Under the Ice

Chapter Ten

The storm struck Arctic Bay soon after the Aurora CP-140 aircraft carrying Lieutenant Jack Redmond and his squad of Rangers landed at the settlement’s primitive airport. With the gathering winds already beginning to strengthen in velocity, the commandoes hurriedly unpacked their gear. As Jack Redmond supervised this effort, his sergeant-major rushed into the adjoining town to see about getting the services of a dog team and sled to lead them across the ice fields.

The Rangers were in the process of carefully carrying their six snowmobiles out of the plane’s cargo bay and down onto the windswept tarmac when a short, powerfully built figure approached them. Dressed in a heavy, down-filled parka and wearing a distinctive dark blue hat, this individual climbed up into the plane’s rear cabin and quickly cornered the squad’s commanding officer.

“Excuse me, sir. You must be Jack Redmond. I’m Lieutenant Bill Elliot, the local representative of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Welcome to Arctic Bay.”

Redmond accepted the Mountie’s firm handshake and replied.

“Thank you. Lieutenant Elliot. Looks like we got here just in time to beat this storm. Eh?”

“You certainly did,” returned the Mountie. “From what I understand, it’s going to be a real bad one. In fact, if this Aurora doesn’t get airborne in a hurry, they’ll be staying right here for at least the next thirty-six hours. May I ask what your exact plans are? The telephone briefing I got was a bit sketchy.”

With the wind howling in the background, and his men scurrying around them to unload the supplies, Redmond answered.

“We’re off for the northern portion of the Brodeur Peninsula. Seems Ottawa feels the plane carrying the Soviet Premier could have gone down here, and we’ve been dispatched to search for any debris that would prove it did. We’re particularly interested in finding the aircraft’s cockpit voice recorder.”

“Sounds like you’ve certainly got your work cut out for you,” reflected the Mountie. “Where do you plan on staying until the blizzard passes? We can’t offer much in the way of accommodations here, but I think the school gymnasium could be outfitted with enough mattresses to hold you and your men.”

Jack Redmond shook his head.

“That won’t be necessary. Lieutenant. You see, we’ll be leaving for the Brodeur Peninsula within the hour.”

A look of total disbelief came to the Mountie’s face.

“You can’t be serious! Perhaps you didn’t understand, but we’ve got a nasty low-pressure system moving in from Lancaster Sound even as we speak. Not far north of here, the winds have already been clocked at over sixty miles per hour, meaning plenty of blowing snow and temperatures well below minus thirty degrees.”

“I understand all too well, Lieutenant Elliot. But our orders don’t allow us the luxury of waiting for this blizzard to vent itself. We have no alternative but to proceed as directed.”

The Mountie still seemed flustered by what he was hearing.

“Good Lord, man, this is ridiculous! This storm has all the makings of a killer, and it’s sheer lunacy to challenge it. Wouldn’t it be wise to first give your commander a call and inform him of the situation up here before needlessly putting your lives on the line?”

“I sincerely wish I could do just that. Lieutenant. But my current orders come right from the Prime Minister’s office, and I’m not about to call Ottawa to give them a blooming weather report! No, my friend. I’ve been instructed to get up there as quickly as possible, and I intend to do just that.”

Easing off, the Mountie reflected.

“Perhaps the Prime Minister has reason to believe there could be some survivors up there, though this is certainly the first I’ve heard of it.”

“Who can say?” retorted Redmond, softening his tone a bit. “But orders are orders, and as Arctic Rangers, my men are prepared to take on just about anything that Mother Nature can throw our way. Thanks for your concern. Lieutenant, and now if you’ll excuse me, I’d better give the lads some help with the rest of the gear. Otherwise, this plane crew is going to be stuck up here longer than they had anticipated.”

“May God be with you,” offered the Mountie, who continued on to the flight deck, leaving Redmond free to assist four of his men as they unloaded the last of the snowmobiles.

Outside the plane’s rather comfortable cabin, frigid air swirled with a breathtaking intensity. Snow flurries were already beginning to fall as a line of dark, lowlying clouds gathered on the northern horizon.

“Corporal Eviki, have the men start loading up the snow cats with our supplies!” Redmond shouted over the howling wind. “Divide the food and ammunition up equally. That way if we lose a vehicle, the others will keep us going.”

As the Inuit got on with this task, Redmond was forced to pull up the collar of his parka when a bitingly cold blast of stinging air hit him full in the face. His exposed cheeks and forehead felt as if they had been slapped, and Redmond momentarily considered the Mountie’s words of warning. Yet his ponderings were brief for a voice cried out from the direction of the airplane.

“This is the last of our gear. Lieutenant!”

The soldier responsible for this revelation jumped down onto the runway with two white nylon backpacks in hand. He was followed by Bill Elliot of the RCMP.

“Lieutenant Redmond, you’re going to have to clear your men from the area,” directed the Mountie. “The crew of the Aurora is going to try to get their bird skyward.”

Signaling that he understood, Redmond informed his men of the air crew’s intentions. As soon as the squad gathered together beside the corrugated steel Jamesway hut that served as the airport’s main terminal, the first of the plane’s engines was started. Three others turned over in quick succession, their grinding roar all but swallowed by the howling wind.

