Struggling to keep his headphones securely clamped over his ears, Stanley Roth listened intently for the manner in which their pursuer reacted to this precipitous maneuver. At first the torpedo’s distinctive signature was completely lost in the sudden turbulence left in the Defiance’s wake. It seemed to take an eternity for their baffles to clear, yet when they eventually did, the sound that met his ears brought forth an exclamation flavored by sheer joy.
“It’s still moving away from us! If it doesn’t turn soon, it’s going to leap right out of the water.”
Suddenly remembering the unique nature of the seas beneath which they were currently traveling, Stanley made the right connection.
“Why that’s it!
The Skipper took us on this roller-coaster ride so it would do just that!”
Still not certain what his shipmate was carrying on about, Lester made the mistake of turning up his volume gain a full notch just as a thundering explosion sounded above them. His eardrums painfully reverberating under the force of this sonic lashing, he ripped off his headphones. Yet instead of sympathy, his shipmate greeted him with a wide, beaming smile and a hearty pat on the back.
“We did it, Les! I told you the Skipper would see us out of this fix.”
“What in the hell happened?” queried the dazed junior technician.
Realizing the extent of his shipmate’s confusion, Stanley wasted no time explaining.
“Don’t you un294 understand, Les? Captain Colter had it planned from the very start. By sending us up almost to the surface, and then abruptly ordering the Defiance back down, he caused that Russkie torpedo to smack right into the ice. The old man’s a genius, pure and simple!”
Lester Warren listened to these spirited remarks, his ears still ringing in pain. Quite willing to forget about his own agony and join in the celebration, the Texan became puzzled when his colleague anxiously returned to his console to initiate yet another intensive scan of the surrounding waters.
“What in the hell is that all about, Stanley? With that fish gone, and the other one still chasing our decoy, we’re surely in the clear.”
The veteran held back his response until his scan located what he had been searching for.
“You seem to have forgotten the Defiance wasn’t the only sub under attack, Tex. Go ahead and isolate the bow hydrophone array, port side.”
As Lester gingerly replaced his headphones and reached forward to address his keyboard, Stanley Roth added.
“Ah, now this is sweet music to my ears, if I ever heard any. Because if you think the Defiance was just on a hectic roller-coaster ride, wait until you hear what Ivan’s in the midst of. Why that sub is cutting up the sea something fierce, with our three ever-loving torpedoes smack on its tail!”
“Captain Markova, for the sake of my poor wife and three young children, you must do something!
Why, we’re all going to die!”
As the Zampolit’s shrill pleas filled the previously hushed attack center, Admiral of the Fleet Mikhail
Kharkov reacted swiftly. Oblivious to the steeply canted, vibrating deck beneath him, the white-haired veteran crossed the entire length of the compartment and slapped the cowering Political Officer full on the cheek.
“Now that’s enough of your pathetic whining, Comrade Zampolit!” the fuming veteran chided.
“You’re a disgrace to both the Fleet and the Party, and I will have no more of this. Do you understand, comrade?”
Sobered by this surprise blow, the still-whimpering Political Officer managed a tear-stained reply.
“I’m sorry. Admiral. It’s just that I can’t bear the idea of my poor Katrina being such a young widow.”
“And don’t you think each one of us feels the same way about our loved ones?” countered the admiral.
“This is no way for a naval warrior to act, comrade. Especially when there’s still a very good chance we’ll yet escape this attack.”
The deck rolled hard to the right, and as Kharkov reached out to stabilize himself, the seated sonar operator called out dryly.
“The three torpedoes continue their approach. Captain. The range of the lead weapon is now down to a thousand meters.”
From the corner of the attack center directly opposite Mikhail Kharkov, the Neva’s Captain absorbed this observation with a pained grimace.
Beside him, his senior lieutenant did likewise.
“It’s obvious that these diversionary tactics are worthless,” reflected V’ktor Belenko somberly.
