Counterforce

by Richard P. Henrick

  He didn’t seem to be the type that had strong political convictions, but the admiral couldn’t ignore the warnings of the frantic Zampolit.

  One more individual would be sacrificed for the good of the masses.

  The grinding whine of the IL-76’s turbofan engines sounded clearly inside the terminal, and Sorokin walked calmly to the observation window. With his right hand, he vainly attempted to smooth down the wild tufts of thin white hair that never seemed to stay in place. He took a deep breath and prepared to meet the man whom he had already condemned to a fiery death. He looked on as the aircraft slowly pulled up to the terminal, appearing like a ponderous, prehistoric beast. The plane halted, a walkway leading directly into the interior was connected, and minutes later his grinning, youthful guest appeared.

  With a forced diplomatic smile, Sorokin met the Premier with a hug and kisses on both cheeks.

  “Good morning. Comrade General Secretary. Welcome to Petropavlovsk.”

  Rodin stretched his cramped frame and politely answered, “Thank you.

  Admiral Sorokin. It’s been much too long since I’ve visited this portion of the Rodina. How have you been?”

  “As well as a man of my advanced years can be,” Sorokin said without much emotion.

  Rodin shook his head.

  “I just hope that I can remain as active as you when I reach your age, Comrade. I see we’ve had a little snowstorm.”

  “It wasn’t the first of the season, and it won’t be the last,” the admiral commented.

  “We’ve been lucky so far in Moscow. The autumn weather has never been so glorious. Of course, now I have the warm, sunny skies of Los Angeles to look forward to.”

  Sorokin smiled at that.

  “If you’re ready, Comrade General Secretary, I think it’s best that we get moving.

  Our schedule today is a tight one.”

  “I was expecting as much,” Rodin responded, and turned to issue last-minute instructions to Olga Tyumen and the rest of his staff.

  Ten minutes later, the Premier and the admiral were cruising down the icy streets of Petropavlovsk.

  From the spacious back seat of a black Zil limousine, they watched the busy city pass. An awkward moment of silence prevailed. It proved to be Viktor Rodin who cleared his throat and initiated the conversation.

  “This city has certainly grown since my last visit. I can attribute the orderliness of this expansion to the navy. Admiral. Your planners did an excellent job of anticipating the future needs of this expanding port facility. As always, I commend you for your foresight.”

  Sorokin merely nodded at the compliment as Rodin continued.

  “I have been meaning to meet with you for some time now. As you know, these past two years have been hectic ones for me. Establishing one’s power base in the Kremlin can be most tiring, but the effort shall soon pay off handsomely.”

  Rodin broke off his discourse when the car suddenly skidded on a patch of ice while rounding a road curve. The alert driver steered into the direction of the skid and soon had the limo back under complete control.

  “I imagine that these streets must have been impassable earlier. By the way, are we headed to the base now?”

  Sorokin replied flatly, “That we are, sir. Your welcoming speech has been delayed until after your inspection of the Vulkan. Since their orders have them sailing on the noon tide, this scheduling change was necessitated.”

  “There’s no trouble with that. Admiral. I’d much rather have the opportunity to meet the brave crew of one of the Motherland’s most advanced vessels than hurry off to give one of my infamous speeches.”

  A shattering crack echoed off the window beside Viktor Rodin. Both men instinctively ducked, while the limo swerved and quickly gained speed.

  “What the hell?” said the admiral incredulously.

  Cautiously, they peeked up and saw the remnants of an icy snowball sticking to the tinted glass.

  “Easy, Admiral, it’s only a child’s errant toss.”

  Turning in an attempt to get a look at the portion of wooded parkland they were passing, Sorokin cursed.

  “I’ll bet my pension that hooligans were responsible for that so-called innocent snowball. You see, we’ve had similar problems here before. A squadron of militia will cool their bravado.”

  Rodin had trouble comprehending the source of the admiral’s anger.

  “Let them be. Comrade. There was no harm done, except a brief scare.

