Counterforce Page 4

  “All ahead, flank speed to intercept point!” commanded the XO, his voice firm with authority.

  As the Triton trembled beneath him, Michael Cooksey realized that he had made the right decision.

  Reaching one’s mature potential was what these peacetime patrols were all about. Conscious of the stirring around him as the attack team scrambled to accomplish their assigned tasks, he stifled a yawn and concluded that it would take a near miracle to intercept the Alfa before it was long gone from their sector.

  Captain Grigori Dzerzhinsky, commanding officer of the Alfa-class attack sub Cheka, stood stiffly in the midst of the vessel’s attack center. Small and wiry with wavy black hair, the captain found himself quite pleased with his mission’s outcome. As always, the Cheka was everything he could ask for in a submarine.

  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 tim
e 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.

  “It’s unusual to leave us out here unescorted. What do you think they were up to?”

  “Who knows?” the captain said cautiously.

  “With the Cheka, almost anything could have been possible.

  Sometimes I wonder if that crack crew is even working for the navy.”

  “You and me both. Captain. I’ve heard tell that Dzerzhinsky has guided his vessel right up to the sub nets at Pearl Harbor. From there he supposedly took pictures of a group of Americans picnicking on the shoreline.”

  Shaking his head, Valenko grinned.

  “I bet you can’t wait to get back to Petropavlovsk and see that new son of yours.”

  “I sure can’t. Do you realize that next week he’ll be six months old?

  And to think that I’ve already missed almost a third of life.”

  “Get used to it. Comrade, or perhaps this line of work isn’t for you.

  And besides, they don’t do anything but eat, sleep, and cry the first couple of years anyway.”

  “Why, Captain, I didn’t think you knew so much about babies.”

  “You’d be surprised, son,” Valenko added with with a wink.

  Valenko was preparing to leave, to issue the orders sending the Vulkan westward, when Kuzmin looked up apprehensively.

  “Captain, there’s one more thing that I’d like to ask of you before we get back to port.

  Galina and I would like to know if you would do us the honor of being little Nikolai’s godfather.”

  Clearly surprised by this request, Valenko hesitated a second before responding.

  “It’s me who you honor, Stefan. What have I done to be so worthy of this distinction? Why, we hardly know each other.”

  “Nonsense, Captain. We have sailed three patrols together. Even though we haven’t been able to talk as much as I would have liked, your example has meant so much to me. Galina says that you’re the father figure I never had to emulate. Whatever the case, we would be proud to have you as our son’s guardian.”

  Veiled by the red combat lighting, Stefan Kuzmin failed to see his commanding officer’s cheeks flush.

  “What else can I say, but that I’ll accept.”

  “Wonderful!” the which man exclaimed. He stood to offer the captain his hand.

  “Galina will be so thrilled.

  Of course, you’ll do us the honor of having dinner at our place when we return to Petropavlovsk.”

  “You’d better believe I’ll be there. Not only do I want to sample some of that good home cooking you’re always bragging about, but I’d better check out this boy I’m to be responsible for.”

  As the two men exchanged a hearty handshake, an observer could indeed have mistaken the figures as father and son. Both sailors were ruggedly built, with similar six-foot-tall frames and handsome Slavic features. Blond-haired and blue-eyed, it was this similarity of appearances that had originally attracted the two to each other.

  Valenko broke the hand contact first. “I’d better go and get the Vulkan moving. We certainly don’t want to stand up the likes of Grigori Dzerzhinsky. Then, if my luck holds out, perhaps the cook will have some stew left over. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  Patting his stomach, the captain pivoted and walked to the navigation station. His mind still reeling with excitement. Warrant Officer Stefan Kuzmin reluctantly returned to the radio console. The man he respected most in the world had not let him down.

  Perhaps there was a chance they could be real friends after all.

  Even though the Delta Illclass submarines were among the largest of undersea vessels, with a length of over five hundred feet, extra space aboard the ships was rare. Every corner of the hull was packed with supplies and gear. Even the crew’s bunks were “hot,” for as soon as one left for his duty station, another took his place in bed. Thus, each section of the sub had a variety of uses. This was especially true in the mess area. Not only was this the place where the one-hundred-and-thirty-two-man crew ate their meals, but it also served as recreation hall, library, barber shop and meeting place.

  By the time Captain Petyr Valenko reached the Vulkaris mess, the dozen or so tables here were almost completely empty. With his stomach growling hungrily, he crossed into the galley and intercepted the unchallenged czar of this section of the sub, Chief Cook Anatoly Irkutsk. Known for his volatile temperment, perpetually stained apron and corpulent potbelly, Irkutsk supervised his domain like he owned it.

