Under the Ice

Chapter Eight

Lieutenant Jack Redmond sat in the jumpseat of the Canadian Forces CP-140, Aurora long-range patrol aircraft. The muted whine of the plane’s four turboprop engines produced an almost hypnotic effect on the exhausted, forty-three-year-old Arctic Ranger, and he briefly closed his eyes to take advantage of this rare moment of free time.

The past twenty-four hour period had been a most hectic one. It had all started innocently enough, with what was to be a routine overnight bivouac in the foothills surrounding Mount Assiniboine. With Angus McPherson accompanying them a good portion of the way with his melodious bagpipes, they had proceeded up into the Sunshine meadowlands without incident. Of course, this atmosphere of normalcy had changed the moment Jack had had his terrifying encounter with the two grizzlies. Yet the hand of fate had miraculously intervened in the form of the Canadian Forces helicopter that had literally rescued Redmond from the jaws of death and whisked him off to nearby Calgary.

It was at Calgary’s Currie Barracks that he learned why the chopper had been sent for him in the first place. In yet another isolated corner of the world’s third largest nation, a plane carrying Soviet Premier Alexander Saratov had presumably crashed. To make certain of this, and hopefully to locate the plane’s black box which would explain to the world the reason for this tragedy. Jack Redmond and his crack squad of Rangers were to be sent northward to far-off Baffin Island.

Most anxious to undertake this demanding mission, Jack waited as the rest of his squad arrived at the barracks. They flew in aboard a lumbering Boeing Chinook helicopter. This same vehicle whisked them off to the Calgary airport, where a chartered jet was waiting to convey them on a one and a half hour flight almost due northward, to the town of Yellowknife, in the Northwest Territories. It was here that the Arctic Rangers had their permanent headquarters.

Once at their home base, they hurriedly gathered together the gear they would need. This included six snowmobiles that could each carry up to four men, special Arctic clothing, food, ammunition, and a directional finder with which to home in on the missing cockpit voice recorder. As soon as this assortment of equipment was gathered together, their present means of transportation arrived to carry them off to Baffin Island.

Jack Redmond was no stranger to the prop-driven Aurora aircraft they had been flying in for the last two hours. These reliable planes were used by Canadians to patrol their vast Arctic frontier. Loaded with state-of-the-art surveillance gear, eighteen long-range Auroras covered that immense frozen wasteland. And it was a difficult, demanding task. Yet if Canada was serious about extending its sovereignty to the portion of North America above the Arctic Circle, such patrols were vital.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant Redmond.” The voice came from the front of the cockpit. “We’ve spotted the Louis St. Laurent.”

These words were all that was needed to break Jack from his light slumber. Quickly wiping the sleep from his weary eyes, he unbuckled his seat belt and carefully edged his way forward, to the front portion of the flight deck. As he settled in between the two pilots, the uniformed figure seated to his left pointed out the cockpit’s window and continued.

“There she is now.”

Gazing in the direction in which the pilot was pointing, Jack spotted a single, black-hulled vessel, barely two-hundred feet from stem to stern, seemingly locked in a solid sheet of frozen ice. Though a thick column of gray smoke poured from its dual stacks, the ship didn’t appear to be moving and Redmond observed, “It doesn’t appear that they’re making much progress. Exactly where are they. Captain?”

“That’s the Barrow Strait they’re trying to transit,” returned the pilot. “They’re currently in between Somerset and Cornwallis islands, but I’m afraid that’s about as far east as they’re going to be able to go. That ice looks way beyond their capability.”

Redmond shook his head.

“Looks like we can’t be counting on the Coast Guard to give us any help. I still find it hard to believe that we don’t even have an icebreaker capable of operating in this portion of the Arctic all year round.”

“I hear you. Lieutenant,” retorted the pilot. “With all those millions we waste on our NATO obligation to defend Germany, we can’t even come up with the funds to protect our own coastline. Ottawa’s still fighting over committing the resources needed to build the Polar 8 icebreaker. With one hundred thousand horsepower engines and a specially fortified bow, such a ship would smash through that ice below quick enough. Eh?”

“I think we should build those nuclear submarines,” the copilot put in. “I’ve got a brother based on the Onondaga in Halifax, and he says the amount of trespassing that’s going on beneath these waters is positively criminal. The Soviets, Yanks, and even the Brits, carry on up here like it was their own territory. Yet if we had a fleet of nuclear submarines, it would be a different story. Then we could block off the choke points, and keep these seas one hundred percent Canadian like they should be.”

Jack Redmond turned to the young copilot.

“Does the Onondaga do much under-the-ice work?”

While slightly enriching the fuel mixture, the copilot answered.