  Tell me if you weren’t tempted as a child to hit just such a target?”

  The redfaced commander of the fleet gradually directed his glance away from the woods.

  “I still think that whoever was responsible should be taught a lesson.

  The next time, a vehicle could be sent totally out of control. And who knows what deviant behavior this could lead to! The time to stop such foolishness is now, while the perpetrator is still young enough to be taught a lesson.”

  Shocked by his host’s temper, Rodin changed the direction of their pointless dialogue as the naval base came into view.

  “Ah, I see that we are at the facility already. I had hoped that we could have taken this time to really talk. There are some matters of the highest importance that I must discuss with you.

  Since my schedule has me tightly booked until tomorrow morning’s flight, why don’t you come along with me to Los Angeles? The trip over the Pacific will give us an ample opportunity to really get to know each other.”

  The surprise invitation left the admiral speechless.

  Ignoring the pounding in his chest, he strove to keep his emotions in check, while pondering the dire implications of such a flight.

  Rodin noticed his host’s inaction and commented accordingly.

  “Did you hear me. Admiral? Well — what do you say to being my guest aboard the flying Kremlin? I’ll even see about arranging a pass for you to tour Disneyland with us.”

  Not believing what he was hearing, Sorokin struggled to voice his response.

  “This invitation is most gracious, Comrade General Secretary, but like yourself, I, too, have a busy schedule. Tomorrow at noon I’m off to Vladivostok, where I’ll be inspecting the headquarters of our famed Fifth Squadron.” “Delay it,” Rodin said.

  “Surely you can complete this inspection upon our return. How many opportunities do you and I have to really sit down and empty our hearts? I have much to share with you and I’m sure that you do likewise. No, I insist that you come along.

  The limo ground to a halt and, while the driver displayed their entry pass at the guard post, Stanislav Sorokin reluctantly nodded his head.

  “I would be honored to accompany you to Los Angeles, Comrade General Secretary,” he said gravely.

  The Zil had already entered the base by the time Rodin answered.

  “Excellent, Admiral. I look forward to our chat. Who knows what great ideas you and I will come up with? Why, our flight could change the world!”

  If only you knew the validity of that statement, Sorokin thought. He sat back as the young politician picked up the car phone and informed his assistant to begin readying the admiral’s travel papers. The familiar base passed in a blur around him as he contemplated the inevitable result of the trip.

  The General Secretary had trapped him quite effectively.

  Even with the powerful clout of his years in the military, one didn’t go about refusing the Motherland’s chief executive. Any more excuses on his part would only incur Rodin’s curiosity. That could be instantly fatal to his dreams. After so many years of self-sacrifice, this final oblation would be well worth the effort. Even if it did cost him his life. Operation Counterforce had to go forth as scheduled. Only in this way would his life’s work not be wasted.

  Sorokin hardly took notice as the Zil crossed through the base’s administrative complex, where the flag-draped bleachers and reviewing stand were set up. Without slowing, the auto continued on past a line of corrugated warehouses and came to a halt outside t
he concrete pens that housed the Third Fleet’s submarines.

  Captain Petyr Valenko found himself busy with a seemingly endless series of last-minute details. Not only was he concerned with the upcoming visit by two of the country’s most esteemed personalities, but also with implementing the shocking orders he had received barely an hour before. Inside the sealed directive were commands instructing him to take the Vulkan back on patrol with the afternoon tide.

  His first thought was that there had to be some kind of mistake. Short of active combat conditions, no Soviet warship would be sent back to sea with so little port time. As he thought about it, he realized that he should have read the writing on the wall when they first pulled in to Petropavlovsk. Hardly a day had passed before the dock crew was busy loading a new complement of missiles. And how could he ignore the swiftness with which their foodstuffs had been replaced?

  Since the orders were signed by the same admiral who would be entering the sub any minute now, Valenko knew that Sorokin could explain exactly what this hasty reassignment was all about. Doubting that he would summon the nerve to make such an inquiry, he decided to play it cool.

