Counterforce

Chapter Nine

Deep below the Pacific, the Vulkan surged ever southward, its dual shafts propelling it at a speed well over thirty-five knots. Rigged for quiet running, the 509-foot vessel sped ahead in near-total silence; the only sounds it produced were the hiss of the seawater passing through the vessel’s missile casing and the popping cavitations on its propellers.

Inside the sub, the crew remained at General Quarters for what they assumed was another one of the endless exercises. But behind the locked doors of the wardroom, a dozen of the ships senior officers sat in rapt attention, their eyes focused on the tall, blond-haired figure who had called them together.

Petyr Valenko stood at the front of the room behind a compact wooden lectern. He spoke forcefully, his words delivered with crisp precision.

“Comrades, as the Vulkan’s senior officers, it is my duty to inform you that, at 1330 hours today, I confirmed the receipt of a Red Flag war alert. To my knowledge, this is no mere exercise. You are all aware of the explosion and shock-wave that we recently rode out. We believe this emanated from a torpedoed surface ship, which we have yet to positively identify because of a malfunction of our sensor recording equipment. If that action was indeed a hostile move on the part of the enemy, I fear this alert is most real.”

Valenko paused briefly to let the information sink in. Shocked expressions proved that his audience had been listening. He cleared his throat and continued.

“I am just as astounded by this revelation as you are. As soldiers, we have been well aware of the possibility of this day. Somehow, we thought it would never come; yet, here we are. No matter who is at fault, you can be assured that the Vulkan will do its best to defend the Motherland.

“A Red Flag alert is the ultimate call to war.

Because an enemy first strike could knock out command’s ability to contact us, the alert itself is all that’s needed to authorize a launch. At the receipt of this signal I was required to open the sealed operational manual which is kept locked in my safe. It was at this time that I first saw the Vulkan’s war orders..

“Our mission is a simple one. We are to stay submerged and undetected, while proceeding with all due speed to our patrol quadrant on the southeastern edge of the Emperor Seamount. At 2130 hours we will ascend to launch depth and unleash our load of sixteen SS-N-18 missiles. In this manner, the Rodina shall be served!”

As his words rang out, an anxious wave of nervous chatter flowed through the wardroom. Most aware of their concern, Valenko added, “Naturally, your first thoughts must be for the safety of your loved ones back home. As of this moment, I have no idea if nuclear weapons have yet been exchanged. Since this is the case, I have decided to exercise my command prerogative and order the Vulkan to attain communication depth at 2100 hours. We will then contact the NAVCOM satellite to confirm that a state of nuclear war exists.”

“A clamor of excitement spread through the officers as Ivan Novikov rose and spoke out sharply.

“But Captain, won’t such an ascent needlessly endanger the Vulkan’! As you’ve so eloquently stated, the receipt of a Red Flag alert is more than sufficient to warrant a launch. And besides, doesn’t the sinking of the ship topside prove that hostilities exist? The imperialist’s anti-submarine-warfare tactics are too accurate for us to so needlessly expose ourselves.”

A murmur of consenting comments followed. Valenko took in these remarks and said firmly, “It. is my command opinion that the risk must be taken. I am not about to commit this vessel’s warheads to a conflict that may not even exist. We’re talking about the lives of hundreds of millions of people. Comrades.

Can we gamble them against the receipt of a single alert transmission?

Since there was not even a hint of international crisis when we put to sea, I must insist that this preliminary ascent is warranted.”

“But the explosion topside!” whined the zampolit.

“How can you ignore it?”

“Comrade Novikov, please control yourself. Even if we could confirm that it was one of our ships being attacked, I would still stick firmly to my decision. The loss of a single vessel is one thing, the end of the civilized world is quite another.”

Again the nervous sound of chatter filled the wardroom.

With a shrug of his shoulders, the political officer reseated himself. The captain watched as Novikov traded a silent glance of concern with the doleful eyed senior lieutenant, who sat stiffly beside him.

In an effort to regain control, Valenko raised his hands for silence and spoke out loudly.

“Until this final confirmation has been achieved, it is my wish to keep knowledge of this alert to ourselves. Only after NAVCOM signals us that a nuclear war prevails will I inform the rest of the crew. I know the hours until that time will be long ones, but I am counting on you to do your duties to the best of your abilities. For the next sixty minutes I will be available in my cabin for any of you with individual questions. That is all.”

A second of strained silence followed as Valenko turned toward the wardroom’s exit. As he broke the hatch, the sound of the babbling officers rose in crescendo.

Thankful that this dreaded encounter was over the captain quickly proceeded to his private quarters.

This took him to the bow portion of the boat, on the deck immediately below the vessel’s control room.

His contact with other members of the crew was minimal as he progressed down a narrow, tube-lined corridor, ducked through a hatchway and, utilizing a plastic keycard, entered his locked domain.

