Raise the Red Dawn

Chapter Fifteen

“Sonar, report,” Lasovic demanded. “Can you get a fix on Avalon?”

The explosion had knocked loose tons of debris, complicating the sonar search, “Sorry, sir. Still no contact. There’s so much stuff flying around out there it’s impossible to read anything with all the echoes.”

“Communications, anything from the SEALs or Mrs. MacKenzie?”

“Nothing, sir.”

Lasovic was worried. Phoenix told the same story. Both subs had followed Mac’s attempt to decoy the torpedoes away from the base camp. Did he maneuver his craft away at the last second? Even if he did, he was practically on top of the explosion. Lasovic’s concern gave way to anger. He had no way of telling if MacKenzie was alive or if Justine and the others had gotten out before the torpedoes hit.

He surfaced and tried a radar sweep, but the ice was too irregular with too many pressure ridges for him to spot anything. Justine and the SEALs could have been a hundred yards away and he probably wouldn’t have seen them. An air search wasn’t feasible. Jets flew too fast and couldn’t get low enough under the cloud cover. The only plane that made sense for this kind of search was the C-130. Although the one transporting the wounded could not return, thankfully another was already on the way to pick up Dr. Rose and his equipment. But the weather still hadn’t let up and its ability to land in this storm was doubtful.

For the moment, all of that had to be put aside. Lasovic had to make the most difficult decisions of his career. There was no way of knowing if Mac had succeeded in restoring air to Red Dawn before the torpedoes hit. Given the timing, he’d guess probably not. He had to assume the DSRV was damaged, maybe even sunk. That put the decision in his hands alone. With Phil Arlin’s help, he could try to rescue the Russians, but that would leave Phoenix and Seawolf vulnerable to Akula‘s attack. Or he could go after Akula and possibly be sentencing Red Dawn’s crew to death by asphyxiation. Often over the years he’d seen Mac face difficult choices. He had always been secretly relieved that the ultimate responsibility wasn’t his. Until now.

Mac had borne the responsibility when he attacked Akula, and now he carried the burden of having mistakenly taken lives, or so he felt — undeservedly, Lasovic thought, but what man of good conscience suffered the death of others lightly? It was only in the movies that anyone pulled the trigger without remorse. In the real world you carried on your conscience every mishap, every accident, every mistake that cost from a finger to a life. You could only lay off so much on being a naval officer. The rest you lived with, because under the uniform was just an ordinary man.

He made his decision. “Take her down, Mr. Randall. Five zero zero feet.” He called his division officers together in the wardroom and held a meeting. Word spread fast. The division officers returned to their posts and told the junior officers, the junior officers told the chiefs, and the chiefs told the men: it was time for all the training, all the endless repetition of tasks day after day, to be put to the test. They would hunt Akula while Phoenix conducted a search for Mac and the base camp survivors. It had become a shooting war.

In the conn, Lasovic’s hand swept out and hit the alarm.

“Attention, this is the captain speaking. Man battle stations. We are under enemy attack. Our base camp has sustained damage from Soviet torpedoes. The DSRV Avalon is missing and presumed lost.”

The alarm blared throughout the ship. Men went to their stations poised and ready for action. In a way the ship was in its most alive state now, every system manned and ready, all extensions of the mind and will of the captain — his eyes and ears, his arms and legs, his fists. The attack center was aglow with computer tracks on its screens. Sonar was monitoring to the farthest extent of its range, and every passive sensor in Seawolf s hull was turned to the max.

“Torpedo Room, load tubes one, two, three, and four with MK-forty-eight torpedoes. Fire Control, merge your data with Sonar’s,” Lasovic ordered.

“Fire Control, aye.

“Mr. Randall, make your depth three zero zero feet.”

“Three zero zero feet, aye.”

Lasovic hit the intercom. “Maneuvering, secure main coolant pumps. Keep her quiet as she’ll run, Mr. Cardiff.”

“Maneuvering, aye. Ready to answer all bells, Mr. Lasovic.”

“We are at ordered depth,” reported Randall. “But, uh, sir?”

Lasovic knew what Randall was about to ask. No one thought more of MacKenzie than the young officer. “If the captain’s still out there, we’ll find him. Make no mistake about it, Mr. Randall.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks.”

Lasovic knew Randall spoke for everybody in the room. Lasovic wished he felt as confident as he’d sounded.

“Conn, Torpedo Room. All tubes loaded and ready.”

“Very well,” Lasovic acknowledged. “Helm, all ahead one-third. Maneuvering, make turns for five knots. Sonar, if a seal so much as burps I want to know about it.”

“Sonar, aye. We’re tracking them, too.”

Lasovic nodded. They were ready.

Seawolf began her prowl through the cold waters, as silent as a shadow.

“Take us up, Viktor,” Kalik commanded, “and hold us under the ice.” The maze of ice keels and stalactites jutting down from the ice cap would safely hide Akula from the American subs.

Kalik ignored the sober and somewhat disapproving look on his senior lieutenant’s face, a look that had nothing to do with the pain in his broken collarbone. Kalik himself felt ecstatic in spite of the pain in his own arm. Both torpedoes had deviated when they picked up the DSRV motor noise. After the explosion, the motor noise was gone. He had gotten two birds with one shot. He felt loose and relieved, like finally reaching climax after too much foreplay.