“They’d certainly like to, but they can’t. As you know, all three of our subs are diesel-electrics. Since they’re dependent on their batteries while traveling submerged, prolonged patrols under the ice are just too dangerous.”

Jack Redmond thoughtfully reflected.

“I realize it would be enormously expensive, but a nuclear submarine would sure suit our needs right now. All one would have to do is cruise under the frozen waters of Lancaster Sound and pop up in an open lead. Then me and my lads could crawl out of the hold and take it from there.”

“Who needs a blooming submarine when we can do the job for you in a fraction of the time it would take the Navy to get you to Baffin,” the pilot retorted with la proud smirk. “In fact, if you hold tight, we can have you there in just under an hour.”

Redmond met this offer with an enthusiastic thumbs-up, and looked on as the pilot turned the steering yoke and the Aurora smoothly banked to the right. The compass read due east as the Ranger turned to his jumpseat. No sooner had he rebuckled his seatbelt than the door to the flight cabin popped open. With an excited gleam in his eyes, a short jumpsuit-clad airman entered and wasted no time expressing himself.

“I believe I’ve got it, Captain! I started picking it up right after you made that last course change.”

Not having the slightest idea what the sensor operator was talking about, the pilot was quick to intervene.

“Now hold on, lad. Just take a deep breath and tell us just what it is that’s got you so riled.”

Suddenly realizing the reason for the pilot’s confusion, the airman paused and then explained himself “It’s the homing beacon, sir. I was warming up the directional receiver in preparation for our arrival a the suspected crash site, when much to my amazement I began getting the faintest of returns on bearing zero-nine-zero. At first I didn’t think much of it but when we turned on that course ourselves and the signal began steadily increasing in strength, I knew we were on to something. I know it’s still a bit early Captain, but I’m almost positive it’s the black box.”

This last revelation caused Jack Redmond’s eyes to open wide with wonder, and he anxiously questioned “Were you able to get a definite fix on this signal airman?”

The sensor operator turned to directly address the Ranger.

“Though it’s still hard to pinpoint exactly, it seems to be emanating from the north end of the Brodeur Peninsula, on Baffin Island’s northwestern tip.”

Jack Redmond leaned forward expectantly.

“That’s it all right. Why I’ll bet my pension on it. The last radar sighting NORAD had on the Premier’s plan was right over that same portion of coastline. How close can you drop us. Captain?”

Busy studying his cockpit’s own radar screen, the pilot hesitated a moment before answering.

“Under normal circumstances, with our heated ski wheel landing system, we could deliver you practically anywhere on the ice, but I’m afraid that’s not going to be the case this afternoon. It looks like we’ve got a hell of a nasty storm moving south over Lancaster Sound even as we speak.”

“How about giving that landing strip at the new Polestar DEW line station a try, Captain?” the copilot suggested. “It’s on the Brodeur Peninsula and less than a dozen kilometers from the coastline.”

“Sounds good to me,” Jack Redmond said.

With his eyes still peeled to the radar screen, the pilot responded.

“Why don’t we give them a call and see what the weather conditions are like down there. Because from this vantage point, even Polestar doesn’t look too promising.”

It was the copilot who looked up the DEW line station’s special radio frequency and punched it into their digital transmitter. Seconds later, a small green light lit up on the console, and the pilot himself picked up the microphone and spoke into it with his deep, bass voice.

“Polestar One, this is Canadian Air Defense flight zero-one-alpha requesting emergency landing clearance. Over.”

As the pilot released the transmit button that was recessed into the microphone, nothing but a throaty blast of static boomed forth from the cabin’s elevated speakers. Once again the pilot repeated his request.

This time the static was undercut by the distant, scratchy voice of a man.

“CAD flight zero-one-alpha, this is Polestar One. How do you copy? Over.”

“I’m afraid the signals a little weak, Polestar,” returned the pilot.

“CAD flight zero-one-alpha, please switch to frequency zulu-foxtrot-bravo. Over.”

As the copilot punched in this new frequency, the pilot of the Aurora once more addressed the DEW line station. This time the response that filtered in through the cockpit’s speakers was crisp and clear.

“What can we do for you, CAD zero-one-alpha?”

“We’re requesting emergency landing clearance, Polestar,” replied the pilot.

“Though we’d love the company down here, I’m going to have to deny that request, zero-one-alpha. You could say that we’ve got a bit of a blizzard smacking into us at the moment. Wind gusts are up to eighty five miles per hour, with blowing snow, a minus forty degree wind chill and visibility nil.”

As the captain turned his head and caught Jack Redmond’s concerned stare, he again spoke into the microphone.

