Under the Ice

Chapter Eleven

The Arctic Rangers’ course took them to the northwest, out of the small community of Arctic Bay and over the frozen waters of Admiralty Inlet. Because of the constantly blowing snow, visibility was poor, and they were forced to travel at a minimum speed in order to keep the convoy of six snowmobiles and the single dogsled within sight of each other.

Hunched down over the steering wheel of the second vehicle in line, Jack Redmond did his best to stay as close to the rear runners of the lead sled as possible.

Considering his relative inexperience, his sergeant-major was doing an excellent job keeping the dogs moving. Yet even then the snow cats that followed progressed at only a fraction of the speed they were capable of attaining.

So far, this cautious approach had saved them from certain disaster on two separate occasions. The first of these incidents took place as they were traveling over a particularly smooth portion of the frozen inlet.

Though the blizzard was still blowing in all its fury, the going here was fast, and they were able to clip along at a good ten kilometers per hour.

Redmond was mentally calculating that if they could keep up this pace for the rest of the journey they could be at their intended destination in another eight hours. He had initially anticipated a journey of twice this duration. Yet he knew better than to get his hopes up, for the portion of the trip that took them over solid ground was still to come. Here they would have to contend not only with ice and snow but with dangerous crevasses and other geological irregularities.

The senior commando was in the midst of such a pondering when the sled before him unexpectedly ground to a halt. Reacting as quickly as possible, Redmond released the throttle and hit the hand brake.

An uncontrolled skid followed, during which time his snow cat missed striking the edge of the sled by only a few centimeters. Sheer instinct had made him steer into the skid, and after an anxious few moments the brakes had finally held.

His limbs were still trembling as he carefully opened up the throttle and returned to the lead sled’s side. He found Cliff Ano standing beside the dogs and peering out into the veil of white that lay before them.

“I don’t like it, Lieutenant. The dogs have gotten real skittish lately, and it’s an effort just to keep them moving,” observed the heavily bundled Inuit.

Shouting to be heard over the wind, Redmond replied.

“Maybe they’re just tired.”

His sergeant-major shook his head.

“It’s not that, Lieutenant. They seem to be consciously holding themselves back. I think there’s open water up ahead.”

“Well, there’s only one way to see if that’s the case,” returned the senior commando. He pivoted and shouted to the driver of the snow cat parked immediately behind them.

“Corporal Eviki, I want you to scout ahead on foot. Go out about a quarter of a kilometer, and be extra cautious as there’s a chance there’s open water somewhere ahead of us. Take Private Etah with you, just in case you run into any trouble. And watch your compass reading so that you can find your way back!”

As the two full-blooded Inuit climbed off the snow-cat and began their exploratory trek, Redmond made a hasty examination of the rest of the squad. Since the majority of them were also Inuit, the raw elements really didn’t bother them that much. Their army-issue clothing was first rate, and they were certainly no strangers to such a snow squall. Utilizing the line of tracked vehicles as a windbreak, they gathered together with their backs to the powerful gusts. Several of them even managed to light up cigarettes.

Jack Redmond was toying with the idea of setting up the receiver to see if they could pick up the homing beacon as yet when the two scouts arrived back at camp. With white tendrils of breath streaming from his nose and mouth. Corporal Jim Eviki revealed the outcome of their short search.

“There’s water out there sure enough. Lieutenant. It’s less than an eighth of a kilometer ahead, and seems to stretch for a good distance.”

“So your dogs were right.” Redmond turned to his sergeant-major.

“But my uncle was wrong,” retorted Cliff Ano. “He seemed to think the inlet would remain solidly frozen until the spring thaw.”

“Go easy on him, Sergeant-Major,” advised Redmond. “After all, it was his team that saved our necks. Besides, it’s common knowledge any frozen body of water up here is subject to open leads, no matter how cold the temperature might get.”

“Where do we go from here?” questioned the corporal.

Redmond answered firmly.

“We go north, and skirt the open water until we come across some solid footing.”

