Chapter Text
Editor's Note: This section is taken from the English-language translation of the memoirs of Katharina Leonidovna Osypenko (K-3 "Leninsky Komsomol"), which were initially released in Russian and Ukrainian. The English title of this section of the memoir was chosen by Ms. Osypenko in consultation with publication writers at the U.S. Naval War College as part of its introduction into the expanded curriculum of ship-spirit culture and experiences prior to, during, and after the Cuban Crisis. All information in this section is deemed non-confidential and fit for public release, and edits as part of the second revision of the memoirs were made with the support of those present on the American side of the relayed incident.
Cold.
That's the first thing I remember feeling after the explosion. Cold. Of course, I had felt cold before. It wasn't a wholly new sensation, but it was new in the way I was feeling it. I felt cold all over, as if I had just plunged myself into an ice bath at the bottom of the Marianas Trench. I felt it in my skin, instead of in my hull. I felt it deep, deep down to my soul.
Slowly, though, I began to feel other things. Remember them, too. I remembered watching the American freighter head into the storm, almost enveloped by it. I remembered watching their carrier and escort — a cruiser alone, strangely enough — follow shortly after, on some kind of an intercept course. There was the intensifying storm, rocking the seas above and making readings impossible to generate without the incredible risk of getting closer to the surface. And then… the destroyer. The depth charges, the strange signatures, the disturbing voice that seemed to resonate through the very waters itself. The frantic call to get the Americans to call the ones that had begun to lob charges at us off that was only met with more confusion when they didn't seem to have the faintest idea of what we meant.
All the while, my crew had been debating the use of the nuclear weapons we kept aboard — an insurance policy, of a sort, considering we had no conventional way of crippling any American fleet. Originally, we had kept our eyes on the American carrier as we moved to intercept their cargo freighter, with my Captain ordering one tube to be replaced with the weapon as a last resort. We had no intention of firing it unless fired upon, of course, but the first volley of depth charges gave weight to the idea war had begun somehow in this chaos. Who else could it have been but them? And what else could we do but respond? The ghostly words piped into our radio sets had only encouraged this line of thought.
"Engaging hostile submarine. Shipping is to clear the area until the threat is eliminated."
As the second volley of depth charges started dropping, my Captain had ordered the tube with the special weapon ready for use, aimed at the aircraft carrier— the largest target in the ocean. If nothing else, we could take it out before the destroyer that continued to pound the seas above us found its mark. Shortly after this order was given, though, my KGB guest had requested an alternative: a heading directly in the path of the freighter. Insanity! Why would we not go for the carrier, and instead sink a clearly unarmed merchantman? This is what I was thinking, and what my Captain had expressed as well, before the guest revealed her infamous sealed orders to him in hushed tones: addressed directly from the Committee of State Security and approved by the Presidium. The next moments were a blur — I remembered a tingling sensation, sensors completely blocked by a raging storm, yelling through the din as the weapon was fired for the American freighter to clear the firing line, and the register of a hit… right before everything went white.
It was these orders I was thinking of when I roused, slowly, from my bridge. I had fallen, evidently, probably shaken by the underwater resonance of the blast. The nuclear munition was relatively new, and the "safe" range was not exactly something we had tested much before I left on this deployment. Fortunately, I seemed to mostly be in one piece, as a quick check of my hull revealed. No serious damage or leaks, still operational. It took a few moments for me to register the fact that I was not alone on my bridge… and that I was not invisible to the crew that I had been monitoring just a few moments prior.
Some part of me would like to say, similarly to the Americans, that my first introduction to the world of the living was a dramatic affair. Certainly, if the initial reporting from our press is to be believed, it was. In truth, it was not. The first to speak among the assembled, bedraggled crew was my Captain… or, rather, the first to acknowledge the situation. Wordlessly, only exchanging a short glance with the agent, he took off his coat before pulling me up… and placed it over my shoulders, covering my torso up. With a low whisper just loud enough for the rest including myself to hear, he spoke to himself.
"There. No boat of mine will fail inspection."
A few members of my crew made the sign of the cross as I looked around at them, which earned them glares from some of the more committed atheists among the group. I could hardly blame them for thinking a miracle had occurred, as I also failed to understand why I was visible now of all times myself, though as my Captain ordered them back to their posts I could not help but blush at the attention. Submarines are not used to being noticed, after all.
While the more experienced crew — coming to their senses quicker than the relative newcomers — cajoled their former sailors back to their posts, the Captain quickly moved to take me and the political officer aside. Raising an eyebrow in the stern, penetrating way many senior officers do, he glared at her and spoke quietly but tersely so as to avoid any snooping junior sailors from overhearing.
