Counterforce Page 5

  Checking his watch, Leonov prepared to exit.

  “I’m afraid that I’m due up in the control room now. I can’t thank you enough for your advice. Comrade. I should have come to you much earlier.”

  The senior officer pivoted smartly and left the mess whistling a tune from the Nutcracker. Petyr Valenko watched him take his leave and stifled a chuckle. Here he was — a godfather and a matchmaker all in the same day. His purpose in the Rodina’s navy never failed to amaze him.

  After finishing his tea, the captain was preparing to get up and exit himself when a high-pitched, raspy voice greeted him.

  “Good evening. Captain. I’m pleased to see that you’re the first one here for this week’s komsomol meeting. It’s been much too long since you’ve given us the honor of your presence.”

  These shrill words came from Ivan Novikov, the Vulkan’s zampolit. Not stopping to hear Valenko’s response, the short, skinny political officer proceeded hastily across the mess. Reaching the room’s far corner, he took up a position before a large, wallmounted poster of Vladimir Ilich Lenin and began setting up a small lectern.

  To Valenko, Novikov always seemed to be puttering around. His constant need to be moving about made the captain nervous. Of course, his very standing as Zampolit was cause for tension in itself. As the only officer aboard who could directly undermine the captain’s authority (in the interests of the Party), Ivan Novikov answered to his own chain of command.

  Fortunately, the two had yet to seriously tangle.

  Valenko knew that he was lucky. Many were the tale of political officers who constantly poked their noses into ships’ line functions.

  One good thing about Novikov was that he was satisfied merely to direct the crew’s ideological indoctrination and to monitor their political reliability. Propulsion systems, navigational problems and electronic components were of little interest to him. Consigned to making the best of the situation, the captain decided he had better keep up his front of affability. Arming himself with his best diplomatic smile, he crossed the mess to confront the zampolit directly.

  “Good evening to you. Comrade. Actually, I was just finishing off a late supper. I stood a double watch today and didn’t realize that the time was flying by so quickly.”

  Holding back a forced yawn, Valenko hinted again.

  “I’ll be taking another midnight watch, so I’d better be thinking about getting some rest.”

  Novikov’s head jerked up.

  “Oh, Captain, you disappoint me. Must you leave already? At least stay for the first half of the meeting. Attendance has been a bit of a problem lately and your presence will be greatly appreciated. And besides, this evening our topic is far from being an ideological one. We will be discussing nuclear warfare strategy.”

  From the pleading tone of Novikov’s voice, Valenko knew he would have trouble getting out of this one.

  His dilemma was exacerbated as the first of the komsomol members began to arrive. Quietly, they took their seats at the tables while the zampolit continued readying his notes.

  Membership in the komsomol, the official Party club, was quite voluntary. It was said to be advantageous for a seaman, or even an officer, for that matter, to attend such meetings. Having the solid support of the party could never hurt come promotion time.

  Valenko turned around and noticed that several junior lieutenants had arrived. He nodded politely as their eyes lit up upon identifying him.

  The majority of the other dozen participants came from the noncommissioned ranks. Unwillingly, Valenko took a seat at the table nearest the lectern. He watched the zampolit continue his frantic preparations, and couldn’t help but compare Novikov’s coloring and facial structure with the representation of the founder of socialism tacked to the wall behind him. Fighting back another yawn, Valenko tried not to think about the comforting shelter of his mattress — when a sweet, familiar odor met his nostrils. The captain swiveled around to see the grinning red face of Yuri Chuchkin.

  The bearded, heavyset weapons chief, whose habitual, battered briar pipe lay between his clenched lips, slid into the seat beside him.

  “Why Captain Valenko, I’m certainly surprised to see you at this friendly little soiree.”

  “You should talk. Comrade,” Valenko retorted.

  “I didn’t know that they let the likes of you into the komsomol. What is this Party coming to?”

  Chuchkin let out a deep laugh and the captain was instantly infected by his joviality. The happy-go-lucky weapons chief, who reminded him of the mythical Father Frost, always had that effect on him. His presence would serve to make the evening that much more tolerable.

