Counterforce

by Richard P. Henrick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Yerevan allowed himself the barest of smiles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The which man focused his hydrophones as indicated.

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

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

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

  The which man picked out this characteristic hiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  A high-pitched, raspy voice sounded behind them.

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

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

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

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

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

  Ivan’s
eyes narrowed.

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

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

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

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

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

  Novikov’s hushed words were delivered with fierce intensity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What in hell was that. Lieutenant?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  These apocalyptic words had their desired effect;

  Petyr Valenko knew that his zampolit must be correct.

  Somehow, the unthinkable had come to pass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Dzerzhinsky exhaled a long sigh of relief.

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

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

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

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

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