Raise the Red Dawn

Chapter Eleven

Captain Galinin opened the valve in the conduit that issued from the torpedo tube hatch and sniffed for incoming air. He shook his head, “Nothing.”

Pytor was disheartened. “I’m sorry, Comrades. I’m certain the fault is mine.”

Ivanna patted his arm. “Don’t be discouraged. I can use the tube to vent the engine exhaust for a few minutes. It’ll help with the batteries. We’ll try again.”

“But not blindly,” said Galinin firmly. “This time we clear two tunnels, one for a watcher. That way we can see to direct the torpedo.”

Pytor grabbed his drill. “I’ll begin work at once. Comrade Ligichev, I’ll need help with the new circuits.”

“Yes, all right,” Ligichev said absently. It was evident he had something on his mind.

“If something’s bothering you, Comrade Ligichev,” observed Galinin, “this is no time to hold back.”

“I’m not. It’s just that I really couldn’t be certain. Did anyone else feel a second explosion?”

“From one torpedo? Impossible,” said Galinin flatly.

“But what about two torpedoes?” Ligichev said. “What about the possibility that Akula is out there?”

“And for some reason it fired a torpedo?”

Ivanna pounced on the idea. “Maybe it was a signal of some kind.”

“We would have had some kind of communication long ago if Akula knew we were here,” argued Galinin.

“I suppose so,” Ligichev agreed, troubled. “But I was so sure I felt two explosions, just a minute or two apart.”

Ivanna was suddenly worried. “I hate to say this, but if it was out there… well, the second explosion could have been Akula being destroyed.”

Galinin faced Pytor. “Did you defuse the homing device in the warhead?”

Pytor was pale. “It never occurred to me. I just set the course. I never thought anything was out there to trigger a homing signal.”

“In so thinking, you may have destroyed our only hope of rescue,” Galinin said tightly.

“Comrade Captain, no one could have anticipated this,” said Ivanna.

Ligichev spoke up at once. “I’m certain I am mistaken.” But no one believed he was, especially Pytor.

The younger man drew himself up. “I’ll begin work at once. This time… I promise—”

“We need more men, Comrade Captain,” said Ligichev, “He can’t dig both tunnels.”

“I’ll send them. How many hours of air left?”

“Less than a day.”

Galinin faced them. His voice was hard. “Listen to me. There is no way to repair the radio and no way to raise a mast even if we could. We have one day to live, but we may not last even that long. Asphyxiation is what every man who serves on a sub fears most but never admits. It starts with a funny tightness in your chest. Then a pain in your gums. The men on the lower decks won’t be able to catch their breath, and they’ll know what’s happening first. They’ll come to the upper decks fast when the panic hits. And we’ve got a woman on board…” He deliberately left the thought incomplete. “You’ve never seen a man die of asphyxiation.

He’ll claw at anything within reach for air, face distorted, neck bleeding from where his own fingers ripped through his skin—”

“Comrade Captain…” Ligichev put a hand on his arm to stop the images from coming. They all saw the ghosts in Galinin’s eyes remembering other times and other places. Galinin refocused on them.

“My advice to all of you is to work quickly.”

The two battered Quonset huts had gone up first. There were plenty of dents in the corrugated gray metal from the crash landing. They stood defiantly on the ice side by side about twenty feet apart with a canvas tarp stretching from roof to roof, creating an outdoor working area immediately dubbed “the carport.” A radio tower was erected behind the buildings next to the generators, and a small American flag fluttered from the mast.

The camp was a tiny piece of civilization on the broad, uninviting ice plain, and everyone shared the feeling that one good gust could blow it all away. But despite its transitory nature the pressure ridges gave the camp a small degree of protection from the wind-driven snow and as far as the men who had flown in on the C-5 were concerned, anywhere you could hang your hat on this godforsaken iceberg was home by anyone’s definition.

Inside the huts, propane heaters brought the temperature to a comfortable level. The usual amenities for such quarters were missing, too heavy and of too little use to transport here. Crates were stacked in the space where bunk beds should have been. The few nights the SEALs were expected to be here would be spent in sleeping bags on the floor. There was a microwave unit for sandwiches, coffee, and soup. The divers would need a continual supply of calories to overcome the Arctic chill. Most of the food would come from Seawolf s galley.

They called the other building “the warehouse,” and it housed the Argo, one of NOAA’s robot subs. It looked like something out of a science fiction movie. Its bright yellow chassis was hung within a tubular framework. Movable television cameras were mounted on the bow and bracketed by banks of floodlights. Electrical motor-driven propellers in the stern swiveled to provide thrust in any direction. Although the Argo was squarish and squat in design with stubby overhead wings for stability, the submersible was quick and responsive and could hover in one place providing television pictures for as long as the operators required.

In the dorm, as the SEALs — the navy’s experts on sea, air and land — called their building, everyone was gathered around a plywood sheet propped across a pair of sawhorses, which was serving as the operations table. MacKenzie, Lasovic, and Justine were studying the charts with Captain Ephraim W. Hansen, a clear-eyed, no nonsense veteran who had served three tours of duty in Vietnam; his assistant, Lieutenant Bernie Greene, a strapping young man from New York with an engaging grin and forearms the size of the scuba tanks he’d been hefting all day; and NOAA’s Dr. Allen Rose, Argo’s operator.

“Everybody got a hot cup of something? Good. We all know one another by now,” Justine began amiably. “A crash landing and a few hours in sub-zero weather will do wonders for relationships.”

There were some snorts and dry laughs. She continued, “But we’re through all that now, and we’ve got a mission to accomplish. Gentlemen, you’ve already met Captain MacKenzie. Below the waterline it’s his show.”