Though cramped and sparsely furnished, at least his cabin offered a place to be alone. At that moment he relished his privacy as never before.

The cabin contained a fold-down bunk, a small, wallmounted desk and a single chair. A simple stool, folded into the wall, was fondly labeled the “hot-seat” by the crew members it was designed to accommodate.

There was also a private head that included a metal sink, a toilet and a cramped shower stall.

Conscious of the thick, nerve-induced sweat that stained his khaki shirt, Valenko stripped it off and went to the sink. The cool water felt good on his neck and face. After toweling himself dry, he took a second to examine his reflection in the shaving mirror. It was then he first noticed the pair of red, love bites visible on his neck, just below his right ear lobe. Like returning to a past life, his thoughts flashed back to Ivana and the night of passion from which the marks stemmed.

Had it really been less than three days since they had last been together? Though her image, touch and scent were still fresh in his mind, his responsibilities took precedence over the innocent passions of the senses.

For a second, he mentally recreated their coupling — but instead of experiencing joy, he could only feel the pain of not knowing if his love still lived. If the IL-38’s call to action had been legitimate, there was a very good chance that cities like Petropavlovsk had been burned to a crisp during the first minutes of nuclear attack and no longer existed.

In a way, Ivana, her sister Galina, and even little Nikolai would be among the lucky ones. Their deaths would be instantaneous. Vaporized by a flash of superheated fire, there would be little time for either fear or pain. The real losers in a nuclear war would be the survivors.

Not only would they have to face the ravages of global radiation poisoning, they would find themselves in a bleak, desolate society with few comforts and little hope for the future. Such a world was not easy to imagine, and Valenko trembled involuntarily. An abrupt knock on the door shattered his macabre train of thought. Remembering his offer to the senior officers, he turned to his bunker to get a clean shirt.

As he buttoned it there was a second knock.

“I’ll be right there!” Valenko shouted as he hastily tucked in his shirttail. Then he hit the door switch to see which of his senior officers was seeking his advice.

A pair of sour faces met his glance, and a cold heaviness rose in the captain’s belly as he identified the waiting figures of Ivan Novikov and Vasili Leonov.

Without comment, the gaunt zampolit entered first, followed by the senior lieutenant. The door hissed shut and Valenko reluctantly greeted them.

“Yes, Comrades — how can I be of service to you?”

The dark-eyed political officer wasted little time with civilities.

“Captain Valenko, have you gone mad?

What is this nonsense about you doubting the legitimacy of the Red Flag alert?”

Sensing that he was in for a fight, Valenko answered directly.

“I’m not questioning the legitimacy of those orders. Comrade. I am only exercising my right to reconfirm them. Why does this upset you so?”

“Because I can’t bare to see this sub sent to the bottom with its load of missiles still aboard!” the zampolit shouted.

“The Rodina is relying on us to fulfill our rightful duty, and to needlessly risk the safety of this ship is a travesty beyond comprehension.”

Valenko looked to his senior lieutenant for support.

“Vasili, surely you’re aware that a line officer’s options include the right to seek reconfirmation of go-to-war orders, if so desired. What is so wrong with this?”

Leadenly, Leonov met his captain’s stare.

“We are not challenging your right to exercise such an option, sir.

What we are questioning are the motives that underline such a decision.

Why needlessly risk the Vulkan to reconfirm orders that have already been received?”

Shocked by his second in command’s obstinance, the captain gathered himself and pressed on.

“This doesn’t sound at all like you, Vasili. What has happened to the young officer who always promoted a captain’s right to interpret his orders as he best saw fit? Since when have you become so narrow-minded?”

“About the same time that you became such a cowardly fool,” returned the wide-eyed political officer.

Incensed, Valenko pointed to the door.

“I’ve had enough of your impertinence. Comrade Novikov!

Now get out of my sight, before I confine you to your cabin. And you Senior Lieutenant — I’ll be wanting to talk with you privately.”

The captain could not believe that his order had had absolutely no effect on the zampolit, who stood there unmoving.

“Did you hear me, Novikov? I said get out of here!”

In response, the political officer merely shook his head.

“Your time for giving orders aboard this vessel are over. Comrade Valenko. For the Rodina’s greater interests, I hereby take command of the Vulkan.”

To back up these bold words, Novikov pulled a chrome-plated pistol from his jacket and aimed it at Valenko’s chest. “What is the meaning of this, Comrade? Put that pistol away and come back to your senses!”

Novikov shook his head and his mouth curled up in a sardonic sneer.

“Those are mighty brave words, coming from one who stands on the other end of a gun barrel. Now sit down Valenko, and keep your lips sealed.”

From the tone of this delivery, Valenko knew that the threat was real.

