.

We’ve been instructed to a rendezvous point in the Emperor Seamount sector at dawn.”

Hastily checking his watch, Valenko saw they would have plenty of time to reach the spot without demanding too much from the Vulkan’s turbines. As he mentally prepared the series of orders that would get them underway, Valenko fielded a brief query from his which man “Does this mean that we’ll be on our way home now, sir?”

Valenko smiled.

“It looks that way. Comrade.

We’ve given the State our two months and then some.

I imagine that the crew of the Cheka are also anxious to reach port.

Captain Dzerzhinsky certainly keeps a taut ship.”

“I was surprised when the attack sub left our sector three days ago,” Kuzmin observed.

“It’s unusual to leave us out here unescorted. What do you think they were up to?”

“Who knows?” the captain said cautiously.

“With the Cheka, almost anything could have been possible.

Sometimes I wonder if that crack crew is even working for the navy.”

“You and me both. Captain. I’ve heard tell that Dzerzhinsky has guided his vessel right up to the sub nets at Pearl Harbor. From there he supposedly took pictures of a group of Americans picnicking on the shoreline.”

Shaking his head, Valenko grinned.

“I bet you can’t wait to get back to Petropavlovsk and see that new son of yours.”

“I sure can’t. Do you realize that next week he’ll be six months old?

And to think that I’ve already missed almost a third of life.”

“Get used to it. Comrade, or perhaps this line of work isn’t for you.

And besides, they don’t do anything but eat, sleep, and cry the first couple of years anyway.”

“Why, Captain, I didn’t think you knew so much about babies.”

“You’d be surprised, son,” Valenko added with with a wink.

Valenko was preparing to leave, to issue the orders sending the Vulkan westward, when Kuzmin looked up apprehensively.

“Captain, there’s one more thing that I’d like to ask of you before we get back to port.

Galina and I would like to know if you would do us the honor of being little Nikolai’s godfather.”

Clearly surprised by this request, Valenko hesitated a second before responding.

“It’s me who you honor, Stefan. What have I done to be so worthy of this distinction? Why, we hardly know each other.”

“Nonsense, Captain. We have sailed three patrols together. Even though we haven’t been able to talk as much as I would have liked, your example has meant so much to me. Galina says that you’re the father figure I never had to emulate. Whatever the case, we would be proud to have you as our son’s guardian.”

Veiled by the red combat lighting, Stefan Kuzmin failed to see his commanding officer’s cheeks flush.

“What else can I say, but that I’ll accept.”

“Wonderful!” the which man exclaimed. He stood to offer the captain his hand.

“Galina will be so thrilled.

Of course, you’ll do us the honor of having dinner at our place when we return to Petropavlovsk.”

“You’d better believe I’ll be there. Not only do I want to sample some of that good home cooking you’re always bragging about, but I’d better check out this boy I’m to be responsible for.”

As the two men exchanged a hearty handshake, an observer could indeed have mistaken the figures as father and son. Both sailors were ruggedly built, with similar six-foot-tall frames and handsome Slavic features. Blond-haired and blue-eyed, it was this similarity of appearances that had originally attracted the two to each other.

Valenko broke the hand contact first. “I’d better go and get the Vulkan moving. We certainly don’t want to stand up the likes of Grigori Dzerzhinsky. Then, if my luck holds out, perhaps the cook will have some stew left over. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Patting his stomach, the captain pivoted and walked to the navigation station. His mind still reeling with excitement. Warrant Officer Stefan Kuzmin reluctantly returned to the radio console. The man he respected most in the world had not let him down.

Perhaps there was a chance they could be real friends after all.

Even though the Delta Illclass submarines were among the largest of undersea vessels, with a length of over five hundred feet, extra space aboard the ships was rare. Every corner of the hull was packed with supplies and gear. Even the crew’s bunks were “hot,” for as soon as one left for his duty station, another took his place in bed. Thus, each section of the sub had a variety of uses. This was especially true in the mess area. Not only was this the place where the one-hundred-and-thirty-two-man crew ate their meals, but it also served as recreation hall, library, barber shop and meeting place.

