Under the Ice

Chapter Seventeen

There was a light spring to Petty Officer First Class Stanley Roth’s step as he ambled down the passageway and entered the door marked Sound Shack. His hardworking assistant, Lester Warren was studiously hunched over a console, and Stanley gave him a punch in the upper arm to let him know that his replacement had arrived.

Seaman Warren looked up and the grin stretched across his associate’s face told him the checkup had been a good one.

“So you’re going to live after all,” observed the Texan, as he watched Roth scoot past him to get back to work.

“It appears so,” replied Stanley, who quickly seated himself and reached out for his headphones. “Pills says that the swelling has gone down substantially, and there’s not even a hint of infection. He even wanted to know if I wanted him to try fitting me for a false tooth.”

“I didn’t think a mere pharmacist’s mate was capable of doing such a thing,” replied Lester seriously.

Stanley playfully punched his assistant in the other arm and responded.

“No, I’m only kidding you. There’ll be plenty of time to get a spare once I’m back in New London, though this time I’m picking my own dentist. Besides, right now I’m not about to bother Pills with designing a false tooth. From what I saw, he’s got his hands full with his new patient.”

“Do you mean the Eskimo we took aboard back on Baffin Island?” queried Lester.

Stanley nodded.

“The very same, my friend. I got a peek at him laid out on his bunk, and he was still out for the count. Pills says the bruise on his chest indicates he was most likely shot. It appears he was wearing something over his chest that deflected the bullet, and that’s what saved him.”

“He’s a lucky stiff all right,” reflected Lester. “Is he going to pull through?”

Stanley could only shrug his shoulders.

“Who knows? Pills sure hopes so, but he admits that he still doesn’t know what’s wrong with the guy. Because other than the bruise and his unconscious state, he appears to be the picture of perfect health. Though he certainly could use a bath. And here I thought you Texans got funky after missing a few showers.”

“Very funny,” said Lester.

“Ease up, Les. I’m only having a little fun with you. What have we got out there that’s got you all hot and bothered?”

The Texan replied while turning up his volume gain a notch.

“The captain’s sure making things hard for us, Stan. Ever since we steamed out of Lancaster Sound, he’s been pushing the Defiance at flank speed. With all the racket produced by our own signature, it’s going to take a miracle to pick up the guys we’re supposed to be chasing.”

“The Skipper sure enough knows what he’s doing,” offered Stanley as he got back to work. “Ivan’s only got a single route to get back home, and since they’ve got that head start on us, the Defiance is still playing catch-up. When the time’s right. Captain Colter will slow us down, and then we can do what we do best.”

“Do you think we’ll trade shots with the Russian’s once we tag ‘em?” quizzed the anxious Texan.

Stanley turned up his own volume gain and answered.

“We’re certainly not going to ring Ivan up on the underwater telephone and trade sea stories with him. The way I see it, they’re the ones who instigated this little misunderstanding, and the Defiance ain’t quitting until we get a chance to return the favor.”

With this said, both sonar operators focused their attentions solely on the hissing rush being conveyed into their headphones, as the Sturgeon class attack sub entered the northernmost extremity of Baffin Bay.

The atmosphere inside the Neva’s hushed attack center was tense, as the ship’s senior officers came storming in to counter the threat that had just been detected in their baffles. Without bothering to confer with either his senior lieutenant or his distinguished passenger, Sergei Markova wasted no time taking the initiative.

“Comrade Michman, notify Chief Koslov that we’re going to need emergency speed at once. Our course will remain on bearing three-two-zero.”

Quick to question these orders was the Admiral of the Fleet.

“Surely you can’t be serious. Captain? This is no time for running away. We must take a stand and fight. For the Sturgeon class submarine is the only witness to our trespass here, and must be destroyed.”

Not used to having his command doubted, Sergei angrily retorted.

“As captain, I’ll be making the tactical decisions aboard the Neva, Admiral. And I say it’s just too risky to take on the Americans at this time. Not only have we spent our last decoy, but the Sturgeon class vessel has already shown the ability to outrun our torpedoes. So before opening ourselves up to being attacked once more, I say the wisest choice is to use our superior speed to transit the Nares Strait and then head straight back to Murmansk.”

“Are you saying that the pride of the Soviet Fleet is no match for a class of vessel whose first hull was laid down over two decades ago?” the unbelieving veteran asked.

Directly meeting Kharkov’s icy gaze, Sergei replied.

“That’s not the point. Admiral. As far as I’m concerned, our mission has been completed, and now it’s up to me to get us back to port as quickly and safely as possible.”

