Counterforce

by Richard P. Henrick

  Cooksey looked at his exec and then to his watch.

  “Well, thank God everything turned out okay. Lieutenant Lawrence, I want you to make certain that all new personnel are monitored closely.

  Rich, you’d better bring us up to two hundred feet, and then we’d better get going with that officers meeting. We don’t have much time.”

  Confident that this isolated incident would not be repeated, Cooksey excused himself. It had been a long day already, and there was still much more to do.

  After a quick visit to his cabin and a change into a fresh pair of khakis, he allowed himself the luxury of a cup of coffee and a ham sandwich. By then his XO had called to notify him that the personnel he had requested were present in the wardroom.

  As the officers filed inside the wardroom, a rumble of nervous chatter rose from their ranks. Each was aware that the order calling them out of Pearl Harbor was most unusual. When their orders also demanded that they leave without the captain, they knew something deadly serious was up.

  Without fanfare, their captain entered and made his way over to the wall beside the wardroom’s video screen. As he turned to face his men, the room’s only picture could be seen over his right shoulder. It showed a full-length silhouette of the sub plunging into blue depths.

  Superimposed on it was a lithe Greek god holding a triton-shell trumpet in one hand, and the trident spear of sea power in the other.

  Cooksey cleared his throat and spoke distinctly.

  “Thank you, gentlemen, for your prompt attendance.

  I’m sure that you’re anxious to know about the nature of our present mission, and I’m not going to keep you in suspense any longer. We have been authorized to hunt down and eliminate a Soviet Delta-class submarine, the Vulkan. This directive comes from the highest sources, which can be traced all the way back to the General Secretary of the Soviet Union himself.

  In effect, we have been asked to do what his navy has failed to accomplish, to stem a mutiny aboard one of their most modern missile-carrying vessels. Since it is feared that the Vulkan plans to release its load of sixteen SS-N-18 ballistic missiles once it attains its launch position, we must act with all due haste to cancel this threat. I’ve drawn up the following map segment to show what we are up against.”

  As the captain turned to activate the video screen, the wardroom tilled with astounded whispers. The babble hushed as the monitor flashed on and Cooksey again addressed them.

  “This, gentlemen, is the southern portion of the Emperor Seamount Chain. In order for the Vulkan’s missiles to be within range of their intended targets, their release point must be somewhere between this sector and Midway Island. I know this includes a large expanse of territory, and that we are still several hours away, but the task has fallen upon our shoulders and I don’t intend to fail.

  “Assisting us will be a task force of surface ships currently steaming into these waters from the northeast. This includes the carrier John F. Kennedy, the Aegis guided-missile cruiser Ticonderoga, and the Spruance-class destroyer. Eagle.

  “To make the most effective use of this force’s formidable ASW capabilities, we will interface with their sensors whenever possible.

  The Ticonderoga has deployed a specially designed low-frequency antenna that will allow them to notify us of any detections.

  Our helicopters will probably be the first elements to tag the Vulkan.

  As you all know, the Delta-class sub make their own distinctive racket in the water, which should be readily picked up by our dunking hydrophones.

  The choppers will also enable our forces to cover an extremely large patch of ocean.

  “Since the Triton is specifically designed to carry out just such a mission, we are being counted on to deliver the fatal blow. To insure this, I’m going to need the help of each of you.

  “Lieutenant Weaver, we’re going to need every available knot out of our reactor, and then some. For the next couple of hours, I’m counting on maximum speed to bring us within range of our bogey.

  “Mr. Callahan, you will have the demanding job of coordinating the sensor interface with the surface fleet. While this is being accomplished, your people will also be responsible for monitoring the Tritons own sensor systems. There is a very good chance that the Vulkan is not out here alone. I’m certain that you remember the bogey we encountered during our last exercise at Point Luck. This same Alfa sub was seen escorting the Vulkan back to its pen in Petropavlovsk.

  I doubt if they would send the missile-carrying Delta on patrol without the Alfa along for protection.”

  A hand shot up in the back of the room and Cooksey signaled a freckle-faced, redheaded officer to stand.

