Torpedo!

CHAPTER 3

His long membership in the Politburo entitled Leonid Plotovsky to sit at the head of the table in the third-floor conference room in the KGB headquarters. The radiators hissed and rattled as the building engineers, alerted by Stefan Lubutkin that a senior member of the Politburo was in the building, sought to keep the third floor warm enough to prevent a complaint from the old Communist street fighter.

To Plotovsky’s right sat two admirals of the Soviet Navy, their uniform jackets bedecked with metals. To his left, one chair removed from the end of the table, sat Submarine Commander Nikita Kovitz, his square face solemn, his deep-set eyes wary. His face showed the strain he had been under during the flight from Tripoli to Moscow. He had spent the long hours of the flight worrying about the meeting that was now about to begin.

To Kovitz’s left sat Stefan Lubutkin, a pad of paper and a gold Cross pen on the table in front of him. Lubutkin kept his eyes lowered, looking at the pen, a gift from Igor Shevenko. Farther down the table Sophia Blovin, her prominent breasts encased in a tight sweater, sat next to Shevenko.

Plotovsky cleared his throat and looked around. He saw the white enameled cuspidor that Shevenko had ordered Lubutkin to place beside his chair. He hawked noisily and spat into the cuspidor.

“Begin,” he ordered.

“As you know, honored Comrade,” Admiral Aleksandr Zurahv said, “we have been greatly concerned with the American capability to strike at almost every one of our cities with nuclear missiles fired from their submarines. We are vulnerable to that threat from every quadrant of the compass except the north.

“We have devoted great energy to find a means to neutralize that threat. We have had some success. The development of our own nuclear ballistic missile submarines gives us a means to strike at American cities from the sea. Another success has been the building of a new class of nuclear attack submarines which are very fast and can go much deeper than previous submarines of that type.

“We realized that to make these new attack submarines a real threat to the American missile submarines we needed a new weapon, a torpedo, that would have great range and yet could be fired at a target close to our own submarines.” He paused and filled his great chest with air and let it out slowly.

“I must at this point, Comrade Plotovsky, give you a little background that you might not have. The Americans have armed many of their torpedoes with nuclear warheads. We can do the same thing. When one does that the torpedo must be exploded at least six to eight miles away from the submarine that fired it or the submarine will be destroyed in the nuclear explosion. At such great distances one sacrifices accuracy.

“We wanted a new type of torpedo that would seek out the enemy through the sounds the enemy ship makes. It should be armed with a non-nuclear warhead. Using a non-nuclear warhead means the torpedo can be fired at a target that is fairly close to the firing submarine, thus increasing accuracy to a high degree. We have developed such a torpedo with an entirely new type of sonar reading device that will not confuse the noise our submarine makes with the noise of the enemy submarine.” He paused as he saw Plotovsky’s forehead wrinkle.

“Existing models of sound-seeking torpedoes have a weakness, Comrade. Often the torpedo, after being fired, would hear the noise its own submarine was making and would circle around and attack the ship that fired it. With our new torpedo we can program it ahead of time with the sound patterns of the ship that will be firing it and it will ignore those programmed noises and seek out the noise of an enemy ship, for example, an enemy submarine.”

“Speak precisely,” Plotovsky said. He hawked and spat noisily into the cuspidor. Sophia Blovin shuddered slightly and Shevenko smiled to himself.

“Politically speaking,” Plotovsky wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Politically speaking we are not at war with anyone so we have no enemies, as that word is commonly used.”

“A matter of habit, Comrade,” the Admiral said. “Like all true Party members I consider all nations, all peoples who oppose us in any way as an enemy.”

“Go on,” Plotovsky said.

“The development of this new weapon gave us a countermeasure against the American nuclear threat but it was a countermeasure on paper only. Unless we found a way to test it under actual combat conditions.” The Admiral’s small eyes, almost buried in heavy pouches of flesh, squeezed shut and then opened.

Plotovsky raised a thin hand, the age spots on the back of his hand standing out clearly in the harsh fluorescent lighting. “This is information that was not brought out at the Politburo meeting where the testing program was discussed. I will take up that omission with you later.” He turned toward Captain Nikita Kovitz.

