Counterforce must succeed, no matter the sacrifice. You may do with me. as you like. I have only done what my heart demanded.”
Dzerzhinsky took a step forward, his face only inches away from that of the trembling political officer.
“I’ll tell you what you did, Karpovich — you needlessly threatened the lives of the entire crew. A ship can only have one master. To have it otherwise is to invite disaster. If we are fortunate enough to survive this day, I will personally see to your imprisonment in the Lubyanka.
Even the KGB must recognize the proper authority of a chain of command.”
Sickened by the sweat-stained figure that stood before him, the captain pivoted and addressed his senior lieutenant.
“What is the status of our attack, Comrade?”
When Nikulin failed to reply, the captain’s gut tightened. Hurriedly, he rushed over to the sonar console where Nikulin was anxiously hunched over the bank of instruments. As one hand shot out to activate various volume gains and filters, the other pressed one of his headphones closer to his ear.
Before Dzerzhinsky could don a headset of his own, the senior lieutenant looked up, pale and drawn.
“I don’t understand it. Captain. Our bow hydrophone is picking up a pair of high-speed torpedoes headed toward us. Yet they are coming from a portion of the ocean far away from the fleeing Americans!”
The information hit Dzerzhinsky like a fist in his belly. The frantic orders that followed were voiced in pure frustration.
“Engineering, we must have speed! Dive! Dive!
Dive!”
The crew valiantly scurried to their stations, but the captain knew it was useless. Vectored in by both the ping of their sonar and the sound of the torpedoes launching, the enemy’s aim would be fatal.
Conscious that his life expectancy could now be counted out in seconds, he focused his gaze on the fat, pathetic frame of the man responsible for this calamity.
Though he would never know for certain what had prompted the zampolit’s rash action, Dzerzhinsky got the distinct impression that it was their very system that was at fault. Paranoid and distrustful, Boris Karpovich had been trained to believe in nothing but his own self-importance. It was the strength of a team effort that made a submarine crew successful, and it was the same for a country. Fearful that this was a lesson his comrades had yet to learn, Dzerzhinsky prepared himself for his final dive.
Ninety-three nautical miles due east of the doomed Cheka, the Vulkan surged onward, ignorant of its sister ship’s plight. Acting as the eyes and ears of the 13,250-ton vessel. Lev Zinyakin sat at the sonar panel controls, busily scanning the surrounding seas.
About to conclude his second consecutive six hour work shift, the petty officer looked forward to one of Chef Anatoly’s good hot meals.
Since last night’s supper he had eaten practically nothing. When his shift ended he would feast, and then surrender to the call of his mattress.
With a wide yawn, Zinyakin activated the Vulkan’s towed-array sensor platform. Reeled out from their stem planes, the device would search the seas behind them for any signs of their elusive enemy. Again he yawned, and pleaded with his weary body to stay alert just a little longer.
To help the time pass more quickly, he allowed his thoughts to wander.
As they always seemed to do, his memories brought him back to the beloved land of his birth. Zinyakin lost himself in cherished childhood memories of his family and the seaside cottage in which he had been raised.
Grinning at his recollections the petty officer yawned again and checked the console’s digital clock. After calculating that he had precisely twenty seven minutes to go until his replacement was scheduled to arrive, he looked up to check the towed array’s status.
As he determined that the tethered platform was indeed fully extended, the thunderous blast of a massive explosion sounded in his headphones.
Alertly, he activated the tape recorder and then swiveled to inform the present officer of the deck.
“We’re picking up a major explosion in our baffles!
Approximate range is one-six-zero kilometers.”
Senior Lieutenant Vasili Leonov was the first one at his side. He was soon followed by Ivan Novikov.
The cocky political officer commented first. “So, the Cheka has finally eliminated the Yankee attack sub. This is a glorious moment. Comrades.”
Vasili Leonov was irritated by this brash statement.
“We mustn’t be too hasty to jump to conclusions.
Comrade Zinyakin, will it be possible to identify the exact source of this blast?”
Zinyakin listened a moment to the distant sound of rending steel then said, “It’s all being recorded in the computer, sir. It will take a minute or so to filter out the distortion and pinpoint any background noises.”
While waiting for the requested computations, Zinyakin couldn’t help but overhear the zampolit’s idle boasting.
“I tell you. Comrade Leonov, this means that the final obstacle has been removed from our path. Nothing will stand before us and our dream’s fulfillment.
We have proven beyond doubt the superiority of the socialist way of life.”
Zinyakin’s attention was diverted back to the screen as it began filling with pertinent data.
“Well, Comrade Petty Officer, read us the good news,” the grinning zampolit prompted.
Zinyakin cleared his throat and spoke firmly.
“Because of the extreme distances involved, we are unable to determine the source of the blast. But we do have a confirmed analysis of the background track. Clearly audible here is a single surviving sound signature.”
“That would be the Cheka,” Novikov beamed.
Zinyakin’s response was flat and grim.
“I’m afraid not, sir. The computer shows an eighty-five percent probability that this signature belongs to an American vessel.”
“That’s impossible!” screamed the angry zampolit.
“Surely you have mistakenly programmed the computer. Try it again and you’ll find your error.”
Shrugging his shoulders, the petty officer cleared the screen and again requested an analysis of the hydrophone tape. As the information popped onto the screen, he said, “There has been a slight change, sir.
The probability has increased to ninety-three percent that the submarine now trailing us is of American origin.”
“I still can’t accept this,” the zampolit said.
“Comrade Leonov, surely there’s a malfunction in our equipment. Perhaps it’s merely a single broken computer chip.”
The senior lieutenant somberly shook his head.
“That is most doubtful, Comrade. I think it’s best to merely accept this tragic news and continue on with our job at hand.”
“But it can’t be! The Cheka was our most advanced attack sub. Her crew was hand-picked from the Rodina’s finest sailors. No vessel on this planet was — is — its equal.”
“What can I say? We must accept the facts at hand. Comrade,” Leonov said softly.
“You mustn’t forget that strange things happen in times of war.
Anyway, I’ve always said that we have seriously underrated the capabilities of the Americans’ Los Angeles-class attack ship.”
As the reality of their loss began to sink in, Novikov responded, noticeably humbled.
“If what you say is true, this is a black moment for the Motherland.
Since we have lost our escort, perhaps we should ascend to launch depth and release our missiles now, before the enemy has a chance to catch up with us.”
But the senior lieutenant wanted no part in such a half-baked scheme.
“That makes absolutely no sense at all. The only way that our operation can succeed is to eliminate each of the intended targets, totally.
In order to be within range of those sites on America’s eastern shore, we must attain our preplanned launch coordinates.