Under the Ice

Chapter Thirteen

Petty Officer First Class Stanley Roth was like a man reborn. Since his successful oral surgery, the constant pain that had left him listless and irritable for days on end was gone. And with this change for the better came an entirely new outlook on life.

Though his gum was still sore where the tooth had been removed, he could drink down a mug of hot coffee without having to howl out in agony. And for the first time in weeks, he actually slept for an entire six-hour stretch without resorting to a narcotic stupor to do so.

There was an expectant smile on his lips as he pranced down the passageway that led to the sound shack. It had been much too long since he’d really looked forward to going to work, and he felt like a wide-eyed recruit again.

Inside the padded door of the sonar compartment he found Seaman Lester Warren hunched over his console. The youngster was totally absorbed in his current scan, and didn’t even realize that his relief had arrived.

“Good afternoon, Seaman Warren. And how are you on this glorious day at fifty fathoms?”

Not certain who it was that was greeting him, the Texan looked up from the repeater screen and had to do a double take when he spotted the grinning petty officer.

“Is that really you, Mr. Roth? Why you look like your old self once again.”

“Why I didn’t know that it showed,” Stanley jested, then added. “Now I remember how it felt when I was a freshman and had my cherry popped by the hottest cheerleader in school. Why I feel absolutely wonderful!”

Unable to share the petty officer’s enthusiasm, Lester turned back to his screen. Stanley Roth could see that something was bothering the kid, and he gently touched him on his shoulder.

“What’s with the long face, Les? Life’s too short to be taken so seriously.”

The Texan replied while studying the repeater screen.

“I’m just doing my job, sir.”

“Oh, cut the crap, Les. What the hell is bothering you?”

The frustrated seaman emotionally vented himself without taking his eyes off the monitor.

“It’s that bogey, sir, and the way they were able to sneak up on us without me even knowing they were out there. Why if lady luck wasn’t with us, we all could have been killed!”

“Easy, kid,” prompted the veteran. “Ours is far from a perfected art, and these things happen from time to time.”

“Tell that to the XO,” retorted the distraught seaman. “Lieutenant Commander Layman came down here and really read me the riot act after those cowardly bastards rammed us. Yet when I played him back the tapes, he had to admit that with all the natural commotion going on in the water around us, even he had a hard time identifying Ivan’s signature.”

Stanley shook his head.

“It’s this damn ice, Les. The way it’s always fracturing and cracking, the Queen Mary could be on our tail and we’d never know the difference. So relax kid, and look on the bright side. The Defiance survived Ivan’s best blow to the chops, and now that we’ve got all of our turbines back on line, it’ll soon be our turn to even the score. That’s the way it works in this game.”

The junior seaman seemed unaffected by these words of wisdom, and Roth sighed heavily.

“You damn kids today take life so seriously. Nobody’s perfect, and no machine is either.”

Realizing that he was wasting his breath, the veteran walked over to the adjoining console and seated himself. It felt as if he had just returned to work from a long vacation. While absorbing the familiar sights and smells, he activated his repeater screen and clipped on his headphones.

He initiated his scan by isolating the hydrophones set into the upper portion of their bow. As Roth had expected, he was immediately greeted by the gut-wrenching sounds of the ice. No matter how hard he tried to filter them out, they still prevailed. When one nearby floe fractured, it sounded like the explosive crack of a rifle shot. A passing ice ridge expressed the monumental pressure it was under by groaning loudly and sounding like the rusty hinge of a gate. And yet another ridge surrendered, and could be heard buckling under with a high-pitched squeal of protest.

Well aware of the great difficulty of picking out a man-made sound signature in this maelstrom of white noise, Stanley readjusted his scan to take in that portion of the sea that lay beneath them. As soon as he completed this connection, his headphones filled with a mournful, high-pitched cry that was followed by a sharp series of resonant clicks and whistles. From several different directions this call was answered, and the senior sonar technician mentally visualized the graceful creatures responsible for this distinctive racket.

Because of their current position in the waters of Lancaster Sound, these undersea mammals were either the white-skinned beluga whale or its legendary cousin, the narwhal. The males of this latter species were known for the long spiraling ivory tusk that pierced their upper lip on the left side of the jaw; it could extend toward for as much as ten feet.

Once selling for up to twenty times their weight in gold, these tusks were treasured in medieval Europe where they were ground up and utilized as an aphrodisiac or the filler for a magical amulet.

Stanley had once read a National Geographic article that described these creatures in detail. He had been surprised to learn that scientists were still confused as to the reason such tusks were needed. It used to be believed that the narwhals used these appendages to stir up the seafloor for food. But the tusks themselves were hollow for most of their length and could easily be broken. The going theory was that they played some sort of sexual role, though Stanley couldn’t begin to theorize on what this might be.

