Polar Melt: A Novel

by Martin Roy Hill

  ☼

  The Vilanovsky had four large, high-capacity, self-righting lifeboats held in quick-launching gravity davits on each corner of the platform. The four lifeboats provided more than enough capacity to rescue everyone on board the rig. But panic bred from confusion and a failure to conduct regular abandon-ship drills left many of the workers milling around the corridors in tight knots, slowing Praskovya's progress as he clambered down one ladder after another toward the drilling deck. More than once he threatened to shoot people if they did not make way for him. By the time he traversed the maze of passageways and stairs, he was not only breathing hard but, despite the chill, sweating.

  His guess—no, his fear—was the Americans had decided to . . . How did they say it? To turn the table. Yes, turn the table and assault the Vilanovsky. Perhaps the people in the Franklin's DSV had seen the underwater portal into the caisson before Praskovya's men attacked them. But why now? And with what force? Not with the handful of sailors—those Coastguardsmen—on the Franklin. And yet they did bloody Praskovya's own assault force. But, no. There must be American special operators involved—Navy commandos raiding from a nearby submarine. But why? Simple retaliation? An international tit-for-tat that could spur a war? That made no sense to Praskovya. What then?

  Unless . . .

  Unless the Americans knew what lay beneath the Vilanovsky.

  But, how could they? Praskovya himself had supervised the erasure of the electronic recordings on the research ship. Were the rumors true the U.S. had a new spy ship disguised as a research vessel, a ship with a hidden trove of electronic sensors he and his men had missed?

  When he reached the top of the stairs leading into the drilling deck, he knew his fear had come true. To his right, on the far side of the moon pool, was a small, cigar-shaped submersible. Several armed men in black uniforms were climbing into the mini-sub. Two of them were carrying a third, apparently injured man. In the middle of the pool, Praskovya saw the familiar yellow DSV from the Franklin.

  So, the Americans did see the caisson portal.

  To his left, he saw two more figures. One wore the same black fatigues as those boarding the black submersible, the other the familiar dark-blue fatigues of the U.S. Coast Guard. Praskovya recognized the tall American named Gates.

  Why are they here? And why are they leaving? Why set off the emergency alarm?

  Explosives.

  The word screamed in his head. They came, placed charges, and were making their escape.

  They must have sounded the alarm to minimize fatalities by giving people a chance to reach their lifeboats.

  Admirable, Praskovya thought. Not something I would do, but admirable.

  Praskovya glanced back at the crowded corridor behind him, hoping to see his men approaching. He saw no one but panicky penguins. If he waited for his men, the Americans would make good their escape. No, he must act now, to slow them until his security force arrived.

  Praskovya jerked out the MP5's extendable stock, jammed it into his shoulder, and aimed at the two men below. He was halfway through his trigger squeeze when the next trembler struck.

  Chapter 29

  GATES DIDN'T KNOW HOW they ended up between the stacks of deck grates, whether it was survival instinct, training, or the heaving of the Vilanovsky itself. But as the first shots whipped past their heads, he and McCabe were already sprawled behind the cover provided by the steel decking. McCabe rebounded to one knee, raising his AK to return fire. Gates drew his Glock. The weapon felt small and impotent in his hand as he heard another round of automatic fire come from above them.

  McCabe's rifle barked return fire. Gates poked his head above the piled grating and spotted Praskovya ducking back from the stairs as the SEAL's rounds pounded the landing.

  "That's Praskovya," Gates said, "the Vilanovsky's security chief. There must be more behind him."

  "Next time I fire, you get to your DSV and get the fuck out of here," McCabe said. "Understand?" Gates nodded. McCabe lifted his AK above the grates and shouted, "Go!"

  Gates was three steps away from shelter when he realized McCabe wasn't firing. He turned and found McCabe struggling with his weapon's charging handle, trying to clear a jam. Another burst from Praskovya's MP5 and Gates leaped back behind the grates as ricocheting rounds sent a shower of sparks up from the steel deck where he had stood.

  Praskovya's firing paused. When it started up again, the rounds were not coming in their direction. Small geysers spurted from the moon pool between Chip and the SEAL submersible. Sarah Sandford stood in the DSV's hatch staring at Gates, her face a mask of horror. He waved at her to close the hatch and leave.

  "He's shooting at the subs," Gates said. "If he hits them, no one's going anywhere."

  McCabe pressed his push-to-talk button. "Submerge and get out of here," he said. "That's an order."

  Gates watched the two submersibles slip beneath the surface and disappear. McCabe cleared his jammed rifle and fired a burst up the stairs. Praskovya slipped out of sight again.

  "Is there another way out of here?" McCabe asked.

  "There's a door on the other side of these piles," Gates said. "It leads to the helo pad. Leland and I came in that way."

  "Let's go."

  "Then what?"

  McCabe shrugged. "You any good at swimming?"

  "I'd rather steal a lifeboat."

