Under the Ice

Chapter Sixteen

It was noon, and the Arctic sun still lay low in the heavens, as Matt Colter returned to the Defiance. His weary, bone-chilled party included two new faces. One of these individuals had to be carried aboard on a makeshift stretcher, while the other stood erect on the ice-covered deck where he wished his shore-based coworkers a hearty goodbye.

“I’m leaving the squad in your capable hands, Sergeant-Major. Please try to assure the Inuit woman that her husband appears to be all right. That bone necklace he was wearing most likely saved the poor bugger’s life, but it will be up to the pharmacist’s mate to bring him back to consciousness.

“While I’m gone, have the men start combing that plateau for other debris. And then you’ve got the somber task of holding a proper burial.

“By the way, in your absence, I made Thomas Etah a corporal. I know he’s young and inexperienced, but he seems to be a quick learner and the men respect him. Give him his fair share of responsibilities, and perhaps he’ll grow into the job like you and I did years ago.”

“Pardon my asking. Lieutenant, but I still don’t understand why you’ll be sailing with the Americans. Isn’t our job over at this point?”

Cliff Ano’s question brought a firm response from Redmond’s lips.

“Most definitely not, Sergeant-Major. Captain Colter feels there’s a chance he’ll be able to intercept the Soviets before they get out into the open sea. Don’t forget, these waters are still Canadian territory. And though both submarines are technically trespassing here, my official presence sanctions the Defiance’s mission while possibly allowing us to complete ours as well.”

The boarding party had made their way safely below deck, when a parka-clad seaman approached Jack Redmond from behind.

“Excuse me, sir. But we’ll be diving soon and the captain requests that all hands clear the deck.”

After nodding that he understood, Redmond took one last look at Cliff Ano.

“I’ve got to be going, Sergeant-Major. Give my regards to the lads, and keep those ruffians busy and out of trouble!”

The last remark was met by a crisp salute. And the last Redmond saw of his subordinate, Ano was positioned behind the runners of the dogsled, spurring the huskies onward with crackling snaps of his whip.

A narrow steel ladder led Redmond down into an alien subterranean world. He soon found himself in a fairly spacious, elongated compartment. A blast of soothing, warm air engulfed him, and as he gratefully stripped off his fur parka and mittens, he checked out his new environment. The walls were completely lined with flashing consoles and snaking steel tubing. Manning this sophisticated high-tech equipment were a number of young men dressed in matching dark blue coveralls. Each of them seemed to give him the briefest of polite stares before industriously returning to their duties.

He was surprised to find one of these sailors a woman. Also clothed in blue coveralls, she sat before a large monitor screen, busily attacking the keyboard. Her dark hair was tied in a knot, and from what he could see of her face, she looked extremely attractive.

“Ah, there you are, Lieutenant.” The deep voice came from his left.

Turning his head, the commando took in the now familiar face and figure of the Defiance’s Captain. At this blond-haired officer’s side stood a tall, thin, mustached figure, who had a scarred bit of a pipe between his lips. It was Matt Colter who initiated the introductions.

“Lieutenant Jack Redmond, I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Commander Al Layman, the ship’s executive officer, or XO as we prefer to call him.”

“Pleased to meet you.” The XO, gave Redmond a warm, firm handshake. “From what the Skipper tells me, you had some trouble with some old adversaries of ours topside. I sincerely regret the loss of your men, and hope that we can help you even the score.”

“That would be most appreciated,” returned Redmond. He liked the way this officer looked him right in the eye and spoke directly.

“The bridge is secure. Captain,” said a voice from behind.

“Very well,” retorted the captain as he scanned the control room. “Prepare to dive.”

Taking Redmond by the arm. Matt Colter guided him over to a console covered with dozens of switches and gauges. A dual line of button-sized lights dominated this console, with only the top row currently lit a vibrant green. A slightly built, redheaded sailor watched them approach, and snapped into action the moment the Captain said, “Take us down, Mr. Marshall.”

With fluid ease, the sailor then hit a variety of switches and buttons, and the compartment was filled with a muted, whining sound. It was Colter who explained what this racket meant.

