While the junior officers snapped to their duties, the Zampolit beckoned Valenko to join him beside the vacant weapons console.
Novikov’s hushed words were delivered with fierce intensity.
“Have you gone insane. Captain? How could you have forgotten the Red Flag alert relayed to us such a short time ago?”
“I have not forgotten about the alert. Comrade,” Valenko replied flatly.
“Then why do you so needlessly risk the Vulkan by breaking radio silence? As far as we know, we are in a state of war, Captain. Until informed otherwise, we must follow the directives spelled out clearly for each one of us in our sealed operational manuals.”
Valenko took in these words and the strained face of the man delivering them. Tired of the zampolit’s meddling, he drew in a deep breath and spoke out sharply.
“I’m not denying that the Red Flag alert was received, Comrade Political Officer. I am only exercising a captain’s right to seek out confirming orders whenever possible. Surely, this is only another exercise. We shall continue on our present course and close on the source of the transmission. Only after positively identifying it as one of our own ships will the Vulkan break radio silence.”
Without waiting for a response, Valenko pivoted to return to the sonar station — when a loud explosion sounded from the depths beyond their bulkhead.
With this blast, Valenko quickened his stride. As he neared the console for which he was headed, a massive shock-wave pounded into the submarine’s bow. The deck beneath him shook and the boat shifted hard aport. Struggling to keep his balance, the captain reached out to brace himself against one of the copper ballast pipes. This allowed him to remain upright as the lights flickered and the deck slowly settled beneath him. Quickly, he moved to Lev Zinyakin’s side.
“What in hell was that. Lieutenant?”
The sonar officer was still rubbing his blast shocked ears when the captain’s question forced him to refit his headphones. Intensely, he scanned the churning seas before them.
“The water’s still agitated. Captain, but I can tell you one thing for certain — whatever was towing that communications array was just sent to the bottom by a pair of torpedoes. What’s going on out there?”
Unable to respond, Valenko’s mind reeled with the implications. He had been certain that this doomed vessel had been a Soviet ship trying to contact them.
Yet, why should they be torpedoed? As he desperately tried to reason it out, a raspy, high-pitched voice whispered chillingly in his right ear.
“Now do you doubt the validity of our orders, Captain? I’m afraid that this is no mere exercise.
The power-hungry imperialists have made their long anticipated first strike. We must follow the orders of our operational manual exactly now, to insure that the Motherland is properly avenged.”
These apocalyptic words had their desired effect;
Petyr Valenko knew that his zampolit must be correct.
Somehow, the unthinkable had come to pass.
Only one thing mattered now, and that was for the Vulkan to survive.
The directives contained within the operational manuals of both the captain and the political officer were brief and to the point. In eight hours’ time, the Vulkan would rise to launch depth and release its load of sixteen SS-N-18 ballistic missiles. Until that fated time, he had to do whatever was necessary to insure the ship’s survival.
A meeting would have to be called and the vessel’s senior officers notified of their predicament. The thousands of hours of intensive training would at long last pay off. Certain that they would do their duty without question, Valenko turned to call out the series of orders that would take the Vulkan deep into the Pacific’s silent depths.
Forty-three kilometers northeast of the Vulkan, the attack sub Cheka floated motionlessly. From the vessel’s attack center. Captain Gregori Dzerzhinsky peered through the raised periscope. What he saw sickened him beyond description. Studying the bloody carnage was bad enough; knowing that their torpedoes were responsible for the slaughter tore at his gut.
The sound of the mighty blast had only recently passed, as had the surging shock-wave. Yet he couldn’t help but visualize the flight of the two torpedoes as they plunged from the Cheka’s forward tubes and smacked into the Kresta-class cruiser’s midsection.
At least the end had come swiftly for his fellow seamen. One of the torpedoes had struck the Natya squarely in its ammunition magazine.
Dzerzhinsky had been watching through the periscope as the Natya had risen from the water in a plume of flames, cracked in half, and then sank beneath the surface.
Even though the captain was trained to obey without question, this was one order he had carried out with great reluctance. Well aware of the extreme importance of their mission, he still didn’t understand why it was necessary to torpedo one of their own cruisers. After all, the blood of four hundred of his countrymen now stained his hands.
A swell smashed into the periscope’s lens as the captain continued to look at the handful of wreckage visible topside. From his vantage point he could see the inky oil spill. Floating in this noxious liquid were the remnants of a smashed lifeboat, dozens of empty life jackets and various other debris. As he swept the scene he saw a tableau that would haunt him always.
Hugging a large oil drum were three blackened survivors. The captain’s throat constricted as he watched several triangular fins vigilantly circling the last living crew members of the Natya. Though tempted to send the periscope back into its well, morbid curiosity held him glued to the device as the sharks moved in for the kill.
Though he had never disobeyed an order, he had to fight back the urge to command the Cheka to surface and save the survivors. His actions had surely been for the good of the State, but how could he ignore the cries of his conscience? Those were fellow sailors out there, sent to sea by the same authorities who had ordered the release of the torpedoes. As Dzerzhinsky struggled with this moral dilemma, a bass voice boomed out behind him.
“Excellent shooting. Captain. The First Deputy will be most proud.”
Sickened by the zampolit’s lofty tone, the captain stepped back from the scope as one of the sharks began thrashing the first of its helpless victims. Frustrated and confused, he beckoned the fat political officer to observe the scene topside.
Boris Karpovich peered through the periscope for barely fifteen seconds before quickly backing away. His plump hand trembled slightly as he angled his handkerchief up to mop his sweaty forehead.
“I know these words ring hollow now. Captain, but such sacrifices have got to be made Our very future as a country demands it. Just as millions fell to stop the Nazi barbarians, these men shall be heroes.
Believe me, Comrade, it will be well worth it in the end.”
Anger swelled as Dzerzhinsky glanced into Karpovich’s reddened, beady eyes. What did this pig know of the terrors being experienced by the brave men fighting for their lives on the surface? And what did he know of sacrifice? This slob probably thought that he was doing his part for the Motherland by eating only half a chicken for dinner instead of a whole one. The captain was preparing to give voice to his outrage when the Cheka’s senior lieutenant arrived at his side, clicking his heels smartly.
“Captain, I have the results of the remote-controlled hydrophone scan you requested.”
Vadim Nikulin’s presence immediately diffused the tense situation. The captain relaxed his tightly balled fists and gave his attention to his bald-headed second in command.
“The scan has confirmed the presence of the Vulkan southwest of us, some forty kilometers distant.