Beyond the singing whales, a herd of seals could be heard harshly barking. While an assemblage of shrimp chattered away in the distance like a bunch of hyperactive castanets. To the veteran sonar operator, all of these sounds were like old friends. This would be his twelfth Arctic patrol, and during many a long lonely duty segment, the noises of the ice pack and of the creatures that lived there were his only company.

As he scanned the Defiance’s baffles, that sound absorbent cone that lay immediately aft of their spinning propellers, Stanley realized that his colleague was still seated before his console.

“Jesus Les, don’t you even want to grab some chow, or at least a cup of joe? You’ve been at this for a straight four-hour clip, and I’m more than capable of handling it on my own.”

The determined Texan replied without taking his eyes off the repeater screen.

“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to hang around a little longer. Maybe with both of us listening, Ivan will finally give himself away.”

“Suit yourself,” returned Stanley. “Though all the overtime in the world isn’t going to make up for the fact that Ivan was able to use a combination of stealth and the natural ambient noises of these waters to land a crisp right jab to the Defiance’s kisser. No matter how many ears we had listening for their approach, chances are they still would have been able to get within punching distance.”

“All I’m waiting for is just one damn chance to even the score,” muttered the Texan. “Just one damn chance!”

The young technician was obviously not the type of person who accepted failure easily, and Roth knew that the best way to let him vent his frustrations was to let him work them out. After a couple more hours in front of the repeater screen, his growling stomach and sore back would send him packing.

Stanley was in the process of isolating the hydrophones mounted into the very tip of the ship’s spherical bow, when he heard a series of distant crashing sounds that were followed by a muted, throbbing whine that was disturbingly familiar. His shipmate also heard this alien racket and shouted out excitingly.

“Do you hear that, Stanley? It sounds like the commotion the Defiance made when we slammed into the ice on our last patrol!”

This acute observation hit home, and Roth was able to identify the pulsating whine that followed the initial clamor.

“Jesus Christ, you hit the nail right on the head, Les. That’s a friggin’ ballast pump! Hang in there, my friend. You wanted a chance for revenge, and if I know the Skipper, you’re about to get your wish.”

Admiral of the Fleet Mikhail Kharkov was absolutely certain he had picked the right man for the difficult job at hand as he watched the Neva’s young captain in action. Faced with a variety of calamities ranging from an unexpected collision with the ice to an unscheduled dive to depths that tested the very integrity of their hull, Sergei Markova remained absolutely cool under fire. Not even stopping to wipe the sweat from his brow, the Neva’s commanding officer barked out the orders that would once again send the vessel topside to meet the challenge of the ice.

Persistence was a quality Mikhail greatly respected. It was his great uncle who’d given him his first lesson in that all-important virtue. They had been hiking beside the wooded shores of Lake Baikal at the time, and had come across one of the many hot springs in the area. As his adult guide ripped off his clothes and invited Mikhail to join him in the steaming water, Mikhail humbly admitted that he didn’t know how to swim.

“That makes not a bit of difference,” instructed his great-uncle as he immersed himself in the torrid pool. “Jump right in and you’ll learn soon enough.”

Mikhail did just that, yet since he neglected to close his mouth, the youngster almost drowned in the process. His great-uncle pulled him out, and though Mikhail was more than content to forget all about this swimming lesson, his guardian would have no part of it.

“You must jump back in at once, Misha,” wisely directed the grizzled trapper. “Otherwise one bad experience might cause you never again to enter the water.”

With a bit more circumspection, Mikhail took the old-timer’s advice and jumped back into the pool, this time making absolutely certain to keep his mouth closed. And less than a half hour later, the youngster was actually swimming all on his own.

Throughout his career, Mikhail remembered this invaluable lesson. He utilized it time and again, especially during the traumatic years of the Great War. Battle brought out both the best and worst qualities in men. And even the bravest soldier’s nerves were put to the test each time he went into harm’s way.

After returning from his first wartime submarine patrol, common sense would have had him ask for a transfer to the surface fleet at once. For their vessels were not of the best quality, and the exploding Nazi depth charges put a fear in a sailor’s soul that none would ever forget. Yet with his great-uncle’s words in mind, he returned to the undersea world and came back from his second patrol with his first confirmed kill — a fully loaded German troop transport.

Now to watch the Neva’s brave young captain at work brought a satisfied grin to the white-haired veteran’s cracked lips. Not about to let adversity get in the way of his mission’s success, Sergei Markova hunched over the extended periscope and called out firmly.

“Looks good from this angle. What’s our depth, comrade diving officer?”

“Thirty meters,” replied a tense, high-pitched voice.

As he backed away from the scope, the captain added.

“Now this time the Neva will be anticipating that cold current, and will be more than prepared to counter it. Bring us up, comrade, as gently as if your own mother were on top of our sail.”

A muted surging hum filled the attack center as the ballast pumps were activated. As the now-lightened sub began to rise, the diving officer reversed the ballast process to insure that the ship was heavy enough to meet the temperature inversion that had sent them shooting upward like a rocket last time.