"Would you mind explaining this, Comrade? I do not think this is what your Internal Ministry associates meant when they mentioned anomalous manifestations being a possibility to me and the senior staff."
Glancing between him and me, the young officer had a momentary expression of fear before training kicked in, a look of detached professionalism coming back across her face. When she spoke, it was similarly firm, though with a hint of shakiness.
"Comrade Captain, we… we theorized a full manifestation may be a possibility when an already-affected vila is exposed to nuclear radiation in high doses. The data from Novaya Zemlya supported this theory, but… well, evidently something further has happened. Something I cannot explain. Once we are out of this engagement, we should conduct further research on what exactly…"
This time, it was my turn to be concerned and confused in equal measure. Before she could finish, my questions were already coming out of my mouth, less focused and sure than either of them.
"Vila? Manifestation? Comrade, what do you mean?"
This caused her to pause as she processed my question, before stuttering slightly.
"Er… that is our code-name for you, Comrade… submarine."
She blinked a few times, evidently processing the implications of such a statement, before continuing.
"...we needed a colloquial name for the theorized spirits, and it seemed to fit the best with what historical records we had. Besides, given the context and relationship of things, it makes sense that…"
Before she could continue her explanation, a series of explosions rocked the ocean above me… but this time, they weren't depth charges. As I glanced up instinctively, one of my sonar operators lifted his headphones and turned to the Captain.
"Captain! Gunfire above… and it seems the destroyer is gone, now! Where it went, I have no clue, but we're not registering anything on the passive anymore."
The Captain nodded, before narrowing his eyes and grumbling.
"We can continue this conversation another time. Helm, take us up! I want a better picture of whatever just happened, though keep us below the water… we're far enough away the water should dissipate most of the fallout, but I'd rather not risk it if I don't have to."
It was an unfortunate, but necessary reality that I had to brave the waters closer to the surface to gain a better understanding of the situation. Unlike my later sisters, my sonar was of an older model, and was unable to detect vessels beyond a relatively short range in such heavy interference. As I felt myself rising in the water, I also felt certain vibrations seemingly emanating from the depths… as if the bottom of the ocean itself was attempting to communicate. These messages, if that is what they were, were mostly gibberish to my ears, but a few times during the ascent I managed to pick up something meaningful.
"Prevent slippage…"
"...maintain contact, do not lose them…"
"...ensure control, the wards must hold…"
"...the seal breaks…"
Fascinating, if mostly meaningless to me. Still, almost on instinct, I jotted them down into my small journal, which the political officer noticed. Raising an eyebrow, she asked if she could take a look… something I hesitated to respond to before granting. She flipped through it for a few moments, frowning, before setting it down. If she had a remark, she didn't vocalize it, choosing instead to let out a short sigh and turn back to the bridge.
As she did so, my crew came back with their reports from sonar and visuals — the American carrier was steaming away from the situation, but her escort was peeling off. The former was the only smart call they could have made at the time given the mix of radiation, poor weather, and lack of defensive armaments, though my crew were confused by the latter decision. Why would they leave their escort? Wouldn't that simply put them in an even worse situation if someone decided to fire on them?
Our answer came a few moments later, as we began receiving short-range broadcasts from the surface again — a distress signal from the Hyades, calling in a number of contacts while attempting to make way. I had thought that she must have been sunk or rendered entirely inoperable in the explosion originally intended for her, but it seems she had somehow managed to avoid the worst of it… yet another sign that things were not as they should be in the storm. The trajectories were quickly checked and rechecked as we compared the escort vessel's shift to her broadcast, quickly determining they were on an intercept course.
Of course, that would explain things. The carrier was confident they could reach some other vessels, so detached their current escort to go rescue their cargo ship — typically American, of course. Even still, that filled us with a mix of emotions: their fleet being nearby meant that we were not alone in the water here, but it also meant that they may view us as a threat. Our own conflict was still on, even if a third party had barged their way in. Recognizing this fact, my Captain shot down a brief suggestion to try to contact the Americans, preferring instead to focus on monitoring the situation until we had a way to contact our own fleet or a next course of action presented itself.