As it turned out, they were forced to travel for two more hours in this direction before finding the type of flat, icy terrain that allowed them to continue on their original course. Here their pace once again quickened, though the dogs took it upon themselves to institute yet another abrupt change in direction as they approached the western shore of the inlet.

Steering hard to the left to follow the sled, Redmond soon saw for himself why the dogs had turned this way. For a ridge had formed in this portion of the ice, and if they had remained on their original course, they would have smacked right into it.

Ever thankful to have such a reliable, intuitive team leading the way, Redmond and his men completed their transit of the inlet when they came to an icy, boulder-strewn shoreline. In the shelter of these rocks they broke for lunch.

Over a hot thermos of tea, Redmond conferred with his second in command.

“Well, we’re almost halfway there, Sergeant-Major.”

“But this is where the going gets tough,” returned the Inuit. “Once we pick our way over these rocks, there’s a valley on the other side that practically splits the peninsula in half. Uncle says we’ll do best by following this ravine all the way to Lancaster Sound. He warned us to be on the lookout for open crevasses here. And it’s also wise to remember that this area is known for its high concentration of polar bears and wolves.”

“It’s not the wildlife that scares me,” observed Redmond. “Is it my imagination, or has this storm further intensified since we stopped here?”

Dreamily gazing out at the frozen expanse of water they had just crossed. Cliff Ano thoughtfully replied, “This is the type of weather my ancestors greeted with open arms. Because such extreme conditions made hunting impossible, they passed the time snuggled warmly in their snow houses telling stories, chewing away on frozen meat, and waiting for the clouds to vent themselves.”

“Sounds enticing,” said Redmond. “But duty calls. Shall we get on with it, Sergeant-Major?”

Hurriedly finishing off their tea, the two commandoes ordered their men to break camp. With little level ground to follow, they were forced to pick up their snowmobiles and carry them over the rocky terrain. Cliff Ano was able to manage his lightweight sled all on his own, while his harnessed dogs noisily followed at his heels.

Because of the slippery footing, their progress was slow. Frequent rest stops were needed because of the great weight of their equipment. And none of the twenty-four commandoes was disappointed when they finally reached the valley they had been searching for.

With the dogsled once again taking the lead, the Arctic Rangers began their way northward. Though the snow was deep here, visibility was somewhat better.

Redmond attributed this welcome fact to the mountainous spine that lay to their left and acted as a partial windbreak.

Able to safely increase the distance between the vehicles at this point, the column twisted its way down the valley’s snow-covered floor. They had accomplished over an hour’s worth of uninterrupted travel when Cliff Ano held up his right hand and pulled his sled to a halt. Quick to go to his side was Jack Redmond.

“What’s the matter, Sergeant-Major?”

The Inuit answered while carefully scanning the surrounding foothills.

“The dogs are acting up again, Lieutenant.”

“Could it be a crevasse?” quizzed Redmond.

“I doubt it,” returned the Inuit. “The footing here is fairly firm and this section of the valley appears to be geologically stable.”

It was at that moment that a high-pitched, mournful cry sounded in the distance. This brought an immediate response from the dogs in the sled team.

They began barking and yelping.

“Wolves!” exclaimed Cliff Ano. “And they’re close.”

Jack Redmond surveyed the nearby hills.

“Should we break out the rifles?”

“They wouldn’t dare bother us while we’re still moving,” the Inuit answered. “Although when we bed down for the night, it’s another story.”

Several additional banshee-like cries resonated through the frigid air and Redmond commented.

“Let’s get the hell out of here, Sergeant-Major. This place gives me the creeps.”

With a single crack of his whip, the Inuit got his team moving. Following in a straight line behind him were the six snow cats their engines constantly sputtering and whining.

Minutes later, as they rounded a broad bend. Cliff Ano once more held up his hand and halted the caravan. Yet this time as Redmond joined his subordinate, one look at the conglomeration of beasts that had gathered on the floor of the valley before them told him the reason for this abrupt stop.

