Counterforce

by Richard P. Henrick

  The Cheka had a single, vital mission now, and nothing must get in the way of achieving it. Protecting the Vulkan had to be the number one concern of every crew member. It would be a difficult task, but not an impossible one. Invigorated by the challenge, Dzerzhinsky pushed himself to the plotting board.

  Here he began working on the most efficient course to take them to the Vulkan’s preplanned launch site.

  Chapter Eight

  Viktor Rodin had never been the type of person who was overly worried, yet this long afternoon proved a rare exception. With three and a half hours to go until his plane touched down at Los Angeles, the Premier sat at his desk, picking nervously at a plate of fruit.

  Except for the normal sounds of the IL-76 in flight, a hushed silence possessed the cabin. As he had for the majority of the trip from Petropavlovsk, a single individual shared his private compartment.

  Stanislav Sorokin sat at the conference table, hastily transcribing a coded transmission only recently received from the underground national command center, buried some fifty kilometers from the outskirts of Moscow.

  The whitehaired admiral looked every bit his age, and then some. Rodin couldn’t ignore the strain and anxiety so visible in his companion’s face. He had been taking their predicament just as seriously as had the Premier. Of course, he had every reason to: the forces responsible for this current mix-up were under his direct jurisdiction.

  Rodin was in the process of slicing into a large green pear when his desk phone rang. Wiping his hands on a napkin, he quickly picked up the receiver.

  The sound of static was loud, yet a familiar, strained voice was still audible.

  “General Secretary Rodin, this is General Kirovakan.

  I’m afraid I have most unsettling news. It appears as if the cruiser Natya has gone down in the North Pacific with a loss of all hands. Not only have all attempts on our part to reach the ship been unsuccessful, but the results of a recently concluded reconnaissance flight have just reached us. The pilot reports a large oil spill in the sector the Natya was to be penetrating. Among the bits of wreckage found floating within this spill was an empty life jacket, with the Natya’s name clearly printed on it. As of now, there are no visible survivors.”

  Speechless, Rodin sat there and digested the tragic report. From the other side of the cabin, the admiral looked up and caught Rodin’s shocked gaze. The Premier abruptly diverted his glance back to his desktop. Summoning his inner strength, he found the courage to reply.

  “That is indeed horrible news, General. What is the status of the alternative IL-38 relay plane?”

  Again Kirovakan’s words flowed out somberly.

  “Five minutes ago, the IL-38 crashed while attempting to take off from Petropavlovsk’s airport. All men aboard are believed killed.”

  A nauseous dread filled Rodin’s gut as he spoke quietly into the receiver.

  “This is a black day. Comrade General. Please continue your efforts to reach the Vulkan with the land-based ELF systems. I will get back to you shortly.”

  The Premier hung up the phone and buried his throbbing forehead in his hands. He was struggling to focus his thoughts when his guest’s query broke the stillness.

  “What in the name of Lenin has happened, Comrade?”

  Rodin lifted his head and somehow found words to answer.

  “It appears that the Natya … has been sunk with a loss of all hands.”

  “That’s impossible!” Sorokin cried, his voice trembling.

  “Tell that to the reconnaissance pilot who saw for himself what was left of this once mighty warship.

  There’s not even one visible survivor!” the Premier replied icily.

  The admiral’s face reddened as he sat forward, his eyes wide.

  “I tell you, it was an American torpedo that took the lives of those four hundred brave men.

  Open your eyes, Comrade General Secretary, the blame is all too obvious!”

  Though it would be easy enough to agree with this observation, the Premier couldn’t ignore his instincts.

  “We still have no direct proof that the United States is involved in this matter. After all, what would they have to gain by all this?”

  “An excuse to strike us first with a barrage of nuclear warheads!”

  Sorokin countered.

  “This is just the opportunity that the imperialists have been waiting for. Why else have they been spending hundreds of millions of dollars to build such weapons systems as the MX and Trident missiles? If they were such advocates of peace, why build armaments specifically designed for a crippling first strike? Their President Palmer has been cleverly leading us to the gallows all this time.”