“We’re at eighteen meters, and holding. Captain,” he proudly observed.

“Keep her right there. Comrade,” ordered the captain. “At this depth we should be just above that current and we’ll be able to drift right under the polynya.”

As Sergei returned to the periscope well, he peered inside the lens coupling and eagerly called out.

“Come here. Admiral. I’d like you to take a look at something.”

Surprised by this request, Mikhail Kharkov proceeded to have a look through the lens. An expanse of startlingly clear water met his eyes. This was in itself astonishing, since most of the world’s oceans would appear pitch black at this depth. The veteran mariner was struck with wonder when a translucent, rainbow-colored blob gracefully floated by. One look at this creature’s long, flowing tentacles and Mikhail was able to identify it as a jellyfish.

“Well, I’ll be,” reflected the admiral as he backed away from the scope. “So we’re not so alone in these frozen waters after all.”

“We certainly aren’t,” returned Sergei Markova. “And from the clarity of the water and the amount of light visible, I’d say if there is ice above us, it should be thin enough for us to smash through with our sail. Shall we give it a try, Admiral?”

Not about to tell the captain otherwise, Mikhail beckoned him to get on with it and Sergei snapped into action.

“Down scope. Bring us up ever so gently. And don’t worry about that current. We’re well above it as the jellyfish that surround us seem to be just hanging there motionless.”

The ballast pumps again activated and the diving officer anxiously reported.

“Fifteen meters.”

“Thin ice above,” observed the seaman assigned to monitor the surface-scanning Fathometer.

“We’re close, comrades. So very close,” said the captain.

“Stop the pumps!”

The muted hum of venting ballast suddenly ceased, to be followed by a barely perceptible bumping sensation.

“Our sail’s up against the ice pack!” exclaimed the captain.

“Now it’s time to break on through. Lighten those tanks.”

The diving officer once again activated the ballast pumps. The familiar throbbing hum returned, yet even with this increase in positive buoyancy, the ice remained immovable.

Mikhail Kharkov watched as the captain thoughtfully walked over toward the diving console.

“That’s enough, comrade. You can stop pumping now since it’s evident this ice is a bit more dense than we assumed.”

It was at this point that the ship’s Zampolit stepped out of the shadowy corner in which he had been perched.

“What are we to do now, Captain? Shall we go and find a more suitable polynya?”

“And why in Lenin’s name should we go and do a thing like that. Comrade Zinyagin?” returned the captain. “It’s foolish to waste all this effort just because of a little tough ice. And besides, have you already forgotten that it’s to this very sector duty calls us.”

“But how are we to get topside if the ice blocks our way?” continued the puzzled Political Officer.

Sergei Markova grinned.

“I guess we’ll just have to go and smash our way through. Flood her down, comrade diving officer. But only ten meters or so. Then lighten our load, and we’ll see what kind of icebreaker the Neva makes.”

Unable to hide his unease, the Zampolit sighed heavily. As he removed his handkerchief to mop his dripping wet jowls, he returned to his corner to brace himself for that inevitable collision that would soon be coming.

A carefully monitored surge of onrushing seawater brought the submarine down another ten meters in depth. Then with a single turn of his wrist, the diving officer vented this additional ballast and the now lightened vessel drifted upward.

There was a loud crack and for a moment the deck below quivered and trembled. Yet the Neva still found itself beneath the dome of solid ice.

“So it’s going to take a little more muscle,” observed the captain. “Take us down fifteen meters, and this time blow the main ballast. With a couple of hundred tons of additional positive buoyancy, the Neva will smash on through that ice like a fist through a plate-glass window.”

Though stimulated by the young captain’s vigor, Mikhail Kharkov knew that such a procedure was not without its dangers. The encompassing ice could be thicker than they anticipated, and even if their specially reinforced sail could take the resulting collision, their fragile rudder might not. And there was always the ever-present threat of encountering an inverted spike of ice that could pierce the Neva’s hull and send them all to their watery doom. Yet such were the risks of Arctic operations. And since the completion of their mission depended upon a successful ascent, they had few alternatives, other than gambling on locating another polynya close by.

For the first time in years, Kharkov felt his gut tighten with dread. And only then did he realize what a sheltered existence he had been living as a landlocked bureaucrat. As a sailor, fear had been a constant companion. Though infrequently acknowledged, it showed itself every time a storm at sea was encountered, or enemy waters were attained. At such times even the most decorated individuals felt that dreaded twinge deep in their bellies as they prepared for one more brush with mortality.

Men such as their current Zampolit were less tolerant of that horror, and expressed their anxieties openly. As a commanding officer, Mikhail had learned to control his emotions. For fear was contagious, and a subordinate only had to see it on his captain’s face to lose whatever courage he might have summoned up to that point.

A prime example of an officer who appeared to be in perfect control was Sergei Markova. As Mikhail had noted while watching him in action in the flooding engine room, the Neva’s young captain met even the direst of emergencies with a cool acceptance. His confident, levelheaded demeanor was especially evident now as he stood behind the diving console.

