Faster than the enemy’s torpedoes, their titanium-alloy hull allowed them to reach depths of over three thousand feet. No other undersea vessel could attain even a third of that. Dzerzhinsky was equally satisfied with his crack crew. The sixty-man complement went about their jobs like the true professionals they were. In most cases, each was an officer, a Great Russian, and a Party member. Sworn to keep all they witnessed aboard the ship a secret, they pledged their loyalty to him alone. This blind obedience produced a morale and competency level that far exceeded that of any ship of the line.
The light of the attack center was a ghostly red, designed to enhance the brightness of the computer consoles and protect the crew’s night vision in the event an emergency forced them to the surface. The only sound audible was the churning grind of turbines as the Cheka surged through the icy waters of the Pacific. The carrier task force that they had been assigned to penetrate had long since left their radar screens. He could just imagine the imperialist admirals now, gathered in their luxuriant wardrooms, wondering what kind of vessel could have broken their security perimeter so easily. That would give them something to talk about when they returned to port.
Dzerzhinsky smiled as he attempted to visualize their confused faces.
So vivid were his imaginings that he didn’t even notice it when the heavyset, pasty skinned figure of his zampolit, Boris Karpovich, positioned his bulky body beside him.
“So that was the infamous Point Luck,” the political officer observed snidely.
“It certainly wasn’t lucky for the Americans on this occasion. Why, we could have easily wiped out their entire task force before they even knew what hit them.”
Dzerzhinsky noticed the smug look of arrogance that painted the zampolit’s sweaty face — as if this slob had had any part in the success of their penetration.
Knowing that he had to be civil, the captain attempted a forced smile.
“We certainly caught them napping. Comrade Zampolit.”
“It was more than that,” shot back the political officer.
“Even if we had advertised our arrival, there would have been nothing that they could have done to avoid us. The Cheka proves the superiority of the socialist way of life. Is the imperialist attack submarine still attempting to intercept us?”
“No, Comrade. The Americans wisely abandoned their puny attempt over ten minutes ago. It appears we have these waters all to ourselves now.”
“This is a most glorious day. The First Deputy will be most satisfied.
Will you join me in my cabin for a toast, Captain?”
Though having to share a drink with Karpovich was not the least bit desirable, Dzerzhinsky knew that he was bound by etiquette to do so.
“I would be honored. Comrade. There is a task that I must complete first, then I will be free to join you.”
Karpovich’s eyes darkened.
“What is that, may I ask. Comrade?”
Unable to believe the man’s boldness, Dzerzhinsky strained to hold back his rising temper.
“The rendezvous coordinates with the Vulkan remain to be finalized.
The presence of that American attack sub forced us to alter our original course. If the imperialists are still in the vicinity, we must be extra cautious so that we don’t lead them to one of the Motherland’s most advanced strategic-missile firing platforms.”
“Of course. Captain,” the zampolit replied.
“I’ll be waiting for you in my stateroom.”
After wiping his soaked brow with a wrinkled handkerchief, Karpovich turned and disappeared toward the sub’s bow. Alone once again, Grigori Dzerzhinsky breathed a sigh of relief.
How many times had he questioned the ridiculous necessity of having such an idiot aboard? The zampolit did nothing but take up valuable space. How he had pleaded with the admiral to allow him to sail without a political officer. Even for a vessel such as the Cheka, Stanislav Sorokin wouldn’t bend. Knowing that the admiral’s word was final, the captain had reluctantly consented. He would have to put up with the nosey zampolit for the rest of the patrol, just as he had put up with so many others on dozens of cruises before. Accepting this fact, the captain took a deep, canning breath and straightened his narrow shoulders.
With quick, assured steps, he crossed the equipment-packed attack center to the digital console reserved for navigation.
In another portion of the North Pacific, three hundred and seventy miles due west of the coordinates known as Point Luck, the captain of the Delta Illclass submarine Vulkan found himself hunched over the communications panel. Lit by the dim red combat lighting, Petyr Valenko could barely make out the operator’s familiar face. From the stream of coded data audible in the distance, the captain was certain that the which man was totally immersed in the signal’s translation.
Radio messages were rarely transmitted to submarines.
Only in matters of utmost urgency would command dare risk exposing their submerged positions.
This was especially true of the missile-carrying vessels.
Anxious to know what the jumbled series of dashes, dots, and spaces were all about, Valenko waited expectantly. At least he had one of his best men manning the communications console. The which man Stefan Kuzmin, had sailed with him on three previous patrols. In each instance, his work had been most admirable. As warrant officer, Kuzmin was in the unique position of being middle man between the officers and the enlisted personnel.
Historically, the Soviet Navy had faced a chronic shortage of senior enlisted men. In an effort to overcome this deficiency, and to upgrade the status of a career serviceman, the rank of which man was created.
Extensively trained in every aspect of the ship’s operation, the warrant officer received increased pay, privileges, and eventually an opportunity to be promoted to the officers’ ranks.
Having shared many a meal with Kuzmin, Valenko was aware of the young man’s innate intelligence.
Though he never had the opportunity of extensive elementary schooling, the native Ukrainian was a quick learner. More than that, he was a very likable fellow. When tensions mounted, he could always be relied upon to lighten the situation with a joke or funny comment.
Unfortunately, there was no time for pleasantries this evening.
The crypto graph abrupt silence was followed by Kuzmin’s softly spoken words.
“That seems to be the extent of the transmission, Captain. We should have a computer translation in a minute or so.”
“Any idea where the message originated from?” the captain asked.
Kuzmin looked up from the monitor and briefly caught Valenko’s probing stare.
“I believe the first call letters belonged to Captain Dzerzhinsky, sir.”
Valenko silently absorbed this revelation. If it was indeed the Cheka calling, the attack sub was probably relaying to them a set of rendezvous coordinates. This conjecture was verified by the which man who spoke carefully.
“It’s an intercept position from the Cheka, Captain.
We’ve been instructed to a rendezvous point in the Emperor Seamount sector at dawn.”
Hastily checking his watch, Valenko saw they would have plenty of time to reach the spot without demanding too much from the Vulkan’s turbines. As he mentally prepared the series of orders that would get them underway, Valenko fielded a brief query from his which man “Does this mean that we’ll be on our way home now, sir?”
Valenko smiled.
“It looks that way. Comrade.
We’ve given the State our two months and then some.
I imagine that the crew of the Cheka are also anxious to reach port.
Captain Dzerzhinsky certainly keeps a taut ship.”
“I was surprised when the attack sub left our sector three days ago,” Kuzmin observed.