Under the Ice

Chapter Six

It was late into the night before the USS Defiance was ready to set sail. A cool, penetrating breeze blew in from the north as two uniformed figures stood on the vessel’s exposed sail. The taller one pulled from his lips the pipe he had been smoking, and called out to a bearded dockhand below.

“Release number one!”

As the last line connecting the Defiance to the docks was freed, the XO addressed his next command to the bridge’s black plastic, intercom handset.

“All back two-thirds.”

A frothing patch of agitated seawater formed astern and the sub’s black hull began inching its way into the Thames River. Al Layman relayed another order into the intercom, and as the propeller shaft reversed the direction of its rotation, the vessel began to head for the open sea.

“Well, Skipper, seems we’re not the only ones working late tonight. Looks like the men and women over at Electric Boat are getting in a little overtime themselves.”

“That’s nothing unusual,” returned Matt Colter, as he scanned the brightly lit, industrial complex that hugged the waterfront on this portion of the Thames. “With all the new orders the Navy’s throwing their way, EB never shuts down nowadays. And even then, their backlog of past-due product is growing.”

“That’s what we get for having only two company’s geared to produce submarines,” observed the XO.

The blinding flare of a welder’s torch lit the black night, and the Defiance silently surged past the mammoth marine construction facility, where its own keel had been laid over fifteen years ago.

“By the way Al, did you ever get ahold of your wife?” queried Matt Colter.

“Sure did. Skipper,” replied the XO, who paused a second to put a flame to the tobacco in his pipe’s bowl. “Even got to see her for a whole quarter of an hour back in the officers’ club. She looked great. That aerobic’s class she’s been attending has done wonders for her.”

“I hope you didn’t spill the beans on that second honeymoon you were planning.”

“For once in my life I was able to keep this big trap of mine shut,” observed the XO. “Otherwise, that anniversary celebration could have been our last. Now, I only pray Donna doesn’t get wind of the fact I’ve got another woman shacked up in my quarters here on the Defiance.”

“Like a good Navy wife, she’d understand, Al. I hope you were able to make our guest comfortable.”

The XO thoughtfully exhaled a long ribbon of fragrant smoke from his nostrils before responding.

“At least Ms. Lansing didn’t seem to be carrying any hair curlers or blow dryers on board. With the eager assistance of Lieutenant Marshall, Chief Sandusky, and several assorted gawking seamen, we were able to accommodate her. For a dame, that one sure travels light. She seemed to be carrying along more technical gear than personal belongings.”

“I don’t like having a woman on board any more than you, Al. But if she’s able to get that newfangled surface-scanning Fathometer working like it should, it’ll be well worth the hassle she’s causing. Besides, Dr. Lansing seems to be definitely low profile. She’ll do her work and hopefully stay well out of the way of the men.”

“I sure hope so, Skipper. Because even without a lot of makeup and provocative clothing, the doctor seems to exude plenty of good old-fashioned sex appeal.”

The captain grunted.

“So I’ve noticed, XO. So I’ve noticed.”

A contemplative silence followed, and all too soon they were leaving the lights of Connecticut behind them and entering the black waters of Block Island Sound. It was as the sub’s rounded bow bit into the first Atlantic swell that a sudden voice sounded over the intercom speaker.

“Captain, we have a surface contact on radar, bearing one-four-zero. Range five and a half miles and closing.”

The lights of this ship could barely be seen in the distance. Matt Colter spoke into the intercom handset.

“Helmsman, come port to one-one-zero true.”

As the bow of the Defiance swung left, Colter stretched his arms and yawned.

“I’ll leave the Defiance in your capable hands, Al. When we reach thirty fathoms, submerge and set your course for Nantucket Shoals, speed twenty knots.”

“So it looks like I’ll get out to Nantucket this evening after all,” reflected the XO, as he watched the captain turn for the hatch leading to the ship’s interior.

Exhausted after the full day of last-minute preparations, Matt Colter climbed down the steep, steel ladder, heading below. With practiced ease he passed through a narrow, water-tight hatch and stepped down into the control room.