MacKenzie pushed across the table a photograph of Red Dawn taken from the video periscope. “Look at it. It would be beautiful except that within a few hours it will be a tomb for the people on board. They’re running out of air. Also, unless they can clear their engine exhaust valve they can’t restore power for heating.”

“What’s the time factor?” asked Hansen.

“Our best guess is less than twenty-four hours.”

“Going to be tight,” Greene said.

“Not if we do it in stages,” MacKenzie responded. “First we get them air and power. That’ll buy us time for the next step.”

Dr. Allen Rose, the Argo’s operator, studied the photograph. “What do you need from me exactly? Frozen subs aren’t exactly NOAA’s line.”

“We need to study the submarine at close range,” MacKenzie explained. “First, has she got a towing eye pad on her? Second, how far in is it and how much ice do we have to clear to get it free? Third, once we have the tow hook set, where do we plant the charges to blast her out of there?”

Justine was watching Dr. Rose, a balding man of slight build. “You’re shivering, Doctor.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Segurra,” he said, clutching his parka tighter, “but I was doing research work in Grand Bahama when I got the word I was coming here. That was less than twelve hours ago. So me and Ethel…”

“Ethel?”

Rose sniffed. “Her official name is RSV-One-twelve, USS Argo. I call her Ethel.”

No one said anything. Hansen broke the silence, “I once knew a guy who gave his grenade launcher an engagement ring.” He shrugged. “I’ve seen worse relationships.”

Justine cleared her throat delicately. “So you and Ethel…?”

“So it was ninety-five degrees when I got on your navy transport. It’s twenty below out there. That’s a drop of a hundred and fifteen degrees in half a day. You bet your sweet life I’m cold. And uncomfortable. But I’ll do my job, thank you.”

MacKenzie liked the game little man. He didn’t call Seawolf by a pet name, but Justine’s earlier remark about two wives wasn’t far from the truth. If Rose wanted to personify his craft… “We’ll get you out of the cold as soon as we can, Doctor. You and the Argo are up first.”

“Good. Then maybe I can find a warm bed on your ship, Captain.”

“I’ll make the reservation personally.”

“One problem, Captain.” It was Lieutenant Greene. “Am I reading your charts right? The ice cap over the sub is almost twenty feet thick?”

“That’s correct.”

Greene whistled. “It’s going to take a big charge to blow a hole in ice that thick. We’re not going to be able to get real close to the sub or we might just knock her out with the same shock wave that opens up the ice cover.”

“How close can you get?”

Greene thought it over. “Maybe a hundred yards. Hundred and twenty to be on the safe side.”

“Dr. Rose?”

“We can handle that. We’re used to a lot deeper.”

“It brings up another problem, though,” said Hansen. “If me and my men have to go down in that water, well, a hundred-yard swim there and back plus whatever time we stay under the surface adds up to a lot of exposure. Even with the new dry suits.”

MacKenzie had seen reports on the new suits and they were supposed to be excellent. Wet suits, which divers used in warmer waters, let in a thin film of water, which body heat turned into an insulating layer. Dry suits were coupled with helmets, special enclosed fins, and gloves, and they kept you completely dry. But Hansen was right. Nothing kept out the bitter cold in these waters for long. In fact, the water temperature was only twenty-eight degrees, lower than the freezing point because of the salinity.

“I’m hoping to cut down your exposure time,” he said, “by using the DSRV to place the charges in the deeper sections of the ice keel.”

Hansen nodded. “That’ll help.”

Justine was scanning her manifest. “Captain Hansen, who’s going to handle the explosives?”

Greene spoke up. “Ma’am, me and shape charges are old friends. I’ll give them to Captain MacKenzie. All he’s gotta do is plant them.”

Justine put down her clipboard. “Phoenix will be here in a few hours. That’s it, gentlemen. Let’s get some hot food, then dig us a fishing hole.”

Korodin kept going over the council meeting in his mind on the way back to his office. Such a small thing, one downed diesel sub. Yet so much rested on it. If not handled properly it could precipitate a power play by the defense minister and the KGB chief and make or break the general secretary. Everybody in power was jumpy these days, with the sweeping changes taking place and the Union so close to dissolution. Losing exclusive possession of irinium technology, and losing it in such a humiliating fashion, might be just the spark to ignite a powder keg of conservative hostility. You could read the feeling on everybody’s face. Things might have been bad under the old leaders, but at least they were strong and bad.

Korodin entered his office and picked up his phone. “Where’s Rudy?”

“He called five minutes ago, Comrade Minister,” answered his secretary, “The meeting is over. He’s on his way.”

“Send him in as soon as he gets here.”

Korodin’s chief aide, Captain Rudolf Meledov, had run the planning session in his absence. Korodin was anxious for the results. He knew he was in a difficult position. Whatever the short-term cost to the country he genuinely believed that democracy was its only hope. Korodin was a student of military history, and no great military power ever survived without a correspondingly strong economic and political base. It took no genius to see that communism had crumbled. So he had supported the general secretary from the beginning along with his initiatives with the Americans. If it had been up to him personally he might have taken the long view and let Red Dawn go. But the long view might never materialize if the diesel sub precipitated a crisis that propelled the defense minister into power. On the other hand, there was risk to Korodin personally if he provoked a confrontation with the Americans. The general secretary could accuse him of disobeying policy. Solkov and Abrikov had boxed him in neatly. Like another sailor, the ancient Ulysses, Korodin was caught between Scylla and Charybdis.

The door opened and Rudy entered. “Good, you’re back. What was so important you had to be called out at three in the morning?”

“Wait till you hear this. The Americans are planning a rescue attempt. They’re after the drive and the irinium.”

“Shit.”

“It gets worse.” Korodin told him about Solkov’s orders.

