Polar Melt: A Novel

by Martin Roy Hill

  "Sure," Gates said, wondering if his own team had made similar discoveries. "Why not? We deserve it."

  Sandford found another cup and filled it. Gates picked it up, clicked cups with her, and drank.

  "So how can I help you, commander?" Sandford asked.

  "I wanted to tell you two things," Gates said. "First, I apologize for putting you in danger today. It was irresponsible of me. And, two, I wanted to thank you for getting us out of trouble."

  Sandford looked at him a moment, then snorted. "Sit down."

  She directed Gates to the desk chair. She sat cross-legged on the bunk.

  "This ain't my first rodeo, commander," she said. "Navy DSV pilots get involved in all kinds of secret squirrel operations. Today was just another day at the office."

  She gently wiped an eye. When she saw the look on Gates face, she said, "Yes, I've been crying, but not because I was scared. I've been scared before. So, have you. It goes with the business. I cried because . . ."

  She took a sip of wine, uncrossed her long legs, and sat with her elbows on her knees, looking at Gates.

  "I told you I knew the two DSV pilots who were on this ship, right?" Gates nodded. "What I didn't tell you is I was involved with one of them, Johnny Holcomb. Not that we were lovers—well, not for a long time. We decided we were better as friends than lovers. And Johnny was my best friend, my big brother in a way."

  Sandford sighed. Her lips trembled, and tears glistened in her eyes.

  "God, I'm going to miss you, Johnny," she whispered. She took another drink before turning away to wipe her tears.

  Gates placed his wine on the nightstand and stood. He wanted to comfort her, to hold her in his arms and be the big brother she was now missing. Instead, he cleared his throat and murmured, "I'm sorry for your loss, Sarah."

  When she said nothing in reply, Gates turned toward the door. His hand was on the knob when she said, "You remind me of Johnny. Almost from the minute we met, out there on the helo pad, you reminded me of Johnny."

  He turned, and she was facing him with a coy smile.

  "Tall, dark, and handsome," she said, "with an over-active sense of responsibility."

  "And all this time I thought you didn't like me," Gates said.

  Sandford knitted her brow, and the smile evaporated. "What made you think that?"

  Gates shrugged. "Some things you said gave me the impression you didn't hold me in high regard. You know, the teasing and stuff."

  Sandford rolled her eyes, and she muttered, "Oh, for god's sake."

  She placed her cup on the night stand, walked up to Gates, and wagged her finger in his face.

  "That's another thing about you that reminds me of Johnny," she said. "You're a little slow on the uptake."

  She kissed him lightly on the mouth.

  "Can't you tell when a woman is flirting with you, commander?"

  Gates found his arms wrapped around Sandford, his tongue tasting the wine on her lips, the firmness of her breasts pushing into his foul weather coat, her groin pressing into his. When they broke apart, he said, "My first name is Doug. But you knew that, didn't you?'

  "Yes, commander," she said.

  "You can call me that now."

  "Yes, commander," she said. "But only in private."

  "We're in private now."

  "There's something you should know . . . Doug," she said. "I lied to you this morning when we were getting into Chip."

  Gates looked at her, puzzled. "About what?"

  She smiled and drew herself into him.

  "I actually am a cuddler," she said.

  Chapter 17

  SERGEY NOVIKOV, THE VILANOVSKY'S operations director, stopped at the conference room door and listened. Something had happened in the morning, something serious. Some men were killed in a terrible undersea accident was all he knew. Was all he was told, he thought, which miffed him. He was director of operations, after all, and he should be informed of these things. Ever since, Konstantin and Praskovya had been locked in the meeting room. There was no yelling, only muffled urgent voices, the words unrecognizable. Two workers walked by, slowing and eying Novikov as he hovered at the door, listening. He shooed them away. Then, looking at the printed equipment failure reports in his hand, he decided they could wait and hurried down the passageway to his office.

  Inside the conference room, Konstantin poured his fourth or fifth sweet coffee of the morning. He couldn't remember. Praskovya sat across the table from him smoking what must have been his twelfth cigarette of the day. Tobacco smoke hung in the air like a London fog.

