Counterforce

by Richard P. Henrick

  Intelligence believes that what we are possibly witnessing is a mutiny on the part of a select group of high-placed Reds. This plot — if, indeed, it is a plot — was cleverly conceived to interfere with the initiation of the Rodin-Palmer summit.” After checking his watch, he continued.

  “General Secretary Rodin is scheduled to land in Los Angeles less than two hours from now. I don’t have to tell you how news of this conspiracy has gone down in Washington.

  The Pentagon, State, and the CIA have all been on my back since the moment that Soviet aviator was pulled from the Pacific.”

  Astounded, Cooksey’s response was tinged with disbelief.

  “Are the Soviet war codes that easily obtainable?

  And if that Delta received an alert order, why haven’t they already launched?”

  Broderick Miller moved his dignified frame over to his desk and sat on its forward edge, facing his visitor.

  “As is the case with any code, no matter how secretive it may be, more than one individual was involved in its creation. This leak was probably at the highest level, confirming intelligence’s belief that Kremlin bigwigs are responsible.

  “Your second question can be answered by our own war plans. Because of the survivability factor, a good majority of our Tridents are to be held back, to be released several hours after initial hostilities have begun. We believe this is what’s happening aboard the Vulkan.

  “Then you really think there’s a Soviet sub out there that could empty its missile magazine any second now?” Cooksey asked incredulously.

  “As unbelievable as it may seem … yes, Michael, I’m afraid this is the premise on which we must operate.”

  “Jesus! If I may ask, what are we doing to counter this supposed threat?”

  Miller answered without hesitation.

  “Though we’re still hoping that the Soviets will be able to deal with the problem before it gets further out of hand, the President has given us permission to mount an intercept mission of our own. Scuttlebutt has it that the executive order was issued at Premier Rodin’s urging.

  It was from this same source that we supposedly received the Vulkan’s patrol sector and its optimum missile-release point.

  “We’re presently concentrating our ASW operations on the southeast quadrant of the Emperor Seamount Chain. Fortunately, we’ve still got the Kennedy task force out there. We hope to augment their capabilities by calling in every attack sub in the North Pacific.”

  “How can the Triton help?” Cooksey inquired.

  The admiral responded matter-of-factly.

  “As our second consecutive battle-efficiency award winner, I’m counting on your boat to tag those Ruskies first. I’ve already taken the liberty of sending the Triton to sea under the temporary command of Lieutenant Commander Craig. Incidentally, we pulled your smiling XO out of a maternity ward — minutes after his wife gave birth to a healthy, eight-pound boy.

  “You’ll be taken to a prearranged rendezvous point west of Midway by the same chopper that brought you in. I know this is quite a load to hit you with, but there’s no better man I’d rather have out on this job than you. Captain.”

  Accepting the compliment with a brief smile, Cooksey explored another line of reasoning.

  “Could this whole thing be a bluff on the part of the Soviets?

  Could they be planning to use the excuse of a mutinied missile boat to launch a full-scale attack?”

  The admiral stood and rubbed the small of his back.

  “Interesting supposition. Captain, but most doubtful. We’ve yet to pick up any signs of an alert among their strategic forces. And then there’s the momentary landing of the Premier in Los Angeles.

  That would be a hell of a way to start a war, with your leader at ground zero in the enemy’s homeland.”

  “Who knows — perhaps Rodin is merely playing the part of a sacrificial goat,” Cooksey said as he stood to accept his commanding officer’s handshake.

  “Good luck, Michael. How about sharing a round of golf when this whole fiasco is over with?”

  Cooksey answered sincerely.

  “I’d like that, Admiral.

  I really would.”

  “Keep your sensors peeled for that renegade Alfa,” Miller added.

  “By the way. Admiral, what’s the Triton to do once we tag this Delta?”

  Miller’s response was firm.

  “Unless you hear from me otherwise, blow them away. Captain! You’re to go into this just as if a state of war indeed existed.”

  Cooksey saluted and left the office, with Admiral Miller’s final instruction echoing in his head.

  Chapter Nine

  Deep below the Pacific, the Vulkan surged ever southward, its dual shafts propelling it at a speed well over thirty-five knots. Rigged for quiet running, the 509-foot vessel sped ahead in near-total silence; the only sounds it produced were the hiss of the seawater passing through the vessel’s missile casing and the popping cavitations on its propellers.

  Inside the sub, the crew remained at General Quarters for what they assumed was another one of the endless exercises. But behind the locked doors of the wardroom, a dozen of the ships senior officers sat in rapt attention, their eyes focused on the tall, blond-haired figure who had called them together.

  Petyr Valenko stood at the front of the room behind a compact wooden lectern. He spoke forcefully, his words delivered with crisp precision.

  “Comrades, as the Vulkan’s senior officers, it is my duty to inform you that, at 1330 hours today, I confirmed the receipt of a Red Flag war alert. To my knowledge, this is no mere exercise. You are all aware of the explosion and shock-wave that we recently rode out. We believe this emanated from a torpedoed surface ship, which we have yet to positively identify because of a malfunction of our sensor recording equipment. If that action was indeed a hostile move on the part of the enemy, I fear this alert is most real.”

