Knowing that this was Zinyakin’s third consecutive work shift, the senior officer shook his head in wonder. It had taken only a single plea on his part to convince the exhausted sonar operator to follow them into the attack center. After all, this would be the moment when the Vulkan’s most talented crew members were needed to insure success.
Allowing Zinyakin a quick break to wash his beard-stub bled face and gobble down a sandwich and some tea, Leonov felt more assured just knowing that the brilliant Lithuanian was manning the all-important station.
Next to the sonar console was the navigation plotting board. Peering over the navigator’s shoulder, Leonov monitored their progress. Only minutes away from the attainment of their launch position, the Vulkan appeared to have the ocean all to itself. A firm hand on his back diverted his attention, and Leonov turned to face the beaming zampolit.
“We have done it, Comrade! If it is all right with you, I would like to take a few seconds to address the rest of the crew.”
Ivan Novikov’s request didn’t sound unreasonable, and the senior lieutenant beckoned him to go ahead.
Relishing the spotlight, the political officer took hold of the intercom and situated himself in the center of the room. Novikov’s words penetrated every inch of the sub’s interior.
“My dear Comrades, this is your zampolit speaking.
I’m certain that you’ve all heard the rumors by now, and I’m only here to confirm them. Yes, my friends, we are indeed in a state of war. Since the Soviet Union has vowed never to be the first user of atomic weapons, this tragic state of affairs in which we currently find ourselves must have been sparked by the imperialists. For decades we have watched the greedy capitalists stockpile the weaponry for a first strike. Ever true to their confused bloodthirsty doctrine, the Americans have made the first move.
“Since this most likely means that our beloved Rodina was a primary target of their despicable action, there’s no doubt where our thoughts must presently be. Rest assured that we shall avenge the deaths of our loved ones. To your battle stations, Comrades, for the glory of the Motherland!”
An awkward moment of silence followed, punctuated by the excited cries of their navigator.
“We’ve attained our launch position, sir.”
Leonov responded in a firm voice.
“Ascend to launch depth!”
As the Vulkan’s bow planes bit into the surrounding sea, Leonov joined the zampolit at the tire-control panel. In unison, both men pulled out the two folding chairs that were attached to the console’s steel frame.
Exactly two arm’s lengths away from each other, they seated themselves.
Each man then removed a shiny chrome key, which they had kept around their necks on sturdy chains. Before inserting his key into its proper slot, Leonov triggered the intercom.
“Comrade Chuchkin, are you ready?”
From deep within the taiga, the weapons chief reported that he was, and the senior lieutenant beckoned the zampolit to continue. In one smooth motion, both men reached forward and unlocked the dual firing panels. Facing them now was a row of sixteen clear-plastic buttons, numbered from left to right.
Above this was a large digital counter.
“Initiating release code insert on the count of three,” Leonov barked.
“One.. two … three!”
Simultaneously, they dialed in the proper digits.
When this was completed, Leonov again spoke.
“Release code insertion completed. Activate arming switch.”
A large black button next to the digital counter was depressed and, in response, the sixteen lights began blinking a bright crimson. All eyes now went to the clock mounted above the panel, as the minute hand indicated 2129 hours.
Leonov and Novikov angled their index fingers over the blinking button numbered “one.” Thirty seconds before they hit their switches to send the first SS-N-18 skyward, a sharp, shrill buzz broke the tense silence.
“It’s the emergency abort system!” shouted Leonov as he quickly scanned the panel to trace the source of the problem.
Puzzled by this unforeseen postponement, the zampolit asked, “Did we do something wrong? Perhaps we have given the improper release code.”
Ignoring Novikov, Leonov intently searched the warning panel and finally discovered the malfunction.
“We’ve lost power to our gyroscope! Without it, the warheads will be completely disorientated.”
“Let’s call Chuchkin and have him check it out,” Novikov suggested as he bent toward the intercom.
But Leonov shook his head vehemently.
“The missile crew has got its own problems right now, keeping those SS-N-18s ready for instant launch. I’d feel better if I inspected the gyroscope myself.”
“Whatever you say,” the zampolit replied.
“But let’s get moving!”
Following Leonov’s lead, Novikov stood and rushed from the attack center. By the time he had ducked through the hatch, the senior lieutenant was already moving down the metal stairwell. As quickly as he could, Novikov turned to make his own descent.
Reaching the proper level, the zampolit ran down the hallway toward the Vulkan’s bow. Barely able to make out the back of Leonov’s body ahead of him, Novikov did his best to duck through the series of hatches that now followed. Ignoring the puzzled comments of the seamen who watched their progress from adjoining cabins, the political officer concentrated solely on his forward movement. With heavy limbs and wheezing lungs, he somehow kept going.
He caught up to Leonov at a sealed doorway that blocked their forward progress. Struggling to regain his breath, Novikov watched as Leonov attempted to unlock this obstacle. Mounted beside the door was a small, metallic keypad. Only a proper combination of numerals would allow them further access. As the senior lieutenant rummaged through his pockets, the zampolit asked frantically, “What’s holding us up, Comrade?” “I need the code!” Leonov shouted as he searched his billfold.
“This section of the ship is so infrequently entered that even I have forgotten it.”
Breathlessly, Leonov pulled out a thick plastic card.
Holding it up to the keypad with shaking hands, he began punching in a complex series of digits. His haste forced him to repeat the process three times before the door finally slid open with a loud hiss.
Both men immediately ducked inside and the door automatically closed behind them. They found themselves in a narrow compartment that was noticeably different from the rest of the sub. Antiseptically clean, its walls were lined with padded banks of equipment that stretched from the deck to the acoustic-tiled ceiling. A high-pitched hum of machinery sounded in the background as the two officers carefully moved forward.
Surrounding them were the navigational components that comprised the heart of the ship. Without the use of this gear, not only the missiles but the Vulkan, itself, would be unable to determine in which direction they were traveling.
Never having been allowed entrance into this portion of the vessel before, the zampolit seemed confused.
“Now what. Comrade?”
Leonov pointed to the sealed doorway that lay ahead of them.
“On the other side of that bulkhead is the gyrocompass. The Vulkan depends on that motor operated device to point out the geographic north pole, from which all navigation is determined. Inside that room is where our problem lies.”
“But what could cause it to fail like this?” the political officer whined.
Not stopping to answer, Leonov continued moving forward and cautiously peered through the porthole that was midway up the door’s length.
As he peered into the compartment through the reinforced glass, he froze. Without turning, Leonov said softly, “I think this will answer your question, Comrade Novikov.”