Now the battle began in earnest. Seawolf would come for him; he was sure of it. All the tactics and all the under-ice maneuvers would be put to the test, with each side trying for an advantage that would lead to a strong contact and a clean shot. Kalik felt his adrenaline rise. He touched the cold cleanliness of the stainless-steel periscope housing. Maybe it had been a premonition when he told Viktor he wished he could test Akula against Seawolf

Kalik looked at Volkov across the control room. He was still reserved, still totally professional, but Kalik knew he was watching him closely. This would be Viktor’s last cruise, he decided. There was room for only one captain on a sub, and he couldn’t have his orders or his intentions second-guessed. Something inside him warned about silencing opposing voices. Was he failing to heed Volkov’s good advice just to fight some private war of his own? Nonsense, he decided, the man had ceased to be loyal, had failed to understand the strength of Kalik’s desire to walk away from this affair with honor.

Seawolf and Akula. Soon they were going to get the chance to prove who was the better captain, which was the better ship.

Justine, Hansen, Greene, and six SEALs including Jackson, Burke, and Ellis, made it over the basin’s craggy ice ridge and stumbled onto the frozen terrain beyond. Heavy snow was falling steadily, driven by the bitter wind. Exhausted from the run, they huddled together.

“We won’t last two hours out here,” said Justine, her breath a smoking plume. “And I lost the radio.”

“Go easy on yourself, ma’am,” Burke said. “You couldn’t hold on to the ice and the radio, too.”

“Thanks for that,” said Justine. “But we’ll die out here if we can’t let Seawolf know where we are.” The white plains of ice and snow surrounded them. The sun was invisible in the overcast sky, and the snow swirled around them like a mad matador’s cape. Already their faces were caked with frost. “I’d count on Tom calling for air support, but with this storm…”

Hansen shook his head. “They’ll never see us.”

Bernie Greene cursed forlornly. “God, I wish I could’ve taken the explosives, but there was no time.”

“We’ve got to do something. We’re dying as we stand here,” Justine said, frustrated. “Maybe we can lower something into the water and make some noise. Hope Seawolf s sonar hears it. And Mac… Oh, my God, Mac! He was in the DSRV. Those torpedoes—”

“Easy, ma’am,” said Greene. “Smart fella, your husband. He was probably nowhere near.”

“There’s nothing you can do right now in any event,” Hansen said. “We have to worry about ourselves.”

Hansen was right. Standing there, stamping her feet to keep warm and shivering at an increasing rate, Justine fought for control. Priorities. She had to get them to some kind of shelter. She searched for the music in her head, not what she had played so long ago at border crossings so her So lock up everything you feel in a tight box inside you and come back to it when there’s time, when it’s safe. father and brothers could ambush the guards, but the music that was hers alone, her refuge. Where were the clean soaring notes of spirit that came through her fingers the times she was happy, the times with Mac? Have faith. In the end that’s what it came down to.

“Mr. Jackson, some of that brandy, please.”

“Yes, ma’am. Sir?”

“Fine idea. Ladies first,” said Hansen. “Warm the metal or it will tear your lips off,” he advised.

Think, Justine exhorted herself, taking a sip of the brandy. Its fire coursed down her throat and exploded in her gut. “There’s nothing we can use for shelter, no fuel or wood to burn, nowhere we can walk to… walk to… Wait a minute!” The realization hit her as sharp as a slap. “The icebreakers!”

Hansen jumped on it. “There are ships? Near here?”

Justine’s excitement drew everyone tighter. “Tom Lasovic told Mac that two icebreakers are heading for the Red Dawn. One is Russian. The other is Canadian. Polar something. They’ve got to be close by now. Very close. Within a few miles.”

“Which way were they heading?”

“South southeast, right for Red Dawn.”

“That way.” Greene pointed, squinting into the wind. “Maybe we can intercept them.”

“No maybes about it. What other choice do we have?” said Hansen.

Justine shivered violently. A few miles. God, what would it be like to walk a few miles in this wind and cold? She steeled her mind to it. “We move or we die. We can’t count on Seawolf finding us.”

Hansen nodded. “Let’s go.”

She moved off into the snow. Within a few hundred yards she realized her mind was finding it hard to accept what her body knew at once — that in this environment even the simplest actions were close to impossible. A trot of two or three miles wouldn’t have winded her on a normal day in a normal climate. Here her feet felt like lead after a hundred feet. She trudged on, the men following in a ragged line. Their clothing was so crusted with ice they almost merged with the snowfall. Hansen, then Burke, then Ellis and Jackson, the rest of the SEALs, and then the frozen-faced Greene like an icy shepherd pushing them all on.

A ragged line. A singsong rhyme filled her head: “There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile. .” She forced herself to concentrate. One foot after the other. One foot after the other. She trudged up a sharp rise hoping to see the black shapes of ships crunching through the ice. There was nothing but snow cutting visibility even further. She slid down the other side of the slippery slope. The wind bit her face, and her eyes hurt from the ice on her lashes. One foot after the other. Keep moving. Somewhere ahead there were warm ships with steaming galleys all filled with heat and food and life. One foot after the other. Keep moving. One foot after the other. One foot after the other. The snow built up on her shoulders like epaulets. One foot after the other… One foot after the other.

“I’m going into the tunnel,” said Pytor with a determined look.

Sadly Ivanna shook her head against his naked chest. “It’s no use, my love. If anyone were still out there we would have known it by now.”

