Counterforce

by Richard P. Henrick

  “I understand our time perimeters, Martin, but Friday will be here before we know it. I think it would be best to have all the contingencies thought out well beforehand. A single emergency could have consequences of a most dire nature. Get me that list of the various agencies involved by lunchtime, and by all means get me a copy of that flight plan. I’ve got to know exactly where that plane is the second it takes off from Petropavlovsk. Thanks for all your help with this, Martin.

  I’ll be talking with you again shortly.”

  With a sigh of relief, the admiral hung up the receiver, shook his head and addressed his visitor.

  “Sorry about that, Michael. You know how much I enjoy inter-agency squabbling. That was Martin Lawrence over at State. Unbelievable as it may seem, they want the Third to help monitor the advance of Rodin’s plane when it takes off for L.A. on Friday. As if that’s all we’ve got to do.”

  Pushing his chair back, he swiveled around to take a look outside, while stretching out his cramped, long limbs. This movement seemed to lighten his mood considerably.

  “By the way Captain, welcome back home.”

  “Thanks, Admiral. Is this summit really as serious as it sounds? We just learned of it while we were pulling in yesterday.”

  “That’s right, you were out to sea when President Palmer issued the invitation. You wouldn’t believe how quickly this whole thing came down. Sure not like the old days.”

  “Do you think that it’s going to make a difference?” Cooksey asked carefully.

  The admiral looked him straight in the eye.

  “Not as long as they’ve got vessels like that Alfa pulling hotshot stunts — like the one that you chanced upon at Point Luck. Damned if that kind of thing doesn’t get me infuriated!”

  “Well, you should have been there watching it all come down,” Cooksey said.

  “The scary thing about it is that they could have done pretty much whatever they wanted with our surface ships, or, for that matter, with the Triton.”

  Broderick Miller’s response flowed gravely.

  “I’ve read your preliminary, Michael. I can imagine how frustrating it must have been not even having a weapons system capable of running down the bastard.

  By the way, we’ve got a definite on that particular bogey. Big Bird had a clean shot of Petropavlovsk when she came waltzing in with a Delta III on her tail. SOS US confirms that this Alfa and the vessel you went after are the same.”

  “I can’t believe that the President is even bothering to waste his breath with the Soviets,” Cooksey said.

  “Doesn’t he know what’s going on out there?”

  “Well, we certainly send him the reports. Of course, you never know who reads them. I’m still of the opinion that if you’ve got a chance to open up a dialogue between two new leaders, you’ve got to do so.

  Who knows? They might just hit upon something to stop this foolishness. In the meantime, we’re going to keep on doing our jobs the best we know how. That was a mighty fine intercept on the carrier task force, Michael. Before that Alfa showed up, our ships didn’t have any idea that you were even out there.”

  Cooksey blushed a bit at the unexpected compliment.

  “Thanks, Admiral. I’m working with one hell of a fine crew, and our equipment sure can’t be faulted.”

  Broderick Miller stirred anxiously.

  “Speaking of equipment — how would you like a torpedo that would give the Triton an ASW range of 300 miles?”

  “That would depend on which science-fiction book I was reading,” Cooksey said with obvious disbelief.

  “That was my exact response when I first heard of the weapon this spring. I didn’t believe the lab people until I read a report of the successful testing of just such a system four weeks ago.

  “It’s called ASW/SOW, for Anti-Sub Warfare Stand-Off Weapon. Basically, it’s a Tomahawk-family cruise missile that can be fired from a torpedo tube.

  With a range of up to 300 miles, the missile would then drop a Remotely-Guided Autonomous Lightweight torpedo, or REGAL, by parachute.

  When REGAL hits the water, an acoustic array containing a small computer and a sonar transmitter separates and sinks to a pre-set depth. Meanwhile, the torpedo begins propelling itself in a slow search pattern, awaiting a signal from the sonar array to trigger its advanced-capability motor and run the target through.”

  Cooksey shook his head in admiration.

  “I’d say that such a system sounds too good to be true.”

  The admiral beamed.