Lit by an ethereal red light designed to protect the crew’s night vision, the control room was hushed, a serious atmosphere prevailing. Trying not to break this spell. Colter briefly glanced at the helmsman, who sat strapped to his padded chair, the airplane-type steering column gripped firmly in hand. Mounted before this alert seaman was a compass repeater, their exact course clearly displayed in a dimly glowing, digital readout screen.

Behind the helmsman was the ship’s diving station. Here Chief Sandusky passed the time sipping a mug of coffee, while waiting for the inevitable order that would cause him to trigger the ballast mechanisms and send the Defiance plunging down into the silent depths below.

Before heading on to his cabin. Colter took a moment to visit the station that was set immediately aft of the diving console. Silently picking his way through the equipment-packed deck, the captain caught sight of the glowing, green fluorescent display of the radar screen. Projected on this monitor was a portion of the coastline they had long since left behind them, and a single blinking contact that was situated off their starboard bow.

Matt Colter firmly addressed the young seaman who was perched beside this screen.

“Make certain to inform Lieutenant Commander Layman the moment that contact changes its course.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” shot back the alert sailor. “As it appears now, our closest point of approach will be three miles.”

The captain nodded.

“Good. I want to keep it that way. Any idea what type of vessel it might be?”

Ever ready to impress his commanding officer, the seaman retorted.

“Looks like a fishing trawler, sir.”

“If that’s the case, let’s just hope they don’t have any nets in the water. We certainly wouldn’t want to get snagged.”

His gaze still glued to the radar monitor, the young seaman cleared his throat and dared to put forth a single question.

“Sir, is it true that we’re headed back for the ice?”

The astounding speed with which Navy scuttlebutt spread never failed to impress Colter. He cautiously answered, “I’ll be officially announcing our destination tomorrow, sailor. But in the meantime, if I were you, I’d keep those woolen sweaters and long Johns handy.”

The radar operator grinned; “I’ll do that. Captain.”

Having affectionately patted the young sailor on the back. Colter turned for his quarters. It had been a long tiring day. The unexpected sailing orders had caught everyone by complete surprise, himself most of all. It had taken a combined effort to get the Defiance once again ready for the sea. The restocking of their limited food supply was a primary concern.

Yet because they had just returned a week earlier than anticipated, their larders hadn’t been totally empty.

Since their reactor didn’t need to be refueled for at least another year. Colter next concentrated on tracking down those crew members who had already left the ship to be with their friends or families. While phone calls, and even messengers, were used to track down these errant seamen, Matt turned to yet another major concern — the surface-scanning Fathometers.

No matter how you looked at it, the Defiance would soon be on its way to the frozen Arctic without either of its Fathometers in working order.

Hopefully, this deficiency would be rectified in three days’ time. Yet Matt was still hesitant to rely on the prototype system. Regardless of the fact that Laurie Lansing was aboard to insure that the device was functioning properly, his gut feeling warned him to be extra cautious this time around. At the first sign of trouble, he intended to switch over to the old unit; the chief engineer had promised it would also be operational in three more days. Of course, by that time he’d most probably have the rest of his orders and know precisely what their mission was.

Unexpected patrols such as the one they were on were a headache to coordinate, but they were exciting.

Usually designed with a definite purpose in mind, such missions were far more invigorating than dull sea trials and predictable maneuvers with the fleet. Because Dr. Lansing had been ordered to sea with them, it was evident that the orders he’d soon be receiving would have something to do with an ascent to the surface of the polar ice cap.

Remembering his all too recent meeting in New London, Colter wondered if the admiral had known about this mission all along. Could this then be the reason why Long had proceeded to vehemently question Matt about his decision to return a week early? It would also explain why he had resurrected the incident concerning Matt’s reluctance to surface beside the English weather station, over a year ago. It was evident that Command was afraid he had lost his nerve, and wouldn’t be fit to lead the next mission under the ice they already had in mind for him!

Bravado and recklessness were two vastly different terms that were sometimes confused. This was especially true when a careless act, carried out with total disregard for human life, reaped successful consequences.

Wars were full of such incidents. Yet Matt Colter was not about to risk his ship and crew merely to show that he was made out of the right stuff. To him, human life was sacred, and shouldn’t be needlessly wasted if a legitimate threat existed.

The brand of coward stung every man. Even more so those who’d chosen to be officers in the military.