Except for the ship’s Zampolit, the crew seemed to mirror their captain’s state. Even Mikhail was under the man’s spell, and he found himself consciously holding back questions he wouldn’t hesitate to ask if another was at the helm.

The sound of rushing seawater broke the veteran mariner’s ponderings, and he reached out to steady himself as the Neva began slowly drifting downward.

Expecting to next hear the surging roar of the main ballast tanks being vented, Mikhail found himself with the distinct impression that something was not right here. Seconds later, this presentiment was confirmed by the frantic voice of the sonar operator.

“We’ve got an unidentified submerged contact, bearing zero-eight-zero, Captain! From the racket it’s making, it’s headed toward us with a bone in its teeth.”

“Belay that order to blow the main tanks!” directed Sergei Markova.

“Senior Lieutenant, what’s the best course available to see us out of this trap?”

Before Viktor Belenko could answer, the Admiral of the Fleet found himself crying out in protest.

“You can’t be serious, Captain? This is no time to be fainthearted. If this vessel is the Yankee Sturgeon that we paid our respects to earlier, now is the time to finish them off for good.”

This remark was given some substance by the sonar operator’s next report.

“The computer shows a seventy-three percent probability that this contact is an American Sturgeon class submarine. Captain.”

“We’ve got clear water ahead of us on course three-four-zero, Captain,” offered the senior lieutenant firmly.

“That’s the coward’s way!” spat the white-haired veteran. “If we stand a chance of successfully completing this mission, we must make our stand here and now. Flood those torpedo tubes. Captain Markova, and rid the seas of this Imperialist menace once and for all!”

For one brief confusing moment, Sergei Markova found himself vacillating between two drastically different choices. Under normal circumstances, he would not hesitate to send the Neva running for the cover of open water. The alternative was to launch a torpedo attack. In his relatively short but full career, he had never before given such a drastic order. As a veteran cold-warrior, he was well aware of how much one could get away with before crossing that thin line leading to the unthinkable — a global nuclear exchange.

A set of unwritten rules existed that regulated the degree of escalation in the undersea realm. Each side probed deep into the other’s territory, and even such potentially dangerous practices as ramming were unofficially condoned. Yet an actual torpedo attack was definitely out of the question.

“The contact continues on course, and is reaching our offensive threshold, Captain,” reported the sonar operator.

“For the sake of the Motherland, launch those torpedoes. Captain! Don’t you see? We have no other choice in this matter.”

Sergei turned to directly face Kharkov as the white-haired veteran continued his impassioned plea.

“I realize such an attack is unprecedented in this time of fragile peace, Captain. But the moment the Imperialists shot down the Flying Kremlin, a new and violent stage of this so-called cold war came into being.

“Don’t forget about that squadron of F-15 Eagles we monitored closing in on our Il–76 with their afterburners ignited. And how can you ignore the disruptive electronic interference sent skyward from their Polestar DEW line installation? The Soviet Union might have lost a beloved leader in the dastardly missile attack that followed, but I can guarantee you that we haven’t lost our resolve. So for the sake of Alexander Suratov’s memory, now is the time to start evening the score. And once the black box is ours you’ll realize the validity of these words, and the whole world will cry out for justice!”

“Captain, the contact has entered our defensive zone,” interrupted the unemotional sonar operator. “From this point onward, the Neva is well within the range of the Sturgeon’s Mk-48 torpedoes.”

“Shall I initiate immediate evasive maneuvers, Captain?” quizzed the concerned senior lieutenant. “A launch by the Sturgeon now would most likely prove fatal.”

His gaze still locked on the distinguished face of the Admiral of the Fleet, Sergei felt the old-timer will him onward, and the young officer reluctantly nodded.

“There will be no evasive maneuvers. Senior Lieutenant, until we first launch a salvo of our own,” declared the captain. “Such a drastic decision is necessitated by a single concern. As long as that Sturgeon remains in these waters, our ultimate mission is compromised. So we have no choice but to eliminate it.”

A relieved grin broke upon Mikhail Kharkov’s face as he listened to the young captain call out forcefully.

“Prepare tubes one and three for firing. Sonar, we’re going to need a sonic interface between the target’s signature and those warheads. And for our very lives, make it a secure one!”

Helping tag the suspected Soviet submarine as it attempted to smash its way through the ice, was just the kind of thing that Seaman Lester Warren needed to snap him out of his doldrums. A new spirit of self-confidence infused the junior sonar technician as this contact was confirmed and the Defiance moved in to intercept it.

Any thoughts of abandoning his console to fill his empty stomach were far from the Texan’s mind. Instead he was very content to remain right at his duty station, with his veteran shipmate manning the terminal on his right.