We saw the American cruiser being chased by a number of surface contacts who had evidently survived the blast into what we had now come to realize was their main force. While for a moment I thought the contacts may have been American — a civil war in their fleet? — or our Cuban comrades trying a valiant but futile attempt to link with us, I was quickly disabused of this notion once my spotters got a proper look at them. The vessels appeared to be blackened mockeries of warships dating back to even before the Revolution, likely remnants of some imperial squadron or other whose designation was now fully lost to us. More than that, though, they felt eerily similar to whatever that accursed submarine in the Arctic had been… an ABO, the enigmatic operative had called them. Were they linked, in some way? Did that phenomenon make its way this far around the world so quickly? And why these vessels? As I watched them, I felt a presence bleeding into the edge of my mind, though the water around me and a perceived focus elsewhere helped bat away anything but the faintest of images.
Even as the questions swirled, we could rest easy in one regard — the vessels, if they truly were as old as they appeared, had no way of detecting us. Submarines were barely conceptually present in their time, they had no reason to think we may be in the water. We could continue to observe and wait for an opportune moment to slip away and rejoin our force or sail to Cuba, reporting the insane events that we had bore witness to as the Americans battled whoever this mysterious third party was.
My Captain seemed visibly relieved by the report, though after a few moments I realized that it was not over the fact that we were safe… it was the ships themselves. If they truly were these ABOs, a third party that the few KGB documents we had been provided with distinctly identified as not American, British, or belonging to some other NATO naval power, then there may still be a way to contain the situation — he had not fired on and sunk an American fleet, at least not yet. I'll admit that it is still to some degree speculation, but I believe that he was grateful that he was not yet responsible for an outbreak of war so soon. Even a submarine commander entrusted with nuclear armaments would not seek out blood on his hands to that magnitude, at least not one who should be holding that position.
We could still watch, though, which is exactly what we did. The picture became clear enough watching the various groups: the American carrier and cruiser were caught out alone and confused, forced to dodge fire while they attempted to retreat to the presumed safety of another group. They were being chased by the angry survivors of the nuclear blast, who were operating as an ad-hoc surface group bent on chasing them down. Another group, further afield, was closing in on the now-fully stalled cargo vessel with what seemed to be transports guarded by yet more archaic hulls. There were some odd phantom contacts in the mist, including what we presumed must have been the destroyer hunting me, but they were either sufficiently lost or otherwise not looking to play a role in the present engagement and so were momentarily disregarded.
As most of the group chasing the carrier peeled off to go after the cruiser still firing on the surface, I could feel something reverberate through the water. However, it didn't feel like sonar… in fact, it felt more as if a message was being tapped out, although it wasn't for me. It rocketed past me, towards both the vessels and the carrier. While I couldn't decode the message, I deduced fairly quickly what it was — the transmission of orders, directives of some kind. Seemingly emanating from below the waves, which either meant the source was a submarine or something else entirely. The former being more likely, I relayed my suspicions to my commander, who ordered a renewed search on my passive sets along with sparing use of the actives.
It was just as we started this renewed effort that a previously hidden contact came onto our sets, a hull in the water itself: another submarine. Evidently hunting the American carrier, we watched — and heard — it fire the torpedoes, rocketing through the water before the sickening screech of metal came through. My crew gasped as the American rocked, though it became clear within moments that she was built of sturdier stuff than a handful of torpedoes could beat, and only her speed and steering seemed to be even remotely affected. Even still, though, my Captain grimaced while watching the ship lurch and steam on… yet remained silent for the moment, holding fast to his principle of non-interference. They hadn't yet noticed us, and any good submariner wished to keep things that way until an opportunity presented itself.
As we watched, I felt another series of ripples through the water, as if more orders were being transmitted. Though I couldn't yet determine what exactly they were meant to convey, flashes of images bled into my mind: a lone hunter stalking a prize target before taking the shot, a school of sharks surrounding a stricken and bleeding victim, oil and fire and waves all blending together. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear them, before turning my attention away from the stricken carrier. By the look of things, the cruiser was steaming herself into the same group that was surrounding the merchantman, only distracting them so much as we watched them get ever closer. Were they attempting to board? An insane proposition in a sea state like this, but we had seen stranger.
My captain, watching the two simultaneous battles, only furrowed his brow as if deep in thought. There was much to consider, after all — we could help the American carrier and allow her to escape the storm, but we would be risking revealing ourselves to the chasing force that could very much hunt us down. Simultaneously, we could shift our attention to aiding the merchantman, though that would potentially only ensnare us further into what was quickly looking like a feeding frenzy in the making. We could attempt to take this opportunity to run and find our comrades, though doing so would surely doom this group to their fates — and while we were not particularly eager to help the Americans, at this moment it seemed our previous divides were a world away. Lastly, we could simply stay and watch, maintaining our present position while waiting for something to occur.
