Counterforce Page 6

The Cheka could be seen inching its rounded hull into one of the slots closest to the open sea. The Vulkan’s berth was three dozen spaces down the line.

  The majority of these pens were filled with older, Yankee-class and Hotel-class models. Though many of these ships had not been to sea in several months, each of them was fully fit for duty should the need arise.

  Five minutes later, the first mooring line was being cinched onto the Vulkan’s forward capstan. After making certain that the ship was securely tied, Valenko made his way downstairs. The action there was furious, as the men hastily concluded their duties of buttoning down the sub. Not wanting to get in their way, Valenko proceeded immediately to his cabin.

  Here he planned to begin work on the report that included a detailed review of the daily events of the last two months. No sooner had he sat at his tiny, wallmounted desk to begin this chore, when a knock sounded on his door.

  “Come in,” he said with a touch of annoyance, then lightened as he set eyes on the grinning face of Stefan Kuzmin.

  “Sir, I was just reaffirming our date for dinner. Is tomorrow evening at six o’clock all right?”

  “That would be fine, Comrade. Where is this place of yours?”

  Kuzmin blushed.

  “I’m sorry. The address is 13 Gorshkov Boulevard. Our apartment is number 301.

  Bring your appetite.”

  “That, you can be certain of,” the captain said as he looked down at the blank legal pad that lay before him.

  The which man alertly excused himself.

  “Well, I won’t bother you any longer, sir. Besides, I’ve got a wife and six-month-old son to see. Good evening, Captain.”

  With the blond-haired warrant officer’s exit, Valenko once again began organizing the series of notes that comprised the Vulkan’s informal log. It was his responsibility now to expand on these observations and create a final report. He was just getting through the first week of their patrol when another knock sounded.

  “What is it?” Valenko asked with more than a bit of agitation.

  The sweet scent of vanilla-soaked tobacco preceded Yuri Chuchkin’s entry.

  “Sorry if I’m disturbing you, sir,” greeted the bearded weapons chief, “but I was just putting together a security roster of all those who will be staying aboard this evening.”

  “Well, you can count me in there, Chief. I think it’s best if I finish up this log while the events are still clear in my mind. Who else is staying?”

  Chuchkin pulled the stem of his pipe from his lips before answering.

  “There’s myself, Chef Anatoly, the reactor team and the usual security detail. I thought you’d be interested to know that our good friend Ivan Novikov was one of the first to leave the ship. From the hurried way in which he was moving, our zampolit seemed to have a feather up his ass.”

  Valenko chuckled.

  “Bet you that he couldn’t wait to inform his superiors of the dangerous dissident currently at the helm of one of the Rodina’s most powerful weapons systems. I’ve had run-ins with his type before. He’ll get over it.”

  “I hope so,” Chuchkin said.

  “Otherwise, we’ll both end up on icebreaker duty in the Arctic Circle.”

  “Don’t you worry. By the way, why are you staying aboard the Vulkan this evening? I’d have thought that you would like to be visiting your mother.”

  Chuchkin put a match to his pipe’s bowl.

  “That was the plan — until I received a call from logistics informing me to be ready to accept a new load of warheads first thing in the morning. Silly to drive all the way out to her dacha in Malka, only to return in a few hours’ time.”

  “New warheads, you say?” the Captain asked.

  “I didn’t know anything about such a change.”

  Chuchkin cleared his throat.

  “Only heard about them myself less than ten minutes ago. I’ll try to get wind of exactly what we’re taking on from the supply chief. That old Uzbek owes me a few favors. Are you going to be wanting dinner later?”

  “Thanks, Comrade, but I think I’ll just pick up some cheese and crackers later this evening. I’ve got more than enough work to keep me busy well into the night.”

  “Well, if you need anything, just give me a call.

  Good night. Captain.”

  “Good night. Chief.”

  As his heavyset visitor backed out of the room and shut the door behind him, Valenko let out a sigh of relief. Free to return to his work, he stared down at the partially filled pad. Try as he could to return to his original flow of thought, his mind remained locked on a single observation the chief had left with him.