Meledov settled onto the office couch and looked grim. “That puts us in a very tough spot. What are we going to do?”

The “we” wasn’t lost on Korodin. He appreciated it. “I don’t know yet. Tell me what the group came up with.”

“We’re under incredible time pressure if we want to get them out of there alive. I don’t need to remind you how much air they’re using if they’re running the engines, and they have to run them or they’ll freeze to death. Americans or not, we only have about eighteen hours.”

“Use that as a working figure. Go on.”

“Nothing works in the time we have. A few of the options, like using jets to blast them out of there, won’t work because we can’t assume they can control the ship. It might be possible to send in a team of Spetznaz who could make air and power connections, assuming we can ferry in enough support materiel by air. But the weather is worse than ever and Abrikov himself would have to approve the special forces.”

“Forget it. He’s already ruled them out. He won’t oppose the general secretary so openly.”

“Then it comes down to one idea.”

“Which is?”

“Send in the Ural.”

Korodin sat up. “The icebreaker? It would take days to get it to the pole.”

“Finally we get a break, Nikolai. Remember the ice problem we had at the refueling station on Zemlya Vilcheka?”

“By God, that’s right. The Ural moved up there a month ago to clear out the northern channels. How close is she to Red Dawn?”

“Unless she runs into ice too thick to handle, twenty hours.”

Korodin’s face fell. “Too long.”

“Not actually,” said Meledov. Then, hesitantly: “Uh, you gave it sailing orders over four hours ago. I am willing to submit myself for disciplinary action for making such a presumption.”

“Submit yourself for a medal, Rudy. Maybe there is a way out of this. Ural’s not a warship. The Americans won’t dare fire on it or even get in its way. How do you figure to get Red Dawn out?”

“Drop tow cables over the side, use divers to attach them, and then blast it out. Ural’s got so much tonnage it can drag Red Dawn all the way back to Kola like a big fish.”

“Excellent. Ural’s orders are confirmed. Radio Akula to stand by. Kalik is to take no offensive action. Make sure he understands that. In fact, have him stand by in case the Ural needs help.”

“I’ll see to it right away.”

Korodin sat back in his chair. Sixteen hours for Ural to get to Red Dawn. That was the gap they had to close. The icebreaker was a strong ship, and her captain had more experience in the Arctic ice than most seals. He could do it. Things were beginning to look brighter. What was the expression the Americans used for a contest? He finally remembered.

Now it was a horse race.

MacKenzie surfaced Seawolf through the ice a short distance from the camp to provide easier access. He, Justine, and the recovery team held a last planning session over a meal of roast beef, boiled new potatoes, and fresh-baked bread; then everyone went back to the camp. Bernie Greene had been working with the shape charges, and they were all set to go. Shape charges delivered their explosive power in a single direction rather than in an outward sphere like conventional devices. Greene wanted to blow a hole in the ice with a clean, strong edge for getting Argo and the divers in and out. If the ice fractured it would land everything in the water and might splinter all the way back to the camp.

The SEALs split into two teams, one wheeling the drums of explosives from the storage building out to the drilling area, the other managing a bright yellow self-propelled drilling machine that up to a day ago had belonged to a well-drilling unit of the Army Corps of Engineers. The box on wheels had a cabin in front and segmented drill in back. Complete with its own generator, it could drill a six-inch-diameter hole to a depth of a hundred feet. MacKenzie and Justine followed it as it rolled over the ice on black tires. The snow had stopped falling and their breath blew feathery plumes in the cold, but their insulated parkas and coveralls kept them comfortable. Captain Hansen used a radio transmitter linked to Seawolf to calibrate the correct distance for the drilling, and a metal rod had been implanted in the spot. Using that as a center point, one of the SEALs used a steel tape to inscribe a twenty-foot-diameter circle in the ice.

Except for the older Hansen and Greene, the SEALs were all big, strong men in their mid- to late twenties with military crew cuts and easy grins. Bright and committed to their task, with a jock’s love-the-pain attitude, they worked quickly and efficiently.

Captain Hansen started the generator up with a roar, and the drill operator moved the machine to the center of the circle. The marker rod was removed. Poised over the spot, the big drill bit into the ice. Shards sprayed as it dug in, and the machinery whined louder. It took only a minute or two for the drill to reach twenty feet and then retract.

Hansen directed the driver to maneuver the machine over the inscribed circle. The drill cut another hole in the ice. They continued to drill every two feet around the sixty-foot circumference.

MacKenzie was still concerned about the torpedo from Red Dawn. What was its purpose? Could it have been a deliberate attack on Seawolf? What was there to gain? And the enemy Boomer was still out there. Would it permit them to extricate Red Dawn, or would it attack? Sooner or later the Soviets would have to make a rescue attempt of their own. Time pressure was increasing. He wanted to get Argo launched as soon as possible.

“The way they’re preparing the ice reminds me of wood shop,” he said to Justine as another hole was drilled.

“Mac, I just had a horrible thought.”

He was immediately on guard. “What?”

“I left so fast I forgot to ask our neighbor to water the plants. The ficus is going to lose all its leaves. Damn it.”

He stared. “In the middle of all this you’re worried about the ficus tree in our apartment?”

“Not directly… I mean, I was watching them drill and I thought about how at least Antarctica, at the South Pole, is a real continent, but here we’re all just standing on a big sheet of ice in the middle of a huge ocean. There’s no ground at all, so there are no trees, and that started me thinking about the ficus in the living room and, well… C’mon, you only worry about business? How would you feel if I forgot to tell the super about the leaky pipe in the hallway bathroom?”

“You forgot that? Justine, we’re going to have a flood.”

“I didn’t forget it. It was just an example.”

“Wait a minute. Did you tell him or didn’t you?”