“That noise is coming from the ship’s ballast pumps. In order to dive, seawater is drawn into the specially designed tanks that line our hull. As these tanks fill, the Defiance loses its positive buoyancy and we begin to sink beneath the surface. Special trimming tanks are then utilized to adjust the ship’s weight until it has neutral buoyancy and is balanced fore and aft.”

The captain pointed toward the two sailors seated to the right of the diving console. Both these individuals wore safety harnesses and gripped airplane-like steering columns.

“Over here are our planes men. Once we’re underway at speed, they’ll influence the ship’s up-and-down movement by controlling the tilt of the diving planes located on our sail and at the stern.”

There was a loud grinding noise as the submarine broke free from the grip of the ice and began sinking down into its intended medium.

“Take us down to three hundred feet, Mr. Marshall. All ahead one-third.”

Even as the vessel’s turbines engaged, there wasn’t the slightest hint of forward movement. Yet Colter showed him otherwise as he pointed to the digital speed indicator mounted on the bulkhead before the planes men

They had attained a velocity of ten knots when Colter once more addressed his crew.

“Bring us around to course zero-four-zero. Dr. Lansing, do you see anything that might get in our way overhead?”

This time it was the seated woman who answered.

“We should be fine at this depth. Captain. Though my laser scan shows an inverted ridge off our port bow, that extends some two hundred feet down into the water.”

“We’ll be staying well away from that monster,” returned Colter, who next led his guest over to the chart table.

Here they joined the XO before a detailed bathymetric map of the Lancaster Sound. There were a confusing series of colored lines and x’s on this chart, yet before asking what they all meant, Redmond softly vented his curiosity.

“You know, I never realized that the US Navy had women aboard its submarines.”

“We normally don’t,” answered the captain. “Dr. Lansing is on temporary loan from the Naval Arctic laboratory. She’s currently operating a prototype surface-scanning Fathometer that uses lasers to determine the exact state of the ice conditions topside. It was such a device that helped us surface as close to the northern edge of the Brodeur Peninsula as we did.”

“We’re at depth and on course. Captain,” said a voice from behind.

This revelation seemed to reenergize Colter, whose face suddenly turned in a broad grin.

“Now, Lieutenant Redmond, I’ll show you how we’re going to catch up with a group of very nasty Russians.”

“All ahead, flank speed!” he ordered firmly. “And someone better call the boys in the torpedo room and the sound shack and let them know that the season for Ivan hunting has officially opened!”

In the locked confines of Viktor Belenko’s cramped cabin, both of the Neva’s senior officers were in the midst of an intense hushed conversation.

“I tell you Sergei, as sure as the snows fall in Siberia, our esteemed admiral is holding something back on us. Why did you see his face when he got back to the ship? He looked like a little boy who had just been given the keys to the candy shop!”

Sergei Markova grunted.

“I know what you mean, Viktor. That smirk was painted all over his face, and he could barely tone it down when he matter-of factly informed us of the deaths of all five of the men sent along with him.”

“He certainly was possessive about that cockpit voice recorder,” observed the senior lieutenant. “From what I understand, he wouldn’t even let any of the men help him with it as he whisked it off to the safe in your stateroom. It’s just too bad our Zampolit chose this inopportune moment for the weekly Komsomol meeting. Instead of giving the speech he’d promised to present, the admiral could be analyzing that precious tape that he’s been ranting and raving about ever since we left Murmansk. Do you really think that the Americans would have the audacity to shoot down the Flying Kremlin, Sergei?”

The Neva’s captain hesitantly answered.

“I don’t know what to think anymore. Comrade. Though I do know that it was a big mistake to incur the wrath of that Sturgeon class vessel like we did. We had no business ramming them in the first place. We should have just gone ultra quiet and let them pass on their merry way in peace. Then we could have gone on and completed our mission with Uncle Sam none the wiser.”

“The old fox certainly did some job of stirring us up to a feverish pitch,” Viktor commented. “With all that talk of launching torpedoes, you would have thought there was actually a war going on.”

Sergei sighed.