“The American Mark 48’s are quicker than we had anticipated, and even the Neva’s great speed won’t be enough to outrun them.”
Sergei Markova knew very well that his old friend was right. Even though the Neva’s turbines were spewing out an incredible forty-eight knots of forward speed, the trio of persistent torpedoes continued their relentless pursuit.
When it didn’t appear that their great speed would save them, Markova tried sending the Neva deep into the sea’s depths. Yet even a well-defined thermocline failed to fool the Mark 48’s, who were programmed to home in on the vessel’s acoustic signature.
Finally the captain decided, if they couldn’t outrun or out dive these persistent weapons, only one course remained open to them. Somehow Sergei would have to get the Neva in a position where he could order the power plant shut down. Then, once the mad, grinding wash of their propeller spun to a halt, the torpedoes would no longer have a target to home in on and the chase would be over.
As the frustrated young captain stared down at the bathymetric chart of the sound they currently sailed beneath, Viktor Belenko offered yet another desperate proposal.
“Perhaps we should try launching another decoy, Sergei. Even if it is the last one we carry.”
“What’s the use?” the captain sighed.
“The others were useless. Why should this one be any different?”
“That doesn’t sound like the Sergei Markova I know,” retorted the senior lieutenant.
“I realize the other decoys only served to temporarily divert the Mark 48’s, but at least there’s a slim chance this one will do better. And even if it doesn’t, at the very least we’ll have a few minutes reprise to come up with something better. Otherwise, my friend, our fate is all but sealed.”
Still intently gazing at the chart, Sergei smashed his fist down onto the table’s Plexiglas top.
“Damn!” he cursed.
“If only we could buy enough time to successfully scram our reactor. That’s the only thing that would save us.”
“Torpedo range is down to eight hundred meters, Captain,” said the sonar operator.
This grim observation was followed by the strained voice of the Neva’s diving officer.
“We’ve attained a depth of seventy-five meters. Captain, and are presently running out of water. Shall I proceed with another dive? For the surface-scanning Fathometer shows a nasty-looking inverted ice ridge above that could be a problem shortly.”
This innocent remark registered in Sergei’s mind, and he was all set to order yet another plunge into deeper waters when an idea suddenly came to him.
“Comrade diving officer, is this inverted ridge that you speak of large enough to shelter a vessel the size of the Neva?”
Not certain of what the captain was getting at, the diving officer answered.
“Most definitely. Captain.
It’s one of the largest and thickest I’ve seen so far, and extends downward well over forty meters.”
“Then that’s it!” exclaimed Sergei.
“We’ll launch our last decoy, then as the Mark 48’s give it their usual brief chase, we’ll ascend into the cover of this ridge, scram our reactor, and when the American torpedoes reinitiate pursuit, they’ll be unable to find us because of the ice!”
Hurriedly crossing the attack center’s length to join the captain was Mikhail Kharkov.
“Why that’s a brilliant plan, comrade! Yet we mustn’t tarry, for time is of the essence.”<
br />
With the invaluable assistance of Viktor Belenko, Sergei Markova’s unorthodox maneuver was put into action. In a growling, swirling rush, the Neva’s last remaining decoy was launched. Soon afterward, the trio of attacking torpedoes were fooled into checking this new vibrant signature out for themselves.
Though this deception would only be a temporary one, it gave the Sierra class submarine time to drastically cut its forward speed, level out, and begin the intricate process of inching its way upward until it was nestled beneath the shelter of the inverted ice ridge.
No sooner had the sub’s reinforced sail delicately touched up against the roof of this barrier than the three torpedoes realized the decoy was not their intended prey. With a whining vengeance, they turned back toward the Neva’s last known coordinates and attempted to seek out the vessel that they had been sent to destroy. It was fate alone that allowed the Mark 48’s sensitive acoustic sensors the opportunity of getting one last fix on the Neva’s propeller wash seconds before its turbines were deactivated and its reactor scrammed. Knowing now where the true enemy lay, the torpedoes streaked upward to complete their mission.