Reluctantly, he seated himself on the edge of his bunk.

“That’s better,” the zampolit cooed.

“Comrade Leonov, I think you had better bind the Captain for his own protection. During the next couple of hours it could prove extremely dangerous for him to get in our way.”

Leonov took out a roll of two-inch surgical tape.

Wordlessly, he began wrapping it first around Valenko’s ankles and then his wrists. As he cut off a strip to cover the captain’s mouth, Valenko said desperately, “I still don’t understand why you are doing this, Comrades. Surely you must be aware that you can’t possibly get away with such a pointless crime.”

Without comment, Novikov signaled his fellow conspirator to complete his task. Only after Valenko’s lips were tightly sealed did the political officer respond.

“You left me no other alternative, Petyr Valenko. I couldn’t possibly stand by and watch you risk this vessel so needlessly. The receipt of the Red Flag alert signaled the end of an era. Cowardly fools like yourself no longer have a place in the Motherland’s future.

If it were up to me, I would put a bullet in your head and end your misery once and for all. You can thank Comrade Leonov for this temporary stay of execution.

Besides, your knowledge of the ship might still come in handy as the time to launch approaches. Hopefully, during those hours that you will have to yourself you will return to your senses.

For what we are doing on this fated day is insuring that the Rodina will prevail for the decades of peace that will soon follow.”

With the conclusion of his diatribe, Novikov stepped forward and, with a quick snap of his wrist, clubbed Valenko on the side of his head with the butt of the pistol. As the captain fell back onto his cot, unconscious, the zampolit’s eyes gleamed in victory.

“Senior Lieutenant, this is a most important moment in the history of the Motherland. The last obstacle to our great dream has finally been overcome.

Your unflinching assistance shall never be forgotten.

Strange was the hand of fate that led you to our glorious cause. Now come. Comrade. A toast is in order. And then we shall make certain that the Vulkan fulfills its rightful place in history.”

Without a word of comment, the grim-faced senior lieutenant followed Novikov out into the hallway.

Both men turned to their left as the door to Valenko’s stateroom hissed shut behind them.

Stefan Kuzmin enjoyed the change of pace that his current duty afforded him. The which man would rather be actively involved with a mechanical problem than merely sitting at a console monitoring a bank of instruments. Sensor operations could be extremely challenging, and there was no doubting its importance, yet he’d take his present task over it any day of the week.

Immediately after the Vulkan had encountered the unexpected explosion and resulting shock wave, they had discovered that the hydrophonic recording mechanism wasn’t operating properly.

Because of this unit’s failure, they had been unable to record the sounds the hydrophones had picked up before and after the blast. If the system had been operating correctly, the sounds could have been analyzed by computer, which would have identified the unfortunate vessel that had met its demise topside.

When the system was found to be malfunctioning, Kuzmin immediately volunteered to have a look at it.

The senior officer of the deck agreed to this and a suitable sailor was assigned to take over Kuzmin’s post at the sonar console.

His trusty tool box at his side, the which man squeezed into the cramped compartment where the recording device was stored — between the control room and the sub’s bow. The storage cell was packed with various electronic components. Most of this equipment was directly connected to the monitors in the control room. Kuzmin wondered how many of the Vulkan’s senior officers even knew that such a receptacle existed.

The warrant officer hooked an electric lantern onto the handle of a vacant storage bracket. The console that he wished to examine lay immediately below.

Awkwardly, he went down to his knees. He opened the tool box and removed a set of screwdrivers, then located the metal container where the sonar recorder was stashed. He determined the proper screw size and, after selecting the appropriate tool, began unloosening the metal cover plate Once this was accomplished, he began his work in earnest. The device was designed like a large cassette recorder.

After confirming that the unit was getting a proper electrical charge, Kuzmin checked the recording heads and then removed the circuitry panel. A tedious test of each individual circuit followed. When this operation failed to show any negative results, he reinserted the panel and took a second to doublecheck his previous work. From all that he could see, the system should be operating perfectly. On a whim, he decided to check the cassette tape himself. He pulled the thin plastic container off its spools and only then spotted the apparent cause of the malfunction.

Somehow, the permanent tape itself had broken.

Dismantling the cassette to resplice the tape would be a most difficult job. Though he never knew of such a component to fail, Kuzmin was confident that he could soon get the whole unit going once again.

Cramped and hot, he decided to work on’re splicing the cassette under more comfortable conditions. He pocketed the tape, resealed the recorder, stood, and carefully backed his way out of the narrow cell.

As he entered the adjoining hallway, four soft electronic chimes issued from the sub’s public-address system.

Spurred by the familiar tones, he checked his watch and reaffirmed the completion of yet another work shift.

For four precious hours he would be officially on his own. Conscious of a noisy gurgling in his stomach, he decided that his first stop would be the mess hall.