“We were lucky to get by with our lives. And for what, may I ask? A damn black box, that we could have just as easily have asked the Canadians to retrieve for us.”

“I still think Kharkov’s trying to pull something off on us, Sergei. At the very least, he should have postponed that damn Komsomol meeting and gotten right down to the analysis of that cockpit voice-recorder’s tape like you asked him to do. Why the way he looked at you when you made this request, you would have thought you had asked him to burn his Party card!”

The captain nodded.

“The way I read Kharkov, it appears he’s not in a rush to analyze that tape because he already thinks he knows what’s on it. And no matter what it contains, he’s still going to blame the crash on the Americans.”

Viktor absorbed this thought, then leaned forward and lowered his voice even further.

“From what I hear, the Admiral of the Fleet and Premier Suratov were not exactly kissing cousins. Tanya has a niece who’s a secretary in the Ministry of Defense, and she says it’s no secret that the admiral has gone on record as opposing Alexander Suratov’s peace initiatives with the West every step of the way. Why when Kharkov heard of the Premier’s Arctic demilitarization proposal, he supposedly threw a nasty fit that included overturned furniture and torn-out phone wires. For an old-timer, the old fox certainly has some fire left in him.”

“I’ll say,” said Sergei. “He’s in remarkable physical shape for his age. To even think he was out there on the ice the whole day, and we almost froze our buns off just standing on the bridge to greet him.”

Viktor sat back, and absentmindedly picked up his roommate’s portable cassette player. While studying its compact lines, a thought suddenly came to him.

“You know, I was talking to Chief Koslov earlier, and he was telling me that he worked for Aeroflot two years before enlisting in the navy. One of his jobs was to replace the cockpit voice-recorder tapes. Did you know that the latest models are designed to fit into a machine as small as this one?”

There was a devilish look in the senior lieutenant’s eyes, and Sergei responded, “If I get your drift, I gather you’d like me to open the safe and listen to the tape. Am I correct?”

Viktor smiled, and Sergei was quick to add.

“Don’t you think such a move on my part is a little rash, comrade? After all, the admiral will be done with his meeting eventually; we can surely wait until then.”

“Come on, Sergei,” urged his old friend. “You know those Komsomol meetings can last for hours on end. And besides, if this tape really is so important, I think that it’s in the best interest of the Motherland to listen to it at once. As for the seriousness of such an infraction, how can you get reprimanded for breaking into your own safe? After all, you’re still the captain of this ship, and nothing it contains should be held back from you.”

This argument hit home, and Sergei took a deep breath and reflected.

“I must admit that your proposal is most tempting, Viktor,” he finally said. “But could I make sense out of the tape’s contents even if I heard it?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” returned the grinning senior lieutenant as he handed his shipmate the portable recorder. “You have a listen, while I stand guard outside.

Driven by insatiable curiosity and a desire to express his dominion over every square centimeter of his vessel, Sergei Markova accepted his roommate’s challenge.

Once a week like clockwork, the Zampolit of the Neva called together the ship’s Party members for a meeting of the Komsomol. At this time, issues were discussed in a forum like environment, issues that touched upon the past, present, and future direction of Soviet Communism.

When Konstantin Zinyagin had learned that they would have a distinguished guest on this patrol, he’d made certain to prepare a stimulating agenda for the Admiral of the Fleet’s behalf. With over a dozen seamen packed into the enlisted men’s mess hall, the Zampolit took a second to reintroduce Mikhail Kharkov, who sat in the front row of chairs. The admiral had promised to give a special presentation on the role of the Navy as an instrument of State policy, and Zinyagin opened the meeting with a brief speech of his own.

However, the Political Officer’s “cursory” introduction had already turned into a forty-five minute discourse on the history of the Soviet Navy, from its inception as a limited coastal fleet to its current worldwide status. Utilizing a variety of charts that he had prepared himself, Zinyagin stood at the rostrum that had a picture of Lenin tacked to it’s front.

With his clipped beard, mustache, full brows, and piercing dark eyes, Zinyagin looked remarkably like the founding father of Socialism, though this was as far as the physical similarity went.

