Under the Ice

Chapter One

The wind blew in cold, northernly gusts. Oblivious to the icy chill, Ootah directed his gaze solely at the narrow pool of open water that lay at his feet.

Warmed by his double-thick, caribou-skin parka, the twenty-nine-year-old Inuit hunter patiently waited for a ringed seal to surface and breathe. When one of these sleek mammals showed itself, he would spear it with the ivory-tipped harpoon that he carried at his side. And once again his mouth would be filled with the sweet taste of fresh, red meat.

It had been three days since he had last eaten, and his stomach growled noisily. Since he hadn’t been forced to choose the life of a hunter, he had long since learned to live with his hunger. Yet could he say the same for his wife, young son, and sick father who waited for him back at the igloo? Surely they had consumed the last of the seal meat, leaving them with nothing but frozen snow to fill their empty bellies. It was thus for his family’s sake that Ootah remained at his icy vigil, with nothing but his hunger and the howling wind for company.

Silently staring into the dark blue depths, Ootah projected his will downward, into the liquid realm of the elusive creature he so desperately sought. It had been his father who long ago taught him the utter importance of treating one’s prey as an equal. To insure a successful hunt, the hunter had to make contact with the animal’s spirit. For it was well known that if animals are not treated with respect, both when alive and dead, they will not allow themselves to be killed.

Ootah couldn’t help but wonder what force was keeping the seals away. Open water was a rarity in this portion of the ice pack. Even with the constant probing of his harpoon, it was a constant battle to keep the pool from freezing over. Since the seals were dependent upon fresh air, there could be no more convenient spot for them to ascend and refresh themselves.

With this hope in mind, he began mumbling a sacred prayer designed to call the seals upward.

The words of his chant came from deep in his throat, and were delivered with a hoarse resonance.

As the monotonous, atonal chant broke from his chapped lips, he searched the water’s surface with a renewed intensity. Bending over at the waist to get a better view, he momentarily lost his balance when a particularly violent gust of wind hit him full in the back. For a single terrifying moment he found himself teetering on the edge of the ice. To fall forward into the frigid waters of the pool meant almost certain death, and he desperately struck out with his harpoon to regain his balance.

Fate was with him as the ivory spear point firmly embedded itself in the pack ice. With his heart beating madly away in his chest, Ootah exhaled a long sigh of relief. Only then did he identify the black force that had almost sent him plunging to his watery grave, and was most likely keeping the seals away as well. There was no doubt in his mind that Tornarsuk, the great devil who travels on the wind, had paid him a visit. Ever thankful that he had survived this confrontation, Ootah once again raised his voice in prayer. Yet this time his petitions were directed solely toward the spirits of his deceased ancestors, who had intervened on his behalf in this most eternal of earthly struggles.

With the life-force flowing full in his veins, Ootah scanned the Arctic heavens, his prayers of thanks barely audible in the still-gusting wind. A sun that had not set for over six moon cycles now lay low in the gray sky, its light muted and diffused. All too soon it would be dropping beneath the horizon altogether, as the winter arrived in a shroud of perpetual darkness.

The new season signaled a time of change. The cold would intensify, and as the ice pack further solidified, new hunting grounds would form in the waters to the north. Hopefully they would be more prolific than the ones he presently stalked. Otherwise, he would have no choice but to return his family to the white man’s city from which they had originally ventured nine months ago.

Merely considering such an alternative sickened Ootah. His brief time spent in the white man’s world was far from pleasant. It all began a year ago, when the scarlet-coated policeman arrived from the south and ordered Ootah to convey his family to the city of Arctic Bay on Baffin Island’s northern tip. He did so without question and was somewhat shocked when the Canadian officials there informed him that his son would be taken from them and forced to attend a state-run school. He reluctantly complied with the law, and took up residence in the settlement to be as near to the boy as possible.

For the first few months the time passed quickly.

The house that was provided for them was filled with many amazing devices, and Ootah and his wife Akatingwah found themselves with a whole new world to learn of and marvel at. Yet the surrounding land was almost barren of game, and Ootah was forced to take government handouts in order for his family to survive.

They were not the only Inuit to be called to the city, and Ootah watched how the white man’s culture changed his brothers. Also driven to accepting government welfare, they seemed to readily abandon their ancestral ways to become as much like the whites as possible. Dressed in bluejeans and sweatshirts, the Inuit gave up their dog teams for snowmobiles and pickup trucks. Canned food replaced fresh, red meat, and the men learned to ease their anxieties by consuming vast amounts of alcohol.