“This mission is not over until I say so. Captain!” barked Mikhail Kharkov. “You forget who you’re sharing this bridge with, comrade. And since you’re obviously not man enough to carry out your duty, I’ll have to do it for you.”

Turning his head to address the other members of the attack center’s complement, Kharkov cried out.

“As Admiral of the Fleet of the Soviet Union, I am replacing Sergei Markova as the commanding officer of the Neva. Comrade Michman, I want you to personally see to an immediate reversal of our course.

“Battle stations, torpedoes. Comrades! It’s time to teach the proud Imperialists a badly needed lesson in humility.”

Confused by this unprecedented change of command, the Michman hesitated in carrying out his new orders. As the puzzled warrant officer looked over to the senior lieutenant for guidance, Mikhail Kharkov stormed over to the helm.

“Are you deaf. Comrade Michman?” screamed the infuriated Admiral.

“Well, since it appears that you have joined the ranks of your spineless captain, I’ll just have to carry out your duties for you. Helmsman, reverse our course right now! And ready the ship to attack.”

Equally confused was the junior seaman currently steering the Neva. This was only his third submarine patrol, and all three were with Sergei Markova as commanding officer. Since he wasn’t used to taking orders from anyone but his captain, like the hesitant which man he wouldn’t budge.

Seeing this, Mikhail Kharkov went into an absolute fit, and began madly ripping at the helmsman’s shoulder harness, to physically remove him from his position and personally replace him at the helm. It was at this point that the ship’s senior lieutenant ran forward to intercede on the helmsman’s behalf.

“Now hold on one moment. Admiral!” warned Viktor Belenko. “Let go of that harness at once, or you’ll endanger all of us.”

As Kharkov continued furiously yanking on the harness’s jammed release mechanism, Viktor reached out and grabbed the white-haired veteran by one of his arms. An intense scuffle ensued, during which time the frenzied admiral reached into the folds of his sweater and pulled out his Kalashnikov pistol. Seconds later, the compartment filled with the reverberating explosive report of a single shot.

And when the confusion cleared, Viktor Belenko could be seen lying on the deck, holding his blood-soaked shoulder and writhing in sheer agony. Standing above him, with the still-smoking pistol in hand, was the suddenly sobered Admiral of the Fleet.

“Have you gone completely insane. Comrade Kharkov?” cried Sergei Markova as he ran over to disarm the veteran.

Surprisingly enough, Kharkov surrendered his weapon quite willingly. This enabled the captain to immediately turn to his wounded subordinate. As he bent to Viktor’s side, he called out firmly.

“Comrade Ustreka, you are to escort the admiral to his quarters at once. Please see to it that he remains there until I say otherwise.”

This time the which man didn’t hesitate, and as the muscular Kiev native walked over to carry out his orders, the Admiral of the Fleet pleaded desperately, “Please Captain, I’m truly sorry I lost control. It’s just that this mission is so all-important, and I couldn’t bear to see anything get in the way of its successful completion. That is why you must turn this ship around and initiate an immediate attack. Please Captain, do this, or my entire life’s work will be in jeopardy!”

Barely paying these words any attention, Sergei pressed a clean handkerchief up against Viktor’s wound. An alert corpsman joined him, and while the seaman began staunching the flow of blood with a proper dressing, the captain stood to complete one last necessary task. Walking straight over to the admiral, he reached into Kharkov’s pocket and pulled out the two steel-cased cassettes the man had stored there. With this done, the captain silently nodded toward the which man who proceeded to lead the now-trembling old-timer out of the attack center.

“All right, comrades, that’s enough of this onsense!” shouted Sergei. “Now let’s concentrate on the real threat that lies in the seas behind us. For if the fates are still with us, perhaps we’ll yet have a chance to outrun them.”

The call from the Defiance’s sound shack reached the vessel’s control-room crew over the compartment’s elevated public address speakers. There could be no denying the excitement that flavored Petty Officer First Class Stanley Roth’s words as he issued his latest report.

“We’ve tagged Ivan again, Captain! Though this time it was an explosive crack much like a gunshot that gave them away. Their bearing is three-two-zero, with a range of ten thousand yards. Shall I initiate a weapons’ interface. Captain?”

“That’s affirmative, Mr. Roth,” shot back Matt Colter. “Lock on sonar on tubes one, two, and three.”

With this said. Colter turned to address his weapons’ officer.

“Prepare to launch three Mk 48’s, Mr. Sanger. Let me know when we have a green light on sensor interface.”