There would be plenty of time to complete his current project after dinner and a sound nap.

The galley area was two floors below. Kuzmin anxiously descended a pair of metal stairwells and turned toward the vessel’s stern. After passing that section of the sub reserved for the enlisted men’s living quarters, he ducked through an open hatchway and turned into the dining hall.

Being one of the first men there allowed him to miss the long lines that accompanied each meal shift. He picked up a tray and silverware, then proceeded over to the cafeteria-style serving area. Kuzmin nodded to the potbellied figure who stood behind two sweaty conscripts who were busy ladling out portions.

“Hello, Comrade Irkutsk. How is the world treating you today?”

Chef Anatoly responded heavily to the which mans greeting.

“As usual, I find myself fighting a losing battle. The little food that is fit to serve gets burned by these imbeciles who have the nerve to call themselves cooks. You should just see today’s waste! It’s going to be the sharks who dine well this evening.”

Kuzmin grinned in response to his typical complaint.

“As always, you seem to find a way to feed us most adequately. Comrade.

What’s today’s bill of fare?”

Anatoly answered while wiping his hands on his spotted apron.

“Sausage a la Baikal, Siberian cabbage and pickled beets. There will be some nice hot rye bread out shortly. You would have had it now, but my assistants here burned the first dozen loaves. Only minutes ago the smoke was so thick that I thought I’d have to call out the fire brigade.”

Kuzmin accepted a steaming plateful of food and sniffed at its aroma approvingly.

“Well, it sure appears tasty to me. Once more. Chef, it looks like you’ve accomplished miracles.”

“Enjoy yourself. Comrade. Of all those present, it can be said that you are one who has truly earned today’s food. Not like the shirkers I get stuck with.”

Nodding at this unexpected compliment, Kuzmin picked up his tray and turned to find a table. From the center of the large room, a single diner waved to him. Surprised to find the sonar chief well into his meal, Kuzmin joined him.

“How did you manage to get down here so quickly?” the which man asked.

Lev Zinyakin swallowed a mouthful of sausage and said, “You had to be there to believe it, Stefan. Five full minutes before the change of shifts was scheduled, who relieves me, but our own Vasili Leonov.”

Kuzmin looked startled.

“You mean to say that our esteemed Senior Lieutenant actually took over your watch so that you could break early?”

“As Karl Marx is my witness, so it was. If you ask me, it was the zampolit who put the idea in his head.

Do you know that Novikov was actually smiling as he made the rounds of the control room? I even heard him tell a joke or two.”

“Now that is something,” Kuzmin said. He cut into his sausage and decided to let it cool a bit before eating.

“I wonder what’s gotten into those two?

Perhaps today’s a national holiday that we’ve forgotten about.”

“I doubt that. Although, to see our zampolit smiling is reason for a holiday in itself.” After consuming a bite of cabbage, he continued.

“As usual, poor heartbroken Vasili didn’t have much to say as he strapped on the sensor headphones. What followed, though, was most out of the ordinary. Old Novikov himself patted me on the back and complimented me on the splendid job that I was doing. Then ‘the zampolit ordered me to ‘refresh myself,” as he so tactfully put it.

Needless to say, I almost fell over in shock. You can be certain that I got out of there as quickly as possible, before they changed their minds.” “Most amazing,” Kuzmin mused as he began to go to work on his beets.

“I wonder if the Captain had something to do with it. With this unexpected patrol and all, I’ve never seen morale so low before. The least the officers can do is be civil.”

“That’s a thought,” Zinyakin replied.

“Although I doubt that even Petyr Valenko could cause a smile to cross our zampolit’s face if his heart wasn’t in it.”

“Heart?” the which man quizzed playfully.

“Since when has our political officer been outfitted with such a human organ?”

Both men laughed and looked up admiringly when one of the cooks dropped off a loaf of fresh rye bread at their table. Kuzmin ripped off the heel, soaked it in gravy, and consumed a healthy bite.

“There is nothing like Chef Anatoly’s sausage a la Baikal,” he sincerely observed.

After tearing off a hunk of bread for himself, the sonar chief added, “You know, I have it from a good authority that Comrade Irkutsk has a secret source for the sausage’s stuffing.”

“What’s that?”

Relishing the moment, Zinyakin grinned.

“My spies tell me that our dear chef stuffs the sausage skins with the remains of those unlucky cooks who have burned their limits on past patrols. Tonight we are probably dining on a poor departed seaman who hailed from the Lake Baikal region. Thus, this recipe’s name.”

Kuzmin answered his friend with a sarcastic smile.

Yet his grin soon faded as his hand went to his mouth and pulled out a long strand of yellow hair.

“See, he was a blond!” Zinyakin exclaimed and shook with laughter as the which man loudly belched, then pushed the tray away.

