Counterforce

Chapter Seven

General Secretary Viktor Rodin was satisfied with the progress of his trip so far. Not only did he continue right on schedule, but his meeting with the naval hierarchy in Petropavlovsk had been most unconstrained. Both his major speech and the subsequent conference were completed without incident.

An amicable banquet was followed by a welcomed, sound night’s sleep. He awoke rested and anxious to get on with the second half of his flight.

As always, Olga Tyumen’s organizational expertise allowed them to take off with a minimum of delay.

Having Admiral Sorokin aboard the flying Kremlin was a welcomed diversion. For the first two hours of the flight, as the massive IL-76 soared eastward over the blue Pacific, the two men shared tea and a revealing conversation. Rodin was proud of the fact that he had been able to get Sorokin talking about himself. His tongue loosened by the Premier’s clever probing, the whitehaired admiral gave a detailed review of his naval career. Careful to emphasize the disastrous international implications of a weak Russian Navy, Sorokin explained why command of the seas was so important today.

Currently, the admiral’s pet project was the building of the Motherland’s first fixed-wing aircraft carrier. Though past Soviet naval tacticians were reluctant to give such ships their due respect, Sorokin felt otherwise. Quick to relate incidents where American carrier groups were of instrumental importance, Sorokin justified his department’s current expense requests.

The old-timer’s arguments were cleverly presented, and the Premier understood why the man was such a success in his chosen field. Past premiers would have been extremely grateful for his expert advice.

Without having to question his motives, they would have felt confident in okaying the admiral’s requests without serious objections.

Unfortunately for Sorokin, Viktor Rodin was far from being representative of the old leaders.

As he gazed across the conference table at the ruddy-cheeked man opposite him, Rodin considered the manner in which he could most effectively express his personal goals. He knew that he would have to be respectful yet firm. He would have to make the admiral realize that aircraft carrier task forces would be of little value in a world without the constant threat of warfare. In five more hours they would be landing in Los Angeles, and the fated meeting of minds that would ensure global peace would come to pass.

Would the admiral be satisfied with his new position in the world order that was to follow? As guardian of the peacetime maritime realm, he would have tremendous responsibilities. Just as important as his wartime duties, a new front was to be drawn against humanity’s true adversaries: hunger, disease, and unrestrained pollution of the world’s fragile environment. A man with the admiral’s talents for getting things done would be greatly appreciated. Yet Rodin couldn’t help but fear that Sorokin was firmly tied to the generation that would label these aims as foolish and naive. Rodin was readying himself for the difficult task of convincing his respected guest that a new, enlightened day had dawned, when a soft electronic tone sounded. Politely, he excused himself to answer the desktop telephone.

“This is the General Secretary.”

The voice on the other end was masked by a persistent blast of throaty static.

“Sir, this is General Kirovakan at PVO headquarters. We have a satellite transmission for you coming in via the Hot Line from the United States.”

Surprised, Rodin took a seat behind his desk and said, “Very well.

General. Please be so good as to make the necessary connections.”

Over a loud burst of static, Kirovakan responded.

“At once, sir. Please hold on while the call is calibrated.”

A steady, pulse like hum replaced the crackle of static as Rodin sat back to await his unexpected caller. He had utilized this means of communications only twice before. Once, to receive President Palmer’s invitation to visit America, and a second time to accept it. Neither of these calls had been initiated while he was airborne. Rodin sat forward as the line was suddenly activated.

“General Secretary Rodin, this is President Palmer calling from Los Angeles. Can you hear me all right?”

“Yes, Comrade, I hear you fine. I hope that nothing has occurred to interfere with our meeting.”

Rodin looked up in time to see the admiral’s reaction to these cautious words. Sorokin’s eyes were locked on his own.

“That’s something that you’ll have to tell me, Comrade Rodin,” returned the strong, deep voice of the American President.

“Several minutes ago, I received a call from Admiral Miller, Commander of our Pacific Fleet. I’m afraid that he had some disturbing news.

