Polar Melt: A Novel

by Martin Roy Hill

  "Jesus, how did they do that?" Sarah asked.

  "Look up," Gates said.

  Above the U-boat carcass loomed the menacing dark shape of a massive steel claw, its twin pincers agape, as if ready to grasp the derelict sub.

  "My god," muttered Sandford.

  "A lifting cradle," said McCabe. "Like we used in Project Azorian."

  "I think if we follow those drag marks, we'll come to the Fast Mover," Gates said.

  McCabe nodded his agreement, and Sarah turned Chip to port and followed the scored soil. Seconds later, her display console flickered and went blank. Sarah let out a small yelp as the submersible trembled and bucked like a plane trapped in turbulence. A moment later, the mini-sub settled and the display screen powered up again.

  "What the hell happened?" demanded McCabe.

  "I-I don't know," Sandford said.

  "Gremlins," Gates said. "The Russians complained about gremlins affecting their equipment. Could it have something to do with the Fast Mover?"

  McCabe shrugged. "Hell, if I know."

  "If this . . . thing," Sarah said, "has an electrical discharge as Lieutenant Strange speculated, that might affect my controls—like an electromagnetic pulse. But what caused that turbulence?"

  No one answered her.

  At that moment, the DSV's floodlights fell onto a massive shape looming out of the darkness. Sandford reversed Chip's propellers to avoid colliding with it, causing the SEAL's DCV behind them to shoot past. The pilot of the SEAL vehicle reversed his propeller and swung to starboard to avoid hitting it.

  "My god," Sarah whispered, awed. "It's huge."

  McCabe nodded as if in a trance. "It's bigger than I expected," he said. "A lot bigger."

  Sitting on the ocean floor, the object rose another twenty or thirty feet above them. Its surface—or was it skin? —was a mottled gray-brown. It appeared as long as the Nazi sub would be if it were still intact but shaped unlike any sub the three of them had ever seen. From a thick, contoured middle, the front, back, and sides tapered to a knife edge. The bow, or what Gates and the others judged to be the bow, came to a rounded tip, the sides sweeping back from there at a 45-degree angle, then rounding off again to meet in the back. The shape reminded Gates of the stingrays he had seen while diving on wrecks, but this ray—if that was what it was—had no stinger tail. There were no windows, no sign of a command bridge, no visible control surfaces. The stern showed no source of propulsion, propellers, or ducted impulse jets. Again, the image of a string ray came to Gates' mind as he remembered how the creatures flew through the water with graceful movements of their wing-like fins.

  "Is it a machine or is it . . . alive?" asked Sandford.

  "I'm not sure," Gates said. "The surface doesn't look like metal or flesh."

  "Modern submarines have anechoic coatings on their hulls to reduce their sonar signature," Sarah said. "Maybe it's something similar?"

  Something made Gates think otherwise. The object pulled at him, drew him to it like the moth to the flame. Even more, he sensed it thinking.

  Gates shivered and shook those thoughts from his head. He patted McCabe's shoulder, leaned to his ear, and whispered, "We got you here. Now it's time for you to go to work."

  McCabe started, having been lost in his own bewildering thoughts. He cleared his throat. "Yeah," he muttered, then tapped Sandford's shoulder, jerking her from her own musings.

  "Take us up, Miss Sandford," he said, "if you please."

  Chapter 27

  WHEN CHIP BROKE THE surface, Gates looked around the moon pool and became disoriented. Everything looked different than when he and Leland visited the Vilanovsky. Then the moon pool was only large enough to lower and retrieve submersibles and divers. Now it spanned most of the drilling deck.

  "Jesus, this place is huge," McCabe said, staring out of the bubble canopy.

  "It wasn't this big this when Leland and I visited," Gates said. "It was much smaller." He pointed to a corner of the caisson where removable deck gratings had been stacked in several neat rows. "They must be getting ready to lift that thing out of the water."

  "We expected to have to neutralize workers," McCabe said, "but it's deserted."

  "Good timing," Gates said.

  McCabe pointed to a spot where a ladder led to the next deck. "Miss Sandford, if you could let me off over there, you both can be on your way."