By this time the snow was falling so heavily that Jack Redmond had to pull down his protective goggles in order to watch the plane taxi out to the ice-covered runway. The pilot of the Aurora, obviously wasting as little time as possible, opened up the throttles and the aircraft lunged forward. It seemed to take forever for it to pick up speed. In fact, the plane was well over halfway down the runway’s length before its wheels finally parted from the icy pavement. Though a particularly violent downdraft sent the lumbering vehicle abruptly back to the earth, it’s stubborn crew fought off the elements and with a roaring whine the plane seemed to leap off the runway and soar into the cloud-filled heavens. Seconds later, it had disappeared.

“That was cutting it too close for comfort,” observed the relieved Mountie. “Now are you certain you won’t reconsider and at least wait until the brunt of this storm passes.”

Jack Redmond responded by cupping his hands around his mouth and calling out forcefully.

“All right you shirkers, mount ‘em up! We’ve got us some traveling to do!”

The Mountie could only shrug his shoulders, as Redmond issued a crisp salute and turned for the lead snowmobile. With a practiced eye, the senior commando double-checked the gear that had been stored inside the locker located beneath the vehicle’s one-piece, molded-plastic seat. He counted four M16 rifles, a dozen clips of spare ammunition, a carton of field rations, a compact butane stove, and several tightly rolled, heavy woolen blankets. Satisfied that all looked in order, he slammed down the seat, locked it in place, and checked the dashboard-mounted fuel gauge. Finding the tank barely three-quarters of the way full, he turned and shouted.

“Corporal Eviki, you’d better top off these tanks until they’re overfull! It’s going to be a long way until we reach the next service station.”

While his alert subordinate sprinted off to the adjoining hangar to find a gas can. Jack Redmond inspected the storage compartments of the five remaining snow cats Each of the vehicles were packed almost exactly like his own, except for the last one in line. Instead of spare food or ammunition, this one held a single elongated crate. Inside this padded carton was a battery-powered directional receiver. Such a device would be needed once they reached their ultimate destination and began the search for the black box.

The sudden barking of dogs drew Redmond’s attention. He looked up and expectantly scanned the compound.

The blowing snow made visibility poor. Yet as the barking grew progressively louder, he viewed the dim outline of a team of harnessed huskies headed toward him. Like a ghostly apparition, the dogs momentarily disappeared in a veil of thick, white snowflakes, only to reappear again, this time with a sled clearly visible behind them. Standing on the runners of this sled was a single figure clad in a fur parka.

With an expert snap of his wrist, he utilized a long, rawhide whip to motivate the team, whose frantic pace further quickened.

It had been a long time since Jack Redmond had seen such a team in action. During his childhood, dog sleds were a common sight, particularly in the wintertime. The arrival of the gasoline-powered snowmobile had signaled the doom of such a means of transportation, and today the sleds were all but obsolescent.

Memories of his childhood rose in his consciousness, and a grin painted Redmond’s face as the sled pulled to a halt beside him. The dogs whined with excitement as the team’s driver stepped off the sled.

Only when the man pulled back his fur-covered hood and removed his goggles did Redmond identify this previously mysterious personage as his sergeant-major.

“Sorry it took so long. Lieutenant. But it took a bit of convincing to get my uncle to part with his dogs.”

“I’m surprised he gave them up, especially to a nephew he hasn’t seen in almost fifteen years,” Redmond replied while inspecting the sled. It was of fairly modern construction, with a pair of razor-sharp, steel runners and an elongated, wooden-slat storage compartment.

“I’m afraid the price was pretty stiff though,” Cliff Ano added. “Not only did I have to promise to bring the team back in decent shape, I had to swear that if anything happened to them, I’d come up to Arctic Bay on my leave time and work for my uncle until the debt was repaid. Talk about driving a hard bargain!”

Redmond chuckled.

“By the way, that’s some parka you’re wearing.”

“That’s compliments of my aunt,” returned the Inuit. “It’s my oldest cousin’s actually. Made out of caribou hide on the outside, with a sealskin lining. One thing for certain, it’s a lot warmer than the Army-issue parka I had to trade for it.”

Redmond peered out to the roiling line of dark clouds blowing in from the north.

“It looks like you’re going to need that parka, Sergeant-Major. This storm has got all the brewings of a full-force blizzard.”

“The dogs don’t seem to mind it,” the Inuit commented as he replaced his glasses and pulled up his hood. “What’s the matter. Lieutenant, are you starting to have second doubts about taking off now?”

“I’d be a liar if I told you such a thought hadn’t crossed my mind, Sergeant-Major. The trip we’re about to undertake is going to be hazardous enough even without this damn storm.”

Not used to hearing his senior officer so readily express his fears, Cliff Ano interjected, “Things could be worse. Lieutenant. My uncle tells me he was out on the Brodeur Peninsula a little less than three weeks ago, and even then Admiralty Inlet was frozen as solid as a hockey rink. Though we might have a few snowdrifts to contend with, at least that portion of our trip should go smoothly.”

“I hope to God that you’re right, Sergeant-Major — and that we haven’t bitten off more than we can chew.”

The Inuit seemed surprised by such a statement.

“Come now. Lieutenant. Have you already forgotten that we’re Arctic Rangers, the best damn soldiers in the northland? Why no task is impossible for Canada’s best!”

Redmond’s grin was a sarcastic one.

“Thanks for the pep talk, Sergeant-Major. And with that said, how about getting this bunch of ragtag malcontents on the road?”

