Introduction-
June 30, 2007. Gulf of Mexico. 115 miles SSE of Galveston, TX.
The waves flicked in and out of focus, a strange iron-colored landscape of ethereal and transitory hills and valleys. A bruised-purple front of storm clouds was building, casting foreboding shadows across the gulf.
“Times like this truly show a man how small he really is”, Captain Zurnikov mused. In the night, the wind had come up from the south, a strange thing for this latitude. Zurnikov forced himself to stop woolgathering, and turned the periscope through its scan: All clear. Returning the handles to the storage position, he clipped out an order to his first officer to retract the periscope, and return to cruise depth. The captain grimaced as the periscope groaned back into the hull, shedding flakes of rust onto the well worn, but spotless deck. Maintenance had been catch as catch can, for a decade or more in the Commonwealth navy, he thought with an internal pang of lamentation. It was not from lack of dedication, on the part of the serving man, he knew, but from the betrayal of a government prostituting itself to the Western powers in a tawdry effort to imitate them. He removed his glasses and lowered his head for a minute, silver hair falling over his eyes as he rubbed the bridge of his aquiline nose. Zurnikov never was a tall man, but he was studied in leadership, and had served many years on and under the ocean, and his general stature and carriage normally bespoke confidence to those who followed him. At this particular moment, however, the only emotion he felt was uncertainty.
“How long has it been,” he wondered, “Marina..how long has it been since I’ve looked into your eyes?” His wife had died during childbirth, many years ago. He hadn’t thought about her for what seemed like ages, but the pressure of the last few months, at sea, combined with the things he was ordered to do, within the next few hours, had installed within him a strange pensiveness. His hand rose, of its own accord, to his chest, massaging a increasing pain there. His first officer politely turned his back to the captain of the CIS Speranski, understanding the stress that Zurnikov must be feeling. With a brazen challenge in his eyes, First Officer Migourovitch scanned the men at their stations in the command center of the Typhoon class ballistic missile submarine. Pale wraiths they appeared, but solid enough, given the mission they had been given. There would be no more privation for them, these select few. No more kneeling before capitalism for a hand out. Today, the world would change. They would, likely die in the doing, but there was a fire to fall today. Migourovitch shivered imperceptively, and turned towards the Captain, snapping ramrod straight.
“Capitain, we await your orders. Lead us, friend” Migourovitch said in a leaden voice.
Zurnikov reached for the 1MC microphone, which clicked on, throughout the subs compartments.
“Men of the Speranski, set depth for launch. Prepare targeting package Bohopa.”
He returned the microphone to the cradle, as the sound of air filling the ballast tanks surrounded the crew. Zurnikov quickly strode to the missile control console, removing a key on a chain from his neck. By the time he had arrived, the Chief Petty Officer had his key at the ready, the PAL codes entered, and the targeting information punch card inserted into the console. Zurnikov fought to steady his voice as he said “Chief insert keys on my mark.”
“Mark”
The chief did so, as the “Christmas tree” of missile readiness indicator lights cycled from red, through amber, and then settled on a uniform green, as the Sturgeon missiles readied themselves. A low frequency rumble, more felt through the deck, than heard, was perceptible at this point, as the missile hatches opened.
Zurnikov then croaked out “Chief on mark, turn keys, and launch enable” The pain would not stop for him, in fact it seemed to be increasing.
“3, 2, 1, Mark!”
Both men turned their keys 90 degrees to the right, and then pressed and held the enable button on the console. Zurnikov had a fleeting moment to wonder if the ageing missiles would actually function. Before the thought was finished, there was a shuddering thump, followed by a distant rumble, as the first missile rode a cold-gas bubble to the surface, and once clear, ignited its motor and ascended to the north. Followed by another, and another. The boat fought to maintain neutral buoyancy as missiles were replaced by onrushing seawater, one after another. 25 missiles were launched from the Speranski, all told, part of an orchestrated pre-emptive decapitating attack against the C-3 (Command, Control, Communication) of the United States. Each missile carried 12 independently tar getable, maneuverable warheads of 250 Kilotons each. As the launch sequence had completed itself, Zurnikov heard a shout from the Conn.
“Captain, reporting a strange atmospheric phenomena to the north”
Zurnikov ran back to the periscope, shouldering the first officer to the side. His heart seemed in his throat, catching there and blocking all sound. To the north of their position in the Gulf of Mexico, the sky was flashing. Beautiful blue-white stars were forming and expanding above the atmosphere, and in the fading light of sunset, the northern sky was awash in aurora borealis. The captain realized he was witnessing, firsthand, what had before been only been theory. The satellite warheads were detonating, in support of his, and other CIS submarine’s, attacks. The blue spheres were exoatmospheric EMP weapons cooking-off, and in doing so, reducing the United States to a pre-20th century electronics-technology level, or at least it was hoped to do so. This would provide the 10 minute window needed for complete surprise, in which the submarine warheads would destroy the civilian and military leadership of the United States, and forestall any organized retaliation.
He turned to his men, and shouted “Men, we have achieved complete surprise!”
The message was met by thunderous cheering throughout the boat.
Zurnikov’s hand suddenly became claw-like, frantically digging at his uniform near his heart. A searing, tearing pain shot through his chest, as he collapsed to the deck. The cheering quickly subsided as Zurnikov fell. The captain died there, the first victim of a war that eventually would tally over 1 billion souls. Others would not go so kindly.
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