  If the opportunity presented itself, he would present his question as adroitly as possible.

  Valenko had used great discretion in relaying the sailing orders to his senior officers. As it turned out, only the recently returned Vasili Leonov took this call to sea happily. The Vulkan’s senior lieutenant was apparently anxious for any excuse to get as far away from Petropavlovsk as possible.

  Valenko couldn’t blame the sad-eyed young man for feeling that way.

  The redheaded officer had reappeared five minutes before his official leave expired. Sour-faced and uncommunicative, Leonov thanked the captain for his concern, yet begged him not to bring up the subject of his girl’s defection. That was fine with Valenko, who wanted only to console his second in command.

  Leonov was equally tight-lipped with the other men, and the captain watched him guardedly as he performed his duties. Seeing competent work, Valenko was satisfied.

  One individual who still concerned him was the sub’s which man Stefan Kuzmin had taken the news of their impending cruise badly. Valenko watched the blood drain from his friend’s face when he announced the orders in the wardroom. Immediately after the briefing, he took the warrant officer aside to speak with him personally. These were their first words together since the previous night’s dinner party.

  Intimately, Stefan told him of the plans he had made with his family.

  Many of them included Ivana and Valenko.

  Mindful of the manner in which the captain had gotten along with his sister-in-law, Stefan spoke as though he and Valenko were already members of the same family.

  The captain didn’t mind his familiarity in the least. In a way, he felt extra responsible for the which man peace of mind, and did his best to ease Stefan’s emotional pain. The captain’s words of assurance rang hollowly. First and foremost, as naval officers their duty was to the Rodina. In this respect, their families were secondary. Certainly this call to sea was unexpected, but every military man knew that a change of plans within the services was as common as spring rain. Above all, they had to grow up and face their responsibilities. Hard as it may seem now, command had to have some sort of extreme need of their services to ask this of them. Besides, the patrol couldn’t last long. In another month’s time their reactor core was due for replacement. They’d be back in port for a nice long rest within three weeks.

  These words had had their desired effect, and Stefan soon accepted their new duty without additional complaint. As Valenko watched the which man at work in the control room, he found himself happy with their new friendship. Now, if Ivana only stayed around to greet him on his return, his joy would be complete.

  Valenko was in the midst of his final inspection of the Vulkan when Lev Zinyakin, the sub’s sonar officer, came rushing into the control room.

  The wide-eyed Lithuanian excitedly addressed Valenko.

  “Captain, they’re here! The limousine has just pulled up to the gangplank.”

  Valenko reacted cooly.

  “Very well. Comrades, please man your stations. Senior Lieutenant, inform the crew to make ready for inspection.”

  Vasili Leonov clicked his heels, pivoted and depressed a plastic toggle switch set beside the communications console. In response, four muted tones bellowed forth from the sub’s public-address system.

  Taking a second to make certain his uniform was in order, Valenko positioned himself beside the forward hatchway. Proud of the men who stood beside him, the captain snapped to attention as their first visitor completed the short descent into the sub’s interior.

  Fleet Admiral Sorokin led the way. The whitehaired, hefty figure looked larger than life as he stood there — his medallion-filled, gold-trimmed blue uniform clearly illuminated by the recessed lighting.

  Before greeting the captain he made certain that his companion cleared the stairway without incident.

  Only when General Secretary Rodin climbed down the final rung did Sorokin return the captain’s salute.

  “Requesting permission to come aboard. Captain Valenko.”

  “Permission granted.” Valenko was excited at seeing not only the ruddy, jowled figure of his commanding officer, but also the trim, familiar individual who stood beside him.

  The admiral noticed Valenko’s stare and wasted no time with the introductions.

  “Captain Petyr Valenko, may I present General Secretary Viktor Rodin.”

  Formal as this salutation may have seemed, the immaculately suited statesman stepped forward and warmly shook Valenko’s hand.

  “It is an honor to meet you. Captain. We share much in common, for as a youth I, too, wanted to become a submariner. As it turned out, the Party had other intentions for my services.”