By the time Captain Petyr Valenko reached the Vulkaris mess, the dozen or so tables here were almost completely empty. With his stomach growling hungrily, he crossed into the galley and intercepted the unchallenged czar of this section of the sub, Chief Cook Anatoly Irkutsk. Known for his volatile temperment, perpetually stained apron and corpulent potbelly, Irkutsk supervised his domain like he owned it.

Aware that his bark was worse than his bite, Valenko approached him while he was scraping out the bottom of a badly scorched kettle.

“That’s one way to stay physically fit. Chief,” greeted the captain.

Irkutsk found little humor in this and responded accordingly.

“The damned apprentices the navy gives me are nothing but a bunch of worthless buffoons. I swear that these idiots burn more food than they serve. It’s a wonder I can still come up with enough rations to feed the men by the time we reach the end of our patrols. Our larders have never been so empty.”

“You’ll manage, as always,” Valenko said as his stomach gurgled loudly.

Taking this cue, the chief looked up and met the captain’s glance.

“Missed you at lunch and dinner, sir. I’m beginning to wonder if you’d rather starve yourself than eat my cooking.”

“Now, Comrade, you know better than that.

Speaking of the devil… would you happen to have a leftover bowl of stew and a crust of bread for this starving old man?”

Relishing the moment, the cook seemed to deliberate before answering.

“As your good fortune would have it, there’s a single portion left. It just happens to be your very favorite, Captain.”

Valenko’s eyes sparkled.

“Ah, you’ve cooked up some stuffed cabbages! You’ve made this weary old man’s day.”

Several minutes later, Valenko sat down at the only occupied table.

Nodding toward the solemn-eyed officer who sat sipping his tea, Valenko carefully emptied his tray. With exacting precision, he positioned his dinner before him, careful to use the rubberized matting that kept the plates from slipping in the event of a sudden change of the hull’s angle. Enjoying the scent of the steam emanating from the largest of his bowls, the captain broke off a piece of black bread and dipped it in the piping hot sweet-and-sour sauce.

“I tell you, the Chief makes these cabbage rolls better than my own mother. How lucky we are to have such an artist serving us.”

As if to emphasize his words, Valenko cut into one of the large balls of cabbage and swallowed down a huge bite. Following this with a sopping piece of bread, the captain saw that his enthusiasm was wasted on his table mate “What’s the matter, Senior Lieutenant? Have I done something that has upset you? You look as if you just lost your only friend.”

Vasili Leonov, the Vulkan’s second in command, merely shook his head despondently and tried to lose himself in another sip of tea.

“I know what it is,” Valenko said between bites of fruit compote.

“You’re in love, aren’t you Vasili? I’d bet a month’s pay it’s that new girlfriend that’s got you down.”

Astounded, the Senior Lieutenant redirected his dark gaze toward the captain.

“Your accurate perceptions shock me. Comrade. I never realized that you were a mind reader.”

Valenko cut into another cabbage roll.

“That’s only one of my many talents, Vasili. You know, I couldn’t help but watch you mope around like a sad puppy during the majority of this past patrol. You’ve got yourself a bad case, there’s no doubt about it.”

Savoring a bite of cabbage, chopped meat and rice, he continued.

“One thing I’ll say for you is that you’ve certainly got excellent taste. I saw you two together, the morning we left Petropavlovsk. My, she’s a beauty.”

Leonov’s sour facial expression lightened noticeably.

“If you only knew the extent of her beauty, Comrade. Not only is she the most attractive girl I have ever met, but she’s intelligent and a pleasure to be with, also.”

“Sounds serious,” Valenko observed while chewing on a crust of bread.

“Does she realize what being tied down to a submariner would mean? For half the year her bed would be empty.”

“Natasha’s father is an old navy man himself,” Leonov said animatedly.

“During the Great War he sailed with none other than Admiral Sorokin.”

“You don’t say,” Valenko commented as he finished off the last of the cabbage rolls. Picking up his mug of tea, he looked the lovelorn officer in the eye.

“Marry her, Vasili. I may not always be right, but I’m never wrong about these matters. Tie the knot when we’re home next week. Start yourself a family.

I’ll envy you all the way to the altar.”

Hearing just the words he wanted, the senior lieutenant attempted a smile.