As he fit on the white ski mask he had stuffed into his parka’s pocket, Jack Redmond turned to check on the status of his squad. The majority of the men were huddled behind the Jamesway hut, using its rounded south face as a windbreak. Corporal Eviki was in the process of gassing up the last of the snow cats and seeing this, Redmond boomed out loudly.

“Gentlemen, it’s show time! Mount up, and get those engines purring! We’ll be forming a single line behind the sergeant-major. The going might be slow, but it’s a hell of a lot better than dropping off into an open lead of water. So keep your formation tight, and hit those sirens the second you run into any trouble. Otherwise we might never be able to find you again. Do I make myself absolutely clear?”

Looking like heavy-handed ghosts in their white parkas and snow pants, the squad sprinted out to their individual vehicles. One by one the ignitions were triggered, and for a second the high-pitched whines of six engines rose above the incessant roar of the wind. Yet the howling gusts all too soon took precedence as the drivers shifted their vehicles into gear and followed the dogsled out of the compound and into the swirling wall of snow that lay beyond.

Petty Officer First Class Stanley Roth was at his wit’s end. As the headphone-clad senior sonar technician sat at the console with dozens of dials staring back at him, he found his thoughts were far away from his current duties. That throbbing, never-ending pain in his tooth was so unbearable he felt as if the entire top of his head was going to erupt.

Hardly paying the least bit of attention to the conglomeration of sounds being conveyed through his headphones. Roth reached into his breast pocket and removed a single plastic vial. Inside this small container were a dozen pills. For a fleeting second, he toyed with the idea of popping open the vial and swallowing one of the tablets. The powerful narcotic they contained had already successfully dulled his pounding ache a number of times. Yet in each instance it had inevitably left him drained, irritable, and groggy. And besides, only a few hours later the pain would be back in all its excruciating glory!

One and a half days ago. Roth had taken his captain’s advice and had visited sickbay. Pharmacist Mate Charles Krommer had been anticipating his visit and, after initiating a cursory examination, had prescribed the mildest pain killer in his medicine chest.

With the greatest of expectations, Stanley swallowed one of these pills and went off to work. Forty-five minutes later, he was found slumped over his console, in the midst of a sound sleep that took him over ten hours to snap out of. Upon awakening, the conscientious sonar operator swore that he would somehow learn to live with the pain and would stay as far away from the pills as possible.

“Damn it!” cursed Stanley to himself as he rubbed his throbbing left jaw and resolutely stuffed the unopened vial back into his pocket.

Desperate to escape from his agony, he attempted to refocus his thoughts on his work. He sat up straight in his chair, and turned up the volume gain to his headphones a full notch. The distinctive whining crack of fracturing sea ice met his ears, and he closed his eyes in an attempt to visualize the monumental forces at work on the surface to create such a racket.

Unfortunately at about this same moment an excruciating, piercing spasm of pain flared up the left side of his jaw leaving him trembling in pure agony. It was then he realized that he had had enough.

Roth reached out for the nearby intercom handset and made two quick calls. The first one sent his replacement. Seaman Lester Warren, scrambling from his bunk. The second call pulled Pharmacist Mate Charles Krommer away from a poker game that he had been in the midst of.

“I don’t give a damn if you are on a hot streak, Krommer,” the desperate sonar technician said forcefully. “As God is my witness, you’re going to do something about this friggin’ tooth right now!”

Stanley Roth had to wait for his breathless replacement to arrive before storming off to meet the perplexed pharmacist mate in the Defiance’s sickbay.

This infrequently patronized portion of the ship contained a complete operating theater, including a dental chair. Though any number of complicated surgeries could be performed here, the crew of 107 physically fit young men rarely came down with anything more serious than a cold or the flu, so the pharmacist’s mate’s main responsibility was to monitor the radiation badges each crewman wore to insure that his exposure was kept to a minimum.

“Now are you certain you want to go through with this. Roth?” quizzed Charles Krommer as he changed into his gown and scrubbed up.

“I’m warning you, I’m not a licensed jaw breaker.”

“Of course, I’m positive!” Roth retorted passionately. “I’m telling you, Charlie, this tooth of mine is just killing me. I’ve got to do something drastic or I’m going to go stark raving bonkers!”

Quick to sense the extent of his patient’s upset, the medic attempted to calm the senior sonar technician by adopting his best chair side manner.

“Easy does it, Stan. Just settle down into the chair and relax. Though I’ve never actually extracted a tooth before, I’ve seen it done in the clinic a number of times and it didn’t look all that difficult. So just hang in there, buddy, and check out the scenery while I make a quick consultation.”

Stanley Roth took a series of deep breaths, and following the medic’s advice let his stare wander to the series of cutouts taped to the wall before him. Starting on Miss January, he attempted to lose himself in the buxom, sensuous centerfolds that had been put up to give a whole new dimension to the field of dentistry.

With the sonar technician thusly occupied. Pharmacist Mate Charles Krommer nervously picked up a manual entitled, The U.S. Navy Guide to Emergency Dental Surgery. The St. Louis native had expectations of becoming a full-fledged M.D. one day in the future.

His plan was to enroll in premedical studies at St. Louis University, where he also hoped to attend med school. To finance such an expensive endeavor, he’d enlisted in the Navy’s college plan.

After completing basic in San Diego, Krommer had been accepted into the Fleet medical program. He completed an intensive six-month course in which he learned a full range of skills including first aid, pharmacology, radiology, and elemental surgical techniques.