“I told him. Why are you getting so mad?”

MacKenzie sighed.

Bernie Greene called out, “Captain, Ms. Segurra, we’re ready to plant the explosives.”

Justine signaled him to go ahead. Each charge was lowered by a ten-foot line to the proper depth. Detonation was by wireless remote. Greene personally saw to each electrical connection. When the charges around the circumference were completed, he fixed the largest one in the center. Done, he walked over to MacKenzie and Justine.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he explained. “The shape charges around the circumference are all built to explode ‘flat,’ as we say, like a knife’s cutting motion instead of a blast in all directions. The charge in the center will blow vertically. So what we got is a series of simultaneous explosions that should sever the circle of ice and blow it right out of the hole.”

“Six thousand cubic feet of ice weighs”—MacKenzie did a quick calculation—“almost a quarter of a million pounds. You used enough explosive?”

Greene grinned. “You ever see a building demolished? I can bring skyscrapers down with fifty pounds of this stuff. CX-Three-ninety-one, it’s called. Put a little on your heel and stomp down and say hi to the moon as you pass by.”

“I’m convinced,” said Justine. “Fire when ready.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Greene trotted back.

MacKenzie looked at her. She shrugged. “I always wanted to say that.”

They retreated to a safe distance. Greene yelled, “Fire in the hole!” Everyone took cover.

The blast was a muted whump and then a loud wa-bang! as the explosions threw ice into the air, pelting the aluminum roofs of the Quonset huts. Greene was the first one back to the blast area, and a satisfied smile crossed his face when he saw the results. MacKenzie walked up next to him and regarded yet another startling image possible only in this Arctic region: a perfect cylinder had been blown out of the ice. Cold gray ocean swirled down inside it and chunks of ice floated on top.

“One fishing hole,” Greene said proudly.

“That’s amazing,” said MacKenzie.

“Practice makes perfect.”

“Ever think of doing bank jobs?”

Greene laughed and gestured at the bleakness around them. “And give up the easy life?”

Hansen was already sending men for the robot sub. Dr. Rose, looking no happier with the freezing clime, emerged from the dorm.

“Ethel’s ready to go. I set up the monitors inside.”

“Can you put a VCR on line?” asked Justine.

“Already have one,” Dr. Rose responded. “We’ll record everything Ethel sees.” He looked to the fishing hole where the SEALs were erecting Argo’s launching scaffold, and he frowned. “Wait a minute. Those guys are about to mess up that scaffolding and then where will we be? Go ahead, I’ll meet you inside.”

Rose trotted over to where Hansen and his men were putting up a scaffold of metal tubes rising fifteen feet over the fishing hole to raise and lower the Argo. The tubular frame with twin winches on top bulging with a mile of wire looked like a spider perched over the ice. A power cable “tail” trailed back to the generator behind the warehouse.

The wind was rising and the temperature dropping. It was near twenty-five below. The simplest of jobs was maddeningly difficult in this climate. Threading a simple wing nut onto a bolt was tedious when you were wearing thick gloves. And pity the man who grew frustrated enough to bare-hand it. Metal this cold killed exposed skin on contact. Pulling off your face mask to see meant a frostbitten nose in under a minute. A slip or fall that immersed a foot in water would mean chunks of dead skin that would slough off with your socks.

The whole body rebelled at being in this environment too long. The SEALs working outside faced particular dangers. Strenuous exertion used up so much fluid under these conditions that blood actually got too thick to flow through veins and arteries, especially through the narrow capillaries in the extremities. Even inside heavy snow clothing the body began to retract its energies inward to protect the vital organs. The result — hypothermia from dehydration, frostbite from the inside out.

The SEALs rolled the Argo out of the warehouse and over to the fishing hole. The robot sub moved easily on a wheeled trailer, and Dr. Rose walked alongside it like an anxious parent guiding a child on his first bike ride without training wheels. At the edge of the fishing hole the SEALs attached guy lines to either side of the craft and fastened heavy wires from the power winches to bow and stern.

“Raise her up,” Dr. Rose ordered. “Carefully, please.”

The winches whined into life. A pair of SEALs took up the guy lines. The Argo slowly lifted off her trailer and would have swung out fast, but the SEALs kept her from moving too quickly. They centered the craft, then lowered it into the hole until it finally bobbed comfortably on the cold gray water. “All set, sir. We’ll release on your order.”

“Make sure that aft cable is secure and the clutch is on,” Rose directed.

“We’ve checked it, sir. It’s on tight.”

“I’ll radio when I’m set, Captain.”

Dr. Rose rushed back to the dorm, and MacKenzie and Justine followed. The warmth inside was almost suffocating after the cold outside. Justine went to get coffee and MacKenzie went with Dr. Rose to examine Argo’s control setup. There was a thirteen-inch TV monitor with a VCR, a console with a series of gauges to display the Argo’s depth, pressure, speed, and course, and a control panel with an antenna extended.

“She’s wireless,” MacKenzie said in surprise. “I hadn’t realized that.”

Rose nodded, flicking on the switches. “The cable is only for emergencies, in case we have a malfunction and have to tow it back. You have the navigational information ready?”

“Steer course two nine zero magnetic. It’s a direct line to the Red Dawn.”

“Depth?”

“One hundred feet will take Argo under the ice keels.”

Rose flicked on the monitor. It showed only a dull white. At first, MacKenzie didn’t think the cameras were working, but suddenly he realized he was actually looking at the walls of the fishing hole from inside the shaft.

“Ready to descend,” Rose said. He picked up a walkie-talkie and ordered Hansen to release the guy lines.

