A gentle hand tapped his shoulder, and Cooksey broke from his ponderings to face his XO.
“Just got a final report from damage control, Skipper. All leaks are under control. Weaver has even managed to replace that failed turbine seal. The only system still nonoperational is our garbage disposal unit. Chief Bartkowski is down in the galley doing his best, but he thinks it’s going to be out of commission for the rest of the patrol.” “Very good. Rich,” the captain said softly.
The XO noticed Cooksey’s unease and carefully probed.
“We’ll get back to the Vulkan soon enough, Skipper. What’s the status of that Alfa?”
“They’re playing the same game that we are; our hydrophones pick up no alien engine noises whatsoever.”
“We can’t stay down here too much longer,” Craig said.
“How about the old end-run? If we could get on top of the thermocline before they did, there’s a chance that their sonar would miss us.”
“I thought about running for it. Rich, but right now it’s still too risky. Though the smart thing to do would be to keep us pinned down, I’ve got a feeling that the Alfa is going to try to put a move on us.”
“You could be right. Soviet sub captains aren’t known for their patience, and I imagine that this one would just love to take us out with a single shot.”
Jolted by his XO’s observation, Cooksey reached over and activated the intercom. As he talked into the transmitter, his eyes remained locked on the XO.
“Mr. Spencer, do you still have that Mk-70 MOSS ready to go in the forward tubes? Excellent. How about that pair of AD CAPS Yes, the stern tubes will be fine. You can seal them up. Lieutenant. I’ll be transferring launch command to the control room.
If they’re needed, the quicker we get those weapons off, the better it will be for all of us.” As the captain hung up, Craig said, “I still wouldn’t rule out making a run for it, Skipper. This little lady can give that Alfa a run for its money any day of the week.”
“I’m aware of that, Rich. Let’s just not be too hasty. Now, how about helping me arm the firecontrol panel?”
The exec nodded and followed Cooksey to the deserted armament console.
They sat and began the process of routing the launch-access system so that the Triton’s torpedoes could be instantaneously fired from their stations. As they finished rerouting, the compartment was filled with the hollow sound of a deafening ping. Temporarily startled, Cooksey was pushed into action by the excited cry of Charlie Callahan: “It’s the Alfa!”
Without further hesitation, the captain depressed a red-flashing button and launched the contents of their number one forward tube. The sub shuddered slightly as the Mk-70 device, designed to simulate the Triton’s sonar signature, surged into the surrounding depths.
Before hitting the switches to activate the two stem tubes, Cooksey checked with his sonar officer.
“How’s the Mk-70 running, Mr. Callahan?”
Satisfied with the sound in his headphones, the freckle-faced petty officer said, “She’s proceeding straight and true, Captain.”
Cooksey allowed himself a thin smile. Now, if the Russian captain only took the bait, he’d need but a single source vector to confirm the Alfa’s precise location. Only then would the two AD CAPS be released.
Called to a target they couldn’t help but strike, the Mark-48 torpedoes would eliminate the Alfa in a blinding flash of explosive fire.
Vadim Nikulin sat expectantly before the Cheka’s sonar console. With sensitive, bulky headphones strapped tightly to his ears, the senior lieutenant waited for the return of the powerful sonar pulse they had just released. Though his concentration remained focused on the sounds in his headset, he was well aware of of his shipmates’ anxious stares.
Captain Dzerzhinsky stood in front of the firecontrol panel, a few meters away. It would take only a word from Nikulin to prompt the captain to launch the two homing torpedoes loaded in their bow.
When the distinctive plink of the sonar return arrived, Nikulin responded to the distant, roaring surge clearly audible in his headset.
“We’ve got a return, Captain! It sounds like the Americans are running!”
Dzerzhinsky nodded and placed his right index finger on the torpedo release lever. For a full thirty seconds he remained motionless. This inexplainable inaction prompted an immediate visit from Boris Karpovich, who was monitoring the situation from the room’s rear.
“What are you waiting for now. Captain? Finish them off!”
A look of malicious spite crossed Dzerzhinsky’s face as the zampolit squeezed in beside him.
“I’m warning you, Karpovich, this is not the time to interfere. Now get away from here, before I have you thrown in irons!”
Unable to believe what he was witnessing, the political officer flushed with confused rage. Certainly, his hesitance to fire in this instance meant that the man had to be deranged. Karpovich’s instincts had warned him of this much earlier. To not fire now was an act of idiotic incompetence. If the Americans were subsequently able to make good their escape, the entire operation would once more be threatened.
As the Zampolit frantically considered the consequences, a new thought crossed his mind.
Dzerzhinsky had proved many times before that he was a capable officer.
If this was the case, perhaps his actions were not prompted by insanity. This could mean that their captain inwardly wanted to assure the failure of Counterforce. Allowing the Yankee attack sub to escape now would practically guarantee their failure. Whether inspired by motives of treason or mere cowardice, it was evident that the captain was not the man to complete the job at hand.
Acting on one’s instincts was a trait that Konstantinbelchenko had personally taught the zampolit. It was this talent that had allowed the first deputy to attain his present position of power. If the operation on which they had worked so hard was not to fail, Karpovich would have to take strength from Belchenko’s example.
His course of action suddenly became clear: if the captain wasn’t going to launch those torpedoes, he would!
Astounded by his own audacity, Karpovich wiped the sweat from his forehead’ and inched his way forward. Peering over the captain’s shoulder, he caught sight of the launch button. Without further delay, he adroitly pushed Dzerzhinsky aside and quickly depressed the fateful switch.
The series of events that followed passed in a haze.
First, Karpovich was aware of his heart pounding madly in his chest. Then the deck trembled slightly, to a distant hiss of escaping compressed air. Satisfied that the torpedoes were on their way, he readied himself for the inevitable confrontation.
As he had expected, the captain was quivering with rage. With eyes wide and bulging, Dzerzhinsky screamed, “You stupid fool! If the sound we were picking up was merely a decoy, that launch will give us away for certain.”
Unable to reply, the zampolit expected next to be physically struck.
The captain was balling his fists, when the excited observations of the senior lieutenant temporarily diverted his fury.
“We’ve got them now. Captain! Both torpedoes have a definite sonic lock-on. There’s no way that the Yankees will be able to escape this time!”
Dzerzhinsky looked at the cowering figure of the Zampolit. Though his fists still ached for revenge, he held back as Karpovich bravely offered an explanation.
“I only did it for the good of our mission. Comrade.