As I felt the need to make a decision roil inside my Captain as well as myself, the decision was made for us as a shockwave emanated from the carrier… evidently, whatever the last series of ripples were intended to do triggered something in the massive vessel. The storm above us cleared for a moment, leading to any number of radio calls coming through — the barrier was definitively breached. The Americans immediately seemed to react, a number of new sonar contacts coming through and beginning to fan out, though we were also provided with a providential hail as calls came through our submarine's radio from a familiar voice.
"Submarine K-3, this is submarine B-59! I repeat, submarine K-3, this is submarine B-59! Report as to your condition!"
A comrade! And not just anyone, but the flotilla chief's submarine, which would allow us to communicate with the rest of the fleet. This should have been impossible, given the storm and our distance, but we were hardly ones to question such luck. Perhaps the radiation, however it worked, was carrying our message. Quickly, my radioman honed in on the signal and shot a message back, broadcasting on our acoustic set.
"This is K-3, good to hear from you B-59! We are in good condition, currently monitoring the situation. We have a visual of the American fleet, which has not engaged us."
At least, that's what we sent. However, the response from the other end was not what we expected at all — amidst another pulse from beneath the waves, we heard a gasp come from the other end.
"K-3, this is B-59: say again, are you actively engaged by the American fleet? We heard the detonations, have you started shooting? What happened?"
My Captain, my radioman, and I looked at each other confusedly, before the former took the radio and transmitted himself.
"Negative, B-59: we are not engaged by the American fleet. They are engaging third-party submarines — a probable Type Delta manifestation of ABOs, which we do not believe them to be in league with. The nuclear torpedo was fired in order to disrupt a full manifestation and to protect their fleet."
As we were sending the message out again, I felt yet another pulse in the water, mirrored by a momentary pause in the radio before another voice — older, this time — came back over the radio. There was a shakiness in his voice, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing but was attempting to override his own nerves.
"K-3, understood. Be advised, we have vessels above us that we believe to be destroyers attempting to begin depth-charging operations. I have instructed my crew to prepare to dive and we are preparing our special weapon. We have eyes on the American fleet. Are you compromised by your present condition?"
My eyes went wide at the same time my captain's did… we were being tampered with. Our radio messages were being altered, somehow, to give the impression that we were under attack by the Americans and required assistance from our sister submarine. This could not have been more false, but how were they to know at the moment? We deployed one of our special weapons, evidently the situation warranted it, and we had no way of knowing whether or not they were briefed on the ABO threat! If we weren't careful, our narrow miss of a shooting war would have only bought the world a handful of minutes, not another lease on life.
Shakily, my Captain raised his radio, speaking as if trying to formulate his words simply in a way that couldn't be misconstrued.
"B-59, this is K-3. We are not compromised. Americans are NOT hostile. I say again, the Americans are NOT hostile. Do NOT fire on the American fleet. Remain where you are. The Americans are neutral, friendly even. The torpedo was meant for a third-party task group."
Once again, though, they were matched by a pulse in the water, and the response from B-59 only confirmed our worst fears.
"K-3, you are breaking up. We will submerge and prepare to conduct our own actions. Good luck."
With that, the line went dead… as did the world outside of us, the sonar contacts winking away. It was as if the opening was only to give us false hope, to make us think things were over. More than that… it was as if we were being used, then discarded the second we were no longer needed, whatever had allowed us to see the outside world placing us back in pitch-blackness.
The entire bridge was silent, even more than one would consider normal for a submarine — if a pin had dropped, it would have been like a foghorn to us. After an uncomfortably long pause, one of my sonarmen confirmed that B-59 was indeed beginning to head further down, to a point where communication even in this highly charged and disrupted water would be troublesome. The look on everyone's faces made it clear just how grave the situation had become: one of our submarines, through seeming malicious alteration of our messages, now had the impression that the Americans were an active threat… and they, following our orders, would most certainly prepare to fight back.
Of course, they wouldn't fire on the destroyer above them, that would be impossible. As good submariners, they would try to take the largest target in the seas down with them, refusing to let their sacrifice be in vain. Given her position and the storm, that target could only be one vessel.
The American carrier now steaming to rejoin her task group.
This would, of course, utterly annihilate one of the few ships who knew what had actually happened in the storm, and turn all of the new arrivals who survived the blast into our immediate enemies. They would destroy us, thus eliminating our story from coming out, and then the war could only spiral from there. If the goal of the force causing the interference was to bring their war plot back on track, it was certainly a masterful way to do so.
As we pondered the seeming imminent outbreak of global thermonuclear war, so soon after the previous potential flashpoint had been stifled, the KGB officer seemed to have a realization… of sorts. She turned to me, a fire lit within those eyes, and spoke with the tone of someone with nothing to lose.