“I was afraid that we hadn’t known each long enough. We only saw one another less than three weeks.”

“That’s longer than many,” the captain returned.

“Go with your instincts. Comrade. Life is much too short for procrastination.”

Sipping his tea contendedly, Valenko could see his advice hit home.

Like a new man, the senior lieutenant pushed his chair away from the table and stood triumphantly.

“I feel better already. Captain. You’re right — I must go with my instincts. If Natasha will have me, we’ll get married at once. I’d be a fool if I thought that I could live without her. How blind I’ve been!”

Checking his watch, Leonov prepared to exit.

“I’m afraid that I’m due up in the control room now. I can’t thank you enough for your advice. Comrade. I should have come to you much earlier.”

The senior officer pivoted smartly and left the mess whistling a tune from the Nutcracker. Petyr Valenko watched him take his leave and stifled a chuckle. Here he was — a godfather and a matchmaker all in the same day. His purpose in the Rodina’s navy never failed to amaze him.

After finishing his tea, the captain was preparing to get up and exit himself when a high-pitched, raspy voice greeted him.

“Good evening. Captain. I’m pleased to see that you’re the first one here for this week’s komsomol meeting. It’s been much too long since you’ve given us the honor of your presence.”

These shrill words came from Ivan Novikov, the Vulkan’s zampolit. Not stopping to hear Valenko’s response, the short, skinny political officer proceeded hastily across the mess. Reaching the room’s far corner, he took up a position before a large, wallmounted poster of Vladimir Ilich Lenin and began setting up a small lectern.

To Valenko, Novikov always seemed to be puttering around. His constant need to be moving about made the captain nervous. Of course, his very standing as Zampolit was cause for tension in itself. As the only officer aboard who could directly undermine the captain’s authority (in the interests of the Party), Ivan Novikov answered to his own chain of command.

Fortunately, the two had yet to seriously tangle.

Valenko knew that he was lucky. Many were the tale of political officers who constantly poked their noses into ships’ line functions.

One good thing about Novikov was that he was satisfied merely to direct the crew’s ideological indoctrination and to monitor their political reliability. Propulsion systems, navigational problems and electronic components were of little interest to him. Consigned to making the best of the situation, the captain decided he had better keep up his front of affability. Arming himself with his best diplomatic smile, he crossed the mess to confront the zampolit directly.

“Good evening to you. Comrade. Actually, I was just finishing off a late supper. I stood a double watch today and didn’t realize that the time was flying by so quickly.”

Holding back a forced yawn, Valenko hinted again.

“I’ll be taking another midnight watch, so I’d better be thinking about getting some rest.”

Novikov’s head jerked up.

“Oh, Captain, you disappoint me. Must you leave already? At least stay for the first half of the meeting. Attendance has been a bit of a problem lately and your presence will be greatly appreciated. And besides, this evening our topic is far from being an ideological one. We will be discussing nuclear warfare strategy.”

From the pleading tone of Novikov’s voice, Valenko knew he would have trouble getting out of this one.

His dilemma was exacerbated as the first of the komsomol members began to arrive. Quietly, they took their seats at the tables while the zampolit continued readying his notes.

Membership in the komsomol, the official Party club, was quite voluntary. It was said to be advantageous for a seaman, or even an officer, for that matter, to attend such meetings. Having the solid support of the party could never hurt come promotion time.

Valenko turned around and noticed that several junior lieutenants had arrived. He nodded politely as their eyes lit up upon identifying him.

The majority of the other dozen participants came from the noncommissioned ranks. Unwillingly, Valenko took a seat at the table nearest the lectern. He watched the zampolit continue his frantic preparations, and couldn’t help but compare Novikov’s coloring and facial structure with the representation of the founder of socialism tacked to the wall behind him. Fighting back another yawn, Valenko tried not to think about the comforting shelter of his mattress — when a sweet, familiar odor met his nostrils. The captain swiveled around to see the grinning red face of Yuri Chuchkin.

The bearded, heavyset weapons chief, whose habitual, battered briar pipe lay between his clenched lips, slid into the seat beside him.

“Why Captain Valenko, I’m certainly surprised to see you at this friendly little soiree.”