  “Well, believe it or not, two of the prototype ASW/SOW units will be loaded into the Triton tomorrow morning. Though still officially an experimental system, I’d say that the Alfa, or whatever else the Soviets may throw at us, has finally met its match.”

  Expecting a bit more emotion from Cooksey, the admiral watched him stifle a wide yawn.

  “Are you all right, Michael? You look a bit tired.”

  Fighting to restimulate himself, Cooksey silently cursed the admiral’s awareness.

  “I’m feeling fine, Admiral. Guess I could have allowed myself a couple of additional hours of shut-eye last night.”

  “It’s more than that,” added the hawk-eyed sailor.

  “You seem tense. Not at all like the old Michael Cooksey I used to know. What are your plans for your two-week leave coming up?”

  Cooksey shrugged his shoulders.

  “I really didn’t have anything set. Just thought I’d hang out around Honolulu.”

  “If I remember right, you were quite a golfer in your college days.

  When’s the last time you took some time out to hit the old ball around?”

  Cooksey had to think a minute before answering.

  “I don’t know, I guess it’s been around five years.”

  “Five years! No wonder you look a bit peaked. Old Doc Miller here has the perfect prescription for charging up that sagging system of yours.

  Betty and I keep a little place near Princeville, on the northern shore of Kauai. Next door, there’s one of the prettiest 36-hole courses that you ever set eyes on. It my memory serves me right, the place is vacant at the moment. You’re most welcome to make it your home for the next two weeks.”

  “It sounds inviting. Admiral,” Cooksey said cautiously.

  “But if the Triton is going to be fitted with a new weapons system, I’d better be around for the installation.”

  “Let your exec handle it,” retorted Miller.

  “I’m afraid that I couldn’t ask that of my XO at the moment, sir. As it looks now. Lieutenant Commander Craig is going to be spending the week in the maternity ward.”

  The admiral thought a few seconds before responding.

  “Is Chief Bartkowski still aboard the Triton?”

  Catching Cooksey’s affirmative nod, he continued.

  “With all of that man’s experience, I don’t think you have a thing to worry about. Captain. Old Bartkowski can Handle those new missiles just fine.”

  Still conscious of Cooksey’s blase demeanor, Broderick Miller knew that the young officer needed a break to refresh himself. Standing, he decided to play his trump card.

  “I wasn’t supposed to be letting this out so soon, Michael, but chances are excellent that the Triton will be getting its second consecutive battle-efficiency award. You’re earned a rest, son, now take it.”

  Pleasantly surprised by this revelation, Cooksey broke into a warm, satisfied grin. Such awards were all that he and his crew worked for.

  Their first citation was reason enough for celebration. For them to get two in a row was incredible. Relieved that a lifetime’s goal had been more than achieved, he decided that he deserved to give himself a real vacation.

  Standing, he accepted the admiral’s invitation with a smile and a handshake. Who knew — perhaps he’d even be able to get some proper sleep once again.

  Twenty-four hours later, Cooksey found himself landing at Kauai’s Lihue Airport. Following Admiral Miller�
�s advice, he rented a jeep and was soon barreling along Highway 56 toward the northern edge of the island.

  Happy to be behind the wheel again, he steered cautiously up the narrow roadway.

  The scenery was magnificent, with the crashing Pacific on his right and endless acres of verdant tropical growth to his left. Though the sun had been out in all its glory at Lihue, as he passed through Kilauea the sky clouded up. Minutes later, he was in the midst of a torrential downpour. Just as he thought that he may have to pull off onto the shoulder to let this storm vent itself, the rain stopped, the clouds parted, and blue skies again prevailed. Such cloudbursts were to be expected, for less than ten miles inland was Mount Kawaikini, the wettest known spot on earth.

  The jeep’s windshield was barely dry by the time he reached the Princeville exit. It didn’t take him long to spot the condo in which he would be staying. It was set high on top of a green volcanic bluff, beside the eastern edge of Hanalei Bay. Again he followed the admiral’s directions and found the signs that pointed towards the Princeville golf course. Directly opposite the entrance to the club was a private asphalt road, protected by a closed steel barricade.

