Polar Melt: A Novel

by Martin Roy Hill

  "Then tell me," Konstantin growled. "Don't allow me to die in suspense."

  "I am happy to report we positioned the lifting cradle over the obstacle and moved it out of the way of our target."

  Novikov waited for Konstantin's congratulations. It never came.

  "Why did it take so long?"

  Novikov's face dropped. "I—I'm sorry, sir," he said. "But these sea quakes are creating even more problems with our equipment, particularly our electronics. We could not reposition the cradle automatically. We had to do so manually, with divers directing us from below. It was a very complicated procedure, sir."

  "I am certain it was," Konstantin said, his tone not agreeing with his words. "When can we raise the object?"

  "We are preparing to reposition the cradle now," Novikov said. "But again, we must do so without automation. It takes time."

  "Time is something we are running out of, Sergey," Konstantin said.

  The deck shook again, this time with more force. Konstantin's coffee splashed out of its cup. He grabbed at it, but the cup toppled onto its side. He looked up and saw Novikov supporting himself against the wall. The trembling subsided.

  "Please carry on," Konstantin said. "And please hurry, before these cursed quakes bring the Vilanovsky down on our heads."

  ☼

  For the people attempting to raise the object below, the sea quakes were creating even more problems. The quakes were coming more frequently, almost as though on a schedule. The control room, perched atop the module containing living quarters, labs, and offices, swayed more from the quakes than the rest of the platform, interfering with the Vilanovsky's electronic controls. On the moon-pool deck, the workers struggled to prevent the hydraulic lifting apparatus from swinging off its tracks. In the caisson below them, the quake-agitated water tossed the DSVs and hard-suit divers about like toys in a child's bath.

  "The divers are getting tired, Novikov," Praskovya said in a soft but strained voice. "And so am I. How much longer do you think?"

  Novikov held onto a control panel as another trembler rattled through the platform.

  "You are tired?" he snapped. "We are all tired."

  Through his weariness, the operations director remembered with whom he was talking and apologized.

  "It is these quakes," he said in a gentler voice. "They not only slow the work, they make it impossible to sleep when one has the chance."

  Praskovya waved off Novikov's concern, crimped the end of a Belomorkanal, and lit it.

  "I understand, my friend," he said, though he didn't consider Novikov a friend nor even a colleague. "I misspoke myself. But our divers are reaching their maximum underwater time. We cannot afford to lose any more divers."

  Novikov nodded. His heavy glasses slid down his nose. He pushed them back with a finger.

  "Mr. Konstantin is insistent we speed up the work," he said. "He does not welcome my explanations. He is your friend, Praskovya. You can talk with him?"

  Praskovya exhaled heavily, the smoke billowing through the control room. He nodded. "Perhaps I can speak reason with him."

  Novikov watched the security chief leave. He didn't care for Praskovya. He had a good idea of the man's history and knew Praskovya had no high opinion of the scientists and technicians on the Vilanovsky, including himself. Even so, Novikov said a small prayer in his head that Praskovya would be successful in his mission.

  ☼

  Praskovya found Konstantin in his suite.

  "What is it, Petya?" Konstantin said as Praskovya entered.

  "The divers are nearing the safety limit for their time underwater," he said, deciding not to sugar coat his report. "They must surface and rest."

  "Do we not have another shift of divers?" Konstantin demanded.

  "They are on their rest period," Praskovya said.

  "What about the third—"

  "There is no third shift," Praskovya said. "We lost divers in the ambush on the Franklin's DSV and in the second attack on the Franklin itself. We only have enough men now for two shifts. They both are spent."

  "Proklyat'ye!" Konstantin hammered the desk with his fist. "Goddamn it! I am sick of these delays, Petya!"

  "I know. I know." Praskovya extended a palm to calm Konstantin. He tried to say something more comforting, but another tremor shook the room.

  "And these damn sea quakes!" Konstantin said. "Trakhayte ikh! Fuck them!"

  "In all the years we have worked together, Aleks," Praskovya said, "I have never heard you curse so much."

  Konstantin rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands, then did the same to his entire face.