  Valenko fought to control his mirth and moved over to again query the newcomer.

  “By the way, what are you doing here. Comrade Chuchkin?”

  Chuchkin took a deep draw on his pipe and released a stream of vanilla-scented smoke.

  “Why, Captain, didn’t you check your ticket stub? I’m tonight’s guest speaker.”

  Again Chuchkin roared with laughter. This time the sharp report of a gavel striking wood redirected their attention to the lectern. All merriment came to an instant end as the Vulkan’s zampolit coldly greeted them.

  “Good evening, Comrades. Welcome to tonight’s weekly komsomol meeting.

  I see a few new faces out there this evening. It’s always good to have newcomers.

  The Party shall take note.

  “I’m certain that all of you have spotted two esteemed members of our officer corps here tonight.

  Captain Valenko, all of us are aware of your tight schedule. To give us the honor of your presence is a testament to the great principles of the party that bring us all together.”

  As Valenko nodded in response to his introduction. Novikov continued.

  “Tonight, we won’t be exploring the lofty theoretical principles that underlay the Rodina’s political composition. Rather, we will be discussing much more practical matters. Our country’s nuclear war-fighting ability is the deterrent that allows the Motherland to grow and prosper. Without it, the imperialists would run rampant through our countryside, spreading their tired doctrine of decadence and greed.

  “To allow us to have a better understanding of the weapons systems that serve to keep the Western hordes in check. Chief Armament Officer Yuri Chuchkin has kindly agreed to say a few words. Comrade Chuchkin….”

  To a smattering of polite applause, the corpulent officer stood, straightened his uniform and made his way to the podium. Before speaking, he made extra certain that his pipe was packed, lit and ready for smoking. After completing this ritual, he scanned his captive audience and began speaking.

  “Thank you, Comrades. I think that it’s only fitting, in this discussion of the Rodina’s nuclear war fighting strategy, that we begin with the Vulkan’s responsibilities should the unthinkable come to pass.

  As you well know, our primary armament takes the form of sixteen SS-N-18 ballistic missiles. These liquid fueled, two-stage rockets features the Motherland’s latest technology. The SS-N-18 is the first submarine-launched weapon with post-boost propulsion.

  Not only does this add significant velocity to the warhead during the final stages of flight, but it also allows the MIRV-bus to readily maneuver.

  “The length of each of these missiles is 14.1 meters, with a diameter of 1.8 meters. The warheads rely on inertial guidance, with assistance from frequent stellar observations “Each SS-N-18 carries a multiple, independently target table reentry vehicle, known as a bus. This device carries seven separate, two-hundred-kiloton nuclear devices. At the proper time, after the bus has fallen back into the atmosphere, the individual warheads can be aimed at their independent targets. As you know, a kiloton is equivalent to an explosive yield of 1,000 tons of TNT.

  “Another remarkable feature of the SS-N-18 is its range of over 8,000 kilometers. Thus, even from our current position, the Vulkan could hit targets anywhere in the continental United States. An equally amazing st
atistic is our payloads’ CEP. Circular Error Probable is a measure of a warhead’s accuracy. It relates to the radius of a circle into which fifty percent of the nuclear devices are predicted to fall.

  Extensive tests have shown the SS-N-18 to have a CEP of less than 100 meters. This means that, for the first time, a submarine-launched weapon is able to destroy one of the so-called hardened targets. No longer is the sub force merely a back-up retaliatory system. Today, we have a first-strike ability of equaled potential.”

  The unnaturally loud sound of a throat being cleared broke the chief’s concentration. Turning his head to check the interruption’s source, he saw that the zampolit had stood and was rapidly approaching the lectern. He began speaking long before he reached the bearded officer’s side.

