Under the Ice

Chapter Nine

Barely three hours after Captain Sergei Markova and his senior lieutenant got the unexpected call that sent them sprinting from Sergei’s Murmansk apartment, the Neva was steaming out of its sub pen at Polyarny. With barely enough time to change from their civilian clothing, the two senior officers coordinated the rushed departure that brought the last of the Neva’s eighty-five crew members on board with only twenty minutes to spare before the mooring lines were loosed.

Still not certain where they were ultimately headed, Sergei followed the orders that had him chart a course into the Barents Sea, between the island of Svalbard and Franz Josef Land. Authorized to travel at its top speed of forty two knots, the Neva’s progress was swift, and twenty-four hours after the vessel set sail, it had attained the edge of the Arctic ice pack.

From the vessel’s highly automated attack center, Sergei Markova made certain that there was plenty of spare room between the top of the Neva’s stubby sail and the deepest of the inverted ice ridges. Only when he was confident that such a safe depth had been attained did he look to his watch, and then address his second-in-command, who was standing at the nearby plotting table.

“It looks like it’s just about time to be off to the wardroom, Viktor Ilyich.”

“But what should we do about our course?” countered the puzzled senior lieutenant. “We’ve completed the first leg of our transit, and still find ourselves without a clear-cut destination.”

“Patience, Viktor. I’m certain that’s why Admiral Kharkov called this conference in the first place.”

“So the old fox is finally going to emerge from his den,” observed Viktor Ilyich Belenko. “I can’t believe that we’ve been at sea a whole twenty-four hours and he hasn’t shown himself even once.”

“It’s obvious that our esteemed Admiral of the Fleet hasn’t merely been pining away in my quarters with a severe case of seasickness,” offered Sergei. “Our Zampolit has been bringing him a constant stream of dispatches and charts ever since we left port.”

The senior lieutenant smirked.

“I bet Konstantin Zinyagin hasn’t worked so hard since basic training. Why from what I understand, our Political Officer even brings the admiral his meals!”

“It’s about time Zinyagin did his fair share of work around here, Viktor. But that’s immaterial. Now, shall we go see what this great mystery is all about?”

As Viktor beckoned him to lead the way, Sergei Markova crisply exited the hushed attack center and headed toward the aft portion of the one-hundred-and-ten-meter-long vessel. The narrow passageway that they were soon transiting was lined with storage lockers and snaking, stainless steel cables. To the muted whine of the Neva’s single shaft, geared steam turbines throbbing in the distance, they passed by the locked radio room and ducked through a double-thick hatch that brought them to their desired destination.

The officer’s wardroom consisted of a large oval-shaped mahogany table around which eight upholstered chairs were placed. The haunting strains of Borodin’s “In the Steppes of Central Asia” emanated from the mounted stereo speakers and the two senior officers seated themselves at the vacant table. Sergei Markova’s customary place was at the head, yet because of the high rank of their special guest, protocol guided him to take the seat directly opposite this position. Viktor Belenko sat down on his right and cautiously whispered.

“I tell you, Sergei, I don’t like what’s going on here one bit. To me, it has all the trappings of a conspiracy.”

The captain responded, also taking extra care to keep his voice low.

“Your fears are noted, comrade. But I still find them completely groundless. For what kind of conspiracy can take place on a ship when its two senior officers aren’t even involved?”

“Admiral of the Fleet Kharkov is not the type of man to take lightly,” warned Viktor. “And you mustn’t underestimate our Zampolit. Konstantin Zinyagin might not be much of a sailor, but he’s sly and crafty and that’s a dangerous combination.”

Sergei shook his head.

“I still think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

A prophetic tone flavored the senior lieutenant’s voice as he replied.

“I hope you’re right, comrade. But in this instance, my instincts tell me otherwise.”