The Zampolit was in the midst of explaining the current state of the modern Soviet Navy, and his scratchy high-pitched voice whined on with a monotonous sameness.

“… So you see, the Soviet leadership has at long last awakened to the all-important value of a powerful Fleet. Beyond its use in war, our Navy can be used to support our friends in times of crisis. The great mobility of our fleet and its flexibility in the event that limited military conflicts are indeed brewing permit it to have an influence on coastal countries, and to employ and extend a military threat to any level, beginning with a show of military strength and ending with the actual landing of forces….”

As the Zampolit continued to ramble on, his white-haired guest began to fidget. Mikhail Kharkov had heard this same speech time after time, and he found himself in no mood to sit through it once again. His back and legs hurt after his long ordeal on the ice, and besides, there was still important work to be done back in his cabin. Though the black box was securely locked away in the safe in his quarters, it still had to be opened and the switch of tapes made. Only after the original had been destroyed would he be able to relax completely. And since the Zampolit showed no signs of bringing his remarks to an end, the weary veteran had no choice but to take matters into his own hands.

It was as the Political Officer briefly halted to display a chart showing the current composition of the fleet, that Mikhail loudly cleared his throat and stood.

“Pardon me, Comrade Zampolit. But I must take this opportunity to regretfully excuse myself. Though I find your well-researched observations most astute, my physically demanding journey on the ice is finally catching up with me. This old body needs rest, and though I was looking forward to this meeting to share my own thoughts with your members, I’m going to have to take my leave early.”

A look of disappointment came to the Political Officer’s face as he turned from the chart and protested.

“Are you certain you can’t stay but a little longer. Admiral? Why I was just about to initiate my closing remarks. And all of us were so looking forward to hearing you speak. Why we might never have such an honor again.”

Mikhail stretched his sore back and stifled a yawn.

“No, comrade, I’m afraid this old man’s had it. But I’ll tell you what. Once I’ve had a good rest, I’d be happy to continue on with this inspiring program. Is tomorrow afternoon at this same time convenient for you?”

The Zampolit looked out to the other occupants of the room and politely nodded.

“Though all of us will be sorry to see you go, we’d be honored to reinitiate this discussion in twenty-four hours. May your rest be peaceful, comrade.”

As Mikhail anxiously ducked out the aft hatchway, the Political Officer wasted no time returning to an explanation of the chart he had just uncovered.

Kharkov’s pace was somewhat slowed by an alien pain in his calves and knees. This was most likely an aftereffect of his hike through the deep snow drifts earlier. A couple of aspirin and a hot toddy would soon take the aches away, so he might focus on the vital task that still faced him.

As the admiral hurriedly crossed through the officer’s wardroom, he was somewhat surprised to find the Neva’s senior lieutenant standing idly in front of the shut door of Mikhail’s cabin. Viktor Belenko seemed to be an efficient officer who had been rather emotionless and tight-lipped to this point. Yet upon spotting Kharkov, his eyes opened wide and he immediately stepped forward to greet him.

“Why, Admiral, you’re just the man I was thinking about. How did the Komsomol meeting go? It certainly didn’t last very long.”

Mikhail grunted.

“Actually, I excused myself early. I’m afraid the aftereffects of my excursion on the ice have finally caught up with me.”

“I thought that might be the case,” offered the senior lieutenant somewhat nervously. “I can’t help but admit that I was surprised when you agreed to attend the Komsomol meeting so soon after your return. How about me getting you some lunch? The cook has brewed up a pot of his specialty — Ukrainian borscht — and I’m certain you won’t be disappointed.

Just come and have a seat at the wardroom table, and I’ll take care of all the rest.”

The admiral shook his head.

“You’re much too kind. Senior Lieutenant. But right now fatigue has overcome my hunger. After a couple of hours’ rest, I’ll be happy to take you up on your offer.”

“It’s not healthy to go to bed on an empty stomach, Admiral. You could get ulcers that way.”

Mikhail patted his stomach.

“Your concerns are noted, comrade. But this old belly of mine has served me well, and a missed meal now and then hasn’t seemed to have bothered it any. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be off to my bunk now.”