Ootah had fallen into this dangerous trap himself, and was well on his way to completely losing his identity when the hand of fate intervened to save him.

It had all come to pass nine months ago, when he received word that his mother was on her death bed.

Borrowing a neighbor’s snowmobile, he dressed himself in a nylon ski outfit, that he had purchased on credit from the Hudson’s Bay Company, and took off across the frozen Admiralty Inlet for the Brodeur Peninsula, where his father had set up his spring camp.

As it turned out, he arrived just in time to view his mother breathe her last breath. Though she had been unconscious throughout most of her brief illness, she awoke from her coma just as Ootah came storming through the door of their ramshackle snow cabin. He would take to his own grave the moment when her pained glance locked onto his face and figure. For instead of acknowledging his presence, she greeted him with the cool indifference of a complete stranger.

Ootah couldn’t help but be puzzled. Had her illness distorted her mind so that she couldn’t even recognize her only son, or had she indeed not recognized him because of his alien garb? He would never learn the answer to this question, for less than five minutes later she left this earth for all time, to join her ancestors.

Ootah’s father had been perched in the cabin’s shadows, and as his mate of fifty years passed into the land beyond, he vented his sorrow with a gut-wrenching wail. In all his life, Ootah had never seen Nakusiak lose control like this. Yet his cries of grief were short-lived; all too soon he regained his composure and somberly initiated the burial procedures.

Hardly a word was spoken between them as they wrapped the still-warm corpse in a shroud of sealskin.

According to Inuit custom, a stout line was wrapped around her shoulders and the body thusly dragged headfirst out of the cabin. Nakusiak had prepared a shallow grave in a nearby ravine. Here the body was deposited, along with a variety of objects that the deceased would need in the afterlife. These included a soapstone lamp, some flints, a variety of cooking utensils, and some dried caribou meat. Only after the corpse was subsequently covered by a thick mantle of loose stones, to protect it from marauding animals, did Ootah’s father directly address him.

“What is the identity of this stranger that stands before me? Surely it’s not the same son who crawled from the loins of the proud woman we just buried.”

Suddenly aware of his alien costume, Ootah blushed with shame, and tears fell from his eyes.

Sensing his discomfort, Nakusiak continued, this time a bit more compassionately.

“Though you may have tried to cover it with the clothing of the white man, I sense that the blood of the limit still flows inside you. Never again try to hide this fact, or eternal disgrace shall be your reward.”

Ootah humbly nodded.

“I have shamed the family enough for one life, Father. When I first entered the cabin and Mother set her eyes on me, I thought it was her illness that prevented her from identifying me. But now I know differently.”

Ripping off the nylon ski jacket he was wearing, Ootah added.

“I have been gone too long. The white man’s ways have indeed blinded me. Is it too late for me to return to the path of the people?”

A wise grin turned the corners of Nakusiak’s cracked lips as he answered.

“If your heart is pure, of course it isn’t, my son. So come, join me around the fire-circle, and we’ll discuss your homecoming.”

The two talked long into the night, and as a result of this meeting of souls, a plan was formulated. With Nakusiak’s invaluable assistance, Ootah would return to Arctic Bay. Here he would gather together his wife and son, and as soon as the first opportunity presented itself, free them from the alien world of the white man.

The scheme worked perfectly, and nine months ago, Ootah and his family returned to the ways of their ancestors. Gratefully, Ootah accepted his father into his camp. Together with a team of powerful huskies, they lived off the land.

The summer just passed had been a bountiful one.

The caribou herds ran full, and ducks and hare were abundant just as they had been in the old days. Taking this as a good omen, they moved back into Baffin Island’s rugged Brodeur Peninsula to await the winter.

It was at the beginning of the last moon cycle that Nakusiak took ill with a deep cough that brought blood to his lips. Powhuktuk the shaman was called in. Yet even the miracle worker’s most potent spells failed to slake the fiery fever that burned in Nakusiak’s brow.

Without his father’s help, Ootah was forced to go on the hunt by himself. Since the caribou had long since migrated to the south, seal was the meat that would now fill their bellies.

