Chapter Three
The arctic twilight glowed in ghostly iridescence as two Soviet submarines rounded a breakwater and entered Taliniskaia Bay. Leading the way was the smaller of the vessels. Sporting a streamlined hull, complete with a rounded bridge from which a variety of retractable aerials were extended, the attack sub Cheka was making one of its rare surface transits.
Following it, nearly one hundred meters off its stern, was the Vulkan.
Clearly dwarfing the attack sub in length and width, the Delta-class ship was almost twice as large. Characterized by a hunchbacked missile casing, located abaft the angular conning tower, the keeless submersible cut awkwardly through the choppy northern seas. Oblivious to the sickening, rolling pitch of the hull, the submariners inside knew that their home port was only minutes away.
It was at times like this that Petropavlovsk appeared extremely attractive. In reality, the city was an isolated, uncomfortable outpost, perched on the tip of the desolate Kamchatka peninsula. It was home to approximately 200,000 hardy inhabitants, the majority of whom were certainly not there by choice.
Pounded by bone-chilling, arctic temperatures, the northeastern Siberian settlement gained its importance as being home to the famed Seventh Squadron, where seventy-five percent of the Soviet Union’s Pacific Fleet subs were anchored.
Serving as reminders of their northerly position, a line of scarred icebreakers were the first ships visible as the subs proceeded into the harbor. All too soon the arctic pack ice would be inching its way down the peninsula, and the frustrating, tiring job of keeping an open sea lane would begin. With only a handful of open ports to choose from, this was a most important job. A fleet locked at its berths by ice would do the Rodina little good in times of need.
Petyr Valenko stood in an exposed opening cut into the forward section of the Vulkan’s sail. Standing next to him was his senior lieutenant, Vasili Leonov. Both were bundled in fur-lined oilskins. Even with the cover of those heavy coats, they shivered in the icy breeze.
“Just wait until it gets really cold,” mocked the captain as he readjusted his mittens and pulled his collar closer to his neck.
“Winter isn’t officially scheduled to arrive for a full month yet.”
“I’ll still take this frigid air over the stuffy confines of the sub’s interior, any day of the year,” Leonov reflected.
Valenko grinned shyly.
“You say that now, after being cooped up inside for over two months, but leave you outdoors in these conditions for an hour and you’ll soon be begging to come inside.”
As if to emphasize his observation, a biting northern gust hit them full in the face. Both men instantly turned their heads downwind in an attempt to escape its piercing effects.
“Who knows — perhaps orders sending us off to the Mediterranean are waiting in port. Wouldn’t you love a honeymoon under the balmy, tropic skies?”
The captain’s question produced an instant response from the senior lieutenant.
“As long as I’m honeymooning with my Natasha, I’ll take it anywhere on this planet. You see, I don’t plan to do much sightseeing! “
“No, I guess you don’t at that. So, you still have the nerve to go through with it?”
Leonov’s eyes gleamed.
“Since we last talked in the mess I haven’t thought of much else — except my official duty, that is.”
Valenko shook his head and grinned.
“Well, I wish you all the luck. As soon as we tie up at our pen you may consider yourself temporarily excused from duty.
I’ll complete the log myself.”
“Thank you. Captain!” Leonov said sincerely.
Eyes now focused on the rapidly approaching docks, Leonov seemed to be willing them forward. Valenko detached the waterproof intercom and began initiating the complex series of commands that would see them to their proper slot. After passing an anchored trio of Kotlin-class destroyers and a massive Kresta cruiser, the Vulkan began a broad, sweeping turn toward starboard. As they passed by the cruiser’s sharply angled bow, Valenko set his eyes on the low profile, concrete-roofed pens that the Seventh Squadron called home.
The Cheka could be seen inching its rounded hull into one of the slots closest to the open sea. The Vulkan’s berth was three dozen spaces down the line.
The majority of these pens were filled with older, Yankee-class and Hotel-class models. Though many of these ships had not been to sea in several months, each of them was fully fit for duty should the need arise.
Five minutes later, the first mooring line was being cinched onto the Vulkan’s forward capstan. After making certain that the ship was securely tied, Valenko made his way downstairs. The action there was furious, as the men hastily concluded their duties of buttoning down the sub. Not wanting to get in their way, Valenko proceeded immediately to his cabin.
Here he planned to begin work on the report that included a detailed review of the daily events of the last two months. No sooner had he sat at his tiny, wallmounted desk to begin this chore, when a knock sounded on his door.
“Come in,” he said with a touch of annoyance, then lightened as he set eyes on the grinning face of Stefan Kuzmin.
“Sir, I was just reaffirming our date for dinner. Is tomorrow evening at six o’clock all right?”
“That would be fine, Comrade. Where is this place of yours?”
Kuzmin blushed.
“I’m sorry. The address is 13 Gorshkov Boulevard. Our apartment is number 301.
Bring your appetite.”
“That, you can be certain of,” the captain said as he looked down at the blank legal pad that lay before him.
The which man alertly excused himself.
“Well, I won’t bother you any longer, sir. Besides, I’ve got a wife and six-month-old son to see. Good evening, Captain.”
With the blond-haired warrant officer’s exit, Valenko once again began organizing the series of notes that comprised the Vulkan’s informal log. It was his responsibility now to expand on these observations and create a final report. He was just getting through the first week of their patrol when another knock sounded.
“What is it?” Valenko asked with more than a bit of agitation.
The sweet scent of vanilla-soaked tobacco preceded Yuri Chuchkin’s entry.
“Sorry if I’m disturbing you, sir,” greeted the bearded weapons chief, “but I was just putting together a security roster of all those who will be staying aboard this evening.”
“Well, you can count me in there, Chief. I think it’s best if I finish up this log while the events are still clear in my mind. Who else is staying?”
Chuchkin pulled the stem of his pipe from his lips before answering.
“There’s myself, Chef Anatoly, the reactor team and the usual security detail. I thought you’d be interested to know that our good friend Ivan Novikov was one of the first to leave the ship. From the hurried way in which he was moving, our zampolit seemed to have a feather up his ass.”
Valenko chuckled.
“Bet you that he couldn’t wait to inform his superiors of the dangerous dissident currently at the helm of one of the Rodina’s most powerful weapons systems. I’ve had run-ins with his type before. He’ll get over it.”
“I hope so,” Chuchkin said.
“Otherwise, we’ll both end up on icebreaker duty in the Arctic Circle.”
“Don’t you worry. By the way, why are you staying aboard the Vulkan this evening? I’d have thought that you would like to be visiting your mother.”
Chuchkin put a match to his pipe’s bowl.
“That was the plan — until I received a call from logistics informing me to be ready to accept a new load of warheads first thing in the morning. Silly to drive all the way out to her dacha in Malka, only to return in a few hours’ time.”