There was a sudden drop, and the color on the screen changed from the fishing hole’s dull white to slate gray to faint blue as Argo dropped below the surface. MacKenzie was fascinated with the computer-controlled craft, which took in ballast and kept itself trim in much the same manner as any submarine. Its big floodlights illuminated a wide area and the electric motors propelled it at almost ten knots.

“On course two nine zero. Depth one hundred feet,” Rose informed MacKenzie. “We’ll be coming up on it soon.”

“We’re down to ten hours of air. Roughly the same for heat, since Ivanna ran the engines briefly,” Ligichev informed Galinin over a meal of beef and noodles. They were sitting in the officers’ mess, both tired and dispirited from heavy work with little prospect of success.

To his credit, Galinin greeted the announcement with equanimity. “How is the rest going?”

“Petrov and his men have the second tube almost cleared.” Ligichev took another bite. “I wish I had more faith in doing it like this a second time.”

“Is there any other way?”

“I can’t figure one. The air lies beyond the ice. To get to it we have to break through.”

Galinin hesitated. “Comrade Ligichev, there is something I’d like to discuss, but it is of a very personal nature.”

Ligichev shrugged. “Nothing is more personal than dying together. Feel free, Comrade Captain.”

“I have been thinking. Maybe I am not as good a parent as you are, but I like to think I would protect my children as fiercely. If things come to an end there will be no discipline in this ship. Dying men will listen to nothing but their own panic. So I thought… your daughter…” He hesitated, then shrugged and pushed a triangular pouch across the table to Ligichev.

Ligichev opened it. Inside lay a small .25 caliber automatic pistol. He looked at Galinin wretchedly and shook his head. “No. I… I couldn’t.”

“You may have to.”

Ligichev looked at the pistol for a long time, then took it with trembling hands and put it inside his coat.

Akula

In the officers’ mess, Kalik read the orders from Naval Command and crumpled up the paper angrily. “The Americans are attempting to raise Red Dawn,” he told Volkov. “And we are told to do nothing but wait on station for the Ural and the rest of the fleet to arrive.”

“The icebreaker?”

“It’s on its way. We’ve become superfluous. An unwanted appendage. No force is to be used.”

“How can we just sit here and let the Americans proceed without making some attempt to slow them down?” asked Volkov. “I can’t believe it.”

“Read it for yourself.”

“But they have already blasted a hole in the ice, and sonar reports the deployment of a robot sub.”

“Naval Command knows that,” said Kalik bitterly. “It appears not to matter.”

“I’m shocked.”

“Don’t be. It’s politics. That I’m sure of. Admiral Korodin supports the general secretary. Minister Solkov does not. On the general secretary’s orders Korodin has tightened the rules of engagement to where even tagging the Americans with sonar is not permitted. Conflict with them is unthinkable. These are the butter days. Guns take a backseat.”

“They’ve lost their guts. Just a few years ago we would have sent in the bombers before giving Red Dawn up.” Volkov said angrily. “Perhaps we should communicate with Galinin, tell him help is on the way.”

“The Americans are on the way. What else besides that would we have to tell him?”

“I cannot believe Korodin’s lack of nerve.”

Kalik grew pensive, his mood darkening. “There is another factor here, Viktor, one not good for me.”

“What is it?”

“I made one serious mistake, just one in a long career, but it has brought my command capability into question by Naval Command.”

No.”

“Yes, I’m sure of it. I’m being punished for leaving Red Dawn, with worse yet to come, I’m sure.” He held up a hand to stifle Volkov’s protest. “Maybe it was the wrong decision. I don’t know. What I mind is not being given a chance to correct it. If mine was the error let me erase it. Am I going to end my career like this?”

“Vassily, your record is unmatched.”

“It was. But one mistake—”

The crackle of the intercom stopped him. “Comrade Captain, this is Sonar. We are picking up small high-speed motors.”

“Torpedoes?”

“No, a single craft. The robot submersible, we think.”

“Course?”

“Heading two nine zero.”

“Acknowledged. I’m on my way.”

“It’s heading for Red Dawn,” said Volkov, following Kalik back to the control room. “The Americans are further along in their plans than we thought.”

Kalik walked into the control room and over to his radio officer. “Is the craft radio-controlled or wire-guided?”

The man was turning dials and listening into his headphones intently. “Radio-guided. I have a strong signal.”

“Can we jam it?”

“Yes, but they will know the interference emanates from us.”

“That can’t be helped. Send it,” Kalik ordered.

Volkov moved close and said in low tones that only Kalik could hear, “What about our orders? Command says no interference. This is gross insubordination, Vassily.”

Kalik pulled away. “Radio Officer, you will note in your log that a radio malfunction occurred at this hour.”

The radio officer looked confused, but only for a moment. “Of course, Comrade Captain. A malfunction.”

Kalik turned back to his senior lieutenant, who still wore a worried look. “I’ve come to a decision, Viktor. There is only one way for me to redeem myself.”

“It’s dangerous, Vassily.”

Kalik nodded. “Perhaps. But here’s the truth of it. In the end, no one remembers the mistakes you made in a game you won.”

Pytor crawled into the second ice tunnel. Below him the first shaft had refrozen but had been evacuated again. He could see Ivanna lying on her stomach checking the thickness of the ice seal. They were both exhausted from work and cold, but more than ever he was determined to escape from their icy prison with the woman he had fallen in love with.

Pytor came from a good family. His father was a journalist for a newspaper, and his mother was a computer operator in a bank. He had one brother still in school. Pytor had known his share of girls back home and more in his travels with the navy, but he had never said “I love you” to any of them. That was a matter of pride. He was not like most of his brother officers who said it for any favors it would buy. Love, not sex, was what he was saving for marriage. He reminded himself that their circumstances could be clouding his judgment, but he was sure that what he felt for Ivanna was real. He was in love for the first time.