“Are you absolutely certain we can’t land a plane down there, Polestar? We’re on a mission of the utmost priority.”

“CAD zero-one-alpha,” returned the amplified voiced, “not only do we currently have white-out conditions prevailing, but the wind’s blowing so hard the base commander won’t even allow an emergency response team outdoors to assess any storm damages we might already have sustained. I suggest you come back in a day or two when this thing finally blows over.”

“We copy that, Polestar. Perhaps we’ll take you up on that invitation. This is CAD zero-one-alpha, signing off.”

The pilot hung up the microphone and pivoted to address Jack Redmond.

“I thought that this might be the case, Lieutenant. During this morning’s weather briefing, I saw the low-pressure front responsible for this storm developing over Ellesmere Island. Unfortunately, it seems to have crossed Lancaster Sound sooner than anticipated, making a landing at Polestar out of the question.”

Not about to be perturbed by this news, the Ranger responded.

“Well, if you can’t drop us off at Polestar, where can you land?”

It proved to be the copilot who answered this.

“Arctic Bay still looks clear. Captain. If we crank this crate up, maybe we can get there before the storm does.”

“Is that okay with you, Lieutenant?” the pilot asked. “Though that won’t put you right on the Brodeur Peninsula, if we can, indeed, get into Arctic Bay, that will only leave you about eighty kilometers from where that homing signal is believed to be originating.”

“That’s a lot shorter hike than walking in from Yellowknife,” returned Jack Redmond. “You just get us into Arctic Bay, Captain, and leave the rest to us.”

“You’ve got it. Lieutenant,” snapped the pilot, as he opened the throttles wide.

The grinding whine of the Aurora’s four turboprops roared in response, and Jack Redmond excused himself to let his sergeant-major in on their destination.

He exited the flight deck, crossed through the equipment-packed sensor bay, and ducked through a narrow doorway.

This brought him into a spacious cabin that stretched all the way from the forward portion of the wings to the plane’s tail. The majority of his twenty-three-man squad sat strapped to the fold-down chairs that lined the cabin. Most were asleep, though a spirited poker game was under way on the floor. His sergeant-major could be seen in the tail-end portion of the cabin, where their equipment was stored. Cliff Ano, totally absorbed with the snowmobile engine he was in the process of repairing, failed to see Redmond enter and begin picking his way down the bare steel walkway.

As he passed by the poker players. Jack lightly greeted the four pure-bred Inuits who made up the game.

“Who’s got all the luck this afternoon, gentlemen?”

“Corporal Eviki as usual,” returned the mustached soldier seated closest to Redmond. “I still say he deals off the bottom.”

The longhaired Ranger seated opposite this individual shot back forcefully.

“Watch your tongue. Private. Before you accuse a man of cheating, you’d better make certain to have the evidence!”

Quick to sense the start of trouble, Redmond intervened.

“Now that’s enough out of both of you! Either cool it right now, or kiss those cards goodbye.”

“I was only making a joke,” offered the mustached private who’d made the initial accusation. “What are you so damn sensitive about, Eviki?”

“You and your damn jokes,” reflected the longhaired corporal disgustedly. “Someday one of your wisecracks is going to get you in real trouble.”

As the men turned back to their card game, Redmond continued on to the cabin’s rear. It was obvious that his men were frustrated and tired after their long day of air travel. An eighty-kilometer forced march over the ice in blizzard conditions would all too soon channel their frustration into a struggle for survival. Of this fact Jack Redmond was certain.

The plane shook in a sudden pocket of turbulence, and Redmond was forced to reach out to one of the exposed ribs of the fuselage in order to steady himself.

More rough air was encountered, causing one of the snowmobiles to slip from its mount and lurch violently forward. Only the lightning-quick reaction of his sergeant-major kept the streamlined, fiberglass vehicle from breaking loose altogether and slamming into the seated card players.

“Let me give you a hand with that,” offered Redmond, as he hurriedly made his way over to his second-in-commands side.

Together they lifted up the tracked snowmobile and placed it back in it’s mount. Only when the vehicle was securely in place did the sergeant-major respond.

“We can’t afford to lose one of these snow cats especially if our search leads us onto the pack ice.”

“I’m afraid it’s going to do just that,” returned Redmond. “I just came back from the flight deck, and it appears we’ve got our first solid lead on the location of that cockpit voice recorder. A faint ultrasonic homing signal was picked up somewhere on the north face of the Brodeur Peninsula.”

“Excellent!” replied Cliff Ano. “If the Aurora can get us in close enough, then we may not even have to use these damn machines.”

Jack Redmond shook his head.