They were lying in the bunk in her father’s cabin, naked under the coarse woolen blankets. Elsewhere in the ship the remaining crewmen were still waiting, refusing to admit what Ivanna knew in her heart — that rescue was a dream from which they had woken too soon. So she had brought Pytor here to share the only happiness remaining to them, the comfort of each other.

“But those explosions — we felt them,” Pytor insisted.

“So the Americans were blown up or blew themselves up. Or blew up somebody else. Whatever. What does it matter? No one is there, Pytor. No one!” She moved his hand to her breast, pressing his palm against her nipple urgently. It hardened into a turgid point. They had little time for all the things that lovers try when they are new, so she was bold with him, hungry for his mouth and hands and organ. She was like a child with a new toy, and she wanted to play with it for hours, examining every crease and fold, tasting, licking, probing. It was fascinating, so big and hard in her hand and yet so soft, like velvet-covered steel. She wanted it everywhere. And when he grew tired she took him in her mouth and coaxed him till he was hard again and could love her once more. She reached for him.

“Please, Isha,” he groaned, using her pet name tenderly. “No man can do what you ask. It will ki—” He stopped. His eyes rested lovingly on her face, and his hands trailed down her body to her moist thighs. “All right, my love, once more…”

Pytor waited until she was asleep, then put on his clothes and slipped out of the cabin. He passed the captain huddled over coffee with Ivanna’s father, no doubt planning some new way to save them. His lips tightened bitterly. It was always the old ones who got them into trouble. Now it was up to the young ones to get them out.

The second torpedo tube was still clear of ice. He opened the hatch and crawled in. It was still breathtaking being on the inside of the aquarium looking out, but what he hoped to see wasn’t there. There was no ship to carry the snorkel to the surface. The air tube left the sub and trailed off into the sea beyond where he could see it. He was about to give up hope when something flashed in the distance. He couldn’t be certain at first. It was far away under the ice cap and he couldn’t see it well. He almost had to turn his head and look sideways to be sure he had seen anything at all. Then he saw it once again, a burst of light like the flash from an electric lamp. He hurried back inside.

Galinin put down the field glasses and crawled back inside the torpedo room. Pytor, Ivanna, and Ligichev were waiting expectantly.

“You were right,” he said. “There is something out there. I think it’s the American DSRV. It looks inoperative. The flashing is one of her navigation lights.”

“If they’re out there, why don’t they come back?”

“I don’t think they can,” said Galinin. “They’re just hanging there, wedged up under the ice. Maybe the explosions we felt damaged her.”

“The craft had to come from somewhere,” said Ligichev. “What about the mother ship?”

“I have no answers,” Galinin said tersely. “If you want to go ask them, feel free.”

Tempers were too frayed for such a remark. “If it hadn’t been for your stupidity we wouldn’t be in trouble in the first place,” Ligichev said hotly. They faced each other like aging boxers and might actually have come to blows but a voice stopped them.

“I’ll go, Comrade Captain.”

“What?”

Pytor said it again. “What you said. To ask the Americans. I’ll go.”

Galinin and Ligichev looked at the young chief engineer and then at each other. The absurdity of his offer drained their anger. “What are you talking about?” demanded Galinin.

“We have scuba gear on board. I request permission to swim to the American ship.”

“Pytor, no!” Ivanna said.

“If it is disabled, maybe I can help. I don’t know. But we must try something.”

“Pytor, you can’t. Father, don’t let him.”

Galinin cut her off. “Do you know what you’re saying? We don’t have arctic diving equipment. You’d last ten minutes in that water, maybe less.”

Pytor nodded. “I know that. But I ask you this, Comrades. How much longer will we last if I don’t go?”

Pytor stood stark naked in front of them, trying to retain his dignity by staring fixedly ahead. Every square inch of skin including his face was covered with dark gray grease from the main shaft. On top of the grease Ivanna was wrapping elastic bandages from the infirmary.

“I feel like a mummy,” Pytor muttered.

“Quiet. Let her work,” admonished Ligichev. “A couple of layers of grease and elastic under the wet suit will stop the cold from penetrating so fast. It could save your life.”

Michman Rostov came into the room. “Comrade Captain, the escape hatch is cleared of ice. The scuba tanks are ready.”

“Very good. Wait there for us.” He turned to Pytor. “You understand now, you’ll have to go up the escape hatch and break the ice seal yourself. The water pressure is going to be hell. And you’ve got to get back quickly or the ice will refreeze and you won’t be able to get into the ship.”

“Listen to him,” Ivanna told him, still wrapping intently.

“I was.”

“You weren’t.”

“How do you know what I was listening to?” he demanded.

“I know.”

“But… all right. I will be back before the tunnel re-freezes, Comrade Captain.”

“Good.”

Ivanna sniffed, knotting an end to finish. “I don’t want to argue.”

Pytor softened. “Me neither. Let’s forget it, okay?”

“Okay.”

Ligichev wanted to cry.

Pytor donned the wet suit. Galinin applied an epoxy cement to the seams between wrist and gloves and between boots and leggings. The neoprene bubbled as it melted together. “As good a seal as we’re going to get. Let’s go.”

Pytor padded aft to the escape hatch. His tank, regulator, hood, mask, and fins were waiting. Galinin drew a weight belt around him. Rostov and several crewmen had hot coffee and blankets ready to warm him when he got back. Optimists, thought Pytor dryly.