Dismissing his subordinate’s unfounded suspicions as mere paranoia, Sergei Markova once again checked his watch. With a minute to go until the meeting was scheduled to begin, he glanced up at the colorful mural that hung on the wall before him. This expertly rendered painting showed one small portion of the river for which his command was named. Entitled The Neva at Spring, the mural displayed that section of the river lying immediately east of the city of Leningrad. Here the Neva cut through a tract of wild marshland.

As it so happened, Sergei had visited this exact same spot several years before, while he was a cadet at Leningrad’s Frunze Naval Academy. Having been born and raised near the Black Sea resort city of Odessa, this trip to Leningrad proved to be his first visit to the north. He found himself particularly fascinated by the swamps and marshes that Peter the Great had first tried to tame almost three centuries ago, and made an effort to get out into the countryside whenever possible. One fair day in May, Sergei’s wanderings had brought him to the same section of riverbank that currently graced the wardroom’s wall. On that magical morning, he’d been able to view the same magnificent landscape that had inspired the mural’s creator. He’d seen the swirling blue current, the stunted birches that hugged the Neva’s wide banks, and the immense fields of blooming red poppies that filled the landscape with their vibrant color. He had been sincerely touched by this inspirational vista, and when he’d come across the exact same scene gracing the wardroom of his first command almost a decade later, Sergei had taken this as an excellent omen.

So far, the vessel had not let him down. The Neva was a submariner’s dream. Packed with the most advanced equipment the Motherland had to offer, and manned by an experienced, handpicked crew, the Neva proved herself time after time to be a first-rate warship. And thus it was only fitting that she be named after the great river that brought life to the people of Leningrad.

Sergei’s ponderings were abruptly broken by the arrival of the ship’s Zampolit. Konstantin Zinyagin strode into the wardroom with all the self-important airs of an Oriental potentate. With his dark, bushy brows, beady eyes, clipped mustache, and short, pointed beard, he resembled Socialism’s great founder, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. Yet this was as far as the physical similarity went, for the Political Officer was not only the smallest man on the Neva, but the plumpest as well. As he placed the assortment of rolled-up charts he held in his pudgy hands down on the table, the Zampolit stepped aside and stiffened his portly frame to attention. Seconds later. Admiral of the Fleet Kharkov emerged from the aft hatchway.

In vast contrast to Konstantin Zinyagin, Mikhail Kharkov was tall, trim, and aristocratic. Only his snow-white hair gave away his advanced years as he acknowledged the two senior officers with an alert nod.

“Good morning, Captain Markova, Senior Lieutenant Belenko,” greeted the admiral. “Please join me for some tea and then we can get on with the briefing.”

Impatiently looking over at the Zampolit, Mikhail Kharkov implored.

“The tea. Comrade Zinyagin!”

“Of course,” stuttered the Zampolit. Then he clapped his hands twice.

This signal brought forth a white-coated steward carrying a silver tray holding four cups of tea and a platter of sweet rolls. Only when this steward pivoted and disappeared back into the passageway did the admiral seat himself at the head of the table, clear his throat, and continue.

“First off, I’d like to take this opportunity to personally thank you for giving up your cabin, Captain Markova. These old bones have found your cot quite comfortable, and the privacy of your stateroom has provided a most conducive work environment.”

“Your thanks are not needed, Admiral,” returned Sergei Markova. “It is an honor to have you aboard, and the best that the Neva has to offer is yours, sir.”

“You are a most gracious host. Captain,” replied the white-haired veteran. “Having captained a submarine, I realize how awkward such an unexpected visit can be. I do hope that you haven’t been too inconvenienced.”

Sergei briefly caught Viktor’s curious gaze before responding.

“Actually, I’m using the extra bunk in Senior Lieutenant Belenko’s cabin. As long as he can put up with my snoring, I should get along just fine.”

“Excellent.” The Admiral of the Fleet reached out for his teacup and thoughtfully stirred the amber-colored liquid.

“I must admit that these past twenty-four hours have been quite stimulating. Though I’ve seen precious little of the submarine, I can’t get over how smoothly things are run around here. This efficiency is only one of the reasons why the Neva has been selected from all the vessels in the fleet for this all-important mission.”

