tension in his voice. The captain realized at once that something was seriously amiss.
“This arrived via ELF,” Ivanov announced.
The
Printed in stark black and white, the words before him were every commander’s worst nightmare.
And a death sentence for the world he knew.
According to the printout, the United States of America had just done the unthinkable: they had launched their entire nuclear arsenal at their rivals throughout the world. Even as Losenko examined the message once more, letting his disbelieving eyes confirm that he had read the decoded report correctly, the American missiles were in the air, en route to targets in Russia, China, and the Middle East.
Moscow had authorized immediate retaliation.
He lifted his shocked gaze from the paper, and spoke in a low growl. “Has this been verified?”
Ivanov nodded grimly. Deputy Commanders Pavlinko and Zamyatin stood by, clutching the latest code packets. The seals of the packets were freshly broken.
“The codes are in order,” Ivanov said. “The message is authentic.”
The man’s voice was taut. Standing at attention, he fairly vibrated from the strain of keeping his emotions under control, like a pressure hull on the verge of buckling. Losenko knew he had to be thinking of his wife and daughter back in Ukraine. The daughter, Nadia, had just turned twelve....
“Very well, then.” He clamped down on his mounting sense of horror, relying on years of training and discipline to hold himself together. Both his crew and his homeland were depending on him now; he would not let them down in their darkest hour. “We have our duty.”
Time was of the essence. While he had been sipping tea, World War III had begun, and the enemy had already fired the first salvo. For all he knew, K-115 was already a target. American aircraft and attack subs were surely hunting them, determined to prevent the
“Ascend to firing depth,” he barked, his orders quickly echoing along the chain of command. “Initiate launch procedures.”
The
The deck tilted upward toward the bow as pumped air displaced water in the ballast tanks. Years of experience aboard both ballistic and attack subs allowed Losenko to keep his balance during their rapid ascent. His boat could set loose its lethal birds from underwater, but only from a depth of fifty-five meters or less. The frozen icecap would offer no barrier to his missiles. With a range of over 6,000 kilometers, the missiles could reach their targets even from the Arctic.
The captain considered his crew. Glancing around, he noted furtive glances exchanged between the men crammed into the control room. Despite—or perhaps because of—the hushed voices of the officers, he knew the crew had to be aware that this was no ordinary maneuver. The tight quarters of a submarine allowed few secrets, while the commotion from the radio shack was impossible to ignore. He took hold of a hanging mike.
“Put me through to all hands.”
He took only a moment to organize his thoughts before addressing his entire crew.
“This is your captain speaking,” he began, his voice steady. “Make no mistake. This is not a drill. The moment for which we have long been prepared has come round at last. Our nation is at war, attacked without explanation by an enemy who cannot be allowed to strike with impunity at the Motherland. What is asked of us now is no easy task, but this is what we have trained for, what our nation and people demand of us in this terrible hour. I fully expect every man on this vessel to do his duty.” He swept his stern gaze over the anxious sailors under his command.
“All hands, combat stations.”
Losenko released the mike. He faced his officers.
“Instruct Sonar to be on the alert for enemy vessels. I want to be informed at once of any contacts.” The men relayed his message across the conn. “Mr. Ivanov, plot an evasive course to begin immediately after the release of our weapons.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” his XO replied. Launching their missiles would instantly signal their location to the enemy. They would have to strike quickly, then retreat at full speed. Ivanov consulted a notebook filled with combat strategies. Anger seethed in his voice. “Those sons of bitches won’t catch us with our pants down.”
The next several minutes were like a nightmare from which Losenko could not wake. Top-secret codes were transmitted directly from Moscow, and once they were employed, the procedure for launching a nuclear attack was as tightly scripted and choreographed as a Bolshoi ballet. Trigger keys were extracted from closely guarded combination safes. Missiles were fueled and prepped. Silos were pressurized. Coordinates were loaded into the guidance systems and targeting computers. Warheads were activated.
Heavy metal hatches slid open, exposing the tips of the warheads. More codes unlocked the firing mechanisms. Each man played his part, like a cog in some infernal assembly line designed to manufacture Armageddon.
A regimented litany of checks and responses proceeded with sickening inevitability. Losenko watched himself perform his own functions without hesitation, yet all the while a frantic voice at the back of his mind screamed silently.
It made no sense. The Cold War was over and international tensions, while never completely at rest, were nowhere near a level that might justify such madness. He was aware of no crisis—no global emergency—that could have escalated to all-out nuclear war in a matter of hours. His most recent updates from Fleet Command had hinted at nothing of the sort. The Americans had troubles enough in Afghanistan and Iraq. They did not need any more.
A sense of almost supernatural horror gripped the captain’s soul. What demon had possessed them? Had their president lost his mind? Didn’t he realize that he had just doomed his own country? The man was supposed to be a cowboy, not a maniac.
Losenko resisted an urge to cross himself.
The sub leveled off as it achieved firing position.
“Fifty-six meters,” the diving officer called out. “Fifty-five meters.”
For a brief moment, Losenko considered going higher, all the way to periscope depth. Perhaps he should risk raising his masts, then break radio silence long enough to consult with Fleet Command one last time before passing the point of no return. Billions of lives hung in the balance. What if this was all some terrible misunderstanding?
But, no, the risk was too great. He shook his head to clear his mind of any lingering doubts. He dared not compromise the safety of his ship, not before he had fulfilled the awful responsibility Fate—and Mother Russia—had entrusted to him. His orders were clear, double-checked and authenticated beyond all question.
It was time to kill more than six million men, women, and children.
“All compartments report readiness,” Ivanov informed him. A muscle twitched beneath his cheek. “Missiles one through fourteen await your order.”
Losenko nodded. Moscow had ordered nearly all of the
He felt a dozen eyes upon him, while the sub itself seemed to be holding its breath. His mouth felt as dry as