  "That'll work," McCabe said. "Let's go."

  They moved around the grating pile, Gates in the lead. Praskovya let loose another volley, the rounds pounding behind them. Gates heard his name called.

  "Commander Gates!" Praskovya said. "That is you, isn't it, commander? How nice of you to visit us again. But I truly wished you had called first."

  "Don't answer him," McCabe cautioned. "Acknowledge nothing."

  The SEAL glanced at Gates' uniform. He drew a K-Bar knife from his belt and handed it to Gates.

  "Here."

  Gates looked at the knife.

  "You want us to commit hari-kari?" he said.

  "Your name and service tapes," McCabe said, not smiling. "Cut them off."

  Gates pulled a folding knife from his vest and thumbed it open. McCabe sheathed his fighting knife and waited for Gates to cut off the embroidered name tape on the right side of his blouse, then the USCG tape on the left side. McCabe held out his hand.

  "Your dog tags, too," McCabe said.

  Gates snapped the chain holding his dog tags around his neck and handed them to the SEAL. He watched McCabe wrap the name tapes and dog tags up in the broken chain, then slipped the tiny bundle through the deck's steel lattice, letting it fall into the sea.

  "Plausible deniability," Gates said flatly.

  "Welcome to special ops," McCabe said. "Now the door."

  ☼

  Praskovya glanced back at the corridor behind him, expecting his men to be thundering to his aid. It was empty. Even the clumsy penguins were gone. "Chert voz'mi," he cursed. "Gde oni?" Dammit. Where are they?

  Praskovya stepped with caution from the door, eyed the drilling deck for the likeliest places to plant explosive charges, but saw nothing.

  "Commander Gates," he called out. "It appears you missed your ride home. Why don't you come out and explain what you're doing here?"

  Gates and McCabe eased around the corner of the piled grating they sheltered behind, keeping low and out of Praskovya's sight. There was a space between the stacks and the bulkhead, leaving enough room for a man to squeeze past. They slipped past two piles without problem. At the third, a length of grating jarred loose by the shaking, leaned at a precarious angle against the bulkhead. Gates crawled beneath it, followed by McCabe. As he rose on the far side, the SEAL bumped the grate. It teetered, then slid to the deck with an insidious screech. A burst from Praskovya's MP5 slammed into the piled gratings.

  The shooting didn't move Gates. He stood transfixed, staring. McCabe moved to Gates' side and stared, too.

  The last stack of grates laid toppled by the tremors, blocking t
he door. Both men cursed.

  "Now what?" said McCabe.

  Gates sat with his back against the bulkhead and said nothing.

  McCabe sat beside Gates.

  "How much ammo do you have?" he asked. He removed the magazine from his AK, checked it, then replaced it with a fresh one, and worked the charging handle.

  "Three mags of fifteen rounds each, including the one that's loaded," Gates said. "You have a plan?"

  "Basic tactics," McCabe said. "Attack into the ambush."

  "You mean go out like Butch and Sundance."

  "You have a better idea?"

  Gates shook his head.

  "Me neither," McCabe said.

  ☼

  Praskovya slipped further down the stairs, seeking an advantage point from which he could spot the Americans. He had a good idea what they were trying to do—reach the door leading to the helicopter pad. It was the only other exit and exactly what he would try. What they expected to do after that, he couldn't fathom. There was no other way off the Vilanovsky for them except the way they came aboard.

  Half way down, he saw the toppled deck grates and smiled. There is no escape for them now. Nothing they could do but surrender. Or die. What would he do in their place? The answer was obvious. And just as obvious was what the Americans planned to do.

  Praskovya crouched on the stairs, reducing his profile, shouldered the MP5, and aimed it at where he believed the Americans would rush from and waited.

  Movement.

  Just the tip of a gun barrel peaking around the second to the last pile of grates. He adjusted his aim and tightened his pull on the trigger.

  From the pile came a shout. "Now!"

  A burst of fire from an AK slammed into the landing well over Praskovya's head. A moment later, the two Americans rushed from their cover, spreading out left and right, increasing the tactical distance between them. Praskovya aimed at the man with the AK and pulled the trigger.

  Then the Vilanovsky shook again.

  ☼

  Praskovya's burst went wide, but one round slammed into McCabe's leg. He fell to the deck, his momentum skidding him forward as he sprawled on his face. The AK flew from his grip, clattered across the grating, and disappeared into the pool. Gates saw the SEAL fall, spotted Praskovya on the stairs, and fired three times at the Russian. The shots missed, Gates' aim thrown off by the shaking. He watched Praskovya turn the machine pistol toward him. A sick grin of satisfaction creased the Russian's face.