There was a determined look in Matt Colter’s eyes as he traded glances with his XO.

“They’re ours, Al,” observed the beaming captain. “There’s no way in hell they’ll escape us now.”

“We’ve got a green light on weapons’ release,” observed Lieutenant David Sanger.

“Then let’s do it, gentlemen,” returned the captain.

“Fire one! Fire two! Fire three!”

The whining hiss of the three approaching torpedoes registered in the Neva’s hydrophones moments after the weapons were released from their tubes.

The shocked technician who monitored this frighteningly distinctive racket almost fell out of his chair as he twisted around to share this information.

“Torpedo salvo headed our way. Captain! I count three separate weapons coming in on bearing one-four-zero, at a range of nine thousand, five hundred meters.”

This was just the news Sergei Markova had dreaded to hear, and as he pounded his clenched fist into his thigh, he snapped his men into action.

“Take us down. Crash dive at speed! Begin preprogrammed evasive maneuvers, and pray that it’s not too late, comrades.”

The bow of the Neva abruptly turned downward, and as Sergei reached out to steady himself, the Neva’s turbines roared alive in the background. His hands straining against the cold steel tubular railing that kept him from falling forward, the captain managed to take in the digital depth gauge mounted above the helm. With an incredible rapidity, this counter ticked off their dive’s progress. Yet even then, it seemed to take a virtual eternity to break the five-hundred-meter barrier. When this finally occurred, they were plunging downwards at a speed of forty-one knots. And as man and machine were once more pushed to their limits, Sergei could only wonder if even their best would be good enough this time.

“The torpedoes continue their approach,” monitored the sonar operator. “Range is down to eight thousand meters and closing.”

“Where’s that infernal thermocline?” queried Sergei, who listened as the hull of the Neva began protesting under the great pressure it was now being subjected to.

“Sir, we’re approaching the seven-hundred-meter mark. Will we be pulling up here?” quizzed the anxious diving officer.

“Not yet,” managed Sergei as the deck began wildly vibrating beneath them. “We’re going to have to push the envelope on this one, and then some.”

Again the groaning sound of the straining hull filled the attack center, and Sergei was thrown violently to the side as the deck suddenly canted hard to the right. It was the diving officer who attempted to explain what this unexpected disturbance was all about.

“We’ve seemed to hit some sort of current, Captain. It’s a struggle just to keep the helm steady.”

“Hang in there, comrade!” urged Sergei. “For this current could very well be our savior.”

At a depth of eight-hundred and sixty meters, the deck abruptly stopped vibrating. It was apparent that they had broken into a different strata of water, and the captain’s next command was given with great relief.

“Level off the dive, and bring us up!”

Seconds later, Sergei lurched violently backward and had to hold on for dear life, as the Neva reversed its course and headed out of the depths like a bullet. Again the disturbed strata was encountered.

But just knowing that they were now ascending made the wildly vibrating gyrations that coursed through the ship’s hull, and the mere act of standing upright a challenge, all the easier to accept.

The depth gauge registered six-hundred and ninety-one meters when the disturbance ceased. This put them back out of the thermocline, that significantly cooler portion of the sea’s depths in which Sergei had hoped to lose the pursuing torpedoes.

Still forced to hold onto the overhead railing to keep from falling backward, the Neva’s captain managed to wipe the sweat off his forehead with the upper portion of his arm. And his desperate prayers indeed seemed to have been answered, when the sonar operator’s voice rang out firm and clear.

“We’ve lost them. Captain! The torpedoes don’t seem to be on our tail anymore.”

A shared chorus of relieved chatter rang out, only to be interrupted by the captain’s cautionary words.

“I’m afraid we’re not out of the thick of this just yet, Comrades. For somewhere out there that American submarine is still lurking.”

Yet before Sergei could reveal his plan to negate this threat, the sonar operator’s strained voice once again took prominence.

“I’m picking up a single torpedo signature. Captain! I don’t know where in the hell it came from, but it’s apparently been trailing in our baffles all this time. I don’t think that we’re going to be able to—”

These words of warning were cut short by an earsplitting explosion and a violent concussion that rolled the Neva over hard on its side, and sent those crew members not constrained by safety harnesses crashing to the deck below. Sergei Markova was one of these unfortunate individuals. Thrown hard against the flat surface of the chart table, he took a wicked blow to his back and left shoulder. As pain coursed through his body, the lights failed and the attack center was shrouded in a confusing veil of blackness.