As he took a sip of his tea, the veteran introspectively grinned.

“Thirty-three years ago, when I had the honor of taking the first nuclear-powered November Class submarine to sea, vessels such as the Neva were but a dream. But through an unprecedented effort, our brilliant engineers somehow made this dream come true, and in ships such as this one, the fantasy has been realized.

“Because of the great advances of the last three decades, I can reveal the details of our present mission with full confidence that our difficult goal can be achieved. For the Neva has been picked to undertake a perilous journey deep into the frozen waters of the enemy. It is a mission in which failure of any sort can’t be accepted, as the future security of the Motherland rests in our hands!”

Noting that he had his audience’s rapt attention, Mikhail Kharkov continued.

“Two days ago, the plane carrying our beloved Premier, Alexander Suratov, disappeared off the northern coast of Baffin Island. The Bear-E recon plane that was sent up to monitor the Flying Kremlin on its flight to Ottawa, watched the Il-76 drop off its radar screens. No further contact of any type was established with the Flying Kremlin, and it is presumed to have crashed with the subsequent loss of all aboard. Now the question is, was this tragedy the result of a mechanical failure, or was another party responsible for the death of our great leader?

“According to the instructions of our Defense Minister, General Ivan Zarusk, I initiated an immediate investigation in an effort to answer this question, and the facts I soon uncovered were shocking. Fifteen minutes before the Il–76 dropped from the radar screens a final time, a flight of two American F-15 Eagles took off from Thule, Greenland, with afterburners fully engaged. At this same time, a top-secret NORAD radar installation known as Polestar was monitored directing a powerful beam of electronic interference toward the Flying Kremlin. It is my supposition that this activity was not an innocent probe, but signaled a deliberate attempt by both the Americans and the Canadians to jam the Il-76’s sensors, while the F-15’s proceeded to blast our aircraft out of the skies with a Phoenix air-to-air missile.”

“Why, that’s incredible!” dared Viktor Belenko. “Wouldn’t such a thing be a direct act of war?”

The admiral sneered sardonically.

“It certainly would, Senior Lieutenant. But before we can answer this act of cold-blooded murder with a suitable response, the members of the Politburo have asked me to provide them with concrete evidence proving it was a willful act of Imperialist aggression that sent the Flying Kremlin plummeting down to the frozen ice fields below. And with the Neva’s invaluable help, I intend to do just that.”

The veteran only had to snap his fingers a single time to get Konstantin Zinyagin into action. With sweat rolling down his flushed forehead, the stocky Zampolit unfolded one of the charts he had brought along, and spread it out on the table. Both of the submarine’s senior officers recognized this map as an exact twin of the polar projection currently gracing the Neva’s chart table.

After consuming a mouthful of tea, the admiral continued.

“If I’m not mistaken, taking into account the course which I relayed to you at the beginning of our journey, and the fact that we have been traveling at flank speed, our current position should be somewhere between Svalbard and Franz Josef Land. If we continued on this same course, in another twenty hours or so, we’d be transiting directly beneath the North Pole. Long before we reach the Pole, it is my intention that the Neva turn toward Cape Morris Jesup and the Lincoln Sea. Here we will penetrate the Nares Strait between the western coast of Greenland and Ellesmere Island. Utilizing such a direct route, we will enter Baffin Bay and be in perfect position to access the frozen waters of Lancaster Sound.”

“Excuse me. Admiral,” interrupted Sergei Markova. “But I question the wisdom of using the route you just mentioned. The Nares Strait is not only extremely narrow with treacherous currents, it is also littered with American and Canadian SOSUS arrays. Such undersea hydrophones will surely pick up the Neva as we initiate our transit. Wouldn’t it be more prudent to approach Lancaster Sound from the other direction, by way of the M’Clurc Straits?”

Quick to support Sergei was his senior lieutenant.