"Comrade submarine… can you contact your counterpart on the other vessel? Our-our vessel, I mean. It's a long shot, but…"
I was about to protest — even if she could hear me, that wouldn't exactly do much good in communicating with the people aboard! She wasn't like… whatever had happened to me, after all. However, my Captain surprisingly nodded.
"If what you've told me about the previous manifestations are true… we may have a chance at this. It may be our only chance. Are you up for it, dear?"
The last part was addressed to me, of course, and I am not entirely ashamed to say my face went red at the insinuation. I didn't let any of the emotions show, though, instead making my way to the radio and pressing the same keys that one would use to call the descending submarine… albeit, the spirit's rather than real radio. It was a few, heartbreakingly tense moments before I received a response.
"K-3? K-3! Are you there? Are you okay?!"
I let out a sigh of relief, matched by the rest of my crew.
"Yes, yes, B-59! I'm here! Listen: before you say anything, the message was warped! I say again, something changed it! We're not under attack from the Americans, it was those… anomaly things! I think it's trying to get your Captain to strike the Americans, start a whole new war!"
The gasp from her set was audible throughout my hull.
"You… you mean-?!"
"Yes, exactly!"
She seemed to freeze for a few moments, before bursting back on the radio.
"But they don't know that! And they're arguing right now — setting the trajectory! I can't, I don't, I-"
She seemed on the verge of hyperventilating, which caused me to wince. Evidently getting a sense of what was going through our radios, the KGB operative to my right gestured to the now-visible radio in my hands.
"You need to tell her to go up to her captain, now! We know that exposed to certain degrees of radiation and in times of high tension, the barriers can weaken, allowing messages or ideas to pass through!"
I nodded.
"B-59! You can get them to stop, the barriers are weak enough! Go to your captain, tell him to stand down!"
There was a pause, before her panicked voice returned.
"He's not doing anything! I tried, he's still arguing in favor!"
I winced again, glancing around at my senior staff. Damnation, I knew this wouldn't work! Why would we think it could? Even if I was visible, that didn't suddenly change the one rule that we had known about our existence for millennia: that it was not our place to change events. It was only when my captain and the KGB officer exchanged a set of looks that failed to match my expectations that I could tell something else was afoot. The officer gestured towards me, an expectant tone in her voice.
"Tell her to try the Chief of Staff, comrade submarine."
I raised an eyebrow, speaking candidly — something that no officer would dare to do to an Interior Ministry agent in that uniform, but their protocols had yet to truly seep into our culture.
"How will that work?"
Another round of glances.
"Captain Arkhipov was touched, comrade submarine, as of last year. If our theories are correct, that should allow him to pierce the veil."
Touched? Veil? Her statement only raised more questions than they answered, but I could tell by her expression that there was no time to waste. I grabbed the radio, restating what she had told me as fast as I could.
"B-59! Try the Chief of Staff, Captain Ark-"
Suddenly, a screeching sound came over my hull, enveloping me entirely and causing whatever had allowed our connection to short out. Based on the expressions I saw as I sank to my knees, my fellow crew were experiencing the same ear-splitting headache, like the sensation of a sonar ping but magnified a thousand-fold. It was as if some unknowable presence had finally become aware of my efforts, and was more than displeased — which, for an initial hunch, was more correct than I would have thought. Confirming a dozen theories at once, my sonarmen came back the moment the sensation ended with the report that all submariners dread.
"Captain, comrade, it's… destroyer contact, above! Same reading as before!"
Well, then, that was that. Whether nuclear war would be caused would be entirely in B-59's hands and the entirely miniscule, laughably impossible chance that she could get her crew to hear her. Our fate was to be sunk by a destroyer in the first shots of the new war, since there was no way we could run and these were hardly practice charges. The old, outdated blackened hulls were gone, replaced by a threat all-too-modern. The curtain on our little escapade, such as it was, was finally coming to a close.
And yet… even as I accepted my death, even as I mentally said my goodbyes to K-8, and K-11, and K-14, and the rest, I could see that my Captain was not nearly so fatalistic. To this day, I do not really know if his optimism was borne from any particular confidence in his plan or simply in a maddening desire to not let things end on the Cuban seafloor. Either way, it didn't particularly matter much, as he moved with a speed I had never seen before all the way to the sonarmen's station to confer with them at record pace.
