periscope view was repeated on a television monitor on the attack center's bulkhead, showing open water overhead giving way to a ceiling of ice.
'Captain, comm shack.'
He reached for an intercom mike. 'Captain here.'
'Sir, we've just had an ELF ring the bell. Message decodes as 'Priority FLASH, stand by for VLF communications, comply immediate.' That's the end of the transmission, sir.'
'Very well.' He turned from the periscope, catching the eye of Galveston's XO. 'Mr. Harris, come about to one-eight-zero. As soon as we're well clear of the ice, come up to fifty feet.'
'Course one-eight-zero, aye, sir,' Harris repeated, following the correct control room procedure. 'Come to five-zero feet when we're clear of the ice, aye, sir.' He then turned and repeated the orders to the helmsman and diving planes operator, who sat side by side at the front of the control room.
As he listened to the litany of multiply repeated orders, Montgomery wondered what Washington was so anxious about. It was almost forty minutes past the last Sched-3 contact window.
It had been sheer luck Galveston was still trailing her ELF antenna and had been close enough to the surface to pick up that first priority flash.
Transmitted from enormous antennas at remote shore stations, extremely low-frequency signals, broadcast at from 300 hertz to 3 kilohertz, could penetrate the ocean to a depth of about three hundred feet, far deeper than any other form of radio communications. The drawback was that the laws of physics dictated that information could be transmitted on ELF channels only very slowly, at a rate of about ten bits per minute; it took fifteen minutes to transmit a three-letter code group, enough to, say, order the sub to the surface to receive new instructions according to a pre-arranged code, but not enough to transmit new and detailed orders. Such code groups were called 'bell ringers.'
Minutes later, Galveston was traveling slowly south away from the edge of the ice. Once the long ELF antenna wire had been reeled in, Montgomery ordered the shorter VLF antenna deployed, trailing it astern from the top of Galveston's sail. The very low-frequency band, broadcast at between 3 and 30 kilohertz, could only penetrate the top fifty feet or so of the ocean. By rising to such a shallow depth, Galveston was dangerously exposed to any Soviet ASW aircraft that might be in the area.
'Captain, comm shack.'
'Yeah. Go ahead.'
'Message coming through, sir. Code group Red-Charlie-One.'
'On my way.'
The message would be in code, of course. Red-Charlie-One was the current designation for a launch- condition message, flagged urgent.
Montgomery had a chilling premonition about what might be in such a message.
CHAPTER 18
Surfaced, the Revolutsita had no trouble picking up the satellite-relayed communication from Kandalaksha. Krasilnikov's address to the Russian people was still ringing in Dobrynin's ears when the call from Karelin had come through.
'Are all systems in readiness, Comrade Captain Dobrynin?'
Karelin's voice was curiously flattened after being scrambled at the fleet headquarters, then descrambled aboard the Glorious October Revolution.
'Yes, Comrade Admiral. All missile guidance systems have been programmed with the appropriate coordinates. We are ready to fire the first on two minutes' notice.'
'Very well. In the name of the Ruling Council, I hereby direct you to fire missile number one at precisely 1530 hours, Moscow time.'
'But, might not the rebels capitulate, Comrade Admiral? Surely-'
'They will not surrender, not so long as they assume we are bluffing.
Once a city dies, they will know that we are in deadly earnest. Frankly, I suspect that the surrender will come through within ten minutes of the destruction of the target… just long enough for Leonov's people to receive confirmation that the city is gone. Then they will come around.'
'Yes, sir.' Dobrynin felt sick. He showed nothing, however, in his face. Strelbitski was standing close by his side, and the eyes of every man in the communications compartment were on him. 'Of course. It will be done according to your orders.'
'Excellent.' Karelin's voice nearly purred. 'I am counting on you, Comrade Captain. Do not let me down.'
'The order decodes as 'Sink the Typhoon, sir.'
Montgomery nodded. It was as he'd feared. 'God in heaven.'
'There's more.'
'What is it, son?'
'It says, 'Radio intercept indicates Typhoon will launch on own city about 1530 hours local time. Prompt action necessary to prevent Russian conflict going nuclear.' It's signed 'Scott,' Captain.'
'I concur, sir,' a second communications chief said. The message had been decoded, as required, by two different men in the communications suite.
It was now being presented to the Captain and the XO.
Montgomery looked at Harris expectantly. 'Bob?'
'Authenticated, Captain.'
'I concur. Well, if the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs says so, we'd better get on with it. God damn, but that's fast action for Washington, though. They must be shook to have acted that fast on this thing. Okay.
Reel in the cable. Let's clear for action.'
'Aye, aye, Captain.'
Backing out of the communications shack, Montgomery strode forward to his accustomed place in Galveston's control room/attack center. 'Mr. Harris, what is our weapons status, please?'
'Tubes one through four loaded and ready to shoot, Captain. ADCAP Mark 48s, primed, hot and ready.'
'Very well. Bring us onto a heading of zero-zero-five. Make depth one hundred feet. Bring us ahead slow.'
'Come to bearing zero-zero-five, make depth one hundred feet, ahead slow, aye, sir.'
'Weapons officer!'
'Yes, sir.'
'I'll have the bow doors open, Mr. Villiers. But quietly.
Crank 'em open by hand.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Montgomery felt the deck tilt beneath his feet as Galveston swung around in a great, slow circle, then began descending once again into her element.
For most of his adult life, Richard Montgomery had trained for this moment, had dreamed about it, wondering whether he would be able to meet the test if and when the time finally came. He was an attack boat skipper, and one of the best. The Los Angeles attack submarine had been designed to handle many missions, but her most important, the one she'd been built for above all others, was to track and kill Russian boomers. In a nuclear war between East and West, America's survival might well depend on whether a few men like Dick Montgomery could take down monsters such as that Typhoon out there under the ice before they could target New York or Washington