Less than an hour ago, a Soviet IL38 relay plane ditched in the Pacific near Midway Island. A single survivor was picked up by one of our helicopters and transferred to the carrier John F. Kennedy, where he is at present.”

“I thank you for your cooperation in saving this aviator,” interrupted Rodin.

“Yet, what does this have to do with our imminent summit?”

“That is the confusing part,” the President said.

“It seems this survivor was most eager to convey to us information of a puzzling nature. The man swears that he was the innocent victim of a conspiracy that led to the death of the plane’s pilot and the abandoning of the aircraft, by parachute, of the two men responsible.”

“What kind of conspiracy is this?” quizzed the puzzled Premier.

Robert Palmer cleared his throat.

“This particular IL-38’s primary mission was to act as a communications relay station between Soviet naval command and your patrolling submarines. According to the rescued airman, minutes before those two men jumped from that plane a signal was apparently sent — informing a submarine called the Vulkan that a state of war existed between our two countries.”

The President paused for a moment, then continued.

“This message included a specific missile launch release code, which the survivor swears was received — and subsequently verified — by this very same vessel.”

Again Palmer cleared his throat.

“I don’t have to tell you, sir, that if this is indeed the case, the consequences could be quite disastrous. Please, Comrade General Secretary, I implore you to share with me all that you know of this grave incident. The future of the entire planet is at stake here.”

Rodin was speechless. When he finally gathered words for a response, his tone was tinged by disbelief.

“President Palmer, I understand your concern and beg for your patience.

As unbelievable as it may seem, this is the first that I’ve heard of any such episode having taken place. Please excuse me for a few minutes while I contact my staff and get to the heart of this matter.

You have my word of honor that I will get back to you as soon as I have a better understanding of just what is going on here.”

The American President solemnly agreed to this, and Rodin, thoroughly shaken, broke the connection.

For several seconds he merely sat there, eyes transfixed on the blue sky visible outside the plane’s windows. Sorokin broke through his confused ponderings.

“What’s the matter. Comrade Rodin? You look as if you have just gotten off the phone with the devil himself.”

Slowly, the Premier turned his head and met the admiral’s stare.

“That was none other than President Robert Palmer. I’m having trouble believing what the man has just told me. Comrade Sorokin, is it possible that one of our relay planes could have inadvertently passed on a set of launch orders to a missile-carrying sub?”

Having expected the worst, Sorokin was prepared.

“It is impossible. Comrade! There are just too many safeguards for such a thing to happen.”

Rodin responded firmly.

“Well, open your mind, admiral, for if what the President relayed to me is true, the inconceivable has indeed come to pass. I need to quickly know the status of the IL-38 relay plane whose morning patrol route took it over the North Pacific. Then get me the exact position of the Delta Illclass submarine, Vulkan. I would like to talk with its captain, Petyr Valenko, as soon as possible.”

Sorokin couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Somehow, their plot had failed! To find out what had gone wrong, he knew he would have to play his part straight. He would do what was asked of him and appear genuinely stunned with each successive revelation.

“I will get you that information at once. Comrade,” the admiral said as he reached to pick up the phone. While the aircraft’s communications operator got him an open line to Petropavlovsk, Sorokin tried a desperate gambit.

“I fear some sort of American trick, Comrade General Secretary. It would be just like the imperialists to create some sort of crisis to justify a strike of their own. I warned you that their pacifist rhetoric was all a clever ploy.”

Rodin shook his head vigorously.

“I beg to differ with you. Admiral. The Americans would have absolutely nothing to gain from such a charade.”

“You don’t know the Yankee bastards like I do,” Sorokin shot back.

“They have merely been playing with us all along, probing our weaknesses while preparing their military might for just such a surprise move. Don’t forget that it was not long after the signing of the peace pact with Germany that Adolph Hitler commanded his hordes to penetrate the heart of the Motherland. I trust no one. Comrade. This is one lesson that history has taught our people all too well.”

The line was now activated, and Sorokin began tracking down the information that Rodin had requested.