Since initially picking up the enemies’ signature, they had monitored them making yet another futile attempt to smash their way to the surface. Currently headed downward for what appeared to be one last effort, the Russians had just taken on additional ballast. Even at a range of thirty miles, this distinctive racket was clearly audible.

One of the unusual features of under-ice operations was the manner in which such signatures traveled. Because the sound waves were reflected upward by the seabed and downward by the ice cover, man-made signatures could be heard for a great distance. This would be particularly significant if the ambient sounds of the ice itself could be filtered out.

Yet since this was extremely difficult to achieve, Warren was quite content to receive startlingly clear readings at their present range.

They were rapidly approaching the point where the Defiance could initiate a torpedo attack if it so desired. Though Lester Warren thought such a response was more than appropriate considering the scare Ivan had given them, it was Captain Colter’s decision. However, anxious to know if this was indeed the course they would next take. Warren sat forward expectantly when Stan Roth hung up the intercom handset on which he had been talking.

“You’ll never guess who I just got off the horn with, Les? That was none other than Lieutenant Commander Layman, and he wanted to personally convey to you a job well done.”

Though this was certainly better than another censure, the Texan still found such a remark unnecessary.

“That’s all very well and good, Stanley. But what did he say about the Russkies? Are we going to take them out, or what?”

Noting his shipmate’s impatience, Stanley Roth snickered.

“My, aren’t you the eager one. Since when did you become such a hawk?”

“To tell you the truth, Stan, I always thought I had a pretty good understanding of the Soviet people. They impressed me as a levelheaded sort, who wanted peace just as much as we did. But my opinion abruptly changed the moment they rammed us.”

“I hear you, Les. And you’ll be happy to know that the captain happens to feel likewise. In fact, the XO just told me to lock Ivan’s sound signature into the Mk-48’s in tubes one through three.”

“All right! We’re finally going to play hardball,” exclaimed the Texan as he watched his shipmate hit the switches that would feed the Russian sub’s sound signature directly into the computers mounted inside their torpedoes.

Yet as the reality of this bold new step sunk in, Lester’s tone suddenly revealed concern.

“Do you think this will mean war, Stan?”

Only after he had successfully completed the interface did the senior technician answer.

“That’s hard to say, Les. But where I’m sitting, the prospects for detente sure don’t look very promising.”

This statement was punctuated by a distant muted whirring sound that flowed into their headphones from the direction of their target. In all his years of service, Stanley Roth had only heard this distinctive racket during sea trials with the fleet. Yet this certainly wasn’t an exercise. A look of pure disbelief came on the veteran’s face as he cried out in horror.

“Holy Mother Mary, Ivan just launched a broadside at us!”

Listening on in sheer terror as the signatures of two separate torpedoes filtered in through his headphones, Lester Warren found that his worst nightmare had at long last been realized — they were at war!

The frantic call from the sound shack caught Captain Matt Colter and his XO huddled around the plotting table.

“Damn it?” cursed Colter. “I should have known this Ivan would be the type to shoot first and ask questions later. Let’s return the favor. Lieutenant Sanger, hit ‘em with tubes one, two, and three. Then release our MOSS Mk-70 decoy out of tube number four.”

“You got it. Captain,” answered the alert weapons’ officer as he punched the buttons of the ship’s Mark 101 A fire-control system.

Seconds later, the sound of four exploding blasts of compressed air filled the control room with a resonant roar. The deck beneath them quivered as the now-empty tubes began filling with water to compensate for the great weight they had just lost.

“All four weapon’s running straight and true,” observed the breathless weapons’ officer.

“Then let’s get the hell out of here!” yelled Colter. “Take her down deep and quick, Mr. Marshall. I want to leave a knuckle in the water that those Red torpedoes will never be able to follow.”

As the muted whining sound of the turbines engaging filled the control room, the Defiance seemed to lurch forward in a sudden burst of speed. The helmsmen made the most of this additional momentum, and the 5,000-ton vessel canted hard on its side and initiated a tight, spiraling dive into the black depths below. With all the grace of a jet fighter, the sub made a corkscrew maneuver that left a hissing vortex of agitated seawater in the ship’s baffles.

“Five hundred feet,” observed the diving officer coolly.

Tightly gripping the rail behind the chart table, Matt Colter absorbed this information. His practiced gaze scanned the compartment, and he watched how the crew fought to keep their balance as the deck violently tilted from side to side. The g-forces proportionally increased to a point where loose objects such as unsecured coffee mugs and rulers began crashing to the deck.

The digital knot indicator that lay mounted on the forward bulkhead before the harness-constrained helmsmen registered twenty-one knots. Yet the turbines were just getting warmed up and before this maneuver was over they would be shooting through the water at a speed of over twice their present one.

“Seven-hundred and fifty feet,” said the diving officer.

The boat canted hard on its left side and seemed to momentarily shudder as it penetrated a depth to which few other man-made vessels could safely hope to venture. As the hull began to groan in protest of the great water pressure it now encountered. Colter looked over and caught the concerned gaze of his XO.