At first Ootah met with some success; a pair of fat ringed seals fell to his harpoon. Yet now that Tornarsuk had returned, their cache was empty, and would continue to be so until the demon was exorcised. Well aware that his father’s rapidly weakening condition was only that much more aggravated by lack of nourishment, Ootah projected his voice in renewed prayer.

Utilizing the blunt end of his harpoon to crack the ice that had gathered at the pool’s edges, he returned his ponderings to the hunt. Oblivious to the howling wind, he once again turned his back to the furious, demonic gusts and approached the open water. New purpose filled his being as he directed his chants to the spirit of the seal.

“To you, whose sweet flesh fills the stomachs of hungry babies, I call. Ascend from the icy depths and surrender your life-giving essence to those in need. I implore you, spirit of the seal, do not forsake us!”

With one hand still holding the ivory-tipped harpoon, Ootah reached into his parka’s central pouch and pulled out a large eider feather. Bending down at the pool’s edge, he then dropped this object into the deep blue water.

Ootah’s eyes were glued to the floating feather as he cocked his harpoon above his right ear and cried out passionately.

“Begone with you, Tornarsuk, you who cause mothers to weep and babies to go to bed hungry! Return to the black abyss from which you crawled and bother us no more with your evil presence.”

This forceful petition was met by an angry gust of frigid wind, and for one fleeing second Ootah doubted his prayer’s effectiveness. Yet this moment of uncertainty was followed by a sudden, unexpected drop in the wind’s velocity. Able to stand fully erect now without fear of being blown over, Ootah watched as a series of bubbles burst onto the pool’s surface.

Expecting the feather to next fly upward as a result of a seal’s exhalation, he readied himself to plunge the tip of the harpoon downward. More bubbles reached the surface, and when a seal still failed to show itself, Ootah’s voice muttered to the wind.

“Come on, brother seal don’t be afraid to show yourself.”

When another series of even larger bubbles broke on top of the pool, the Inuit spoke out excitedly.

“Perhaps what we have down below is not a seal after all. Could it be that your cousin the whale will soon be making an appearance?”

Stirred by such a thought, Ootah prepared himself to greet this unexpected visitor. A whale would definitely be more difficult to fatally wound, yet its abundant flesh would feed his family for weeks on end.

Turning to his right, he bent down and reached out for the coil of sinew rope that lay beside him. With one end of this line already firmly attached to an inflated walrus-bladder float, Ootah tied its free end to his harpoon’s hilt. If the whale wasn’t too large, this crude but effective system would hopefully keep the beast from sinking to the depths once it was speared.

Returning to the pool, Ootah once again cocked the harpoon above his right ear. The bubbles were breaking the surface with a furious regularity now, and peering intently downward to find their source, the Inuit imagined that he could just view a massive, black object ascending with a vengeance.

Though he was well prepared to strike out at the creature regardless of its size, Ootah never had the chance. For before he could make good his attack, the thick pack ice beneath him shattered with an earsplitting concussion that sent him reeling to the icy ground. He struck the ice with such force that for an agonizing moment he had the breath knocked out of him. Struggling merely to breathe, he impotently looked on as the pack ice beneath him violently shook to yet another rumbling, bone-shattering blow.

Well aware that no earthly animal was responsible for such an intense disturbance, Ootah dared to think of the true nature of the one responsible. He had heard the tales of the elders, in which Tornarsuk, the devil, took the form of a frightening sea monster that swallowed both men and kayaks whole. Surely the evil one had taken on such an incarnation. And since it was only a matter of time before the great beast was able to crack the pack ice and get to him, Ootah valiantly struggled to regain his breath and stand.

His lungs were burning with pain as he scrambled to his knees. Unable to fully stand erect because of his trembling limbs, he turned from the ever-widening pool and crawled off on all fours like a terrified infant who had yet to learn to walk. Daring not to look back, he managed to reach his dogsled; he had left it behind a nearby hummock.

Though his dogs were also weak with hunger, they seemed just as anxious to leave this cursed place as the Inuit. Without even having to put a whip to them, the pack broke for the distant horizon, their excited howls all but swallowed by the maddening beat of Ootah’s pulse and the gusting cry of the rising wind.

Thirty-five feet below that same Arctic ice pack, the hull of the Sturgeon-class attack submarine, USS Defiance, was still reverberating after its unsuccessful attempt to break through to the surface. In the vessel’s control center, Captain Mathew Colter cried out firmly, his voice deep with concern.

“Take her down, emergency!”