While he sternly questioned various subordinates, Viktor Rodin watched and considered the admiral’s suspicions.

Could it all be some sort of clever ruse on the part of the Americans?

Perhaps he had been too trusting.

For a moment, Rodin seriously considered ordering the flying Kremlin back to Petropavlovsk. If this were indeed an American trap, each mile they flew eastward would bring them closer to the snare. Yet, what if it weren’t? Certainly, President Palmer seemed quite upset. If he had been acting, he had done a most credible job.

As he reflected on the crisis, the Premier realized that if it was legitimate, his greatest nightmare was coming true. The unauthorized use of nuclear arms was every world leader’s worst fear. He couldn’t ignore the fact that this supposed insurgence had come from the ranks of the navy. His eyes locked on the uniformed, whitehaired figure who sat impatiently on the phone before him, Rodin recollected that the Soviet Fleet had once been a hotbed of dissent. It was in 1921 that a handful of naval officers actually took over several battleships to directly express their dissatisfaction with the State. The Kronshtadt rebellion had been a black mark on the young revolution’s progress.

Bloodily quelled, it led to a mistrust that was even evident in the modern navy, in the form of the zampolits who still sailed aboard every vessel.

Rodin had taken for granted the loyalties of the military men who served the Motherland. This trust was a part of his character. It was a trait that had been instilled upon him since childhood. Whether or not it was an inherent weakness in his ability to guide the Rodina’s future would all too soon be put to a test. He looked on, unblinking, as Stanislav Sorokin cupped the phone’s transmitter and pulled it away from his pallid face.

“I have just been in contact with the commander of air traffic control in the North Pacific basin. It seems that one of our IL-38’s is indeed overdue. All efforts to contact it have proven unsuccessful.”

“And what of the Vulkani” Rodin queried.

“An ELF page is being sent out to them now. Of course, receipt of this message cannot be guaranteed.

Land-based contacts with submarines on patrol are minimal at best. That is why we have platforms such as the IL-38s constantly in the area.”

“Then launch another one!” exclaimed Rodin.

“I must speak to Captain Valenko at once.”

Sorokin answered meekly.

“I have ordered just such a flight, Comrade. Unfortunately, the auxiliary aircraft is experiencing engine difficulties. The ground crew is working feverishly to complete the necessary repairs.”

Rodin’s face flushed as he slapped his hand down hard on the desk.

“Get that plane up now. Admiral!

Whatever it takes, you must get me in contact with the Vulkan immediately. Are there any surface vessels in the area that could possibly make this contact?”

Impressed with the Premier’s foresight and a bit shocked by the show of emotion, Sorokin issued a series of inquiries. Minutes later, he responded tersely.

“The Kresta-class cruiser Natya is presently in the vicinity of the Vulkan’s last known location, Comrade.” “Have them find the Vulkan at once!” Rodin shouted.

“Then we will use the Natya to contact the sub and find out just what is going on down there.

And I want a readout of what Captain Valenko was to have done if he had received a Red Flag alert.

Include a list of targets the Vulkan’s warheads were assigned to eliminate.”

“You don’t really think that the Vulkan has received orders commanding it to war, do you?” Sorokin countered.

“I don’t know what to think,” the Premier replied icily.

“My job is to consider all the possibilities.”

Sorokin managed a single question.

“And what will happen if the Natya tags the Vulkan and the sub fails to respond to its radio signal?”

The General Secretary answered thoughtfully.

“That will depend upon a number of factors, Comrade. First and foremost is the contents of Valenko’s war orders. Second, is the disposition of that spare IL-38. If all attempts at contacting the Vulkan are frustrated, and it appears that the vessel is actually going to go ahead with a launch, we will have no alternative but to eliminate the submarine with all due haste.”

“You want to sink one of our own subs?” the Admiral cried incredulously.

The Premier did not hesitate to answer.

“It’s either that. Comrade, or possibly witnessing the beginning of the end of the world!”