There was a thin line between responsibility for carrying out the order of the day and the obligation to look after the welfare of those entrusted to one’s command.

For Matt Colter, the choice had been obvious.

He had been unwilling to compromise his ideals, and stood behind his decisions one hundred percent. The mere fact that he had once again been sent to sea proved that the powers that he had accepted his judgment, and that his choice had been the correct one.

Satisfied with this realization. Colter stepped through the hatchway that led to officers’ country.

The wardroom table was empty as he turned to his left and entered his cramped private domain.

It seemed that he had just fallen asleep, when his cabin filled with the resonant sound of the diving klaxon. Briefly opening his weary eyes, he stared out into the pitch black confines of his stateroom, and instinctively felt the angle of the deck alter as the Defiance took on ballast and dipped its spherical bow beneath the surging Atlantic. Confident of his crew’s ability to safely run the ship in his absence, Matt Colter yawned and almost instantly fell back into a sound dreamless sleep.

Meanwhile, on the deck immediately below. Petty Officer First Class Stanley Roth sat in the crew’s mess room, gingerly spooning down a bowl of oatmeal. At the same table, his shipmate Brian MacMillan was also in the midst of a meal. Yet unlike the sonar technician, Mac as he was known to the crew, was well into a four-course steak dinner. Wolfing down his chow like he hadn’t eaten for a week, Mac started with a bowl of onion soup and a tossed salad. Once this was consumed, he began working on a plate filled to capacity with a juicy T-bone steak, fried potatoes, and an ear of steamed white corn.

His mouth still filled with partially chewed meat, the curly, blond-haired torpedoman gulped down a sip of milk and addressed his dining companion.

“Are you sure you don’t want to try a bite of this steak, Stan? For once in his life, Cooky prepared it good and rare like a steak ought to be.”

Stanley Roth wearily downed another spoonful of oatmeal before replying.

“I’ll take a rain check, Mac. This tooth of mine is still a bit sensitive.”

“But I thought you were going to see the base dentist today?” quizzed the torpedoman in between bites of potato.

Stanley disgustedly threw down his spoon and cautiously rubbed the lower left side of his jaw.

“I did, Mac.”

“Well if that’s the case, why can’t you have a real supper?” queried the puzzled seaman.

Reaching into his pocket, Stanley removed a folded sheet of prescription paper, and attempted to read from it.

“The doc says I have a deep peridontal pocket on the distal of my left mandibular first bicuspid.”

“Sounds fatal,” reflected the torpedoman as he went to work on his corn. He proceeded to polish off half the ear before adding.

“Now, in English, what the hell type of ailment is that?”

Stan Roth seemed utterly frustrated.

“How the hell should I know, Mac? I’m no jaw breaker!”

Sensing the degree of his shipmate’s distress, the torpedoman put down his partially eaten cob.

“Easy, Stan. I’m not purposely trying to aggravate you. I only wanted to know what that dentist did for your toothache.”

After a series of calming breaths, the sonar technician replied.

“First off, I should have walked right out of there the moment I entered that clinic, because there wasn’t a soul in the waiting room. Some scrawny nurse had me put what seemed like my whole life’s history on a form and then led me into the back room. We must have surprised the hell of that jaw breaker, because we caught him red-handed, putting golf balls into one of those electronic gadgets that simulate a golf hole.

“He must have been right out of dental school, because not only did he look as innocent as a choir boy, he had pimples as well. But that’s beside the point, because the next thing I know he’s got me in the chair and that’s when the fun really began.”

“Did he use the drill?” quizzed the wide-eyed torpedoman who had temporarily abandoned his silverware.

Stanley shook his head.

“No, he only poked around a bit with some sort of probe. Then, after scraping off a bit of tartar, he treated the gum with some horrible-tasting medicine and dismissed me with a warning to brush and floss after every meal or I’d lose that tooth for sure.” While carefully rubbing his lower jaw, Stan added.

“Right now, I’m beginning to wonder if he shouldn’t have pulled it right there. At least it still wouldn’t be bothering me.”

Compassion etched his dining companion’s face, as Brian picked up knife and fork and responded while cutting up the remainder of the T-bone.

“I don’t know about that, Stan. The pain has got to go away sometime, and why lose a perfectly good tooth if you don’t have to.”