  So … Ivan Novikov had been one of the first to leave for shore. Was the political officer still upset with that minor confrontation they had the other evening? Valenko couldn’t forget how the zampolit had hastily averted his eyes from the captain’s when they had passed each other a few hours earlier. Why, the man hadn’t even returned his simple greeting.

  Valenko hadn’t thought their squabble was that serious.

  It was more a silly misinterpreting of words than anything else.

  Aware of the trouble Novikov could make if he decided to blow their confrontation into a major event, Valenko thought it best to include their spat in his log. A minor addendum would serve to explain what had happened at the fated komsomol meeting.

  Certain that this would clear the air, the captain picked up his pen and once again immersed himself in a recreation of the patrol just completed.

  The next day Valenko was still at his desk. Not even taking time for lunch, he diligently put the finishing touches on his report. When this was finally completed, he felt as if a great weight had been removed from his shoulders. He put the thick stack of legal sized sheets into a large packet. This pouch would then be messengered over to headquarters, where a squadron typist would get the challenge of converting his scrawled handwriting into legible copy. Quickly now, Valenko changed into a clean uniform, left his quarters and ascended the stairway to the forward entry hatch.

  Outside, it was another frigid arctic day. Pulling the fur collar of his greatcoat tightly around his neck, Valenko breathed in the crisp, cool air. Barely lit by the low-rising sun, the sky was a deep blue, with a strata of high-flying, puffy white clouds blowing in from the northwest. Valenko returned the salute of the sentry positioned beside the gangplank and made his way on shore. He was unaccustomed to the feeling of solid ground beneath him and knew it would take a while to feel comfortable on pavement. After all, the constant pitching of the Vulkan’s deck had guided his steps for the past sixty days.

  Before leaving the pen area completely, he turned to take a last look at his command. Moored securely to its berth, the Vulkan appeared a benign behemoth.

  The sleek, black hull was beginning to show the effects of salt-water corrosion. Splotches of rusty primer could be clearly seen, undercoating the vessel’s stem, sail and deck areas. Even though the sub had been completely painted only this past summer, the harsh sea was already leaving its mark. Such was the nature of the element through which they traveled.

  A small group of men could be seen gathered beside the humped casing set behind the sail. They were busy repairing a dock-borne loading gantry. Supervising this crew was the bearded, heavyset figure of Yuri Chuchkin. Complete with his faithful pipe between his lips, the weapons chief efficiently orchestrated his men’s actions. Feeling he was fortunate to have such an individual aboard, Valenko wondered how the morning’s activities had gone. Confident that Chuchkin could handle the loading of the new warheads without incident, the captain took a last look at the crimson hammer and sickle flying from the flagpole.

  Like a newlywed leaving his bride, he reluctantly pivoted and hastily proceeded inland.

  The wharf area buzzed with activity. Dozens of work crews were in evidence, bustling to and from the huge warehouses set up there. Lines of supply trucks cluttered the narrow streets as their drivers impatiently waited for th
e loading docks to clear. The hum of fork-lift trucks and diesel engines filled the air as Valenko continued down the cracked sidewalk.

  Passing through a section of the base reserved for administrative purposes, Valenko noticed an unusually high number of clean-up workers scattered outside the brick office complex. With brooms, rakes, hedge trimmers and even paint brushes in hand, these hard-working souls busily did their duty. Many of them were babushkas. These heavyset old women were most comfortable with cleaning; they seemed happy to be doing their day’s work for the Motherland and went about their chores industriously.

  When Valenko crossed the central parade area he was surprised to find a construction unit in the midst of building a large wooden stage, complete with a huge stand of bench-type bleachers. Other workers were busy implanting several flagpoles in the ground.

  It wasn’t until the captain reached the security checkpoint at the entrance to the facility that he found out what all this unusual activity was for.

