Counterforce

by Richard P. Henrick

  Though the removal of the protective skirt had taken him longer than he had anticipated, Valenko knew that the majority of the work was all but over.

  As he adroitly unscrewed the last of the bolts, he pondered the strange series of circumstances that had prompted his act of sabotage. From the moment that the Zampolit had originally confronted him in his cabin and revealed their mad scheme, Valenko had had trouble believing that the conspirators were really serious. His first impression was that this had to be some sort of test to check his loyalty and reactions in an emergency situation. Though knocking him out and binding him up gave this theoretical test a bit too much relish, Valenko still wasn’t sure of the zampolit’s motives until the which man interceded. Stefan Kuzmin had assured him that the mutiny was indeed real.

  Still not knowing how anyone in his right mind could back such an insane plot, Valenko wondered how his rescuer was doing. Kuzmin had aided him way beyond the call of duty. The blood still streaming from his head wound, Kuzmin had bravely followed Valenko down the cramped duct, displaying a stubborn tenacity the likes of which the captain had never seen.

  If the which man task had been completed, Valenko’s piece of sabotage would be superfluous. Yet the results of their failing would be so devastating that this redundant operation was well worth the risk.

  Hoping that his friend was currently safe and sound, the captain removed the remaining screw and the heavy skirt crashed to the deck.

  Without hesitation, he began searching for the seam in the rubberized strip that was now visible. Just as he caught sight of the spot where the circular gasket was joined together, a heart-stopping hissing noise sounded behind him … followed by a familiar, dreaded voice.

  “Comrade Valenko, stop your foolishness at once!”

  Oblivious to the zampolit’s command, Valenko reached out and began tearing the sealant upward.

  Then he heard another voice.

  “Captain, it’s Vasili Leonov. I order you to stop this act of sabotage!”

  When it was apparent that the captain would not heed their warnings, the political officer cocked his arm and let his knife fly. The blade smashed into Valenko’s back with a dull thud. He fell on his side, the blade firmly embedded between his ribs.

  Still holding the rubber strip in his hands, the captain forced himself onto his knees and, grunting in agony, continued yanking at the molding. Aware of what he was attempting, the frantic senior lieutenant took careful aim and pulled the trigger of his pistol a single time. The bullet exploded from the chrome muzzle and smacked into the back of Valenko’s skull.

  The captain was dead before his body hit the bloodstained deck.

  “Good shooting!” cried Novikov as he ran to make certain that Valenko was out of commission for good.

  Assured of this, he turned to face the senior lieutenant — and found him standing there, trembling.

  “Come now. Comrade Leonov, get hold of yourself!

  This blow was a most necessary one. Have you already forgotten our glorious mission? One more life lost means absolutely nothing to our great cause.”

  Unaffected by these words, Leonov was still clearly stunned and shaking visibly. Seeing the senior lieutenant’s fragile state, Novikov moved to him. Taking the gun from his hand, the zampolit slapped Leonov hard across the face. Like a man awakening from a horrible nightmare, he snapped out of it. His gaze narrowed while he inspected the scene, as if viewing it for the very first time.

  “Is the captain dead?”

  “He was expired before he knew what hit him,” the political officer said smugly.

  “Can this damage to the gyrocompass be repaired?”

  The senior lieutenant inspected the containment seal and sighed a breath of relief.”

  “Yes, Comrade.

  Fortunately, he had yet to break the vacuum. If that had taken place, we would have been lucky just to find Petropavlovsk again. I will get Yuri Chuchkin and his crew up here to repair the damage and reestablish power. Then, our mission can be completed.” “Thank the fates!” said Novikov with a sigh. Then he thought of something else.

  “I think it’s best that we clean up the blood, cover Valenko’s body and stash the corpse in a storage closet for the time being. We certainly don’t want the Chief more curious than he already is.”

  “Good point,” Leonov said.

  “That can be accomplished most readily.”

  As he turned to initiate this unpleasant task, Novikov was relieved to see that the senior lieutenant appeared to have fully returned to his senses. That was quite a relief, for the zampolit would need his expert assistance now more than ever before.

  Charlie Callahan remained seated at his console, yet he couldn’t help noticing the captain’s nervousness as Cooksey paced the deck behind him. Apparently, this restlessness was beginning to get contagious, for now even Mr. Craig, their usually cool-headed XO, appeared unduly agitated. Both officers tensely scanned the control room’s stations, vainly doing everything within their power to locate the enemy. Of course, the majority of their attention remained focused on the sonar monitors.

  Every thirty seconds or so, the captain would approach Callahan and give him another one of those pleading, inquisitive stares. Since there was nothing new to report, Callahan could only shrug his shoulders and return to his scanners with an even greater degree of intensity. Then Richard Craig would repeat the exact same inquiry; this increased attention was starting to get on the sonar operator’s nerves.

  More than anything, the captain reminded Callahan of a roommate he once had at the University of Virginia. Both the roommate and he had been enrolled in the naval ROTC program, and were attending a similar schedule of classes. Though they were most compatible for the majority of the school year, toward exam time his roommate became unbearable.

