Voyage of the Devilfish

“Ship Control Officer, pump centerline amidships variable ballast to sea. Establish one meter per second vertical ascent.” The Ship Control Officer, Lieutenant Katmonov, touched his panel in the fixedfunction-key sector. In front of him the screen was selected to display a multicolored graphic of the variable ballast systems, a series of tanks in the belly of the huge ship linked by a piping network, and the heart of the system, a positive displacement pump the size of a truck. A three-way valve on the display, the one to the centerline amidships-tank, changed color from white to green. The valve was open. The graphic of the pump flashed “ON” and”4000 LPS” as the pump pushed thousands of liters per second from the tank. As the tanks emptied, Kaliningrad grew lighter and the forces of buoyancy began to move her upward. The depth graphic steadily counted off the meters and sixty million kilograms of attack submarine rocketed toward the thin ice above. As the ship rose through the ocean, the light around the hull became slowly brighter, until at 30 meters, the hull could be distinguished from the black water around her. The deck trembled gently and the deceleration from the halted ascent made Novskoyy momentarily weightless. The ship had surfaced.

“Captain, depth zero,” Katmonov reported. “We are on the surface.”

“Very good. Ship Control. Bubble the ballast tanks and rig for surfaced-at-ice.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Captain-Lieutenant Ivanov, take the deck,” Vlasenko said. “Admiral, the ship is surfaced-at-ice.” Novskoyy nodded and sat down at the communications console, typed in the command to raise the multifunction antenna, concentrating on the communication console screen and a binder full of notes. It was clear there had been a reason for him to order Ivanov to repair the systems. Vlasenko could not wait any longer. He had to find out what the admiral was doing.

“Admiral, permission to go below,” Vlasenko said. Novskoyy waved a dismissal, still typing into the computer.

Vlasenko moved quietly through the main shaft of the second compartment upper level, past the doors to officers’ messroom to the first compartment bulkhead. To his left was the captain’s stateroom door. He could not afford to look hesitant. He was the captain. He was unlocking and entering the captain’s stateroom, his stateroom. Right. He unlocked the door and pushed his way in, went directly to the inner stateroom’s tactical safe and dialed in the combination. He drew a breath and pulled the lever. The safe opened. Inside were some musty and dated publications like the Emergency Warsaw Pact War Plan and the Prolonged Naval Warfare War Plan. Also the Nuclear Release Code. On top of such dusty pubs was a chart marked TOP SECRET and a binder, a slim volume of red plastic that looked like the one Novskoyy had thrown across his desk to conceal his papers.

Vlasenko pulled out the chart and unfolded it. It was a chart of the Atlantic Ocean, with dozens of red dots marked in the ocean east of the U.S. coast. A hundred blue circles were drawn around cities on the east coast. Clusters of blue circles were drawn around Washington, New York, Boston, Philadelphia. Other cities such as Portsmouth, New London, Norfolk, Charleston, Jacksonville and Port Canaveral had blue stars. All the blue stars were U.S. Navy bases. Why? Novskoyy could hardly be thinking of a ballistic missile assault against the U.S. The ballistic missile submarines were nearly all decommissioned. Even when operational they had been under the control of the officers of the Strategic Rocket Forces. Novskoyy couldn’t order an attack with them. The blue dots at sea — launching positions? — seemed too close to the targets. And there were at least 100 of the dots… the fleet had only two dozen I.C.B.M-equipped submarines. Even a depressed trajectory ballistic missile needed several hundred nautical miles for a standoff range… but a city-assault could be done by cruise missiles if the fleet were armed with them. And if the fleet was in position. But to do that, the dozens of submarines would all have to be at sea, which would mean months of preparations, and Vlasenko knew very few of the Northern Fleet’s submarines would be ready to make a run to the mid-Atlantic on short notice. Besides, such a move would make a lot of noise, he would have heard about it from his fellow skippers. So it had to be some kind of wargame, a drill… Except why would Novskoyy be so secretive if it was a drill or communication exercise? Vlasenko turned to the red binder and opened it. The first page was answer enough.