  “The base is preparing for the visits of both General Secretary Rodin and Admiral Sorokin, Captain,” advised the sentry.

  “They will be arriving here at the end of the week.”

  Valenko noticed how the young guard’s eyes focused on the gold submarine medallion pinned to his collar.

  Having no need to explain his ignorance, Valenko nodded and signed the register that declared him officially off base.

  Petropavlovsk was a sprawling community, comprised of the inevitable conglomeration of ugly, gray high-rise apartment buildings, and quaint, colorfully painted cottages. Spreading out roughly fanlike, with the naval base forming its eastern boundary, the city was known for its widely diverse population, few of whom were actually born there. As is the case with large military complexes throughout the world, Petropavlovsk’s unique position created a healthy business climate.

  Dependent on the city for all types of supplies and services, the base’s personnel had developed a good relationship with the local civilians. Thus, Valenko encountered a variety of kind nods and greetings as he entered the city proper.

  Shunning the line of taxis that waited outside the guard post, Valenko desired nothing better than a brisk, invigorating walk. The portion of town for which he was headed was less than a mile distant.

  Turning to the left, he began his way down a six-lane paved thoroughfare packed with bicycles, automobiles and trucks of all sizes.

  Since he was headed south now, the piercing north wind deflected off his back.

  As he merged with the snaking line of commuter foot traffic, he marveled at the mixture of humanity that swirled around him.

  High-cheeked Mongols and dark-eyed Tartars darted among swarthy Uzbeks and fair-skinned Great Russians. Every element of the Rodina’s diverse population seemed to be represented here. Bundled in thick fur coats and wraps of buckskin, ox hide and wool, the hearty population seemed unaware of the bone-freezing chill. To them, this was but another mild fall day in northeastern Siberia.

  After passing a huge park filled with immense pine trees Valenko entered the first of the business districts. Here he decided to take one of the narrower side streets. Dozens of simple, one-story structures housed shops primarily set aside to sell foodstuffs. The window of one establishment catering to the fish trade was filled with a single, massive tuna, solidly frozen on a bed of shaved ice. In the shop next door, a bevy of headless, plucked chickens were on display.

  It proved to be the intoxicating odor emanating from the next store that drew Valenko inside.

  Since his youth, the local bakery had been Valenko’s favorite store to visit. Tugged along by the patient hand of his mother, he couldn’t help but enjoy the sweet, fragrant scent of freshly risen bread and baked pastries. And he still found this perfume irresistible.

  Many fond memories rose in his consciousness as he examined the simple shop. Rows of crusty breads were prominently displayed. Some of the loaves were of the darkest brown, while others were created from the purest white flour. Beside this rack was a platter of what appeared to be freshly baked oatmeal cookies.

  With his mouth watering, he stationed himself in the inevitable line of anxious consumers.

  The wait didn’t appear to be that bad, and Valenko spent this time watching the bakers as they skillfully plied their trade. Utilizing flat, wooden pallets, they slid the uncooked loaves into the ovens, careful to remove any items that were sufficiently cooked. With his thoughts lost in this simple process, he was conveyed back to reality only by a persistent tugging on his right sleeve.

  “Excuse me, young man,” greeted the robust, whitehaired babushka who stood in line behind him.

  “I couldn’t help noticing that you carry no sack to place your purchases in.”

  Suddenly aware of this fact, Valenko smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

  “You are most correct. Comrade.

  I’ve been at sea so long that I’ve forgotten what it takes to go shopping on land. I guess that means I can only take what I can presently eat.”

  “Nonsense,” the old woman said firmly.

  “You’re much too skinny already. Take this extra bag that I always carry in case a bargain comes my way.”

  As she shoved a cotton-mesh string-bag into his hands, Valenko tried to protest. “I won’t hear of such a thing,” he pleaded.

  To this, the babushka merely took a step back and shook her head wisely.

  “Of course you will, brave sailor. You know, my husband was in the navy during the Great War. They say I lost my dearest to a German torpedo, somewhere in the North Atlantic.