Still shaken by their all-too-recent, unexpected collision with the ice, the sub’s diving officer, Lieutenant Don Marshall, reached forward with trembling hands to address his console. Seconds later, the vent to the negative tank opened with a pop of compressed air, and as tons of seawater flooded into the Defiance, the sub shuddered and began to descend.

Practically screaming to be heard over the deafening roar of venting air, Marshall addressed the crewcut, veteran sailor seated to his right.

“Blow that negative to the mark. Chief!”

With one eye on the depth gauge, that was mounted on the forward bulkhead. Matt Colter added.

“Shut the flood, vent negative.”

As these orders were carried out, another roaring blast of compressed air filled the control room. His gaze still riveted on the depth gauge, the captain allowed himself a brief sigh of relief only when the counter hit the three-hundred-and-sixty-foot level and remained constant.

Colter’s hand went to his pant’s pocket, to remove a white handkerchief. He mopped dry his sweat-stained forehead, re-pocketed the handkerchief, and quickly scanned the hushed compartment. It was as his intense glance locked on a tall, thin, mustached officer who was standing beside the chart table, that the captain exploded in rage.

“Damn it, Al! I thought you said we had open water up there? The way we smacked into that pack ice, it’s a miracle we didn’t split open our sail or damage the rudder.”

Not used to having to make excuses, Lieutenant Commander Al Layman, the sub’s executive officer, nervously cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry. Skipper, but the ice machine definitely gave us a green light.”

“Damn that friggin’ machine!” cursed Colter. “That’s the third time this week it almost got us killed.”

“I realize that. Skipper,” offered the XO.

“I guess it still has some bugs in it.”

Colter shook his head.

“That’s an understatement if I ever heard one. As far as I’m concerned, they can rip that whole damn unit out and replace it with the gear we used to carry. The old ice machine never failed us, even if it was based on technology that was over three decades old.”

Having vented his frustration, the captain crossed the control room to join his second-in-command.

“I’m sorry if I snapped at you, Al. I realize it’s not your fault. Command gives us gear that’s not properly tested.”

“No apologies necessary. Skipper,” countered the XO, whose gangly frame was a good four inches taller than Matt Colter’s. “After all, I was the one picked to operate the unit. I only wish my training was a bit more extensive. One week isn’t a hell of a lot of time to learn the intracacies of a complicated system such as this one. Who knows, maybe the laser was calibrated improperly.”

The captain grunted.

“That shouldn’t be our concern, Al. It’s evident that the engineer who dreamed up this newfangled process failed to think it out completely. And unfortunately, we were picked to be the human guinea pigs who almost lost our lives because of a pencil pusher’s incompetence. What I wouldn’t give for five minutes alone with the fellow responsible for this boondoggle. He needs to be reminded that human lives are at stake out here.”

“They should have sent him along,” offered the XO. “I guarantee you, the first time we smacked into the pack ice, he would have gotten that gear working properly.”

“Either that, or he’d have died from fright while trying,” jested Matt Colter.

A grin turned the corners of the XO’s mouth.

“Since we have no reliable way of determining if there’s clear water above, how are we going to complete the rest of our mission?”

“We’re not going to even try,” answered the captain. “As far as I’m concerned, the safety of this crew takes number-one priority. It would be foolhardy to try another ascent. And since our orders revolve around surfacing in a variety of ice conditions, I’ve no alternative but to send us packing, back to New London. So, how about charting us the quickest route back to the Davis Strait?”

“Aye, aye. Skipper,” returned the XO, relief clearly painted on his handsome face.

Well aware that barring any mechanical difficulties they’d be home in another five and a half days. Matt Colter excused himself and went to his quarters. A combination of emotional stress and a simple lack of sleep had finally caught up with him. Confident that his XO was well qualified to take over. Colter gratefully closed the door of his cabin behind him. Without even bothering to take off his shoes, he collapsed on his narrow mattress and was instantly asleep.

He awoke with a start, precisely four hours later.

Having emerged from a vivid dream, it took him several confusing seconds to reorient himself. The soft glowing lights of the digital depth, speed, and course indicators mounted on the bulkhead at the foot of his bunk finally brought him back to full waking consciousness. The rest of his cabin was pitch black, and he momentarily remained on his bunk unmoving.