Seemingly in response, the flying Kremlin shuddered in the midst of a violent downdraft. As the engines strained to regain the altitude they had so quickly lost, Viktor Rodin reached out to make the inevitable phone call that he had promised on his honor to complete. Still not certain what he’d say to the President, he could only hope that Robert Palmer would trust his sincerity. At the moment, there was little else he had to offer.

Captain Frederick Yerevan, of the Kresta-class cruiser Natya, stood alone on the exposed bridge of his ship, oblivious to the icy chill that swept over the North Pacific. Born in Siberia these temperatures, which sent the young conscripts scrambling for cover, didn’t phase him in the least. Of course the bellyful of vodka consumed at lunch served to warm him better than the thickest of furs.

Tired of the musty, sweat-scented air of the ship’s interior, the captain enjoyed the cold, clean air.

Staffed by a crew of four hundred, the Natya was packed from bow to stern. Although a command of such magnitude was good for Yerevan’s career, he rather missed those carefree days when he had served aboard boats less than half the Natya’s size. One particular command of a Pauk-class attack vessel had been particularly satisfying. With a crew of only fifty, he had spent a free and easy year patrolling the warm, sunny waters of the Black Sea.

That had been a time to cherish, he remembered with a sigh. As the cruiser’s hull bit into a large swell, Yerevan instinctively absorbed the brunt of the rolling shock with his knees and peered out at the endless ocean. Somewhere beneath these waters lay the goal of his current assignment.

Barely a quarter of an hour ago, the strange call had arrived from Seventh Fleet headquarters. The directive was short and puzzling. He was instructed to locate and make contact with a Delta Illclass submarine, the Vulkan. If this vessel was spotted, yet failed to respond to their transmission, they were ordered to launch a pair of SS-N-14s and blow the sub out of the water.

As confusing as this sounded, Yerevan was certain that it was all some sort of weird exercise. Most probably it was tied in with the experimental ASW tracking device presently stored beneath the Natya’s hull. Here a sophisticated blue-green laser was currently scanning the seas beneath them. Because such a frequency could effortlessly penetrate water, the oceans appeared virtually invisible. Though still a prototype, such an instrument could revolutionize anti-submarine warfare.

Promising as it looked, though, Yerevan wasn’t about to rely on that system alone. From the hull, a powerful low-frequency sonar unit pulsed its signals into the depths and awaited the distinctive plink of a return. In conjunction with this tested device, the Natya’s Ka-25 Hormone helicopter worked the surrounding waters with its dunking hydrophone array. Able to pick up even the most insignificant of sounds, the chopper would know the second a submarine entered the sector.

If the Vulkan was anywhere in this portion of the Pacific, the captain had no doubts that his ship would be the one to tag her. Then he would once again radio Petropavlovsk and get a clarification of the confusing orders received earlier.

Totally confident in his crew and the capabilities of his ship, Yerevan decided that it was time to go indoors. With dry lips longing for a taste of vodka, he turned to the entry hatch — just in time to see its steel length abruptly swing open. Out ducked the white-suited figure of his senior officer, a tall, thin Georgian whose high-pitched voice strained the captain’s nerves. He greeted Yerevan breathlessly.

“Sir, I have most exciting news. Our Ka-25 has picked up the sound signature of an approaching submarine. A computer analysis of its dual-screw pattern shows it to be one of ours — a Delta Illclass.

It is currently entering sector two-seven-zero, at a depth of one hundred meters.”

Yerevan allowed himself the barest of smiles.

“Excellent, Comrade. Be so good as to deploy the towed, variable-depth communications array. What is the depth of the thermocline here?”

“Approximately seventy-five meters. Captain,” the alert senior lieutenant, replied.

“Then set the depth of the array at eighty-five meters, and make it snappy!”

The Captain’s order was answered with a brisk salute as his second in command pivoted and reentered the bridge. Yerevan followed. The warm, stale air hit him full in the face. Unbuttoning his tunic collar, he strode over to the radio console and studied the various digital band selectors and power readouts.

When the panel indicated that the towed array had been deployed, he tapped the operator on the shoulder and addressed him.