  Just a his sacrifice kept us free, so does your present service. Please do this tired old woman the honor of repaying her gratitude in this very small way.”

  Touched by these words, Valenko relented. But his response was cut short as a brusque voice shouted out, “Next!”

  Now with the means to transport it, the naval officer chose two loaves of black bread, two of rye and one white. He added to this three dozen oatmeal cookies. As the clerk began filling this last part of the order, the babushka’s voice once again screamed out.

  “Not those cookies, young woman! Give him some from that fresh batch you just took out of the oven.

  This man you serve is one of our honored heroes!”

  Blushing with the compliment, Valenko looked on in amazement as the clerk emptied the cookies she had been loading and began replacing them with those from the upper tray. His astonishment was doubled when the clerk handed him his bag of treasures and then waved away his money.

  Any protest on his part was deflected by a firm tug on his coat sleeve.

  “You deserve only the best,” offered the proud babushka.

  “Now, go enjoy the hospitality that awaits you in our humble city.”

  Knowing nothing better to do but kiss the old lady on each cheek, Valenko grasped the mesh bag after thanking the bakery clerk once again. He left to a chorus of kind grins from those in the line behind.

  Once out on the street, a feeling of great inner warmth possessed him.

  So, his sacrifice was appreciated after all! Fumbling for one of the cherished oatmeal cookies, he became filled with renewed conviction.

  When serving one’s country, a soldier too often forgets his true purpose. The gun between civilians and the military really wasn’t that great after all. Convinced of this fact, he proceeded with a light step, careful to meet the admiring stares of all those he passed.

  He was well into his third cookie when a particularly frigid blast of wind sent him reeling. A cold, dark shadow permanently veiled the heavens, and Valenko realized that the short Siberian day was already drawing to a close. Conscious of the passing hour, he knew that there was still one more stop he would have to make before continuing on to Stefan Kuzmin’s apartment.

  Though he had never shopped in this particular establishment before, he had admired its colorful display windows on several past visits. To reach this spot, he was forced to cross Leninsky Prospekt,
one of the cities busiest thoroughfares. The tangle of traffic that he had encountered outside of the base seemed tame compared to the jam of vehicles he now faced.

  This scene proved that even such isolated cities as Petropavlovsk had their version of the infamous rush hour.

  Faced with a seemingly infinite line of trucks, buses and cars, Valenko took his place at the corner with a handful of other pedestrians. Only when the light finally changed in their favor did they dare try to cross. Protected by the two thick white lines of the crosswalk, they bravely moved forward across the eight traffic lanes.

  Chilled and anxious to reach his final destination, Valenko led the way. The majority of those who followed were babushkas and children.

  Taking it for granted that he had the proper right of way, the young naval officer hurried to the opposite curb. All seemed clear, when a large black van suddenly shot from the line of stopped traffic. So quick was its approach that Valenko only saw it at the last moment.

  Spying the vehicle out of the corner of his eye, he could hardly believe it when the driver failed to hit his brakes. The fool was actually accelerating! Was the idiot blind?

  For a fraction of a second, Valenko faltered. Standing in the middle of the roadway, with the van hurtling toward him, he could go either backward or forward. Standing where he was would only gain him death.

  Just as the van’s bright lights hit him full in the eyes, he chose the direction in which he had been initially moving. Like a ponderous nightmare, he did all that he could to sprint to the safety of the beckoning curb Fighting his leaden, cold limbs, he summoned that reservoir of strength each of us holds for just such do-or-die emergencies. With long, fluid strides, Valenko leaped toward the safety of the sidewalk.

  A chorus of blaring horns and shocked screams supported this superhuman effort.

  Only when he was firmly behind the safety of the steel signal light did he turn his head and check the van’s progress. Just as he did so, the black vehicle whisked by him, only inches away. It appeared as if the madman had been intentionally trying to run him down! Unable to catch sight of the driver or the license number, Valenko felt fortunate just to be alive.