  "Yes," he sighed. "These damn temblors are stretching my nerves to the breaking point. At any minute, I feel this whole platform could pitch into the sea."

  "That, my friend, will not happen." A new cloud of smoke circled Praskovya's head as he lit another cigarette. "The Vilanovsky is too sturdy for that to occur."

  Konstantin launched from his chair, causing his chair to bang into the bulkhead. He walked around his desk, running both hands through his hair.

  "And these constant delays. One after the other—equipment failures, the removal of the obstacle, and that cursed research ship." His arm flew out toward the Franklin. "And who knows what the Americans are planning to do?"

  "Calm yourself, Aleks. Calm yourself." Praskovya stood, stepped to a cabinet where he found a bottle of vodka. He poured two stiff drinks and handed one to Konstantin. "What can the Americans do? Start a war over a simple oil drilling platform?" He grinned at Konstantin, the cigarette clenched in his teeth. "If they have not done so after the other night's operation, they are not going to do so. They are merely curious about our operations."

  "What if they discovered what we are sitting on?"

  "They cannot." Praskovya shrugged. "Though most likely they suspect." He paused, then shrugged again. "Perhaps wonder is a better word. Since what happened in 1968 to the K-129 and the others, every country with a navy and submarines recognizes these unknown subsurface phenomena exist. But the Americans have no way of knowing the Vilanovsky is anything more than an Arctic oil drilling platform."

  Praskovya patted Konstantin's shoulder, then led him back to his chair.

  "So, calm yourself, Aleks," he said. "We will let the divers rest. When they recover, we will complete repositioning the lifting cradle around the object and raise it into the moon pool."

  Praskovya made a grasping motion with his hand, then raised his arm above his head.

  "See?"

  Konstantin smiled and shook his head.

  "Very well, Petya," he said. "Rest your divers. How long will you need?"

  "Forty-eight hours," Praskovya answered.

  "Forty-eight!" Konstantin was on his feet again, shaking his head. "No. No. No. That is too long. Twelve. Twelve hours is enough."

  Praskovya hushed Konstantin with a raised hand.

  "If you kill my remaining divers," he said, "you will never get that object on board."

  Konstantin dropped back into his chair with an angry sigh. "Fine. Forty-eight hours."

  "Thank you, my friend."

  As Praskovya left the suite, another trembler rattled the Vilanovsky. From inside the suite, he heard Konstantin's voice.

  "Proklyat'ye!"

  Chapter 25

  "READY TO RETURN THE favor?"

  McCabe looked at Gates, puzzled.

  "Favor?"

  "To the Russians," Gates said.

  "Oh," McCabe snickered. "Yeah, let's hope we have better luck than they did."

  The sun had reached its midnight nadir and was inching back into a gray, overcast sky. What light it provided cast dark shadows among the chunks of drift ice. Gates stared at the Vilanovsky, a star burning on the surface of the ocean, and muttered something his mother used to say, "From your lips to God's ear."

  Gates wore his full battle gear except his Kevlar helmet, which he held in one hand. In the other hand, he carried a borrowed M-4. McCabe eyed the weapon.


  "You remember our agreement, commander?" the SEAL said. "You deliver us, then you're gone."

  "Just for an emergency," Gates said with a shrug. "Semper Paratus. Always Ready. That's our motto, you know."

  Gates climbed onto the DSV and offered McCabe a hand.

  McCabe rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right," he said, and he grabbed Gates' hand.

  He was no longer wearing his uniform. Instead, he wore plain black fatigues with no name or service patches and no rank insignia, with matching body armor and K-pot. He carried a Russian-designed AK-47, and a sidearm Gates didn't recognize.

  Sterile, Gates thought. If the SEAL was killed or captured, nothing would link him to the United States. Plausible deniability.

  Sarah Sandford was inside the DSV, prepping it for the sortie. The hum and whirl of electronics powering up flowed through Chip's opened hatch. Gates lowered himself through the scuttle, waited for McCabe to pass his gear through the hatch, then seated himself next to Sandford. McCabe came through the hatch and laid himself on the padded bench between the two pilot chairs.