  Valenko paused briefly to let the information sink in. Shocked expressions proved that his audience had been listening. He cleared his throat and continued.

  “I am just as astounded by this revelation as you are. As soldiers, we have been well aware of the possibility of this day. Somehow, we thought it would never come; yet, here we are. No matter who is at fault, you can be assured that the Vulkan will do its best to defend the Motherland.

  “A Red Flag alert is the ultimate call to war.

  Because an enemy first strike could knock out command’s ability to contact us, the alert itself is all that’s needed to authorize a launch. At the receipt of this signal I was required to open the sealed operational manual which is kept locked in my safe. It was at this time that I first saw the Vulkan’s war orders..

  “Our mission is a simple one. We are to stay submerged and undetected, while proceeding with all due speed to our patrol quadrant on the southeastern edge of the Emperor Seamount. At 2130 hours we will ascend to launch depth and unleash our load of sixteen SS-N-18 missiles. In this manner, the Rodina shall be served!”

  As his words rang out, an anxious wave of nervous chatter flowed through the wardroom. Most aware of their concern, Valenko added, “Naturally, your first thoughts must be for the safety of your loved ones back home. As of this moment, I have no idea if nuclear weapons have yet been exchanged. Since this is the case, I have decided to exercise my command prerogative and order the Vulkan to attain communication depth at 2100 hours. We will then contact the NAVCOM satellite to confirm that a state of nuclear war exists.”

  “A clamor of excitement spread through the officers as Ivan Novikov rose and spoke out sharply.

  “But Captain, won’t such an ascent needlessly endanger the Vulkan’! As you’ve so eloquently stated, the receipt of a Red Flag alert is more than sufficient to warrant a launch. And besides, doesn’t the sinking of the ship topside prove that hostilities exist? The imperialist’s anti-submarine-warfare tactics are too accurate for us to so needlessly expose ourselves.”

  A murmur of consent
ing comments followed. Valenko took in these remarks and said firmly, “It. is my command opinion that the risk must be taken. I am not about to commit this vessel’s warheads to a conflict that may not even exist. We’re talking about the lives of hundreds of millions of people. Comrades.

  Can we gamble them against the receipt of a single alert transmission?

  Since there was not even a hint of international crisis when we put to sea, I must insist that this preliminary ascent is warranted.”

  “But the explosion topside!” whined the zampolit.

  “How can you ignore it?”

  “Comrade Novikov, please control yourself. Even if we could confirm that it was one of our ships being attacked, I would still stick firmly to my decision. The loss of a single vessel is one thing, the end of the civilized world is quite another.”

  Again the nervous sound of chatter filled the wardroom.

  With a shrug of his shoulders, the political officer reseated himself. The captain watched as Novikov traded a silent glance of concern with the doleful eyed senior lieutenant, who sat stiffly beside him.

  In an effort to regain control, Valenko raised his hands for silence and spoke out loudly.

  “Until this final confirmation has been achieved, it is my wish to keep knowledge of this alert to ourselves. Only after NAVCOM signals us that a nuclear war prevails will I inform the rest of the crew. I know the hours until that time will be long ones, but I am counting on you to do your duties to the best of your abilities. For the next sixty minutes I will be available in my cabin for any of you with individual questions. That is all.”

  A second of strained silence followed as Valenko turned toward the wardroom’s exit. As he broke the hatch, the sound of the babbling officers rose in crescendo.

  Thankful that this dreaded encounter was over the captain quickly proceeded to his private quarters.

  This took him to the bow portion of the boat, on the deck immediately below the vessel’s control room.

  His contact with other members of the crew was minimal as he progressed down a narrow, tube-lined corridor, ducked through a hatchway and, utilizing a plastic keycard, entered his locked domain.

  Though cramped and sparsely furnished, at least his cabin offered a place to be alone. At that moment he relished his privacy as never before.

  The cabin contained a fold-down bunk, a small, wallmounted desk and a single chair. A simple stool, folded into the wall, was fondly labeled the “hot-seat” by the crew members it was designed to accommodate.

  There was also a private head that included a metal sink, a toilet and a cramped shower stall.

  Conscious of the thick, nerve-induced sweat that stained his khaki shirt, Valenko stripped it off and went to the sink. The cool water felt good on his neck and face. After toweling himself dry, he took a second to examine his reflection in the shaving mirror. It was then he first noticed the pair of red, love bites visible on his neck, just below his right ear lobe. Like returning to a past life, his thoughts flashed back to Ivana and the night of passion from which the marks stemmed.

  Had it really been less than three days since they had last been together? Though her image, touch and scent were still fresh in his mind, his responsibilities took precedence over the innocent passions of the senses.

  For a second, he mentally recreated their coupling — but instead of experiencing joy, he could only feel the pain of not knowing if his love still lived. If the IL-38’s call to action had been legitimate, there was a very good chance that cities like Petropavlovsk had been burned to a crisp during the first minutes of nuclear attack and no longer existed.

  In a way, Ivana, her sister Galina, and even little Nikolai would be among the lucky ones. Their deaths would be instantaneous. Vaporized by a flash of superheated fire, there would be little time for either fear or pain. The real losers in a nuclear war would be the survivors.