  The IL-76 shook as a wave of turbulence buffeted its fuselage. Rodin grabbed the edge of his desk to balance himself, then attempted a reply.

  “It is much too convenient to blame every problem that comes our way on the Americans. I’m still of the opinion that this is all some sort of internal affair. I deeply mourn the loss of the Natya’s crew, yet a larger concern faces us at the moment. If, somehow, the Vulkan indeed received a proper release code, what are the contents of its captain’s operational manual?”

  Admiral Sorokin silently cursed the Premier’s stubborness. Yet, if he was going to keep the man’s trust he would have to answer his every request unerringly.

  The admiral shakily stood and handed Rodin the results of the coded transmission that he had been transcribing. Rodin anxiously read the report, which was an exact copy of the war orders that were stored inside the Vulkan’s safe.

  The initial instructions ordered Captain Valenko to run submerged and undetected for a period of eight hours after the receipt of the first Red Flag signal.

  Only then were they to ascend to launch depth to release their lethal load of ballistic missiles.

  Rodin found nothing unusual in such an attack plan. Since submarines had the benefit of being difficult to spot, it was standard procedure to hold back their warheads until after the more vulnerable, land-based ICBMS were released. What he did find disturbing, though, were the contents of the addendum attached to these orders. Starting with the PAVE PAWS radar site at Beale Air Force Base in the state of California, he took in the wide variety of targets that the Vulkan’s warheads were assigned to eliminate.

  These included installations from one coast of the United States to the other. The frightening scope of this attack scenario took on an additional degree of reality as he eyed the last target site listed, the city of Los Angeles. Instinctively, he checked his watch and calculated that in a little over three hours’ time he would be landing in this very same metropolis.

  Rodin really wasn’t concerned for his own life. Of greater importance to him were” the millions of human beings such a strike would erase from the face of the earth. And, of course, then there were the hundreds of millions of other lives that were threatened if such an attack was answered.

  Sobered by such contemplations, a new sense of urgency underscored his words.

  “There is one point that I don’t understand. Admiral. If I’m not mistaken, the targets for which the Vulkan’s warheads are assigned are first-strike sites. Such installations would be eliminated in the first half hour of hostilities.

  Why would we have this submarine attacking them once again, eight hours later? Surely those targets would be nothing but radioactive craters by that time.”

  Sorokin stirred, impressed by the Premier’s keenness of mind.

  “I assume that such a redundant strike will merely guarantee that the prime target areas have indeed been destroyed. As you know, those particular sites were chosen by the PVO’s computer. The Vulkan’s warheads are merely an integral part of the Rodina’s attack plan as a whole.”

  “It’s a sad day when the lives of millions rest with the whims of a computer,” Rodin observed gloomily.

  “If you’ll be so good as to excuse me. Admiral, I think that it’s best if I had some time by myself.”

 
Taking his cue, Sorokin stood and ambled over to the rear doorway.

  “If there’s anything more that you desire to know, Comrade General Secretary, please don’t hesitate to call on me. I will continue doing all that I can to determine the true source of our current fix.”

  As the portly admiral ducked through the hatch and closed it securely behind him, the Premier sighed.

  Pushing his chair away from the desk, Rodin stretched his tight limbs.

  Cramped with tension, his muscles ached with a dull, persistent pain. A gnawing discomfort also pierced his forehead. Gently, he massaged his throbbing temples. As the discomfort gradually lessened, a salient thought suddenly dawned: If it hadn’t been an American sub that had sunk the Natya, could it have been one of their own? And if this was the case, could Admiral Stanislav Sorokin be one of the ringleaders?

  Startled by such a speculation, Rodin knew that he was only guessing wildly. The cruiser could have hit a mine — or perhaps there was an accidental explosion inside the ship itself that sent it quickly to the bottom.

  Combined with the other events of this day, the Premier wished that this had been the case, yet inwardly he doubted it. Somehow he was certain that all the strange happenings were interconnected.