“Well, Mr. Layman, do you think we shook those Red fish yet?”

The XO answered directly.

“I’d say there’s a damn good chance that we did. Skipper. We’re getting awfully close to our depth threshold, and now might be a good time to pull out of this dive and see what’s behind us.”

Almost to punctuate this response the diving officer dryly called out, “Nine-hundred feet.”

Colter held back his reply until the depth gauge read an even thousand.

“Helmsmen, pull her up and hold us at nine-hundred and ninety feet. Make your new course one-six-zero.”

Glancing up at the knot indicator, the captain disgustedly called out to his XO.

“Damn it, All Get on the horn to the chief and tell him to get the lead out of this old lady’s pants. We need at least forty knots, and we need it now!”

As the XO alertly nodded and picked up the nearest handset. Colter addressed his next remarks to the quartermaster.

“Mr. Lawrence, patch in the sound shack with our overhead speakers, and activate the remote pickup.”

This allowed the captain to talk directly to the sonar room, with the response filtering back through the public address system for all inside the control room to clearly hear.

“Mr. Roth, this is the captain. Do you read me?”

“I hear you, sir,” returned the tense voice of the senior sonar technician.

Noting this tension, Colter responded.

“Good. Now take a deep breath and tell me, did that little knuckle we left behind do the trick?”

Stanley Roth’s voice remained strained as he responded.

“It looks like our decoy took care of one of ‘em, Captain. Yet the other one wasn’t so easily fooled and is still on our tail. Range is thirty-thousand yards and starting to close.”

“Damn!” cursed Colter, whose eyes flashed to the knot counter.

“Where’s that additional speed, XO?”

With the intercom handset still cradled up against his ear, Al Layman could only hunch his shoulders as the digital indicator seemed to remain locked on thirty-five knots.

“Helmsman, swing us around to bearing one-zero-zero. And make it crisp!”

The captain’s forceful directive was met by such a sharp turn to port, the loose material that had already been deposited on the deck careened across the floor. Forced to further tighten his grip to keep from being flung to the deck himself, Matt Colter locked his gaze on the speed counter. His glance seemed to narrow as the indicator suddenly rose one, two and three complete knots.

“That’s more like it!” cried the captain.

“Yet since it’s doubtful we can outrun that damn fish, we’re going to have to lose it another way. Planesman, bring us up to a depth of three-hundred feet and do it quickly.”

As the seated seaman responsible for operating the ship’s two sail-mounted planes yanked back on his airplane-type steering column, the bow angled sharply upward. This change of course caused those sailors not having the luxury of stabilizing seat harnesses to grasp some support to keep from being flung backward.

Matt Colter gripped a rail. With the sweating palms of his hands rubbed raw by the tubular steel his grip had locked onto, the captain watched as the depth gauge passed the six-hundred-foot mark. Doing his best to ignore the excruciating pain that shot up his wrists. Colter queried.

“Mr. Roth, what’s that torpedo doing?”

An awkward moment of silence forced the captain to repeat his question. It was now met by a stuttering response from the mounted speakers.

“Uh, sorry about that, sir. But I’m afraid the news is still grim. The fish is coming up with us, and has now closed the gap to eighteen thousand yards.”

Instinctively, Colter’s gaze went to the digital speed counter. It registered a blistering forty-three knots, and since any additional speed on their part was highly unlikely, the captain held back on venting his fury on the chief engineer.

“We’re approaching three hundred feet. Captain,” observed the diving officer.

“Torpedo’s still closing, sir,” added the intense voice of Stan Roth. “Range is now down to twelve thousand yards.”

Matt Colter caught his XO’s somber stare. The two senior officers seemed to be attempting to silently read each other’s thoughts when a sudden flash of inspiration gleamed in the captain’s eyes.

“The damn ice!” reflected Colter fervently.

“We’ll head right on up to the surface, and then plow back down into the depths. And if we’re lucky, that torpedo will breach and smack right into that ever-loving ice!”

The barest of grins broke out on the XO’s previously worried face, and this was all that Colter needed to convince him to put his hastily conceived plan into action.

“Mr. Marshall, we’re going to go all the way up to one hundred feet before flooding the tanks and going back down to crush depth. I know it’s going to be a hell of a roller-coaster ride, but if the Lord is with us, this one should do the trick.”

As the diving officer prepared to implement this highly complicated and dangerous maneuver, the two occupants of the ship’s sonar compartment remained anxiously glued to their consoles. With their headphones tightly clipped to their ears and their stares locked to the flashing repeater screens, both Stanley Roth and Lester Warren waited for what seemed to be inevitable.

“It doesn’t look good,” quietly observed the concerned young Texan to his partner. “That fish can’t be less than eight thousand yards off our tail.”

“I’m afraid it’s more like seven, and closing in with each passing second,” returned Roth grimly.

“Maybe it will run out of fuel,” offered Lester. “It can’t keep on going like that forever.”