An aftershock caused the vessel to cant violently in the opposite direction, and there was a deafening racket as loose debris and fallen crew members shifted to the other side of the ship. Somehow Sergei managed to hold onto the base of the chart table, and as the ship eventually righted itself, he cried out into the pitch dark confines of the attack center.

“Someone hit the emergency lights! And I’m going to need an immediate damage report. Helmsman, is the ship still responding?”

A frightened voice timidly answered.

“We seem to be dead in the water, sir. The helm is completely unresponsive.”

Silently cursing this news, the captain was in the process of attempting to pick himself up when the emergency lights suddenly blinked on. The dim red illumination was just adequate enough for him to gauge the amount of damage that surrounded him.

Several crew members could be seen also rising from the debris-laden deck, while others still lay prone on the floor, unmoving. Broken glass and overturned equipment were everywhere, and Sergei could smell the sickening scent of burning electrical wiring.

As the ship’s various departments slowly began reporting in, it was soon evident that the damage was widespread, though it was especially bad in the engine room, where the blast was centered. Here several crew members, including Boris Koslov the Neva’s chief engineer, had been instantly killed. The handful of survivors not seriously injured was currently trying to plug a leak that had developed in the seal that surrounded the propeller shaft where it penetrated the hull. The only good news was that somehow the sub’s hull had remained intact. Yet with their engines and weapons’ systems inoperable, the submarine could hardly be considered a man-of-war anymore.

“I’m having difficulty keeping the trim balanced, Captain,” observed the diving officer. “That leak in the engine room must be getting worse, because the pumps don’t seem to be able to keep up with it.”

“Sir, the shock of the blast caused the electrical circuits to overload, and we no longer have sonar capabilities,” added the somber sonar operator.

Silently absorbing all this information, Sergei Markova grimly pondered the limited options he had. Lying dead in the water as they were, the only apparent way to save the Neva was to order the emergency ballast jettisoned. This would send them floating upward to the relative safety of the sea’s surface. Yet since the ship no longer had sonar capabilities, there was no way for him to know whether the waters above were encrusted with ice. If they were, and the ascending Neva crashed into an impenetrable ice ridge, the resulting concussion would surely crack the hull of the already damaged vessel and send them spiraling into the black depths on a final dive into oblivion.

Things were vastly different inside the control room of the USS Defiance. Here a joyous, party like atmosphere prevailed as they celebrated their successful attack with a round of spirited high-fives and a chorus of excited chatter. Taking a moment to celebrate himself. Matt Colter accepted a warm handshake from his XO.

“Congratulations, Skipper. I guess this makes you the first sub ace of the Cold War.”

“That’s a dubious honor I can easily live without,” retorted the captain, as he took in the two figures standing next to his XO, beside the plotting table.

Both Laurie Lansing and Lieutenant Jack Redmond looked strangely out of place. Neither one of them had joined in on the festivities, and both looked like they were on their way to a funeral.

“Are we going to finish them off. Skipper?” quizzed the XO. “From what Mr. Roth says, they’re just laying there dead in the water. Why don’t we put Ivan out of his misery once and for all with a couple of well-aimed fish.”

“I think that would be a tragic mistake,” offered the close-lipped Canadian commando.

“And why do you say that, Lieutenant?” countered the XO. “The Russians are clearly the aggressors in this matter, and I can guarantee you they wouldn’t hesitate to finish us off if our positions were reversed.”

“That might indeed be true,” continued Jack Redmond. “But you’re forgetting what brought us here in the first place. And no matter how you look at it, the Soviets beat us to that cockpit voice recorder. If we proceed to sink them, the black box will be lost in the depths.”

“He’s got a point there, Al,” reflected the captain. “Although I’m not really sure what we can do to help them out. It looks like they took our torpedo right in the stern, and if they’re taking on water as it appears, it’s doubtful if even a DSRV could get here in time to save them.”

This time it was the civilian scientist who spoke up.

“Captain Colter, is the Defiance rigged with an underwater telephone?”

“Of course we have one, along with every modern submarine that sails the ocean today,” answered Colter. “Why do you ask?”

An inspired gleam flickered in the civilian’s dark eyes as she responded.

“Well, I think under the current circumstances it would be in our best interest to give that Soviet crew a call. Who knows, perhaps there’s something we might be able to do to help them out.”

“I say such a thing is just too risky,” returned the XO. “To establish communications with them, we’d have to move to a closer range. What if Ivan’s just playing possum, and takes this opportunity to launch his own torpedoes?”

With a heavy sigh, Jack Redmond replied.