  Aware that his bark was worse than his bite, Valenko approached him while he was scraping out the bottom of a badly scorched kettle.

  “That’s one way to stay physically fit. Chief,” greeted the captain.

  Irkutsk found little humor in this and responded accordingly.

  “The damned apprentices the navy gives me are nothing but a bunch of worthless buffoons. I swear that these idiots burn more food than they serve. It’s a wonder I can still come up with enough rations to feed the men by the time we reach the end of our patrols. Our larders have never been so empty.”

  “You’ll manage, as always,” Valenko said as his stomach gurgled loudly.

  Taking this cue, the chief looked up and met the captain’s glance.

  “Missed you at lunch and dinner, sir. I’m beginning to wonder if you’d rather starve yourself than eat my cooking.”

  “Now, Comrade, you know better than that.

  Speaking of the devil… would you happen to have a leftover bowl of stew and a crust of bread for this starving old man?”

  Relishing the moment, the cook seemed to deliberate before answering.

  “As your good fortune would have it, there’s a single portion left. It just happens to be your very favorite, Captain.”

  Valenko’s eyes sparkled.

  “Ah, you’ve cooked up some stuffed cabbages! You’ve made this weary old man’s day.”

  Several minutes later, Valenko sat down at the only occupied table.

  Nodding toward the solemn-eyed officer who sat sipping his tea, Valenko carefully emptied his tray. With exacting precision, he positioned his dinner before him, careful to use the rubberized matting that kept the plates from slipping in the event of a sudden change of the hull’s angle. Enjoying the scent of the steam emanating from the largest of his bowls, the captain broke off a piece of black bread and dipped it in the piping hot sweet-and-sour sauce.

  “I tell you, the Chief makes these cabbage rolls better than my own mother. How lucky we are to have such an artist serving us.”

  As if to emphasize his words, Valenko cut into one of the large balls of cabbage and swallowed down a huge bite. Following this with a sopping piece of bread, the captain saw that his enthusiasm was wasted on his table mate “What’s the matter, Senior Lieutenant? Have I done something that has upset you? You look as if you just lost your only friend.”

  Vasili Leonov, the Vulkan’s second in command, merely shook his head despondently and tried to lose himself in another sip of tea.

  “I know what it is,” Valenko said between bites of fruit compote.

  “You’re in love, aren’t you Vasili? I’d bet a month’s pay it’s that new girlfriend that’s got you down.”

  Astounded, the Senior Lieutenant redirected his dark gaze toward the captain.

  “Your accurate perceptions shock me. Comrade. I never realized that you were a mind reader.”

  Valenko cut i
nto another cabbage roll.

  “That’s only one of my many talents, Vasili. You know, I couldn’t help but watch you mope around like a sad puppy during the majority of this past patrol. You’ve got yourself a bad case, there’s no doubt about it.”

  Savoring a bite of cabbage, chopped meat and rice, he continued.

  “One thing I’ll say for you is that you’ve certainly got excellent taste. I saw you two together, the morning we left Petropavlovsk. My, she’s a beauty.”

  Leonov’s sour facial expression lightened noticeably.

  “If you only knew the extent of her beauty, Comrade. Not only is she the most attractive girl I have ever met, but she’s intelligent and a pleasure to be with, also.”

  “Sounds serious,” Valenko observed while chewing on a crust of bread.

  “Does she realize what being tied down to a submariner would mean? For half the year her bed would be empty.”

  “Natasha’s father is an old navy man himself,” Leonov said animatedly.

  “During the Great War he sailed with none other than Admiral Sorokin.”

  “You don’t say,” Valenko commented as he finished off the last of the cabbage rolls. Picking up his mug of tea, he looked the lovelorn officer in the eye.

  “Marry her, Vasili. I may not always be right, but I’m never wrong about these matters. Tie the knot when we’re home next week. Start yourself a family.

  I’ll envy you all the way to the altar.”

  Hearing just the words he wanted, the senior lieutenant attempted a smile.

  “I was afraid that we hadn’t known each long enough. We only saw one another less than three weeks.”

  “That’s longer than many,” the captain returned.

  “Go with your instincts. Comrade. Life is much too short for procrastination.”

  Sipping his tea contendedly, Valenko could see his advice hit home.

  Like a new man, the senior lieutenant pushed his chair away from the table and stood triumphantly.

  “I feel better already. Captain. You’re right — I must go with my instincts. If Natasha will have me, we’ll get married at once. I’d be a fool if I thought that I could live without her. How blind I’ve been!”