Eve replied, “I’m so excited.”
“Then let’s be off. It’s not all that far but the roads there are not the best.”
They drove west out of town on state highway 109 that bent north along the coast ending at Ocean City State Park. The park, originally intended as a year-round 170-acre campsite, featured ocean beach, dunes and dense thickets of shore pine. Campers came to watch migratory birds and to comb the beaches. War changed it to a refugee camp. Makeshift shelters built by nuclear attack survivors marred a once idyllic site.
Refugee agencies provided food, medicine and other essentials. Early arrivals fabricated domiciles from many of the existing structures but tents and other shelters made from plastic sheets abounded throughout the makeshift camp.
Obvious burns and loss of hair by many of the survivors signaled they’d not likely survive. Their spirits, despite all that had happened, seemed high. The world’s highest standard of living does not soften Americans to the point of being unable to adjust to disaster. For the third time in this century, they exhibited no intention of knuckling under to hostile attempts to control their world. Not a distant war in a strange land, but an offense to their own treasured quality of life and they would not tolerate it.
Continuing their conversation, Eve said, “It’s dreadful to think of what these poor people have lost, but at least they have their lives. Material possessions can be replaced.”
“Most of the workers who man the base live here. It’s good that it’s spring, especially for the children. Winters here can be cruel.” Pointing off to the west, Bea continued, “The base is about five miles over that way.”
They left the paved highway and drove onto a gravel road leading to the Digs.
“Well Bea, let’s hope the boys get done with what they have to do so we see them at a decent time for dinner tonight. I’m so happy to be rescued. I can’t stand to look at another packing box.”
Bea replied, “The fate of a Navy wife. You become a moving specialist.”
“On that subject, I hear there’s a thing between you and Lieutenant Maddock on the Denver. Is that talkable?”
“It is. Brent’s very nice and we see a lot of each other. That is when he’s here. The Denver is out, you know.”
“Oh there has to be more than that. You wouldn’t deprive a snoopy old lady of grist for her mill?”
“Not a bit, Eve. It’s more than just a passing thing. We do discuss the future. Nothing definite, mind you. No proposals or rings yet.”
“Are you in love with him?”
“In love? Yes, I think so, but neither of us has mentioned it. Brent makes it obvious he cares for me. He’s a good listener and very considerate. He took me to the Nutcracker on our first date … his first ballet. A real chore for him but he toughed it out with not a single complaint.”
“When I was a girl we called that sort keepers.”
Bea said, “Maybe that’s the problem. Brent’s too good to be true.”
“That’s a problem?” Eve smiled.
“He was married but now divorced.”
“Oh?”
“Brent wants stability. I get a sense he’s ready for another marriage but needs to be certain it will succeed. Frankly, Eve, Brent is not an easy person to get to know. He sends signals but doesn’t volunteer anything. It’s easy to tell when you’re into a sensitive area with him because that’s when the simple yes and no answers start. There are problems too.”
“Aren’t there always? How dull life would be without them.”
“I’m not sure Brent is totally out of love with his first wife. They have a son he adores. He didn’t want the divorce.”
“Has she remarried?”
“Yes, and here’s the funny part. He likes her husband. It’s as if he still feels responsible and wants to be sure she’s well provided for. I don’t know if I can really handle that.”
“She’s no threat, Bea. Apparently, she doesn’t want him and has made another commitment. I suspect his ex-wife is only a perceived obligation. But show me a man who honors obligation and I’ll show you a winner.”
Bea seemed relieved to change the subject. “Well, here it is.”
They turned off the gravel road and into Digs’ rustic driveway. Mid-afternoon found the sun high in the western sky. The Pacific opened in a vast panorama of esthetic beauty, revealing nothing of the lethal and hostile devices concealed within her depths. The women were pleased with the prospect of what the weekend would bring and delighted they’d be together with Eric and Dave for the first time in many years. Both wondered how many more remained in the offing but neither confided this feeling to the other.
Lt. Vasiliy Baknov had the watch when the attack came. Sounds of an ADCAP torpedo racing toward Zhukov could be heard through the hull, striking terror into hearts of the crew but the men went about their business like the professionals they were.
Keeping his voice steady, Vasiliy ordered, “Open the muzzle door and fire,” as he sounded the collision alarm, which quickly brought Captain Sherensky to the Attack Center and Zhukov to her highest state of watertight integrity.
Zhukov shuddered as the ET 80A ejected from its launcher and turned to the bearing of the inbound ADCAP.
Vasiliy had planned everything down to predicting time of the attack to within three hours of when it occurred. He had pre-positioned a torpedo in a flooded and pressurized launcher so he could counter-fire almost at the instant the michman detected an inbound torpedo. A rough pre-positioned gyro angle setting in the torpedo would direct the weapon toward the baffles, the general direction of attack correctly expected by Vasiliy.
The Akula had entered Vasiliy’s Zhukov Maneuver by the time Sherensky arrived.
Vasily reported, “Inbound bearing changing rapidly, Captain, running up the starboard side. The maneuver is working. I’m certain it can’t find us.”
“Let us hope not. How long has our unit been running?”
“One minute, Captain. If the Americans play their usual game, we’ll hear an explosion in two minutes, fifteen seconds.”
Sherensky marveled at Vasiliy’s composure. While the others held their breath, Vasiliy concerned himself only with the prospect of a kill. If successful, Vasiliy’s quick shot would give Zhukov the margin they needed to evade the inbound. At minimum, it would put the attacker on the defensive and cause his evasive actions to sever the torpedo guide wire.
The michman reported, “Enemy weapon opening ahead.”
Vasiliy gloated, “Ah, good. Now all that remains is to await the explosion of our torpedo.” Certain Denver was the attacker; he tried to recall names of officers he’d read about in the intelligence directory. So, Lieutenant Maddock, it appears we will not be adversaries much longer. Vasiliy counted down the seconds, “Five, four, three, two, one—”
No explosion.
His frustration mounting, Vasiliy said, “Comrade Michman, search the target area and report.”
The michman replied, relief clear in his voice, “A high noise level, steady bearing, growing fainter.”
Vasiliy exclaimed, “Damn all! He’s running for it. If he goes to maximum depth, our weapon won’t catch him. He must have fired from a greater range than estimated. Comrade Captain, we need weapons with greater catch up margin if we expect to sink 688 class submarines. Let us go after him, Comrade Captain.”
The captain held a decidedly different point of view. He grew up in a submarine force, a distant second to the Americans. Deployment of the 688 class in 1974 appeared an insurmountable gain by the west. But with help from the Walker spy ring and new propeller technology sold to them by allied countries, they produced equipment that brought them closer to the Americans.