“Jesus, Mac, I’ve had this damn toothache for over two weeks now, and it’s really starting to get to me! Why I can’t even get down a cup of hot coffee without it killing me.”

“Now that’s serious,” retorted the torpedoman between bites of meat. “Say, didn’t those painkillers Pills gave you last week do some good?”

Stanley pushed away his bowl of half-eaten oatmeal and replied.

“Sure, they took away the ache for a while, but in the process they left me so doped up I couldn’t even stand my normal watch. And when they eventually wore off, I was stuck with that same damn throbbing pain all over again.”

“My friend, I really do have compassion for you,” offered Mac as he cleaned off his plate, mopped up the remaining juices with a piece of bread, and reached for a big slice of apple pie.

Sickened by this sight, Stanley retorted.

“At least your compassion hasn’t spoiled your appetite any. Christ, Mac, you’re worse than a pig!”

Not taking this remark seriously, the torpedoman attempted to change the subject.

“Lighten up. Roth. That toothache will go away, and you’ll be right back here wolfing down the chow with the best of ‘em. But until then, you’ve got to get your mind onto something other than what ails you. Otherwise, you’re going to wig right on out of here.”

“I’m afraid that sounds a lot easier to do than it actually is, Mac.”

“I don’t know about that, Stan. You haven’t by any chance seen the latest addition to the Defiance’s crew as yet, have you?”

As Roth shook his head indicating he hadn’t, his grinning shipmate glib’y continued.

“Well you’d better prepare yourself, sailor, because one look at that face and body and you’ll forget all about that damn toothache of yours.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Mac?”

“I’m talking about a young, good-looking dame, living right here inside this very same hull, along with you, me, and the rest of the boys!”

“Aw, come off it, Mac. What kind of sucker do you think I am? Everyone knows that the US Navy doesn’t allow women aboard it’s submarines while they’re on patrol.”

“Are you calling me a liar. Roth? Or perhaps you don’t think I have enough experience to know the difference between a man and a woman when I see one. Because I’m telling you we’ve got a female on board this submarine, and a stone fox at that!”

Though still thinking this all a mind game, Stanley couldn’t help but be impressed by his shipmate’s sincerity.

“So the Defiance has a woman on board. I guess next you’ll be telling me she’s been assigned to share the crew’s berthing facilities.”

The torpedoman snickered.

“Very funny, Stan. Actually, from what I heard from the chief, she’s staying in Lieutenant Commander Layman’s cabin. The XO’s moved in with lieutenants Marshall and Sanger.”

With the sudden realization that this wasn’t a joke after all, Stanley further probed.

“Is this female you’re talking about in the Navy?”

Mac was all business as he answered.

“Again it was the chief who explained that she’s some civilian hotshot with the Naval Arctic’s lab. Seems she was sent on the Defiance to have a look at that surface-scanning Fathometer that was almost responsible for deep-sixing us back under the ice. Since she barely had time to look at the unit before we were ordered back to sea, and since scuttlebutt has it we’re returning to the ice once again, she was sent along to repair it while we’re on the way.”

“Well, I’ll be,” reflected the senior sonar technician. “I thought the crew looked a bit more dapper than their normal grubby selves when I boarded late this afternoon.”

A sudden thought entered MacMillian’s mind and his eyes widened.

“Say Stanley, isn’t that new Fathometer somehow tied in with your sonar gear?”

“As a matter of fact, it is. Why do you ask, Mac?”

A bit more excitedly, the blond-haired torpedoman answered.

“Because that means she’ll most likely be working in the sound shack. Damn, you lucky stiff! Say, Stan, if her duty does send her into the sonar room, and your toothache gets too bad, just call the forward torpedo room and I’ll be happy to fill in for you.”

“I’ll bet you would,” remarked Roth. He couldn’t wait to see this mysterious woman his shipmate was raving about so, and he suddenly realized that since they’d been talking about her, his tooth had miraculously stopped throbbing.

While sailors throughout the three-hundred-foot vessel were immersed in similar discussions concerning the latest addition to the crew, the woman responsible for this scuttlebutt sat in her cramped, Spartan quarters in officer’s country. Laurie Lansing had been so busy organizing her technical materials, she was just now finding the time to sit back and reflect on more personal concerns. Though she was certainly no stranger to submarines, and had even gone to sea on one before, this would be her first overnight stay on such a craft. Thus her perspective was completely different on this occasion.