“It’s not going to be so easy, my friend. Under normal circumstances the pilot could have done just that, but blizzard conditions have made such a landing impossible. In fact, we’ll be very fortunate even to make it to Arctic Bay.”

“So we’ll be going in from there,” observed the sergeant-major grimly. “I should have expected such a thing all along.”

“Why the long face?” queried Redmond. “If it was my birthplace we were headed for, I’d be thrilled.”

Cliff Ano heavily sighed.

“It’s apparent that you’ve never been to Arctic Bay, Lieutenant. Especially under the conditions in which I came into the world.”

The Inuit lowered his voice to a bare whisper and continued.

“It was a full year before I was conceived that my parents were moved up to Arctic Bay by the RCMP. Before that, my people lived near Rankin Inlet, on Hudson Bay. They were trappers, who had hunted in that area for many generations. Faced with the need of settling vast regions of unpopulated territory to the north, the government offered my mother, father, aunts, and uncles a chance to live in a virgin wilderness on Baffin Island. Since the beaver and muskrat that once flourished in Hudson Bay had been thinned to a point of extinction, my people agreed to a twelve-month trial stay in this new land.

“Little were they prepared for the type of existence that awaited them on Baffin Island. It was almost one thousand miles closer to the Pole than our ancestral lands, and the frigid climate of the island caused nothing but sickness and despair. The beaver and muskrat the government officials had promised they’d find here didn’t exist. They proved to be a lie fabricated by some insensitive bureaucrat in Ottawa. And when the supplies that had also been promised to them failed to materialize, my people had no choice but to learn to hunt new game such as the caribou and the seal. Such knowledge is not easy to come by. And in the many months it took them to master the skill of bringing down such game, many starved.

“When the year was up, the elders petitioned the RCMP to return them to the south. But the government had no intention of disrupting this vital settlement, and explained that such a thing would be impossible. Unable to get off the island themselves, my people were stuck in an alien, unfriendly place of long, bitter winters, and summer’s that passed like a fleeting dream. It was in such a land that I was born.”

Little prepared for such a lengthy narrative from close-lipped Cliff Ano, Jack Redmond grunted.

“No wonder you’re not exactly thrilled with our current destination. Do you still have people living in Arctic Bay?”

“Though my parents are both long in their graves, I believe my father’s brother and his family still live there. I’m not certain though, for I haven’t been back since I left for school over fifteen years ago.”

“Then I don’t suppose you’d remember the terrain we’ll be facing as we take off from Arctic Bay for the northern coastline of the Brodeur Peninsula?” queried Redmond.

Cliff Ano’s face broke out in the slightest of grins.

“It hasn’t been that long. Lieutenant. As a matter of fact, I remember making this same trip several times as a teenager. There were some Inuit on the peninsula who had long ago left all civilization behind to live off the land like their ancestors did. My father wanted me to see such wise people firsthand, and learn their ways. I did, and will be eternally grateful for this invaluable lesson in the real science of survival on the ice.

“Now as to the terrain we’ll be facing… The most direct route from Arctic Bay will take us over Admiralty Inlet. This narrow tongue of water empties directly into Lancaster Sound and is over two hundred kilometers long. Depending upon weather conditions, we should find it solidly frozen by this time of the year. Thus, except for an occasional pressure ridge or open lead, our going there should be swift.

“The peninsula itself is another story. Formed out of solid granite, it’s home to treacherous crevasses and deep, unforgiving rifts. Bloodthirsty polar bears also abound here, and more than one Inuit horror story tells of the huge packs of marauding wolves that make this desolate land their home.”

“Sounds like just another ordinary mission for the Arctic Rangers,” offered Jack Redmond, who was forced to reach out for one of the snowmobiles to steady himself as the airplane violently shuddered in a sudden gust of turbulence.

“It’s certainly nothing that we can’t handle,” reflected the Inuit. “Though for the peninsula portion of our journey, it would sure be nice to have a first-rate dog team leading us onward. For some uncanny reason, a good sled dog can sense a lurking crevasse, long before an unwary man in a snow cat can.”

“Do you think such a team would be available?” questioned Jack Redmond.

“For our sake, I sure hope so, Lieutenant. Otherwise, this is going to be the longest eighty kilometers of our lives — and the most dangerous.”

Captain Matt Colter was up bright and early, and after a quick breakfast of half a grapefruit, oatmeal, and coffee, he initiated his customary morning walk through of the ship. He began this tour in the engineering spaces that filled the sub’s aft portion.