Below, Ivanna must have felt him looking down at her because she looked back up and smiled bravely. Then she made an “I’m finished” sign and squirmed back out of the tunnel.

Pytor kept digging. The ice in front of him was as clear as glass, and again he marveled at the sight of the ice cap above them and the ocean below. He forced himself to concentrate on his task. Keep working. Time was running out.

He cleared the second tunnel and shinnied back into the torpedo room. Galinin and Ligichev were waiting beside Ivanna, who was toweling off her clothing and wet hair.

“We are down to six hours,” Galinin said. “When can we shoot?”

“The tunnels are ready, Comrade Captain. What about the controls?”

“Here.” Ligichev handed him a metal box with an antenna and a toggle switch, which he pointed to. “The homing device is disconnected. You control it with this. It’s wireless. Left, right, up, down. As soon as the torpedo travels the appropriate distance for the minimum motor turns, send it toward the surface. This is the motor cut off switch in case of an emergency.”

“I understand.” Pytor took the control box and placed it in the tunnel. His men were just completing the insertion of the second torpedo into the tube. The snorkel and coiled tubing were about to be loaded. Pytor noted the torpedo’s number, CP 274. He patted it for luck. Ivanna leaned close to him and whispered, “Be careful, my love.”

“I will be.”

He grabbed the upper lip of the torpedo hatch and swung himself in. The sound of the tube door closing was a lonely one, like a cell door slamming shut. If the force of the torpedo leaving the first tunnel shattered the second, only one man would drown.

Pytor set himself up with the control in his lap. Left, right, up, down, he tested the switch. From below him he felt the grinding of the motors as the outer door was opened and then the shock of the compressed air ejecting the torpedo. Then CP 274 shot out from under him and plunged through the tunnel’s ice seal into the water with the wire guide pulling the snorkel behind. The ice tunnel filled with water at once and although his tunnel shuddered and spider cracks appeared, it held. He strained to follow the torpedo in the dim blue-gray light and counted the seconds. When it was time, he pushed the switch and aimed the torpedo up toward the ice cap.

He was so intent on the flight of the torpedo that when he saw the glowing sea monster rise in front of him his only thought was that they must have awakened some hideous sea creature from the abyss and it was hovering there before his eyes. He fell back in fear till logic reasserted itself. Those weren’t eyes, they were lights and camera lenses. It wasn’t a monster at all. It was a miniature sub. Someone had found them!

Pytor made an instantaneous decision. A mother ship had to be close by, a ship come to take them off Red Dawn. The torpedo might damage their only hope of rescue. His hand stabbed at the cut-off switch and rammed it home. He peered into the ocean beyond and prayed the torpedo motor had not made the minimum turns necessary to arm the warhead. He waited, counting the seconds. There was no explosion. He let out his pent-up breath. Somewhere out there, torpedo CP 274 had lost power and was slowly tumbling down to the ocean depths, no danger to their rescuers.

Pytor let out a sigh of relief and, when he couldn’t think of anything else to do, waved at the camera lens.

“Jesus, will you look at that,” said MacKenzie, watching the monitor alongside Justine and Dr. Rose. He had just been assured by Seawolf’s sonar that the torpedo motor had stopped and the fish was no threat. “They tunneled right into the ice keel itself. Then they fired the torpedoes to blast a hole in the ice cap overhead to get the snorkel up into the air. Pretty clever.”

“Would it have worked?”

“I don’t know. It would’ve taken a very lucky break, but they’re desperate.”

“I wondered when he was going to see us,” said Justine. “Must have been quite a shock.”

Dr. Rose, watching the young sailor scurrying back out of the tunnel, said, “Where’s he going?”

“To get his captain, probably,” said MacKenzie.

Rose angled the craft. A young woman had crawled into the tunnel and was looking out, her face a study of relief and hope.

“I would guess that is Dr. Ivanna Ligichova, the chief scientist’s daughter. Mac, something just occurred to me.”

“The ficus will live?”

Justine gave him a withering look. “The captain is going to try to talk to us. Probably by writing.”

“So?”

“So you read Russian?”

“Gotcha.” MacKenzie picked up his walkie-talkie to call Seawolf, but Dr. Rose stopped him.

“Captain, I’ve been on a few oceanographic ventures with the Soviets. I can translate for you.”

“Offer accepted, Doc.”

Justine pointed to the screen. “Here comes someone.”

“That’s a Soviet captain,” said MacKenzie as an older, bigger man pushed his way into the ice tunnel with some difficulty. As Justine predicted, he held a slate and some chalk. The slate was covered with Cyrillic writing. He held it up to the camera.

“He’s asking who we are,” said Dr. Rose.

“How do we talk back?” Justine asked.

“The only thing I can do is blink the lights.”

“Wait. Turn to port side,” said MacKenzie. “Let him see our markings.”

Rose manipulated the controls and the view on the screen shifted to the blue-gray waters as Argo spun around. A few seconds later he turned the craft back. The captain’s face appeared in the monitor again wearing a thoughtful expression. He wiped the slate clean with his sleeve, wrote something, then held it up for the camera to see.

“He speaks English,” said Justine. “Great.”

“Blink the lights, Doc,” MacKenzie requested. “Let’s establish some rules here. Once for yes, twice for no.”

Rose reached out and flicked the toggle switch. The picture on the monitor faded when the lights dimmed. The man nodded, wiped the slate clean and wrote again.

“Signal yes,” MacKenzie directed.

“Signal yes again.”

“No wonder they’re so quiet. And he can’t start his engines till he can dump the exhaust. Signal yes.”

“How do we get air to them, Mac?” Justine asked.

“We’ll get him to feed the snorkel out the torpedo tube into the ice tunnel. Then we’ll use the DSRV’s robot arm to take the snorkel to the surface.”