  After a slow series of calming breaths, he reached out for a blank piece of paper and a pen. One by one, he listed the series of occurrences that had led to the current quandary. First on the list was President Palmer’s call informing him of the downed IL-38 relay plane and the survivor’s mysterious tale of mutiny.

  Had an actual Red Flag alert been transmitted to the ballistic-missile-carrying Vulkani Could actual nuclear release codes be obtained by an outsider? Though such data was top secret and highly protected, Rodin was certain that no system of secrecy was foolproof.

  Of equal importance, was whether or not the American President was telling the truth. Deceit was surely possible, yet the Premier would have sworn that Robert Palmer was a man of his word, with an ultimate goal of world peace exactly like his own. Of course, there was the possibility that the President’s military planners were up to something that even Palmer did not know about. Rodin would have to keep his mind open to consider just such a machination.

  The idea of returning to Petropavlovsk again crossed his mind, and he reconsidered what such a move would imply. Because of the flying Kremlin’s more than adequate staff and command gear, his investigation could be accomplished just as easily here as back in the Motherland.

  Although he could very possibly be condemning himself to a landing at ground zero, they were already more than halfway to Los Angeles, and to turn back now would be a sign of bad intentions.

  Confident that he would get to the crux of this dilemma long before any missiles were released, Rodin considered Captain Petyr Valenko’s involvement in the matter. Could the young captain be part of a mutiny? Though they had only met briefly, Rodin had taken an immediate liking to the line officer. The lad was bright and direct. He did not appear as the type to be responsible for such an evil scheme, although Rodin didn’t doubt that there were many others in his government capable of such a mad plot.

  Jealous of his power and fearful of his new ideas, such individuals presented a great threat that had to be respected.

  The Premier knew he would have to proceed cautiously and seriously consider the worst-case scenario at all times. The list of targets that lay on his desk were a morbid reminder of the awesome destructive power stored within the Vulkan’s missile magazine. As fate would have it, he had inspected that same compartment less than twenty-four hours before. He had no doubts that, if the men he had met there were so ordered, they would carry on with the complicated task of releasing the sixteen missiles without question.

  Once more the Premier checked his watch. Subtracting the approximate time at which the Vulkan might have received the alert code from the eight-hour hiatus that Valenko’s war orders demanded, Rodin calculated just how much time they had left before the first of the SS-N-18s were supposedly to be launched.

  It wasn’t much. His hand trembled as he reached out to activate the red phone.

  In another portion of the Pacific, Captain Michael Cooksey’s ponderings were of a vastly different nature.

  His drive had sent his golf ball two hundred and ten yards down the center of the thirteenth fairway.

  Since the green was still another two hundred yards away, he could do one of two things. If he selected a fairway wood he could probably hit the green, yet risk sending the ball over the volcanic cliff that lay close to the back lip. By choosing a more accurate iron, he could almost guarantee keeping the ball in bounds.

  Though his chances of hitting the pin would be doubtful, an easy chip shot would accomplish that task more adequately.

  Cooksey contemplated his dilemma and chose a two wood. Confident that he was playing his best eighteen holes since college, he decided to go for it all.

  Besides, a birdie here would place him a stroke under par.

  As he pulled the club from his bag, he could think of no other place he’d rather be at that moment.

  Admiral Miller had been right. The vacation was the medicine that his tired body and soul had demanded.

  Not only was he sleeping soundly again and feeling like a million bucks, even his golf game was beginning to shape up once more. Life was too short to take it so seriously. He had to learn to enjoy it again before old age and ill health were upon him.

  Rediscovering his golf game had helped. The mere enjoyment of walking the lush green fairways, combined with the intricacies of the sport itself, produced a feeling of great happiness. Now, if he could only make this birdie, his joy would be complete.

  Cooksey carefully gripped the wood and positioned himself beside his ball. Mental concentration is one of the keys to a successful golf game; Above all, he had to keep his head down, swing easily, and be sure to properly follow through. With these elements in mind, he took one last look at the pin, dug his cleats into the short-clipped grass and swung away.

