Lester was looking forward to the moment when the Defiance would surface in an open lead in the ice.
At that time he planned to ask the XO for permission to go topside and check out this winter wonderland with his own eyes. Perhaps if he got lucky, he might even get a glimpse of a polar bear or a real live Eskimo! Then he’d certainly have something special to share with the folks back home during his next leave.
He would never forget the last time the Defiance attempted surfacing in these same frozen seas. He had been stationed at the very same console during the ascent, and had actually been thrown from his seat when the sub’s sail smashed into a solid wall of impenetrable ice. Fortunately, he hadn’t been injured during this unexpected collision, though several of his shipmates had.
For the last couple of days, a civilian technician had been industriously working at the sound shack’s spare computer terminal to insure that such an accident never again occurred. Dr. Laurie Lansing was one of the hardest-working women Warren had ever met. She was also one of the brightest.
During much of the time, they were the only ones in the sonar compartment, and since both of them had a sincere interest in computers, it was only natural that they discuss their shared passion at coffee breaks.
When his shipmates learned of this fact, they immediately began pestering Warren to tell them all about their newest passenger. Their incessant questions mostly had to do with her personal life, her marital status, and her exact measurements. Quick to dismiss such immature queries, Lester couldn’t understand what the guys were making such a ridiculous fuss about. Big deal if Dr. Lansing was a good-looking lady. She had her job to do just like the rest of them, and deserved her fair share of respect. And this certainly included not gawking at her as if she were some sort of sex goddess.
Lansing’s absence from the sound shack this morning probably meant that she had finally finished the project she had been working on. Either that or she had finally collapsed from sheer exhaustion. Because nobody on board the Defiance had worked as hard as she had these last couple of days.
Hoping that her laser-guided surface-scanning Fathometer would function properly this time around, Lester directed his attention back to the grinding noise of the ice pack. Like an original musical score, the natural sounds being conveyed into his headphones were unlike any other on this planet.
When combined with the unique cries of the sea life that roamed these frigid depths, a macabre symphony resulted, the likes of which his friends back in San Antonio could never begin to fathom.
In a nearby portion of this same frozen sea, a symphony of a vastly different nature was being appreciated by yet another submariner. Captain Sergei Markova had only recently returned to the stateroom he was currently sharing with the Neva’s senior lieutenant.
Having been up the entire night supervising the transit of the narrow strait through which they were traveling, he gratefully crawled into his temporary bunk to catch a few hours’ sleep.
To properly unwind after his twelve-hour duty stint, Sergei pulled out his prized Sorry Walkman. Purchased in Viet Nam, while he was assigned to a Victor class attack sub stationed at Cam Rahn Bay, the portable cassette player had already provided him with hundreds of hours of musical pleasure. Thanks to its miniature headphones, he could enjoy his favorite composers without having to worry about disturbing his shipmates.
By pure chance, the young captain reached into his bag of cassettes and selected Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony. It was only as he lay back on his bunk and the first movement began unraveling that he remembered where he had heard this soulful selection last. It had been at his apartment in Murmansk, less than four days ago. This thought unleashed a flood of fond memories that seemed to have taken place in another lifetime.
He had spent a marvelous afternoon with his daughter Sasha. Dressed to the hilt in preparation for the storm that would soon be upon them, they’d made the round of the local stores. With their precious purchases in hand, they walked home in the thickly blowing snow. Once back at the apartment they were greeted by their guests, Viktor and Tanya Belenko. It had been while Viktor and Sergei sat before the fireplace that Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 5 in E minor began blaring forth from the room’s mounted radio speakers. Over drinks and appetizers, and the continually developing music, they had all joked, told stories, and relaxed in a casual atmosphere as alien to that of the Neva as day is to night.
The symphony was just reaching its spirited conclusion when the fateful phone call that was to put an abrupt end to their party came. Could Sergei ever forget the look of pained disappointment that painted the face of his dear wife as he revealed that call’s grim purpose? Viktor’s beautiful wife had been equally shocked, and when Sasha had learned that her Poppy was leaving for the sea once again, her tears had been instantaneous.
As it turned out, Sergei had had little time to share their frustrations. He’d been too busy packing his clothes and mentally formulating the long list of tasks that would have to be taken care of before the Neva was able to put to sea as ordered. He last glimpsed his beloved family as he sprinted out the lobby doors to Viktor’s waiting automobile. Even the duty woman seemed to have tears in her eyes as Sasha ran up to the frosted windows to wave one last goodbye.
From that point on, Sergei’s official military duties had occupied him completely. Yet the chance playing of one of the loveliest pieces of music ever written had unlocked precious memories, and Sergei’s heart was suddenly heavy, with a loneliness only a sailor could understand, as his heavy eyelids closed and he surrendered to his exhaustion.
He awoke an hour and a half later when a firm hand shook his shoulder. Reaching up to remove the headphones — he had fallen asleep with them on-Sergei looked up into the concerned face of his senior lieutenant.
“I’m sorry to have had to awaken you, comrade, but we’ve picked up something on sonar that I know you’ll be interested in.”
The captain replied while sitting up and wiping the sleep from his eyes.