“I’ll get us some tea,” offered the still chuckling sonar operator.

Distastefully picking his teeth with his fingernail, Kuzmin hastily scanned the rapidly tilling room. A line had formed at the serving station. The crowd chatter was unusually hushed in response to the continuing state of General Quarters.

As he surveyed the filled tables, Kuzmin noticed an absence of senior officers. The captain was also nowhere to be seen. Previously, he had done his best to share this sitting with them whenever his duties allowed. Remembering the torn plastic cassette in his pocket, Kuzmin wished that Valenko would appear now, so that he could tell the captain of his finding.

Zinyakin returned with their tea. Over a bowl of fruit compote, discussion turned to their families.

Both men proudly displayed the latest pictures of their sons. Since both children were of a similar age, it was hoped that they would grow up together as friends.

But if the navy had its way, there was no telling where either of them would be shipped off to next.

Kuzmin left the mess still a bit hungry but in excellent spirits.

Without hesitation he made his way to his bunk. Far from being afforded the luxury of private quarters, his position as warrant officer still allowed him a greater degree of privacy than the majority of the enlisted men. Most of the conscripts slept in large communal dorms. Even their mattresses were “hot,” meaning that one man slept while another worked.

The which man shared his leisure space with a chief petty officer and two first-class petty officers. Though they had no walls between them, a drawn curtain around one’s bunk guaranteed privacy. Kuzmin kicked off his shoes and peeled off his uniform.

Clothed now in an undershirt and sciwies, he climbed into his bunk, pulled the curtain around him and crawled under the rumpled sheets. As he settled on his back, he burped loudly and again tasted the single bite of greasy sausage that he had consumed at dinner. Three belches later, he silently cursed Chef Anatoly and seriously reconsidered Lev Zinaykin’s tale regarding the mysterious source of the sausage stuffing.

Shifting to his side, he attempted to close his eyes, when an alien discomfort began gnawing in his belly.

This ache continued to intensify until he found sleep all but impossible. He gratefully remembered the bottle of antacid tablets that Galina had forced him to pack along with his few personal toilet items. He sat up with another burp and reached under his mattress for his leather shaving kit.

The thick white tablets had a gritty, chalky taste, yet he managed to force down four of them. Even then, his stomach still burned. To get his mind off his discomfort, he decided that this would be the perfect time to work on’re splicing the broken tape. Since it could just as easily be accomplished in the comfort of his bunk, he reached out for the cassette, grabbed a set of miniature screwdrivers and immersed himself in the job.

The screws that held. the plastic tape holder together were tiny.

After removing them, Kuzmin took extra care to place them in a spot where they would not get lost. Once the two halves of the cassette were separated, he began the delicate task of splicing together the torn ends of the narrow, plastic ribbon.

With steady hands, he used a tiny piece of clear masking tape to do the trick. Careful not to allow the spools to unwind, he screwed the holder back together and wound it tight with his pinky.

With the repair work finished, he decided to listen to the tape and see what it contained. Once again he reached under his bunk, this time removing his prized Sorry Walkman, which he had picked up a year ago in Cam Rahn Bay. This device had afforded him hours of listening pleasure, though both prerecorded tapes and batteries were often hard to obtain. Snapping the Walkman open, he pulled out his treasured tape of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake and inserted the tape from the sensor recorder. With the miniature sponge-covered speakers clipped to his ears, he hit the play button and found himself startled by a deafening, grinding roar. Quickly, he reached over and turned down the volume.

Kuzmin was certain he was hearing the explosion that they had monitored earlier. When the sound abruptly ceased, to be replaced by utter silence, he knew that he had reached the spot where the break had occurred. He pressed the stop button and hit rewind.

As the which man sat up, he realized that his stomach ache had passed.

Gone, too, were all thoughts of sleep. Since it was evident that the recording mechanism had been functioning up to the point of the blast, he was confident that he’d be able to identify the doomed vessel. All he needed was access to the Vulkan’s computer.

Kuzmin pulled back the curtain, crawled oft the bunk and got dressed.

To insure a private work space, he chose the sub’s attack center.

Located on the floor directly above him, this equipment-packed compartment would only be utilized during the times of actual combat.

Here, the Vulkan’s various offensive and defensive functions were monitored.

As he had hoped, the attack center indeed proved vacant. After positioning himself before the room’s central keyboard, he inserted the cassette tape into the playback mechanism and tapped into the vessel’s sensor identification banks. With the assistance of a pair of headphones, he listened to the distant surging that occupied the first half of the tape. Though he was unable to make any sense out of this jumble of noise, the computer had much better luck. When the monitor flashed alive, the which man quickly scanned the screen for his requested data.

