“Is this the truth, Stefan?” the chief said incredulously.
The warrant officer responded with defiance.
“Yes, Yuri — I was trying to disable the launch system, but I wasn’t prompted by any ridiculous fever. It was from our Captain’s own mouth that the orders sending me on this desperate task originated.
The Vulkan has been the subject of a mutiny, my friend. The two men who stand before us want nothing else but to use our SS-N-18s to initiate World War III!”
“Oh, come now. Comrade Kuzmin,” the zampolit interrupted.
“Please spare us any more of your twisted fantasies. Do you have any doubts. Chief, that what you are hearing is the product of a sick, feverish mind?”
Chuchkin looked again into the which man bloodshot eyes and silently implored his old friend for some kind of reassurance.
“I must admit that this is a most bewildering predicament. I’m afraid only one man aboard can sort this thing out. It is imperative that I be allowed to speak with the Captain.”
This time it was the senior lieutenant who responded.
“That is an impossible request. Chief. You heard my announcement earlier. Our esteemed Captain is in no shape for idle conversations.
Right now, he’s fighting for his very life. As is my duty, I am in command here. So, without further delay, you will please give us a hand in restraining our poor which man That is, unless you’re afraid of catching the virulent, infectious strain that he presently carries.”
The chief took several steps forward, putting him almost opposite Kuzmin. He examined his shipmate and had to admit that he looked far from normal.
Not only was he slovenly dressed and unusually dirty, but there could be no ignoring the thick patches of sweat that stained his shirt and still dripped from his forehead. The warrant officer did appear sick, yet could even a fevered delirium prompt him to take such a grave action as attempting to disrupt their launch-control system? He responded accordingly.
“I’m in no way doubting your authority, Comrade Leonov, but because of the serious nature of this disturbance, I would still like to see the Captain, no matter how ill he may be.”
Novikov’s face reddened with anger. Before he could voice his displeasure, the compartment filled with the dreaded sound of a loud, hollow ping.
“It must be the Americans!” Leonov cried.
“We’ve been found!”
Making the most of this moment of shocked stillness, Kuzmin snapped into action. Though he hated to do it, he reached over and, after grabbing hold of Chuchkin’s left arm, swung the portly chief into the path of his two adversaries. The resulting chaos was all that he needed to sprint the dozen meters that separated him from the firecontrol panel. With his bare hand, he began stripping the already-loosened remaining screw. After a few turns it popped free, and with eager hands he went to rip off the metal cover plate. Just as he wrenched it free from its base, a stabbing pain thudded into his back and sent him tumbling to his knees. As the plate he had been holding crashed to the floor, he looked back over his right shoulder and saw the ornate hilt of the zampolit’s carving knife protruding from his rib cage.
Even as his life force streamed from him, Kuzmin reached up in a last attempt to get to the now exposed circuitry. Inches away from his goal, a searing pain forced his hand downward. As he vainly fought the black, spinning veil that rose in his consciousness, his inner sight began focusing on a magnificent glowing light brighter than any he had ever seen before. He only surrendered to its shimmering radiance after identifying the voice that called him homeward. With a longing smile, he went to his final sleep picturing the angelic face of his beloved Galina.
“We’ve got a return, Captain! We’ve got them!”
From the opposite end of the control room, Cooksey looked up from the plotting table and shouted, “Give us a range, Callahan.”
“Bearing, three-four-zero, sir. Range, six-three nautical miles.”
Cooksey reached out and marked the spot with red grease pencil on the map’s glass projection screen.
“Shall we launch the SOW device. Skipper?” his XO asked.
With his eyes still locked on the map, Cooksey said, “Let’s give them another minute to change their course. Rich. They know we’re out here now. If they have any second thoughts at all, now’s the time to express them.”
The sixty seconds passed like an eternity for Cooksey. Surprised to find himself hesitant to give the order to send the Soviet sub crew to their deaths, he remembered the admiral’s firm reply when he had asked Miller what they were to do once the Delta was tagged.
“Blow them away,” the admiral had ordered, just as if a state of war indeed existed. With this directive in mind, Cooksey said, “Mr. Callahan, ping them again and give us a course update.”
Callahan triggered the active sonar unit, and once more a powerful pulse of acoustic energy streamed from the Triton’s bow.
“Course remains due east, Captain. Range extended to six-five nautical miles.”
Cooksey turned to face his XO.
“Let’s rub them out, Rich. Get me Spencer on the phone.”
The exec picked up the handset on his left and activated it. When he was certain that the proper party was on the other end of the line, he handed the receiver to the captain.
“Mr. Spencer, prepare a final targeting solution-sonar has got the coordinates,” Cooksey said grimly.
“Let’s see what that newfangled weapon we took on is made of.”
To this, the weapon’s officer responded apologetically, “I’m afraid that’s going to be impossible at the moment. Captain. We’re showing a failure in the SOW device’s acoustic array system. We’ve got it pulled apart and are checking it now.” “I should have expected that,” Cooksey said.
“This new stuff is too damn complicated. Ready a pair of old’-fashioned Mark-48 Advanced Capability torpedoes. The targeting angle is good and I don’t foresee any outside difficulties.”
But, from the sonar console across the room, Callahan shouted, “Captain, we’ve got ourselves another bogey, bearing zero-one-zero.
Relative range roughly seven-eight hundred yards. I believe I heard torpedo doors opening! Where in the hell did they come from?”
“It’s the Alfa!” Cooksey cried. He spoke rapidly into the receiver he still held.
“Mr. Spencer, belay those launch orders. I hope to God you’ve still got that Mk-70 loaded. Prepare the stern tubes and stand by for action.”
Then Cooksey put down the handset and barked, “Rich, sound General Quarters. Mr. Lawrence, take us down, crash dive! Engineering, I want flank speed!”
Sharp tones sounded throughout the Triton, sending the crew scurrying to their action stations as the sub’s planes bit into the surrounding water. Their angle of descent increased sharply, sending the vessel plummeting downward as the crew did their best to brace themselves.
With a tight grip on the plotting board to keep his balance, Cooksey watched his men struggle to remain at work and prayed that his desperate maneuver was successful. As his compass and ruler slid off the table and fell to the deck, he mentally calculated the odds and knew that they were far from being in his favor.
Only seconds before, they had been on the attack.
Now they were running for their lives.
Captain Grigori Dzerzhinsky, of the Alfa-class attack sub Cheka, beamed with delight as his senior lieutenant informed him of their target’s hasty dive.
As if this pathetic move would save them, Dzerzhinsky mused while relishing his moment of supreme power. Feeling like a cat playing with a doomed mouse, he watched his men — seated alertly at their stations — anxiously awaiting his next command.