  “Excuse me, Captain, but tagging the Alfa could pose some serious problems. Not only is its hull coated with an anechoic covering that makes our sonar useless, but she can out dive and outrun us as well.

  Even if we did manage to pick them up, what could we do about them?”

  “Good question, Mr. Callahan. I think Lieutenant Spencer has the answer to that. Lieutenant, are the Triton’s most recent additions ready for action?”

  Randal Spencer, the ship’s weapons officer, stood and answered calmly.

  “That they are, Captain. If the ASW/SOWS do everything the manual promises, those Ruskies will be fair game. I don’t care how fast they’re running, but if you can bring them within a 300-mile radius of our forward tubes, I’ll do the rest.”

  This remark brought a surprised comment or two before the captain continued.

  “Earlier, during a routine descent, the Triton was almost involved in a disastrous mishap. A simple mistake on the part of a planes man could have abruptly ended this cruise for all of us. Because we were forced to take on several sailors who are new to our class of sub, I must ask you to keep your eyes peeled for any sign of incompetence.

  Hopefully, this was an isolated incident, but continued vigilance is necessary.

  “Now, if there are no additional questions, you may be off to your stations. I’ll kindly ask you to keep knowledge of this briefing to yourselves. An announcement will shortly be made to the rest of the crew. Thank you, gentlemen, and good luck for the hunters!”

  To a mild roar of chatter, the officers stood and filed from the room.

  Cooksey watched the procession and signaled his XO to join him beside the monitor.

  “That was an excellent briefing. Skipper,” Craig said.

  “The men were a bit shocked, to say the least.”

  “Thanks, Rich. I think I got my point across. And I don’t blame them for being surprised. I’ll never forget that moment when Admiral Miller sat me down and gave me the initial details. To tell you the truth, I still have trouble believing that this thing is really coming down.”

  “Ditto for me. Skipper. The part I’m having trouble with is the fact that the Soviet Premier has actually asked for our assistance. Things must really be out of hand for him to call us in to blow away one of their own subs.”

  “I’ve got to admit its one for the books all right. I just hope we don’t let them down.”

  As the captain reached over and turned off the monitor, Craig asked, “Say we don’t make it in time, and those missiles get released — what then. Skipper?”

  Cooksey reflected a while before answering.

  “I shudder when I think of the possible consequences, Rich. A magazine full of SS-N-18s can cause one hell of a lot of damage. From their intended launch position, they could probably hit targets anywhere in the continental United States.”

  The XO’s face suddenly paled.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus!

  Susan and the baby! They’re laying there right at ground zero.”

  “Easy now, Rich, we’ve still got a bit to say in the matter.”

  “Oh, come on, Skipper, you know what an impossible task we face. They could be hundreds of miles away from us right now. And not only are the chances of tagging them slim, but then there’s that Alfa to contend with. If we get
anywhere close to the Vulkan, we’re going to have one deadly tiger on our tail!”

  Almost fatherly, Cooksey put his hand on his XO’s shoulder.

  “That kind of thinking will only get you an ulcer. It’s highly speculative, and self-defeating, too.

  If that Delta-class sub is there, we’re going to take them out. I don’t give a damn what they’ve got between us and them. Nothing is getting in the way of the USS Triton!”

  These words were delivered with such conviction that the XO couldn’t help but lighten.

  “You said it, Skipper. Let’s go get them!”

  Playfully, Cooksey cuffed his exec on the side of his head, then pointed to the door. Without comment, Richard Craig managed a brave smile and followed the captain outside.

  Chapter Eleven

  Deep within the bowels of the Vulkan, Senior Lieutenant Vasili Leonov was in the process of “inspecting the portion of the sub that held the missile tubes, known as the taiga. The cavernous compartment was empty except for Weapons Chief Yuri Chuchkin, who was following Leonov. Their steps echoed off the narrow metal walkway as they passed by the bases of the sixteen missile tubes, placed eight on each side. Beyond, the constant faraway hum of the vessel’s engines droned incessantly.