“Lieutenant, I am temporarily relieving you of duty. Go get yourself a cup of tea, but be back here in fifteen minutes.”

Surprised, the junior officer looked into his captain’s eyes to see if this was all some sort of joke. One glance told him it wasn’t. Without further hesitation, he rose, handed Yerevan his headphones and turned to exit the bridge.

Yerevan hadn’t sat at such a post for much too long. As a cadet, communications had been his specialty, and though the equipment looked vastly different now, the theory was still the same. His orders from command had emphasized the fact that only he was to attempt to contact the sub. It took him several seconds to find and activate the switch that triggered the variable-depth unit. Once this was completed, he fingered the black plastic button of the code transmitter and began tapping out the prearranged message.

One hundred meters beneath the frigid Pacific, the Vulkan’s sonar officer, Lev Zinyakin, was busy scanning the surrounding waters using only passive arrays.

Though not as accurate as the active system, which sent a pulse of energy surging from their bow, this rig of powerful hydrophones was much quieter.

Silence was most important, now that the captain had ordered General Quarters. Though this alert might merely be another of the endless drills, he couldn’t ignore the tenseness that possessed the control room.

When Zinyakin focused the listening device on that portion of the sea immediately ahead, a distant, alien tapping sound became audible. Upon verifying that it did not emanate from a lovelorn whale or a hungry crab, he signaled Stefan Kuzmin, seated beside him, to monitor this particular frequency also.

The which man focused his hydrophones as indicated.

“It sounds like a hailing code! But where in the world is it coming from?”

Zinyakin pressed his own headphones to his ears and increased the amplification of the forward scan to its maximum.

“That could be the swish of a variable-depth towed array in the background, Comrade.”

The which man picked out this characteristic hiss.

“I think you’re right, Zinyakin. It’s at the limit of our range, yet if it is a towed device, there’s got to be a surface vessel responsible for it. I’d better inform the Captain.”

Petyr Valenko was working at the control room’s navigation table with his senior lieutenant when the which mans call reached him. Both men proceeded immediately to the sonar console. Lev Zinyakin provided the initial briefing.

“We believe we’ve picked up a signal that could be from a towed variable-depth communications array.

It’s signature is still too faint for full positive identification.

That would put it at the limit of our hydrophone range — about ninety kilometers off our port bow.”

Valenko put on a pair of auxiliary headphones. It didn’t take him long to pick out the distant tapping.

“That sounds like a hailing signal, all right. Senior Lieutenant, what do you think?”

Vasili Leonov took the headphones and placed them on his ears. His observations were voiced listlessly.

“That could be from another ship. Captain, but it’s much too distorted to tell for certain. What could we do about it, anyway?”

“For one, we could attempt to answer it,” Valenko said.

A high-pitched, raspy voice sounded behind them.

Valenko didn’t have to turn to identify its source.

“I think that would be most unwise, considering our current orders, Captain,” Ivan Novikov said coldly.

“You know as well as I that the Vulkan is to be involved with no outside communications, except on the authorized ELF bands.”

Valenko turned slowly and met the zampolit’s piercing gaze.

“As the ship’s line officer that decision is still mine to make, Comrade Political Officer.”

Ivan’s eyes narrowed.

“Come now. Captain. Both of us know the Vulkan’s current alert status. Limiting radio contact is standard procedure during such instances.”

“I understand that. Comrade. But suppose there is a problem with the ELF channels and a towed array is the only way to reach us. No — under the circumstances, I think a response on our part is most in order.

Comrade Kuzmin, I’d like you to see about getting us some more speed.

Senior Lieutenant, chart us an intercept point. Lieutenant Zinyakin, stay on those headphones and let me know the second a clear signal is received.”

While the junior officers snapped to their duties, the Zampolit beckoned Valenko to join him beside the vacant weapons console.

Novikov’s hushed words were delivered with fierce intensity.

“Have you gone insane. Captain? How could you have forgotten the Red Flag alert relayed to us such a short time ago?”

“I have not forgotten about the alert. Comrade,” Valenko replied flatly.