Almost directly amidships, he entered a narrow, forty-foot-long passageway, completely lined with steel tubing. He smelled the familiar wax like scent of warm polyethylene, and could hear the barest of throbbing noises coming from the padded deck beneath him. Halting in the center of this passageway, he kneeled down and lifted up a circular metallic cover that exposed a thick, heavy, leaden glass viewing port set flush with the decking.

Almost twenty feet below him he could now view the heart of the Defiance’s propulsion unit, its nuclear reactor. Lit by a pulsating, golden glow, the sealed reactor vessel contained a vast grid of uranium plates, and was filled with water so highly pressurized it could not boil. Control rods kept nuclear fission from occurring until the reactor went on line. At that time the rods were slowly removed, and as the uranium-235 fuel elements began interacting, the unit went critical.

To achieve propulsion, the hot pressurized, contaminated water was pumped through a series of heat exchangers. Here a second loop of uncontaminated water absorbed this heat, which turned to steam, that subsequently spun the turbines producing both power to drive the ship and the electricity needed to operate the rest of its systems.

Continually amazed by the efficiency of such a relatively simple propulsion system, Colter closed the viewing port, stood, and continued to make his way aft into the maneuvering room. The sign above the hatch he was soon stepping through read Defiance Power and Light. Inside this all-important portion of the ship, three seamen sat before a massive console filled with dozens of complicated gauges, digital readout counters, switches, and dials. The senior of these individuals was responsible for monitoring the power level of the reactor itself. He did so by keeping a close watch on the gauges showing the temperature of the water flowing out of the containment vessel, its pressure, and its velocity. To influence these factors, he merely had to trigger a compact pistol switch that was directly connected to the control rods. Beside him, his two shipmates kept a close watch on gauges showing the state of the sub’s electrical and propulsion systems.

Standing in the compartment’s shadows, sipping on a mug of coffee and intently watching his men at work, was Lieutenant Peter Frystak, the ship’s engineering officer. The six-foot, solidly built officer had originally studied architecture while at UCLA, but became fascinated with nuclear physics while enrolled in the universities NROTC program. To pursue this interest further, he’d chose to fulfill his active service obligation on submarines.

“Good morning. Captain,” Frystak’s eyes never seemed to leave the bank of instruments displayed before him. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

Matt Colter walked over to the engineering officer’s side and responded.

“No thanks, Pete. I already had today’s caffeine fix. And besides, I’m trying to cut back.”

“Good luck,” returned the UCLA grad. “Because it seems this ship runs on nothing but uranium-235 fuel and piping-hot Java.”

Colter grinned.

“Isn’t that the truth. How’s she running this morning. Lieutenant?”

Frystak made a brief entry in his log before answering, “Smooth as can be, Captain. Old man Rickover would be proud.”

“I’m sure he would,” reflected Colter, in deference to Admiral Hyman Rickover, the visionary father of the nuclear navy. “From the very beginning. Rickover’s standards were the very highest, and we were extremely fortunate to inherit them. By the way, what’s the scenario for this afternoon’s drill?”

Frystak lowered his voice to a whisper.

“I’m going to simulate a steam leak in the main condenser. Then throw in a fire in the auxilliary turbine unit, to keep the boys honest.”

“Interesting combination,” observed Colter. “I’m anxious to see how they’ll handle themselves.”

“You never do know, do you, Captain?”

“That’s what these surprise drills are all about, Lieutenant. Let’s just continue to pray that real emergencies are few and far between.”

Finally diverting his eyes from the maneuvering panel, Frystak caught his commanding officer’s direct glance.

“Especially when we’re under the ice, Captain. Since the first step in countering the majority of emergency situations is an immediate order to stand by to surface, a solid covering of ice above you kind of cuts down on your alternatives.”

“That it does. Lieutenant,” replied Colter with a sigh. “But that’s the unique challenge of Arctic operations.”

“During yesterday’s briefing, you mentioned that the orders you just received from COMSUBLANT were going to put the Defiance on the surface of the ice for a good portion of this patrol. Can that newfangled surface-scanning Fathometer really be relied upon to get us topside safely. Captain?”

Since Frystak had been along on the Defiance’s last cruise, and still had bruises on his back to show for the trio of bone-jarring collisions with the ice. Colter knew where his skepticism was coming from. Thus the captain answered him as directly as possible.

“Our civilian guest has been working sixteen-hour shifts since we left New London to make certain that the system is one hundred percent operational. But I still have nightmares about those collisions, and I’ll feel a hell of a lot better when I know the chiefs finally got the old unit on line as a backup if needed.”

The engineering officer grunted.

“Not taking anything away from Dr. Lansing, but I’ve got a gut feeling that says it will be. Let’s just hope I’m dead wrong with this one. But regardless, any luck with those volunteers for the surface party when we finally do get up to Baffin?”