  Not only would they have to face the ravages of global radiation poisoning, they would find themselves in a bleak, desolate society with few comforts and little hope for the future. Such a world was not easy to imagine, and Valenko trembled involuntarily. An abrupt knock on the door shattered his macabre train of thought. Remembering his offer to the senior officers, he turned to his bunker to get a clean shirt.

  As he buttoned it there was a second knock.

  “I’ll be right there!” Valenko shouted as he hastily tucked in his shirttail. Then he hit the door switch to see which of his senior officers was seeking his advice.

  A pair of sour faces met his glance, and a cold heaviness rose in the captain’s belly as he identified the waiting figures of Ivan Novikov and Vasili Leonov.

  Without comment, the gaunt zampolit entered first, followed by the senior lieutenant. The door hissed shut and Valenko reluctantly greeted them.

  “Yes, Comrades — how can I be of service to you?”

  The dark-eyed political officer wasted little time with civilities.

  “Captain Valenko, have you gone mad?

  What is this nonsense about you doubting the legitimacy of the Red Flag alert?”

  Sensing that he was in for a fight, Valenko answered directly.

  “I’m not questioning the legitimacy of those orders. Comrade. I am only exercising my right to reconfirm them. Why does this upset you so?”

  “Because I can’t bare to see this sub sent to the bottom with its load of missiles still aboard!” the zampolit shouted.

  “The Rodina is relying on us to fulfill our rightful duty, and to needlessly risk the safety of this ship is a travesty beyond comprehension.”

  Valenko looked to his senior lieutenant for support.

  “Vasili, surely you’re aware that a line officer’s options include the right to seek reconfirmation of go-to-war orders, if so desired. What is so wrong with this?”

  Leadenly, Leonov met his captain’s stare.

  “We are not challenging your right to exercise such an option, sir.

  What we are questioning are the motives that underline such a decision.

  Why needlessly risk the Vulkan to reconfirm orders that have already been received?”

  Shocked by his second in command’s obstinance, the captain gathered himself and pressed on.

  “This doesn’t sound at all like you, Vasili. What has happened to the young officer who always promoted a captain’s right to interpret his orders as he best saw fit? Since when have you become so narrow-minded?”

  “About the same time that you became such a cowardly fool,” returned the wide-eyed political officer.

  Incensed, Valenko pointed to the door.

  “I’ve had enough of your impertinence. Comrade Novikov!

  Now get out of my sight, before I confine you to your cabin. And you Senior Lieutenant — I’ll be wanting to talk with you privately.”

  The captain could not believe that his order had had absolutely no effect on the zampolit, who stood there unmoving.

  “Did you hear me, Novikov? I said get out of here!”

  In response, the political officer merely shook his head.

  “Your time for giving orders aboard this vessel are over. Comrade Valenko. For the Rodina’s greater interests, I hereby take command of the Vulkan.”

  To back up these bold words, Novikov pulled a chrome-plated pistol from his jacket and aimed it at Valenko’s chest. “What is the meaning of this, Comrade? Put that pistol away and come back to your senses!”

  Novikov shook his head and his mouth curled up in a sardonic sneer.

  “Those are mighty brave words, coming from one who stands on the other end of a gun barrel. Now sit down Valenko, and keep your lips sealed.”

  From the tone of this delivery, Valenko knew that the threat was real.

  Reluctantly, he seated himself on the edge of his bunk.

  “That’s better,” the zampolit cooed.

  “Comrade Leonov, I think you had better bind the Captain for his own protection. During the next couple of hours it could prove e
xtremely dangerous for him to get in our way.”

  Leonov took out a roll of two-inch surgical tape.

  Wordlessly, he began wrapping it first around Valenko’s ankles and then his wrists. As he cut off a strip to cover the captain’s mouth, Valenko said desperately, “I still don’t understand why you are doing this, Comrades. Surely you must be aware that you can’t possibly get away with such a pointless crime.”

  Without comment, Novikov signaled his fellow conspirator to complete his task. Only after Valenko’s lips were tightly sealed did the political officer respond.

  “You left me no other alternative, Petyr Valenko. I couldn’t possibly stand by and watch you risk this vessel so needlessly. The receipt of the Red Flag alert signaled the end of an era. Cowardly fools like yourself no longer have a place in the Motherland’s future.

  If it were up to me, I would put a bullet in your head and end your misery once and for all. You can thank Comrade Leonov for this temporary stay of execution.

  Besides, your knowledge of the ship might still come in handy as the time to launch approaches. Hopefully, during those hours that you will have to yourself you will return to your senses.

  For what we are doing on this fated day is insuring that the Rodina will prevail for the decades of peace that will soon follow.”

  With the conclusion of his diatribe, Novikov stepped forward and, with a quick snap of his wrist, clubbed Valenko on the side of his head with the butt of the pistol. As the captain fell back onto his cot, unconscious, the zampolit’s eyes gleamed in victory.

  “Senior Lieutenant, this is a most important moment in the history of the Motherland. The last obstacle to our great dream has finally been overcome.

  Your unflinching assistance shall never be forgotten.