“Then why do you so needlessly risk the Vulkan by breaking radio silence? As far as we know, we are in a state of war, Captain. Until informed otherwise, we must follow the directives spelled out clearly for each one of us in our sealed operational manuals.”

Valenko took in these words and the strained face of the man delivering them. Tired of the zampolit’s meddling, he drew in a deep breath and spoke out sharply.

“I’m not denying that the Red Flag alert was received, Comrade Political Officer. I am only exercising a captain’s right to seek out confirming orders whenever possible. Surely, this is only another exercise. We shall continue on our present course and close on the source of the transmission. Only after positively identifying it as one of our own ships will the Vulkan break radio silence.”

Without waiting for a response, Valenko pivoted to return to the sonar station — when a loud explosion sounded from the depths beyond their bulkhead.

With this blast, Valenko quickened his stride. As he neared the console for which he was headed, a massive shock-wave pounded into the submarine’s bow. The deck beneath him shook and the boat shifted hard aport. Struggling to keep his balance, the captain reached out to brace himself against one of the copper ballast pipes. This allowed him to remain upright as the lights flickered and the deck slowly settled beneath him. Quickly, he moved to Lev Zinyakin’s side.

“What in hell was that. Lieutenant?”

The sonar officer was still rubbing his blast shocked ears when the captain’s question forced him to refit his headphones. Intensely, he scanned the churning seas before them.

“The water’s still agitated. Captain, but I can tell you one thing for certain — whatever was towing that communications array was just sent to the bottom by a pair of torpedoes. What’s going on out there?”

Unable to respond, Valenko’s mind reeled with the implications. He had been certain that this doomed vessel had been a Soviet ship trying to contact them.

Yet, why should they be torpedoed? As he desperately tried to reason it out, a raspy, high-pitched voice whispered chillingly in his right ear.

“Now do you doubt the validity of our orders, Captain? I’m afraid that this is no mere exercise.

The power-hungry imperialists have made their long anticipated first strike. We must follow the orders of our operational manual exactly now, to insure that the Motherland is properly avenged.”

These apocalyptic words had their desired effect;

Petyr Valenko knew that his zampolit must be correct.

Somehow, the unthinkable had come to pass.

Only one thing mattered now, and that was for the Vulkan to survive.

The directives contained within the operational manuals of both the captain and the political officer were brief and to the point. In eight hours’ time, the Vulkan would rise to launch depth and release its load of sixteen SS-N-18 ballistic missiles. Until that fated time, he had to do whatever was necessary to insure the ship’s survival.

A meeting would have to be called and the vessel’s senior officers notified of their predicament. The thousands of hours of intensive training would at long last pay off. Certain that they would do their duty without question, Valenko turned to call out the series of orders that would take the Vulkan deep into the Pacific’s silent depths.

Forty-three kilometers northeast of the Vulkan, the attack sub Cheka floated motionlessly. From the vessel’s attack center. Captain Gregori Dzerzhinsky peered through the raised periscope. What he saw sickened him beyond description. Studying the bloody carnage was bad enough; knowing that their torpedoes were responsible for the slaughter tore at his gut.

The sound of the mighty blast had only recently passed, as had the surging shock-wave. Yet he couldn’t help but visualize the flight of the two torpedoes as they plunged from the Cheka’s forward tubes and smacked into the Kresta-class cruiser’s midsection.

At least the end had come swiftly for his fellow seamen. One of the torpedoes had struck the Natya squarely in its ammunition magazine.

Dzerzhinsky had been watching through the periscope as the Natya had risen from the water in a plume of flames, cracked in half, and then sank beneath the surface.

Even though the captain was trained to obey without question, this was one order he had carried out with great reluctance. Well aware of the extreme importance of their mission, he still didn’t understand why it was necessary to torpedo one of their own cruisers. After all, the blood of four hundred of his countrymen now stained his hands.

