As Callahan was preparing to accept his commission as a second lieutenant, his poor roommate was being admitted to the university hospital with a bleeding ulcer. That condition had kept him from naval service, and the last Callahan had heard from him, he was working for a civilian computer firm.
Captain Cooksey was headed for a similar physical breakdown if he didn’t learn to relax. Their present situation was a critical one, but worrying about it would only make matters worse.
Callahan had learned to pace himself. When the pressures of his job became too great, he would regain control through a series of deep breathing and mental visualization exercises. Once more relaxed and alert, he would then return to his job.
Wanting to give this advice to his senior officers, but knowing he didn’t dare, Callahan reached forward and began yet another routine scan with the bow hydrophones. He was conscious of one of the officers breathing down the back of his neck, when the loud, crackling sound of a single explosion rang inside his headphones. Startled by the unexpected sound, he vectored in on its origin and excitedly shouted, “Captain!”
A pair of strong hands instantly squeezed his shoulder, and Callahan knew that Cooksey was standing right behind him. As he rewound the tape recording of the alien noise, Callahan said, “You’d better listen to this, sir. Something out of the ordinary just happened out there.”
Cooksey hastily clamped on the headphones as Callahan activated the recorder. Once more, the sharp bang could be heard.
“Sounds like a gunshot,” the bewildered captain offered.
“Where in the hell did it come from?”
The sonar officer checked his computer monitor.
“Big Brother shows an approximate origin in the upper strata of water, some seventy miles to the northeast.”
“They’ve been hiding in the damned thermocline!”
Cooksey exclaimed. He signaled his XO to join him.
“We’ve got them. Rich! You were right — those Ruskies have been taking advantage of the warm water. They’re still too far to use a Harpoon, so one of those newfangled ASW/SOWS is going to have to do its thing.
Thank the Lord that our prayers have been answered!”
Charles Callahan watched Richard Craig’s face light up in response, and felt his own spirits lighten.
With practiced ease, he began the task of making certain that the exact targeting data was fed into the firecontrol system. From what little he knew of the experimental weapon that the captain planned to utilize, it was of a similar design to the Tomahawk missiles they also carried.
Shot from a torpedo tube, the SOW would angle up toward the surface, break the water, then fly to coordinates programmed from the sub. At that point the booster rocket would separate, and a REGAL torpedo would descend by parachute. When it again hit the water, an acoustic array — containing a small computer and a sonar transmitter — would be jettisoned to sink to a preset depth. Meanwhile, the torpedo would propel itself in a slow search pattern, waiting for the array to call it in for a certain strike.
With a theoretical range of up to three hundred miles, the SOW gave them an anti-sub capability second to no other attack submarine on the planet.
Aware of this, Callahan did his part to insure that the weapon would not fail.
In contrast to the excited atmosphere inside the Triton, the mood of the Vulkan’s attack center was most somber, following the lead of the two officers who were seated anxiously before the firecontrol panel.
Conscious of each passing second, the Vulkan’s political officer looked out with a sour grimace. If it hadn’t been for Valenko’s interference, their portion of Operation Counterforce would already have been completed, and the first warheads would now be descending to their targets. Frustrated, Novikov turned to address the man seated on his right.
“What is taking Chuchkin and his crew so long, Comrade? Surely they should have completed the repairs by now.”
Used to the zampolit’s whining by now, the senior lieutenant casually answered, “Have patience. Comrade Novikov. The Chief is one of our most capable technicians. He knows what has to be done, and will call us the second the gyrocompass is back in working order. Until then, we can only bide our time. Fortunately for us, our sonar still shows no sign of the enemy. I can’t help but feel that the hand of destiny itself is keeping the Americans away from us.”
“If destiny were a bit kinder, this intolerable waiting wouldn’t be necessary,” said Novikov.
“The way I figure it, the warheads would be landing any minute now.”
“After all the decades of waiting, surely another half hour won’t make any difference,” the senior lieutenant reasoned.
“You are right, Comrade,” Novikov sighed.
“Too often my impatience gets the best of me.”
The two lapsed into a moment of silence, suddenly broken by Lev Zinaykin’s shouts of alarm.
“We show a splashdown in the water above us! I’ve got active propeller sounds — they could be from a homing torpedo!”
Abruptly broken from his lassitude, Leonov stood and screamed, “Crash dive! Full speed! Take us down, Comrades, for our very lives!”
He ran over to the helmsman as the engines throbbed to full life.
“You won’t be able to wait for speed. Take on ballast and put those planes down!”
As a roaring torrent of seawater was vented, the angle of the deck steepened noticeably. Holding onto the railing for balance, Leonov made his way over to the sonar console. Here he was joined by the white-faced zampolit.
“Can we outrun them?” Novikov asked frantically.
“Or are we doomed to failure so close to the completion of our task?”
Ignoring him, Leonov turned to the sonar operator.
“Zinyakin, what’s our status?”
Lev Zinyakin was gripping the console with one hand to hold himself up, and pressing a headphone to his ear with the other.
“Even though we’re beginning to pull away, the screw sounds are increasing. I’m afraid it’s following us down and gaining quickly.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Leonov saw Ivan Novikov tumble to the deck. Not taking the time to help him, the senior lieutenant picked up the intercom, punched in a series of digits and barked roughly into the transmitter.
“Who is speaking? Well, listen closely. Comrade Balashikha — this is the Senior Lieutenant. I know that Chief Chuchkin is away from the torpedo room at the moment, but I need you to initiate a launch at once. Can you do this, Seaman Third Class? Well, let’s hope so, Comrade. Do you know of the cannister of Zu-23 dye kept stored in the emergency tube?
Excellent, my friend. Release it at once!”
Replacing the handset, Leonov noticed that Ivan Novikov had returned to his feet. While smoothing down his crumpled uniform, the zampolit gave vent to his endless curiosity.
“What in the world is this Zu-23 dye. Comrade?
And what can it do to save us from our current predicament? ” Still struggling to keep his own balance, Leonov answered, “Believe it or not, this substance is a synthetic copy of the natural defense mechanism of an octopus. Veiled in its inky wake, the Vulkan should be effectively invisible.”
“Only the Rodina’s scientists could have thought of such a brilliant thing,” Novikov replied.
“But does it indeed work?”
“You’d better hope so.” Turning away from the political officer, Leonov shouted, “Prepare to break descent! Engineering, make ready for a reactor scram!”
Approaching the Vulkan at flank speed, the USS Triton surged through the turbid waters. From the sub’s control room, Charlie Callahan scanned the seas before them in an effort to monitor the hunt they had initiated. With sensitive headphones covering his ears, he adjusted the bow hydrophones to maximum amplification.