Propulsion source: Geared steam turbines, 100,000 slip; 2 shafts, 34 knots.

Group Classification: Soviet Kresta-class cruiser. Sensor Deployment: 1 variable depth communications array.

Kuzmin pushed his headphones closer to his ears as an alien turbulence sounded above the steady hum of the cruiser’s turbines. Again he asked the computer to identify the signature.

Propulsion source: Stored chemical energy. Group Classification: Soviet SS-N-7 conclusion tipped torpedo.

Probable source: Alfa-class attack sub.

The significance of this data only sank in when the tape filled with the sound of the massive explosion.

The which man pulled the headphones off and stared out, wide-eyed. The vessel that had been blasted was indeed of Soviet origin. What shocked him was the puzzling fact that the weapon that had sent it to the bottom was also one of their own. Had a tragic miscalculation taken place topside, or was this attack somehow intentional? Kuzmin knew only one individual who could possibly answer this question. With a determined stride, he took off for the cabin of Petyr Valenko.

The warrant officer barely noticed the sour heaviness that lay in his gut as he traversed the hallway leading to officer country. Not really sure what he had chanced upon, he could only be certain that four hundred of his comrades most likely lay dead in the nearby waters. If this meant that the alert they currently found themselves in was not a mere exercise, and a shooting war actually existed, one question remained: who was the enemy? He was still trying to puzzle it out as he turned down the corridor that brought him to the captain’s quarters.

Standing outside Petyr Valenko’s door was a grim faced senior seaman.

Kuzmin was shocked to find the sailor with a holstered pistol on his hip.

“Comrade Olenya, what is the meaning of your current duty? Is something the matter with the Captain?”

The big-boned Georgian sentry returned Kuzmin’s inquisitive glance with one of bored indifference.

“That will be for the zampolit to say, Comrade. I’ve merely been instructed to send all those who desire to see the Captain to Ivan Novikov’s cabin.”

“What are you talking about, Olenya? Step aside. I have important information for Captain Valenko.”

The guard’s hand went to his gun as he moved to block the door with his body.

“My orders are most explicit. Comrade. Please don’t press me to enforce them.”

Aware of the man’s sincerity, Kuzmin backed off.

“Something strange is going on aboard this ship, and I aim to get to the bottom of it. I will be back, Comrade. Of that, you can be assured.”

Ivan Novikov’s quarters were in an adjoining hallway, and the which man wasted no time getting there.

He had visited this particular cabin only a handful of times before, yet he remembered those meetings with great displeasure. It wasn’t just the hard-edged theories that the political officer was always so quick to promulgate, but rather the man’s personality that was so distasteful. Novikov was quick with advice but a poor listener. Too often he sounded as cold as a machine, while reeling off the Party’s current viewpoint.

There was no doubt that he was but a mouthpiece, with few ideas originating in his own mind.

Kuzmin gathered his nerve and knocked firmly on the door. Without a word spoken, its length slid open with a hiss. The zampolit was seated at his desk.

Above him was a large, framed representation of Lenin, the room’s only visible decoration. Upon identifying his visitor, Novikov beckoned him to enter.

“Do come in, Comrade Kuzmin. To what do I owe this rare visit? Do you seek Party guidance, perhaps?”

Kuzmin took a step inside, and replied uncomfortably, “No sir. I only desire to have a word with the Captain.”

With this, the door hissed shut behind him. The zampolit put down his pencil, “Why is that. Comrade Michmanr’ Noting the undertone of suspicion in the political officer’s query, Kuzmin’s nerve temporarily faltered.

“It was really nothing, sir — just a personal matter that I wished to discuss with him.”

A forced smile painted Novikov’s narrow lips.

“Can’t I be of some service to you. Comrade? I’m certain that you’ll find me a most worthy substitute.”

“Thank you for your offer, but I’d rather see the Captain. Is there something wrong with him?”

“I’m surprised that you didn’t notice before,” the zampolit said smoothly.

“The poor man has got an extremely bad fever. The corpsman fears that he’s showing the primary symptoms of hepatitis. It was just like our esteemed Captain to want to ignore these danger signs, but I would not hear of it. Senior Lieutenant Leonov was consulted and both of us agreed that Comrade Valenko must get some badly needed rest. I placed the guard outside his room personally, so that he wouldn’t be unnecessarily disturbed.”

Kuzmin had certainly not noticed any signs of sickness in the captain, and responded carefully.

“That was most thoughtful of you, sir. My small problem surely doesn’t warrant waking the Captain from his sickbed. I’ll handle it on my own.”

Novikov looked down at the sheet of paper he had been working on and cooly said, “Isn’t this your appointed rest period. Comrade Kuzmin?”

As the which man nodded, the zampolit continued.

“Well, then, get back to your bunk where you belong.

We are going to need you rested and alert for the next work shift.”