  Gerry Salcedo worked the controls of the A-frame again. The DSV shuddered, rocked, and lifted free of its railroad-car cradle. Salcedo waited until the DSV's swinging motion abated, moved it over the dark water, and laid it into the swells. The support RHIB came alongside and two divers climbed aboard to detach the lifting cables. One closed the hatch and tapped it twice with the butt of his dive knife before returning to the RHIB.

  "Commander, dog the hatch, please," Sarah said. As Gates sealed the hatch, Sandford maneuvered the little submersible until it pointed on a direct course toward the Vilanovsky. "I'll run on the surface until the GPS tells me we're at the maritime boundary. Since we can't use our sonar, I want to maintain a visual lock on the platform as long as possible. Once I pull the plug, the IGS—inertial guidance system—will take over."

  They rode in silence, the hum of the electric motors and thump of ice against the hull the only sound in the tiny compartment. When they reached the border, the GPS chirped.

  "Okay, gentlemen," Sandford said, "here we go."

  The DSV slipped into the depths. The water was near black. Inside Chip, the only illumination came from the control panels. Sandford pressed buttons on the display screen and sat back.

  "Autopilot's driving us now," she said. "But keep a sharp lookout. If you see an uncharted undersea mountain coming at us, please let me know."

  "How long?" asked McCabe.

  "About forty-five minutes," Sarah said. "I've programmed the inertial guidance to warn me when we get within two miles of the Vilanovsky."

  McCabe eyed his watch and nodded with approval. "So, you learned to drive these things in the Navy?" he asked.

  Sandford nodded.

  "How long were you in?"

  "Twelve years."

  "That's a long time," he said. "Why not finish your twenty and retire?"

  "Learned I could make more money doing this as a civilian than as an enlisted woman," Sarah said.

  "Huh," McCabe said. He glanced at Gates, who shrugged.

  Sandford caught the glances and shook her head.

  "Fucking lifers," she muttered.

  They fell quiet again, the whirl of the electric impellers and the gurgle of water slipping past the hull the only noise. Out of habit, McCabe examined his AK-47.

  "Please be careful with that thing," Sarah said, with a rough imitation of the actor Sean Connery. "Some things in here don't react well with bullets."

  Gates and McCabe looked at Sarah, and she looked back at them with a straight face. The three of them laughed.

  A buzz from the IGS told Sandford they were two miles from the Vilanovsky, and she resumed manual control of Chip.

  "What do you want me to do, lieutenant?" she asked.

  "Maneuver to within one thousand yards of the rig, and settle her on the sea floor," McCabe said.

  "Him," Sarah corrected.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Chip is a he, not a she."

  "Fine," McCabe said. "Lay him a thousand yards from the rig, then wait for my team to arrive and signal us." He glanced again at Gates, muttering, "No wonder she left the Navy."

  "I heard that," Sandford said.

  A few minutes later, Chip was sitting on the ocean floor. Outside the bubble cockpit, the sea was dark. An occasional fish, illuminated by the light from the control panel, bumped into the Plexiglas.

  "Doug, how do we know there won't be divers or DSVs out here waiting for us again?" Sandford asked, her eyes straining to see beyond the confines of the bubble.

  Gates' own eyes scanned the depths through a side window. "They detected us before because we were using sonar. I don't think they can hear us approach without it. But keep your eyeballs peeled."

  "Eyeballs peeled, aye," Sarah said.

  Minutes passed before McCabe pointed through the Plexiglas and said, "There!"

  A dull light flashed in the distance, two flashes, and a pause. Two more flashes, another pause, then a final flash.

  "That's the DCS," McCabe said. "That's my team."

  McCabe drew a small, powerful flashlight from his armored vest, placed its lens against the Plexiglas and flashed it three times, paused, and flashed it once more. Three return flashes came from the DCS.

  "Okay," McCabe said, "let's take her—him—in."

  Sandford didn't move. Her face was drawn and tight, her full lips pressed into a thin line.

  "Sarah?" Gates said. "Sarah, what's wrong."

  "I don't know which way to go," she said. "It's so damn dark, I can't get my bearings."

  McCabe glared at Gates. "I thought you said she could guide us in, commander," he said. "Well?"