  Utilizing his heavy-plastic card key, Cooksey opened the security gate and began his way up the mountainside.

  The condo development was comprised of two dozen individual units. Each was two stories high, designed simply from dark-stained native wood.

  The Millers’ place occupied the northern edge of the grounds. This gave him a spectacular view of Hanalei Bay in the front, and a panoramic landscape of lush, tropical mountains behind them. As he parked the jeep, Cooksey could just make out one of the golf course fairways visible down below; a single cart could be seen innocently crossing its length. Anxiously, he switched off the ignition and unloaded his two bags.

  The first thing that Cooksey noticed as he proceeded inside was the utter quiet. The second was the moist, heavy floral scent that totally permeated the air.

  The interior of the unit was decorated almost completely with rattan furniture. Huge picture windows dominated the walla, producing a light, airy atmosphere. All he would need now were groceries, and he could pass the two weeks quite comfortably.

  A set of golf clubs sat in the hall closet as promised.

  Since it was still early, Cooksey could think of no better way to spend this first day on leave than to check out this course that the admiral constantly bragged about.

  Noon found him at the club’s pro shop, signing up for his first round of golf in five years. The metallic clatter of his spikes brought back many pleasant memories, for this was a sport he had enjoyed since childhood. Known as a promising amateur, he had won dozens of trophies during his junior high and high school years. College brought his game to a new plateau when he was named captain of the Citadel’s excellent golf team. Always one who thrived on competition, there was even a time when he had toyed with the idea of turning professional, until his naval obligation diverted his talents elsewhere.

  Two decades of service, and Cooksey could count the rounds of golf he had played during that time on one hand. He supposed this was due to the fact that his trusty clubs were packed up in his parents basement back in Richmond, Virginia. Yet, he knew that was a poor excuse. The cold truth was that he just didn’t allow himself any time for game-playing.

  A long-absent surge of excitement possessed him as he introduced himself to the pro and paid his greens fee. As it turned out, there was another single waiting to go and, with Cooksey’s consent, a twosome was formed.

  His partner was a likeable, bald-headed pediatrician from St. Louis, Missouri. Drawn to Kauai for his honeymoon, this afternoon’s game was his first venture away from his new bride. It did Cooksey good to talk with someone not in the service. Introductions were exchanged, their cart was loaded, and by the time the sun was straight overhead they had climbed onto the first tee.

  With a bit of apprehension, Cooksey tightened his glove and pulled out the number one wood. The hole was a beauty. It was a par four and appeared extremely unforgiving. The drive would have to carry up a narrow fairway that was flanked by a lake on the right and a sheer, 400-foot drop-off on the left. The doctor hit first and promptly smacked a 200-yard-plus drive straight down the center. After attempting a few practice swings, Cooksey approached his ball.

  Concentrating on an easy, smooth swing, he hit a sizzler that more than matched his opponent’s. A grin of selfsatisfaction painted his face as he climbed into the cart and began mentally preparing for the next shot.

  Four-and-a-half hours later, the twosome was making a golf date for the next morning as they walked off the eighteenth green. Though his game could certainly use some sharpening, Cooksey had come within three strokes of matching the doctor’s par round. True to the admiral’s words, the course had been one of the most beautiful and challenging he had ever played.

  Rolling hills, volcanic promontories, adjoining pineapple fields and thick forests of Cooke pine trees made it a visual paradise. For the first time in months, an entire afternoon had gone by without Cooksey being aware of the passing minutes. Concentration on his game allowed his ponderings to remain far distant from the Triton and his duties.

  The doctor had a great sense of humor, and wasn’t a bit inquisitive as to what Cooksey did in the navy. Instead, he chronicled his honeymoon, told various golf tales and gave the captain a comprehensive lesson in the horrors of rising malpractice insurance.