  "Aye," Sarah said, and maneuvered the DSV into position.

  The SEAL DCV pulled up behind Chip. Its hatches opened and SEALs dressed in the same black fatigues as McCabe scrambled onto the drilling deck, broke into teams of two and, weapons at the ready, hurried to their assigned locations to plant their explosives.

  McCabe stood and opened Chip's hatch. He hesitated, leaned back, and said, "Thanks for the ride."

  "Good luck, lieutenant," Gates said.

  "Thanks, commander."

  McCabe started through the hatch but fell back into the cockpit as a wave smashed the DSV into the metal deck. Sandford's control panel flickered and died again as another wave slammed into Chip. Through the open hatch they heard the screech and grind of metal twisting and scraping against other metal. The deck grates heaved and threw the Navy commandos off their feet. Their fingers clawed at the grating to stop their slide into the icy moon pool.

  The shaking subsided, the waves inside the moon pool settling into lapping ripples. McCabe climbed out, and Gates handed up his weapon and equipment. Gates raised his head out of the hatch and saw McCabe rushing toward his men. Behind Chip, the DCV was moving toward the center of the moon pool. Gates lowered the hatch, dogged it, then sat back next to Sarah.

  "Let's get out of here," he said.

  "My pleasure," Sandford said.

  Sarah worked the controls, the propellers whined, but Chip didn't move. She tried again, but the submersible stayed put. She cursed.

  "What's the matter?

  "I'm not sure," she said. "I think that wave pushed our starboard impellers under the grating. We must be hung up on it. I can't shake us loose."

  Gates grabbed his rifle, rose, and undogged the hatch.

  "What are you doing?" Sarah demanded.

  "I'm going to pry us loose," he said. He patted the M4. "Maybe I can get some leverage with this."

  Gates found the starboard propellers' shrouds snagged beneath the grating. He positioned himself over the bow thruster, one foot on the grating, the other on the mini-sub and used his weight to push Chip lower in the water and away from the deck. The thruster slipped free. He repeated the process on the aft propeller.

  It didn't move.

  He tried again, placing most of his weight on Chip's hull.

  Still nothing.

  The Vilanovsky shook again. Gates jumped onto the undulating grating. Waves banged Chip against the decking again. Gates rushed forward and, using the rifle butt to fend off the DSV, kept the bow propeller from snagging again.

  When the shaking stopped, Gates returned to the aft propeller, knelt, and peered through the metal weave of the grate. He took a flashlight from his ballistic vest and shined it beneath the edge of the deck grates. A large bolt protruding from the lip of the grating had hooked the thruster, penetrating its fiberglass shroud. Gates grabbed the M4, jammed its barrel between the grating and the shroud, and tried to lever the shroud loose. Still no movement.

  Gates stood, placed one foot on the rifle's receiver, and laid his weight on it.

  Crack!

  With the shroud shattered, Chip floated free from the deck. Gates' M4—its barrel warped—slipped off Chip's hull and disappeared into the water.

  Losing two rifles on the same mission, Gates thought. That will cost me dearly.

  "Commander Gates?"

  Gates jumped at the voice, spinning and reaching for his Glock. He froze when he saw the diminutive figure of Nikki, the ship's steward, standing before him.

  "Nikki, what are you doing here?"

  "Captain Gunnar sent me to warn you," she said.


  "Warn me? About what? How the hell did you get here?"

  "Commander, you must warn the others." She grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. Her eyes implored him. "You must get them away from here."

  "Why?" Gates demanded again. "What did Gunnar say? And why send you . . . and how?"

  Nikki moved closer, standing on tiptoes so her large dark eyes peered straight into his.

  "They are awakening," she said.

  "Who?" Gates tried to pull away, but she was strong for her size and held him close.

  "Those who sleep below," Nikki said. "They are awakening."

  "I don't understand what you're saying, Nikki," Gates said, still unable to pull free from the girl.

  "You see more than the others," she said. "You feel more than the others. Feel it now."