Approximately one-quarter of a kilometer away, was a large herd of musk oxen. Jack Redmond had once seen such beasts in a zoo, but this was his first sighting of them in the wild. Their long, glossy fur blowing in the still breeze, and their characteristic curved horns appearing much like those of a cape buffalo, they seemed to be standing in a straight line, shoulder to shoulder and flank to flank. A single large bull was slightly forward of the bunch, his attention locked on some sort of disturbance taking place along the ridge of broken rock on the west side of the valley. It proved to be Cliff Ano who pointed to this ridge and explained precisely what was occurring.

“There are wolves over there. The musk oxen have formed a defensive formation and are awaiting an attack.”

“Those brutes must weigh well over six hundred pounds each, and the points of their horns look razor sharp. Do the wolves even stand a chance?” questioned Redmond.

The Inuit’s eyes glistened.

“The wolves might be smaller physically, but they’re patient and opportunistic. What they’ll attempt to do is get behind one of the charging musk oxen and cut it off from the herd. Another favorite tactic is to sprint into a momentary opening and snatch a calf.”

The sled dogs began yelping madly when a pack of over a dozen gray wolves trotted out from behind the rock-strewn ravine where they had been gathered. Ignoring this racket, the shaggy predators began slowly closing in on the herd. The lead bull bellowed in response to this movement, and the musk oxen shifted their positions, gathering in a roughly symmetrical formation, the calves and yearlings wedged in between the adults.

The wall of outward-pointed horns looked formidable, yet this didn’t appear to intimidate the wolves, who continued creeping forward with short, furtive steps. When they finally attacked, it was with such swiftness that Jack Redmond nearly missed it. It all started with a feint by several of the largest wolves.

When the dominant bull charged forward to repulse them, the rest of the wolf pack darted into the herd with a snarling, lightning like ferocity. To a chorus of growls and bellows, the valley floor erupted in a primal struggle for survival. And when the blowing snow cleared, the wolves could be seen trotting off triumphantly, dragging a young yearling in their viselike jaws.

“And only the strong shall survive,” reflected Jack Redmond as he watched the wolf pack disappear behind the ridge to initiate their blood feast. Well aware that this basic law of nature applied to them as well, the senior commando silently lifted his hand and beckoned his men forward to continue their mission.

Less than a hundred miles north of this wilderness valley, the crew of the Sierra class attack submarine were in the midst of a jubilant celebration. The festivities were particularly joyous in the sub’s wardroom, where a bottle of Ukrainian champagne was being passed around compliments of Admiral of the Fleet Kharkov.

“And here’s to our brave captain, who made this great victory possible!” toasted the white-haired veteran. “To your health, Sergei Markova, and to that of your family.”

“Here, here,” added Viktor Belenko as he put his glass to his lips and sipped on the slightly sweet, effervescent beverage. As an old friend of the Neva’s captain, Viktor knew that Sergei Markova was not the type of fellow who liked the limelight. Thus, to put his blushing comrade at ease, the senior lieutenant stood to propose a counter toast

“And here’s to Admiral of the Fleet Mikhail Kharkov. For decades you have selflessly served the Motherland, and it is largely because of your visionary efforts that vessels such as the Neva exist. May health and happiness be with you always!”

This flowery toast served its purpose as all eyes shifted to the head of the table. The old-timer was grinning from ear to ear as the Neva’s Zampolit asked, “Admiral, do you really think that little love tap of ours was enough to put the Imperialist warship out of commission?”

“Love tap, comrade?” Kharkov repeated incredulously. “I would say it was a little more than that, Comrade Zinyagin. Since it appears that our blow caught the Sturgeon squarely in its engine room, I’d say it will take a miracle just for the Yankees to get to the surface, let alone continue with their mission. Don’t you agree. Captain?”

Sergei Markova hesitated a moment before answering.

“It’s readily apparent that we hit them with enough force to cause severe internal damage. Yet their hull remained intact, and since the Americans build a sturdy vessel with an assortment of redundant systems, I’d say it’s still too early to definitely count them out.”