  Cooksey decided to drive into town and pick up some groceries before returning to the condo. A nice, thick T-bone steak sure sounded like it would do the trick for the evening. Happy to have a healthy appetite, he made a mental list of the supplies he would need. A walk after dinner would be nice, and then he could settle down with that Ed Beach novel he had been wanting to read for so long. And then — a sound night’s sleep. Grateful to have taken the admiral’s advice, Cooksey could already feel the tension draining from him. He’d be his old self in no time.

  Throwing the jeep into second gear, he initiated the long, steep grade into Princeville.

  Cooksey’s round the next morning was a nightmare.

  It was at the third hole that his nasty slice reappeared.

  Six holes later, he was forced to make his way over to the pro shop to replace the dozen balls he had already lost. By the time they reached the fifteenth tee his swing was back in control, but it was much too late to catch the doctor’s lead. Beaten by a whopping seventeen strokes, Cooksey humbly said farewell to his partner, who was returning to the mainland in the morning.

  That same night, he was searching the condo for a spike wrench, when he chanced upon a full set of camping gear stashed in a closet. Stored in a blue nylon backpack, the equipment included a sleeping bag, propane stove, canteen, and a myriad of other utensils necessary for a comfortable overnight stay in the wilderness. Supposing that this gear belonged to the admiral’s son, Cooksey didn’t give it too much thought — until he uncovered a small booklet that lay beneath the toolbox. Entitled Hiking in Kauai, it described a variety of excellent hikes into the interior of the scenic island. In college, backpacking had been another of his favorite after-school activities. Weekend treks into the Appalachians were followed by excursions into the Ozarks and Colorado, and even included a week spent roughing it in the mountains north of Banff. Just as exciting as the trips themselves was the time spent preparing for them. This included many hours devoted to devouring guide books like the one he had just uncovered. On a whim, he took it into the kitchen and began reading it over dinner.

  One particular hike looked most interesting. Coincidentally, it was the only trip of the dozen offered that was underscored in red by the manual’s owner.

  The 10.8 mile trail from Kee Beech to Kalalau was said to be the most spectacular overnight excursion in all the Hawaiian Islands. The trail started where Kauai’s main road. Route 56, ended. That was only seven miles from Cooksey’s current location, outside the tiny village of Haena. Accessible only to backp
ackers, the Kalalau Trail offered verdant valleys, magnificent waterfalls, thick woods of mango, fern and guava, and vistas of the uninhabited north coast that were supposedly unequaled.

  Certain that the Millers wouldn’t mind if he put this gear to use, Cooksey lugged it into the living room and began making a complete inventory. All that was lacking was a proper food supply. Aware that the store at Princeville had a complete line of lightweight, dehydrated and freeze-dried foods, he decided to visit them first thing in the morning and to bring the gear along with him.

  That night, for the first time in months, he slept a sound eight hours.

  Waking fresh and rested, he made himself a hearty breakfast, crammed enough clothing into the pack to last two days and took off to buy groceries. By 10:00 a.m. he was parked in the lot where Highway 56 ended. Per the recommendation of the guidebook, which he brought along, Cooksey left the jeep unlocked. Local thieves were known to smash a hiker’s windows just to check the contents of a closed glove compartment.

  The weather was so mild that he stripped off his T-shirt, leaving himself dressed only in khaki shorts and Reebok sneakers. With barely a grunt, he loaded the thirty-five-pound pack onto his back and took off for Kee Beach. Since the trail here was well marked and easy to follow, he spent the first eighth of a mile adjusting his stride to the additional weight. Once that was accomplished, he was able to pick up some speed.

  The rudiments of hiking, like golf, are not easily forgotten. Taking care to place his step firmly and not jeopardize his balance, Cooksey soon established a comfortable pace. He couldn’t help but feel the alien pressure on his legs and back as the footpath began sloping upward. He knew that he was facing a steep, one-mile climb. To avoid over exertion he decided to stop approximately every quarter mile to catch his breath and enjoy the scenery.

  He took his first rest at a spot where the trail was shaded by a grove of large Kukui trees. Cooksey was able to identify the plant, as well as many other native species, by once again referring to the manual. It was in this manner that he learned that leis were made from Kukui nuts.