Raise the Red Dawn

Chapter Eight

MacKenzie woke up thinking he’d had a bad dream about Justine being attacked by polar bears. Then he saw the dressing on his forearm and felt a pain that ran from his wrist to his elbow. Memory came flooding back as sharp as one of Justine’s karate kicks.

He rolled out of his bunk — and almost broke a leg, because he wasn’t in his own cabin but Tom Lasovic’s, and in the top bunk at that. He landed on wobbly knees. There. Okay. He needn’t have worried. Justine was sleeping peacefully on the lower bunk.

“Honey?”

He knew better than to startle her awake, although she was less likely to attack him now, after two years of marriage. She was beautiful in repose, her raven black hair thick and lustrous and her skin so clear it was almost translucent. She was classically beautiful with aristocratic Spanish features and a fine figure that had called to him from the very first. She was tough and smart, and he hadn’t believed in love at first sight till he met her. Two years of marriage hadn’t changed that. What had changed was that she was softer now than when they had first met. A lot of the pain of her childhood had been put to rest. She had lost one brother but found another. They had a home now, children someday. But reflexes died hard. He called to her softly.

“Justine?”

She mumbled something, coming up fast through the stages of sleep. She woke fast, as always. Her eyes opened and he saw old familiar fears rise in them for a moment— that the Somocistas were attacking, that she and her brothers would have to make another border crossing, that it was time to douse the fires and fight — but the fears faded, quicker now than ever before. She saw him.

“Mac? Oh, thank God. Are you all right? That bear… I thought I was going to die.”

“You’re not the only one.” He reached out and she came into his arms. “Christ, I’m glad to see you.”

“Where are we?”

MacKenzie pointed to the pictures of Tom Lasovic’s family on the dresser. “We’re on Seawolf, in Tom’s quarters. Christ, Justine, I didn’t have any idea you were the one they sent.”

She chuckled. “In that case, aren’t you glad you gave it your best effort? Actually, it was Ben Garver who sent me. You can blame his sense of humor. He figured it would be a surprise.”

“It sure was,” he said sincerely.

He felt her relax. She had that capacity. When the fighting was over she could leave it behind as if it had never happened. All on or all off. That was Justine. He told her about Tom Lasovic’s spotting her, the fight with the bear, and the lucky use of the weather balloon.

“The last thing I remember,” she said, “was getting hit from behind. Animal rights aside, I hope that damn bear has a helluva time digesting the balloon.”

“Better it than you. Or me,” MacKenzie said with feeling. “So tell me. How come they sent you?”

“I was a bureaucratic compromise. Red Dawn’s a navy mission, but the Agency has the highest stake. I guess both sides figured I’d take their interests to heart.” She looked around. “So this is Seawolf, eh? The other woman I’ve been hearing about for the past two years.”

“She’s an amazing ship, Justine. I can’t wait to show her to you.”

“Won’t she be jealous? After all, it’s kind of like having two wives.”

“Don’t laugh. Your being here is an entirely new situation, one I’m sure is unique in navy annals.”

“I don’t think so. I remember reading where British navy captains got to take their wives along on long trips like to Tahiti and the New World.”

“You figure the North Pole qualifies?”

Justine grinned. “Sure do.”

MacKenzie picked up the intercom. “Conn, this is the captain. Where’s Mr. Lasovic?”

“Right here, Skipper,” came the familiar voice. “Glad you’re up. No one wanted to call the honeymoon suite before now.”

Mac sighed. It was only the first of many barbs to come. “Belay that. Give me a status report.”

“We’re cruising at three zero zero feet, on track around Red Dawn’s position. Our Russian friend’s gone quiet. He may have left.”

“I doubt it.”

“In any event, we’re listening for him.”

“How’s the crew?”

“Casey has a few scratches. Seaman Mitchel will be in bed for about a week, but he’ll keep the leg. Other than that, all okay.”

“See that both are written up for commendations. Send them my personal thanks. I’ll be by later.”

“Skipper, the medic would like to know how Justine’s back is. He did his best with the wounds. All things considered, he says, she was lucky. They aren’t that deep.”

Justine heard. She tensed her muscles experimentally, then flashed Mac a thumbs up.

“No problem. All right. Briefing in the wardroom in half an hour. You and all the division heads. Mr. Randall, too.”

“Right, Skipper. Half an hour.”

MacKenzie put the intercom back and sat down on the bunk next to his wife. “You’re okay?”

She smiled. “Now I am. By the way, Ben Garver did send his best.”

“Where’d you see him?”

