the reactor room and the two stations were electronically linked. This way there were actually eight pairs of eyes watching for any danger from the radioactive furnace burning away under its decaying shield of lead and concrete. The boat’s periscope hung from the low ceiling like a steel stalactite. It acted as the only visible means to ensure the outside still existed once the sub dove beneath the waves, the passive and active sonars only reporting the echoes of the real world.
“Captain, message from Matrushka.” The code name for Ivan Kerikov referred to the intricate nesting dolls so popular with generations of Russian children. It was a fitting code for such a secretive and multitiered man.
Captain Zwenkov was hunched over the weapons officer’s console, reviewing firing solutions for the sub’s Siren missile in case it was needed against the volcano not more than twenty miles distant.
“This is good, Boris,” the captain praised his weapon’s officer and slapped him on the shoulder before turning to the lanky radio man. “What have you got?”
“Message from Matrushka, Comrade Captain,” the radio operator repeated, handing over the sheet of paper. He stood at attention, waiting for the captain’s response.
Zwenkov held the flimsy paper to one of the steel-caged battle lights and squinted to make out the writing. He grunted several times as he read it through. He then folded the paper carefully and slid it into a pocket of his stiff-necked tunic.
“Bowman, take us to periscope depth.” Zwenkov’s orders were quiet but clear. “But do not use the ballast. Take us up with engines alone, turning for two knots. We’re not in any hurry. Sonar, secure the active systems. I don’t want an accidental ping.”
Zwenkov looked around the dim bridge as the men went about their jobs. Satisfied with their performance, he picked up a hand mike and dialed in the ship’s intercom.
“This is the captain speaking.” His voice was barely above a whisper. Crewmen not directly near a speaker had to strain to hear him. “I know we’ve been rigged for silent running for a long time, but the need for this precaution is almost over. We will be leaving station within twenty-four hours and heading for home. We cannot afford to be lax during these crucial hours; now is the time to redouble our efforts. There is an American carrier in the area as well as an amphibious assault ship. I don’t need to remind you that there will be a fast-attack sub protecting the carrier and their sonar can hear a hammer drop two hundred miles away. They do not know we’re here, and I don’t want to give them a chance to find us. All conversations are to be in whispers. There will be no music in the mess rooms and any necessary repairs must first be cleared by me personally. All scheduled maintenance is suspended until further orders. That is all.”
He hung the mike back in its cradle. The men on the bridge looked at him with a mixture of anticipation and excitement. Apart from sinking the NOAA ship a week ago, the cruise had been long and monotonous. The tension of remaining as quiet as possible for weeks at a time could destroy the nerves of even the best submariner, and they’d been at it for seven long months.
Now the captain was promising the men that they would be going home soon, and the anticipation creased their faces into smiles. The threat of an American hunter/killer sub in the area only served to spice that anticipation. After all, they were sailors in the Russian Navy and their job was fighting, not waiting.
Captain Zwenkov turned to the young radio operator. “Preset your system to alternate channel B. Every two hours starting at midnight you will receive a flash message. The message will be the word ‘green’ repeated for five seconds. Sometime tomorrow night the code word will be ‘red.’ It may not come during the two-hour cycle, so be prepared at all times. Every time you receive the message, tell me. Understood?”
“Yes, Comrade Captain.” The radio operator saluted smartly and turned away.
“Captain, periscope depth,” the dive officer reported quietly.
“All stop.”
“All stop, aye.”
“Extend the ultra-low frequency antenna but don’t let it broach the surface.”
“ULF extending… ULF antenna depth one meter.”
“Engineer, disengage reactor, bring her down to five percent power.”
“Five percent, aye.”
Although a nuclear reactor operates much more quietly than diesel electric propulsion, the powerful pumps used to keep the containment vessel cooled emitted a distinct whirling sound that a trained sonarman could distinguish over the noisy clutter of the open sea. By reducing power to the barest minimum, Zwenkov lowered his chances of detection by the lurking American sub and its very-well-trained sonarmen.
“Anton,” Zwenkov said as he ran a hand through his short gray hair. In response, his executive officer stepped away from his station near the glass-topped plotting table just aft of the periscope. “Find young Dr. Borodin and send him to my cabin.”
“Yes, Captain.” The exec left the bridge, heading aft to the ward room, where he felt sure he would find the scientist.
Zwenkov went to his cabin, just forward of the bridge. From the locked drawer of his plastic-veneered desk, he removed a half-full bottle of vodka and a cheap glass tumbler emblazoned with a picture of the immense television tower in East Berlin. The glass reminded him of his one vacation outside the Soviet Republics, to a city as bleak and depressing as his native Tbilisi in Georgia. He poured a half inch of the liquor into the glass, shot it down in one fiery swallow, and returned glass and bottle to the drawer.
Of course, alcohol was strictly forbidden on all Russian vessels, especially on submarines, but he figured a captain should have some privileges. A single shot, once a week, was all he usually allowed himself, though this week he’d taken three. The second drink he had taken soon after two seamen carried the corpse of Pytor Borodin to the sub’s nearly empty freezer.
“Come,” he barked after a knock on his door.
Valery entered, wearing a borrowed officer’s utility uniform. He looked like a recruitment poster, dark handsome features, trim athletic body held erect with just a trace of tragedy around him that lent an air of mystery. Understandably, Zwenkov had not seen much of him since his father’s death.
“Sit down, please,” Zwenkov invited. “Would you care for some tea?”
Valery demurred with a hand gesture as he swung himself into a chair next to where his father had died. He eyed the other chair for a moment before turning to the captain. “You wanted to see me?”
Zwenkov knew that the direct approach was always best. “I just received word from Kerikov. He’s ordered the destruction of the volcano.”
Valery took the news without changing expression, he didn’t even blink. He had expected something like this, but now that it came he felt nothing. Part of him was vindicated — the father who had abandoned him so young had wasted his entire life on a dream that would never be fulfilled — and part of him felt pain for the old man’s failure. The conflicting emotions turned his face into a stony mask.
Zwenkov continued. “I’m waiting to hear from a commando team in Hawaii. Once I receive word, I’ll fire the missile and obliterate the volcano. We then head toward Hawaii to extract the commando team.”
“Did he give a reason?” Valery asked softly.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Borodin, what was that?”
Valery cleared his throat, but his voice was still a whisper. “I asked if Kerikov gave you a reason.”
“I’m a member of the Russian armed forces attached to the KGB, Dr. Borodin. When I receive orders I don’t ask for explanations.”
“You know it’s a mistake, don’t you?”
“That is not my concern,” Zwenkov replied caustically.
“I heard what you said to the crew about the American submarines in the area. When you launch that missile they’ll find us instantly.”
“You may know geology, Borodin, but I know American tactics. When that warhead goes off, they’ll rush to the area to investigate and we’ll slip quietly away. The acoustics of the explosion will hide our underwater signature even at flank speed.”
He had told Valery about the missile strike out of courtesy, since the young scientist and his father had put so much effort into the volcano’s creation, but that didn’t mean he liked Borodin nor wanted to have his orders questioned.
Since his father’s death, Valery had abandoned any thoughts of suicide, admitting that he had been tempted in a moment of weakness. Now he realized that he would never be able to dissuade Zwenkov from destroying the