“Come now. Captain. Aren’t you being a bit of a pessimist? We hit them square in the stern, and at last report they were just lying there dead in the water.”

The admiral’s remarks did little to change Sergei’s mind.

“If I know the scrappy Americans, they’re just taking a moment to lick their wounds. With a bit of luck and a lot of hard work, they’ll get their vessel operational once more. And this time there will be revenge in their hearts.”

“Then maybe we’d better go back and finish them off with a couple of torpedoes,” the concerned Political Officer suggested.

“Nonsense!” barked Mikhail Kharkov. “We’ve wasted enough valuable time on this crippled vessel, and now a greater mission calls us onward. At our present course and rate of speed, we should be at the northern edge of the Brodeur Peninsula within the next two hours. Then all we have to do is ascend to the surface, activate the homing receiver, triangulate a fix, and march out to retrieve the device whose analysis will change the very world as we now know it. At long last the workers of the planet will be freed, and all men will share equally in the one, great Socialistic state that will follow. Just think of it, comrades, the glorious dreams of the Motherland’s founding fathers will at long last be realized!”

An excited murmur rose from the admiral’s captive audience. All lifted up their glasses to drink to this day’s coming. Yet two of those present at the table, and were conspicuously somber. Both Sergei Markova and Viktor Belenko knew that their mission still had a long way to go. Beyond the fact that they would soon have to be surfacing in dangerous pack-ice conditions to search for a device that could be in any number of remote places, the two senior officers shared a single concern. Regardless of what the admiral had said, the American Sturgeon class submarine was still a very real threat. Though slow to anger, once their are was provoked, the United States Navy was no force to take lightly. Of this fact, they were certain!

Beneath another portion of the frozen sea, the men of the USS Defiance valiantly fought to bring their ship back from the threshold of destruction. This tireless effort was particularly intense in the ship’s control room, where Captain Matt Colter and his Executive Officer huddled over a normally insignificant console located behind the chart table. This device was designed around a rotating drum onto which a piece of graph paper was continually fed. Onto this paper a hissing stylus drew a jagged pattern which was activated as a pulse of intense sound energy directed upward to the surface. A thin black line meant open water above. Yet for the last half hour, the only pattern visible was an agitated vertical series, meaning the presence of pack ice topside.

“I don’t like the way this looks, Al,” whispered the captain. “The majority of this ice is at least ten feet thick, with some of those inverted ridges extending thirty feet or more.”

“The odds are we’ve got to come across an opening eventually. Skipper. After all, this isn’t the frigging North Pole.”

The captain sighed.

“It might as well be as far as the Defiance is concerned. With half our power plant shut down because of that busted circ pump, we’ll be fortunate to crawl out of here by spring.”

“Our luck’s going to change. Skipper, just you watch. We’ll find a nice wide polynya, and the chief and his men will have that pump fixed in no time flat. And then we can go after the Red bastards responsible for almost giving us the deep six.”

“Let’s just start off by finding some open water,” the captain suggested.

As Colter stood up to stretch his back, he spotted Laurie Lansing standing beside the chart table, intently watching them.

“Feeling better. Doctor?” greeted Colter.

The civilian meekly nodded.

“I guess so. Captain. You know, I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

“I know what you mean,” returned Colter. “I wish I could say that you get used to it, but I’d be a liar if I did. Oh, and by the way, thanks for being in the proverbial right place at the right time back in the engine room. If you weren’t there for me to grab onto, there’s no telling what would have happened if I missed that handrail.”

“I’m just glad to help out in any way that I can, Captain. Though I certainly wish your men would hurry up and get that Nav computer back on line. I can’t tell you how frustrating it is for me to stand here and watch you relying on a piece of outdated equipment designed over thirty years ago. With the laser scanners in operation, surely we would have found a polynya by now.”

“Skipper, I think we might be on to something,” interrupted the XO.

Both Matt Colter and Laurie Lansing arrived at the ice machine in time to see a thin solid line flow off the head of the stylus.

“It’s an open lead all right,” observed the civilian. “And a big one at that.”