“You should talk. Comrade,” Valenko retorted.

“I didn’t know that they let the likes of you into the komsomol. What is this Party coming to?”

Chuchkin let out a deep laugh and the captain was instantly infected by his joviality. The happy-go-lucky weapons chief, who reminded him of the mythical Father Frost, always had that effect on him. His presence would serve to make the evening that much more tolerable.

Valenko fought to control his mirth and moved over to again query the newcomer.

“By the way, what are you doing here. Comrade Chuchkin?”

Chuchkin took a deep draw on his pipe and released a stream of vanilla-scented smoke.

“Why, Captain, didn’t you check your ticket stub? I’m tonight’s guest speaker.”

Again Chuchkin roared with laughter. This time the sharp report of a gavel striking wood redirected their attention to the lectern. All merriment came to an instant end as the Vulkan’s zampolit coldly greeted them.

“Good evening, Comrades. Welcome to tonight’s weekly komsomol meeting.

I see a few new faces out there this evening. It’s always good to have newcomers.

The Party shall take note.

“I’m certain that all of you have spotted two esteemed members of our officer corps here tonight.

Captain Valenko, all of us are aware of your tight schedule. To give us the honor of your presence is a testament to the great principles of the party that bring us all together.”

As Valenko nodded in response to his introduction. Novikov continued.

“Tonight, we won’t be exploring the lofty theoretical principles that underlay the Rodina’s political composition. Rather, we will be discussing much more practical matters. Our country’s nuclear war-fighting ability is the deterrent that allows the Motherland to grow and prosper. Without it, the imperialists would run rampant through our countryside, spreading their tired doctrine of decadence and greed.

“To allow us to have a better understanding of the weapons systems that serve to keep the Western hordes in check. Chief Armament Officer Yuri Chuchkin has kindly agreed to say a few words. Comrade Chuchkin….”

To a smattering of polite applause, the corpulent officer stood, straightened his uniform and made his way to the podium. Before speaking, he made extra certain that his pipe was packed, lit and ready for smoking. After completing this ritual, he scanned his captive audience and began speaking.

“Thank you, Comrades. I think that it’s only fitting, in this discussion of the Rodina’s nuclear war fighting strategy, that we begin with the Vulkan’s responsibilities should the unthinkable come to pass.

As you well know, our primary armament takes the form of sixteen SS-N-18 ballistic missiles. These liquid fueled, two-stage rockets features the Motherland’s latest technology. The SS-N-18 is the first submarine-launched weapon with post-boost propulsion.

Not only does this add significant velocity to the warhead during the final stages of flight, but it also allows the MIRV-bus to readily maneuver.

“The length of each of these missiles is 14.1 meters, with a diameter of 1.8 meters. The warheads rely on inertial guidance, with assistance from frequent stellar observations “Each SS-N-18 carries a multiple, independently target table reentry vehicle, known as a bus. This device carries seven separate, two-hundred-kiloton nuclear devices. At the proper time, after the bus has fallen back into the atmosphere, the individual warheads can be aimed at their independent targets. As you know, a kiloton is equivalent to an explosive yield of 1,000 tons of TNT.

“Another remarkable feature of the SS-N-18 is its range of over 8,000 kilometers. Thus, even from our current position, the Vulkan could hit targets anywhere in the continental United States. An equally amazing statistic is our payloads’ CEP. Circular Error Probable is a measure of a warhead’s accuracy. It relates to the radius of a circle into which fifty percent of the nuclear devices are predicted to fall.

Extensive tests have shown the SS-N-18 to have a CEP of less than 100 meters. This means that, for the first time, a submarine-launched weapon is able to destroy one of the so-called hardened targets. No longer is the sub force merely a back-up retaliatory system. Today, we have a first-strike ability of equaled potential.”

The unnaturally loud sound of a throat being cleared broke the chief’s concentration. Turning his head to check the interruption’s source, he saw that the zampolit had stood and was rapidly approaching the lectern. He began speaking long before he reached the bearded officer’s side.