  “This report is extremely fascinating. Comrade Chuchkin, and in much more detail than I was expecting. Your knowledge of the intricate mechanical features of the equipment can’t be challenged. Yet your assertion regarding the Vulkan’s first-strike potential has serious theoretical flaws. I’m certain that all of you are aware of the fact that the Rodina has publicly disavowed any desire to be the first user of nuclear weapons. To even think that the Vulkan would be considered in such a role is, therefore, absurd.”

  Before answering, the bearded chief patiently tamped down the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe, put a match to it, and sucked in a deep draw.

  “I know nothing of the intentions of the politicians who guide the course of the Soviet Union. All I know is that, from a practical strategic viewpoint, our load of SS-N18s could singly strike the imperialists a mighty blow.

  Not even their most sheltered command post would be safe from our reach.”

  “Enough of such nonsense!” exclaimed the redfaced zampolit.

  “Only the treachery of the warmongering Americans could push us to such an extreme. We are a peace-loving people. We’ve more than had our fill of war. First strike intentions have no part in our war plan.

  This, I am certain of!”

  “I beg to differ with you. Comrade Novikov.”

  These firm words came from the mouth of Captain Petyr Valenko. The political officer could hardly believe his eyes as the captain dared to challenge him directly.

  “Why build such super accurate devices such as the SS-N-18 in the first place, if one didn’t plan to use them effectively? Certainly, a military strategist must keep his mind open to every kind of attack scenario.

  To say that the Soviet Union doesn’t have a first-strike option is ridiculous in itself.”

  Novikov’s voice trembled angrily.

  “I repeat. Captain Valenko; it is the policy of the Soviet Union never to be the instigator of a nuclear exchange. Now, if you want evidence of a country gathering itself for a first strike, just look at the United States. Their MX and Trident missile systems, combined with the so-called Star Wars satellite platforms, indicate a clear desire to strike the first blow.”

  Valenko realized that it was fruitless to continue.

  The political officer would never open his mind to any expansion of thought. Catching the pleading look of his weapon’s chief, the captain vented his tired frustrations with a single, passionate outburst. “If you ask me, this entire discussion has gotten out of hand. To stand there and say the the Rodina has no plan for a first strike is as foolish as blaming the problem totally on the Americans. The simple fact is that there can be no winner in an extended nuclear conflict, no matter who drops the first warhead. This is the concept that the leaders of both sides have to come to terms with.

  “The time for name-calling and rhetoric is over.

  The world’s leaders have to face up to their responsibilities.

  It is their fault that this arms race has gotten so out of control. We have been lucky so far. Over three decades have passed since a nuclear device was last used in warfare. Today, I fear that the odds are turning against us. All it would take is a single, unstable group getting their hands on the nuclear trigger. The sad part is that no matter who was ultimately at fault, the grim outcome would be the same for all of us.”

  Conscious of the startled silence that met the conclusion of his emotion-filled discourse, Valenko turned and quickly exited the room.

  Only when he was long gone from the mess area did a nervous rumble of voices break from the komsomol members still present.

  Ivan Novikov knew it was important that he regain control of his audience at once. There could be no doubting that their captain harbored confused, dangerous thoughts. He would deal with that problem later. Trying to ignore the gleaming eyes of the weapon’s chief, who seemed to be enjoying the zampolit’s discomfort, Novikov positioned himself squarely behind the lectern and spoke as calmly as possible.

  “As komsomol members, all of us are aware of the importance of open dialogue. Our esteemed Captain’s personal opinions are merely that.

  For the Party to grow to full maturity, this sharing of viewpoints, no matter how alien, must be allowed. This is the prime difference between the so-called democracies and our glorious socialist system.

  Each week, our meetings reflect this sharing of philosophies. Now, I think that it’s time to return to tonight’s intended subject.

  “The Party has long realized that only through strength will the imperialists be contained. Yet, what would happen if the Western powers did develop a platform that could knock our missiles from the skies and we were forced to defend the Rodina from direct Western aggression? The following options would then be at our disposal….”

  Wishing that he could have followed the captain’s lead, the weapon’s chief was forced to listen to the zampolit’s rambling. It was evident that the man didn’t know the first thing about true nuclear warfare.