“I agree with the captain. Three months ago, the Neva attempted to penetrate the Nares Strait and enter the waters of Baffin Bay undetected. After carefully skirting the known SOSUS station at Alert, off the northeastern coast of Ellesmere Island, we activated our anechoic masking system and cautiously continued southward. Yet for all our circumspection, waiting for us as we entered Baffin basin was a US Navy P-3 Orion that was able to tag us with an active sonobuoy on its very first pass. Surely this indicates that no matter how stealthily we might travel, the Nares Strait’s SOSUS line will be able to pick us up.”

“I appreciate the wise feedback, comrades,” Admiral Kharkov responded. “And under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t hesitate to heed your excellent advice. But we currently find ourselves in a situation where time is of the essence. For it’s imperative that we reach Lancaster Sound with all due haste.”

“But the American’s will be waiting for us,” repeated Viktor.

“To hell with the Americans!” exclaimed Mikhail Kharkov passionately. “I don’t give a damn if their SOSUS line does indeed pick us up, for we’ll be in and out of there long before the pathetic Imperialists will be able to react to our presence.”

Again the admiral snapped his fingers, and in instant response, Konstantin Zinyagin once more unfolded another chart. This one was of a meteorological variety, and as the two senior submariners looked on, Mikhail Kharkov was quick to explain it.

“Please note the series of tight circular lines that are located off the northern coast of Baffin Island. This unique pattern is indicative of an intense low-pressure system. The chart that you see before you was compiled from data relayed to the Neva by way of the Salyut space station Red Flag. It is less than three hours old, and shows a storm of great magnitude, currently stalled over the waters of Lancaster Sound. Since it appears that this powerful system will be influencing the region for at least forty-eight more hours, we can forget about the threat of encountering any type of observation from above. No airman in his right mind would brave such a blizzard. And concerning the possibility of meeting up with a surface vessel, I think this photo speaks for itself.”

Quick to take the hint, the Zampolit uncovered a large glossy, black and white photograph and handed it to Sergei Markova. As Belenko leaned over to take a look at the picture, the Admiral of the Fleet continued his narrative.

“What you are now seeing has also been relayed to us by Red Flag; I took the liberty of bringing it along with me from Murmansk Fleet headquarters. Taken two days ago, it shows the Canadian Coast Guard cutter, Louis St. Laurent, hopelessly trapped in the ice to the west of Lancaster Sound. This pitifully weak icebreaker is the only ship in the entire Imperialist fleet that could possibly give us any trouble. And unless the spring thaw comes six months early this year, the Neva won’t have to worry about sharing these waters with a boatload of crazed Canucks.”

As he placed the photograph back on the wardroom table, Sergei Markova voiced himself.

“This is all rather fascinating. Admiral. But I still don’t understand why it’s so urgent for us to get into the waters of Lancaster Sound.”

“Of course you don’t, Captain,” Kharkov answered. “But if you’ll hear me out a bit longer, all your confusion will soon be gone.”

Pushing his chair back and standing at this point, the white-haired veteran continued, his voice strong with conviction.

“Taking it for granted that the Neva will successfully reach Lancaster Sound in the minimum amount of time, I will need five members of the crew. These men have got to be tough enough to take an inordinate amount of physical punishment, and they must have resolute characters. They will be outfitted with special Arctic survival gear that has already been brought onto the ship, and will leave the Neva under my command, once the vessel has surfaced in a suitable polynya.

“At this point I will utilize a directional homing device to locate the Flying Kremlin’s cockpit voice recorder, or, as it is more commonly known, its black box. Such an instrument contains a specially constructed cassette tape on which a full account of the flight is recorded. Hopefully this black box can be located before its battery pack runs low, and the ultrasonic beacon it continually projects stops transmitting. The Salyut space station Red Flag has already picked up this signal, and has definitely traced its origin to somewhere on the northern shore of Baffin Island. Unfortunately, these were the most accurate coordinates that could be relayed to us.”

“How long before this battery is scheduled to fail?” questioned Sergei.

Glad to see that the captain was following him, the admiral replied.