Seemingly deaf to this request, Viktor Belenko voiced himself anew.

“Before turning in, perhaps you’d like to see that stealth, equipment you were asking about earlier. We’re just about to activate it, and this is the perfect time to see how this amazing system operates.”

A bit aggravated by the officer’s persistent rambling, Mikhail’s tone sharpened.

“Please, Comrade Belenko! All I want to do is to get into my stateroom. Is that too much to ask?”

Without waiting for a response, he pushed the senior lieutenant aside, inserted his key into the door’s lock, and after quickly ducking inside, slammed the door shut behind him. He was in the process of exhaling a breath of relief, when he realized with a start that he wasn’t alone. Seated at the cabin’s cramped desk, a pair of lightweight headphones clamped over his ears, was Captain Sergei Markova. At his feet was the now opened cockpit voice recorder!

As his face flushed with anger, the admiral asked, “Are you finding anything interesting. Captain?”

Sergei Markova’s astonishment at being discovered was tempered by the equally shocking contents of the tape he had been listening to. Taking a moment to switch off his cassette player, he peeled off the headphones and replied.

“As a matter of fact, I am, Admiral. Because as you’ll soon hear for yourself, it wasn’t an American F-15 that was responsible for taking down the Flying Kremlin, it was a bomb!”

As a look of puzzlement etched the veteran’s face, Sergei excitedly said, “Here, listen for yourself. The voices are a bit muddled, but the sequence of events is startling clear. It all seems to have started when an incendiary device ignited inside the console holding the Il-76’s communications’ equipment. As they lost the effective use of their radio, the fire spread, until the plane’s operational systems were affected. At this point the Il–76 lost altitude and swerved off course, as the crew valiantly fought to control the choking flames. And in the process of this desperate struggle, yet another bomb was found attached to an avionic’s panel. This device had yet to detonate, and appears to have been controlled by some sort of timing mechanism, for you can hear the frantic cries of the flight crew as they struggled to disarm it.”

Taking a moment to control his rising emotions, Sergei somberly continued.

“Soon afterward an ear-shattering explosion overrode their shouts of concern, and was followed by the sickening, wrenching sounds of the plane breaking apart and proceeding to fall from the skies.

“Yet one thing still confuses me. Admiral. Upon opening my safe, I found yet another cassette tape lying beside the sealed black box. It proved to be constructed exactly like that tape inside the cockpit voice recorder. It had the same stainless-steel casing. Yet when listening to it, I found it filled with nothing but undecipherable static.”

“You had no business doing such a thing!” the enraged admiral protested. “I demand that you hand over both of these tapes at once. Captain Markova. Or the severest penalties possible will be applied to you.”

“And why is that?” Sergei dared ask. “Is it because you knew what was on the original tape, and intended to switch it for the other one you brought along?”

Conscious that the intuitive young officer still had no real proof of this, the veteran mariner decided to try another tack. Instead of trying to directly confront him, he would now attempt to win him over.

With a shrug of his shoulders, and the barest of forced smiles, the Admiral of the Fleet addressed Markova.

“You are most astute. Captain. And since it would be a waste of my breath to attempt to deceive you, I’ll be frank. Yes, my friend, it was a series of bombs that took down the Premier’s plane. And not only did I know this long before I recovered the aircraft’s black box, I was responsible for having these devices placed in the Il–76 as well.”

This shocking revelation caused Sergei to gasp.

“But that would mean you intentionally murdered Alexander Suratov!”

The Admiral of the Fleet nodded somberly.

“But before you condemn me to the firing squad, please take a moment to listen to our motives. For you see, I was not alone in this plot. Dozens of the highest-ranking members of the Defense Ministry worked at my side to see it through. And don’t think that it was an easy thing to do.

“Alexander Suratov was a dedicated public servant. I knew him well, and to order his death and that of his staff and the Flying Kremlin’s flight crew was one of the most difficult things I have ever had to do in my five decades of service to the Motherland. But believe me. Captain, I had no other choice!”