The cabin she found herself in was just about the same size as the roomette of a train. It had a similar Pullman-type washbasin that folded up into the wall when not in use. The rest of the furnishings consisted of a built-in bunk, beneath which was a clothing locker, a small desk and chair, and a mounted bookshelf.

Even though cramped, it would allow her space to work in peace, and would give her some semblance of privacy. This last feature was most appreciated, considering that she was the only female in a crew of 107 men. Though she didn’t foresee any problems developing in this respect, it was nevertheless somewhat comforting to have a solid door to shut behind her when she desired to be alone.

Were it not for the digital knot indicator and Fathometer mounted in front of the bunk, she would have found it hard to believe they were currently three-hundred feet beneath the Atlantic, clipping away at a steady twenty knots. Except for a slight tilting sensation that had followed the triggering of the dive klaxon, there’d been absolutely no sensation of movement or instability, though this hadn’t been the case when they were still traveling on the surface. The keelless vessel had incessantly rolled in the endless ocean swells, and for a while there Laurie had thought she might vomit. Fortunately, she had been too busy organizing her work materials to pay her nausea much attention, and it soon passed.

Though she had originally intended to try to turn in early, she found herself wide awake. Making the most of this restlessness, she seated herself at the desk, took out a legal pad and pen, and began organizing her work schedule.

With the able help of her assistant, she’d been able to work on the recalibration of the laser almost right up to the moment of departure. Since this procedure would require the Defiance to be on the surface, it would have to be completed long before they reached the ice. Because of the excellent progress they had already made, only a couple of hours more work in the sail would be needed. Earlier, when she had informed Captain Colter of this fact, his relief was most noticeable. Submariners, especially those in the nuclear-powered navy, tended to shy away from surface travel whenever possible. They preferred instead the safety and anonymity of the black, cold depths in which their vessels were initially designed to operate.

Once the work in the sail was completed, the majority of Laurie’s time would be spent in the sonar room. Here a spare console had been reserved for her, where she could initiate the time-consuming task of programming the surface-scanning Fathometer to interact with the Defiance’s navigation system. When this job was completed, the mere punch of a button would automatically guide the submarine upward into an opening in the ice of sufficient size and width to accommodate the vessel.

Because of the newness of the software involved in this program, Laurie didn’t really know what problems she might be facing in the next couple of days.

Thus she was greatly relieved when the captain informed her that he was having the sub’s old surface-scanning unit reconnected, to be used as a backup if needed. Such devices were primitive when compared to the new unit, but crudely effective all the same.

Thirty years ago, Laurie’s father, Dr. Frank Lansing, had been involved in the development of this equipment. In reality, it was but an inverted Fathometer, mounted on a submarine’s topside instead of in its keel. As the sound signals this Fathometer projected echoed off the ice above, a device sketched the ice cover’s actual thickness and shape, and then printed out a profile on an eight-inch piece of graph paper, right in the control room. Utilizing this cross section, it was then up to the captain to find an open lead large enough for his vessel and then to surface in it.

Frank Lansing had worked three decades on improving this device. For the past five years, Laurie had been actively involved with his tireless effort, and at long last an actual working unit had been placed inside the USS Defiance. As fate would have it, her father did not live long enough to see his dream fulfilled. Now it was up to her to insure that his life’s work was not in vain.

This was a great responsibility, and one that Laurie did not take lightly. Her life, and the lives of one-hundred and seven others, were on the line, for the slightest miscalculation could prove fatal. Only last week, the Defiance had participated in three harrowing collisions with the pack ice. By the grace of God, a submerged ridge hadn’t ripped the submarine’s hull open like a can opener.

The Defiance had been given a reprieve, and in this respite Laurie had one last chance to clear her father’s name. She could not afford to fail this time around.

Setting the pad she’d been scribbling on down on the desk, Laurie glanced at the photograph she had propped up on the nearby bookshelf. She hadn’t seen this particular picture in years, then had found it stuck between the pages of one of her father’s journals, the one she had been skimming through earlier in the day.