For an entire week, he worked as an assistant in a dental clinic, where he acquired knowledge of such basics as treating an abscess and how to temporarily fill a cavity. Yet actually taking out a tooth was a whole different ball game, and he couldn’t keep his hand from shaking slightly as he turned to the chapter marked, “Extraction.”

With the help of a fold-out diagram of the mouth, he identified the suspect tooth as being the lower left mandibular first bicuspid. He breathed a sigh of relief upon noting that this particular tooth had only a single root, and decided since it was slightly loose already, it shouldn’t be that difficult to remove. On the next page he found a list of the items he would need to facilitate his efforts. They included Xylocaine, a dental syringe and needle, a straight elevator to remove the gum from the bone around the tooth, a lower universal anterior forceps, and a dozen or more four-by-four cotton sponges. Only when he was armed with these items did he turn his attention back to his patient.

“Well Stanley, here it goes. I want you to open wide and turn your head slightly to the right.”

The sonar technician willfully obeyed these simple instructions, and Charles Krommer initiated step number one — the administration of the anesthetic.

With the syringe, he proceeded to inject that portion of the gum that surrounded the tooth. As a kid, needles had always scared the dickens out of the pharmacist’s mate, and he found himself more frightened than his patient as he carried out this far from pleasant task.

A wide, relieved smile turned the corners of the medic’s mouth as he pulled the empty syringe out and his patient awkwardly mumbled.

“Hey, Charlie, it finally stopped hurting!”

A bit more confidently, Krommer proceeded, according to the manual, to take the straight elevator and remove the gingival tissue from the tooth. He then utilized the lower anterior universal forceps, clamping it securely to the tooth. Taking a deep breath, he yanked on the forceps with a slight rotating upward movement, and, unbelievably, the tooth came right out of its socket! Before he could cry out in triumph, the blood started flowing. Here the cotton gauze sponges came into play. After instructing his patient to bite down on them, Krommer waited. In approximately five minutes the bleeding would stop, hopefully. Only then would his first venture into the fascinating world of oral surgery be completed.

Back in the sound shack. Seaman Lester Warren was completely oblivious to the historic operation that had just been concluded in the Defiance’s sick bay. Though his prayers were certainly with Petty Officer Roth, he had no time to let his thoughts wander. For the myriad of wondrous sounds that were currently streaming into the headphones were unlike any he had ever heard before. The Texan was able to identify the distinctive crackling cries of shrimp, the tremulous, vibrating barks of several species of seal, and the high-pitched clicks and mournful moans of a herd of passing narwhal.

Since this was only Warren’s second Arctic cruise, many of these noises were still new to him. Under Stanley Roth’s expert guidance, his last patrol in these waters had been a great learning experience, and today Lester readily applied his knowledge during his colleague’s conspicuous absence.

By and far the dominant noise presently passing through the sub’s hydrophones was the grinding, fracturing sound of the ice topside. This raucous racket was an overriding presence and was unique in its intensity. Try as he could, Lester had a difficult time visualizing what this sea of constantly shifting ice must look like. Back home in San Antonio, Texas, the winters were fairly mild. An ice storm occasionally paid them a visit, but this was definitely an exception to the norm. During his entire childhood, he could only remember it snowing a handful of times. Yet in each instance, he’d been one of the first kids out in the powdery white precipitation, making a snowman or having a snowball fight.

Lester was looking forward to the moment when the Defiance would surface in an open lead in the ice. At that time he planned to ask the XO for permission to go topside and check out this winter wonderland with his own eyes. Perhaps if he got lucky, he might even get a glimpse of a polar bear or a real live Eskimo! Then he’d certainly have something special to share with the folks back home during his next leave.

He would never forget the last time the Defiance attempted surfacing in these same frozen seas. He had been stationed at the very same console during the ascent, and had actually been thrown from his seat when the sub’s sail smashed into a solid wall of impenetrable ice. Fortunately, he hadn’t been injured during this unexpected collision, though several of his shipmates had.

For the last couple of days, a civilian technician had been industriously working at the sound shack’s spare computer terminal to insure that such an accident never again occurred. Dr. Laurie Lansing was one of the hardest-working women Warren had ever met. She was also one of the brightest.

During much of the time, they were the only ones in the sonar compartment, and since both of them had a sincere interest in computers, it was only natural that they discuss their shared passion at coffee breaks.

When his shipmates learned of this fact, they immediately began pestering Warren to tell them all about their newest passenger. Their incessant questions mostly had to do with her personal life, her marital status, and her exact measurements. Quick to dismiss such immature queries, Lester couldn’t understand what the guys were making such a ridiculous fuss about. Big deal if Dr. Lansing was a good-looking lady. She had her job to do just like the rest of them, and deserved her fair share of respect. And this certainly included not gawking at her as if she were some sort of sex goddess.

Lansing’s absence from the sound shack this morning probably meant that she had finally finished the project she had been working on. Either that or she had finally collapsed from sheer exhaustion. Because nobody on board the Defiance had worked as hard as she had these last couple of days.

Hoping that her laser-guided surface-scanning Fathometer would function properly this time around, Lester directed his attention back to the grinding noise of the ice pack. Like an original musical score, the natural sounds being conveyed into his headphones were unlike any other on this planet.