Fighting to control his emotions, the veteran continued.

“It all started when Suratov began making those unprecedented peace overtures to the West. Though we all desire to see a world free from war, our naive Premier was trying to make it come to pass without establishing the proper groundwork. This really came to the forefront when he secretly announced his plan to demilitarize the Arctic in conjunction with the United States and Canada. As you can expect, the Imperialists jumped at this opportunity, and the Ottawa summit was hastily set up to seal the agreement in treaty form.

“As a submariner, I don’t have to remind you of the utter importance of the region Suratov was about to ban all weapons of war from. Though the Motherland is the largest country on this earth, we have historically suffered from a severe lack of warm-water ports. Those we do have are so poorly placed our fleet is forced to travel through Imperialist-controlled choke points to get to the open sea.

“The only ports that are completely free from outside interference lay above the Arctic Circle. Though harsh weather and severe ice conditions make operating from them difficult, we have learned to make the most of it by building the greatest fleet of icebreakers and submarines the world has ever known.

“In the frozen expanses of the Barents, Kara, and Laptev Seas, and beneath the Arctic Ocean itself, we have positioned the ultimate revenge force. The Typhoon and Delta class submarines that patrol these waters have one purpose, to survive an Imperialist sneak attack, and to answer such a bolt-out of-the-blue strike with one of our own.

“Dozens of attack vessels like the Neva here, have been assigned the all-important task of protecting this bastion. I don’t have to remind you that a ballistic missile-carrying submarine is the most survivable of all our strategic weapons, and for us to lose our only true protected bastion for such platforms would be foolishness of the worst type. Before Alexander Suratov stripped the Motherland of its most effective weapons’ system with a single sweep of his pen, the difficult, painful decision was made to intervene.”

Impressed by this impassioned plea, Sergei nevertheless retorted.

“But why did you have to go to such an extreme as murder? And why even bother with this childish switching of tapes when you could merely have destroyed the black box before anyone was the wiser?”

Mikhail Kharkov sighed heavily before responding.

“Believe me when I tell you, Captain, that we tried to talk some sense into our headstrong Premier before he even made the West the initial offer. But Suratov was completely deaf to our arguments, so we had no other course open but to eliminate him before he sold us out.

“As for the substitute tape, I can only answer you by appealing to you in strictest confidence. For what I am about to share with you will all too soon change the political balance of the world as we now know it.”

As Sergei Markova nodded for the admiral to continue, the veteran took in a deep breath and did so.

“There is a civilian element within the ruling Politburo that has no understanding of strategic issues, unlike you and I, Captain Markova. These individuals would have just sat back and watched Suratov strip the Motherland of her most important bastion while the Imperialist powers gave up absolutely nothing in return. To readdress this serious imbalance, and to check the continued threat of Imperialist expansion once and for all, it was decided to create a fictitious scenario in which it would appear that an American aircraft had shot down the Flying Kremlin. The substitute tape you discovered would have supported this supposition by broadcasting nothing but static. For even if it had been discovered that the cockpit voice recorder had been inoperable during the flight, we had more than enough proof to sway the vacillating members of the Politburo to join us, the prize being the ultimate one — their support in authorizing an immediate nuclear strike against the Imperialist bloc nations!”

Sergei’s eyes opened wide with disbelief.

“Let me get this right. Admiral. You’re going to launch a nuclear attack against the West for an act that they didn’t even commit?”

“Pretty ironic, isn’t it, Captain?” returned the beaming veteran. “At long last we can cripple the Imperialists with a surprise counterforce strike, and all for the cost of a single static-filled tape. This is an unparalleled opportunity, that will allow our great Socialist dream finally to be shared by all of mankind. And you, Sergei Markova, will be one of the founding fathers of the new world order that will follow.”

“If there happens to be a world left,” shot back the young captain disgustedly. “I can’t believe that anyone in his right mind still thinks there can be a winner in a nuclear conflict. For our initial strike will generate a counter strike and the West will hit the Motherland a crippling blow with their own submarine-launched ballistic missiles. And this great dream that you speak of will turn into nothing but a nuclear nightmare.