“At the Pentagon briefing where this operation was worked out. He and Admiral Merton are taking personal charge of things, and the secretary of defense got his brief straight from the president who, I understand, said something like ‘It figures’ when he heard it was you who found Red Dawn. He also wanted to know if you were still hell at tug-of-war. You copy that?”

MacKenzie grinned. “Something from when we talked that time at the White House about using the DSRV to reach Aspen. It’s just his way of saying hi. But tell me, what’s going on? What’s so important about Red Dawn?”

“Mac, why don’t we save the briefing for later? I haven’t seen you in three months.”

“But we ought to—”

“Later. Come to bed.”

“You’re not serious,” MacKenzie said.

“Try me.”

“Justine, you’re wounded, this is a navy submarine, and there are a hundred and twelve men under my command right outside that door.”

“You figure they’re listening?”

“No. Of course not, but, Justine, dignity demands… Hey, put that back on, will you?”

She tossed her shirt past him. Her proud breasts pointed upward and when she stretched he saw her chest muscles shudder in that funny way that always made it hard for him to think. There was a familiar tightening in his chest. “You’re not listening to me.”

She ran a hand through her thick hair, loosening it till it fell in waves across her bare shoulders. She slid her briefs off. “C’mon,” she whispered mischievously, “We’ve never done it on a submarine.”

“This isn’t the Love Boat, Justine. It’s a military warship on a mission vital to. . mmmpf.”

She pulled him to her and covered his mouth with hers.

Her fingers found his chest hair and wound into it. Her breath was coming hotter against his face. She raised his hands to her breasts and held them there.

MacKenzie felt forces take over in him that had nothing to do with military matters, except for conquest in a far more basic sense. He lowered his hands to her firm body. She arched back and he felt her move, and suddenly his sweats were pooled around his ankles. He stepped out of them.

When they came together it was an act of passion and of love. She surrounded him; he was a steel core inside her. She wrapped her legs around his back, locking him into her, and they found a rhythm, rocking back and forth on the narrow bunk. She threw her arms around his neck and sank her teeth into his shoulder. He grabbed her face and locked his mouth over hers stifling their moans.

They made love like a married couple, not so acrobatic, more knowing and intimate with the remembrance of every special spot and the precise way to stoke it into flame. There was comfort in each fold of skin, the familiarity of all those hidden places previously discovered. Finally there was a moment when they reached the point of no return together and fell over the edge into a deep place where there was only one person. Justine cried out and jammed her face into the crook between his shoulder and neck, and he buried his face in her sweet-smelling hair to stop his own voice as muscles locked… and then sweet eruptions took them and they slid down the long slide together. Then his lips nuzzled her neck and her hands traced the hard muscles of his back and they lay together and it was over.

They assembled in the wardroom for the briefing. Tom Lasovic, Ed Randall, Jim Kurstan, Joe Santiago, and Fire Control Officer Sam Talmadge. They slid into the booth around the captain’s table, and the stewards served coffee and plates of sweet rolls.

MacKenzie made the introductions. “Gentlemen, this is Miss Justine Segurra, a senior staff member of the Central Intelligence Agency. I’m sure the scuttlebutt has already reached you, but for those it hasn’t, I have the good fortune to be married to her.”

Justine was met with a chorus of pleased-to-meet-you’s and a few nice-to-see-you-again’s from the men she had known when she was a passenger on the Aspen.

“Good to see so many familiar faces.” She smiled warmly and put a hand on Tom Lasovic’s broad shoulder. “Tom, I guess I’m still counting on you to carry me back to the ship, eh? And you, too, Mr. Randall.”

“A pleasure, ma’am,” Randall responded. “Lot less water this time.”

“At least the wet kind.” Justine laughed. “I remember. Mac, can I start?”

“It’s your show.”

Justine took a sip of coffee and looked to the assembled officers. “First, a real pat on the back to all of you from Navy Command for finding Red Dawn. Well done.”

There were murmured okays and back slaps.

“Not a lot’s been broadcast about it, but I can tell you that this particular Soviet sub is one of the highest priorities for the intelligence community.”

“What makes her so valuable?” asked Tom Lasovic.

“Simply put, Red Dawn’s propulsion system is powered by a new substance called irinium, which we very much want a sample of. I’ll go into detail later, but for now let’s just say either we get some of this stuff or we risk running second to the Russians in about half a dozen critically important technological areas. We’re barely keeping abreast of the Japanese now. I don’t think anyone here wants to see us running a poor third in what promises to be a very competitive world in the not so distant future. Also, there are serious national security issues. There isn’t a man here who doesn’t understand the threat of a far quieter Soviet submarine fleet.”