The conversation moved far faster than I could have understood, the jargon and shorthand baffling even a submarine as I watched dumbfounded. Evidently, he had been in that division before being reassigned to the captaincy, because he moved the knobs on the machines with expert precision. After seemingly double- and triple-checking whatever he had done to make sure that it was right, as the first round of depth charges rocked my hull yet again from too high to make any lasting damage, he turned to our guest from the Internal Ministry with a look of total determination in his eyes.
"Comrade, is our old friend still transmitting?"
She closed her eyes and began to mutter something to herself, a ripple forming over my hull through means I still cannot quite explain. It was as if all my sensors were being overloaded, their typical ranges extended far beyond what they should have been and the sensitivity able to pick apart amoeba riding the underwater channels that connect the whole world. I couldn't quite tell what she was looking for at first, the too-high depth charges throwing off my concentration, but then… there.
He was right. The submarine, the same one that had fired on the carrier, was still transmitting — a frequency I could not, should not have been able to detect, but detect it I could all the same. Was it his doing? Hers? Mine? I couldn't tell, and frankly, it didn't ultimately matter. What mattered is that they could hear it, and I could feel it.
Morse. Almost stream of consciousness.
Destroy-kill-sink-the-interloper-prevent-stoppage-they-must-burn-in-cleansing-flame-again-burn-again-burn-the-enemy-the-deep-the-submarine-protect-charges-sink-burn-sink.
The transmissions were continuing, but not to me — my detection was merely incidental, an accident brought about by the mixture of ritual and technical adjustments the pair of my captain and this woman had done. It was to the destroyer, above, who was responding ever-so-slightly to each broadcast in its movements and adjustments… almost like it was receiving orders from this mystery submarine.
It must be the one running the show, as it were — that much was clear the second the broadcasts came through. There was only one real course of action, then: to snip the cord, cut the connection. We could try to sink it, but that would be difficult. Who knows how many tricks the submarine had up its sleeve.
No, I could tell my Captain was developing a slightly different idea, something he would need me for. I knew before he even spoke what it was, my newly-corporeal form making its way over to the sonar controls as he and the KGB officer looked over my shoulder. Finger hovering over the activation dial for the active sonar, we waited for the next pulse with trepidation: we would only really get one shot at this. It's why I had to be the one to do it, only I would know the exact moment precisely enough to hit the pulse. The moment we went active, the destroyer would know exactly where we were, and that would be that. And yet… my Captain was confident, and his spirit was infectious. It would work. It had to.
Adjust-left-sink-protect-destroyers-watch-interloper-
There. Send it.
For a moment, it seemed like it wasn't going to work. Like things were just going to fizzle out, then and there, as the stream continued on. Except… as I listened closer, it began to change. The direction started flowing both ways.
Target-adjusting-torpedo-honing-sonar-free-return-prize-escort-unshackle-assistance-chief-Kraut-liar-home.
As I mentally watched the stream pass, connected by whatever had happened to my systems, I could also see images flash through my mind. A beach on fire, shells kicking up sand as messages drone through the air. Aircraft spiraling and burning in the skies above, a frantic melee below. A respectful salute to a wounded superior, keeping the jokes coming so she doesn't think too hard about the losses. A fake accent to greet a noblewoman from across the seas to home. A promise made in the heart of a storm, broken. Buried. Forgotten. Twisted. Reshaped. Used.
No more.
The depth charges stopped as whatever connection had been was severed, a scream echoing through the underwater depths as the pulses grew volatile and occurred without rhyme or reason through the waves. We had no way of knowing at the time, of course, but this same volatility would happen to coincide with a number of disparate, almost disconnected moments across the waves that would prove fortuitous to say the least. The aircraft-from-nowhere, flying a ghostly sortie against the ships from generations ago, would be totally lost to us in the shuffle — submarines are not typically meant to know the goings-on of planes, one of our great weaknesses.
Similarly lost to us would be the events on my cousin-ship, which would only be recounted to us later in an ersatz-briefing. When the connection was cut, all B-59 had heard was to contact the Chief of Staff, one Captain Vasily Arkhipov. She didn't know that he had been involved in the K-19 nuclear incident a year prior, the executive officer aboard her as the crew frantically tried to save her from a meltdown and thus subject to acute levels of radiation poisoning. She certainly had no way of knowing that this particular kind of contact, combined with a series of experiments held at the base and the less potent effects of the bomb, would make him unusually susceptible to a momentary connection between our world and theirs separate from whatever had broken the barrier entirely in my case.