  "Once more, let us go through it again," Konstantin said. Praskovya's eyes rolled. "Now, Petya."

  "Our underwater acoustic sensors picked up their DSV's scanning sonar and alerted us to their approach," Praskovya said. "We heard them far off, so we laid a trap."

  "And I warned you about your damn fancy tricks, Petya," Konstantin said, interrupting.

  "Yes. Yes, you did, Aleks," Praskovya sighed.

  "Go on," Konstantin urged.

  "My men took three of our small submergence vehicles and a deep-diving suit and lay in wait for them. When the Americans approached the Vilanovsky, we attempted to apprehend them."

  "Then what?"

  "We failed," Praskovya said, exhaling another cloud of smoke.

  "Why?"

  Praskovya shrugged. "My men who were there said the American DSV pilot drove it like a jet fighter or a helicopter. They'd never seen such maneuvers."

  Praskovya took another deep drag and let the smoke curl from his mouth.

  "You were correct, Aleks, my friend," he said, the gray smoke swirling around him. "I should have kept that little American submarine instead of playing games as I did. There is more to it than I saw."

  "You were able to capture it once," Konstantin said, "why not again?"

  The security chief heaved his shoulders. "A more talented DSV pilot," he said, then muttered, "I wouldn't mind meeting him some day."

  "And the losses?"

  "Two men in a deep submergence vehicle, another in the diving suit," Praskovya said. "And, of course, the vehicle and the suit."

  "Of course," said Konstantin. "And the cover story?"

  "For our people here on the Vilanovsky, just that there was an accident while working on that thing below." Praskovya snubbed out his cigarette and prepared another. "For everyone else, we had a diving accident while replacing the drill head. The families of the men have already been notified. They will be handsomely compensated."

  "And the Americans?" Konstantin said. "What did they see?"

  "Hard to say." Praskovya frowned. "Perhaps they found the remains of the lifeboat. If so, they will know what happened to the Franklin's crew, but not who did it. They may suspect, but they cannot prove it." After a moment, he added, "They may have seen the portal into the caisson."

  "What?"

  "They seemed to be observing it when our men tried to apprehend them," Praskovya said.

  "If they saw the portal, they will realize this is not a drilling operation," Konstantin said. "No drilling platform has such a portal."

  "True," Praskovya said. He stared at the ash on his cigarette, feeling unusually sanguine about the whole matter. "Truer words, my friend, have never been spoken."

  "Now what?"

  Praskovya inched an eyebrow up and looked at his friend. "And now . . . what?"

  "You understand what I mean," scolded Konstantin. "We cannot afford to have the Americans know what we are doing here."

  "What could they know other than this is a very strange oil drilling platform? What can they deduce from that?"

  "Did they see inside the portal?"

  Praskovya shook his head. "They were too far away," he said. "My people attacked them before they got too close."

  "Good. Good." Konstantin paced the floor, hands clasped behind his back. He stopped and turned. "But we cannot be certain. Perhaps they had sensors that read energy emissions."

  "I found n
othing on board when we had the vessel in our custody capable of reading energy emissions," he said. "I made certain of that."

  "But you cannot be certain," Konstantin blurted. "Perhaps they installed something new. It might not have been the same DSV."

  Konstantin was becoming shrill, and Praskovya was enjoying it. He continued his bored countenance.

  "There was only one little submarine on the research ship," he said. "It was the same one."

  Konstantin continued pacing, shaking his head as he walked. "The Americans or anyone else must not discover what we have here. There may be many more than the one that sits beneath us. With the ice cap diminishing more each summer, we may find many more, many more. If we can learn to harness their power, it will give Russia dominance over the Americans and the Chinese."

  "This project is very important," Praskovya agreed.

  Praskovya lit his Belomorkanal and waited. The moment was getting close. He had worked with Konstantin for many years, both when Aleks was with the KGB and he was with Spetsnaz, and later, when the oligarchs became the masters of Russia. Aleks was always slow to come to action. But once committed, Aleks would fully back his actions.

  "Petya?" Konstantin had stopped pacing. He faced Praskovya, his jaw set and rigid.