There were hard looks of assent to that. Justine continued. “We intend to free Red Dawn from the ice she’s trapped in and tow her to open water. After that’s accomplished a special team will board her and remove what we need. Then she’ll be returned to the Russians. We assume there are people still alive in there, so speed is of the essence. Here is our plan.

“In about three hours, a specially equipped Lockheed C-Five Galaxy will make a landing on the ice above Red Dawn’s position. Navy SEALs are standing by to off-load a temporary base to operate from. They’ll blow a hole in the ice and use special equipment to lower and operate one of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s TV-equipped unmanned robot subs, the Argo, to give us a more accurate picture of Red Dawn’s situation.

“Concurrently, the DSRV Avalon is being ferried piggyback on the Los Angeles class submarine, Phoenix. Assuming we can free the Red Dawn’s escape trunk, we’ll use Avalon to get her people out. Then — and I’m sorry to spring this one on you, Mac — you’re going to pilot Avalon and use her robot arm to plant the shape charges that will blow Red Dawn free of the ice. We’re under the gun on time for this one if we expect to rescue anybody alive from in there. Mac, I know that thoughtful look. .”

“I’d like Luke Johnson if it’s at all possible. He’s the best with that arm. Can you get him for me?” asked MacKenzie.

“Already anticipated and in the works,” Justine said. “Finally, assuming we can blow her out of the ice, we’ll attach a cable from Phoenix to Red Dawn and pull her the hell out of here with Seawolf riding shotgun. That’s about it. It may seem like a lot, but we all have great faith in Seawolf and her crew. Any questions?”

“What are the Russians up to?” asked Lasovic.

“They were surprisingly very quiet. Then suddenly, about twelve hours ago, an Alfa, a Victor III, and a Sierra left Kola Bay in a hurry, and several subs on patrol in the North Atlantic suddenly changed course and headed here. Since then the level of activity of the entire Soviet navy has been heightened.”

“They know Red Dawn is missing,” surmised MacKenzie.

Justine nodded. “Right. But they don’t know where it is, and it’ll take their ships at least forty-eight hours to get here. So if we block the Boomer you reported and stay within our time frame we should be able to get out of here before the Russians arrive.”

The conversation was interrupted by the voice of the radio officer over the intercom: “Captain, we’re receiving a signal from a C-Five overhead looking for landing coordinates. Do we supply?”

MacKenzie turned to Justine. “Your team is ahead of schedule.”

“It’s going to be a hell of a trick, landing a C-Five in that weather overhead,” Santiago said warily.

“I wish we could wait for better conditions,” Justine responded, “but we can’t. The pilot’s under strict orders. The plane is expendable, and he’s to bring it in even if he’s got to make a landing on his belly.”

“Justine, if I trigger the locators, the Boomer will know we’re here. It will also give him Red Dawn’s position.”

Justine looked thoughtful. “The first can’t be helped. Any way around the second?”

MacKenzie hit the intercom. “Radio, tell the C-Five we’re working on it and to stay close. Captain out.” He turned back to his officers. “You heard the situation. If we trigger the locators, we give away Red Dawn’s position. This is the time in the movies where the captain says ‘I’m open to all suggestions’ and some bright officer gives him one. Okay. I’m open to all suggestions.”

“Skipper?” It was Randall, looking a little hesitant. “Maybe I’ve got one.”

“Go ahead, Mr. Randall. Make my day.”

“Make him not see the forest for the trees, sir. If you know what I mean.”

“Come again?”

“What I mean is, we could plant lots of locators, all preset to different wavelengths, every mile or so over a wide area and fire them all at once. Only we and the C-Five will know the right one. Even if the Russian sub hears the signals, it won’t know which is the real marker for Red Dawn’s position.”

MacKenzie smiled the way a teacher does when a good student lives up to expectations. “Mr. Randall, you are a comfort to me. Mr. Talmadge, set the locators.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Mr. Santiago, plot us a course and speed. Justine, I’ll call you as soon as they’re down on the ice.”

“Fine. Thank you, Captain. Gentlemen.” MacKenzie stood up. “That’s it. We have our mission. Return to your stations and let’s bring that plane down.”

Galinin stood next to Ligichev in the engine room. Ivanna was making final adjustments on the remaining diesel engine. She had cannibalized the others for parts to make this one work, and if it did there would be enough power to restore something of a working order to the sub. If not, well, the temperature was already dropping out of the comfort zone, and men who just a few hours before had been sweating were now looking for additional layers of clothing to ward off the chill.

“As soon as we start this we’re going to increase oxygen consumption at a great rate,” said Galinin.

“It can’t be helped,” Ligichev said. “We’re caught in a vicious cycle. We need power to create heat, and oxygen to create power. To get either, we must get both. Fail to get one or the other…” He shrugged. Why state the obvious?