  As the senior lieutenant passed the silo marked, 4, he caught sight of a greasy rag sticking out from the silo’s support cowling. He halted and studied it with unbelieving eyes. Yuri Chuchkin noticed his distraction and cautiously asked, “Is something the matter, Comrade? “

  Leonov pointed to the cowling and replied with a disgusted shake of his head, “Is this the way your men prepare their stations for inspection?

  Such sloppiness is inexcusable! If the maintenance of the SS-N-18s themselves is as slipshod as this compartment’s interior, we’ll be lucky to get even a single warhead airborne.”

  Chuchkin reached out and grabbed the offending rag and briefly inspected its surface.

  “I am sorry, sir. It’s only a towel used to clean off excess grease from the sealant gaskets. I can guarantee you that the integrity of the missiles is in no way compromised.” “That makes no difference!” Leonov shouted.

  “Leaving such a rag behind is only indicative of your crew’s general carelessness. The simplest mistakes have a way of producing the most dire consequences.

  Remember this, Comrade, and never let it happen again.”

  Doing his best to accept the rebuke, Chuchkin lowered his eyes.

  “You are right, sir. I will speak to the men and get to the bottom of this.”

  “We must all have pride in our service,” Leonov said.

  “Such careless mistakes should never happen.

  Now, did you complete the warhead coordinate changes as I requested?”

  “Of course, sir. They have been entered into the computer and triple-checked for accuracy.”

  “Well, check them again. Comrade Chuchkin. A careless mistake in this process could be disastrous.”

  Chuchkin straightened his shoulders and nodded.

  “I will do that, sir. I must admit that it represents a radically new set of target coordinates from our previous ones. I imagine it all has to do with those new ground-burrowing warheads that we recently took on.”

  “That is none of your concern. Comrade.” The Senior Lieutenant turned away and continued his inspection.

  Further down the walkway, Chuchkin said lightly, “Of course, this coordinate change is nothing but one of those endless alert exercises anyway. Most probably I’ll be changing them back within a matter of hours.”

  “You never know, do you Comrade Chuchkin?”

  Shrinking from Leonov’s icy words, Chuchkin attempted to change the direction of their conversation.

  “You certainly gave me a scare back in Petropavlovsk, sir. For a while there, I thought that you might go A.W.O.L..”

  This unexpected comment caught Leonov up short.

  Slowly, he turned to face the chief.

  “I understand that you were one of those who initiated a search of the city on my behalf. I appreciate this gesture and truly regret that a moment of self weakness made it necessary. I learned much during this personal crisis, Comrade. You can be assured that it will take more than a woman to divert me from my duty to the Rodina. They are nothing but a bunch of filthy tramps, anyway.”

  “I don’t know if you can go so far as to say that collectively, sir. I must admit that I’ve had my fair share of female problems, but every once in a while one comes along to make all the bad experiences worth it.”

  “I guess I’m just waiting for that one to arrive,” Leonov said thoughtfully.

  “Regardless, I want you to recheck those coordinate changes and then speak to your men once more. Instill in them a pride in their duties.

  Afterward, have them go over this compartment with a fine-tooth comb. I want this all completed within the hour, so snap to it, Comrade!”

  Accepting the chief’s salute, Leonov hurriedly checked the remaining silos and then ducked through the hatchway leading to the bow. He continued to complete the second portion of his tour of inspection.

  Just as important as the missile compartment was that section of the Vulkan from which the weapons would be launched, the attack center.

  Located near the bow, two floors above him, the deserted attack center would soon be alive with frantic action. Anxious for this fated moment to finally arrive, Leonov checked his watch and increased the length of his stride.

  As he walked down the cramped corridor he passed that portion of the sub reserved for supply storage.

  This was not a busy area and his progress was unhindered.

  Leonov found himself a bit disturbed that the weapons chief had brought up the subject of his recent troubled leave in Petropavlovsk. He knew that he should have been anticipating such a comment. The goodnatured chief had only been trying to lend a helping hand. Never again would Leonov allow his personal life to be scrutinized by his shipmates. This was one painful lesson he had learned all too well.