“I bet it’s an active sonobuoy from a Yankee P-3 Orion. I knew they’d tag us the moment we exited the Nares Strait.”
Viktor Belenko shook his head.
“I’m afraid your hunch is wrong this time, old friend. For what we’ve discovered in the waters before us is not a mere sonobuoy but another submarine!”
This revelation hit Sergei with a jolt, and he was suddenly wide awake.
“You don’t say, Viktor. Any idea as to its nationality? And have they realized they’re not alone as yet?”
An excited gleam flashed in Viktor’s eyes as he answered, “The computer shows a forty-seven percent probability that this contact is an American Sturgeon class vessel. They’re apparently traveling northward in a hell of a hurry, and it appears that they have no idea we’re out here.”
“Wonderful!” exclaimed Sergei, who stood and hastily threw on his coveralls.
“Let’s sound general quarters and see just what it is that our enemy is doing in these waters.”
“I’ve already taken the liberty of sending the men to their battle stations, comrade. Admiral of the Fleet Kharkov is anxiously waiting for us in the attack center.”
“Then we’d better be quick and join that old fox before he takes out the Yankees with a torpedo salvo,” Sergei jested, as he beckoned his subordinate to lead the way to the Neva’s control room.
A hushed, tense atmosphere prevailed in the attack center as the vessel’s two senior officers hurriedly entered and made their way to the sonar console.
Here they joined Admiral Kharkov and the Neva’s Zampolit.
It proved to be the white-haired veteran who anxiously greeted the newcomers.
“Ah, it’s about time, Captain. It appears that we’ve caught ourselves an unwary Imperialist Sturgeon all right. The probability is now up to sixty-eight percent.”
With his eyes glued to the repeater screen that showed the vessel’s sound signature as a line of quivering light, Se
rgei Markova thoughtfully observed, “This is most unusual, comrades. It’s very rare to catch the overly cautious Americans at a sprint speed such as this. One can’t help but wonder where they’re off to in such a hurry.”
“Why that’s only too apparent,” offered Konstantin Zinyagin, as he patted his sweating jowls dry with a handkerchief.
“The Sturgeon is obviously bound for the frozen waters of Lancaster Sound, just like we are.”
“The Zampolit’s observations are correct,” concurred Mikhail Kharkov.
“For it’s to their advantage to retrieve the Flying Kremlin’s black box before anyone else does and reveals to the world the real cause of our beloved Premier’s tragic passing.”
“Sounds logical to me,” reflected the senior lieutenant.
His glance still riveted on the flashing repeater screen, Sergei cautiously spoke.
“Though this indeed might be the case, we must make certain to keep our minds open. Perhaps they’ve only been sent up into Baffin Bay to check on the contact that their SOS US line picked up as we entered the Nares Strait.”
“But why travel at such an extreme velocity?” countered the alert white-haired veteran.
“At their current speed, their passive sensors will be all but useless except for listening to the crackling ice above and an occasional passing whale below. No, Captain, I tell you that the Imperialists are on a mission of a much greater magnitude. And to insure that they don’t succeed, the Neva must intervene.”
“And just how do you propose to do such a thing?” questioned Sergei.
Mikhail Kharkov was quick to respond.
“Though a well-placed torpedo would be the most logical solution, there’s yet another way open to us, one that doesn’t have such bellicose overtones. I say, ram them.”
Sergei Markova was clearly astounded by this suggestion.
“I strongly disagree. Admiral. It’s much too early to determine the Sturgeon’s exact mission. By intervening at this time, the Neva could very possibly be guilty of a flagrant overreaction that many might look at as a direct act of war.”
“And what do you call shooting down the Flying Kremlin, Captain?” bitterly retorted the Admiral of the Fleet.
“The Imperialists are the ones who started this whole thing. And now it’s time to begin evening the score.”
While considering these belligerent words, Sergei queried the seated sonar operator.
“What’s the contact’s range. Chief Magadan?”
The technician efficiently addressed his keyboard and as his monitor screen flashed alive, crisply answered.
“They’ve just broken the fifteen kilometer threshold, sir. At their current speed, intercept will be in another eighteen minutes.”
“Why that still leaves us with plenty of time to set up the ambush,” observed the admiral, a hint of impatience flavoring his tone.
“Come to your senses, Captain, and take advantage of this one in a million opportunity that the fates have so kindly brought our way.”
Quite aware that Mikhail Kharkov could easily try to pull rank on him if he so desired, Sergei decided upon a compromise.
“Bring us down to loiter speed, Senior Lieutenant. Activate all stealth systems, and prepare the ship for a collision.”
“Then you’re going to go ahead with it?” queried the expectant admiral.
Sergei hesitated a moment before responding.
“Though I’m still not totally convinced the Americans have been sent here for the same purpose we were sent, circumspection forces me to keep our options open. If the Sturgeon is indeed headed for Lancaster Sound, she will be altering course shortly, just as we were about to do when we first picked them up. If such a course change does in fact occur, then the Neva will close in at once to stop the Americans long before they’re able to further interfere with our mission.”
Relieved by what he was hearing, the Admiral of the Fleet grinned.
