Strangely enough, he found himself not really fearful of this final confrontation. Death at this depth would be quick and painless. With a vision of his beloved grandfather in mind, he gave full attention to monitoring the advance of the Grim Reaper.
As Zinyakin prepared himself to meet his maker, the Vulkan’s senior lieutenant did likewise. Even though it was only fifteen seconds before the first of the SS-N-18s would be released, he was certain that their motions were in vain. At the most, they would only be able to get a handful of missiles airborne. Far from their intended goal, he wondered if the resulting carnage would satisfy the plotter’s bloodlust. He listened to the zampolit anxiously counting off the remaining seconds as if it really mattered.
“Five … four … three … two … one … fire!”
Not wanting to make his sacrifice a worthless one, Vasili Leonov managed to depress the first of the blinking switches. Closing his eyes, he pictured the sequence of events that he had set into action.
Deep within the taiga, the first of the SS-N-18s received the signal to launch. In instant response, an outer hatch in the Vulkan’s superstructure popped open. This unmasked the tube closure — a rigid, dome-shaped shell structure designed as a protective cocoon for the missile. To shatter this closure, a series of linear-shaped explosive charges were detonated.
With the SS-N-18 now exposed, a small fixed rocket engine ignited. Its sole purpose was to direct its exhaust into the base of the launch tube, where a pool of cool water sat. The resulting steam pressure would ex pell the missile from the tube. Only after the SS-N18 had cleared the ocean’s surface would its liquid fuel boost motor ignite.
The first stages of this complex operation had gone quite smoothly. The tube closure had shattered and enough steam pressure had gathered to begin forcing the missile upward. But as the tip of the SS-N-18 cleared the Vulkan’s hull, the Tritons ASW/SOW plowed into the Soviet vessel’s sail. This violent concussion was followed by a massive explosion that vaporized the ascending SS-N-18 in a blinding wave of boiling flame. The Vulkan imploded in an earsplitting cacophony of rending steel. Exposed to the ocean’s great pressure, the crew had little time to suffer. In a matter of seconds their shredded bodies became one with the depths, as what little remaining wreckage plummeted ever downward.
Nineteen nautical miles due west of this spot, Lieutenant Charles Callahan was the first of the Triton’s crew to hear the results of their attack.
Warned by the abrupt halt of the SOW’s propeller, he ripped off his headphones in time to save his eardrums from the shattering explosion that followed. A fraction of a second later the blast was clearly audible in the interior of the control room itself.
Though a chorus of joyous shouts filled the compartment, Captain Cooksey’s words rang out loud and clear.
“All stations, General Quarters! Rig for a shock wave!”
A raucous horn sounded throughout the vessel as the crew scurried to secure their equipment and themselves. Callahan had barely braced himself against the edge of his console when a surging wall of compressed water smacked into the Triton’s bow.
Thrown hard to his left and then to his right, Callahan strained to remain upright. The sound of tumbling crewmates and loose gear broke all around him as the sub’s lighting system failed. Disorientated by the sudden plunge into darkness, he found himself once again struggling for balance — when their hull was pounded by yet another series of shock waves.
The damage-control panel was blaring loudly in warning by the time the turbulence passed.
Not long after, the lights blinked back on. Turning to check the room’s interior, Callahan caught sight of a tangled mess of fallen equipment and several prone seamen. One of the officers slowly picking himself off the floor was the captain. After helping Richard Craig get to his feet, Cooksey snapped into action.
“Someone please turn off that infernal warning buzzer! Damage control, I need to know our status on the double! Callahan, do you have a definite on that explosion’s source yet? Is the bogey still there?”
Abruptly called back to duty, Callahan swiveled around and remounted his headphones. Using the utmost caution, he scanned the waters in all directions.
The hydrophone search failed to pick anything up but the distant surge of the shock wave.
“All clear on passive. Captain. Can I utilize active?”
“Go ahead and zap them. Lieutenant,” Cooksey replied.
As the sensor operator activated the sonar system, the captain and the exec crowded in behind him.
Ignoring the incessant buzzing of the ship’s intercom, both senior officers studied the sonar screen. For a full minute, they watched the quivering white line that monitored the powerful sound waves being emitted from their bow.
The atmosphere was tense, but Callahan looked up and said matter-of-factly, “Whatever was out there sure as hell isn’t there anymore. Captain. We blew them to kingdom come!”
Grinning now from ear to ear, the sonar operator watched the captain and the exec react to the news.
“We got ‘em!” shouted Richard Craig triumphantly.
This incited another chorus of cheers from the control room’s staff.
Taking a few moments to join the celebration, Cooksey then turned to his next concern.
“Damage control, are we still in one piece?”
Warren Smith, the present watch officer, said, “It’s gonna take more than a little swell to take this little lady out. Skip. All stations remain dry and secure, except for the galley. The damned seal on the garbage disposal blew again. At last report Chief Bartkowski was up to his knees in seawater and potato peelings, but he’ll get a handle on it soon enough.”
Relieved, Cooksey allowed himself a real smile-almost as wide as that of his executive officer.
“Well, Skipper, it looks like we did it.”
“It certainly does. Rich. How does it feel, knowing that your new family has a reprieve?”
Shaking his head in wonder, the XO asked, “Was it really that close Skipper?”
Cooksey snorted.
“Rich, if even one of those warheads had hit its mark, the world would have been swallowed by a conflict the likes of which your worst nightmare couldn’t begin to approach. We got by this time, but we might not be so lucky the next.”
Then Cooksey’s tone lightened.
“Leaving you with that one to think about … why don’t you chart us the quickest route back to Pearl? I’ll handle the communique to Admiral Miller. By the way Rich, how’s your golf game lately?”
Chapter Sixteen
From thirty thousand feet up, Viktor Rodin could clearly appreciate the urban sprawl of Southern California.
Never before had he seen such a widespread area of population. As they continued on north to Los Angeles, the stormy skies to the south gave way to a blue, crystal clear afternoon. Appreciative of the lack of turbulence, the Premier took in the coastline from the conference room’s single window.
Rodin was thankful for the time alone. Five minutes before, Robert Palmer had excused himself to brief his staff regarding the exciting news they had just received from Hawaii. Much to everyone’s relief, an American attack sub had reported the destruction of a Soviet Delta-class vessel in the Pacific near Midway.
The doomed boat could only have been the Vulkan.
With this threat to world peace alleviated, Rodin’s initial reaction had been one of pure joy. Yet, his happiness soon faded into melancholy as he considered the innocent sailors who had lost their lives because of this madness. Of course, these deaths were much preferred to a full-scale nuclear war.
But his disillusionment and depression grew as he surveyed the contents of the top-secret transmission just relayed to him by Olga Tyumen. This message, sent via satellite from MVD headquarters in Moscow, informed Rodin of two relevant phone calls recently made from his IL-78 command plane. Both calls had been placed by Admiral Stanislav Sorokin.