“All stop!” ordered the captain firmly. “Prepare to surface.”

Back in the ship’s engine room, this command was met with a sigh of relief. No one was happier that Chief Joe Cunnetto, as the roar of venting ballast sent the now lightened vessel ballooning toward the surface.

There was no secret that there was ice topside, and the tension was thick as the chief prayed that the opening the Skipper had picked was large enough for the Defiance to safely fit in.

Another blast of ballast sounded in the distance and this time the boat seemed to leap upward. This alien sensation all too soon passed, to be replaced by the shrill ringing of the nearby intercom.

“Chief here… You bet. Captain. We’ll have that pump fixed in less than six hours, or I’ll personally donate all my retirement to the Navy scholarship fund…. I’ll do that. Captain. And don’t forget to get some fresh air for me.”

As he hung up the handset, the portly chief turned to address his motley bunch of assistants.

“All right, you shirkers, the time for fun and games is over. We’re on the surface now, and there’s work to be done. So let’s get on with it!”

A relieved cheer broke from his shipmates’ lips as they gratefully rolled up their sleeves and turned to begin the repairs. The damaged pump was a vital piece of machinery that was responsible for circulating the water necessary to turn the blades of the ship’s turbines. To get to it, their first task was to remove the storage lockers, wires, and pipes that were set above the pump. Then a block and tackle would be rigged to hoist up the motor itself. After that was done the real repairs would begin.

The clatter of tools was music to the chiefs ears, as he climbed down to give his men a hand. For he had promised the captain that he would have the job completed in six hours’ time, and to Joe Cunnetto, his word wasn’t something he gave lightly.

While the engine-room crew industriously immersed themselves in their work, three parka-clad figures climbed up into the vessel’s exposed sail. They were met by a shrieking, frigid wind that sent tiny spears of flying ice whipping through the air with near lethal velocity. Turning their backs to these howling gusts, the trio focused their gazes on the surrounding landscape. For as far as they could see stretched a solid white line ofhummocked ice hills and contorted pressure ridges. The only clear water visible was that which surrounded the Defiance. With barely enough room to fit another similar-sized vessel at their side, the polynya was just beginning to ice over.

For the ice was far from a static environment, and the constant deep-throated grinding noise that rose beyond that of the wind was proof that the ice pack was in constant motion.

Shivering in the bitter cold. Lieutenant Commander Al Layman said, “Damn, and I thought Buffalo was cold!”

“What do you mean, cold?” countered Matt Colter as he bent down to check the thermometer. “Why it’s only twenty-five degrees below zero, and it’s not even winter yet!”

Turning his attention to the figure at his other side, the captain queried.

“What do you think of your first view of the ice, Dr. Lansing?”

She had to practically scream to be heard over the howling wind.

“It’s incredibly beautiful and threatening all at the same time.”

“That it is,” agreed Matt Colter, who added, “It’s hard to think of the Arctic as a desert, but as you well know it’s one of the driest regions on the planet, with a total yearly precipitation of less than ten inches. From what I understand, it’s because such cold air can carry little moisture.”

“You’re absolutely correct,” returned the scientist. “Back in the lab, we tried to create these extreme conditions artificially, and though we could handle the temperature, we had a lot of trouble simulating the ice. The Arctic pack ice is extremely hard because the salt has had time to drain out of it.”

“I can personally vouch for that,” replied Colter. “You should have seen how the ice sheared the welded navigational beacon right off our rudder during our last encounter with it. The thing looked like it had been surgically cut off.”

A high-pitched whine suddenly sounded behind them, and the XO turned to identify this noise.

“Here comes the receiver. Skipper. I sure hope it holds together in this wind and all.”

The thick, whiplike antenna rose upward from the interior portion of the sail. Matt Colter looked up and saw it wildly quivering in the powerful gusts.

“She’ll hold, all right. I just hope we’re close enough to that black box to pick up its homing signal. Otherwise, we could be up here for God knows how long.”