  "Yes, Aleks?" This is it.

  "We can no longer chance American spying or interference," Konstantin said. "We must dispose of that ship and everyone on it."

  Praskovya sat up and crushed his cigarette into the ashtray.

  "You want me to sink the Franklin?"

  "And everyone and everything on board her."

  "You remember there is American military on board the Franklin now?" Praskovya said.

  Konstantin nodded. "They didn't look particularly dangerous. The young African officer looked more a school boy than a soldier. Can you do it, Petya?"

  Praskovya nodded, his lips puckering in thought.

  "If there is a firefight, we might lose a man or two, but we can do it," he said.

  "And the explosives? Can you make sure they work this time?"

  "We can manufacture new detonators—mechanical detonators," Praskovya said. "There should be no problem this time."

  "Fine, Petya. When can you make this so?"

  "We will need time to make the detonators and develop an assault plan," Praskovya said. "Not tonight, but tomorrow night, I think."

  "Good, do it then," Konstantin said. He turned toward the door to leave, but Praskovya called out to him.

  "Aleks?"

  "Yes, Petya?"

  "This thing below," Praskovya said. "Is it really worth chancing World War III?"

  Konstantin paused a moment, then nodded. "Yes, Petya. Yes, it is."

  Chapter 18

  THE NAVY CH-53 SEA Stallion hovered low over the Franklin's helo pad. A thick length of fast rope dropped, and a man in desert BDUs slithered to the deck. The crew chief released the rope and let it fall to the deck and lowered an overstuffed olive-drab parachute bag on a cable connected to a power hoist. The new arrival waited for the bag to settle on the pad, disconnected it from the cable, and gave the crew chief a thumbs-up. After the Sea Stallion roared off, the man removed his small, Kevlar helmet and replaced it with a stiff, eight-cornered Marine Corps-style fatigue cap. He carried a sidearm in a thigh-rigged holster.

  Gates turned to Leland Strange. "The Navy has landed," he said.

  The new arrival hefted the parachute bag onto his left shoulder, approached Gates, and saluted. He was tall, broad shouldered, and husky. He had youthful good looks, his fair-skinned face squared-chinned and wide, and freckled and reddened by the sun.

  "Lieutenant Carl McCabe, Navy SEALs," he said with a slight drawl.

  Gates returned the salute. He introduced himself, then Leland. "They sent a Navy SEAL to secure the Franklin?" Gates asked.

  The SEAL studied the younger officer as if he were a laboratory specimen. "One ship, one Navy SEAL, sir."

  "I thought the saying was one riot, one Texas Ranger," Gates said.

  "I am from Texas, commander," McCabe said, without smiling.

  "Ah-huh," Gates muttered. "Lieutenant, what is your mission here?"

  McCabe looked at Gates with unflinching blue eyes. "That's on a need-to-know basis, sir."

  "Listen, lieutenant," Gates said, returning the SEAL's taciturn stare. "The Franklin may be owned by the Navy, but it's not a commissioned Navy ship. It was being operated by a civilian oceanographic school and manned by a civilian crew with no relationship to the Navy. That means it falls under the U.S. Coast Guard's jurisdiction. That makes me the ranking military officer aboard the Franklin. Is that understood?"

  McCabe's jaw muscles tensed and flexed, but his stare didn't waiver. "Understood, sir."

  "Fine," Gates said. Without releasing his own stare, he said to Leland, "Lieutenant Strange, please find Lieutenant McCabe a berth . . . in the crew's quarters, if you please."

  "Aye, aye, sir," Strange said. He nodded once toward the ladder, turned smartly, and walked away. He didn't bother to look to see if the SEAL followed him.

  McCabe glanced at Strange, then back to Gates. Gates' face remained frozen.

  "Dismissed, lieutenant," Gates said.

  McCabe shook his head, turned, and followed Strange toward the ladder.

  After they were out of hearing distance, Gates thumbed the push-to-talk button on his radio. "Hopper, Gates."

  "Hopper, sir," came the senior chief's reply.