  Unable to eat or sleep normally, he would restlessly pace the floor for hours at a time, agitated by needless worries. He was an excellent student and received superior grades, yet his nervousness soon took its toll.

  As Callahan was preparing to accept his commission as a second lieutenant, his poor roommate was being admitted to the university hospital with a bleeding ulcer. That condition had kept him from naval service, and the last Callahan had heard from him, he was working for a civilian computer firm.

  Captain Cooksey was headed for a similar physical breakdown if he didn’t learn to relax. Their present situation was a critical one, but worrying about it would only make matters worse.

  Callahan had learned to pace himself. When the pressures of his job became too great, he would regain control through a series of deep breathing and mental visualization exercises. Once more relaxed and alert, he would then return to his job.

  Wanting to give this advice to his senior officers, but knowing he didn’t dare, Callahan reached forward and began yet another routine scan with the bow hydrophones. He was conscious of one of the officers breathing down the back of his neck, when the loud, crackling sound of a single explosion rang inside his headphones. Startled by the unexpected sound, he vectored in on its origin and excitedly shouted, “Captain!”

  A pair of strong hands instantly squeezed his shoulder, and Callahan knew that Cooksey was standing right behind him. As he rewound the tape recording of the alien noise, Callahan said, “You’d better listen to this, sir. Something out of the ordinary just happened out there.”

  Cooksey hastily clamped on the headphones as Callahan activated the recorder. Once more, the sharp bang could be heard.

  “Sounds like a gunshot,” the bewildered captain offered.

  “Where in the hell did it come from?”

  The sonar officer checked his computer monitor.

  “Big Brother shows an approximate origin in the upper strata of water, some seventy miles to the northeast.”

  “They’ve been hiding in the damned thermocline!”

  Cooksey exclaimed. He signaled his XO to join him.

  “We’ve got them. Rich! You were right �
�� those Ruskies have been taking advantage of the warm water. They’re still too far to use a Harpoon, so one of those newfangled ASW/SOWS is going to have to do its thing.

  Thank the Lord that our prayers have been answered!”

  Charles Callahan watched Richard Craig’s face light up in response, and felt his own spirits lighten.

  With practiced ease, he began the task of making certain that the exact targeting data was fed into the firecontrol system. From what little he knew of the experimental weapon that the captain planned to utilize, it was of a similar design to the Tomahawk missiles they also carried.

  Shot from a torpedo tube, the SOW would angle up toward the surface, break the water, then fly to coordinates programmed from the sub. At that point the booster rocket would separate, and a REGAL torpedo would descend by parachute. When it again hit the water, an acoustic array — containing a small computer and a sonar transmitter — would be jettisoned to sink to a preset depth. Meanwhile, the torpedo would propel itself in a slow search pattern, waiting for the array to call it in for a certain strike.

  With a theoretical range of up to three hundred miles, the SOW gave them an anti-sub capability second to no other attack submarine on the planet.

  Aware of this, Callahan did his part to insure that the weapon would not fail.

  In contrast to the excited atmosphere inside the Triton, the mood of the Vulkan’s attack center was most somber, following the lead of the two officers who were seated anxiously before the firecontrol panel.

  Conscious of each passing second, the Vulkan’s political officer looked out with a sour grimace. If it hadn’t been for Valenko’s interference, their portion of Operation Counterforce would already have been completed, and the first warheads would now be descending to their targets. Frustrated, Novikov turned to address the man seated on his right.

  “What is taking Chuchkin and his crew so long, Comrade? Surely they should have completed the repairs by now.”

  Used to the zampolit’s whining by now, the senior lieutenant casually answered, “Have patience. Comrade Novikov. The Chief is one of our most capable technicians. He knows what has to be done, and will call us the second the gyrocompass is back in working order. Until then, we can only bide our time. Fortunately for us, our sonar still shows no sign of the enemy. I can’t help but feel that the hand of destiny itself is keeping the Americans away from us.”

  “If destiny were a bit kinder, this intolerable waiting wouldn’t be necessary,” said Novikov.

  “The way I figure it, the warheads would be landing any minute now.”

  “After all the decades of waiting, surely another half hour won’t make any difference,” the senior lieutenant reasoned.

  “You are right, Comrade,” Novikov sighed.

  “Too often my impatience gets the best of me.”

  The two lapsed into a moment of silence, suddenly broken by Lev Zinaykin’s shouts of alarm.

  “We show a splashdown in the water above us! I’ve got active propeller sounds — they could be from a homing torpedo!”

  Abruptly broken from his lassitude, Leonov stood and screamed, “Crash dive! Full speed! Take us down, Comrades, for our very lives!”

  He ran over to the helmsman as the engines throbbed to full life.

  “You won’t be able to wait for speed. Take on ballast and put those planes down!”

  As a roaring torrent of seawater was vented, the angle of the deck steepened noticeably. Holding onto the railing for balance, Leonov made his way over to the sonar console. Here he was joined by the white-faced zampolit.

  “Can we outrun them?” Novikov asked frantically.

  “Or are we doomed to failure so close to the completion of our task?”

  Ignoring him, Leonov turned to the sonar operator.