“Ten minutes, fifteen at the most,” Ligichev warned. “Remember.”

Pytor kissed Ivanna and climbed up the ladder into the escape tube. He closed the hatch behind him. Rostov had left the hull hatch open, and Pytor climbed the iron rungs out onto the hull. They had cleared a good space. The ice was like a dome overhead. He had to remember to protect his head when the waters crashed in.

He hit the purge valve on his regulator and heard the reassuring burst of air. He made sure the air hose was draped properly over his shoulder and put the rubber mouthpiece between his lips. He bit down and drew in a few breaths, tasting the metallic dryness of compressed air. He carried only a single tank. He couldn’t stay in the water long enough to need a second.

He hefted the ice pick and swung it hard against the ice. Once. Twice. Drops of water formed and slid down the crystal-faceted sheet, then became a stream. Suddenly the ice imploded, shattering toward him as if hit from the other side. Seawater burst in like an icy hammer, hitting him full in the face and throwing him down against the hull. He tried to swim out of the chamber but the water pressure was too great. He held his hands over his face as the water pounded him. He was twisted backwards. The water roared in, pushing, pulling. His neck was crushed back against the tank valve. His vision blurred and for a moment he feared he would black out, but just as suddenly the water pressure subsided. The ice chamber was filled with seawater, and he was floating in it. He slowed his anxious breathing. Steady, now. Each breath brought the sound of the valve releasing air into his lungs, each exhalation sent bubbles traveling up past his ears. He reached into the indents in his face mask, clamped his nostrils shut and blew hard to equalize the pressure in his ears. They cleared and the pain in his head subsided. He kicked out, and his flippers pushed satisfyingly hard against the water. He shot out of the ice keel into the open sea.

There was no way to describe the cold. His head felt as if someone had put it in a vise. His heart was pounding. Every muscle had a protest of its own to make, and all of them wanted to lock into immobility. He forced himself to swim, kicking hard, wriggling his torso for warmth. One arm was pressed against his side, the other pointing forward like a spear.

He hovered for a moment in the glassy sea to clear his face mask. A glance at his diving watch told him two minutes had elapsed. One-fifth of his precious time. He swam for the American ship. The gray, torpedo-shaped craft was lodged under the ice, as Galinin had said. As he got closer he saw that the DSRV didn’t appear to be damaged, but there was no sign of activity.

He located the forward observation window and pressed his face mask against it. There were two men inside. Naval officers, judging by the insignia. Both were slumped over in their seats, unconscious, but he could see the slow rise and fall of their backs. They were still breathing.

He swam around, looking for a way in. The ship was listing slightly. He found a hatch that was unobstructed. He tried it. It was locked. Probably had to be released from inside. There was no time to figure it out. Five minutes had elapsed. He had only half his time left to make something happen.

He swam another circuit around the ship. It told him only that the propellers were undamaged and there were no holes in the hull. He swam back to the observation window. He tried pounding on the thick glass with his gloved fist. It made only a dull thud. He slipped a lead weight out of his belt. It fit nicely into his hand. He had to swing it in short strokes because of the water pressure. Crack, crack, crack. Neither man stirred inside. He hit the glass again. He had to awaken them. Still no response. He was getting colder now, feeling it deep down in his muscles right through the layers of grease and bandage. He had little time left. He wanted to shout with frustration. Red Dawn was going to die unless these men woke up. Ivanna was going to die. His arm felt like lead, and his head was swimming. He was beginning not to care if he broke the window. A blast of cold water in the face would wake the bastards up! He had nothing left to lose. He checked his watch. It was past the time he should have gone back. The escape tunnel would be iced over. There was no way in. It didn’t matter. His strength was fading. His head felt as if a black bag were descending onto it, so he wedged his other arm into a handhold on the hull and hit the glass again and again. Crack, crack… crack… crack…

Stephan felt it through the ice. Deep vibrations. Strong enough to be an explosion. But how far? Close, his senses told him. Maybe a mile or two. In the direction of Red Dawn.

When the fog that enclosed him cleared, he could see Polar 8 through wispy vapors about a mile to starboard. It was almost abreast of the Ural. Stephan had stolen every inch of speed he could from the ice, but the bigger ship’s power was unmatchable.

Stephan moved across the ice like a wraith. New crewmen struggled to keep up. Rolf and Pinkov had been rotated back to the ship to eat and warm themselves. Stephan remained outside. It would have been too easy for the ship to run into thick ice without his lead. It was dead of winter cold, and the snowstorm was fouling their instruments and making it harder and harder to see.

Stephan plunged on. He ate as he walked, as an Inuit would. A thermos of hot coffee was more than enough to keep up his internal temperature. There was open water somewhere, but where? If he found a good patch, the Ural could surge past the Polar 8. He had thought they would get to it long before now.

Stephan had seen bad weather on the ice cap before, but nothing compared to this. Ice rime covered every mast on the Ural, and the radar housing had stopped turning. The instrument was probably fouled. Icicles hung from every porthole and hatchway in jagged edging. The Ural looked like an ice-encrusted ghost ship dredged up from the deep. Only the constant rumble of its bow crashing through the ice was proof that somewhere human hands were still in control.