The veteran sonar technician shook his head.

“Don’t underestimate those Russkie engineers, Les. They build ‘em tough and with plenty of staying power.”

As the menacing whine of the approaching torpedo continued to fill his headphones, the Texan took a deep breath and prepared himself for the worst.

“Well, if it does catch up with us, I hope we won’t go down without taking some Reds with us.”

This pessimistic remark was met by a passionate response.

“Don’t even think that way, kid! The Defiance ain’t licked just yet. You’ll see. Why the old man is probably cooking something up even as we speak.”

With this said, the steep angle of ascent that had forced them to tightly grasp the edges of their consoles to keep from sliding backward, abruptly evened out. For a few fleeting seconds, the Defiance ran level in the water before initiating a sickening, gut-wrenching plunge downward. Now it was all that they could do to keep from being cut in half by their consoles as the ship began yet another incredibly steep, spiraling dive.

Struggling to keep his headphones securely clamped over his ears, Stanley Roth listened intently for the manner in which their pursuer reacted to this precipitous maneuver. At first the torpedo’s distinctive signature was completely lost in the sudden turbulence left in the Defiance’s wake. It seemed to take an eternity for their baffles to clear, yet when they eventually did, the sound that met his ears brought forth an exclamation flavored by sheer joy.

“It’s still moving away from us! If it doesn’t turn soon, it’s going to leap right out of the water.”

Suddenly remembering the unique nature of the seas beneath which they were currently traveling, Stanley made the right connection.

“Why that’s it! The Skipper took us on this roller-coaster ride so it would do just that!”

Still not certain what his shipmate was carrying on about, Lester made the mistake of turning up his volume gain a full notch just as a thundering explosion sounded above them. His eardrums painfully reverberating under the force of this sonic lashing, he ripped off his headphones. Yet instead of sympathy, his shipmate greeted him with a wide, beaming smile and a hearty pat on the back.

“We did it, Les! I told you the Skipper would see us out of this fix.”

“What in the hell happened?” queried the dazed junior technician.

Realizing the extent of his shipmate’s confusion, Stanley wasted no time explaining.

“Don’t you understand, Les? Captain Colter had it planned from the very start. By sending us up almost to the surface, and then abruptly ordering the Defiance back down, he caused that Russkie torpedo to smack right into the ice. The old man’s a genius, pure and simple!”

Lester Warren listened to these spirited remarks, his ears still ringing in pain. Quite willing to forget about his own agony and join in the celebration, the Texan became puzzled when his colleague anxiously returned to his console to initiate yet another intensive scan of the surrounding waters.

“What in the hell is that all about, Stanley? With that fish gone, and the other one still chasing our decoy, we’re surely in the clear.”

The veteran held back his response until his scan located what he had been searching for.

“You seem to have forgotten the Defiance wasn’t the only sub under attack, Tex. Go ahead and isolate the bow hydrophone array, port side.”

As Lester gingerly replaced his headphones and reached forward to address his keyboard, Stanley Roth added.

“Ah, now this is sweet music to my ears, if I ever heard any. Because if you think the Defiance was just on a hectic roller-coaster ride, wait until you hear what Ivan’s in the midst of. Why that sub is cutting up the sea something fierce, with our three ever-loving torpedoes smack on its tail!”

“Captain Markova, for the sake of my poor wife and three young children, you must do something! Why, we’re all going to die!”

As the Zampolit’s shrill pleas filled the previously hushed attack center, Admiral of the Fleet Mikhail Kharkov reacted swiftly. Oblivious to the steeply canted, vibrating deck beneath him, the white-haired veteran crossed the entire length of the compartment and slapped the cowering Political Officer full on the cheek.

“Now that’s enough of your pathetic whining, Comrade Zampolit!” the fuming veteran chided. “You’re a disgrace to both the Fleet and the Party, and I will have no more of this. Do you understand, comrade?”

Sobered by this surprise blow, the still-whimpering Political Officer managed a tear-stained reply.

“I’m sorry. Admiral. It’s just that I can’t bear the idea of my poor Katrina being such a young widow.”

“And don’t you think each one of us feels the same way about our loved ones?” countered the admiral. “This is no way for a naval warrior to act, comrade. Especially when there’s still a very good chance we’ll yet escape this attack.”

The deck rolled hard to the right, and as Kharkov reached out to stabilize himself, the seated sonar operator called out dryly.

“The three torpedoes continue their approach. Captain. The range of the lead weapon is now down to a thousand meters.”

From the corner of the attack center directly opposite Mikhail Kharkov, the Neva’s Captain absorbed this observation with a pained grimace. Beside him, his senior lieutenant did likewise.

“It’s obvious that these diversionary tactics are worthless,” reflected Viktor Belenko somberly. “The American Mark 48’s are quicker than we had anticipated, and even the Neva’s great speed won’t be enough to outrun them.”