“The best estimate gives us another seventy-two hours before the transmissions stop.”

“Then no wonder it’s so important we get there with such haste,” reflected Viktor Belenko.

“Precisely, comrade,” responded Mikhail Kharkov, as a hint of gathering excitement flavored his tone. “If the fates are with us, then the black box will be successfully retrieved. And once it’s conveyed back to the Neva, I will be able to complete an almost-instant analysis of the tape’s composition by using the ship’s computer and a special software program that is curntly locked in my cabin’s safe. Within minutes, we’ll soon enough know the true nature of the disaster that led to our Premier’s tragic passing. And if it’s indeed learned that a Yankee missile was responsible for the Flying Kremlin’s demise, then the Neva’s next mission will be one of pure revenge!”

These last words rang out with a threatening intensity, and as the Neva’s two senior officers shared the briefest of concerned glances, the wardroom’s intercom rang. Without hesitating, Viktor Belenko reached out for the nearby plastic handset.

“Senior Lieutenant, here … Why of course, Chief. You may stand down from flank speed at once. I’ll join you in the engine room to assess the situation.”

No sooner did Viktor hang up the handset than Admiral Kharkov exploded with rage.

“How dare you cut the Neva’s speed! Haven’t you been listening to a single thing I’ve said?”

Barely paying this outburst any attention, Viktor stood and directly addressed Sergei Markova.

“That was Chief Engineer Koslov, Captain. It seems we’ve got a problem in the engine room. The main seal to the propeller shaft is leaking.”

Immediately standing himself, Sergei quickly backed up his subordinate’s decision.

“You acted correctly by allowing the chief to cut our speed, Senior Lieutenant. If this leak is a serious one, and we ignore it, this mission may well be over long before it’s even started. Come on, comrade, let’s get down there and inspect the damages.”

As the two officers rushed off toward the aft portion of the boat. Admiral of the Fleet Mikhail Kharkov vainly tried to control his rising frustration.

Directly meeting the empty look projected from the Political Officer’s beady eyes, the white-haired veteran vented his anger.

“Well don’t just stand there like a complete moron, Comrade Zinyagin! Show me the quickest route to the engine room. And for the Motherland’s sake, don’t tarry! Why, this entire operation could be in jeopardy!”

Thusly motivated, the Zampolit led Mikhail Kharkov through the aft hatchway. The sweat was pouring off his forehead as he tried his best to lengthen his short stride. Yet try as he could to quicken his pace, the seventy-six-year-old veteran remained glued to his heels as Konstantin Zinyagin sprinted down a narrow passageway and began to descend a steep ladder. His palms were so wet that once his grasp faltered, and as the ladder’s steel rung slipped out of his right fingers, he found himself hanging precariously by his left hand only.

“Can’t you do anything right, you uncoordinated idiot!” screamed the Admiral of the Fleet from above.

Desperately flailing out with his free hand to steady himself, the Political Officer’s grasp made contact with a vacant rung, and with his heart pounding away in his chest, he hung to it for a moment to regather his nerve. Yet a furious command all too soon had him resuming his downward climb.

“Move it, you fool! Or so help me, I’ll climb right over you!”

By the time they reached the engine room, Konstantin Zinyagin feared that he might keel over from a coronary. The out-of-shape Zampolit’s wheezing breaths were pained and irregular, while a tight knot had gathered in the left portion of his chest.

Completely oblivious to the Political Officer’s condition, Admiral Kharkov expertly surveyed the chaotic scene before him. All of the action was focused on the extreme aft section of the compartment, where the end of the propeller shaft penetrated the hull. Here a geyser of water shot through the air. A half-dozen soaked seamen were gathered beside the shaft and the excess water was already well over their ankles.

On the catwalk beside these sailors. Captain Markova and his senior lieutenant could be seen. Both of these officers had flashlights in hand, and were angling the narrow beams of their battery-powered torches on the area of the hull where the faulty seal was located.