Except for a distant muted whine, there was no indication that the three-hundred-foot-long vessel that surrounded him was even moving. But Colter knew differently. The Defiance was currently four hundred feet beneath the frozen waters of Lancaster Sound, moving along at a crisp twenty-five knots.

Their course was taking them due eastward and would soon turn to the southeast, once they reached the Davis Straits. The ship would remain on this heading for almost two-thousand miles, until the coast of Newfoundland was attained. Here they would round Cape Race and turn to the southwest, for yet another thousand-mile jaunt to their home port.

Throughout this entire trip, not once was the Defiance scheduled to break the water’s surface. They would do so only upon reaching Long Island Sound. Thus they would be traveling oblivious to the fickle state of the tempestuous seas above. This was quite all right with Matt Colter, who was as prone to seasickness as any other normal mortal.

He would never forget his first encounter with this sailor’s arch nemesis. He had only been a lad at the time. It was spring break, and his Uncle Bill had invited him down to Sarasota, Florida. This was to be Matt’s first trip all on his own, and he boarded the prop-driven airplane with a promise to his parents to be on his best behavior.

Bill was his father’s older brother, and had always been Matt’s favorite relative. They only got to spend time together during those all-too-brief, yearly family reunions, during which his uncle never failed to enchant him with tales of the sea.

His uncle had been a submarine captain during World War II. Yet it wasn’t until Mathew arrived at his Florida home that he learned Bill’s ship had been responsible for sinking over a dozen Japanese surface vessels.

Anxious to learn more about his uncle’s wartime experiences. Matt eagerly accepted an invitation to join him for a day of sailing on Sarasota Bay. This was the youngster’s first excursion on a body of water larger than the Arkansas lake he grew up on, and he was thrilled beyond belief.

The day started off splendidly. The sky was clear, the air warm, with a moderate breeze blowing in from the west. His uncle was an expert mariner, who handled his thirty-five-foot sloop with the ease of a veteran sailor. He was quick to teach his inquisitive nephew the basics of seamanship, and in no time at all, Matt was at the helm, guiding them through the channel markers.

Invigorated by the warm sun, cool ocean spray, and the ease with which the boat handled. Matt found himself entranced by his uncle’s war stories. He was particularly fascinated by the type of vessel Bill had commanded. He found that the very word submarine had an exotic ring to it. Able to utilize the black ocean depths to sneak up on the enemy and then deliver a fatal blow, the submarine was an effective killer.

In the course of his stories. Bill made certain to explain the submarine’s shortcomings as well. Dependent upon limited battery power when submerged, and air-guzzling diesels when topside, the submarine was a far from a perfect weapon. Yet Bill explained that new technology would change all this.

Matt had a basic understanding of nuclear power from school, yet he’d never dreamed it could be adapted to propel a submarine, thus freeing the craft from having to ascend to the surface at all. The first nuclear-powered submarine was called Nautilus, and was already on sea trials. His uncle was a great advocate of such a warship, and promised to keep Matt informed on its future deployment.

While Matt was visualizing a vessel that could travel around the world submerged, without refueling, a distant rumble of thunder sounded. Quick to point out the rapidly advancing storm. Bill replaced Matt at the helm and turned the sloop back toward port.

Matt could just make out the marina when the first violent gust of wind hit them. Moments later, a torrent of rain soaked them to the bone. Ordered down into the enclosed cabin, he prepared himself to ride out the storm. Confident in his uncle’s ability to see them out of harm’s way, he looked at this experience as a great adventure. Yet as the boat continued to rock to and fro, any such pleasant ponderings on his part were soon replaced by sheer misery for a wave of nausea overcame him.

Never had he been so miserable in his short lifetime!

Even after he’d deposited the remains of his breakfast and lunch on the deck, the nausea would not leave him. Dizzy and flushed, he emptied his stomach completely before succumbing to a disorienting wave of dizziness. As it turned out, his uncle got them safely ashore and Matt returned home with a new respect for the sea. He also found himself with an exciting new goal in life. For he had decided to be a nuclear submariner.

Inwardly grinning at this long-forgotten recollection, Captain Mathew Colter peered out into the black void of his cabin. Over thirty years had passed since that fated day on Sarasota Bay. In that time he had grown to manhood and subsequently followed his childhood dream to the very end. Proud of this fact and never sorry for the difficult career he had chosen, he nonetheless regretted that his Uncle Bill had not lived long enough to see him get his dolphins.

