Viewing Lenin’s mummified body was a great inspiration, and Alexander reboarded the train anxious to defend the socialist principles to which Lenin had dedicated most of his lifetime.
Alexander’s summer in the Baltic whetted his appetite for more submarine duty, and after attending nuclear-power school in Leningrad, he became a reactor specialist aboard an Echo class attack sub. After distinguishing himself as a loyal, hard-working line officer, he served with distinction aboard the latest nuclear-powered attack and ballistic-missile-carrying submarines.
A year ago, he had been teaching physics at the Academy, and didn’t know if he’d ever be sent to sea again — when the most exciting assignment of all was given to him. At long last, he was to have his very own command. And what a command this turned out to be!
The Pantera was the most advanced undersea warship that the rodina had ever produced. Its sensors and electronics were first class, and easily rivaled those of their primary adversary. Unfortunately, the world’s changing political climate made this a most confusing time to take such a prototype vessel to sea, and he often wondered if this great expense was necessary.
With the breakup of the Soviet Union and the fall from power of the Party, went the end of the infamous Cold War. Today the enemy wasn’t the United States, but internal strife within the boundaries of the motherland.
As one of the new generation of naval officers who hadn’t seen service in the Great Patriotic War, Alexander was participating in one of the greatest demobilizations in history. Half of the rodina’s submarine fleet had already been retired, with more to come. This would leave them with a vastly decreased force level of mostly newer, more capable vessels, with class names such as Akula and Pantera. These were the undersea warships that would take the rodina into the twenty-first century.
Alexander’s current diary segment was a discussion of the new geopolitical climate, and Pantera’s place in it. As far as he was concerned, their present patrol was nothing but a friendly exercise in hide-and-seek. Following the USS John Marshall across the Atlantic was only a game, as was their current assignment.
The chances of actual hostilities with the Americans were improbable. The United States was now a firm ally, whose grain filled their bellies and whose clothing kept them warm.
Russia’s experiments with a free-market economic system were promising, and America’s guidance was invaluable. Communism was dead and buried, and the sooner his countrymen accepted this fact, the better off they’d be.
But how hard it was to break the socialist spell.
Years of propaganda had ingrained a tangled web of lies deep into the rodina’s collective psyche.
Even today, in these so-called enlightened times, the endless suspicions persisted, resulting in missed opportunities, and so much wasted effort.
Alexander knew that some aboard the Pantera would label his thoughts traitorous. Their zampolit was one of them.
Boris Dubrinin was a prime example of all that was wrong in today’s Russia. He was a living anachronism, whose gospel was an irrelevant state Party line. Frustrated by his own personal shortcomings, he was an advocate of a step backwards, to a time when a tyrannical central state had ruled every aspect of one’s life.
The fall of the Berlin Wall showed mankind that no dogma lasted forever, and that freedom of choice was every man’s prerogative. Once set free, democracy swept through Eastern Europe, and soon made itself known on the streets of Moscow.
What Boris Dubrinin and his cronies failed to comprehend was that once the rodina had tasted such freedoms, a return to the blind subservience of the past would be impossible. They were still fighting yesterday’s war, with the true enemy being themselves.
It proved to be the growl of the intercom that redirected Alexander’s thoughts to more mundane matters.
His hand shot out to pick up the nearest telephone handset.
“Underwater sonar contact. Captain!” said an excited male voice on the other end of the line.
“Bearing two-six-zero.”
“I’m on my way,” replied Alexander.
The Pantera’s attack center was conveniently located only a few meters from his stateroom. A tense atmosphere prevailed here, as Alexander strode past the helm and approached the bearded figure seated behind the sonar console.
“What exactly do you have out there, Misha’!” he breathlessly asked.
The senior sonarman pulled back one of his bulky headphones and pointed towards the repeater screen.
“I’ve got a solid underwater transient, sir. But for the life of me, I can’t quite place it.”
To hear for himself, Alexander put a set of auxiliary headphones over his ears, and listened to a clearly audible, pulsating, whirring noise.
“You know, this signature reminds me a bit of that produced by the John Marshall,” he surmised.
“I thought that was the case,” said the sonarman.
“But how can that be, when we left the Marshall behind in Norfolk, with the only other American sub similarly outfitted with a hull-mounted swimmer delivery shell whose home port is in the Pacific?”
“Perhaps the USS Sam Houston has transited the Panama Canal and is currently operating out of Port Canaveral,” offered Alexander.
“Or maybe what we’re hearing is the signature of another submarine, that’s carrying a deep submergence rescue vehicle on its back. Whatever it may be, make certain that you get plenty of tape on it for further analysis.”
“That I will, sir,” replied the sonarman as he returned his attention to his console.
From the other side of the attack center, a familiar bald-headed figure urgently beckoned Alexander to join him at the navigation plot. Though he was in no mood to tangle with Boris Dubrinin right now, he reluctantly crossed the compartment to see what was so important.
“Captain, what do you make of this new contact?” asked the concerned Zampolit.
“My best guess is that it’s either a converted Ethan Alien class vessel, or another class of attack sub that’s been outfitted with a DSRV,” answered Alexander.
The political officer responded to this news while patting his soaked forehead dry with a handkerchief.
“Then for all we know, it could be the same 688 that we tailed from Norfolk.”
“That it could. Comrade Zampolit,” returned the captain.
Dubrinin looked down at the navigational chart that lay before him.
“Captain, it’s urgent that we follow this sub to learn its intentions.”
“What’s the reason for this urgency?” asked Alexander.
“My operational orders say absolutely nothing about such a thing.”
The zampolit pulled a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and handed it to Alexander, who read its contents while Dubrinin spoke out in a bare whisper.
“This communique arrived only minutes ago. Captain.
As you can see, the Pantera has been temporarily assigned to Special Development Group Thirteen, and is now under the direct command of Admiral Igor Valerian. Since our new orders implicitly direct us to monitor all American naval traffic headed into the Bahama Islands, we have no choice but to follow this new contact.”
Alexander carefully reread the dispatch and shook his head in confusion.
“This is certainly a strange turn of events. Comrade. What is this Special Development Group Thirteen, and why have we been assigned to them?”
The zampolit sardonically grinned.
“Your guess is as good as mine, Captain. And until we hear otherwise, what else can we do but follow these new orders as directed?”
15
Shortly after leaving Port Canaveral, the Rickover turned on a southeasterly course. They would continue in this direction for the next eighteen hours, passing by the western shores of Grand Bahama Island and entering Providence Channel sometime around dawn.