When combined with the unique cries of the sea life that roamed these frigid depths, a macabre symphony resulted, the likes of which his friends back in San Antonio could never begin to fathom.

In a nearby portion of this same frozen sea, a symphony of a vastly different nature was being appreciated by yet another submariner. Captain Sergei Markova had only recently returned to the stateroom he was currently sharing with the Neva’s senior lieutenant.

Having been up the entire night supervising the transit of the narrow strait through which they were traveling, he gratefully crawled into his temporary bunk to catch a few hours’ sleep.

To properly unwind after his twelve-hour duty stint, Sergei pulled out his prized Sony Walkman. Purchased in Viet Nam, while he was assigned to a Victor class attack sub stationed at Cam Rahn Bay, the portable cassette player had already provided him with hundreds of hours of musical pleasure. Thanks to its miniature headphones, he could enjoy his favorite composers without having to worry about disturbing his shipmates.

By pure chance, the young captain reached into his bag of cassettes and selected Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony. It was only as he lay back on his bunk and the first movement began unraveling that he remembered where he had heard this soulful selection last. It had been at his apartment in Murmansk, less than four days ago. This thought unleashed a flood of fond memories that seemed to have taken place in another lifetime.

He had spent a marvelous afternoon with his daughter Sasha. Dressed to the hilt in preparation for the storm that would soon be upon them, they’d made the round of the local stores. With their precious purchases in hand, they walked home in the thickly blowing snow. Once back at the apartment they were greeted by their guests, Viktor and Tanya Belenko. It had been while Viktor and Sergei sat before the fireplace that Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 5 in E minor began blaring forth from the room’s mounted radio speakers. Over drinks and appetizers, and the continually developing music, they had all joked, told stories, and relaxed in a casual atmosphere as alien to that of the Neva as day is to night.

The symphony was just reaching its spirited conclusion when the fateful phone call that was to put an abrupt end to their party came. Could Sergei ever forget the look of pained disappointment that painted the face of his dear wife as he revealed that call’s grim purpose? Viktor’s beautiful wife had been equally shocked, and when Sasha had learned that her Poppy was leaving for the sea once again, her tears had been instantaneous.

As it turned out, Sergei had had little time to share their frustrations. He’d been too busy packing his clothes and mentally formulating the long list of tasks that would have to be taken care of before the Neva was able to put to sea as ordered. He last glimpsed his beloved family as he sprinted out the lobby doors to Viktor’s waiting automobile. Even the duty woman seemed to have tears in her eyes as Sasha ran up to the frosted windows to wave one last goodbye.

From that point on, Sergei’s official military duties had occupied him completely. Yet the chance playing of one of the loveliest pieces of music ever written had unlocked precious memories, and Sergei’s heart was suddenly heavy, with a loneliness only a sailor could understand, as his heavy eyelids closed and he surrendered to his exhaustion.

He awoke an hour and a half later when a firm hand shook his shoulder. Reaching up to remove the headphones — he had fallen asleep with them on — Sergei looked up into the concerned face of his senior lieutenant.

“I’m sorry to have had to awaken you, comrade, but we’ve picked up something on sonar that I know you’ll be interested in.”

The captain replied while sitting up and wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“I bet it’s an active sonobuoy from a Yankee P-3 Orion. I knew they’d tag us the moment we exited the Nares Strait.”

Viktor Belenko shook his head.

“I’m afraid your hunch is wrong this time, old friend. For what we’ve discovered in the waters before us is not a mere sonobuoy but another submarine!”

This revelation hit Sergei with a jolt, and he was suddenly wide awake.

“You don’t say, Viktor. Any idea as to its nationality? And have they realized they’re not alone as yet?”

An excited gleam flashed in Viktor’s eyes as he answered, “The computer shows a forty-seven percent probability that this contact is an American Sturgeon class vessel. They’re apparently traveling northward in a hell of a hurry, and it appears that they have no idea we’re out here.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Sergei, who stood and hastily threw on his coveralls. “Let’s sound general quarters and see just what it is that our enemy is doing in these waters.”

“I’ve already taken the liberty of sending the men to their battle stations, comrade. Admiral of the Fleet Kharkov is anxiously waiting for us in the attack center.”

“Then we’d better be quick and join that old fox before he takes out the Yankees with a torpedo salvo,” Sergei jested, as he beckoned his subordinate to lead the way to the Neva’s control room.

A hushed, tense atmosphere prevailed in the attack center as the vessel’s two senior officers hurriedly entered and made their way to the sonar console.

Here they joined Admiral Kharkov and the Neva’s Zampolit. It proved to be the white-haired veteran who anxiously greeted the newcomers.

“Ah, it’s about time, Captain. It appears that we’ve caught ourselves an unwary Imperialist Sturgeon all right. The probability is now up to sixty-eight percent.”

With his eyes glued to the repeater screen that showed the vessel’s sound signature as a line of quivering light, Sergei Markova thoughtfully observed, “This is most unusual, comrades. It’s very rare to catch the overly cautious Americans at a sprint speed such as this. One can’t help but wonder where they’re off to in such a hurry.”

“Why that’s only too apparent,” offered Konstantin Zinyagin, as he patted his sweating jowls dry with a handkerchief. “The Sturgeon is obviously bound for the frozen waters of Lancaster Sound, just like we are.”