He saw the Polar 8 again, closer. Its heavy bow crunched ice far too thick for any other ship. They were making a run for it, pulling out the stops to get ahead and reach Red Dawn first. Stephan didn’t know much about the laws of salvage, but he understood that getting there first was important. He lifted his binoculars and scanned the ice ahead. “Left five degrees rudder,” he reported over the radio. Thin ice lay in that direction. This course would bring the Ural even closer to the Polar 8, but that couldn’t be helped.

Out on the foredeck, Icemaster Renaud lifted his binoculars and peered through the snow, searching for the Ural. The air cleared for a moment, and he saw that the two behemoths were virtually neck and neck, huge dark shapes charging side by side through a frozen land like a hunting party. He shook his head. For Ural to keep pace with the Polar 8 was a remarkable feat, one Renaud would have sworn was impossible any day before this.

How were they doing it? Conditions couldn’t have been worse. Their radars had to be as fouled as the Polar 8’s were. Both ships were sailing half blind in the blizzard. Celestial navigation was a joke. The satellite relays were quirky. Crewmen with ice picks had been sent up to clear the frozen antennas and had come back frostbitten in a matter of minutes.

Inside, Captain Mare was pushing the ship to the maximum. Renaud knew he was determined to reach the sub before the Russians did. Renaud was feeling the strain of keeping them moving through the ice. His shoulders ached from hunching over his instruments, and his eyes felt as if his binoculars had been permanently screwed into them. It was the icemaster’s responsibility to steer the ship away from ice that could stop or entrap them. Often in the past few hours the ice had thickened past eight feet, almost to ten, but they had enough momentum to move through it. Each time Renaud held his breath. If they lost so much as half a knot of speed they’d lose their headway and be forced to back and ram. That would almost assuredly give the race to the Ural Mare was taking a dangerous course heading directly for Red Dawn through this ice. Renaud would normally have advised against it but Ural’s speed forced their hand.

Five miles to their destination. Renaud climbed the frozen stairs to the bridge deck. He was freezing. He clutched his hood around his head to lock out the cold, but also to block out the sound. Out here the cacophony was awesome, like the crashing of Titans. The constant crunch was amplified because this close to each other the ships created a kind of echo chamber. Renaud shivered. Sound this loud and piercing unnerved you in a primordial way. Fear of it was marked deep down in the genes so that ancient man knew instinctively to run from the heavy charge of woolly mammoths. Renaud heard distant thunder rolling across the ice, heaven’s angry response to the din. He couldn’t tell which was louder or scared him more.

Suddenly the dark silhouette of the Ural appeared through the swirling mists. The two ships were almost side by side, dark frozen shapes prowling the land of ice. Then the weather rolled back in and the Ural was gone.

Only the great crashing sound remained.

“Conn, Sonar. Still nothing, Skipper.”

“Keep looking, Sonar.”

“Sonar, aye.”

Arlin tried not to let his concern show. Repeated searches of the area had failed to turn up any sign of the DSRV. There was more than a mile of ocean below them. It could be anywhere. Finding a needle in a haystack was easy compared to locating a tiny craft whose systems were apparently silent, hopefully not because they had been destroyed.

He had already surfaced twice to look for the base camp survivors and had even gone up onto the sail himself. The blizzard was madness. The cold was instantaneously cruel, and the snow obscured everything. Sound carried a few feet at best. Within minutes Phoenix’s black sail had been transformed by the snow into just another white hill. He wasn’t sure it could be seen unless you knew it was there. Reluctantly he had taken Phoenix down again and continued the search for the DSRV.

All the while he kept one eye out for Akula. Tom Lasovic was running a tricky search pattern, staying as silent as he could, and in Seawolf’s case that was amazingly silent, hoping to draw her out. Arlin hoped the Russian captain would make a mistake and show them his face. Paying him back for the attack that might have cost them both two dear friends, one on the surface and the other under it, would be welcome business for both Lasovic and himself. But so far they had no sign of Akula either.

“Conn, Navigation. Polynyas ahead.”

“Very well,” Arlin acknowledged. Time to try once more. “Prepare to surface the ship.”

Somebody wanted something somewhere, but it was too far away to matter so MacKenzie drifted along without worry in a black dreamy sleep.

Crack.

It was irritating being woken from a sound sleep and MacKenzie wanted to tell somebody so. Later. He wanted to go back to sleep.

Crack, crack… crack!

What was that noise? He tried to turn over to locate the source of the annoyance but something restrained him. He pulled at it. A seat harness? That was enough to bring him back. Avalon! The memory of the explosion pushed him up with a start. The control panels of the DSRV were all around him. The mike dangled freely on its tangled cord.

“Luke, wake up. Luke?”

He nudged Luke’s shoulder to rouse him. He was rewarded with a muffled groan. The blood was congealed on his copilot’s forehead. Had they been unconscious that long?

Luke woke. “Ooh, my aching head. What happened?”

“Torpedoes, remember? Akula attacked the base camp.”

Crack!

“What the hell?” Luke exclaimed.

MacKenzie looked around and found himself staring right into the face mask of a scuba diver through the observation port. Thick grease covered his exposed skin and his eyes were pleading, almost frantic. It was a sadly compelling sight. A whole world was summed up in those eyes.

“Luke…” Mac pointed.

“What’s he doing out there? Jesus, he’s not even in a dry suit. He’s got to be freezing.”