Guided solely by acoustic sound waves, the Mark 48’s took the quickest route to their target’s last known fix. Ignoring the fact that the signature suddenly stopped transmitting, the torpedoes surged forward in their final attack run. The trio of weapons impacted almost simultaneously. A blindingly bright, earsplitting detonation followed, during which time over three-thousand pounds of high-density TORPEX explosives bit into the solid wall of ice the warheads had mistakenly run into.
On the surface, this massive blast was hardly noticeable.
As the incessantly howling wind scarred the pack ice smooth with trillions of bits of flying razor-sharp ice pellets, a sudden fracture formed on the ridge’s surface. Immense in size, this rift was fed by the tremendous heat of the explosion that had just occurred a few meters below. As this fracture continued to widen, it eventually tore apart the entire ridge itself with a grinding, gut-wrenching crack. With the ice now open to the sea below, an immense, black-hulled vessel popped up from the depths to fill this sudden gap. And in just such an unlikely manner, the Sierra class nuclear submarine Neva came to rest on the ice-encrusted surface of Lancaster Sound.
Chapter Fourteen
The Arctic dawn broke dull and gray. As the Rangers scrambled from their igloo, they were met by a shrieking gust of frigid wind that provided instant proof the storm had yet to pass. The snow had continued to fall during the night, and many of the drifts were waist high or better. It proved to be an effort just to locate two of the snow cats though the dogs fared better because of the protective berm the soldiers had built for them.
With his snow goggles already covered by a translucent coating of frost, Lieutenant Jack Redmond did his best to break camp with all due haste.
“Sergeant-Major! Forget about exhuming those buried snow cats and get up there on that ridge with the directional receiver. Take Corporal Eviki with you, and see if we’re close enough to pick up that homing signal as yet. I’ll take care of everything else.”
As Cliff Ano crisply saluted and pivoted to begin this task, Redmond turned for the staging area where their vehicles had been parked. Several of the men were there, digging into the snow drifts in an effort to find the two missing snowmobiles. Joining in with a collapsible shovel, the senior commando motivated his men to do their utmost.
“Come on, lads! It’s got to be down here somewhere.
The sooner we get moving again, the closer we’ll be getting to this mission’s conclusion. And I’ll personally guarantee a week in Hawaii if we should manage to pull this thing off.”
This last remark was all that was needed to inspire his men to really put their backs into their work.
And minutes later, the first of the snow cats was reached. As the other vehicle was also uncovered, Redmond helped his men remove the excess snow.
With a collective grunt, they lifted up the ice-encrusted snowmobiles and transferred them out of the thick drifts.
The breathtaking cold made their labor all the more difficult, and it was a supreme effort merely to get the vehicles in line and ready for travel. While supervising this job, Redmond shouted out to his men.
“Do any of you know how to hookup that dogsled? The sergeant-major should be back shortly, and I’d like to be ready to take off as soon as he does so.”
A young, mustached Inuit private, who had been busy scraping the frost off the windshields, was quick to respond.
“I think I can do it, Lieutenant.
Though I never had a team of my own, I helped my grandfather harness his team when I was a kid.”
“Then get to it. Private!” screamed Redmond, who turned to duck back inside the snow house to make certain all the supplies had been removed.
Ignoring the empty ration cans that lay scattered on the igloo’s floor, Redmond pocketed a compass that had been dropped. He also found a dog-eared girlie magazine, that had been absentmindedly stuffed in between two snow blocks This was obviously a treasured piece of literature, for its pages were worn and wrinkled. The weathered commando couldn’t help flipping through its pages and was surprised to find that the scantily clad models were entirely Oriental. The centerfold was a gorgeous creature with long dark hair and a huge, firm bosom. For the first time that morning he was unmindful of the constant bitter cold. Yet his reverie was brief, as he was joined by his breathless sergeant-major.