“Not me. Skipper,” returned the XO. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like permission to go below before my mustache drops off. Even with all these layers of clothing, I’m freezing!”

The captain was quick to consent.

“I think I’ve taken enough punishment myself. Will you join us, Doctor?”

Laurie Lansing’s teeth were chattering so badly that she didn’t even bother to respond, but merely turned for the ladder that would convey her back to the blessed warmth of the ship’s interior.

Five minutes later. Matt Colter was in the process of making the rounds of the control room with a steaming hot mug of coffee in hand, when he received word that the engine-room crew had begun hoisting up the damaged pump. It wasn’t long afterward that the compartment filled with a distant, deep-throated booming noise that sounded much like the report of an exploding artillery shell. When this mysterious sound continued. Colter hurriedly threw on his parka and once again climbed up into the exposed sail.

He was greeted by a familiar blast of frigid air, and as he turned his back to it, his gaze locked in on the surrounding ice pack and he couldn’t help but gasp at what he saw there. The ice seemed to have moved at least twenty yards closer to the Defiance since his last trip topside!

Another explosive crack sounded in the distance, this time with an even greater intensity. A grating, shrieking moan followed, and Colter realized that what he was hearing was the sound of the ever-shifting pack ice as it gradually closed in on them. There were many reports of ships trapped in such ice. Some of the vessels were locked in for months, while the less fortunate ones had their hulls crushed by the immense forces at work.

Because of the unique nature of the Defiance’s design, all Colter had to do was give a single order to send the sub plunging into the relative safety of the depths. But this would mean forcing the engine-room crew to halt their repair effort and then having them resecure the loose equipment. This would leave them with only half their propulsion system on line. And since there was no telling when the next polynya would be encountered, the sub could be in such a crippled state for an indefinite length of time.

Yet if he didn’t order them to submerge, could Chief Cunnetto and his men finish their work before the surrounding ice had the Defiance in its fatal grip?

It was a gamble either way he looked at it, and Colter struggled to summon the wisdom to make the correct decision. So deep were his ponderings that he didn’t even notice when someone joined him on the sail.

“The noise is getting pretty bad inside the ship, Skipper,” observed the XO. “Is it coming from the ice?”

Colter nodded and pointed toward the open water off their starboard bow.

“It appears the lead is slowly closing. There’s a pressure ridge over there that only formed in the last couple of minutes. It’s obvious that this entire section of ice is under tremendous pressure, and I don’t like the idea of having the Defiance stuck smack in the middle of it.”

“Shall I inform the chief to halt work and secure the engine room. Skipper? We can be under this stuff in a couple of minutes flat.”

A deafening, high-pitched shriek rose above the constant howl of the gusting wind, and Colter had to practically scream at the top of his lungs to be heard.

“I hate to do it to them, but I don’t think we have much of a choice right now. Under the circumstances, I think it’s best if I run down there and tell them myself.”

“You do that. Skipper. I’ll tough it out, and keep an eye on things from up here.”

With a fluid ease. Colter climbed down the sail’s internal ladder, ducked into the control room, and began to make his way aft, without even bothering to take off his parka. Inside the ship, the noise of the fracturing ice was further amplified, and the deck was beginning to vibrate with the resulting shock waves This vibration intensified as the captain rushed into the engine room and approached the potbellied, Tshirted figure, working on the damaged pump with a large wrench.

“Chief, I’m afraid I’m going to have to order you to suspend your repair effort. The lead we picked to surface in is rapidly closing in on us, and I have no choice but to take us under.”

“So that’s what all that infernal noise is about,” observed the grease-stained chief engineer. “And here I thought it was the hordes of hell playing a little Arctic lullaby on the Defiance’s hull. I’ll have this gear stashed and secured in five minutes, sir.”

“Thanks, Chief,” returned the captain as he turned to head for the control room.

Noting that there wasn’t the merest hint of complaint in the chiefs response, even though his work was now to be doubled. Colter passed through maneuvering and climbed up to the deck above. It was as he hurriedly crossed through the wardroom that he realized the noise of the fracturing ice could no longer be heard. This fact was most apparent as he climbed back up to the sail and was met only by the incessant howling of the wind and the excited voice of his XO.