“That’s Russian gear,” said MacKenzie as the diver gave a final crack with the weight, then pointed anxiously toward Red Dawn. He looked relieved but deadly tired. MacKenzie understood. “We lost the snorkel. They saw us floating and sent him out here.”

“It’s a one-way mission.”

“Not if we can help it.”

“Right.” Luke tested the controls. “We’ve still got power. No radio for a while, though. That blast shorted a bunch of electronics.”

“See what you can do. The explosion was awfully close to the base camp. I want to check on Justine and the others.”

Luke hit a series of switches. Lights came on. Power curves flowed onto the screens. “Still got some juice in the batteries. We should be able to move.”

“How’s the steering?”

“A little rough, but manageable,” Luke reported. “Mac, look.”

It was the diver. His eyes were closed and he was floating limply. His arm wedged into a handhold kept him from drifting off. MacKenzie stared respectfully. In the glare of Avalon’s lights the look on the diver’s face was one of contentment. His mission was complete. He had swum into hell to waken the dead and save his ship. He’d just used up too much of himself.

“Brave son of a bitch,” Luke said sadly, “Too weak to make it back. He’s dying out there.”

MacKenzie shook his head. “Not yet. Is the arm working?”

Luke tested the joystick and secondary controls. “Operational.”

“Take us down a few feet. Not too far or we’ll damage his ears. He may not be able to clear them.”

Luke hit the pumps and Avalon sank six feet taking the diver along with it. It was enough to give them clearance under the ice. MacKenzie grabbed the throttle and fed power to the motors. They sped toward Red Dawn, leaving a trail of bubbles. “By the way, I’ve decided not to have you court-martialed for telling me to stuff it earlier.”

Luke grinned. “You are good to me, sir.”

“No more than you deserve. Seriously, thanks for not ditching.”

“And miss this? Riding with you is always an experience.”

Ahead, the submarine’s snorkel tube led out of the ice keel. MacKenzie steered for it. “By the way, how come I get sirred now?”

“You didn’t kill us. I respect that.” Luke smiled. “Okay, there’s the air tube. Could have been damaged. You want to follow it down?”

“No.” MacKenzie pointed to the diver. “He can’t take a big pressure change. Grab the hose and we’ll reel it in on the surface. How’s the radio?”

“Still out.” Luke lowered the hydraulic arm controls into his lap and took hold of the joystick. He snared the air hose on the first try. “Okay, take her up.”

MacKenzie brought Avalon‘s nose around and headed for the surface. He kept one eye on the stream of bubbles from the diver’s regulator, careful not to rise too fast and risk giving the man the bends. The bubbles were reassuring. The man was still alive. But the cold was killing him by degrees. They had to find an open lead. The ice here was too thick for Avalon to break through.

MacKenzie moved cautiously under the ice cap, looking for an open lead to surface through. He wasn’t worried about the radio being out. Seawolf was nearby and sure to hear Avalon’s motors. Tom would head right for them. In fact, he was sure by now that Tom would be telling a relieved Justine that he was just fine.

“We have a contact, Comrade Captain. Small motors. Just under the ice. It’s the DSRV.”

“It can’t be,” Kalik said gruffly. “Recheck the signature.”

“The computers verify it, Comrade Captain.” Kalik went into the sonar room. “I want you to play back the tape for me of when the torpedoes hit.” He put on a pair of headphones.

The technician ran the tape, listening on his own headphones. Kalik wasn’t a trained sonar technician, but he could follow most of the sounds. He heard the high-cycle noises of the torpedoes and alongside them the DSRV’s electric motors. He looked at the visual display. The contacts moved closer until they were almost one, but suddenly — and he might not have seen it if he hadn’t been looking for it — right near the end they moved out of alignment. The sound changed subtly, too.

“There.” Kalik pointed. “Could something have happened right there?”

“Let me isolate it,” the technician replied. He moved dials slightly, increasing the gain on the frame Kalik had chosen. “I can’t say for sure, Comrade Captain, but…” He hesitated.

“This is not a test, Comrade. Give me your best guess.”

“If I read things correctly, I think the DSRV might have sprinted away at top speed in the last seconds. You see there? A hard dive to starboard. And that echo? Possibly an ice keel.”

Kalik cursed under his breath. It was suddenly clear to him. The waiting, the dive to starboard at full power to put the ice keel in between the DSRV and the torpedoes — he knew damn well who was driving her. Those moves were the habits of Seawolf’s captain. Twice he’d performed that dive maneuver, first to avoid the ice chunk and now to avoid the torpedoes. How many lives did the man have? Kalik’s respect for him increased tenfold. What an adversary. Twin torpedoes coming at his surface camp and he uses his own ship to decoy them into an ice keel. God, the man had industrial-size balls! The blast might have knocked him out of commission for a while, but he was back now. All well and good, Kalik decided. He was going hunting.

“What happened, Comrade Captain?” Volkov asked when he returned to the control room.

Kalik explained quickly. “We may be able to get him now. Sonar, what is the DSRV’s course and speed?”

“It’s hard to track him. We’re getting interference. He’s very close to the ice.”

“Other contacts?”

“None on Seawolf. Phoenix has surfaced.”

Kalik decided the prize was worth the risk. Without its captain, Seawolf would, be half the ship. “Use active sonar. I want a clean fix on him. Torpedo Room, report on the status of tubes one and two.”

“Tubes one and two loaded and ready to fire, Comrade Captain.”