“I knew that the Motherland could count on you. Captain Markova. You are a credit to your uniform.”
Ignoring this superfluous remark, Sergei addressed his senior lieutenant.
“Prepare a proper intercept vector should the American’s course turn westward, Vik for. A glancing blow of our bow directed at the stern portion of the Sturgeon should cause enough damage in their engine room to send them topside for repairs.”
As Viktor Belenko turned to the chart table, the Admiral of the Fleet beckoned Sergei to join him at the vacant weapon’s console.
“Something tells me you’ve had experience in carrying out such an unorthodox maneuver before. Captain.
If I remember correctly, at the conclusion of the Neva’s second patrol you returned to Polyarny with a peculiar dent in your ship’s reinforced bow. I believe your log mentioned something about striking an uncharted coral reef while cruising deep below the Mediterranean south of Mallorca. At the time I read your report, two things immediately came to mind. The first was that to my knowledge coral is not indigenous to that portion of the Mediterranean. And the second, I couldn’t help but remember the New York Times clipping I had just received telling of an American 688 class submarine that had been involved in a serious underwater collision with an unidentified object in these same waters. I believe that poor 688 had to be towed back to the US navy base at Sicily afterward.
Some say it was a miracle it was even able to ascend after it had been so violently struck. Now I wonder what on earth could have hit them like that?”
As he patiently awaited a response, Kharkov studied the face of the young captain much as a father would his son’s. Unable to escape the veteran’s clever trap, Sergei managed the barest of smiles.
“Such an incident is certainly news to me. Admiral.
Although who knows, maybe it wasn’t a reef that we struck after all.”
“No, comrade, perhaps it wasn’t.” The white-haired veteran couldn’t help but respect the young officer’s coolness under fire.
“The contact is cutting its forward speed!” It was the voice of the excited sonar operator.
Quick to return to the console, both Sergei Markova and Mikhail Kharkov studied the repeater screen. The electronic line showing the contact’s screw turns had evened out dramatically, and it was obvious that the sub had substantially cut its forward velocity.
“Maybe they’ve spotted us,” offered the Zampolit, who had vigilantly remained at the sonar operator’s side.
“I don’t see how they could,” returned the captain.
“Right now the Neva’s practically dead in the water.
With our stealth system in operation, they would have to go active to even have a chance of locating us. And with our anechoic tiles in place, there’s a good chance even that tactic wouldn’t be fruitful.”
“Maybe they’ve known our position all along, and have only been playing with us,” the paranoid Political Officer said.
Sergei looked out to the repeater screen and replied, “That’s even more unlikely, Comrade Zinyagin. If you ask me, I say that within the next sixty seconds the Yankee skipper is going to reveal his intentions once and for all.”
Barely a half minute later, this prophetic remark came true when the sonar operator pressed his headphones tightly over his ears and then called out loudly for all to clearly hear, “They’re changing course, Captain!
The new bearing is two-six-zero.”
“Why that’s almost due west!” exclaimed the admiral.
“I told you they’d be headed for Lancaster Sound.”
“It looks like they’re after the black box all right,” observed the ship’s captain as he thoughtfully stroked his square chin.
“Senior Lieutenant, put that intercept vector into the navigation computer right now. Those Yankee bastards don’t realize it as yet, but they’ve come as close to spoiling our mission as they’re going to get!”
“And this Dr. Lansing is that portion of the ship we fondly call Defiance Power and Light. You just saw the reac
tor compartment. This is where it’s controlled from, and where the resulting energy is transformed into steam to turn our propellers and electricity to run almost everything else.”
Matt Colter stepped aside and beckoned his attractive guest to enter the maneuvering room before him.
Laurie Lansing readily did so, and soon found herself in a relatively cramped compartment dominated by a massive console filled with dozens of gauges,
switches, and dials. Three seated figures were responsible for monitoring these instruments, though the newcomer’s entrance momentarily diverted their attention from them.
Quick to bring the three back in line was the deep, firm voice that emanated from the room’s shadows.
“What the hell’s the matter with you guys? Get your eyes back on the instruments where they belong or you burns will never qualify!”
As his men instantly complied, the tall, dark, solidly built figure of Lieutenant Frystak stepped forward to greet his guests.
“Good morning. Captain.
And I presume that this is Dr. Lansing?”
“You presume right,” replied the civilian as she accepted the officer’s warm handshake.
“I’m sorry about the interruption.”
“Lieutenant Frystak and his men here are the guys I rely on to keep the heart of this ship pumping,” said the captain.
“And speaking of the devil, so far you’ve given me everything I’ve asked for and then some, Lieutenant.”
Frystak affectionately patted a nearby instrument panel.
“It’s all in a day’s work. Captain. We were able to survive our little disaster drill and keep on line even as we reacted to that simulated steam leak in the main condenser and the fire in the auxilliary turbine unit.”
“So I noticed,” returned the captain.
“You and your men deserve a hearty job well done.”
Frystak humbly nodded.
“Thanks, Captain. And by the way Dr. Lansing, how is your work progressing?”
Laurie instantly liked the straightforward engineering officer, who reminded her of a college schoolmate.
Under the Ice Page 20