“It stopped, Skipper!”

“So I’ve noticed, Al. It looks to me like those pressure ridges have diminished some.”

“They have, Skipper. And not only that, the ice actually seems to be receding.”

Colter looked out to the ever-widening channel of open water that surrounded them and cursed angrily.

“Damn it! And I just got through telling the chief to close up shop.”

“You never know, Skipper. The ice might just start moving in once again.”

Colter considered this observation and shook his head.

“I don’t think so, Al. As far as I’m concerned, this polynya is as good as any other. So I’m going to call the chief and have them start up again.”

“Whatever you say. Skipper. I’ll get him on the horn for you.”

As the XO bent over and fumbled for the handset with his mittened hands. Matt Colter stared out at the ice pack. Nothing was as dangerous as a captain who had trouble making up his mind. This was the quickest way to lose a crew’s confidence, and once this occurred, a successful command was all but impossible.

Yet an officer also had to be open to the constantly changing variables that influenced a decision, and had to be unafraid to change his mind when new facts were presented to him. Thus, Matt Colter had few reservations as he closely cupped the intercom to his lips and informed the Chief to resume the repair effort.

During this entire sequence of events, the two senior officers were all but oblivious to the industrious efforts of the vessel’s radio man. Locked deep within the bowels of the Defiance, behind an acoustically padded, sealed doorway. Petty Officer Jules Thornton was about to initiate his second consecutive duty shift. Though a junior rating was all set to relieve him, Thornton would have none of it. Well aware of the unique nature of their mission, the Chicago native wanted to spend as much time as possible monitoring the recently activated receiver.

This process was especially important now that they were on the surface. At long last the antenna had been fully extended, and he could begin listening for the homing beacon that had sent them up to these frozen waters.

Because the cockpit voice recorder they had been sent to retrieve was Soviet in origin, there was still some question as to the exact frequency it would be transmitting on. Thus Thornton was forced to monitor a wide variety of channels in the hope that the proper one would eventually be chanced upon.

With a pair of bulky headphones covering his ears, the senior radioman hunched over his console. As he routinely flipped through the frequency selection knob, he closed his eyes in order to focus his attention solely on the static-filled signals that were being sucked into the receiver.

For as long as he could remember, radios had always fascinated him. As a Cub Scout he had built his own crystal set, and by his eighteenth birthday Jules was a licensed ham operator. To further follow his fascination, he got a job at an FM radio station based in Glenview, Illinois. There he could indulge himself to his heart’s content on a wide variety of excellent equipment, the upkeep of which was his responsibility.

It was during a radio interview that he met a commander stationed at the nearby Glenview Naval Air Station. Already looking for additional challenge, Jules followed up on the officer’s invitation and visited the base on his first day off. As it turned out, the sophisticated radio gear he was soon introduced to was the type of equipment he had always dreamed about. And a week later he had enlisted, and was soon in basic training.

Jules picked submarine duty because communications were such a vital part of such a warship’s operations. The very nature of seawater refracted and diffracted the majority of radio signals sent into it. Since only signals of a very low frequency could penetrate the depths, the systems were geared to utilize these. To cover depths of up to fifty feet, the VLF — very low frequency — bands were put into use, while deeper operations necessitated the use of the ELF (extra low frequency) channels. Since submarines desired to initiate their patrols as deep as possible to avoid detection, these latter ELF bands were ideal.

Yet there was one major problem: such frequencies transmitted data at a very slow rate, with some three-letter codes taking up to fifteen minutes to go from sender to receiver.

In addition to land-based communications, the submarine could also be contacted by TACAMO, take charge and move out, a Lockheed EC-130A aircraft that served as an airborne relay station. In the wake of such a plane trailed a six-and-a-half-mile-long antenna that could broadcast on a variety of wave lengths. Communications buoys were yet another method of establishing contact, and could be dropped from a passing ship or a suitably equipped aircraft.