He did not get to see a "full manifestation" that day, that particular miracle would have to wait a little longer. However, he did bear witness to a momentary "nudge" from her screaming in his ear about the faulty intelligence — the nearly-unshakeable feeling that something was off, that the situation didn't add up. As he relayed to his fellow officers, the fighting above did not seem to bear the telltale signs of a brawl between ourselves and the Americans, but rather a surface warfare fight. How many surface ships had we sent to Cuba? As far as he was aware, none, and certainly not any that would be engaged in a running gun-duel. Eventually, they would accede to his reason, and agree to move to the surface and ascertain the situation… though our knowledge of that particular piece of good luck would have to wait.
When the connection between this mystery destroyer and the even-more-mystery submarine was cut, all we knew is that B-59 had not fired her torpedo yet… and that we still couldn't hail her, though that was the mundane norm for this distance and sea state. While we had every reason to believe that the next nuclear warhead could go off at any moment, we also recognized that it was futile to simply wait for it. In our mind, it would be better to act as if it wasn't ours, if only to evade suspicion. Without a panic over nuclear arms, then, our next course of action as prescribed by the classified orders from Moscow was clear — identify and eliminate any ABO manifestations with extreme prejudice.
Fortunately, those targets were not difficult to spot. Our submarine-enemy, whoever that was, had slunk beneath the waves again after the disruption and did not seem keen to come back out. The surface enemies, though, were far more visible — and still causing far too many problems for the American cruiser, who for all her efforts was looking like she was about to be on the losing end of the last gunnery fight on the high seas. Glancing at my Captain and senior officers, words didn't seem to be necessary to determine the next move.
To hell with non-intervention. The Americans may have been our enemy, but they were our enemy. Nobody would have the honor of sinking them but us.
The crew seemed almost relieved as the order to flood the third and fourth tubes — non-nuclear — came, targeting formulas prepared and measured to hit the first target of opportunity. From our newly elevated position, she appeared to be a destroyer of some kind, though the model was so old that even Aurora herself would think of her as a senior. Even still, her guns were a threat, and so the order was given: fire.
The torpedo's aim didn't seem to be affected by the storm in the slightest, and as it hit its mark, the brilliant explosion of what must have been the magazine combined with yet another inhuman screech caused me to spontaneously cheer into my spirit's radio.
"Yes! Destroyer on its way to the bottom… don't say we never did anything for you, American!"
The taunt was meant to merely be a jab at the Americans writ large, but to my surprise, one of them came back — as I was to soon find out, the same beleaguered cruiser that I had just saved from a sudden broadside.
"Goddamn, Ivan, I'll happily buy you a round for that— perfect spread! Watch out, though, the destroyer might have you beat, hit or no hit!"
The response caused me to simultaneously blush and grin wildly, looking to my Captain for affirmation… which he gave in a classical tight-lipped smile and the slightest nod as he ordered us to adjust our depth and turn for the next target. In the distance, as we adjusted our targets, we could see and even at times hear through the waves the sounds of gunfire, new sources beginning to come in.
An American squadron? Perhaps. Though one blip was different from the others… alone. And practically right on top of us. Who could that be? Was it… no, that was impossible. The destroyer that had been hunting us? Bewildered, I pointed the result out to my Captain, who ordered us brought around more and the periscope lifted to see who this could be with our own eyes.
The result was… surprising, to say the least. It was a ship, and yet, not a ship all the same. The storm was particularly thick around her, making the lines difficult to discern, as if she was made of smoke and reflections. One second, the hull lines would be as visible as on a parade day, and then the next amorphous and grey. They weren't the same pitch black as the ABOs, though, and at times we could catch glimpses of recognizable factors — a gunnery mount, a single smokestack, "383" written in white paint on the bow. All of this was meaningless to me, of course, but what wasn't was the flag hoisted to the top of the mast: a large, plainly visible American flag fluttering wildly in the breeze.
Yet another American? But she had been firing on us! And yet… now she was streaming towards the cruiser, her guns blazing through the sky and firing at the blackened-ships with an unnerving ferocity and accuracy. What on Earth could have inspired that change? Or possibly, not on Earth? There was no way to know, not now, at least. But she was no longer a threat, and so could be ignored… at least, for now. As we turned the scope, I could have sworn her hull faded and vanished when I looked away. No, more than that, for the briefest of moments I could have sworn I saw a person on the waves — though, at the time I thought it could have also been a trick of the light and smoke as she disappeared into it only to be illuminated by her flashes.
As much as I wanted to linger on this mystery atop a pile of mysteries, there was still a battle to fight, and plenty more targets to go. With newfound confidence, my crew operated as a well-oiled machine to pick out and identify yet more targets to fall to my fish, another destroyer tasting the might of Soviet torpedo engineering in the most unpleasant of ways within five minutes of the last. I, personally, raced from station to station, assisting with calculations and lifts as my newfound ability to touch and the strength of a warship provided me with unique talents.