“The Zampolit’s observations are correct,” concurred Mikhail Kharkov. “For it’s to their advantage to retrieve the Flying Kremlin’s black box before anyone else does and reveals to the world the real cause of our beloved Premier’s tragic passing.”

“Sounds logical to me,” reflected the senior lieutenant.

His glance still riveted on the flashing repeater screen, Sergei cautiously spoke.

“Though this indeed might be the case, we must make certain to keep our minds open. Perhaps they’ve only been sent up into Baffin Bay to check on the contact that their SOSUS line picked up as we entered the Nares Strait.”

“But why travel at such an extreme velocity?” countered the alert white-haired veteran. “At their current speed, their passive sensors will be all but useless except for listening to the crackling ice above and an occasional passing whale below. No, Captain, I tell you that the Imperialists are on a mission of a much greater magnitude. And to insure that they don’t succeed, the Neva must intervene.”

“And just how do you propose to do such a thing?” questioned Sergei.

Mikhail Kharkov was quick to respond.

“Though a well-placed torpedo would be the most logical solution, there’s yet another way open to us, one that doesn’t have such bellicose overtones. I say, ram them.”

Sergei Markova was clearly astounded by this suggestion.

“I strongly disagree. Admiral. It’s much too early to determine the Sturgeon’s exact mission. By intervening at this time, the Neva could very possibly be guilty of a flagrant overreaction that many might look at as a direct act of war.”

“And what do you call shooting down the Flying Kremlin, Captain?” bitterly retorted the Admiral of the Fleet. “The Imperialists are the ones who started this whole thing. And now it’s time to begin evening the score.”

While considering these belligerent words, Sergei queried the seated sonar operator.

“What’s the contact’s range. Chief Magadan?”

The technician efficiently addressed his keyboard and as his monitor screen flashed alive, crisply answered.

“They’ve just broken the fifteen kilometer threshold, sir. At their current speed, intercept will be in another eighteen minutes.”

“Why that still leaves us with plenty of time to set up the ambush,” observed the admiral, a hint of impatience flavoring his tone. “Come to your senses, Captain, and take advantage of this one in a million opportunity that the fates have so kindly brought our way.”

Quite aware that Mikhail Kharkov could easily try to pull rank on him if he so desired, Sergei decided upon a compromise.

“Bring us down to loiter speed, Senior Lieutenant. Activate all stealth systems, and prepare the ship for a collision.”

“Then you’re going to go ahead with it?” queried the expectant admiral.

Sergei hesitated a moment before responding.

“Though I’m still not totally convinced the Americans have been sent here for the same purpose we were sent, circumspection forces me to keep our options open. If the Sturgeon is indeed headed for Lancaster Sound, she will be altering course shortly, just as we were about to do when we first picked them up. If such a course change does in fact occur, then the Neva will close in at once to stop the Americans long before they’re able to further interfere with our mission.”

Relieved by what he was hearing, the Admiral of the Fleet grinned.

“I knew that the Motherland could count on you. Captain Markova. You are a credit to your uniform.”

Ignoring this superfluous remark, Sergei addressed his senior lieutenant.

“Prepare a proper intercept vector should the American’s course turn westward, Viktor. A glancing blow of our bow directed at the stern portion of the Sturgeon should cause enough damage in their engine room to send them topside for repairs.”

As Viktor Belenko turned to the chart table, the Admiral of the Fleet beckoned Sergei to join him at the vacant weapon’s console.

“Something tells me you’ve had experience in carrying out such an unorthodox maneuver before. Captain. If I remember correctly, at the conclusion of the Neva’s second patrol you returned to Polyarny with a peculiar dent in your ship’s reinforced bow. I believe your log mentioned something about striking an uncharted coral reef while cruising deep below the Mediterranean south of Mallorca. At the time I read your report, two things immediately came to mind. The first was that to my knowledge coral is not indigenous to that portion of the Mediterranean. And the second, I couldn’t help but remember the New York Times clipping I had just received telling of an American 688 class submarine that had been involved in a serious underwater collision with an unidentified object in these same waters. I believe that poor 688 had to be towed back to the US navy base at Sicily afterward. Some say it was a miracle it was even able to ascend after it had been so violently struck. Now I wonder what on earth could have hit them like that?”

As he patiently awaited a response, Kharkov studied the face of the young captain much as a father would his son’s. Unable to escape the veteran’s clever trap, Sergei managed the barest of smiles.

“Such an incident is certainly news to me. Admiral. Although who knows, maybe it wasn’t a reef that we struck after all.”

“No, comrade, perhaps it wasn’t.” The white-haired veteran couldn’t help but respect the young officer’s coolness under fire.

“The contact is cutting its forward speed!” It was the voice of the excited sonar operator.

Quick to return to the console, both Sergei Markova and Mikhail Kharkov studied the repeater screen. The electronic line showing the contact’s screw turns had evened out dramatically, and it was obvious that the sub had substantially cut its forward velocity.

“Maybe they’ve spotted us,” offered the Zampolit, who had vigilantly remained at the sonar operator’s side.

“I don’t see how they could,” returned the captain.

“Right now the Neva’s practically dead in the water.

With our stealth system in operation, they would have to go active to even have a chance of locating us. And with our anechoic tiles in place, there’s a good chance even that tactic wouldn’t be fruitful.”

“Maybe they’ve known our position all along, and have only been playing with us,” the paranoid Political Officer said.