“I was just going back there, sir. I’m sorry if I interrupted you.”

“Not at all, Comrade, I only wish you’d have been relaxed enough to share your worries with me. Don’t be such a stranger. Your record is good and a visit to one of our komsomol meetings will reflect well on you.

Remember, the Party is here only to make your toils that much easier.”

The political officer hit the door switch as Kuzmin saluted and pivoted to exit. Gratefully, he stepped out into the hallway.

The air seemed fresh and several degrees cooler than the stuffy confines he had just left. As he proceeded down the corridor, he struggled to put his thoughts in order. The zampolit was lying — of that he was certain. If Petyr Valenko had hepatitis, he had come down with it within the last couple of hours.

Patting his pants pocket, Kuzmin felt the outline of the cassette that had sent him on his journey. Could its mysterious contents possibly have something to do with the confusing encounter he had just experienced?

Again, he knew that he could only trust one person’s advice.

Picking up an intercom handset, he dialed the captain’s room. When there was no answer, he tried reaching Valenko with a general page. Two soft electronic tones sounded throughout the ship. Thirty seconds later, his page was answered by a familiar voice that definitely did not belong to his friend.

Breathlessly, Kuzmin disconnected the zampolit before he gave himself away.

He was now convinced that he would find something out of the ordinary behind the captain’s locked door. Fearful for Valenko’s safety, Kuzmin decided that an inspection of his cabin was most necessary.

Yet, how could he get past that heavy-handed sentry?

An idea popped into his head as he continued down the corridor separating the officers’ sleeping quarters.

Just last month he had supervised an inspection of the Vulkan’s ventilation system. One of those shafts, which he personally checked, led directly into the captain’s room. Accessible from a nearby storage compartment, Kuzmin saw no reason why he couldn’t use it to see just what was going on in there. Since the chances of detection were sum, he decided that he had nothing to lose by trying.

The which man soon found himself inside a large walk-in closet used to store janitorial supplies. Because of the volatile nature of the cleaning solvents, the room was well ventilated. The air conditioning shaft was set into the upper edge of the wall. It was covered by a flimsy wire-mesh screen. To reach it, Kuzmin had to use a bank of shelves for a ladder.

Using his pocket knife, he loosened the two bottom fastenings that held the grill up. By prying it outward, he was able to squeeze himself into the shaft without completely removing the screen. This was important, as anyone entering the closet would notice a missing cover at once.

Sweating from the effort, he lifted his body into the shaft. He slithered forward to fit his legs in, then crawled backward and refastened the grill cover.

The round metallic shaft in which he now found himself was just wide enough to allow his shoulders room to pass. Forward progress would only be possible by crawling on his hands and knees. He didn’t have the benefit of a flashlight and a wall of darkness soon descended. It was impossible for him to gauge his forward progress.

As he pushed himself on, he wondered what he would find at the shaft’s end. Perhaps his entire effort would prove to be a waste of time. In a way, he hoped this would be the case, but he seriously doubted it.

Petyr Valenko had been fit as a fiddle the last time he had seen him.

There was no way the captain could have succumbed to a natural illness so quickly. He had only needed to look into the zampolit’s shifty eyes to know that Novikov was lying. Yet, what in the world could he be covering up?

Kuzmin feared the answer to this question. Since sharing the last leave together, the which man felt closer to his captain than ever before. Now that Valenko and Ivana had hit it off so well, he was practically a member of the family. Galina had told Kuzmin during the party that the two were attracted to each other, and the next day he had learned just how serious this attraction was. He certainly didn’t blame Valenko. Ivana was quite a woman. Not only did she emit a raw sexuality, she was also extremely bright.

Her sister had always hinted that it was this above-average intelligence that scared off her suitors, but Kuzmin thought he, knew better! She hadn’t settled down because she hadn’t found a man whom she could call her equal. Surely the captain more than adequately fit this profile. Sorry that their leave had been cut so abruptly, Kuzmin looked forward to their return, when he would once more invite the captain for dinner. With this added motivation, the which man scooted forward as quickly as he could.

A blast of frigid air hit his feet, and soon his whole body was enveloped in a chilly breeze, the transfer of which was the purpose of this shaft. When the cold caused painful cramps to develop in his thighs, his progress was all but stopped. Writhing in agony, he reached in vain to massage his muscles. He could only attempt to rub the cramp out against the cold steel of the shaft. Eventually his muscles relaxed and he continued on.

Just when it seemed that he would never reach his goal, a sliver of light beckoned from up ahead. The intensity of the light gradually increased in relation to his forward progress. He had to give his eyes several seconds to adjust to the brightness before he was in a position to see the source of the light.

The ventilation grill was set in the wall immediately above the captain’s desk. From this vantage point Kuzmin had an adequate view of the room’s interior.