Laurie remembered this snapshot well, for it had been taken on her twenty-first birthday. Having just graduated from MIT summa cum laude the month before, she’d been presented with a very special present — a trip to the Virgin Islands. This was to be her first visit to the Caribbean, and the photograph showed her and her father decked out in bathing suits on the deserted, white-sand beach of St. John’s exclusive Turtle Bay resort. These were happy, carefree days, and the spirit of them was conveyed in their joyous expressions.

Though this trip took place over eight years ago, Laurie would never forget how very special it had been. After four years of grueling school work, doing nothing all day but eating, swimming, and sunbathing was a welcome change of pace.

The seawater was warm and crystal clear. Decked out in mask, snorkel, and fins she explored a seemingly untouched realm. A coral reef lay right off the central beach, and it attracted many brightly colored species of tropical fish and marine life. Her favorites were the giant turtles for which the area was known, and the graceful, strangely shaped stingrays.

Her father accompanied her on these underwater excursions, and afterwards, over beach side lunch or dinner, they compared notes. It was during these sessions that a new understanding developed between them. For the first time ever, Laurie felt like his equal.

No longer merely daddy’s little girl. At twenty-one years of age, with four years of college behind her, she was an adult, well on her way to choosing her particular path in life.

It was during one of the dinners they shared, while the full moon rose in all its magnificence over the adjoining bay, that the subject of Laurie’s mother came up. Since she’d died in a plane crash when Laurie was only five years old, she had always been a shadowy, enigmatic character. A nanny had taken her place, and Laurie had grown up with little knowledge of the woman from whom she’d inherited her tall, shapely figure, dark eyes, long, black silky hair, and, as she was soon to learn, her probing, keen intellect.

Her father had always been hesitant to talk about his first and only wife. In fact, there was only one photograph of her in the entire house, and this was but an informal framed snapshot placed on the mantel over the fireplace.

With his tongue loosened by several powerful rum cocktails, he did finally open his soul to Laurie, however.

For the first time she was told that her mother had been an up and coming anthropologist, whose expertise centered on the native peoples living above the Arctic Circle. Her travels took her to such far-off, exotic locations as Norway, Finland, and Siberia. In them she studied the natives’ religious rites, with a particular focus on their musical traditions. While she was on a field trip in Northern Alaska, the small plane she had been flying was lost in a violent snow storm. Her body was never recovered, and for many years Laurie’s father lived with the slim hope that his wife was really not dead. He even made several futile trips up into Brooks Range to investigate, but each time came back with his hopes crushed.

Laurie found it remarkable that in all the years that followed her father had been able to keep so much to himself. He had to have been full of pain, yet heedless of his personal concerns, he’d dedicated himself to his young daughter’s development and to his career.

And somehow he seemed to always find time for Laurie. While growing up, she looked upon him as her best friend, always there with a smile and an interesting story to tell. When she was ready for school, she was sent to the very best available. Science and mathematics always came easiest to her, and for as long as she could remember, her goal was to be a famous scientist like her father.

Through the years, her natural good looks didn’t go unnoticed by members of the opposite sex. In high school, she had her fair share of dates, but for the most part she found those boys boring and vain. Of course, there was always the natural inclination to compare them to her father. And in every instance, none came close to matching Dr. Frank Lansing in brains, charm, or force of personality.

Her social life was almost nil in college. She was much too busy mastering the challenging principles of applied physics or probing into the intricacies of advanced engineering. During summer vacations, she went to work for her father in the Naval Arctic Lab.

Because of the strategic importance of the Arctic Ocean, the US Navy was interested in knowing all it could about the region’s unique physical makeup.

Surprisingly little past research had been done in this area, and her father’s lab was helping to coordinate this new effort.

Advances in technology were changing the character of Arctic research. Exciting new inventions such as the laser-guided surface-scanning Fathometer were finally coming out of the test stage and being applied to actual, operational hardware.

To Laurie, there could be no more exciting field than this. Though she had several other attractive offers, there was never much doubt in her mind as to the direction of her graduate curriculum, and finally, with a doctorate in advanced Arctic studies in hand, she applied for a position on her father’s staff. She was instantly accepted, and spent the next five years assisting her father develop what one senior admiral in the Pentagon called “the most significant advancement in under-the-ice technology since the advent of the nuclear reactor.”