Ivanna wiped her greasy hands on a towel. “I’m ready. Cross your fingers.” She went to the control panel and flipped a series of switches. She put her hand on the red start lever and rotated it. The starter turned lazily with a hesitant whir-whir. The engine shuddered, coughed once, and fell silent.

“Again,” Galinin commanded.

Ivanna rotated the lever again. This time it cranked with more authority, and after a few fits and starts the diesel roared into life. There were cheers from everyone in the room. Galinin pounded a big fist on the engine. Ivanna patted the gray metal housing affectionately… and the engine shut down from excessive exhaust pressure.

“Damn,” Ivanna cursed. “I forgot the exhaust path would be frozen, too.”

“But at least we know it will run if we get enough air and establish a clear exhaust path,” said Ligichev. “Any success with the radio, Comrade Captain?”

“None. Even if every circuit weren’t fused, the ice prevents the masts from being raised anyway. I’m sorry. We are incommunicado for the near future. But if the snorkel trick your father is preparing works, we’ll have enough air to breathe and operate the engine.”

“Good work, Ivanna,” Ligichev said.

“Yes. Very,” conceded Galinin.

“Let’s see how things are coming in the torpedo room,” said Ligichev.

“If you need me I’ll be in the control room.” Galinin left them with a pat on the back, a remarkable show of support as far as Ligichev was concerned.

“Father?”

Ivanna’s voice was timorous, a quality he was unused to. He wondered why. “Yes?”

“In the torpedo room… well, there’s something… someone…”

“Couldn’t get through the tube hatch? No? What, then?” Ivanna seemed at a loss for words. Ligichev figured that this must be an unusual technical problem. “No matter.” He patted her arm. “We’ll see to it when we get there.”

The torpedo room had been hard hit by the crash. Weapons weighing several thousand pounds had broken loose from their moorings. One had crushed a young crewman to death. Pipe fittings and electrical conduits had been torn loose. Two of the loading mechanisms were useless, bent grotesquely out of shape.

Chief Engineer Lieutenant Petrov, a young man with a thick mustache and the dark good looks of the southern provinces, was working on restoring some control over the firing mechanism in the event full power was ever restored. Ligichev judged him to be about his daughter’s age. Along with his nice looks he had a fine air of intelligence about him.

“How is it going, Comrade Lieutenant?” Ligichev asked. “Any progress?”

“Some,” the young man acknowledged proudly. “I’m following your daughter’s advice and salvaging what I can from the other tubes to make this one functional.” He looked at Ivanna. “She was a big help to me.”

It was the way the boy said it that made Ligichev’s fatherly radar go off. And the look. It was the one that had made fathers since time immemorial reach for the nearest shotgun. “Ivanna, do you know this boy… young man?”

“We have been working together since the crash. And while you were with the captain… I thought we should have things commencing on both fronts,” she said lamely. “So when Pytor asked me for help—”

Ligichev raised an eyebrow. “Pytor?”

The man snapped to attention. “I beg your pardon, Comrade Chief Scientist. Lieutenant Pytor Ivanovich Petrov.”

“You understand what we intend to do, Comrade Lieutenant Petrov?”

“Ivanna… I mean, Comrade Ligachova explained it to me. I’ve been working on the board in preparation for your arrival. I think I’ve also worked out the valve arrangement you want. Look here. See?”

“Hmm. Very interesting. Yes, that might work. You won’t need that circuit?”

“It’s tied into sonar. No sonar…” He shrugged. “And this way we don’t have to cut through the hatch cover.”

“Yes,” said Ligichev. “Very good. We’ll do it your way, Comrade Lieutenant.” Ligichev began to take off his coat. “Now if you’ll open the inner and outer doors, please. I want to have a look.”

Ivanna took his arm. “Father, please, I don’t think you should be the one to go out there. After all, I mean…”

“Well, then, who is going to go?” Ligichev stopped, struck. He’d always wondered when this time would come. He was being superseded. His male ego reared its head for a moment. He’d always known that sooner or later a man would arrive who could turn Ivanna’s head. Of late he had begun to despair that any would. He decided he shouldn’t be too surprised to discover it happening so suddenly, or that it had happened here and now. In light of the urgency of their situation and the real possibility that the ship would turn out to be a coffin, basic and ever-optimistic biology was making a final stab at things. Well, people fell in love for worse reasons and with less hope for the future.

Ivanna said it delicately enough. “Well, Pytor could go, couldn’t he?”

“I will be happy to volunteer, Comrade Chief Scientist.”

