“I knew they were out there!” Leonov cried.
“Now, just as Professor Strelka said, the aggressive Americans have once again taken the bait — hook, line, and sinker.”
Reacting to his triumphant outburst, Novikov said humbly, “So, you were indeed right. Comrade Leonov. It only goes to show the brilliant minds at work at our military schools. Now — can we proceed with the completion of our mission?”
In response, Leonov grinned and ordered, “Blow the forward and rear groups! Ascend to launch depth! Comrade Novikov, will you join me at the tire control panel?”
With a gurgling burst of venting ballast, the Vulkan trembled alive once more. Oblivious to the deafening surge of cast-off seawater. Lev Zinyakin strained to hear the playback of the bogey’s sound signature.
Though he couldn’t say what, something about this tape bothered him. It was as if the pitch of the propeller whine was just a bit off. Unable to ignore the analysis of the computer, and the joyous outburst its revelation had generated among the crew, the hydrophone operator decided that it was all a product of his overworked imagination.
Stifling a wide yawn, Zinyakin ignored his doubts and listened to the enemy submarine as it sped off on the trail of their decoy.
Hidden in a warm layer of seawater less than two hundred feet below the Pacific’s surface, the USS Triton plunged ahead due east. Still standing behind the sonar console. Captain Michael Cooksey monitored the progress of their Mk-70 MOSS decoy. As the simulator sped to the southeast in the direction of the still fleeing, presumed enemy bogey, Cooksey wondered if his intuition was wrong after all. As the mystery bogey continued to outdistance them, a proper attack became less of a possibility — if, indeed, it was the Vulkan.
Still crippled by a pounding headache, Cooksey pondered his decision.
Was he being overly cautious, as Richard Craig had warned? Should it have been the ASW/SOW that was launched in place of their decoy? He had sworn once before that he wouldn’t hesitate to attack if the opportunity again presented itself. Why, then, had he held back this second time?
Not really certain of what had induced him to choose this tactic, Cooksey prepared himself for the outcome — whatever it might be.
Torn by fear and weakened by doubt, the captain could hardly believe it when Charlie Callahan called excitedly for his attention.
“Venting ballast due east of us, sir. Something massive is presently rising through the thermocline there.”
Without a second thought, Cooksey’s hand shot out for the intercom.
“You may fire that SOW, Mr. Spencer, as soon as sonar conveys the coordinates.”
Fifteen seconds later, the control room vibrated as the sub’s forward torpedo tube fired a single, encapsulated rocket. Cooksey heard the swooshing sound of released compressed air, as well as the whispered comment of his exec, who stood behind him.
“Well, I’ll be damned; the Old Man was right.”
Grinning at this, Cooksey calculated the time left for their attack to be a success. To hit the Vulkan before it reached its launch depth, they would need a lot of luck and some heavenly assistance.
Ivan Novikov could hardly control himself. Seated at the firecontrol panel, with the missiles armed and the sixteen launch buttons blinking before him, he estimated that in less than four minutes their great dream would be realized. Long was the road that had brought him to this present moment. After months of intense planning. Operation Counterforce was about to change the socio-political structure of the entire world.
The zampolit wondered if the young man who sat beside him realized the true consequences of their present course of action. Vasili Leonov had been recruited to their cause more on personal reasons than political ones. No matter the motive, Novikov was thankful for his invaluable assistance.
As the senior lieutenant called off their rapidly decreasing depth, the political officer visualized what the new world order would be like.
Freed from competition with the money-hungry capitalists, socialism would unite the earth with a single, common goal.
The great vision of Lenin would have at last come to fruition. Stirred by his thoughts, Novikov’s right index finger itched to depress the first of the blinking missile release switches. Aware of the time remaining before the Vulkan attained its launch depth, Novikov inched forward in his seat, with his heart beating rapidly. Expecting to hear Leonov’s command to hit the first button any moment now, he froze in horror when the sonar officer’s panicked voice rose behind him.
“Sensor contact in the seas above us! I show an active sonar search, and now the signature of another homing torpedo!” Vasili Leonov’s voice broke as he asked, “Are you certain that this is a torpedo, Zinyakin?”
“The propeller whine is exactly the same as that other one,” Zinyakin replied.
“Estimated contact is in three and a half minutes!”
The senior lieutenant cursed and shook his head disgustingly.
“Damn it all, if we haven’t been outfoxed!
Prepare to crash dive! We must run for the cover of the depths once again.”
“No, Comrade Leonov — there’s no more time for running!” commanded the zampolit, shocked by his own boldness.
“By using a ripple fire sequence we can empty our missile magazine in less than one hundred and sixty seconds. That will still give us time to try and evade.”
Leonov waved him away.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Novikov. If we don’t dive now we’ll never escape that torpedo!”
Novikov strained to contain his rising anger.
“I beg to differ with you. Comrade. Have you forgotten already our little discussion back in Petropavlovsk? At that time you swore to put your life on the line for the sake of the Rodina. Have you abandoned those lofty convictions already, Vasili? Now’s the time to prove yourself. Shall you grovel in your own pitiful cowardice, or stand tall — proud to make your sacrifice a worthy one?”
Without waiting for a response, the zampolit shouted out commands.
“Belay that order to dive!
Continue our ascent to launch depth. Notify the taiga to prepare for ripple tire!”
Listening to the instructions, unable to contradict them, was Vasili Leonov. Sweat pouring from his forehead, the trembling senior lieutenant couldn’t summon the nerve to intercede. There was no question now as to who was in authority.
“How much longer until we can launch?” Novikov asked firmly.
Hardly able to get the words out of his mouth, Leonov checked the depth gauge and softly answered, “Approximately thirty seconds.”
Taking in the information, Ivan Novikov cried for all to hear, “For the glory of the Motherland, we shall prevail 1” Seeing the demonic gleam that lit the zampolit’s eyes, Leonov inwardly conceded defeat. Not really certain how he became involved with this insane plot in the first place, the senior lieutenant swiveled around to face the firecontrol panel to which his destiny was now unalterably bound.
On the opposite side of the Vulkan’s attack center, Lev Zinyakin continued to do his best to monitor the approach of the homing torpedo, all the while absorbing the commotion that was coming from the launch station. There, the zampolit and the senior lieutenant were locked in an apparent power struggle. Not certain what had provoked the two officers, Zinyakin knew that if they didn’t do something quickly, the Vulkan would surely be hit.
There could be no doubting the torpedo’s intended target. Directed by an independent sonar device, the weapon was advancing toward them at a rapidly increasing speed. Already his initial intercept estimate was no longer accurate. Unless the ship’s officers had some sort of last-second maneuver in mind, Zinyakin knew that they were probably doomed.