Sergei looked out to the repeater screen and replied, “That’s even more unlikely, Comrade Zinyagin. If you ask me, I say that within the next sixty seconds the Yankee skipper is going to reveal his intentions once and for all.”

Barely a half minute later, this prophetic remark came true when the sonar operator pressed his headphones tightly over his ears and then called out loudly for all to clearly hear, “They’re changing course, Captain! The new bearing is two-six-zero.”

“Why that’s almost due west!” exclaimed the admiral. “I told you they’d be headed for Lancaster Sound.”

“It looks like they’re after the black box all right,” observed the ship’s captain as he thoughtfully stroked his square chin. “Senior Lieutenant, put that intercept vector into the navigation computer right now. Those Yankee bastards don’t realize it as yet, but they’ve come as close to spoiling our mission as they’re going to get!”

“And this Dr. Lansing is that portion of the ship we fondly call Defiance Power and Light. You just saw the reactor compartment. This is where it’s controlled from, and where the resulting energy is transformed into steam to turn our propellers and electricity to run almost everything else.”

Matt Colter stepped aside and beckoned his attractive guest to enter the maneuvering room before him.

Laurie Lansing readily did so, and soon found herself in a relatively cramped compartment dominated by a massive console filled with dozens of gauges, switches, and dials. Three seated figures were responsible for monitoring these instruments, though the newcomer’s entrance momentarily diverted their attention from them.

Quick to bring the three back in line was the deep, firm voice that emanated from the room’s shadows.

“What the hell’s the matter with you guys? Get your eyes back on the instruments where they belong or you burns will never qualify!”

As his men instantly complied, the tall, dark, solidly built figure of Lieutenant Frystak stepped forward to greet his guests.

“Good morning. Captain. And I presume that this is Dr. Lansing?”

“You presume right,” replied the civilian as she accepted the officer’s warm handshake. “I’m sorry about the interruption.”

“Lieutenant Frystak and his men here are the guys I rely on to keep the heart of this ship pumping,” said the captain. “And speaking of the devil, so far you’ve given me everything I’ve asked for and then some, Lieutenant.”

Frystak affectionately patted a nearby instrument panel.

“It’s all in a day’s work. Captain. We were able to survive our little disaster drill and keep on line even as we reacted to that simulated steam leak in the main condenser and the fire in the auxilliary turbine unit.”

“So I noticed,” returned the captain. “You and your men deserve a hearty job well done.”

Frystak humbly nodded.

“Thanks, Captain. And by the way Dr. Lansing, how is your work progressing?”

Laurie instantly liked the straightforward engineering officer, who reminded her of a college schoolmate.

“We’ll know for sure soon enough, once the captain gives the order to surface. As of this moment, all the installation and reprogramming have been completed. Now begins the hard part, the waiting.”

“Any new system is going to have its bugs,” reflected Frystak. “If the theory’s correct, you’ll get it right eventually.”

“I hope a lot sooner than that,” retorted Laurie.

Matt Colter grinned.

“If Lieutenant Frystak and his men can keep these engines purring away as they have been, you’ll have that chance soon enough. Doctor. Now, how about having a look at the engine room? I’m sure the men there won’t mind a little company, will they, Lieutenant?”

Well aware of the crew’s undying curiosity whenever the subject of their civilian passenger came up, Frystak responded.

“I don’t think they’ll mind at all, Captain. Shall I ring the chief and let him know that you’re coming?”

Shaking his head that this wouldn’t be necessary, Colter escorted his guest through the aft hatchway.

This brought them directly into the engine room. The cavernous compartment was brightly lit, and Laurie could clearly view the massive gray turbines and the vessel’s single propeller shaft. Though the size of the equipment was impressive, its quietness was even more so.

“I thought it would be a lot noisier in here. Captain. And with all this heavy machinery crowded together like it is, what would happen if something went wrong with one of the machines buried on the bottom of all that gear?”

Matt Colter was quick with an answer.

“Practically every piece of heavy machinery you see before you can be hoisted out with a block and tackle and subsequently repaired. From the Nautilus onward, this was a feature each one of our nuclear subs was designed around. I’ve seen the wooden scale models myself, that were built showing each piece of equipment and every square inch of piping in this compartment. Such mock-ups were constructed to make certain that no piece of equipment was inaccessible.”

By this time, a small group of grease-stained sailors had realized they had company. As they did their best to tidy themselves up, they hesitantly approached the newcomers. Leading this group forward was a potbellied, crewcut sailor wearing a filthy white T-shirt.

“Good morning to ya’, Captain,” the first man said as he hitched up his trousers and tucked in the tail of his T-shirt.

Noting that the chief and his crew were unusually quiet and reserved. Matt Colter proceeded with the introductions.

“Dr. Lansing, I’d like you to meet Chief Engineer Joe Cunnetto and the best bunch of grease monkeys in the entire US Navy.”

Only after he was certain his palms were clean did the chief shyly step forward and offer his hand.

“Me and the boys would like to welcome you aboard the Defiance, Doc Lansing. Please feel free to visit anytime, day or night, that you get the hankering.”

“Why thank you. Chief,” Laurie responded. Then she pointed toward the compartment’s aft bulkhead. “Do you mind if I take a look at the way the shaft penetrates the hull? I’ve always wondered what type of seals you utilized to keep the sea out.”

Genuinely surprised by this request, Chief Cunnetto beamed proudly.