“No, Admiral, I want no part of this madness. And you can be assured that I’ll do everything within my power to see that your insane, twisted machination is exposed.”

Fearing just such a response, Mikhail slowly walked over to the room’s single cot, reached under the pillow, and pulled out a shiny Kalashnikov pistol.

With a steady hand he proceeded to aim this weapon directly at the Neva’s startled commanding commander.

“You leave me no other alternative. Captain Markova. Now hand over those tapes! Then perhaps I’ll take compassion on you, and give you a chance to yet change your mind, before being forced to eliminate you right here and now.”

“You wouldn’t dare do such a thing on my ship,” Sergei spat out.

Mikhail Kharkov responded by abruptly cocking the hammer of the Kalashnikov and centering his aim on Sergei’s forehead.

“We’ve already been forced to sacrifice much already, Captain. One more life is inconsequential.”

Certain that the veteran meant it, Sergei decided it was time for discretion. After putting his hands up in a mock gesture of surrender, the young captain got to work to supplying Kharkov with the two tapes he had demanded.

Sergei Markova’s hands were trembling as he opened his portable cassette player, and seeing this, the admiral commented, “Easy now, Captain. I will only put this Kalashnikov into use if you force me to do so. And since I’ve already killed one man today while on the ice, I don’t find such a prospect very entertaining.

“It would be a tragic waste to have to shoot you, especially since I’ve taken such a sincere interest in your career throughout the years. Though I never had a son of my own, you were the type of individual I would have liked to have raised.”

Surprised to hear such a thing, Sergei finished removing the cassette, and cautiously handed it to the Admiral, along with its blank twin.

“Don’t look so shocked,” reflected the white-haired veteran as he pocketed the tapes. “For I’ve been a silent admirer of yours since you first entered the A. A. Grechko Academy. Did you know that I personally saw the video tapes of each of your oral exams? Why I probably know your academic record better than you do, and it was I who was responsible for getting you that first commission you so wanted — on that attack submarine. So come to your senses, comrade, and listen to your benefactor. Even though he is currently holding a gun to your head.”

Aware that compromising would put him in the best position to expose the veteran’s twisted scheme, Sergei nodded.

“You are right. Admiral. Perhaps I have been too hasty in my initial reaction. It’s just that the prospect of nuclear war scares me so I instinctively revolt at the very idea of such a tragedy befalling mankind.”

“And rightfully so,” retorted Mikhail Kharkov, who realized that the tense standoff was over. As he uncocked and lowered the pistol, he added.

“If I had a beautiful young wife and child waiting for me back in Murmansk, I would likely most have reacted much as you did. But if you’ll just take some time to hear me out, I believe I can convince you that the attack plan we’ve chosen to implement all but eliminates the chance of an Imperialist counter strike. Why with our new super accurate MIRV’d warheads, we can take out not only their missile silos, airfields, and port facilities, but the very communications installations that are responsible for passing the word to their missile-carrying submarines to launch. And would you believe that we can thusly decapitate our enemy with a mere one-hundred warheads on our part? Why it’s going to be incredibly easy, with a minimum of resulting radioactive fallout.”

Though Sergei was well prepared to argue otherwise, he held his tongue and sheepishly responded.

“I’d be most interested to see this attack plan. Admiral. But first I’ve got to get us safely back to Murmansk.”

This prophetic remark was met by a firm knock on the door. As Mikhail Kharkov proceeded to hide the pistol that he had been holding under the folds of his sweater, Sergei spoke out.

“You may enter.”

Quick to do so was the concerned senior lieutenant.

“Please excuse me, comrades. But I just heard from Chief Magadan in sonar that we could have some company following us into Baffin Bay.”

“I’ll bet it’s that damned Sturgeon again!” cursed Mikhail Kharkov.

Sergei replied while standing and shaking out his tense limbs.

“Whoever it is, the best place to learn their intentions is the Neva’s attack center. Shall we, Comrades?”

In no mood to argue, the Admiral of the Fleet gave the young captain the briefest of supportive winks as he followed the ship’s two senior officers out into the passageway.