“You’d be surprised at the excellent response,” answered Colter. “Though I don’t seem to recall seeing your name. Lieutenant Frystak.”

The UCLA grad grimaced.

“Sorry Captain, but I’m a Southern Californian. This old blood is too thin to stand up to the kind of numbing temperatures we’ll be encountering topside.”

Colter smiled.

“I understand. Lieutenant. Though even if you wanted to go along, I wouldn’t have let you. I need you right here, at the helm of Defiance Power and Light.”

Checking his watch, the captain added.

“Now I’d better get moving along. Good luck with that drill.”

As Matt Colter left maneuvering, he continued aft into that cavernous section of the ship reserved for its massive turbines. Bright fluorescent lights illuminated the heavy gray machinery needed to convert the steam pressure into actual knots of propulsion. A single spinning shaft bisected the room, leading to a complex series of seals that directly connected it to the twin, contra-rotating propellers. Surprisingly quiet, the engine room was spotlessly clean, yet two seamen were busy with rags and mops to insure it stayed that way.

Satisfied that all appeared well, the captain retraced his steps, cutting back through maneuvering, over the reactor vessel, and into a passageway dominated by a single ladder. By climbing up this ladder he would gain entry to the officer’s wardroom, his own cabin, and the adjoining control room. Yet before returning to these familiar environs, he continued forward on the lower level. This brought him directly into the crew’s mess hall.

A dozen men currently sat in this large compartment that served as a combination dining room, rec hall, and library. Several were playing cards, while others were gathered at various tables working away on breakfast. The scents of freshly perked coffee and frying bacon met Colter’s nostrils as he halted beside a booth holding Petty Officer First Class Stanley Roth.

“Good morning, Mr. Roth. How are you feeling?”

The ship’s senior sonar technician was far from his usual self, and he rather unenthusiastically answered, “I’m doing pretty good. Captain. At least I can get my oatmeal down this morning.”

“So that tooth is still bothering you. I thought you were going to see the base dentist and get it taken care of.”

“I did,” snapped the petty officer, “And to tell you the truth, that visit really didn’t amount to a hell of a lot. If you ask me, the doc would have rather been out on the golf course. He scraped and poked around a bit, and then dismissed me with a warning to brush and floss after every meal or I’d lose my tooth for sure. And here I’ve been conscientiously brushing and flossing ever since, and the damn thing is still throbbing.”

“Sounds like he should have pulled it right there. Is the pain interfering with your work in sonar?”

“Not really, sir. I guess I’m finally getting used to it.”

Colter could tell that the technician wasn’t being honest with him.

“No one should have to live with constant pain. I want you to see Pharmacist Mate Krommer right after chow. There has to be something he can do for you.”

Stanley Roth looked glum as he laid down his spoon.

“I know what Pills is going to do. Captain. He’ll look inside my mouth, take my temperature, then my pulse, and hand me a bottle of those damn painkillers. Though they help a bit, I can’t go around doped up all day.”

“Ask him to prescribe a less potent drug,” advised Colter. “He’s certainly got plenty to choose from in the ship’s pharmacy, and one of them has got to do the trick until you get that tooth taken out.”

“I never thought I’d look forward to the day when I’d get a tooth pulled, but now I know better. Thanks for your concern. Captain. And don’t worry. I’ll survive.”

“I’m sure you will,” returned Colter. He patted the petty officer on the shoulder and then continued on through the mess hall.

He was about to pass by the galley when a familiar voice broke on his right.

“Hello, Captain. Can I fix you up a plate? Just pulled some fresh buttermilk hotcakes off the griddle, and the bacon’s nice and crisp just as you like it.”

Stepping forward to greet him was Petty Officer Howard Mallott, the sub’s head cook, his perpetual smile cutting his bespectacled face. The hefty brown-haired, ten-year veteran was second-generation Navy.

His father had been the head steward on the battleship New Jersey, and it was because of his exciting war tales that Howard had enlisted right after his high-school graduation.

“I’m afraid that I’m going to have to pass up that enticing offer, Mr. Mallott,” Colter responded as he touched his waistline. “Your culinary magic has already been responsible for too many of these spare pounds.”

“Well, make certain to bring your appetite along at lunchtime. Captain. I’m serving your favorite — roast turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberries, and broccoli casserole, with apple pie a la mode for dessert.”

“Thanks for the warning, Mr. Mallott. Now I’ll be certain to walk through the ship another time around just to burn up some of these excess calories.”

The jovial cook waved him away.

“Nonsense, Captain. You look just as fit today as you did in your Annapolis photo. Now this gut is another story.”