Sergei Markova knew very well that his old friend was right. Even though the Neva’s turbines were spewing out an incredible forty-eight knots of forward speed, the trio of persistent torpedoes continued their relentless pursuit.

When it didn’t appear that their great speed would save them, Markova tried sending the Neva deep into the sea’s depths. Yet even a well-defined thermocline failed to fool the Mark 48’s, who were programmed to home in on the vessel’s acoustic signature.

Finally the captain decided, if they couldn’t outrun or out dive these persistent weapons, only one course remained open to them. Somehow Sergei would have to get the Neva in a position where he could order the power plant shut down. Then, once the mad, grinding wash of their propeller spun to a halt, the torpedoes would no longer have a target to home in on and the chase would be over.

As the frustrated young captain stared down at the bathymetric chart of the sound they currently sailed beneath, Viktor Belenko offered yet another desperate proposal.

“Perhaps we should try launching another decoy, Sergei. Even if it is the last one we carry.”

“What’s the use?” the captain sighed. “The others were useless. Why should this one be any different?”

“That doesn’t sound like the Sergei Markova I know,” retorted the senior lieutenant. “I realize the other decoys only served to temporarily divert the Mark 48’s, but at least there’s a slim chance this one will do better. And even if it doesn’t, at the very least we’ll have a few minutes reprise to come up with something better. Otherwise, my friend, our fate is all but sealed.”

Still intently gazing at the chart, Sergei smashed his fist down onto the table’s Plexiglas top.

“Damn!” he cursed. “If only we could buy enough time to successfully scram our reactor. That’s the only thing that would save us.”

“Torpedo range is down to eight hundred meters, Captain,” said the sonar operator.

This grim observation was followed by the strained voice of the Neva’s diving officer.

“We’ve attained a depth of seventy-five meters. Captain, and are presently running out of water. Shall I proceed with another dive? For the surface-scanning Fathometer shows a nasty-looking inverted ice ridge above that could be a problem shortly.”

This innocent remark registered in Sergei’s mind, and he was all set to order yet another plunge into deeper waters when an idea suddenly came to him.

“Comrade diving officer, is this inverted ridge that you speak of large enough to shelter a vessel the size of the Neva?”

Not certain of what the captain was getting at, the diving officer answered.

“Most definitely. Captain. It’s one of the largest and thickest I’ve seen so far, and extends downward well over forty meters.”

“Then that’s it!” exclaimed Sergei. “We’ll launch our last decoy, then as the Mark 48’s give it their usual brief chase, we’ll ascend into the cover of this ridge, scram our reactor, and when the American torpedoes reinitiate pursuit, they’ll be unable to find us because of the ice!”

Hurriedly crossing the attack center’s length to join the captain was Mikhail Kharkov.

“Why that’s a brilliant plan, comrade! Yet we mustn’t tarry, for time is of the essence.”

With the invaluable assistance of Viktor Belenko, Sergei Markova’s unorthodox maneuver was put into action. In a growling, swirling rush, the Neva’s last remaining decoy was launched. Soon afterward, the trio of attacking torpedoes were fooled into checking this new vibrant signature out for themselves.

Though this deception would only be a temporary one, it gave the Sierra class submarine time to drastically cut its forward speed, level out, and begin the intricate process of inching its way upward until it was nestled beneath the shelter of the inverted ice ridge.

No sooner had the sub’s reinforced sail delicately touched up against the roof of this barrier than the three torpedoes realized the decoy was not their intended prey. With a whining vengeance, they turned back toward the Neva’s last known coordinates and attempted to seek out the vessel that they had been sent to destroy. It was fate alone that allowed the Mark 48’s sensitive acoustic sensors the opportunity of getting one last fix on the Neva’s propeller wash seconds before its turbines were deactivated and its reactor scrammed. Knowing now where the true enemy lay, the torpedoes streaked upward to complete their mission.

Guided solely by acoustic sound waves, the Mark 48’s took the quickest route to their target’s last known fix. Ignoring the fact that the signature suddenly stopped transmitting, the torpedoes surged forward in their final attack run. The trio of weapons impacted almost simultaneously. A blindingly bright, earsplitting detonation followed, during which time over three-thousand pounds of high-density TORPEX explosives bit into the solid wall of ice the warheads had mistakenly run into.

On the surface, this massive blast was hardly noticeable.

As the incessantly howling wind scarred the pack ice smooth with trillions of bits of flying razor-sharp ice pellets, a sudden fracture formed on the ridge’s surface. Immense in size, this rift was fed by the tremendous heat of the explosion that had just occurred a few meters below. As this fracture continued to widen, it eventually tore apart the entire ridge itself with a grinding, gut-wrenching crack. With the ice now open to the sea below, an immense, black-hulled vessel popped up from the depths to fill this sudden gap. And in just such an unlikely manner, the Sierra class nuclear submarine Neva came to rest on the ice-encrusted surface of Lancaster Sound.