The senior lieutenant stepped aside to allow the zampolit a chance to see. Leonov surveyed the cramped compartment, which was bathed in dim red light and completely lined with thick, sound-absorbent tiles. At its center was a large, circular mechanism, covered by what appeared to be a thick bubble of clear glass. Kneeling beside this device, in the process of removing the protective skirt that encircled the glass bubble, was Petyr Valenko.
As he focused on the captain, Leonov’s hand went to his knife. Leonov, his pistol already drawn, held up the plastic code card and began punching a series of digits into the door’s security keypad.
Petyr Valenko was completely absorbed in the task before him. Pleased with his progress, he knew that if he could have but a few more seconds, the job would be a total success.
The hardest part of the operation had not been crawling through the cramped air-conditioning duct to escape from his cabin, but rather waiting for the crew change — which was absolutely necessary in order for him to enter unnoticed. Counting the slowly moving minutes from the cover of a storage closet, he had planned the sequence of events that would bring him to his goal. His first move had been to disconnect the gyro’s power source. This had been relatively easy to do. Assured that the missiles would now be held back at least temporarily, he proceeded with the next stage, which was to cripple the system permanently. To guarantee this, he planned to complete the removal of the metal skirt, tear out the rubberized sealant, and then break the vacuum needed for the gyrocompass to operate. This would force not only a cancellation of the launch, but also make it imperative that the submarine surface immediately.
Though the removal of the protective skirt had taken him longer than he had anticipated, Valenko knew that the majority of the work was all but over.
As he adroitly unscrewed the last of the bolts, he pondered the strange series of circumstances that had prompted his act of sabotage. From the moment that the Zampolit had originally confronted him in his cabin and revealed their mad scheme, Valenko had had trouble believing that the conspirators were really serious. His first impression was that this had to be some sort of test to check his loyalty and reactions in an emergency situation. Though knocking him out and binding him up gave this theoretical test a bit too much relish, Valenko still wasn’t sure of the zampolit’s motives until the which man interceded. Stefan Kuzmin had assured him that the mutiny was indeed real.
Still not knowing how anyone in his right mind could back such an insane plot, Valenko wondered how his rescuer was doing. Kuzmin had aided him way beyond the call of duty. The blood still streaming from his head wound, Kuzmin had bravely followed Valenko down the cramped duct, displaying a stubborn tenacity the likes of which the captain had never seen.
If the which man task had been completed, Valenko’s piece of sabotage would be superfluous. Yet the results of their failing would be so devastating that this redundant operation was well worth the risk.
Hoping that his friend was currently safe and sound, the captain removed the remaining screw and the heavy skirt crashed to the deck.
Without hesitation, he began searching for the seam in the rubberized strip that was now visible. Just as he caught sight of the spot where the circular gasket was joined together, a heart-stopping hissing noise sounded behind him … followed by a familiar, dreaded voice.
“Comrade Valenko, stop your foolishness at once!”
Oblivious to the zampolit’s command, Valenko reached out and began tearing the sealant upward.
Then he heard another voice.
“Captain, it’s Vasili Leonov. I order you to stop this act of sabotage!”
When it was apparent that the captain would not heed their warnings, the political officer cocked his arm and let his knife fly. The blade smashed into Valenko’s back with a dull thud. He fell on his side, the blade firmly embedded between his ribs.
Still holding the rubber strip in his hands, the captain forced himself onto his knees and, grunting in agony, continued yanking at the molding. Aware of what he was attempting, the frantic senior lieutenant took careful aim and pulled the trigger of his pistol a single time. The bullet exploded from the chrome muzzle and smacked into the back of Valenko’s skull.
The captain was dead before his body hit the bloodstained deck.
“Good shooting!” cried Novikov as he ran to make certain that Valenko was out of commission for good.
Assured of this, he turned to face the senior lieutenant — and found him standing there, trembling.
“Come now. Comrade Leonov, get hold of yourself!
This blow was a most necessary one. Have you already forgotten our glorious mission? One more life lost means absolutely nothing to our great cause.”
Unaffected by these words, Leonov was still clearly stunned and shaking visibly. Seeing the senior lieutenant’s fragile state, Novikov moved to him. Taking the gun from his hand, the zampolit slapped Leonov hard across the face. Like a man awakening from a horrible nightmare, he snapped out of it. His gaze narrowed while he inspected the scene, as if viewing it for the very first time.
“Is the captain dead?”
“He was expired before he knew what hit him,” the political officer said smugly.
“Can this damage to the gyrocompass be repaired?”
The senior lieutenant inspected the containment seal and sighed a breath of relief.”
“Yes, Comrade.
Fortunately, he had yet to break the vacuum. If that had taken place, we would have been lucky just to find Petropavlovsk again. I will get Yuri Chuchkin and his crew up here to repair the damage and reestablish power. Then, our mission can be completed.” “Thank the fates!” said Novikov with a sigh. Then he thought of something else.
“I think it’s best that we clean up the blood, cover Valenko’s body and stash the corpse in a storage closet for the time being. We certainly don’t want the Chief more curious than he already is.”
“Good point,” Leonov said.
“That can be accomplished most readily.”
As he turned to initiate this unpleasant task, Novikov was relieved to see that the senior lieutenant appeared to have fully returned to his senses. That was quite a relief, for the zampolit would need his expert assistance now more than ever before.
Charlie Callahan remained seated at his console, yet he couldn’t help noticing the captain’s nervousness as Cooksey paced the deck behind him. Apparently, this restlessness was beginning to get contagious, for now even Mr. Craig, their usually cool-headed XO, appeared unduly agitated. Both officers tensely scanned the control room’s stations, vainly doing everything within their power to locate the enemy. Of course, the majority of their attention remained focused on the sonar monitors.
Every thirty seconds or so, the captain would approach Callahan and give him another one of those pleading, inquisitive stares. Since there was nothing new to report, Callahan could only shrug his shoulders and return to his scanners with an even greater degree of intensity. Then Richard Craig would repeat the exact same inquiry; this increased attention was starting to get on the sonar operator’s nerves.
More than anything, the captain reminded Callahan of a roommate he once had at the University of Virginia. Both the roommate and he had been enrolled in the naval ROTC program, and were attending a similar schedule of classes. Though they were most compatible for the majority of the school year, toward exam time his roommate became unbearable.
Unable to eat or sleep normally, he would restlessly pace the floor for hours at a time, agitated by needless worries. He was an excellent student and received superior grades, yet his nervousness soon took its toll.