“Attack Center, lock in to sonar for target acquisition.”

“We are locked in, Comrade Captain.”

Bursts of sound shot out from Akula, probing for the DSRV. Active sonar was more accurate than passive sonar. Once the sound pulse hit, there was no avoiding the echo that bounced back to Akula to give her computers an accurate fire position.

Volkov took up his position. He could do nothing but follow his commander and wonder what the final price of Kalik’s private war would be.

The first ping struck them, echoing inside the cabin with a screech that raised hackles like nails on a blackboard.

“That’s active sonar,” warned MacKenzie. “Akula’s come back for more. If he gets a good fix on us…” MacKenzie applied power to the motors and steered them behind an ice keel. The sound faded. “I don’t think he could have gotten a fix off a single burst.”

“Hurts my ears,” Luke complained.

“I know. The favorite game of sub captains is to sneak up on an enemy sub and rake him with an active sonar ping. It’s our way of saying that under other conditions it could’ve been a torpedo. Keeps everybody honest.”

Another loud ping raked the cabin. Luke covered his ears.

MacKenzie dodged, quickly driving Avalon between ice ridges to lose the pursuing sub. “Our motors are the problem,” he explained. “They were never meant for quiet. Sonar can hear them for miles in these waters. We could shut down and hide, but then Tom won’t be able to find us, to say nothing of how long our diver will last. He can’t take much more of this.”

“Neither can the air hose. We’re gonna run out of length soon,” Luke said, but suddenly his voice became excited, “Mac, look. Over there. See it?”

It looked as if someone had painted a lightning bolt on the underside of the ice. “A lead. Big enough to surface.”

“Could be miles to another one. What do we do?”

MacKenzie was determined not to lose the diver, and Red Dawn was surely close to suffocation. “We risk it. Grab your suntan lotion. We’re going up.”

“Yes, sir! Blowing ballast.”

MacKenzie brought them up as quickly as he could. “Use the arm. Don’t let him slip off.”

They broke through the surface. Avalon bobbed on the frigid water, and Luke deftly used the arm to hold the diver, but he couldn’t lift him out of the water. “His arm’s wedged too tight. I’m going out.”

MacKenzie sighed. “I wish you could, but I can’t use that arm at all. Stay here and hold us steady.”

Luke didn’t bother to conceal his better-you-than-me grin. MacKenzie pried himself out of his chair and slid back into Avalon’s third compartment. There were coveralls and blankets in a storage locker. He wrapped a blanket around himself and another over his head and zipped his jacket over them. More blankets served as hand coverings. It was the only protection he was going to get. He cycled the hatch open. It gave with a hard push. A stream of icy water poured in, making MacKenzie shudder and curse. Just as he was about to push himself out, he heard another sonar ping. It was faint, on the low edges of the signal.

“Mac?”

“I heard it. It will take them some time to work out their attack. Power up and be ready to move as soon as I get him back in.”

Outside, the blizzard was ferocious and MacKenzie almost lost his balance on the curved deck. The water was a cold metallic gray lapping at the hull. He made his way forward to the hydraulic arm, wrapping the blanket around his face to protect it. God, it was cold. He freed the vinyl air hose and pulled it out of the water with blanket-covered hands. It was like wrapping a coil of ice around his arm, but finally the snorkel broke the surface. He made sure it was cleared and left it bobbing freely.

He crawled over to the diver. The man was frozen stiff. MacKenzie gently pried his arm out of the rung and dragged him onto Avalon’s swaying deck. The seawater drenched his blankets, and his skin was so cold it burned. He managed to release the catch on the scuba tank harness with stiff fingers, losing skin in the process, and slid the straps off the diver’s shoulders. The tank tumbled into the water. He peeled off the man’s face mask and tossed it aside. The diver’s skin was colder than anything human MacKenzie had ever touched except a dead man.

The sodden blankets were useless now. The cold water stole his body warmth faster than the air. He ditched them and got his hands under the man’s limp arms. He pulled him to the open hatch. Luke was there waiting. MacKenzie lowered the diver into his waiting arms and followed, slamming the hatch shut and ripping off his wet clothing.

Ping… ping…

“They’ve been coming closer together,” Luke said. He used a knife to cut the wet suit off the diver. There was ice in the bandages underneath. Luke slit the elastic open carefully. The diver never stirred.

MacKenzie pulled on a pair of coveralls from the locker. His lean frame was shivering spasmodically. “Can you handle this alone?” he asked, toweling himself vigorously. “We’ve got to run for it.”

“Go. Get us out of here.”

Ping… ping… ping…

MacKenzie slid into the pilot’s chair and flicked switches, taking on ballast. He shoved the control yoke all the way to its stop, diving hard. He hadn’t wanted to tell Luke, but they’d taken too long. Akula had a solid fix on them. The torpedoes would be arriving long before they could outrun them.

Akula

Kalik knew he had the shot, but a sudden thought stilled the command to fire. Why had the American captain remained in one place for so long?

“Attack Center, Comrade Captain. We have computed the range to target. We are ready to fire on your command.”

Kalik hesitated. Was it a ruse? Why stand still in an unprotected DSRV? Was the American baiting him to fire? He had been suckered by this captain once before when he thought he had the upper hand. It wasn’t going to happen a second time. He went over it again. What could he be up to?

“Comrade Captain?”