  Gates' head spun. Images coursed through his mind. A dead submarine, but not the U-boat. A Russian sub. The K-129. A giant claw. A blinding flash and the claw, in tatters, sinking to the ocean floor, lying among the ruins of the crushed Russian submarine. A ship, the Glomar Explorer, bucking among massive waves, hull rupturing, water flooding in. The strange alien thing beneath the Vilanovsky, the sense he had that he could hear—no, feel it thinking. But now something else. An energy growing within it. A power building, waiting to be released—violently released.

  He blinked. Nikki was still holding him, still staring. She let go of his jacket and stepped back.

  "You know now," she said. It was not a question, but Gates nodded. "You must warn them."

  Gates turned, spotted McCabe and ran to him. He grabbed the SEALs by his harness.

  "McCabe, you've got to get your men out of here," he yelled.

  McCabe pulled himself loose and stepped back, his hand clenching the AK's pistol grip.

  "What? What are you talking about, commander?"

  Gates jabbed his arm at the moon pool.

  "That thing down there," he said. "That Fast Mover. It's coming alive . . . waking up, whatever. When it does, it will release a massive jolt of energy. It will destroy this entire platform.

  McCabe stared at Gates as if he were mad.

  "I told you and that woman to get the hell out of here," he said. "I've got a mission."

  "That thing's going to complete your mission for you," Gates said. "It's just like Project Azorian and the Glomar Explorer. Only there were thousands of feet of water between that Fast Mover and the Explorer. The ship was only damaged. This rig is sitting right on top of the Fast Mover down there. When it releases that energy surge, it will destroy the Vilanovsky."

  McCabe started to speak, but another temblor struck, this one stronger than the others. It knocked both men to their knees. A section of girder from the overhead tore free with a terrible screech and tumbled into the moon pool, missing the SEAL submersible by only feet. The shaking tossed a SEAL from the bulkhead where he had climbed to place his explosive charge. McCabe and Gates, both still on their knees, watched other SEALs rush to the injured man's aid.

  "It is happening now, McCabe," Gates said, low and slow. "We don't have much more time."

  "How do you know, commander?" McCabe said. "Dammit, how the hell do you know this?"

  Gates looked at the SEAL, realizing a truthful answer wasn't possible at this time. "I just know," he said.

  McCabe glared at Gates, his lips a thin slit, his eyes probing the Coast Guard officer's eyes. He shook his head.

  "It can't be," he muttered.

  "It is," Gates replied.

  "No, I mean you," the SEAL said. "I didn't believe them when they told me about you in my briefing."

  Gates' breathing stopped for a moment.

  "What about me?" he said, grinding each word he spoke.

  "That you had some kind of psychic abilities," McCabe said. "That's why you got recruited for that team of yours."

  Gates said nothing. He stared back at the SEAL's probing eyes. More shaking. Another overhead girder tore loose, landing only feet away from the two men. McCabe glanced at it, his face expressionless, lost in thought. He stood, followed by Gates. The SEAL pressed the push-to-talk button on his radio mic.

  "McCabe to team," he said, slow and clear. "Abort. Abort. Abort. Everyone return to the DCV. I repeat, abort. Everyone return to the DCV.

  McCabe waved at his men, counting them as they gathered and waited for their mini-sub. Then he looked back at Gates.

  "I hope to god, you're right," he said. "Or I'll have one of the shortest Navy careers in history."

  "I'm right," Gates said.

  Gates spotted the stanchion Leland pointed out only a few days before, the one with a glass-enclosed button and the sign saying, in Russian, Emergency Alarm - Abandon Ship. Gates trotted over to it, smashed the glass with his ASP baton, and pressed the button.

  A wailing shriek filled the drilling deck. Echoes of the alarm filtered from the upper decks. Gates walked back to McCabe.

  "What the hell are you doing?" McCabe asked.

  "My job," Gates said. "Saving lives. At least these people will have a chance to get to the lifeboats."

  Chapter 28

  THE CHILLED ARCTIC AIR blew in through the conference room window, shattered only moments before by the violent bucking of the Vilanovsky. Konstantin and Praskovya, clinging to the large table to stay upright, watched as the pane bent, cracked, and burst. Konstantin cursed while the security chief watched, stoic and impassive, as shards of glass rained on them.

