It was a Nalim-type sub, what the American Navy called Yankee class, 420 feet long, with a crew of 114 men, nuclear-powered, armed with 16 R-21 vertically launched ballistic missiles and 18 Type 53-65M wake-homing torpedoes. K-252 was a new ship; she’d been built two years previously just down the Amur River from Khabarovsk, and this was her second extended Pacific deployment. Captain Vasily Antonovich Serdyukov had commanded both.
As he was most hours of the day and night, Captain Serdyukov was seated in his brown leather swivel command chair, surrounded on all sides by the flat yellow panels of gauges and levers that gave him insight into and control over all systems of the sub. At the moment, they were moving quietly under the Pacific at 16 knots, 400 miles northeast of Hawaii, headed west. Towards home.
The comms chief stopped behind Serdyukov’s right shoulder, checking if the Captain was busy, or perhaps dozing. The leather seat had a padded headrest for the relentless hours of work, and it was a mistake to waken Serdyukov if he was grabbing a nap during a quiet moment. He leaned forward to see if the Captain’s eyes were closed.
They were. He looked closer at the face—the droopy eyelids, long nose and protruding chin of a tall man. Unusual in the submarine service, where the high hatches and low ceilings banged heads and knees mercilessly.
He decided the message’s importance required him to clear his throat. The Captain’s eyes instantly opened, flicking immediately across the gauges and digital readouts.
“Da, Pavel?” Captain Serdyukov’s voice was deep.
The comms chief started in surprise. How did he know it was me? He stepped forward and handed over the message folder, nodded and returned immediately to his post, not wanting to be there when the Captain read the bad news.
Serdyukov opened the folder, scanned the message and then read it again, methodically. He leaned his head back to think. This is a surprise. The months of ballistic missile patrol up and down the American and Canadian coast had been successful, but also uneventful and monotonous. His ship had done well, but in essence, nothing had happened. Communications with the outside world had been rare, and the crew had turned inwards, busy with work and, in their highly regulated off-hours, making their own entertainment within the very limited confines of the ship. Except through the periscope, they hadn’t seen another vessel, or any other people, since they’d left port. Food stores were getting low, and it was becoming increasingly harder to give the crew something to look forward to in the repetitive days. Arrival at home had been the next anticipated event.
He pictured what this message was going to mean for the ship. He would need to task his men to do things they had only practiced in drills and training exercises. Doing something very different, and with definite risk and potential consequences. Something clandestine and important. A smile curled his lips. The very essence of a submariner’s purpose.
He reread the last lines of the message, which said further details would be sent shortly. But for now they had a specific destination, rough timing and expected actions. He began making a mental list of the skill sets of his men and the exercises they’d need to practice over the coming days. This was a chance for K-252 to distinguish herself as an outstanding ship of the Pacific Fleet, and for his crew to return to port with something to their credit besides bland reports of quiet patrols.
Captain Serdyukov was realistic; this had been his second command tour on the same boat. He knew there wouldn’t be a third, and he was still only a captain of second rank. Successfully doing what the message described would go a long way to getting him promoted to full captain, able to wear the single thick bar and three stars on his shoulder that told everyone he was on his way to becoming an admiral. He nodded to himself. They needed to get this right.
He called the navigator over and gave him the updated coordinates. He watched as the information was typed into the inertial nav system, and felt the change of motion as the sub began to turn.
He’d have to brief his executive officer and the four department heads, and find some surface time for the specialist crewmen to practice operations. Their new orders were going to require patience, pinpoint accuracy and swift action.
He needed to get his men ready.
The sheltered harbors of the Hawaiian island of Oahu are a natural wonder. The inlets and bays reach deep inland, giving the islanders access to fresh water flowing down the steep slopes of the Ko‘olau Range and protection from the ocean’s storms. Food is abundant on the lush surrounding land, and under the bays’ clear, still waters are pearl--producing oysters. Since before written history, Pacific sailors had found sanctuary in what the ancient Hawaiians called Wai Momi, the Waters of Pearl.