  Not having the nerve to excuse himself, Chuchkin surrendered to the solace of his pipe, and a mental recollection of the strange confrontation that they had just witnessed.

  Chapter Three

  The arctic twilight glowed in ghostly iridescence as two Soviet submarines rounded a breakwater and entered Taliniskaia Bay. Leading the way was the smaller of the vessels. Sporting a streamlined hull, complete with a rounded bridge from which a variety of retractable aerials were extended, the attack sub Cheka was making one of its rare surface transits.

  Following it, nearly one hundred meters off its stern, was the Vulkan.

  Clearly dwarfing the attack sub in length and width, the Delta-class ship was almost twice as large. Characterized by a hunchbacked missile casing, located abaft the angular conning tower, the keeless submersible cut awkwardly through the choppy northern seas. Oblivious to the sickening, rolling pitch of the hull, the submariners inside knew that their home port was only minutes away.

  It was at times like this that Petropavlovsk appeared extremely attractive. In reality, the city was an isolated, uncomfortable outpost, perched on the tip of the desolate Kamchatka peninsula. It was home to approximately 200,000 hardy inhabitants, the majority of whom were certainly not there by choice.

  Pounded by bone-chilling, arctic temperatures, the northeastern Siberian settlement gained its importance as being home to the famed Seventh Squadron, where seventy-five percent of the Soviet Union’s Pacific Fleet subs were anchored.

  Serving as reminders of their northerly position, a line of scarred icebreakers were the first ships visible as the subs proceeded into the harbor. All too soon the arctic pack ice would be inching its way down the peninsula, and the frustrating, tiring job of keeping an open sea lane would begin. With only a handful of open ports to choose from, this was a most important job. A fleet locked at its berths by ice would do the Rodina little good in times of need.

  Petyr Valenko stood in an exposed opening cut into the forward section of the Vulkan’s sail. Standing next to him was his senior lieutenant, Vasili Leonov. Both were bundled in fur-lined oilskins. Even with the cover of those heavy coats, they shivered in the icy breeze.

  “Just wait until it gets really cold,” mocked the captain
as he readjusted his mittens and pulled his collar closer to his neck.

  “Winter isn’t officially scheduled to arrive for a full month yet.”

  “I’ll still take this frigid air over the stuffy confines of the sub’s interior, any day of the year,” Leonov reflected.

  Valenko grinned shyly.

  “You say that now, after being cooped up inside for over two months, but leave you outdoors in these conditions for an hour and you’ll soon be begging to come inside.”

  As if to emphasize his observation, a biting northern gust hit them full in the face. Both men instantly turned their heads downwind in an attempt to escape its piercing effects.

  “Who knows — perhaps orders sending us off to the Mediterranean are waiting in port. Wouldn’t you love a honeymoon under the balmy, tropic skies?”

  The captain’s question produced an instant response from the senior lieutenant.

  “As long as I’m honeymooning with my Natasha, I’ll take it anywhere on this planet. You see, I don’t plan to do much sightseeing! “

  “No, I guess you don’t at that. So, you still have the nerve to go through with it?”

  Leonov’s eyes gleamed.

  “Since we last talked in the mess I haven’t thought of much else — except my official duty, that is.”

  Valenko shook his head and grinned.

  “Well, I wish you all the luck. As soon as we tie up at our pen you may consider yourself temporarily excused from duty.

  I’ll complete the log myself.”

  “Thank you. Captain!” Leonov said sincerely.

  Eyes now focused on the rapidly approaching docks, Leonov seemed to be willing them forward. Valenko detached the waterproof intercom and began initiating the complex series of commands that would see them to their proper slot. After passing an anchored trio of Kotlin-class destroyers and a massive Kresta cruiser, the Vulkan began a broad, sweeping turn toward starboard. As they passed by the cruiser’s sharply angled bow, Valenko set his eyes on the low profile, concrete-roofed pens that the Seventh Squadron called home.