  "Our Navy guest is aboard now," Gates said. "I want him under constant observation. From a distance, of course. Let me know the minute he starts snooping around that secret cubbyhole."

  "Aye, sir."

  "And, senior chief?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "I want our people armed with side arms at all times now, no matter what they're doing."

  There was a long pause before the radio squelched and Hopper asked, "Are we going to war with the Navy, sir?"

  "Just do it. Gates out."

  The radio squelched twice in his ear, Hopper's nonverbal acknowledgment.

  Gates took a deep breath, puffed up his cheeks, and exhaled. He rolled his neck, trying to loosen the knots, and murmured his response to Hopper's question.

  "I hope not, senior," he said. "I certainly hope not."

  ☼

  "Gates, Hopper," the commander's radio squealed

  "Gates, go," he answered.

  "Sir, our Navy guest must be in a hurry," Hopper said. "He wasted no time locating that hidden compartment."

  "He's there now?"

  "Yes, sir. Inside with the hatch closed."

  "Good," Gates said. "Muster the team around the corner from the compartment—quietly. I'll be right down."

  Gates took the ladders going below decks at a run, using his hands to slide down the railings. Once on the third deck, he slowed and quieted his approach. He found the rest of DSF–Papa positioned as ordered, carrying sidearms and wearing ballistic vests. Gates addressed them in a whisper.

  "Our Navy guest, Lieutenant McCabe, reported aboard this morning," he said. "I'm not certain he is who he says he is. In light of what happened to the Franklin's crew, I'm not taking any chances. I want to know what he's doing in that compartment and why. He's not the friendly type, nor is he very communicative. I'm afraid if we knock politely, he's likely to start shooting or even blow himself up. I hope I'm wrong, but, as I said, I'm not taking chances. Understood?"

  The team answered in head nods.

  "Okay, we do this like any dynamic entry," he continued. "Lieutenant Strange, I want you to guard the far end of the passageway. Block him if he tries to run. Shoot him if you have to. Chief Stalk, you block this end. Frank, you've got the door. You have your aid bag?"

  Chee pivoted to display the medical bag strapped to his back, then tapped the gunshot kit secured to his thigh.

  "Good. Senior Chief, you and Jess are with me in the stick. First me, then you, then Jess."

  "Aye, sir," Hopper said.<
br />
  Gates looked everyone over and made sure they were only armed with sidearms.

  "We're doing this with handguns only," he said. "I don't want a bunch of rounds from auto fire ricocheting off the bulkheads and hitting us. All right, let's move out."

  They moved into position, keeping the rattle of their gear to a minimum, each step landing on the full sole of their boots to muffle their steps. Strange moved ahead of them, taking cover around the far corner of the passageway. Chee took position on the left side of the door. Gates, Hopper, and Brown crouched to the right of it.

  Gates turned and patted Hopper's knee, making sure he was paying attention. Hopper patted Brown's knee. Gates pointed to himself, then crooked his right index finger, a form of sign language used by tactical teams.

  I'll go the left.

  He pointed to Hopper and crooked the index finger of his left hand.

  You go right.

  To Brown, he made a straight up and down motion with his hand.

  You're in the middle.

  Gates looked at Chee, then the other two, and held up three fingers.

  On three.

  Chee moved to the door, his right hand finding the concealed door latch, and nodded. Gates held up his left fist and pumped it. The first finger extended. Another pump, and the second finger extended. Three fingers went up and Chee hauled on the camouflaged door, swinging it open. Gates slipped through, dodging to the left of the small compartment, his weapon extended and aimed. Hopper followed, crouching to the right, his Glock aimed and ready. Brown remained outside the door, between Gates and the senior chief, his pistol pointing straight into the compartment, directly at Lieutenant McCabe.

  Gates had to give it to McCabe. The SEAL was fast. He drew and readied his own pistol, a Glock 19, the instant the door swung open. He didn't even move from his seat.

  "Don't think about it, lieutenant," Gates said.

  As Gates spoke, Chee appeared behind Brown, pistol ready. McCabe looked at the four Glocks aimed at him, half puckered his mouth, nodded, and holstered his weapon.