Voyage of the Devilfish

“No,” Krakov said, “it is not a drill.” Krakov and Tupov hurried to the captain’s stateroom, down the ladder and around a corner, in the door and behind a locker cabinet to the war safe. The outer combination was Krakov’s. He spun the tumbler, his hands sweaty, and on the second try opened the safe. As he stood back he heard the ship wide announcement: “BATTLESTATIONS MISSILE! BATTLESTATIONS MISSILE! THIS IS NOT A DRILL, REPEAT, THIS IS NOT A DRILL!” The inner-safe combination belonged to Tupov. Tupov had more trouble with the tumbler. The safes were configured this way so as to prohibit one man alone access to the war-authentication codes. With an authenticator packet from the inner safe, someone could send a fake message to launch a nuclear attack or send a fake cease-fire message after a valid attack order. Novskoyy’s message to begin preparations could have been sent by anybody with a radio on their emergency frequency. But the execution message, when it came, would need the exact combination of numbers and letters inside the foil packet marked NF-008. All authenticators were at all times under two-man control or locked in a double-combination safe. If the execution message was complete with the authenticator, the message was valid. Krakov handed First Officer Tupov the authentic ators, bound together in a brick. While Tupov searched for NF008, Krakov opened the sealed attack order. Inside the wax-sealed envelope was a single sheet of paper with an introductory paragraph at the top stating the general conditions for a release, including the requirement of a molniya. Krakov skimmed it and dropped down to the meat of the profile, the computer-printed instruction for their primary target:

VICTOR III HULL NUMBER 29 FS VLADIVOSTOK PRIMARY TARGET: NORFOLK, VIRGINIA, USA NORFOLK NAVAL STATION SUBMARINE BERTHING AREA PIER SEVEN TIME DELAY AFTER TRANSMISSION: 60 SECONDS

The latitude and longitude of the primary target were given to the tenth of a second of arc. By the time Krakov and Tupov returned to the control compartment with the red foil authenticator packet the expectant crew members were assembled at their stations.

“Missile status?” Krakov asked the Weapons Officer.

“Missile power engaged, gyro on, fuel cell nominal and pressurized, target program ready to accept coordinates.” Krakov handed over the latitude and longitude of the U.S. Navy base. “Program the 27 for primary target.”

Nothing to do now but to wait for the communications console to show its red flashing light, which would signify transmission of the molniya execution message. But the molniya did not come. At 0912 GMT the molniya was two minutes late.

“Status of the missile,” Krakov called impatiently to the Weapons Officer.

“Nominal, sir. Still green board for launch. Missile remains on ship’s power.”

“Shift the missile to internal power.”

“Aye, Captain,” the Weapons Officer replied, and proceeded to manipulate his console. “Missile on internal power, sir.”

“Very good,” Krakov said, looking at his watch for the sixth time in two minutes.

ARCTIC OCEAN

POLYNYA SURFACE

Novskoyy had less time than he thought to prepare the second message ordering the missile launch. The next seconds occurred in slow motion. Novskoyy, a hand on the radio console to help him stand, had partially gotten up when the whole ship seemed to jump. It was not as if he were thrown — it was more as though the railing surrounding the periscope well flew up and hit him in the midsection. He felt helpless as his body, caught below its center of gravity, flipped over the railing, over the deck of the periscope stand, his body still rotating. As the aft periscope pole came toward him, he was almost horizontal. When he hit the pole it smacked him squarely in the buttocks and his lower back.

He had a brief impression of sliding down the periscope pole to the deck, and of the deck seeming at odds with gravity. It had become so tilted over that it was no longer a deck. His head hit the deck with a crack, his vision dissolved in a world of blue and orange sparks, he felt liquid in his mouth, tasting coppery — and then all was black.

WESTERN ATLANTIC OCEAN

USS BILLFISH