Stricken with cancer. Bill had passed away on the same day that Matt was accepted into the Naval Academy.

Though he wasn’t able to be with his uncle at the end, Matt dedicated his stay at Annapolis to him, and he graduated in the top ten percent of his class. Submarine school followed, and after a decade of hard work, he finally got a command of his own.

The Defiance was the type of vessel that his uncle had dreamed about. Powered by a single water-cooled nuclear reactor that could go years between refueling, Matt’s present command was a first line man-of-war.

Should the Defiance ever be called upon to do so, she could hit the enemy with an awesome amount of firepower that included a mix of Mk48 dual-purpose torpedoes, nuclear-tipped SUBROC antisubmarine missiles. Harpoon antiship rockets, and even a newly fitted complement of long-range Tomahawk cruise missiles. To make certain that these weapons hit their mark, a sophisticated fire-control system had been incorporated into the Defiance’ hull, and she was outfitted with the latest in sonar and communication equipment.

Manned by a crew of one hundred and seven of the US Navy’s best, the Defiance was a proud ship with a proud tradition. Ever grateful for the opportunity to lead these brave men into battle if that should become necessary. Matt Colter restlessly stirred. Only then did he realize that he was lying there completely clothed.

This was not the first time he had fallen asleep in such formal attire, and he stiffly sat up, intending to wash and change into a fresh uniform.

Standing before his pullman-type metal washbasin, Matt soaked his face with cool water. Deciding not to shave, he momentarily caught his reflection in the wall-mounted mirror. Surprisingly enough, the tired face that stared back at him could easily have been a twin of his Uncle Bill in earlier days. He had the same short, spiky blond hair, deep blue eyes, highly etched cheekbones, and rounded, dimpled chin.

With this thought in mind. Matt wondered how his uncle would have handled their present mission.

Would he have ordered them to return over a week early as Matt had done, or would he have attempted yet another series of ascents to the frozen Arctic ice pack?

If it had been wartime, and the success of their mission depended upon such an ascent. Matt did not doubt that he would have given it another try. Yet the way he saw it, they had absolutely nothing to gain by such an attempt at this time and place.

It was evident that the new surface-scanning Fathometer still had quite a few bugs in it. It was a far from a reliable system, and until these flaws were worked out, it placed the entire crew in jeopardy. Thus as captain of the Defiance, Matt had no choice but to cut their mission short before the ship was once again needlessly endangered.

The theory behind such a device was fairly basic. In reality it was but a converted Fathometer, mounted on the topside of the submarine. The older machines utilized sound waves to determine the location of any surface ice. The device that had been installed on the Defiance used a sophisticated laser that was supposed not only to locate the smallest of usable open leads above, but also to interface with the boat’s navigation system to help the sub undergo a precise ascent.

Without such an instrument, the control-room crew had no reliable way of knowing what lay above them. Though sturdily built, a submarine could be readily damaged by a collision. Thick pack ice could be extremely unyielding, its submerged razor-sharp ridges able to easily puncture even the sturdiest of steel hulls.

One unusual feature of the Arctic ice fields was that even in the coldest parts of winter, open leads, or polynyas formed. Such openings extended from a few yards to many miles, and provided a submarine a safe haven in which to surface.

Matt Colter had been on several past Arctic missions during which time ascents to the surface were made. In each instance, even with perfectly functioning equipment, the atmosphere inside the control room had been tense as the submarine rose to meet its fate. Collisions with the ice weren’t unknown, and on one submerged ridge they had even damaged their vulnerable rudder. Yet their hull had remained intact, and after a series of makeshift repairs, they’d continued on with their patrol.

The Defiance had a specially strengthened sail, or conning tower, that could puncture up to a foot of solid ice. During the last week they had attempted to surface in three different, promising polynyas. Yet each time their best efforts were thwarted by an impenetrable sheet of ice that produced a deafening, bone-jarring jolt. Fortunately, most of the damage was limited to their nerves. But would they be so lucky the next time? Determined not to buck the odds. Matt had made the difficult decision to cut short their cruise and return to port. Certain that his uncle would have made the same choice, he mentally prepared himself for the icy reception that would be awaiting him in New London.

The scent of perking coffee met his nostrils, and he was suddenly aware that he had passed by both breakfast and lunch. Determined to make up for these missed meals, he turned away from the washbasin to change into a fresh set of coveralls and go to the nearby wardroom.