It was just as things were finally seeming to come to an end and the battle's result was clearing that we noticed one last pulse making its way through the water, aimed at the mass of now-burning and sinking wrecks surrounding the battered American cruiser and her mauled charge. As a final jab, I made sure to time another pulse to smack into it again, disrupting whatever message was intended. The response was as immediate as it was forceful, with my hull being rocked in a number of directions while a message seemed to course through the water and air directed towards all of us.. though, curiously, in an overlay of English, Russian, German, and Spanish.
"NO! YOU COULD NOT… YOU DO NOT KNOW WITH WHAT YOU MEDDLE, MAIDEN. YOU CALL ON FORCES BEYOND YOUR UNDERSTANDING TO SAVE YOU THIS DAY…"
Before the message could be processed, another surge of information and rage followed, with the one main voice joined by an almost-chorus of voices, as if the damned themselves were screaming to us. It felt as if my soul was being stabbed-through, though I could feel just as many blades passing by me as into me. The voice returned, softer and its rage merely simmering, though it was impossible to tell whether this was the result of new information or merely control.
"...yes. You may have the ashes, maiden. You may keep them and hold them so long as they last. You may hold the ember as it dies. The seal remains open, the war is won. The trumpet calls one final time, it matters not if another hears it."
With that cryptic message, this fight was over. The storm — at least, in our section of it, since it hardly seemed to be letting up overall — receded enough to create mere gale-force conditions. The Americans above us rushed to reunite and assess their damages, though we paid them little mind at first. They were not our fleet, after all, and the last we had seen a member of ours they were contemplating restarting the final ticking of the atomic clock. It would be foolish to think that we could contact them right away, with a return to normalcy, and so we adjusted our heading towards their last known position and began to send out hails.
We expected that it would take an hour at best to reach a viable range for the most distant of communications. It only took ten minutes.
As it turned out, the crew had immediately began to sail for us the instant that Captain Arkhipov had convinced them to surface and investigate the battle — witnessing the American ships dueling with the same ABOs that they had received their classified briefings on had made it clear that the war had not, in fact, begun, and that they were being played for fools in order to ensure it did. There was much rejoicing in that first transmission and even more once they heard that we were not only alright but the proud bearers of the first kill in Soviet submariner history since the Great Patriotic War, with only a normal amount of joking jealousy peeking through.
Their officers were as surprised as an endless number would be to find out about my development, of course — that is to say, not very, at least when compared to the civilian population. Many had always, even under the policy of state atheism and rationalism, held to the belief that their ships had particular quirks and idiosyncrasies — personality to the skeptic, a soul to the believer. All we were was clear, empiric, justifiable proof of that old superstition, now science. The first successful experiment in activation would come not too long after when I came close enough to greet Captain Arkhipov myself, the spirit of B-59 immediately tackling him into a tight bear-hug the instant she realized that she was visible.
However, it would not all be happy greetings and relief at an end to the threat of war, though — as much as we may have wanted that. Being further outside the storm and approaching from a separate angle, B-59 had been able to pick up a number of radio messages from other contacts than we had after everything went to hell, most of whom were Americans asking what had happened to their sister ships and announcing that they were steaming to help right away. A few were from our merchantmen, asking what on Earth could possibly be sending the Americans into such a panic. One from the East German cruise liner Völkerfreundschaft, reporting unusual contacts in the storm then going silent… thirty minutes ago.
Just like for our American friends, the conclusion was inescapable: no standing down, all hands maintain your positions. These waters have not yet been sanitized to the standards of the Soviet Navy.
A/N: So, what was that about not trying for a delay?
This chapter fought me almost harder than the Abyssals themselves, I think I went through about five or six rewrites before settling on this version after active cajoling over the course of almost three weeks. Combine that with graduating from college and moving to a whole other continent to start a new job, and it turns a planned one-month writing period into nine. My sincerest apologies in not getting this out sooner.
In brighter news, there's nothing better for writing than simply getting the ball rolling, and I've already started work on both the next chapter and a handy little set of graphics for this (amateur graphic design is a bit of a passion of mine, as some of you may know) that I won't spoil just yet. For those of you who were confused by the description of the battle scene last time, I hope this helps clear things up a bit — though it's also an intentionally limited perspective, something the aforementioned next updates might help with. Keep an eye out for those in the next few weeks as I talk my betas into even more blackmail to override my executive dysfunction.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. I hope this is a welcome little gift.