Dzerzhinsky was aware that time was on their side. The longer they could keep the Americans running, the closer the Vulkan would be to its final launch position. Of course, destroying the imperialist vessel would be the easiest way to remove this final obstacle. He was in the midst of deciding which weapon he would use to finish them off, when a dreaded, familiar voice sounded from behind.
“Whatever is the matter, Captain? What is the meaning of this delay in eliminating the Yankee attack sub?”
The zampolit’s concerned words did little to arouse the captain.
“Perhaps you would like to take command of the Cheka, Comrade Karpovich. Let’s see how you would handle the attack.”
Dzerzhinsky watched with disgust as the pasty skinned political officer nuzzled up beside him.
“I only wish that I were more fully trained to do so, Captain. Shouldn’t we at least be continuing our pursuit? Even the men are confused by our present inaction.”
“That’s funny, I haven’t heard a complaint yet,” Dzerzhinsky said as he calmly looked at his watch.
Frustrated by the captain’s restraint, Boris Karpovich nervously asked, “At least tell me why you didn’t release the torpedoes when we had them dead in our sights.”
Dzerzhinsky realized that the whining political officer would pester him endlessly until his curiosity was satisfied.
“Comrade Karpovich, if the Americans had remained stationary for ten more seconds, they would no longer be a concern for us. Their sudden crash dive has forced me to drastically change our attack plan. No use wasting two homing torpedoes that would only get lost in the swirling clutter produced by their emergency descent.”
“But won’t we certainly lose then now?” continued the tense zampolit.
“Lighten up. Comrade,” the Captain responded.
“Must you always worry so? If you’d only trust in my ability, you’d soon find out that we’re only waiting for the water to clear before going down to finish them off. They aren’t going anywhere that we can’t reach them.”
Karpovich wiped his soaked forehead with a crumpled handkerchief.
“For a second there, I actually thought that you were letting the Americans go free.”
“Now why in the world would you think that, Comrade?” the captain asked with a puzzled frown.
The political officer wiped his sweaty neck.
“I guess I’m just getting to be a paranoid old tool, Captain. The operation is so close to it’s completion that I just can’t bare to see something go wrong now.”
“Well, you’d better learn to relax. Comrade, or we’ll be picking you up from the deck after a heart attack someday. Just think — then you’d never see the new world order take shape.”
Without excusing himself, Dzerzhinsky walked over to the sensor console. There, seated beside the two regular operators, was Senior Lieutenant Vadim Nikulin. With headphones clamped securely over his shiny bald skull, Nikulin was concentrating on the sonar monitor when the captain nudged his arm.
“Well Vadim, what do our Yankee friends have to say for themselves?”
The senior lieutenant pushed back his headset and said, “They certainly left a knuckle in the water when they initiated that crash dive.
Captain. Never before have I witnessed such a speedy descent.”
“Their commanding officer’s a sharp one all right,” Dzerzhinsky agreed.
“A good captain trains his crew to be an extension of himself.
Unfortunately, there are some situations from which even the most skillful of crews cannot extricate themselves. Shall we go down and teach our nosy friends a lesson?”
Nikulin’s eyes narrowed as the fat figure of the zampolit squeezed up beside the captain.
Dzerahinsky sensed him and said, “Comrade Karpovich, you will be happy to hear that we have decided to put the imperialists out of their misery once and for all. Now, if I were you. Comrade, I’d find something sturdy to hold onto. The ride that’s going to follow could get a little rough.”
Boris Karpovich heeded the captain’s warning and hurriedly stepped back to brace himself on the steel railing that enclosed the periscope well.
Satisfied that they would finally be on with the hunt again, he listened as the captain delivered a series of complex diving orders.
Seconds later, the Cheka’s engines roared and the deck dipped precariously forward.
It took all of Karpovich’s strength to keep himself upright as the sub dove deeper into the ocean. At the same time, he watched Grigori Dzerzhinsky stand behind the seated helmsman, keeping his balance with but a single hand. It was at moments such as this that the zampolit admired the captain. Appearing completely at ease, the captain alertly shifted his weight to compensate for each new pitch of the deck.
In the midst of all this, he continued giving orders.
Proud of Dzerahinsky’s skill, and that of his fellow crew members, Karpovich felt more confident. No enemy could escape the Cheka once a blood trail had been scented. Certain of this fact, he pondered the strange road that had brought him there.
Far from the intrigues of Moscow, his experiences aboard the attack sub gave him a whole new perspective on life. Not only was the environment alien, the men surrounding him were unlike any individuals he had ever met before.
As a junior member of Konstantin Belchenko’s personal staff, Karpovich was afforded an inside look at the forces that ran their government. It proved to be during Viktor Rodin’s phenomenal rise to power that he had become disillusioned and had written an impassioned letter to Belchenko. Never would he forget the one-on-one meeting that followed.
Not only did his superior listen to his thoughts, Belchenko even agreed with him on many points. This was especially in the area of international relations with the West. Four meetings later, the first deputy had shared with him a fictional scenario of the operation that was to become known as Counterforce.
Impressed with its scope and solidly behind its motives, Karpovich had been invited into Belchenko’s inner circle.
The legendary figures with whom he was soon meeting included Admiral Stanislav Sorokin. In fact, it was at the admiral’s invitation that Karpovich had begun the intensive training for his current assignment.
And here it was, only months later, and the dream of Counterforce was now a reality.
Karpovich took strength from his realization as the Cheka canted hard on its side. Though his shoulders strained with pain and his stomach roiled, he dared not protest. For how often did one actually get to see the hand of destiny unfold?
In the dark, cold seas beneath the advancing Soviet attack sub, the USS Triton continued its frantic plunge. With an outside pressure of over three hundred and fifty pounds per square inch, the vessel’s valves, seals and other vulnerable fittings strained to the breaking point.
Ever conscious of the great pressure was the Tritons crew. This was especially evident inside the control room. Here, the tension took the form of strained, concerned expressions and a deathlike silence. The unnatural quiet was broken only by the distant rumbling of the propulsion unit, the creaking strain of the hull itself, and the muted voice of the diving officer as he read off the depth.
“We’re breaking one thousand feet. Captain.”
Cooksey stood at the officer’s side and nodded somberly. As he watched the digital depth meter, a series of soft, electronic tones diverted his attention to the compartment’s interior. Richard Craig picked up the intercom. The XO spoke into the receiver, listened for a moment, then dropped the handset to his side and addressed the captain.
“Skipper, it’s Chief Weaver. He’s got a minor seal failure in the engine room and is requesting permission to shut down the main turbine to initiate repairs.”