“Get those bilge pumps working. Chief!” cried Sergei Markova forcefully.

One of the seamen who had been gathered on the deck below the captain waved in response to this command. He was a barrel-chested, giant of a man, with bulging biceps and a short spiky crewcut. Ignoring the soaking that he was getting, the Chief turned around to head for the emergency pump activation switch. Yet as he pivoted, he lost his footing and fell awkwardly to the soaked deck with a splash. When he didn’t immediately pick himself up out of the water, Admiral Kharkov sensed that he could have had the wind knocked out of him. In such a compromising position, lying in the water as the chief was, a common injury could become most serious, yet his shipmates had turned their attention back to the leaking seal and seemed completely ignorant of their comrade’s plight.

It was like a scene from a nightmare: the Admiral of the Fleet screamed out to the sailors, but the constantly spraying water effectively veiled his shouts of warning. Prepared to pull the downed seaman off the deck himself, Kharkov was just about to intervene when the Neva’s captain bolted over the catwalk he had been standing on. With long, fluid strides Sergei Markova sloshed over the wet deck, reached the injured seaman’s side, and bent down to assist him.

The fallen man was soon sitting up on his own, rubbing the side of his head, and coughing up the water he had swallowed. Not stopping to celebrate this fact, the young captain, who was now thoroughly soaked, turned his attention back to the leak.

“Try backing up the shaft, Viktor!” screamed Markova to his senior lieutenant. “Perhaps that will plug the seal.”

The admiral breathlessly watched as the Neva’s second-in-command sprinted over to the annunciator.

Seconds later, the shaft began spinning in reverse, and as the sub’s huge propeller bit into the surrounding seawater, the Neva shook wildly and trembled with such force that Mikhail Kharkov had to reach out to a nearby bulkhead to steady himself.

Cowering at the admiral’s side, the Zampolit looked at the veteran mariner, his eyes filled with horror, and somehow found the words to express his worst fears.

“And to think that all this is happening while we’re under the ice. We’ll never be able to get to surface again!”

Kharkov was all set to slap some sense into the cowardly Political Officer when a torrent of water exploded from the still-spinning shaft. This geyser shot through the air like a tidal wave, and with his own uniform now thoroughly soaked. Admiral Mikhail Kharkov sensed that something was seriously wrong. The roar of the spinning propeller rose to an almost deafening crescendo, and with the hull still wildly vibrating around him, the white-haired veteran found his own gut tightening with fear. For the first time since the closing days of the Great War, when an exploding Nazi depth charge almost sent his command to the bottom, he prepared himself for a painful but quick, watery death.

It was at that exact moment the leak sealed itself.

With the sound of spraying water suddenly absent, Captain Sergei Markova’s voice rang out clear and true.

“Stop the shaft, Viktor!”

As the senior lieutenant faithfully carried out this directive, the mad vibration finally halted. Noting that only a small trickle of water was now seeping through the seal, Kharkov listened as the Neva’s captain cried out forcefully.

“All ahead two-thirds, Viktor. She’ll hold now, I can just feel it!”

Once more the shaft began rotating. Yet this time as it started rapidly spinning, the trickle of leaking water stopped flowing completely. As the young captain had said, the seal had indeed held — the crisis was over!

Exhaling a grateful breath of relief, Admiral of the Fleet Mikhail Kharkov looked down to the man responsible for their salvation. Sergei Markova stood on the still partially flooded deck, his blue-eyed stare locked on the spinning shaft. With his wet blond hair slicked back off his forehead, the captain looked strikingly handsome, like a movie actor playing out a scene in a remarkably accurate set.

A sudden feeling of pride swelled in the old warrior’s chest. He had picked Sergei Markova to be a winner when the man was but a cadet in postgraduate school. As a secret patron, Mikhail had guided the young officer’s career from its very start, and he had been an instrumental force in getting Markova his current command. Certain now that he had picked the right man for the all-important mission that faced them, the white-haired veteran turned to head for his cabin and a change of clothing.