Kalik looked up, annoyed. “What is it, Viktor?”

“The solution is changing as we both move. Should we recompute it?”

Kalik wanted a reason to condemn Volkov, but so far Volkov hadn’t given him one. He could see only support on his senior lieutenant’s face. Kalik decided he was being an old lady. “No. Prepare to fire.” The American captain had gotten under his skin. It was not his nature to second-guess himself. “Torpedo Room…”

Ping…

“No, it can’t be!” Kalik covered his ears and looked around furiously as the speaker overhead crackled with Sonar’s worried voice. “Comrade Captain, we are being raked with enemy active sonar. They have a position fix on us.”

Ping…

Seawolf! It had to be Seawolf. Any second now her torpedoes would be on their way in, following the active sonar signal right to them. He had waited too long. While he was ranging the DSRV, Seawolf had traced his active sonar and ranged him. Could he shoot before he had to take evasive action? But suddenly a sound with a different pitch filled the control room.

Ping, ping… ping, ping…

“Sonar, what is that?” he demanded.

“Comrade Captain, a second submarine has a position fix on us. It’s the Phoenix. We’re caught between them.”

Damn them to hell. Kalik wanted to attack with every fiber in his body.

“Comrade Captain, Phoenix is closing.”

But now was not the time.

“Cancel the attack. Slow all propulsion. Take us down to three hundred meters.” He stalked out of the control room.

Akula is backing off, Mr. Lasovic. Going silent. We’re losing them… That’s it. Last contact, range three miles, course zero three zero, speed ten knots. They may be diving. They’ve gone passive. We can’t hear them anymore.”

“Do we still have a fix on Avalon?”

“Clear as a bell, sir.” Sonarman Bendel read out her course and speed.

“Plot an intercept course, Mr. Santiago. All ahead two-thirds.”

“Aye, Mr. Lasovic.”

Lasovic allowed himself to ease up a little. It had been close. The only reason Akula would have gone active was to attack. Seawolf‘s run at them had prevented it — by seconds, he guessed. It said something that Akula’s captain would risk exposing himself just for a shot at the DSRV, almost as if he knew Mac was on board. But that was impossible. Another thought came darkly. How was he going to tell Mac about Justine? “Any word from the air surveillance?”

“The C-One-thirty pilot reports conditions are terrible. He’ll stay up and look as long as he can. And, Mr. Lasovic, the icebreakers are within five miles of us. Very close together. They must be running almost side by side.”

“Very well. Mr. Randall, steady on course. Chief, prepare to take on the DSRV.”

“How is he, Luke?” MacKenzie asked from the pilot’s chair.

“Can’t tell yet. Body temperature’s way down. I’ve got him wrapped up best as I can. By the way, how come we’re not dead yet?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. He’s had more than enough time to make his shot. I don’t hear anything on the hydrophones, unless—”

Ping.

“Oh, no.” Luke grabbed his ears. “We spoke too soon.”

MacKenzie turned with a start, but a grin of relief crossed his features. “Not this time. Take a look portside.”

Seawolf s long, sleek shape swam into view. Tom Lasovic was blinking his running lights in greeting. “Now, that’s a beautiful sight,” said Luke. “Goddamn beautiful.”

“I’m heading in. Do the best you can for him; then I need you up here.”

The crew was jubilant. Fresh air flowed in through the snorkel tube and was drawn into the fan room and pumped throughout the submarine. Stale odors broke apart as the cold, sweet air rushed in. Galinin saw that the final connections were completed and then led Ligichev and Ivanna back into the officers’ mess. Hot coffee was waiting.

Ivanna let herself be led. She was subdued, her face drawn and tight. “It’s been too long,” she said to her father. “He’s not coming back.”

Ligichev steered her into a seat. “I’m sorry, my dear,” he said sadly.

Galinin said, “It was a heroic feat. He saved us all. He deserves a medal.”

“Screw your medal,” Ivanna said bitterly. But what did it matter now? Her head sagged into her arms on the table. “Maybe his family will want it. Do as you please.”

“Yes, all right,” said Galinin. “Comrade Ligichev?”

“Yes?” The scientist looked away from his daughter. Galinin looked like a man with something on his mind.

“Comrade, I am sure preparations to tow us will be under way shortly. I do not know how the Americans will treat us. The future is unclear to me. I just wanted to say… to say…”

Ligichev saw him look for words and fail to find the right ones. In light of Pytor’s sacrifice he wanted to be kind. “Please… I think I know how you feel, Comrade Captain. It has been a difficult voyage. We are lucky to have survived.” He held out his hand. “We’ll forget the past. We’ve all kept our promises as best we could.”

Galinin took his hand. “Promises. Yes, in the end we must always keep those. Thank you for understanding, Comrade.”

Galinin left. Ligichev stood there, thinking. Galinin seemed… grave. Ligichev didn’t know how to put it any other way. Perhaps he was disturbed by the loss of Pytor. But still, it was the nature of human beings to be selfish, and their rescue was a great relief. If anything, Galinin looked as if his burden was now heavier.

Ligichev sat down next to his daughter waiting for the inevitable. She was a fine girl, strong and bright, but she had lost her love. When the tears finally came he held her and murmured the things fathers say to their daughters when life and men have hurt them. But even as he held her he couldn’t help wondering about the captain.

Why, at the last, when he shook hands, did it feel so much as if he was saying good-bye?