  “Zinyakin, what’s our status?”

  Lev Zinyakin was gripping the console with one hand to hold himself up, and pressing a headphone to his ear with the other.

  “Even though we’re beginning to pull away, the screw sounds are increasing. I’m afraid it’s following us down and gaining quickly.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Leonov saw Ivan Novikov tumble to the deck. Not taking the time to help him, the senior lieutenant picked up the intercom, punched in a series of digits and barked roughly into the transmitter.

  “Who is speaking? Well, listen closely. Comrade Balashikha — this is the Senior Lieutenant. I know that Chief Chuchkin is away from the torpedo room at the moment, but I need you to initiate a launch at once. Can you do this, Seaman Third Class? Well, let’s hope so, Comrade. Do you know of the cannister of Zu-23 dye kept stored in the emergency tube?

  Excellent, my friend. Release it at once!”

  Replacing the handset, Leonov noticed that Ivan Novikov had returned to his feet. While smoothing down his crumpled uniform, the zampolit gave vent to his endless curiosity.

  “What in the world is this Zu-23 dye. Comrade?

  And what can it do to save us from our current predicament? ” Still struggling to keep his own balance, Leonov answered, “Believe it or not, this substance is a synthetic copy of the natural defense mechanism of an octopus. Veiled in its inky wake, the Vulkan should be effectively invisible.”

  “Only the Rodina’s scientists could have thought of such a brilliant thing,” Novikov replied.

  “But does it indeed work?”

  “You’d better hope so.” Turning away from the political officer, Leonov shouted, “Prepare to break descent! Engineering, make ready for a reactor scram!”

  Approaching the Vulkan at flank speed, the USS Triton surged through the turbid waters. From the sub’s control room, Charlie Callahan scanned the seas before them in an effort to monitor the hunt they had initiated. With sensitive headphones covering his ears, he adjusted the bow hydrophones to maximum amplification.

  Even with this additional volume, he shook his head disappointedly.

  “I don’t understand it, Captain. We were copying them as plain as day a few seconds ago. I even had a definite on the increased propeller whine of our torpedo as it was beginning to close in for the kill.

  Now, all I’m picking up is a homing pattern, while the REGAL searches out the Vulkan once again. It’s like the Russians just disappeared!” “Damn it all!” said Cooksey.

  “I was wondering if that darn contraption would work or not.”

  Callahan was quick to defend their high-tech equipment.

  “It’s not the SOW’S fault, sir. If that was the case, it would mean our sensors had failed as well.

  Right now I’m picking up absolutely nothing on the Vulkan, while just seconds ago they were churning up the water something fierce.”

  “Sounds to me like they’ve scrammed their reactor,” the XO observed.

  “But still, that active sonar array should have pinged them easily enough.”

  Michael Cooksey rubbed his forehead where a throbbing ache had developed.

  “The Ruskies could be playing with some sort of anechoic device that somehow deflects our sonar. Although, I don’t see why they wouldn’t have tried such a trick earlier. All we know for certain is that they’re out there, sure enough. If they have scrammed, and in the process of running from our missile have dived below their launch depth, this merely gives us a reprieve, gentlemen.

  We’ve got to keep on closing the gap and pray that they eventually show themselves.”

  Richard Craig nodded and checked his watch: it was 2147 hours.

  Seventeen minutes ago, the Soviets had been scheduled to empty their missile magazine.

  By luck and the grace of God, they had so far been unable to complete their mission. Hopeful that good fortune would remain with them, the exec followed his captain over to the plotting table to formulate a final strategy for keeping the SS-N-18s bound to the sea.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A wave of hushed jubilation sounded through the Vulkan’s attack center when Lev Zinyakin reported that the enemy homing torpedo
had spent its fuel.

  Relieved of this threat, the crew returned to their stations and awaited the senior lieutenant’s next order.

  From his position behind the sonar console, Vasili Leonov grinned in triumph. Beside him, the zampolit was as impatient as ever.

  “At last we can return to launch depth and complete our mission,” Novikov said emphatically.

  “We must still wait to hear from Yuri Chuchkin,” Leonov said.

  “And besides, we still have to determine where that infernal homing torpedo came from.”

  Lev Zinyakin offered an opinion.

  “It could be from that American attack sub, sir, even though we are no longer picking them up on our sensors. Maybe it’s because of our crash dive, which sent us below the thermocline. If the Americans had also ascended into the warmer waters, that could account for our failure to pick them up.”

  “But surely, we were far enough away from them to be well beyond the range of their Harpoon torpedo.”

  Leonov reasoned.

  “Then perhaps it didn’t come from a submarine at all,” Novikov interjected.

  “Isn’t it possible that the device was dropped from the air?”

  As Leonov considered this the intercom chimed. It was the weapons chief.

  “Excellent work. Comrade Chuchkin,” Leonov said.

  “Please be so good as to return to your station to await my further orders.”

  He hung up the handset and informed his two shipmates that their gyrocompass was repaired. The zampolit was the first to respond.

  “Well, it’s about time. All this endless delay is the hardest part to cope with. Well, what are you waiting for now, Senior Lieutenant?