Earlier, when the Soviet Kresta-class cruiser had been sunk, Rodin had wondered what had blown the Natya apart seconds before its attack against the Vulkan was to begin. Since he and the admiral were the only ones who knew of the Natya’s attack orders, Sorokin must have notified his fellow conspirators-who in turn had the cruiser conveniently eliminated.
The loss of the Natya had tragic implications beyond the lives and equipment involved. For, if the warship had been successful, their current predicament would have been resolved.
The Premier realized how shocked Sorokin must have been at being invited on the flight to Los Angeles. Surely he had only accepted so as not to arouse unnecessary suspicion. Knowing full well that the nuclear strike would include a bevy of warheads targeted on Southern California, Sorokin had commandeered the IL-78. His cowardly act would cost the admiral dearly.
The General Secretary stirred when a huge, fiery fork of lightning lit the surrounding heavens. Shaking off his lethargy, Rodin planned the series of directives he would now issue to seal the fates of Sorokin and his fellow traitors. Under a blanket of secrecy, he would authorize his most trusted agents to tap the IL-78‘8 radio transmissions. Each call would be duly monitored and traced. If Stanislav Sorokin was indeed one of those responsible, Rodin would catch him in the act of contacting his fellow conspirators as they gloated over their apparent victory.
Not knowing who else the finger of guilt would point to, Rodin mentally prepared himself for the shock of disclosure that would, hopefully, follow.
Catching the entire group would give him great satisfaction.
But at the moment he was faced with a much graver problem. In only a few minutes the yulkan would reach its launch coordinates. Oblivious to the real state of political relations, the crew would then carry out the second part of the Red Flag directive and release their lethal load of sixteen SS-N-18s. In response, the Americans would cry for a counter strike and the world would be plunged into the ultimate horror.
Trembling with anger at the audacity of the individuals who had hatched this insane plot, Rodin knew that, somehow, the Vulkan had to be stopped!
Chapter Fourteen
The control room of the USS Triton was possessed by a tense silence as the vessel hurried toward the assumed intercept point. Pacing the length of the equipment-packed compartment was Captain Michael Cooksey.
Hands cocked stiffly behind his back and eyes focused on the deck before him, he appeared lost in distant thought.
Lieutenant Commander Richard Craig watched his senior officer’s slow, monotonous stride, and couldn’t help but be concerned. The captain looked as nervous as he had ever seen him. And that included the conclusion of their last patrol, when Cooksey’s hairtrigger temper and sullen moods were the talk of the ship.
Looking rested and fit after returning from leave, Cooksey had been just like his old self again. Even his sense of humor had returned.
But their confrontation with the Soviet attack sub had quickly changed all that.
While they were in the midst of their crash dive, the XO had caught a glimpse of the captain’s face and didn’t like what he’d seen. Not only had the lines of tension returned, so had the dark pouches that had previously underscored his bloodshot eyes. Certainly drained by a lack of proper rest and nourishment, Craig wondered how long the captain could keep himself together.
From his position behind the sonar console, the XO scanned the rest of the compartment’s interior. With quiet efficiency, the crew went about their individual duties. Conscious of the loud, distant whining of the Triton’s turbines, he knew they were pushing ahead at close to top speed.
A muted, electronic tone rang from his wrist, and Craig looked down at his preset watch. As he somberly took in the time, he cleared his throat and addressed Cooksey, who was headed back toward him.
“Skipper, it’s 2120 hours.”
“I’m well aware of that, Mr. Craig,” the captain snapped. He paced for three more strides, then halted and commanded, “All stop! Rig for ultra quiet While his directives were being carried out, Cooksey returned to the sonar station. Without comment, he clipped on the auxiliary headphones and initiated a hasty sensor scan.
“Damn it, they’ve got to be out there somewhere!” Cooksey shouted as he disgustedly peeled the listening gear off.
“Callahan, is this gear working properly?”
The sonar officer responded tactfully.
“All hydrophones appear operational, sir. We also show a negative on active search.”
“Well, keep on it, Lieutenant, I know they’re close!”
Charles Callahan returned to his console, while the captain quizzed his exec.
“What’s your opinion of this damned mess, Mr. Craig?”
The XO answered as the familiar whine of their engines dissipated and the Triton glided to a halt. “I agree that they can’t be too far away. Skipper It wasn’t all that long ago that we pinged them. Since our top speed is well over that of a Delta-class boat, they couldn’t have gotten too far away — unless they headed out in the opposite direction.”
“That’s unlikely,” Cooksey observed.
“They’re going to need to attain that launch position as far east as time allows. Those SS-N-18s will be at the extreme edge of their range and they won’t be taking any chances. Damn it to hell — I should have blown them away earlier when I had the chance. What was I thinking about?”
“You were only giving them a fair chance to show their colors, Skipper.
Don’t take it so personally. I would have made the exact same decision.”
The exec’s words were met with silence. Both men turned their attentions to the green-tinted sonar screen. As Richard Craig watched the pulsing white line, which monitored the surge of high-frequency power being sent out from their bow, an idea came to him.
“You know, Skipper, the Vulkan may have taken the chance of ascending up through the thermocline.
The last reading of our XBT showed an unusually thick band of warmer water above us. If that’s still present, and the Soviets are taking advantage of its veil … that could account for their absence on our sensors.”
Impressed with this thought, Cooksey nodded.
“You could have something. Rich. Although, that would open them up to surface detection by one of our choppers or aircraft; those Russians might just be trying to pull the wool over our eyes. Launch the XBT and find us that thermocline. Then get the Triton ready to ascend. I’d better call Spencer and have him ready one of those ASW/SOWS.”
As Cooksey glanced down to check his watch, Craig was already carrying out his directives. As the captain reached out for the intercom, he softly mumbled to himself, “Please God, give me another shot at them.
Just one damn shot!”
Seventy-three nautical miles due east of the USS Triton, the Vulkan silently balanced itself in the cool, dense layer of seawater that signaled the limit of the thermocline. This rather delicate maneuver was being monitored from the ship’s attack center, where the sub’s command functions had now been transferred.
Bathed in a veil of dim red light, the compartment was a smaller copy of the vessel’s control room. The main difference was the decreased size of the staff present. A hand-picked complement of selected personnel was all that was necessary to assist the commanding officers in carrying out the Vulkan’s primary mission.
Senior Lieutenant Vasili Leonov was aware of this as he quickly checked the individual consoles. Proud that his men had accepted his new position of command without undue questions, Leonov knew that the moment of destiny would soon be upon them.
Continuing down the narrow walkway that circled the compartment, Leonov passed the seated sonar officer. Lev Zinyakin was completely immersed in his work and not aware of Vasili’s presence.