It was to the cabin’s single bunk that his eyes were drawn. There, laying bound and unconscious on the narrow mattress, was Petyr Valenko.

Angered to the point of desperation, the which man snapped out the wire screen’s bottom fasteners with the heel of his hand. Oblivious to injury, he tumbled out of the shaft head-first, using the desk to break his fall. Though he was racked with pain, he focused his entire attention on his captive friend.

The warrant officer sighed with relief when his fingers found the captain’s pulse; it was weak, but steady. While removing the adhesive tape from Valenko’s mouth, Kuzmin spotted a nasty looking red bruise over Valenko’s right temple. To halt the spotty flow of blood still oozing from the wound, he used a damp wash cloth as a gentle compress.

Then he wet another towel and laid it over Valenko’s forehead.

As he unraveled the tape binding the captain’s wrists, Kuzmin realized that his friend was stirring.

Ever so slowly, the captain’s eyes opened. As he struggled to focus, he caught sight of Kuzmin and groggily mumbled, “Stefan? Stefan, what has happened here?”

“Easy now, Comrade,” the which man gently pleaded.

“Give yourself a moment to allow your head to clear. You’ve got one nasty gash on your forehead.”

Kuzmin unraveled the tape that bound the captain’s ankles. By the time he was done, Valenko was doing his best to scan the room.

There was a sudden light in his eyes as memory returned, and Valenko gasped, “The Vulkan … my ship … the Zampolit!”

Kuzmin put a finger to his lips and signaled the captain to be quiet.

Then he whispered, “I’m afraid you have a sentry outside your door.

Captain. We’re going to have to be very careful not to draw his attention.”

Valenko nodded that he understood and strained to sit up. The which man helped him by placing a pair of pillows under his neck.

With frantic urgency, Valenko said, “You’ve got to help me, Stefan. The zampolit and Senior Lieutenant Leonov have taken control of the ship!”

“I figured as much,” the which man said.

“I’ll bet this mutiny is related to the sensor tape I just completed analyzing. The hydrophone recording device was not malfunctioning, as we had earlier assumed. It looks to me like someone deliberately slit the cassette tape. I can prove not only that the shock-wave was caused by an exploding Kresta-class cruiser, but that the weapon that caused the blast was … a Soviet torpedo.”

Stunned by the disclosure, Valenko’s eyes widened.

“No wonder Novikov didn’t want the Vulkan to ascend for reconfirm orders!”

“What are you talking about, Captain?” the confused which man asked.

Valenko took a few seconds before answering.

“The first thing that you have to know, Stefan, is that the Vulkan is under a Red Flag alert. To my knowledge, this is not a planned exercise. As you well know, when such an alert is received we need only concern ourselves with communication attempts on the ELF bands.

When Zinyakin picked up that transmission, just before the blast, my gut told me that it was one of our own ships desperately trying to contact us. If it was indeed a Soviet torpedo that took it to the bottom, someone sure went to extremes to make certain that message wasn’t successfully transmitted.”

Suddenly conscious of the fact that he didn’t know the time, Valenko looked at his watch — and issued a long sigh of relief.

“Thank goodness there’s still time.

Our war orders have instructed us to empty our missile magazine at 2130 hours. When I voiced my decision to order an ascent to communication depth at 2100 hours, to receive a final confirmation, the zampolit made his move. No war has been declared, they only want us to believe that one has!” “But why?” asked the stunned which man “You’ll find the answer to your question locked inside the warhead guidance system. If my suspicions are correct, I think you’ll find that the set of targets that were originally programmed have been drastically changed.”

“In what way?”

“Our previous targets were primarily soft ones-various military and civilian centers on America’s West Coast. If hard targets have since been substituted, the Vulkan could be the lead element in a surprise, decapitating first strike. To find out for certain, I’m going to need your assistance, Stefan.”

“Just name it, Captain. I’m behind you one hundred percent.” “First off,” said the captain, “I’m going to want you to tie me up once again. There’s no use letting these maniacs know that we’re on to them. Then, you’re going to sneak back out of here and access that guidance system. Today’s code word is Lake Khasan. If our targets have been changed, we can be certain of the mutineers’ motives. It will be up to you to make sure that our SS-N-18s can’t be launched.”

“I believe I can get into the missile room without attracting too much attention,” the warrant officer said.

“Yuri Chuchkin and I are on excellent terms. If I can be there alone for a few minutes, I know of a most accessible circuit panel. A quick slash and the launch-control system will be completely inoperable.”

“Excellent! How thankful I am for the bond that brings us together, Stefan. For the sake of little Nikolai and the rest of the children of the world, we mustn’t fail. Now quickly, retie these bonds and be off!

The seconds to the apocalypse continue to tick away.”