“I presume that the weapon has been tested and you are the one who did the testing?”

“I was given orders, Comrade.” The words came slowly from Captain Kovitz. “I have the habit of loyalty, sir. I am loyal to my Party, to my nation, to my superior officers. I carried out my orders, Comrade Plotovsky.”

“Which were? Please speak precisely, Captain.”

“I was told that on a certain day and at a certain time a submarine would clear the Strait of Gibraltar on a certain course. I was ordered to track, to follow, sir, that submarine for several hours. If I were detected during the tracking period I was to break off the operation and retire at high speed. If I was not detected I was to close to a specified firing range and test fire the new weapon.

“I closed to the prescribed firing range,” Kovitz said stolidly. “I test fired the new torpedo.”

Plotovsky had closed his eyes. His thin hands rested on the table top.

“The weapon was fired,” Captain Kovitz continued, his voice low. “Our sonar operators reported that the weapon ran toward the target at what is called the search mode speed. It was heard to increase speed when it detected the noise from the target’s propeller. The weapon exploded precisely when it should have, given its speed and distance to be traveled. The target’s propeller noises stopped after the explosion. Our sonar operators echo-ranged on the target, that is, sir, they sent out sound beams against the target. The target was tracked down to a depth of two thousand fathoms. It is my considered opinion, sir, that the target was destroyed. No submarine can survive at a depth of two thousand fathoms, sir.”

“Your target was an American ballistic missile submarine?”

“I do not know that, Comrade. I never saw the target.”

“Then it is possible that you fired this new weapon at a Soviet submarine, is it not?” Plotovsky’s fierce eyes opened with a snap, staring at Captain Kovitz. Kovitz reached into the sleeve of his uniform jacket and pulled out a clean white handkerchief. He mopped his face and looked across the table at Admiral Zurahv. The Admiral smiled.

“Comrade Plotovsky,” Admiral Zurahv said in his heavy voice, “one must break eggs to make an omelet, as the saying goes. You broke many eggs for the good of the Party, the nation. A good omelet is worth the price of a few broken eggs. We have developed and tested a weapon that could save our nation from a nuclear holocaust.”

“I see,” Plotovsky said in a mild voice. “But if you will, Admiral, consider this possibility.

“Let us assume that the target you tested your weapon on was an American submarine. The Americans will know, soon enough, that one of their submarines is missing. They will search for it, won’t they? And if they find it and determine how it was lost do you think they will blame the North Vietnamese?” Plotovsky began tapping the table top with a thin forefinger. The clicking sound of his brittle fingernail hitting the table hung in the air.

“What interests me, Admiral, is the price of your omelet.”

“The test site was carefully chosen, Comrade.” Admiral Zurahv’s heavy lips parted and showed a row of tobacco-stained teeth. “As Captain Kovitz said, the target is on the bottom in two thousand fathoms of water.”

“Two thousand fathoms is twelve thousand feet,” Plotovsky’s voice was soft, pedantic. “The oceans have been explored, by the Americans among others, to much greater depths, to depths three times two thousand fathoms. In a submersible vessel with windows and lights and manned by men, Admiral, men who can see and evaluate what they see.

“One must then assume that the Americans have the means to find their submarine and once they find it to learn how it was sunk.” He paused, his lizardlike eyes staring at Admiral Zurahv. When he spoke his voice was like the crack of a whip.

“You have committed an act of war, Admiral! You have acted politically and you have no authority to make political decisions or acts! That is the province of the Politburo!”

“The Politburo authorized the test,” Zurahv said.

“For some years now,” Plotovsky’s voice was again soft, “we have had eleven members in the Politburo. There is wisdom in the odd number. If a vote results in a tie, five to five, Comrade Brezhnev as First Secretary can cast the tie-breaking vote. When your project was voted on one member was sick and did not vote. The vote was five to four in favor of the test. Comrade Brezhnev did not choose to vote and cause a tie.” He stood up, his hands braced against the top of the table.

“I led the minority, sir. I will call for a special meeting of the Politburo to consider the situation you have created. If I were you I would not depend on a confirmation by vote of your action. You will be given the opportunity to explain your actions.” He turned to look at Captain Kovitz.