Ligichev put his coat back on and smiled affably. “Thank you, Comrade Lieutenant. I’m grateful for the help.” The old order changeth. One had to accept it graciously.

Ivanna smiled and relaxed. It was done. The seal of approval had been given. “We’ll need a harness of some kind. Can we use this line?”

“Good idea.” Pytor tied it around his waist. He hit a switch on the board, and a small hydraulic motor whined, opening the outer hatch. After checking the pressure in the tube and breaking the normal interlock, he swung the inner hatch out. “Ivanna, you understand if the ice seal ruptures the pressure may be too great to close the inner hatch. Cut me loose and close the outer hatch or the ship will flood. All right?”

“All right, Pytor.” Ivanna nodded bravely.

Ligichev had to stop himself from singing the national anthem. Well, all things considered, it was a brave speech, valiantly delivered. So instead of amusing himself at the boy’s expense he simply said, “Well, then, let’s try not to muck it up, shall we? My calculations say you must leave eighteen inches of ice at the end of the tunnel you’ll carve. That’s sufficient to retain the seal and not too thick for the torpedo to break through.” He handed Pytor a drill and an ice pick from the ship’s stores. “Okay, my boy. In you go.”

The torpedo tube was only slightly more than two feet in diameter, so Pytor lay on his stomach and slithered forward. Ivanna fed the power cord for the drill in after him. They would be using precious battery power, but that couldn’t be helped.

There was a slight blue glow that grew brighter as Pytor made his way forward. A solid sheet of ice covered the far end of the tube. He chipped at it with the ice pick. The drill was faster. It bit in easily and he began to carve out a tunnel a bit bigger than the diameter of the tube itself, enough to sit in cross legged to make working easier.

“How far does the ice extend?” shouted Ligichev over the drill noise.

“About twenty feet,” Pytor called back. He finished drilling a section, took up the ice pick, and pried out the ice. It was like slicing a pie; after the first piece the rest came free with less effort. His legs were soon covered with icy debris. He pushed the shards behind him, already feeling the cold creeping into his calves. Ivanna swept the ice out onto the torpedo room floor.

When the tunnel was long enough to allow Pytor to leave the torpedo tube, he moved out into the ice keel itself. It was the eeriest feeling of his life to crawl out into the heart of the ice surrounding them. A light blue glow was everywhere, filtering down through the ice above. Pytor sat there suspended in a faerie world of glistening ice, a mile of crystal-clear ocean beneath him and an undulating under-icecap surface covered with stalagmites and ridges overhead. He was actually in the ocean and could see beyond his own crystal chamber to other keels nearby, some descending far deeper than the one Red Dawn was trapped in. Behind him the sub was suspended as if in midair, tilted at a slight upward angle like some perfect model on an admiral’s desk. He had never before seen anything like it. No one had.

His senses were astounded. He was underwater without scuba tanks, in an ice cave without arctic gear. He was an interloper in a pristine world. The warm air from the torpedo room circulated in. He had once seen pictures of girls skiing in bathing suits at some mountain resort. It seemed that way to him now, the contrasts were so striking.

The drill continued to bite into the ice without meeting resistance. The ice pick did the rest. The chamber was bigger now, at least ten feet long. Behind him he could hear Ivanna steadily clearing the ice from the tube.

A fish swam by. It startled him. Again, perspective was confused. He was on the inside of a vast fishbowl, looking out. Farther away, seals swam with simple, graceful motions. Fish drifted by. Tiny square ice scales under the ice cap looked like shingles on a roof. In his warm, transparent chamber, he felt as if he were at the center of a stream of life. Below him, the ocean depths descended into darkness. What primordial creatures lived there? Above, he watched a walrus do rollovers, lazily flipping its powerful tail.

His work was forgotten for the moment, and it was only Ivanna’s sudden presence beside him that interrupted his reverie.

“My God,” she said. “It’s beautiful.” There was awe in her voice. “How could anyone even imagine it?”

“No one could,” said Pytor, putting down his tools, reveling in the sight of it and of her, suspended together like leaves in the wind. His hand found hers. There was an answering pressure, an intertwining.

“We have to—” he began, but she stopped him with her soft hand. Her lips sought his.

“Shh, my lieutenant,” she said quietly. “I know.” There was the quiet rustle of garments parting, a demand that life assert itself even in the face of death. Her soft voice said in his ear, “No one has ever had such a wedding chamber.”

Suspended between the ice cap and the ocean in a crystal cave, they came together.

Ligichev heard the noises and gently closed the inner hatch. Things would have to wait awhile. Maybe they would be saved, but if not, at least he could allow them this final gift.

He sat down with his back to the hatch to guard it and passed the time thinking about his wife, Irina.