  "We first spotted the opening on the sonar," Sandford said. "When we got closer, we saw the glow of underwater work lights inside the caisson. But I'm not seeing any lights now."

  "Maybe they took the night off," said Gates.

  "Jesus," McCabe cursed and dropped his head onto his arms. "Just great."

  "Shut up, lieutenant," Gates said. "Sarah, nose it ahead until the inertial guidance shows you're a hundred yards from the rig. Then turn on your flood lights. If anyone sees them, it'll be too late for them to respond before we get inside. That okay with you, McCabe?"

  The SEAL thought it over and nodded.

  "Yeah," he said, irritably. "Yeah, let's do it. Go, go."

  Chip shuttered as it lifted off the sea floor. Sandford nosed it forward, fearful of hitting an unseen object. To starboard, Gates' eyes sensed a denser shade of black in the ocean.

  "I think that's your DCS," Gates said. "Zero one five degrees."

  "I don't see it," Sarah replied.

  "I see nothing," McCabe said. "You sure?"

  "I am now," Gates said, his voice rising. "Still fifteen degrees off the starboard bow and closing. Damn it, we're on a collision course!"

  The dark cigar shape of the DCS loomed to starboard. Sarah responded without thinking, sending Chip straight up and to port. The g-force from the maneuver pressed Gates deeper into his chair. McCabe's Russian rifle fell from the bench seat and clattered to the deck. Through the bottom of the bubble canopy, Gates saw the black upper hull of the SEAL submersible as it passed inches beneath them.

  "Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, goddamn," Sarah chanted as she returned Chip to the proper course. "Oh, goddamn."

  McCabe released a long-held breath. Gates freed his death grip on the bulkhead. He relaxed, took a deep breath, and said, "Fuck it, Sarah. Turn on your damn lights."

  "Yes, Sarah, turn on your damn lights," McCabe repeated.

  "Yes, oh, yes," Sarah said, and with a flick of her finger, the ocean lit up.

  The lights showed they were less than three hundred feet from the Vilanovsky, the caisson towering above them. At the foot of the caisson, lay dozens of large boulders placed there to act as rip-rap to prevent soil erosion around the base of the rig. Off their port bow, only twenty yards away, stood the opening, a dark cave in the sid
e of a man-made mountain.

  "Nice navigating, Miss Sandford," McCabe said. He arched around and spotted the DCS behind them, showing a single, yellow light. "Take us in."

  Chip closed to within several feet of the caisson, turned to port, and inched toward the opening. There was still no light emitting from the portal.

  "Damn. It looks like they really did take the night off," murmured Gates.

  "Fine with me," said McCabe.

  The submersible reached the entry and entered. They were inside the caisson. Above them was the moon pool. A faint glow from the drilling deck lights filtered down.

  Chip's floodlights illuminated something to starboard. As the lights moved across more of its surface, details became clearer. It was dark gray, almost black. The shark-like shape and the streamlined sail fin on top were unmistakable.

  A submarine.

  Chapter 26

  EVERYTHING AFT OF THE conning tower was missing. But with its sleek forward hull and the streamlined sail with its enclosed flak turrets there was no mistaking this vessel. This was the first submarine designed to live beneath the waves for days, even weeks. Faster submerged than surfaced, it set the standard for submarine design well into the early years of the Cold War.

  "Is that—?" Sarah didn't finish her question.

  "Yes," Gates said. "A Type XXI Walter U-boat."

  Chip's flood lights drifted over the dead submarine, its hull unencumbered with sea growth and remarkably free of corrosion or rust, both due to the frigid waters. If not for the missing stern, the U-boat looked ready to surface and return to port.

  "So, they did deploy one with the Walter engine," Gates muttered. "And they sent it after the Fast Movers. That's why they had a secret base in Russia."

  "Appears it met the same fate as the K-129," McCabe said. "And the others."

  "What happened to its stern section?" Sarah wondered.

  "My guess is it blocked access to the Fast Mover, and the Russians started dismantling it piece by piece," Gates said. "After a while, they just dragged it way. You can see drag marks on the seafloor."

  Gates pointed to where Chip's floodlights illuminated a deep gash gouged into the seabed.