  Though the entire affair had taken place but a few days ago, Leonov felt as if it had happened in a past lifetime. So much had happened since that fated afternoon that the very fabric of his being seemed like it had been torn apart and subsequently’re sewn In place of the old self was a new, enlightened being, free from the bonds that had previously tied him down.

  The steel-lined innards of a nuclear submarine was a peculiar place to put his life in perspective; nevertheless, Leonov’s thoughts had dawned clear and concise. How much he had grown in these last few days!

  It all began when he had learned that Natasha had run off with that American journalist. On his way to buy her an engagement ring, he had made a quick call to her apartment and had learned of her betrayal.

  His initial feeling was disbelief. When a call to Natasha’s mother confirmed her daughter’s actions, Leonov’s thoughts turned to hurt, anger and then revenge. He’d track down the two, even if it meant following them to the far corners of the earth. How he relished the moment when he would choke the life from them.

  To think that she had chosen a capitalist swine to take off with infuriated him all the more. Could this be the same woman whom he had picked to share the rest of his life? And he had previously prided himself in his knowledge of human nature! Fooled by the ultimate folly, he walked the streets of Petropavlovsk in a daze, totally stunned by his blindness.

  With thoughts of naval duty far from his mind, Leonov had looked for solace in a bottle of vodka. Far from appeasing his resentment, the alcohol had only made it worse. To soothe his buried ego, he had picked up a Chinese prostitute. In her shabby hotel room, the hooker had done her best to arouse him.

  Stripping off her clothing, she revealed a compact, well-formed body.

  But as she flaunted it before him, a surge of revulsion rose from deep inside. At that moment, having intercourse was not in the least bit desirable. When the prostitute’s teases increased, Leonov rose up, totally out of contr
ol. For the first time in his life, he savagely beat a woman. The young Oriental was nothing but a sobbing hunk of blood and bruises as he left her, temporarily satisfied that he had somehow avenged himself.

  Reality had struck as he hit the icy streets. Sobered by a chilling gust of arctic wind, he could think of nothing but drowning his fears and confusion in more vodka. It was as he stumbled back to the bar that the hand of fate made its move. Blocking his progress on the snowcovered sidewalk was the dark, gaunt figure of the zampolit, Ivan Novikov. Though he had never liked this man before, the political officer had proven himself a most willing listener.

  Over a cup of steaming hot tea, Leonov had again opened his heart. In the ensuing discussion he learned that he had previously misjudged Novikov.

  Surely, the middle-aged zampolit was wise beyond his years!

  The political officer was able to divert Leonov by resurrecting lofty principles and theories that the senior lieutenant hadn’t thought about in much too long. What a waste were the selfish ponderings of a single physical being, when the destinies of hundreds of millions of fellow Soviets were so unnecessarily threatened! With precise, eloquent terms, the zampolit reaffirmed the ultimate goals of their sworn duties.

  If everyone with a personal problem had carried on like Leonov, could the Rodina have risen to its current level of greatness? Of course not! There came a time when one had to sacrifice the puny concerns of self and concentrate on the future of the masses. Only in this way could life have a true meaning and purpose.

  One socialist world, free from greed and the ceaseless threat of imperialism, was what they were working for. Without such a goal he was better off slitting his wrists, so that he would no longer be a State burden.

  There had been a time, not too long ago, when such a lofty, selfless aim had indeed been foremost in his mind. Because his father had been a high-placed Party member, Leonov had been given a complete ideological education. So thorough was his indoctrination that he had even been able to perceive flaws in the lifestyles of his own parents.

  The ideals of youth were soon veiled when Leonov was sent to military school. At the Frunze Naval Academy political indoctrination took second place to such complicated technical matters as celestial navigation and nuclear physics. Later courses instructed him in the trade that had filled his life for the last ten years. For an entire decade he did nothing but eat, sleep and dream of submarines. A series of rapid promotions brought him from junior lieutenant aboard a relatively crude November-class vessel to his present assignment. If all continued well, it wouldn’t be long until he would be getting his own command.