“This report is extremely fascinating. Comrade Chuchkin, and in much more detail than I was expecting. Your knowledge of the intricate mechanical features of the equipment can’t be challenged. Yet your assertion regarding the Vulkan’s first-strike potential has serious theoretical flaws. I’m certain that all of you are aware of the fact that the Rodina has publicly disavowed any desire to be the first user of nuclear weapons. To even think that the Vulkan would be considered in such a role is, therefore, absurd.”

Before answering, the bearded chief patiently tamped down the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe, put a match to it, and sucked in a deep draw.

“I know nothing of the intentions of the politicians who guide the course of the Soviet Union. All I know is that, from a practical strategic viewpoint, our load of SS-N18s could singly strike the imperialists a mighty blow.

Not even their most sheltered command post would be safe from our reach.”

“Enough of such nonsense!” exclaimed the redfaced zampolit.

“Only the treachery of the warmongering Americans could push us to such an extreme. We are a peace-loving people. We’ve more than had our fill of war. First strike intentions have no part in our war plan.

This, I am certain of!”

“I beg to differ with you. Comrade Novikov.”

These firm words came from the mouth of Captain Petyr Valenko. The political officer could hardly believe his eyes as the captain dared to challenge him directly.

“Why build such super accurate devices such as the SS-N-18 in the first place, if one didn’t plan to use them effectively? Certainly, a military strategist must keep his mind open to every kind of attack scenario.

To say that the Soviet Union doesn’t have a first-strike option is ridiculous in itself.”

Novikov’s voice trembled angrily.

“I repeat. Captain Valenko; it is the policy of the Soviet Union never to be the instigator of a nuclear exchange. Now, if you want evidence of a country gathering itself for a first strike, just look at the United States. Their MX and Trident missile systems, combined with the so-called Star Wars satellite platforms, indicate a clear desire to strike the first blow.”

Valenko realized that it was fruitless to continue.

The political officer would never open his mind to any expansion of thought. Catching the pleading look of his weapon’s chief, the captain vented his tired frustrations with a single, passionate outburst. “If you ask me, this entire discussion has gotten out of hand. To stand there and say the the Rodina has no plan for a first strike is as foolish as blaming the problem totally on the Americans. The simple fact is that there can be no winner in an extended nuclear conflict, no matter who drops the first warhead. This is the concept that the leaders of both sides have to come to terms with.

“The time for name-calling and rhetoric is over.

The world’s leaders have to face up to their responsibilities.

It is their fault that this arms race has gotten so out of control. We have been lucky so far. Over three decades have passed since a nuclear device was last used in warfare. Today, I fear that the odds are turning against us. All it would take is a single, unstable group getting their hands on the nuclear trigger. The sad part is that no matter who was ultimately at fault, the grim outcome would be the same for all of us.”

Conscious of the startled silence that met the conclusion of his emotion-filled discourse, Valenko turned and quickly exited the room.

Only when he was long gone from the mess area did a nervous rumble of voices break from the komsomol members still present.

Ivan Novikov knew it was important that he regain control of his audience at once. There could be no doubting that their captain harbored confused, dangerous thoughts. He would deal with that problem later. Trying to ignore the gleaming eyes of the weapon’s chief, who seemed to be enjoying the zampolit’s discomfort, Novikov positioned himself squarely behind the lectern and spoke as calmly as possible.

“As komsomol members, all of us are aware of the importance of open dialogue. Our esteemed Captain’s personal opinions are merely that.

For the Party to grow to full maturity, this sharing of viewpoints, no matter how alien, must be allowed. This is the prime difference between the so-called democracies and our glorious socialist system.

Each week, our meetings reflect this sharing of philosophies. Now, I think that it’s time to return to tonight’s intended subject.

“The Party has long realized that only through strength will the imperialists be contained. Yet, what would happen if the Western powers did develop a platform that could knock our missiles from the skies and we were forced to defend the Rodina from direct Western aggression? The following options would then be at our disposal….”

Wishing that he could have followed the captain’s lead, the weapon’s chief was forced to listen to the zampolit’s rambling. It was evident that the man didn’t know the first thing about true nuclear warfare.

Not having the nerve to excuse himself, Chuchkin surrendered to the solace of his pipe, and a mental recollection of the strange confrontation that they had just witnessed.