“How do you tell him that?”

“My Morse code is a little rusty but I’m going to give it a shot. Doctor, may I?”

“This switch is for the lights, here.”

MacKenzie thought for a moment, then began to flick the lights on and off in a series of dots and dashes. “Let’s try something simple first.”

He sent: “MacKenzie, captain Seawolf. Greetings.”

The man on the screen nodded vigorously and wrote on the slate: CAPTAIN GALININ, RED DAWN, WELCOME.

MacKenzie smiled. “Okay, we understand each other.” He began flicking the lights on and off again and sent: “Leave snorkel in tunnel. We will take to surface.”

He had to send the message twice while they watched Galinin’s expression slowly change from concentration to understanding. He nodded vigorously and a smile broke over his features. He turned his head and yelled something back into his ship. There was apparently some activity offscreen, and then someone handed up to him and he held out the business end of a snorkel with its air tube coiled behind it. He pointed upward.

“That’s it,” said MacKenzie. “Smart fellow. Catches on quick.”

Dr. Rose was just reaching for the controls when the image on the screen flickered and began to break up. “Captain, something’s wrong. I’m losing control. Some kind of interference. I can’t hold her steady.”

“What is it?”

“I can’t tell. My signal… Argo’s not responding.”

MacKenzie grabbed his walkie-talkie. “Seawolf, MacKenzie.”

“Seawolf aye.”

“We’re getting interference up here. Scan all channels.”

“We’re picking it up, Skipper. It’s a jamming signal. Coming from the Russian Boomer. Sonar is reporting strong contact.”

Rose’s voice broke in, filled with concern. “Captain MacKenzie, I’m losing control. She’s ramming the ice keel.”

MacKenzie looked quickly to the screen. The Argo was out of control, surging up against the keel. The captain held up his hands in fear. One crack in that ice and not only would he drown but the whole sub would flood. “Bearing on that sub, Sonar. Quickly.”

“Course zero nine five. Speed twenty knots. Depth one zero zero feet. But, sir, it’s not a Boomer at all. We finally got enough to correlate the signature. It’s the same ship that’s been sneaking around off our coastline, Skipper. Our computers log it as the Akula.”

So that was what had been dogging them all this time. Akula, the latest and most powerful attack sub in the Soviet fleet. MacKenzie’s mind raced. The missile launch had been a fake, just a ploy to lure them out of the area. But after all the subterfuge, why come out of hiding now? The answer was simple. They knew where Red Dawn was and had begun a campaign to block the rescue attempt. Maybe Akula was planning a rescue of its own. But all the conjecture had to wait. He had to block the jamming before Argo was lost.

“Skipper, Navigation. I don’t know if it helps, but at its present course and speed the sub’s going to pass within three hundred yards due north of your position in. . four minutes.”

MacKenzie stopped short. Joe Santiago had given him an idea. It was a long shot, and the move was from another time and place, but it was certainly possible. “Sonar, active search. Keep it up,” he ordered. “And watch your ears for loud noises.”

“Skipper?”

“You heard me. Do it. Captain out.”

Justine caught his arm. “Mac?”

“No time, Just. Doc, hold her steady. Do the best you can.” He grabbed his parka and face mask and raced out of the building.

The intense cold hit him in the face, and the wind swirled around him as he ran. Hansen and Bernie Greene were working at the scaffolding, their hair and eyelashes caked with ice droplets. They looked up as MacKenzie raced over, correctly reading on his face that something was very wrong.

“Captain, what gives? We got tugs on this line like we hooked a shark.”

“A Russian sub’s jamming the control signal. Mr. Greene, are there more charges?”

“Plenty. Why?”

“Bring them and follow me.” MacKenzie raced for the drilling machine, “C’mon, get this thing moving.”

Hansen understood urgency when he heard it. He leaped into the cab, and the engine roared into life. MacKenzie jumped in beside him. “Three hundred yards due north.” He pointed. “That way. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

The drill bumped and skewed over the ice. MacKenzie held on and looked back for Greene. The lieutenant had picked up a sack of explosives and was running after them. They hit a bump, and MacKenzie’s head almost went through the roof. He checked his watch. Two minutes. He looked back to the dorm, made a mental measurement, and picked a spot ahead. Best estimate. No time for anything else.

“Stop here. Start drilling holes for the explosives to drop through. As many as you can in two minutes.”

Hansen wasted no time. He ran around back and within seconds of MacKenzie’s command he was drilling into the ice cap.

Greene ran up breathlessly. “What’s up, Captain?”

“Those things are waterproof right?”

“Right.”

“The Soviet sub jamming Argo’s signal is going to pass under this spot in less than a minute and a half—”

Greene grinned. “And you want to drop a few presents on him?”

MacKenzie clapped him on the shoulder. “You got it.”

“Can do.” Greene dropped to his knees and began pulling the charges out of his sack, talking as he worked. “I can’t set these for pressure, like a depth charge, but I can set them for time. How deep is he?”

“One hundred feet. Say, fifteen seconds.” MacKenzie checked his watch. “That means you have to drop them in one minute. No, forty-five seconds.”

“Just let me get this in here.” Greene set the detonator on the first charge and kept working.

“Forty seconds.”

“One set. Working on two. Working… Two set. Working on three.”

“Thirty seconds.”

“Got three.”

“Get them into the holes,” MacKenzie ordered. He looked over. Hansen had bored three holes. “That’s all we have time for. Move the drill.” Hansen jumped back into the cab and complied, then waited for MacKenzie with the motor running.

MacKenzie looked at Greene. “Ten seconds.”

“Go with the drill, Captain. I can handle this.”

“I’m staying.”