As the senior cook playfully patted his own bulging stomach. Colter excused himself to get on with his tour. Briefly glancing into the galley itself, the captain found its relatively small space clean and neat. This said a lot for Petty Officer Mallott, whose responsibility was a heavy one.

One hundred and seven men put away a lot of chow in the course of a typical two-month patrol. Yet all meals came out of this single cramped galley. With the help of three assistants, Mallott served three complete meals a day along with a variety of light snacks in between.

US submarines have always been known for the excellence of their chow, and Howard Mallott kept this proud tradition alive. With the flair of a gourmet chef, he carefully supervised the preparation of each and every menu. Because the very nature of underwater duty was in itself boring, meal times on the Defiance were looked to as a welcomed break from the humdrum routine. After a tasty fried chicken dinner with all the trimmings, or even hamburgers and french fries, the crew felt refreshed and ready to return to their duty slots.

Matt Colter passed by the larders where the majority of food was stored. In these jam packed lockers, the ingredients for over 18,000 meals were stowed away. That in itself took the patience of a saint, and Petty Officer Mallott supervised this complicated procedure after personally purchasing the ingredients from the base supply officer.

Realizing that they were very fortunate to have such a dedicated individual aboard, Colter left the galley, transit ted a narrow passageway, and passed by the main bunk room Forty-eight enlisted men called this portion of the Defiance home. To make the best use of the vessel’s limited space, the bunks were stacked in tiers four high. Each of these separate spaces had a curtain that could be drawn to provide privacy, along with individual ventilation fans and reading lights.

Like the officer’s quarters, clothing lockers were situated beneath each foam-rubber mattress. The room was only partially filled by the sleeping sailors that had stood the midnight to 4 a.m. watch, or as it was more commonly known, the mid watch. Not wishing to disturb them, the captain continued on through a double-wide hatch and ducked into the forward torpedo room.

This compartment also contained living space for thirty individuals. Yet its predominate feature were four, twenty-one-inch-wide, bronze breech doors, from which the sub’s various weapons and decoys would be launched. Currently gathered around the torpedo loading rack was a group of three sailors.

Leading them in the dissection of a Mk48 Mod 1 torpedo was Lieutenant David Sauger, the weapon’s officer.

“Is this one of the new fish. Lieutenant?” the captain asked.

The balding weapons’ officer backed away from the torpedo, wiped his receding forehead dry of sweat, and succinctly answered.

“That it is, sir.”

“How do they look so far?” continued Colter.

Sanger shook his head.

“This is only the third one we’ve had a chance to examine, Captain. Though the other two checked out, we’ve got three more to go after this one.”

Colter knew that when it came to new reloads, any weapons’ officer worth his salt scrupulously inspected each torpedo to double-check it for defects. David Sanger had only been with him on two previous patrols, yet in each instance he’d proved to be a hardworking perfectionist, who took his all-important job most seriously.

“Well, I can rest a bit more easily knowing that if we need ‘em, these fish will be ready to bite when the time comes. Keep up the good work. Lieutenant.”

Briefly looking up to examine the mattresses that were situated on the upper casing of the torpedo rack, Matt Colter ducked through the double-thick hatchway.

Outside the torpedo room, a ladder conveyed him upward into a passageway that directly adjoined the control room. It was here that he laid his eyes on a closed door that had a sign reading Sound Shack tacked on its length. Below this wooden placard was a fist-sized decal showing the hammer and sickle insignia of the Soviet Union with a thick red diagonal line drawn over it. Though he was overdue in the control room. Colter approached this doorway, turned its latch, and entered.

Inside the sonar room were a series of three individual consoles, each separated by an acoustic barrier. At the position closest to the door Seaman Lester Warren sat hunched over his monitor screen. A pair of bulky headphones covered the Texan’s ears, while his eyes were riveted on the repeater screen. The console beside him was vacant, though the station on the far side was not. Seated here in dark blue Navy-issue coveralls was Dr. Laurie Lansing.

Matt Colter walked soundlessly past the sonar technician and positioned himself immediately beside the black-haired civilian.

“Hello,” he said softly. “You’re certainly up with the chickens this morning.”

The scientist finished typing a complex series of digits into the data bank before pushing away from the keyboard and answering.

“Actually, I haven’t gone to bed yet.”

Colter seemed astounded by this revelation, “Does everyone at the Arctic lab take their work so seriously?”

“Only those of us who have a point to prove,” retorted Laurie. Then she yawned and stretched her cramped limbs.

Matt Colter found himself admiring her soft features and the dark eyes that didn’t seem to show a hint of fatigue.