A swell smashed into the periscope’s lens as the captain continued to look at the handful of wreckage visible topside. From his vantage point he could see the inky oil spill. Floating in this noxious liquid were the remnants of a smashed lifeboat, dozens of empty life jackets and various other debris. As he swept the scene he saw a tableau that would haunt him always.

Hugging a large oil drum were three blackened survivors. The captain’s throat constricted as he watched several triangular fins vigilantly circling the last living crew members of the Natya. Though tempted to send the periscope back into its well, morbid curiosity held him glued to the device as the sharks moved in for the kill.

Though he had never disobeyed an order, he had to fight back the urge to command the Cheka to surface and save the survivors. His actions had surely been for the good of the State, but how could he ignore the cries of his conscience? Those were fellow sailors out there, sent to sea by the same authorities who had ordered the release of the torpedoes. As Dzerzhinsky struggled with this moral dilemma, a bass voice boomed out behind him.

“Excellent shooting. Captain. The First Deputy will be most proud.”

Sickened by the zampolit’s lofty tone, the captain stepped back from the scope as one of the sharks began thrashing the first of its helpless victims. Frustrated and confused, he beckoned the fat political officer to observe the scene topside.

Boris Karpovich peered through the periscope for barely fifteen seconds before quickly backing away. His plump hand trembled slightly as he angled his handkerchief up to mop his sweaty forehead.

“I know these words ring hollow now. Captain, but such sacrifices have got to be made Our very future as a country demands it. Just as millions fell to stop the Nazi barbarians, these men shall be heroes.

Believe me, Comrade, it will be well worth it in the end.”

Anger swelled as Dzerzhinsky glanced into Karpovich’s reddened, beady eyes. What did this pig know of the terrors being experienced by the brave men fighting for their lives on the surface? And what did he know of sacrifice? This slob probably thought that he was doing his part for the Motherland by eating only half a chicken for dinner instead of a whole one. The captain was preparing to give voice to his outrage when the Cheka’s senior lieutenant arrived at his side, clicking his heels smartly.

“Captain, I have the results of the remote-controlled hydrophone scan you requested.”

Vadim Nikulin’s presence immediately diffused the tense situation. The captain relaxed his tightly balled fists and gave his attention to his bald-headed second in command.

“The scan has confirmed the presence of the Vulkan southwest of us, some forty kilometers distant.

It appears that they had been in the process of significantly increasing their speed to intercept the cruiser when we intervened. As of that moment, their range had kept them from either receiving a clear message or transmitting one of their own.”

“Is there any sign that the Vulkan knows of our presence?” quizzed Dzerzhinsky.

“I seriously doubt it. Captain. Their sonar remains on passive search, and I believe that they are not yet fitted with the new remote-controlled units as we are.”

Dzerzhinsky exhaled a long sigh of relief.

“I don’t have to remind you. Senior Lieutenant Nikulin, how important it is for us to keep well out of the Vulkan % range. Above all, they mustn’t find out that we were responsible for the Natya’s sinking.

Activate the anechoic sonar masking device, and rig the boat for a state of ultra-quiet. We’ll remain here for several hours while the Vulkan continues on to its patrol sector.”

Again Nikulin clicked his heels, then turned to enforce the orders.

When the captain turned to survey the periscope well, he was relieved to find that Boris Karpovich was gone. Not having the stomach to check the fate of the last of the cruiser’s survivors, he reached over and hit the hydraulic switch that sent the scope down with a loud hiss.

The captain knew he was fortunate that the senior lieutenant had arrived when he did. Otherwise, he would have said something to the zampolit that he might have later regretted. The next few hours would be equally as tense, and it would be best for all concerned if the political officer stayed as far away from the captain as possible. His current duty was difficult enough without having that arrogant slob around to aggravate him.

The Cheka had a single, vital mission now, and nothing must get in the way of achieving it. Protecting the Vulkan had to be the number one concern of every crew member. It would be a difficult task, but not an impossible one. Invigorated by the challenge, Dzerzhinsky pushed himself to the plotting board.

Here he began working on the most efficient course to take them to the Vulkan’s preplanned launch site.