“C’mon, when was the last time you ran the hundred-yard dash in twelve flat? Get going.”

“Be goddamn careful.”

Greene winked, gathered the charges from the ice, and headed for the holes. “Count on it.”

MacKenzie jumped on the drill, and Hansen tore out. They flew over the ice, and MacKenzie held on for dear life every time they hit a ridge. They stopped at a safe distance and waited, engine idling. MacKenzie leaped off, cupped his hands, and yelled, “Now!”

A hundred yards back, Greene dropped the charges down the holes in succession, then sprinted off at full speed. He ran across the ice like a broken-field runner, knees high and pumping, his breath like a rocket trail in the freezing air, snow spraying from his feet. MacKenzie was counting, “Three, two, one—” Then there was a deep bass whumppf that he could feel through the soles of his boots, and the ice cap turned upside down.

Kalik’s brow was furrowed as he stood over the sonar table and watched the display. “Active sonar? Why, what are they looking for?”

“No change in their position, Comrade Captain. Seawolf is still on the surface.”

“I don’t like this. It’s almost as if he wants us to know he’s there. And now this drilling, almost over our heads.” Kalik’s expression changed. “What is that?” he pointed to the screen.”

“It looks like some ice debris falling toward us.”

Kalik’s mind and body reacted as one. He grabbed the intercom. “Emergency dive! Emergency dive! Six hundred meters. Viktor, take us down fast. Dive!”

The dive bell clanged frantically, and the angle of the ship increased rapidly. Kalik used the wall stanchions for handholds and plunged into the control room.

“Depth!” he roared.

“Fifty meters… sixty meters… seventy meters…”

“Everyone prepare for—”

The first blast rocked the ship. Steam pipes buckled and couplings strained. Kalik was thrown against a bulkhead and felt something inside him snap. He barely had time to feel the pain that roared up his shoulder. An unconscious crewman landed on top of him, pushing him onto the deck. The second blast merged with the third and pounded Akula as if some angry god had hurled it to the ground and stomped on it. Systems failed. The ocean poured in as seawater fittings ruptured and the main ballast tank skin was holed. They dived for the bottom.

Kalik fought the pain and pushed the crewman off of him. Akula was plummeting to the depths. Alarms were blaring, men screaming. Steam hissed from auxiliary lines that had split open. He crawled to the periscopes and climbed up to grab the dangling intercom.

“Engine room, all engines full astem. Full astern!”

The speaker was filled with static. “We have a steam leak in the reactor auxiliary steam system. We are trying to isolate it… trying—”

“I need power. Do not shut down the reactor. Full astern!”

“Trying…”

Kalik felt the lurch as the propellers bit. He looked at the depth gauge. They were slowing but not fast enough. Another ten minutes and they would pass below crush depth. He pulled the main ballast tank blow lever. The feeble blast told him the ballast tank was ruptured.

“Vassily…”

It was Viktor. He was lying in a pool of water unable to lift himself. Kalik reached down with his good arm and helped him up. Viktor turned white. His arm hung limp at his side. Kalik suspected the collarbone was shattered. He managed to get him propped up against the scopes.

“Vassily, too fast… Not enough power… to stop us… but look.”

He was pointing to the screen. Kalik saw what he meant. There was a shelflike ledge protruding from a huge ice keel almost directly ahead of them. The keel itself had to go down half a mile or more. The ledge looked about sixty feet wide. It would be close, but it might be wide enough to save them. Kalik made his way forward. The helmsman was dead in his seat, hunched over the controls. Kalik tried to pull him out, but couldn’t manage it with one arm.

“Viktor, help me.”

Volkov held his arm to his side and climbed over the wreckage in the control room. Together, they pulled the dead man from his chair.

“Can you steer?” Kalik demanded.

Volkov dropped into the seat. “I can steer. You handle the planes.”

Kalik slid into the seat next to him. “Engine room,” he called on the intercom. “Starboard stop.”

“Yes… Comrade.”

“Right full rudder.”

Volkov steered for the ridge. “We’re going to hit hard.”

Kalik gritted his teeth. “Just don’t overshoot it.” The pain in his arm made it hard to see. They were a projectile hurtling out of control. He had to cut their speed at just the right moment or they would go right over the edge and tumble straight down till the pressure crushed them.

“Engine Room. All stop. All engines emergency full astern.”

He heard no reply, but he could feel the cessation of vibration that told him his command had gotten through. Now the emergency astern bell had both propellers biting into the icy sea.

“Now, Viktor. Hard right rudder. Use the wall to brake us.”

Kalik held steady on the planes, forcing them down onto the ridge while Volkov steered them into the keel wall. They hit with a crunch and Kalik heard the hull popping and groaning.

“It’s too short,” Volkov yelled. “We’re going over!”

“Hold us against the keel!” Kalik shouted. He rammed the control yoke forward and the bow dropped like a deadweight. It scored the ice ridge and slowed their speed. Sheer momentum pushed them toward the edge. Kalik held the planes down and Volkov forced them tighter into the wall. The hull screamed from abrasion against the ice. The edge of the ridge came rushing at them. For a moment it looked as if it could go either way, but with a final deep and troubled groan, Akula shuddered and came to a stop fifty feet from the abyss.

“All stop.” The engines coasted to a halt. Kalik dropped the yoke and looked to Volkov, sagging wearily beside him. Pain contorted Kalik’s features, but a slow, feral grin crossed his face. He bashed his fist on the control yoke and said fiercely, “Not yet, eh, my old friend? Not goddamn yet!”

Volkov nodded tiredly, his face flushed and sweating. “No. Not yet.”

The monitor showed their position. Perched on the shelf of ice over a mile of ocean, Akula was bent and broken, but she was not yet ready to die.