“Seriously, Doctor, I know you want to get your Fathometer on line, but aren’t you pushing yourself a little too hard? At least break for a couple of hours of shut-eye. This console will be waiting for your return. And being properly rested, you’ve a lot better chance of not making a foolish mistake.”

“Don’t worry. Captain. I know what I’m doing. And besides, another couple of hours’ work and my job will be completed.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Colter. “Otherwise, you’d most probably keep working until you just dropped to the deck. How are your quarters, by the way? I’m sorry I couldn’t get by here sooner to ask, but the past couple of days have been hectic for all of us.”

“No apologies are necessary, Captain. My cabin is most satisfactory, and the crew has been most helpful, what little I’ve seen of them. Lately, I’ve been going right from my cabin to the officer’s wardroom to grab a bite to eat, and then straight over here.”

“Once you’ve completed the reprogramming and gotten a little rest, I’d be honored if you’d join me on a proper tour of the Defiance. Besides, from what I gather, the crew’s even got money riding on when you’ll finally be making an appearance.”

The scientist blushed.

“I sure wouldn’t want to let them down, now would I, Captain?”

“Not if you know what’s good for you,” returned Colter with a wink. “Now, don’t hesitate to call out if you need anything — and get some rest!”

As he exited the sound shack. Colter found himself thinking about the warm smile she had flashed his way as he’d excused himself to get on with his duty.

She was certainly a hard worker, and there could be no doubting the sincerity of her intentions. Realizing that they’d soon know the results of her efforts, he transit ted a cable-lined passageway, and entered the familiar confines of the control room.

Lieutenant Commander Al Layman was waiting for him at the chart table, “Morning, Skipper. Did you sleep in this morning?”

“Afraid not, Al. Just spent a little longer on my morning walk through than usual.”

“I hope you found everything shipshape.”

Still thinking about the scientist’s smile. Colter absentmindedly replied.

“Everything was fine, Al.”

The XO knew his commanding officer well, and noting the distant look in Colter’s eyes, saw that his full attention was elsewhere.

“We can go over those charts another time. Skipper. There’s nothing here that can’t wait until later.”

Only then did Matt Colter realize how far his thoughts had been drifting. Such a thing could be dangerous in times of crisis, and he instantly regained control of himself.

“There’s no reason for that, XO. You can carry on.”

“If you say so, Skipper,” replied Layman as he pulled his pipe from his pocket and placed its bit between his lips unlit. He then reached down and switched on the light to the chart table.

Clearly displayed beneath the clear Plexiglas of the table was a polar projection chart of the eastern portion of North America. Utilizing a blue crayon, Al Layman marked a small x in the sea halfway between the extreme northern point of Labrador and the southern coast of Greenland.

“As you can see. Skipper, we’re well on our way to the Davis Strait by now. We’ve currently got Labrador’s Cape Chidley off our port bow, and Greenland’s Cape Farewell to our starboard.”

“We must have gotten a little help from the Labrador Current,” observed Colter. “We’re doing much better than I had anticipated. Any ice above us as yet?”

“As of two hours ago, the sea was clear, Skipper. But that could be a whole different story now. If I remember correctly, this is about where we spotted the first floes on our last visit.”

“Seems like just the other day,” reflected Colter. “How about taking us up to periscope depth and having a look around?”

“My pleasure. Skipper.”

As the XO relayed the orders that brought the Defiance up from the black depths. Matt Colter stepped up on the low steel platform that lay beside the plotting table. Only when the digital depth gauge reached sixty-five feet did the captain take over.

“Up periscope!” he barked.

An alert seaman hit the release switch, and to a loud hiss of pressurized hydraulic oil one of the two eight-inch-thick, steel cylinders that hung before Colter began sliding upward. Several drops of water ran down the cylinder’s barrel from its overhead fitting, as an eyepiece and a pair of folded handles emerged from the well. Bending over slightly, the captain snapped down the hinged handles and nestled his eyes up into the periscope’s rubberized lens coupling.

The direct light was at first so intense that it stung Colter’s eyes. The sky was a brilliant, deep blue, and as a wave of greenish seawater slapped up over the lens. Matt spotted several disturbingly familiar formations floating on the distant horizon. By merely increasing the magnification of the lens tenfold, these pure-white crystalline objects seemed to jump forward and a sudden heaviness formed in Colter’s gut.

For the monstrous icebergs meant only one thing, from this point onward, if something went wrong in the black depths below, the Defiance could no longer rely on the sea’s surface for a safe haven. Very much aware of this unsettling fact. Matt Colter sighed heavily and, like Arctic explorers for centuries past, consigned his fate to the spirits of the frozen sea.