“We’ve got it. Lieutenant! The signal’s coming in loud and strong. It can’t be more than a couple of kilometers to the northwest of here.”
Quickly snapped back to thoughts of his duty, Redmond stuffed the magazine into the folds of his parka and met his subordinate’s excited glance.
“Good job, Sergeant-Major. But are you certain that this particular signal is the one we’re searching for?”
“Absolutely, sir,” snapped the Inuit.
“Just like Command said, we found it on the high-frequency band, only seconds after we set up the receiver. It’s got to be that black box. What else could it possibly be?”
“For the squad’s sake, I hope you’re correct, my friend. Because this rotten weather has been more physically demanding than I anticipated, and I don’t think either the men or our equipment can take much more of it.”
A determined expression came to the Inuit’s face.
“Don’t underrate us, Lieutenant. We might not look like much, but I guarantee you my boys can take a whole lot more punishment than this. Why, for an Inuit, this is nothing but a Sunday walk in the park.”
Jack Redmond slyly grinned.
“I was hoping that you’d say that, Sergeant-Major. So let’s get the lads on the go, and wrap up this assignment once and for all.”
The Inuit flashed Redmond a hearty thumbs-up and led the way through the igloo’s tunnel. Outside they were met by gusting wind, the throaty whine of the snow cats being warmed up, and the high-pitched yelps of their dogs.
Taking his place in the lead snowmobile, Redmond raised his right hand overhead and commandingly shouted.
“Okay, lads! The tough part’s over now. We shouldn’t have much further to go. So let’s keep our eyes open, and stick close together. I certainly wouldn’t want to lose anybody now that we’ve gotten this close.”
As he shifted his right hand down. Cliff Ano responded by throwing back his rawhide whip and snapping it forward with a crack. Needing no more encouragement, the harnessed dog team lunged forward, and the squadron of Canada’s best was once again on the move.
Admiral of the Fleet Mikhail Kharkov couldn’t believe their good fortune. Not only had they successfully escaped the Imperialist torpedo salvo, but the resulting blast had fractured the pack ice allowing the Neva a free ride to the surface. A look of genuine astonishment had graced their young captain’s face as he’d realized the situation and quickly acted to take the best advantage of it. Then, after sharing a brief cry of relieved joy wi
th his shipmates, Sergei Markova barked out the orders that sent the sub’s radio antenna whirring up into the crisp Arctic air from its home in the enclosed sail.
The admiral had been anxiously waiting for this moment, and was standing directly behind the seated radio operator as he activated the receiver. With the band selector already set on the high-frequency channel, the seaman fine-tuned the knob and cautiously turned up the receiver’s volume gain. A throaty blast of static emanated from the elevated speakers, only to be followed by a pulsating, high-pitched staccato tone that brought a shout of sheer triumph from the white-haired veteran’s lips.
“Listen, Comrades, we’ve done it! We’ve found the black box!”
The sedate radio operator efficiently confirmed this fact, and proceeded to instigate a directional fix.
Only when this process was completed did a hint of excitement flavor his tone.
“Why it’s incredibly close, Captain. It can’t be more than a half-dozen kilometers to the southeast.”
Quick to join Kharkov behind the radio console was Sergei Markova.
“So we have indeed accomplished our mission. Admiral. This is truly an amazing morning. Why I thought the search for the cockpit voice recorder would take days to complete.”
Already mentally planning the actual recovery, Kharkov replied.
“Don’t forget that the tape is not yet in our hands. Captain Markova. But I’ll soon remedy that. It’s important that those five volunteers join me at once in the forward torpedo room so we can suit up. I want to be standing on the ice itself in another half-hour’s time.”
“I still think you should reconsider going along on this excursion, Admiral. That’s a full-scale blizzard going on outside this hull, and there’s no telling what hazardous conditions you’ll meet up with once you’re out there. I’m more than capable of leading the recovery squad in your place.”
Under the Ice Page 27