  He could tell by the sound that he had hit it well.

  Fearful that he had used too much club, he watched the ball shoot forward in a low, whistling arc. His anxieties were negated as the ball bounded onto the green, struck the pin itself, and dropped only a few inches from the cup.

  “All right!”

  Jubilant and self-satisfied, Cooksey shoved the club back in the bag and was about to enter the cart, when an alien chopping sound caught his attention. From the deep-throated clatter, he knew immediately that it was a military helicopter. Wondering what it was doing in his neck of the woods, Cooksey looked up in an effort to spot it. It wasn’t difficult. Soaring in from the pineapple fields to his right was a sleek, white Sikorsky Seahawk chopper. Only a few hundred feet from the ground, the vehicle circled the twelfth fairway and then sped forward. The downdraft from its rotors scrambled Cooksey’s hair as the Seahawk hovered over the green for which he was headed. When the swirling giant began gently settling on the grass, Cooksey knew it had come for him.

  Conscious that his vacation was over, he watched calmly as the chopper landed on the fairway and its side hatch popped open. A white, jump-suited figure emerged and climbed down onto the grass. This would be the Sikorsky’s airborne tactical officer. The rotors continued to whirr as the ATO hunched over and ran toward him.

  “Captain Michael Cooksey?” Cooksey nodded in response and the ATO continued.

  “I’m Lieutenant Rayford, Captain. Admiral Miller sent us here to taxi you back to Pearl. Sorry to interrupt your game and all, but the Admiral needs you on the double.”

  From the chopper’s rear cabin, Cooksey watched the golf course quickly recede. It was soon out of sight. His fine approach shot and the ball, which still lay only inches from the thirteenth cup, were soon forgotten. Seconds later they were out over the blue waters of the Kauai Channel.

  Cooksey was thankful for the ATO’s silence as the chopper sped southeast. Closing his eyes, he reflect
ed on the events of the last couple of days. He was in the process of visualizing his hike into the wilds of Kauai’s north shore when he felt the Seahawk begin to lose altitude. He glanced outside in time to see Oahu’s Kaena Point pass by. Below, the Waianae Mountains were visible. They would most likely follow this range’s southern slopes to Pearl itself.

  A quarter of an hour later, Cooksey found himself seated before Admiral Broderick Miller. He noticed that the admiral’s usually neat desk was cluttered with various reports and an opened map. The senior officer nodded in approval on seeing him and hastily concluded a phone conversation.

  “Sure, Martin, of course I understand the time parameters we’re facing.

  Like I said before, all that I can promise you is a total effort on our end. I’ll call you as soon as our units are in position.”

  The admiral appeared tense as he hung up the receiver and greeted the captain.

  “Welcome, Michael.

  Sorry to bring you in like this, but I’m afraid I didn’t have much choice in the matter. By the way, you look like a different man. I told you that I had the proper prescription to recharge your batteries.

  Unfortunately, you’re going to have to pay the piper now.”

  Miller stood and walked over to the drawn wall map, which showed a large sector of the Pacific, bordered by the Aleutian Trench to the north, the Kuril Trench to the west, and Midway Island to the south.

  Using his right index finger, he pointed to the undersea mountain range known as the Emperor Seamount Chain. This subterranean ridge began at Midway and stretched northward for over one thousand miles.

  “Several hours ago, a Soviet IL-38 relay plane ditched in these waters.

  As you know, that particular aircraft is used much like our C-130 TACAMO — it sends command instructions to their submarine fleet.

  A single survivor was plucked from the seas by a Seasprite and taken to the John F. Kennedy. There he related to us news of a most shocking nature. Somehow, a group of mutineers was able to gain control of the IL-38 and relay to the Delta Illclass vessel Vulkan a set of legitimate ‘go to war’ orders. By the way, this sub is believed to be the same vessel that you reported contact with at the end of your last patrol. To make matters even more confusing, we’ve intercepted a Soviet naval transmission believed to be a confirmation that one of their Kresta-class cruisers has gone down in these very same waters.