  "They are getting worse," Praskovya observed. His words made wispy clouds of fog as he spoke.

  When the rumbling eased, Konstantin leaped from his chair and took the phone from the bulkhead.

  "Control, this Konstantin. A window has shattered in the conference room. Get a crew down here to board it up and clean the mess."

  "As soon as we can, sir," said the control room technician. "We have reports of damage from around the rig. And our electronics here have gone out again. We are trying to reboot them now."

  "Do what you can," Konstantin said. He hung up the phone and looked at Praskovya. "Their electronics are out again."

  Konstantin paced the floor, shaking his head. "Damn those seismologists in Moscow. How do they expect us to complete this work if we cannot stay upright for longer than five minutes?"

  "People are becoming afraid." Praskovya lit a cigarette. "They may panic."

  Konstantin pounded one hand into the other.

  "How much longer until we resume diving operations again?"

  "We should begin in the morning," Praskovya said. "My divers will have had their required rest."

  "Good, good," Konstantin said. "And until we can bring it on board?"

  "Normally, we could raise it by late morning or early afternoon," Praskovya said. "Normally. But as you said, Aleks, we cannot stay upright longer than five minutes."

  "That was an exaggeration," Konstantin said, waving the image away with a flick of his hand. "But your point is taken. How much longer with these interruptions?"

  "Tomorrow, late afternoon or early evening," Praskovya said. "Assuming the lifting equipment isn't damaged by these seaquakes."

  "Do it then," Konstantin ordered. He stepped back to the phone and lifted the receiver. "In the meantime, I will return to shore. I want to find two seismologists whose heads I can bang together." Into the handset, he said, "Control, Konstantin again. Alert my pilots. I will fly to the mainland at once."

  As he replaced the receiver, the rig rattled again with such violence it threw Konstantin to the floor.

  "Aleks!"

  Praskovya stumbled toward Konstantin, again using the table to keep himself upright. Through the broken window, he heard the screech of tortured metal and the shrieks of workers. Konstantin was getting to his knees when Praskovya reached him.

  "Correction," Konstantin said, "I will smash the heads of a dozen seismologists."

  "Are you injured?" Praskovya said, helping Konstantin to his feet.

  Konstantin touched his head and looked for blood on his fingers.
There was none.

  "No, except for a bump on the head," Konstantin said.

  Then came the wail of the emergency klaxon.

  "What the hell is that now?" Konstantin demanded.

  "The abandon ship signal," Praskovya said. "Remember my warning that the workers may panic? I think they are. I will check on it."

  Praskovya darted through the door, leaving Konstantin alone. Konstantin rubbed his head, looked around the room as if he could see the cacophony of the klaxons filling the room, and staggered toward the door.

  "God dammit," he said. "Just get me off this accursed platform."

  ☼

  Praskovya waded through panicked workers jamming the passageway as they blundered their way to their assigned lifeboats. Burdened by their thick, rubbery cold-water survival suits and life jackets, they reminded Praskovya of scared and confused penguins. He pushed through them without apologies. When he reached his office, Praskovya grabbed the phone and called the control center.

  "This is Praskovya," he said. "Are your instruments working yet?"

  "Yes, sir," was the reply. "They just came back on line."

  "Where did the alarm originate?"

  There was a pause as the control-room technician checked his panel. "From the drilling deck, sir."

  "The drilling dec—" Praskovya's face drained of blood. "There is no one working on the drilling deck tonight, you fool."

  "That's what the sensor is telling me, sir," the technician said. "There may be no one working the drilling deck, but that is where the alarm originated."

  "Never mind that," Praskovya snapped. "Get on the address system and tell my men to arm themselves and report to the drilling level at once."

  He slammed the phone down, took a ring of keys from his belt, and unlocked a drawer in his desk. From the drawer he took his sidearm and holster and strapped them to his waist as he crossed the room to a heavily built standing locker and, using another key from his ring, unlocked it. Inside was a row of MP5 machine pistols and, beneath them, loaded magazines and extra boxes of ammunition. Praskovya pulled out one of the MP5s, inserted a magazine, and worked the chamber. He grabbed two more magazines and pushed back into the swirling confusion of scared penguins.