While in Navy radio school, Jules learned about an experimental system that could someday revolutionize his chosen field. This technology used blue-green lasers to penetrate the ocean’s depths. Such a communications system was dependent upon a considerable power source, and it was hoped that this problem could be solved by basing the transmitters on land and using a space-based satellite to reflect the signal back down into the sea.

Though his current duty didn’t involve any such exotic, high-tech machinery, it was stimulating nonetheless. For somewhere on the surrounding icepack, lay the wreckage of a plane that had been carrying the Premier of the Soviet Union. And the key to finding this debris was the emergency signal being broadcast from that aircraft’s black box. The entire world was anxiously waiting for this device to be recovered and analyzed so that the cause of this tragic crash could be determined. Jules was quite aware of the importance of his present assignment, and applied himself diligently.

It was on a pure hunch that the twenty-four-year-old petty officer switched the dial over to the ultrahigh frequency bands. Such a channel was infrequently used, especially by emergency equipment. Yet knowing the Russians’ paranoia when it came to such matters, Thornton figured it would be just like them to assign such a band to the cockpit voice recorder’s transmitter.

A throaty blast of static immediately met his ears, and as he reached out to activate several filters that he had available to him, a barely audible, high-pitched tone arose from the clutter. Unlike any signal that he had ever received before, the alien tone seemed to pulsate with a throbbing regularity, and he was certain that it was man-made and not an atmospheric anomaly.

Jules Thornton’s pulse quickened as he urgently accessed his computer to determine from which direction the signal was emanating.

While the senior radioman initiated this task, his commanding officer was in the nearby control room, an intercom handset snuggled up to his ear and a wide smile turning the corners of his mouth.

“Why that’s fantastic news. Chief. You and your men are going to get a commendation for this, I promise you. How soon until we can start up both turbines?… Are you certain that’s all the time you need?… Why of course I’m anxious to get underway, even if the ice has quit closing in on us. Thanks again. Chief, and pass on a job well done to your men.”

Matt Colter hung up the handset and directly addressed his XO.

“They’ve done the impossible yet again, Al. The chief promises full power in another ten minutes.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Skipper!” retorted the astonished XO. “Why that means they’ve pulled it off a whole two hours ahead of schedule, and their preliminary estimate was far from a conservative one.”

The captain shook his head.

“I hope to God it’s no joke, but that’s what the chief says and I’m not about to call him a liar. Prepare the boat to dive, Mr. Layman. We’ve got us a little business to settle with a certain Russkie submarine crew.”

“With pleasure. Skipper,” snapped the XO, as he turned to relay this directive to the ship’s diving officer.

Matt Colter was on his way to the plotting table to chart the most logical intercept course, when a sudden disturbance diverted his attention. In the process of sprinting through the aft hatchway was a single ecstatic figure, whom the captain recognized as being their normally reserved senior radio man.

“I’ve done it. Captain!” cried Jules Thornton excitedly. “I’ve located the black box!”

This surprise revelation was all it took to grab the undivided attention of all the men who heard it.

Relishing the spotlight, the radio operator added, “Those paranoid bastards are transmitting on ultrahigh frequency, yet I got ‘em all the same.”

“For God’s sake, where man?” shouted the captain.

Somewhat sobered by this firm query, Jules Thornton managed a deep calming breath and matter-of-factly responded.

“I’ve locked the homing beacon on bearing two-two-zero, sir. It’s relative rough range is approximately eighty miles.”

With these figures in mind. Colter looked down to the chart that was spread out before him. Bearing two-two-zero lay to their southwest, and a course in that direction would take them to the northern coast of Baffin Island’s Brodeur Peninsula. Confident that their quarry could most likely be found in these very same waters. Matt Colter barked out to his XO.

“Make our course two-two-zero, Mr. Layman. And get the chief engineer on the horn — let him know that we’re going to call his bluff. It’s going to be a cold day in hell before Ivan gets another cheap shot at the USS Defiance. That I can assure you!”