“Why of course. Doc. I’d love to show you.”

His men were gathered in a tight group close behind the chief, and when Cunnetto pivoted he practically tripped right over them.

“Don’t you good-for-nothings have some work to do? At the very least you could give a guy a little breathing room,” the chief complained.

Matt Colter fought to hold back his laughter as the sailors proceeded to trip over each other while they attempted to disperse. Yet the captain’s moment of levity was abruptly cut short by a piercing, high-pitched warbling tone, whose distinctive sound filled Colter with instant dread.

“It’s the collision alarm!” cried the chief at the top of his lungs. “To your stations, men!”

Madly grabbing out for the nearest intercom handset, the captain took in the frantic words of the Defiance’s current OOD, Lieutenant David Sanger.

“It’s another submarine. Captain! It came up on us from out of nowhere and—”

The OOD’s report was cut short by a bone-jarring collision that sent Matt Colter crashing hard to the deck. A deafening, screeching noise filled the engine room as the lights blinked off and the Defiance canted hard on to its left side. Blindly groping out in the darkness for something solid to hold on to, Colter slid hard into a prone figure pinned up against the iron railing that lined that portion of the elevated catwalk. As he tightly gripped this figure’s lean torso in an effort to keep from sliding off the passageway altogether and go slamming into the machinery stored below, an unfamiliar perfumed scent met his nostrils. And in that instant he realized that his savior was none other than Dr. Laurie Lansing.

Loosening his grip a bit. Colter knew he could do absolutely nothing until the hull stabilized and he could safely stand. Yet he did manage to whisper some words of encouragement to the woman he found himself so desperately clinging to.

“Hang in there. Doctor. This ship’s built tough and we’re not licked just yet.”

As if to emphasize these words, the emergency lights popped on, and the first thing Matt Colter’s eyes were able to focus on was the pale, terror-filled face of his civilian passenger. Doing his best to control his own panic, the captain managed a brave smile.

“At least we’ve still got lights,” he said. “That means that our power system is still on line. Now if only our hull stayed in one piece.”

The sickening sound of rushing water met his practiced ears, and Colter’s gut tightened. The deck having finally stabilized beneath them, the captain painfully got to his knees and struggled to stand erect. Bruised but still in one piece, he helped the civilian to stand.

Behind them, the deep voice of Chief Cunnetto rose strong and firm.

“It looks like the port circ pump has busted loose, men, and we’re taking in water. Get those bilge pumps going, Hardesty! And you, Mulroney, quit cowering like a baby and go get a tarp to cover the pump casing motor with, or it’ll be completely ruined!”

Imagining similar scenes occurring throughout the Defiance, the ship’s captain felt a new self-confidence.

At long last, the thousands of hours of endless practice drills would finally pay off as the men reacted to save the ship by pure rote.

With one eye on the geyser that was erupting out of the left side of the engine room, Colter limped over to the intercom.

“Control room, this is the captain. Do you have a damage report as yet?”

There was a long pause that was eventually broken by a breathless, high-pitched voice.

“This is Ensign Mitchell, sir. Lieutenant Sanger is being treated for a bad gash he suffered on his forehead, and I’ve taken over as OOD until the XO shows up.”

Ensign Ed Mitchell was the ship’s supply officer and was fresh out of sub school. Far from being a seasoned veteran, the ship’s junior-most officer was suddenly being cast into a starring role.

“What do you hear from the other stations. Ensign?” queried the anxious captain.

“It looks like we rode out the collision in one piece, sir. Though we’re still waiting to hear from the engine room where the majority of the blow was taken.”

The supply officer’s report was met by a long sigh of relief on Colter’s part.

“Well you’re hearing from the engine room right now. Ensign. It appears that we’ve lost our port circ pump, and we’re taking in a lot of water. I don’t think the bilge pumps are going to be able to handle this flooding, so I’m ordering an emergency surface.”

“But the ice. Captain,” the confused supply officer responded.

Just as Mitchell was about to continue, another individual replaced him at the microphone. The voice Colter now heard was steady and most familiar.

“Skipper, it’s the XO. Sorry about the delay in getting up here, but I had to stop and do a little first aid work while picking my way to the bridge from the wardroom.”

“Anything serious?” questioned the captain.

“Just some nasty cuts and bruises. Skipper. They’ll live. What about you? And what’s this I hear about us taking in water?”

With his glance locked on the frantic efforts of the chief and his men as they tried to stem the rush of flooding water. Matt Colter barked into the intercom.

“It’s the port circ pump, Al. The chief’s on it now, but it’s flooding pretty badly and I suggest an immediate emergency ascent.”

“Skipper, as of ten minutes ago, we had a pretty thick sheet of ice above us. Even if we did take her up, there’s no telling how close the nearest lead would be.”

Redirecting his gaze to take in the nearby figure of Dr. Lansing, Colter responded.

“This is as good a time as any to give that new laser Fathometer a try, Al.”

“Can’t do, Skipper. The Nav computers are still out, and without them that device is useless.”

“Well, crank up the old ice machine, and pray that there’s some open water close by. I’ll be up to join you as soon as I let the chief in on what we intend to do. And then I’m going to want to know what in the hell it was that hit us.”

Briefly catching Laurie Lansing’s worried stare, Matt Colter rushed down into the engine room’s flooded confines as the fight to save the Defiance began in earnest.