“I advise you, Captain, to read the accounts of the Nuremberg War Trials. Blind obedience to orders from a superior can be dangerous.” He turned and shuffled out of the room. When the door closed behind him Admiral Zurahv shrugged and smiled at the people around the table.

“Once he was a great hero, a fearless man. Now he is old. He fears progress and the changes it brings, the technology that gives us progress.” He stood up and smoothed his uniform jacket over his vast belly, smiling at Sophia Blovin.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, young lady. I hope to see you again. Captain Kovitz, I would like you to come with me to my office to discuss your report. We have made arrangements for your lodging tonight. You will be flown back to your ship tomorrow.” He smiled genially at Shevenko and bowed slightly toward Sophia Blovin. He left the room followed by the other admiral with Captain Kovitz bringing up the rear.

Shevenko pushed his chair back and stood up and pulled Sophia’s chair back as she stood. “You have made an impression on Admiral Zurahv,” he said with a grin. She shook her head, her smile faint.

“I trust that you won’t consider this meeting a waste of your time,” Shevenko said. “Without doubt you will be called on to appear before the meeting that Plotovsky mentioned to give your impression of what effect this incident will have on the American political and popular mind. I reasoned that if you could see the shape of the clouds that are forming you could better prepare yourself for that meeting.”

Sophia drew a deep breath and the fabric of her sweater stretched dangerously. “I appreciate your concern for me, Comrade Director. I would like to talk to you about what areas of research I should follow.”

“Dinner this evening?” Shevenko whispered as he pushed the chairs back to the table. She smiled and nodded and Shevenko went to the door and held it open for her, letting his elbow brush gently against the swell of her breast as she passed him.

Captain Steel’s office was as austere as the man. A battered desk stood at one end of the room. Although the Captain’s office was in the E-Ring he had resisted the efforts of the GSA to furnish the office according to the GSA directives. When meetings were held in Captain Steel’s office his Chief Yeoman brought in folding metal chairs and lined them up in front of the desk Captain Steel had first sat behind when he had been ordered to Washington.

Vice Admiral Brannon and Rear Admiral John Olsen were waiting in Steel’s outer office when Rear Admiral Benson arrived with Bob Wilson, his senior aide. The three admirals shook hands and Benson introduced Bob Wilson to Brannon and Olsen. The Chief Yeoman in charge of the office looked agonized as he glanced at his wrist watch.

“It’s thirteen fifty-seven, Admiral Brannon. Captain Steel told me your appointment was for fourteen hundred hours, sir.”

“It’s all right, Chief,” Brannon said. “We don’t mind waiting.” He turned to talk to the other men as the Chief Yeoman watched the second hand on his Rolex click slowly toward two P.M. At thirty seconds before the hour he opened the door to Captain Steel’s office.

“Vice Admiral Brannon, Rear Admirals Benson and Olsen and Mr. Robert Wilson, civilian aide to Admiral Benson, sir.” He stood to one side as the party entered the office and then closed the door. Mike Brannon chose a metal chair at the end of the row of four chairs and sat down cautiously, testing the chair to see if it would hold his bulk.

“Good afternoon, Captain,” Brannon said. “As you know, Sharkfin is seventy-four hours overdue with her regular position report.

“Several possibilities exist as to why Sharkfin has not reported. One is that she suffered a communications breakdown. That is not a very solid assumption since all nuclear submarines have ample redundancy in communications. Another possibility is that she may have suffered a breakdown in her nuclear power plant and is on the bottom, trying to make repairs.”

“No nuclear power plant in any nuclear submarine has ever failed.” Captain Steel’s voice was dry, rasping.

“Acknowledged,” Brannon said. He drew a long breath. “There is also the possibility that Sharkfin was attacked by the Soviet submarine that tracked her.”

“You can assume anything you wish,” Steel said. “I am an engineer. I am not a gossip or a rumor monger. If Sharkfin is down the probable cause of her being down is a manpower failure. We have too many enlisted men on nuclear submarines who have not been through my training schools. Any one of those enlisted men could have made a fatal mistake that could cause the loss of the Sharkfin. Or any other nuclear submarine.”

