“Are you deaf. Comrade Michman?” screamed the infuriated Admiral.
“Well, since it appears that you have joined the ranks of your spineless captain, I’ll just have to carry out your duties for you. Helmsman, reverse our course right now! And ready the ship to attack.”
Equally confused was the junior seaman currently steering the Neva. This was only his third submarine patrol, and all three were with Sergei Markova as commanding officer. Since he wasn’t used to taking orders from anyone but his captain, like the hesitant which man he wouldn’t budge.
Seeing this, Mikhail Kharkov went into an absolute fit, and began madly ripping at the helmsman’s shoulder harness, to physically remove him from his position and personally replace him at the helm. It was at this point that the ship’s senior lieutenant ran forward to intercede on the helmsman’s behalf.
“Now hold on one moment. Admiral!” warned Viktor Belenko. “Let go of that harness at once, or you’ll endanger all of us.”
As Kharkov continued furiously yanking on the harness’s jammed release mechanism, Viktor reached out and grabbed the white-haired veteran by one of his arms. An intense scuffle ensued, during which time the frenzied admiral reached into the folds of his sweater and pulled out his Kalashnikov pistol. Seconds later, the compartment filled with the reverberating explosive report of a single shot.
And when the confusion cleared, Viktor Belenko could be seen lying on the deck, holding his blood-soaked shoulder and writhing in sheer agony. Standing above him, with the still-smoking pistol in hand, was the suddenly sobered Admiral of the Fleet.
“Have you gone completely insane. Comrade Kharkov?” cried Sergei Markova as he ran over to disarm the veteran.
Surprisingly enough, Kharkov surrendered his weapon quite willingly. This enabled the captain to immediately turn to his wounded subordinate. As he bent to Viktor’s side, he called out firmly.
“Comrade Ustreka, you are to escort the admiral to his quarters at once. Please see to it that he remains there until I say otherwise.”
This time the which man didn’t hesitate, and as the muscular Kiev native walked over to carry out his orders, the Admiral of the Fleet pleaded desperately, “Please Captain, I’m truly sorry I lost control. It’s just that this mission is so all-important, and I couldn’t bear to see anything get in the way of its successful completion. That is why you must turn this ship around and initiate an immediate attack. Please Captain, do this, or my entire life’s work will be in jeopardy!”
Barely paying these words any attention, Sergei pressed a clean handkerchief up against Viktor’s wound. An alert corpsman joined him, and while the seaman began staunching the flow of blood with a proper dressing, the captain stood to complete one last necessary task. Walking straight over to the admiral, he reached into Kharkov’s pocket and pulled out the two steel-cased cassettes the man had stored there. With this done, the captain silently nodded toward the which man who proceeded to lead the now-trembling old-timer out of the attack center.
“All right, comrades, that’s enough of this onsense!” shouted Sergei. “Now let’s concentrate on the real threat that lies in the seas behind us. For if the fates are still with us, perhaps we’ll yet have a chance to outrun them.”
The call from the Defiance’s sound shack reached the vessel’s control-room crew over the compartment’s elevated public address speakers. There could be no denying the excitement that flavored Petty Officer First Class Stanley Roth’s words as he issued his latest report.
“We’ve tagged Ivan again, Captain! Though this time it was an explosive crack much like a gunshot that gave them away. Their bearing is three-two-zero, with a range of ten thousand yards. Shall I initiate a weapons’ interface. Captain?”
“That’s affirmative, Mr. Roth,” shot back Matt Colter. “Lock on sonar on tubes one, two, and three.”
With this said. Colter turned to address his weapons’ officer.
“Prepare to launch three Mk 48’s, Mr. Sanger. Let me know when we have a green light on sensor interface.”
There was a determined look in Matt Colter’s eyes as he traded glances with his XO.
“They’re ours, Al,” observed the beaming captain. “There’s no way in hell they’ll escape us now.”
“We’ve got a green light on weapons’ release,” observed Lieutenant David Sanger.
“Then let’s do it, gentlemen,” returned the captain.
“Fire one! Fire two! Fire three!”
The whining hiss of the three approaching torpedoes registered in the Neva’s hydrophones moments after the weapons were released from their tubes.
The shocked technician who monitored this frighteningly distinctive racket almost fell out of his chair as he twisted around to share this information.
“Torpedo salvo headed our way. Captain! I count three separate weapons coming in on bearing one-four-zero, at a range of nine thousand, five hundred meters.”
This was just the news Sergei Markova had dreaded to hear, and as he pounded his clenched fist into his thigh, he snapped his men into action.
“Take us down. Crash dive at speed! Begin preprogrammed evasive maneuvers, and pray that it’s not too late, comrades.”
The bow of the Neva abruptly turned downward, and as Sergei reached out to steady himself, the Neva’s turbines roared alive in the background. His hands straining against the cold steel tubular railing that kept him from falling forward, the captain managed to take in the digital depth gauge mounted above the helm. With an incredible rapidity, this counter ticked off their dive’s progress. Yet even then, it seemed to take a virtual eternity to break the five-hundred-meter barrier. When this finally occurred, they were plunging downwards at a speed of forty-one knots. And as man and machine were once more pushed to their limits, Sergei could only wonder if even their best would be good enough this time.
“The torpedoes continue their approach,” monitored the sonar operator. “Range is down to eight thousand meters and closing.”
“Where’s that infernal thermocline?” queried Sergei, who listened as the hull of the Neva began protesting under the great pressure it was now being subjected to.
“Sir, we’re approaching the seven-hundred-meter mark. Will we be pulling up here?” quizzed the anxious diving officer.
“Not yet,” managed Sergei as the deck began wildly vibrating beneath them. “We’re going to have to push the envelope on this one, and then some.”
Again the groaning sound of the straining hull filled the attack center, and Sergei was thrown violently to the side as the deck suddenly canted hard to the right. It was the diving officer who attempted to explain what this unexpected disturbance was all about.
“We’ve seemed to hit some sort of current, Captain. It’s a struggle just to keep the helm steady.”
“Hang in there, comrade!” urged Sergei. “For this current could very well be our savior.”
At a depth of eight-hundred and sixty meters, the deck abruptly stopped vibrating. It was apparent that they had broken into a different strata of water, and the captain’s next command was given with great relief.
“Level off the dive, and bring us up!”
Seconds later, Sergei lurched violently backward and had to hold on for dear life, as the Neva reversed its course and headed out of the depths like a bullet. Again the disturbed strata was encountered.
But just knowing that they were now ascending made the wildly vibrating gyrations that coursed through the ship’s hull, and the mere act of standing upright a challenge, all the easier to accept.