  Instantly at ease with this guest, Valenko said, “Please feel free to make the Vulkan your home. It’s not often that we entertain visitors, but we will try our best to make your tour an enlightening one. Shall we start here in the control room?”

  “That would be most appropriate,” replied the admiral.

  “It’s about time that I was able to meet some of the men I always seem to be reading such good things about.”

  Without further delay, Valenko introduced them to Senior Lieutenant Leonov, Warrant Officer Kuzmin, and the various systems operators. Last in line was the zampolit. Ivan Novikov remained unemotional while being presented to the Premier, yet seemed noticeably impressed upon meeting the admiral’s handshake.

  “You don’t know what a distinction it is to finally meet you. Admiral Sorokin,” the political officer said.

  “I have read each one of your textbooks, and agree with your theories completely.”

  “Ah, a fan at last,” Sorokin beamed, and allowed himself to be dragged into a discussion of the importance of naval power as an instrument of state policy.

  While these two were so preoccupied, Valenko began explaining the purposes of the various consoles surrounding them. The captain could tell by Rodin’s questions that he had a quick, probing intellect. Since the Premier had been a member of his high school’s DOSAAF (All-Union Voluntary Society for Assistance to the Navy), he had an elementary knowledge of the basics of seamanship. The majority of his inquiries concerned the various sensors and weapons systems the Vulkan carried.

  Whenever possible, Valenko let the officers in charge of the particular area supply the answers. / Premier Rodin smiled with delight when Lev Zinyakin invited him to have a seat at the sonar console.

  With the aid of a pair of headphones, the General Secretary got an on-the-spot lesson in the detection of underwater targets. This exercise took on added realism when Zinyakin actually turned on their active sonar. When their ping deflected off the flanks of a school of startled fish swimming beneath the hull, Rodin’s eyes lit up.

  To answer the General Secretary’s questions regarding their armament capabilities, the captai
n called upon the expertise of Yuri Chuchkin.

  The goodnatured weapons chief wasted no time in inviting them to visit the restricted area that comprised the majority of the sub’s length.

  The journey down to the missile magazine allowed the two VIPS to get a good idea of what life aboard the Vulkan was really like. In general, they found the hallways they passed through crowded, yet spotlessly clean. The crew was well behaved and most cordial.

  Valenko was impressed by the manner in which the Premier stopped to chat with several of the conscripts.

  Though he might only ask their name and hometown, this gesture proved excellent for morale. When the enlisted men learned that they would be going to sea again in only a couple of more hours, this extra enthusiasm would be most appreciated.

  The Premier couldn’t help but inquire why the missile compartment was fondly known as the taiga. This question answered itself when the locked hatchway was opened and he set his eyes on an immense canyon of green-painted silos. He immediately associated the sixteen launch tubes with the thick trunks of the mighty conifers that occupied the northern regions of the Motherland. They proceeded carefully down the metallic catwalk that separated the tubes into two lines of eight silos. For several seconds, an eerie silence permeated the compartment as both guests contemplated the destructive might stored there.

  As they exited, Admiral Sorokin patted the outer walls of the silo marked 1. All too soon he and the Premier would once again be encountering the object stored inside. A chill shot up his spine as he visualized the fiery consummation of that final meeting.

  It was during tea in the wardroom that Viktor Rodin formally addressed his select group of tour guides. In a brief speech he thanked the officers for their hospitality and applauded the crew as a whole.

  He then went on to emphasize the significance of the summit meeting upon which he was about to embark.

  He left them with a somewhat puzzling declaration that hinted at a possible change in the Vulkan’s duty in the years to come.

  Astounded by Rodin’s audacity, the admiral stood to make some closing remarks of his own. Praising the Vulkan’s patrol record, Sorokin stressed the importance of their present duty. Their diligence alone assured the Rodina that the enemy would think twice about starting any surprise hostilities. After thanking them for their sacrifice, the admiral cut his words short after noticing the clock mounted on the galley wall.