“I guess that’s just the chance that we’re going to have to take. Because if we ever hope to see that black box again, this is our last chance.”

Knowing full well that the Canadian was correct, Matt Colter nodded.

“Let’s give a phone call a try. Yet just to be on the safe side, we’d better put some fresh fish in the tubes and be ready to use them.”

The XO could only shrug his shoulders and get on with the task. Meanwhile, the captain instructed the helmsman to proceed on a cautious intercept course with the disabled Soviet vessel. This done, he beckoned his two passengers to join him by the fire-control panel, where a black plastic handset hung on the adjoining bulkhead.

“This is our underwater communications system. It operates just like a normal telephone, though its range is limited because seawater by itself makes a lousy conductor. Now, if we only had someone who could speak Russian … I don’t believe any of the ship’s crew is familiar with the language.”

“I’d be happy to give it a try,” offered the weathered Canadian. “My mother was originally from the Ukraine, and though I can’t read or write Cyrillic, I should be able to converse enough to get by.”

Matt Colter was impressed by this revelation.

“I guess it was a good thing that we plucked you off the ice after all. Lieutenant. Now let’s just hope this whole thing isn’t a big waste of time. Or worse, a cleverly conceived ambush.”

“Captain Markova, the men in the engine room don’t know how much longer they’ll be able to hold out. The leak has worsened, and the water there is almost up their knees.”

The chiefs remarks were met by an emotional reply.

“Well tell them that they’re just going to have to do better, comrade. Otherwise the Neva is finished for sure. Perhaps I’d better get down there myself.”

“But who’ll man the attack center while you’re gone?” It was the whining voice of the Neva’s Zampolit.

Sergei turned to face the sweating Political Officer, who had arrived in the control room shortly after the last damage report was received.

“I guess as senior officer, you’ll be the man in charge, Comrade Zinyagin.”

The captain’s words brought horror to the Zampolit’s already pale face.

“But what do I know about running a submarine? Maybe I should go get the admiral out of confinement. In times such as these we could use his expertise.”

Sergei was about to okay this request when the compartment filled with a harsh ringing buzz. The captain had to completely scan the debris-ridden room before spotting the device responsible for this racket.

“What the hell?” muttered the blond-haired officer as he thoughtfully approached the Neva’s underwater telephone receiver. Though he was certain this commotion was only the by-product or a short circuit of some sort, he nevertheless picked up the handset and spoke into the receiver.

“Hello.”

With the Canadian’s invaluable assistance. Matt Colter soon learned the exact nature of the Russian sub’s plight. Even his XO’s suspicions were tempered as the captain shared with his crew a graphic description of their enemies’ difficulties. It proved to be the only civilian present who offered any sort of viable game plan.

“Captain Colter, I’d like permission to activate the surface-scanning lasers.”

“Permission granted,” snapped the captain, who knew exactly what was on her mind.

While Laurie Lansing furiously addressed her keyboard, Matt Colter utilized the only foreign national in their immediate midsts as an intermediary.

“Lieutenant Redmond, find out if the Russian sub can manage any type of forward propulsion at all. I realize their reactor has been scrammed, but they must have some sort of backup system on board.”

With a bit of difficulty, the Canadian managed to translate this query. It took two attempts to get the response clear in his mind.

“Captain Markova says their battery-powered system still appears to be on-line. Though because of the nature of the damage in the Neva’s engine room, they’ll only be able to utilize it for a short duration.”

“If God’s with us, that’s all they’ll need,” retorted Matt Colter, who added, “Tell the captain to stand by.”

Colter’s voice cracked with strain as he pivoted and yelled across the entire length of the control room.

“Dr. Lansing, any luck as yet?”

“It doesn’t look good. Captain,” responded the civilian. “There’s a massive inverted ridge directly above us, with heavy rafted ice to the south, east, and north. The only possibility lies to the west, approximately a mile distant. It’s not open water mind you, but it looks to be smooth and of fairly recent origin. And there’s more than enough room to fit the both of us.”

“How thick does it appear to be?” quizzed the captain.

Laurie Lansing answered with a shake of her head.

“That’s the tough part, captain. From this depth and range, it looks to be about six inches thick, though I could be off by as much as three inches either way.”

Matt Colter knew that six inches of ice was about the limit that their specially reinforced sail could take. Yet because of the uniqueness of their situation, he replied after the briefest of hesitations.

“Let’s do it. Doc! Lock us on, and we’ll lead our newfound Soviet comrades up out of these depths like a Seeing-Eye dog does its master.”