All their hard work came to fruition six months ago, when the US Navy notified the lab that it was accepting one of the laser-guided Fathometers to test on an actual sub. After the briefest of celebrations, they went to work preparing an operational system.

Because they had to meet a sailing deadline, they had little time to tarry. Fourteen-hour work days were not uncommon, and a day off was almost unheard of. Yet during the entire six-month period, never once did Laurie hear one of the staff voice a complaint. For they really believed in the project, and were willing to sacrifice their personal lives to insure its success.

Of course, no one was as dedicated to this effort as Dr. Frank Lansing. Going to the extreme of setting up a cot in the lab, he worked tirelessly for hours on end.

It was a chore for Laurie to even get him to break for meals, and several times she actually had to drag him away from his work in order to get some decent food into his system.

Two weeks before their deadline was upon them, her father moved into the lab permanently. It was at this point that the hundreds of hours of hard work began to show in his eyes and general physical appearance.

He seemed to be uncharacteristically slovenly, and it was obviously an effort for him to drag his tired, bent body around the laboratory. Several times he complained of attacks of what he called heartburn, but whenever Laurie advised that he should see his physician, he inevitably changed the subject.

She knew now that she should have been firmer with him about seeking medical treatment. Yet her work schedule was equally as intense, and when it came time to begin installing the Fathometer into the Defiance, it was all she could do to find the time to take care of her own personal concerns.

On the morning of the day the installation was to be completed, Laurie found herself on her way to the docks to personally supervise the final calibration of the scanning lasers. Since her father wished to be on the scene also, she stopped at the lab to pick him up.

It was a brisk, clear autumn day, and as she expectantly pulled up to the three-story brick building where their offices were located, she spotted a pair of police cars parked immediately in front of the entranceway.

Not really giving these vehicles much thought, she entered the central foyer and encountered two policemen intently interrogating Will Harper, one of the project’s senior technicians. It only took one look at Will’s face for her to know that there had been some sort of tragedy. But little was Laurie prepared for what she was soon to learn, when the bearded scientist took her aside and with tear-stained eyes explained the grim discovery he’d made that morning.

Also on his way to the Defiance, Harper had stopped off at the lab first to pick up a program manual. Once inside, he’d decided to see if the project’s director needed a lift to the docks. Poking his head into Frank Lansing’s office, he found the white-haired researcher slumped over his desk. At first Will Harper assumed that Lansing had only fallen asleep.

But as he took a step inside, he realized that their venerated director was no longer breathing. Harper called 911, and then began a frenzied attempt at pulmonary resuscitation. His efforts were futile. Ten minutes later the paramedics arrived and pronounced Dr. Frank Lansing dead from an apparent heart attack.

Laurie’s initial reaction was one of shocked disbelief.

She demanded that she be taken to the hospital where her father’s body had been transferred. And only when she had personally viewed his corpse did cold reality suddenly sink in. Numbed into speechlessness, she sat in the morgue and contemplated her loss, and for the first time in her relatively young life tasted the bitter fruit of real loneliness.

Tears clouded Laurie Lansing’s eyes as she sighed heavily and tore her gaze away from the photograph that had triggered these intense memories. Absentmindedly scanning the cramped cabin of her current submerged home, she could only wonder what her father would have to say about her present duty.

Surely he’d be immensely proud of her. In his earlier days, Frank Lansing had spent many months at a time beneath the world’s oceans, while in the midst of a variety of experiments designed to enhance the nation’s fledgling nuclear submarine fleet. Yet the culmination of his long, selfless career wouldn’t be attained until his most cherished project went operational.

And it was up to Laurie to insure that it did.

The throbbing hum of a muted turbine sounded in the distance. Other than this barely audible noise, there was no hint of the true nature of her current means of transport. There was no shifting of the deck, no feeling of movement, as the 4,600-ton nuclear-powered attack sub cut through the icy Atlantic depths at a steady twenty knots of forward speed.

Truly this craft was an incredible engineering feat, and to be a part of a project intended to make such a technological marvel even better was a stimulus to the twenty-nine-year-old research engineer.