“That ground has been gone over time and again,” Brannon said. “You know why every enlisted man aboard nuclear submarines is not a graduate of the Navy’s nuclear training schools. We can’t recruit enough men who are able to pass the tests to qualify for the nuclear schools. We can’t even coax enough qualified submarine men to go to the schools. We are forced to fill out the crews on the nukes with men who even if they haven’t been to a nuclear school are damned good submariners.”

“I know how many times that specious argument has been raised and I know who is chiefly responsible for raising it,” Steel said. “I presume you didn’t come here to resume that argument. Please get to the point.”

Brannon sensed John Olsen tensing beside him and cleared his throat.

“If the Sharkfin has been lost to an unprovoked enemy action then all of our nuclear missile submarines might be in danger from continued unprovoked attacks.”

“You have no proof of such an unprovoked action,” Steel snapped. “You’re jumping to a conclusion, sir. You are, I believe, addicted to reading spy stories, are you not? Is that why you brought these two spies with you?”

Mike Brannon felt the anger rising in him and fought to hold it back. “Captain Steel,” he said, keeping his voice level, “we are here to do you the courtesy of keeping you informed. Admiral Benson might be able to give us some information we do not know. Mr. Wilson has spent his adult life working in the CIA and he is the Agency’s ranking expert on Soviet clandestine operations. You might learn something you don’t know. So might I.”

Captain Steel looked at the battered Timex he wore on his right wrist. “You have a few more minutes left of your time.” He lowered his head and stared at his desk. Admiral Benson nudged Wilson.

“The Soviets have a new attack submarine,” Wilson began. “Our information is that these new submarines are very fast, faster than ours.” He stopped as Captain Steel raised his head.

“I know that,” Steel said.

Wilson flushed. “We also have information that the Soviets have a new type of torpedo that has a sophisticated sound system in it to search for targets.”

“How long did you serve in submarines? How much experience have you had with torpedoes? When did you first hear about this new torpedo?” Steel’s voice was harsh.

“The answer to the first two questions is none. Four months ago is the answer to the third part of your question.”

Steel looked at Wilson and then at Brannon. “I knew about their new torpedo six months ago. I have work to do. Keep me informed, Admiral Brannon. I will see to it that the President and the chairmen of the appropriate congressional committees are informed at the proper time.”

Brannon stood up, his normally genial face suddenly hard. “I will be the judge of when and if the President or anyone else is informed, sir. Keep that in mind.” He wheeled and left the office, Olsen following him. They heard Steel’s snickering laughter as they went through the door.

Brannon’s yeoman had hot coffee and a platter of doughnuts waiting for Brannon and Olsen when they got back to Brannon’s office.

“How do we retaliate?” Olsen asked.

“I don’t know,” Brannon said. “What I do know is that we have to find the Sharkfin and find out what happened to her.” He sorted through a stack of papers on his desk.

“The Medusa is in Rota for rest and minor ship repair. She’s an oceanographic survey ship and she’s got enough bottom-charting sonar gear on her to find the Sharkfin if anything can. Get a message off to her skipper. I want her at sea as soon as possible.” He went over to a chart of the world that dominated one wall of his office, a pair of dividers in his hand.

“She’s only a few hours steaming from Sharkfin’s course line. Send her orders to chart the bottom along that line from Sharkfin’s last position report for, oh, two hundred miles. If she picks up anything that gives a return indicating metal of any size on the bottom I want to know about it at once.”

“You want to tell her skipper what he’s looking for?”

Brannon chewed his lower lip. “No, but I guess we have to. Get latitude and longitude and Sharkfin’s course from Commander Fencer.” He went through another stack of papers on his desk.

“Send a priority message, ‘Captain’s Eyes Only,’ to the Devilfish. She’s in Holy Loch. Tell her skipper to get underway at once. Give him a patrol area one hundred miles west of Gibraltar. Tell him to make all possible speed in getting to the patrol area. Put him directly under my command. I want position reports from him pre-dawn and after dark. He is to operate without being observed.” He turned and walked to the window. A burst of sleet hammered against the glass.

“If I remember an information memo a while back,” Olsen’s voice was low, “if I remember, all the submarines at Holy Loch have been given the modified SUBROC nuclear missiles, that right?”

“Yes.” Mike Brannon answered.