  The shaking worsened. The section of deck plate Gates stood on heaved, lifting to a sharp angle. Gates jumped clear before the grate slid into the frigid moon pool. The screech of tortured metal pulled his attention back to Praskovya. The Russian still squatted in the middle of the stairs. The machine pistol was gone. His hands gripped the railing as the stairs swayed, strained, and broke free from the bulkhead. Suspended by a few remaining bolts, the stairs swung over the moon pool, paused, then dipped toward the water. Praskovya glanced at Gates, his face calm. Another metallic screech and an explosive crack as the stairs ripped free from their final bindings. They turned belly up, Praskovya still clutching to the railing, and collapsed into the water, dragging the trapped Russian into the depths of Chukchi Sea.

  Chapter 30

  GATES LURCHED TOWARD MCCABE. The SEAL fumbled with a combat tourniquet, trying to wrap it around his thigh, but the heaving of the deck and the pain from the wound thwarted his attempts. More metal tore loose from the bulkhead and the overhead. Gates sprawled across McCabe, protecting the SEAL's body with his own. Something the size of a hammer fell on Gates, striking the back plate of his armored vest. It felt like a punch to his kidneys.

  Then the shaking stopped.

  Gates took the tourniquet, wrapped it high on McCabe's thigh, ran the end through the buckle, cinched it tight, and tightened it further by turning the windlass. McCabe screamed as the band bit into skin and muscle, but the profuse bleeding eased to an ooze.

  Gates grabbed McCabe's first aid kit and pulled out the combat pill pack, a small plastic bag containing oral antibiotics and a powerful non-opioid painkiller.

  "I don't need that," McCabe said, pushing the proffered bag away. "We're both going to be dead in a matter of minutes."

  Gates sat back, removed his Kevlar helmet, and ran his hand through his sweat-matted hair.

  "I guess you're right," he said.

  "Help me sit up," McCabe said.

  McCabe gritted his teeth as Gates grabbed him beneath the arms and dragged him to where he could rest his back against the bulkhead.

  "Thanks," McCabe said. "I'd hate to die on my back."

  Gates looked at the SEAL, and the SEAL looked back at Gates. Both snickered.

  "You know what I mean," McCabe said.

  McCabe took off his own helmet and scratched his scalp.

  "Sorry you got involved in this, commander," he said. "On the teams, we know there's always a chance we won't come back. That's part of our job, but it's not your job."

  Gates recalled giving a similar speech only a couple of days before and snorted.

  "There's an old saying in the Coast Guard, lieutenant," he said. "'You have to go out. You don't have to come back.'"

  McCabe dipped his head and shook it. "Jesus, what kind of fools are we?"

  "Poorly paid ones."

  Bubbles in the moon pool caught Gates' attention. He tapped McCabe's shoulder and pointed.

  "What's that?" he said.

  A moment later, he had his answer as the black, rounded hull of the SEAL submersible broached the surface, followed by Chip's small yellow sail. Both vehicles eased up to the deck grates. The DCV hatch opened and two men emerged, rifles at the ready, scanning for threats. McCabe raised his hand in a weak wave. The two commandos waved back and picked their way through the debris.

  Chip's hatch swung up, and Sarah Sandford leaned out of it. When she saw Gates, her eyes brightened and her smile broadened.

  "Hey, sailor," she said.

  Gates gave her a weak smile in return.

  Lieutenant Davids, McCabe's team XO, and Chief Drummond knelt beside their leader and examined his wound.

  "I ordered you to get the hell out of here," McCabe said.

  "You'll just have to court martial me, skipper," Davids said.

  "Really, sir, we didn't have a choice," Drummond added. "That crazy sub-driving lady blocked the exit with her submersible."

  "We'll discuss this later," McCabe said. He grimaced as the two SEALs lifted him to a standing position. The SEAL leader stood on one leg, an arm around Davids' and Drummond's shoulders, as they linked hands to form a seat. They started back to the DCV, then stopped and turned.

  "Hey, Coastie," McCabe said. "Thanks."

  Gates nodded. "You, too, Squid," he said, using the nickname for Navy sailors.

  The SEALs returned to their submersible, and Gates climbed aboard Chip. He settled into the second chair and looked at Sarah as she submerged the DSV.

  "Did you really block the exit?" Gates asked.

  She shook her head without looking at him.

  "I was having mechanical problems." She gave him a sly smile. "That's my story and I'm sticking to it."

  Gates grinned. "Let's get out of here."

  As the DSV steered toward the portal, its floodlights illuminated the Fast Mover. It looked different. Its position had changed, turned to the right. Gates saw where the wings—he couldn't think of a better term—gouged the sea floor.

  There was something else, though, a change in its color. Instead of mottled gray and black, it was luminescent. A series of images, shapes and shadows flashed through Gates' head, possibilities and improbabilities, so many, so fast, they remained indistinct, like a fading memory of a dream.

  The object moved, a trembling that reminded Gates of a bear waking from its long winter slumber. Another more pronounced tremor and he gripped his seat.

  "Hold on!"

  Wave or pulse, it sent Chip careening through the portal. Ahead of
them, the SEAL submersible struggled with its own mad yawing. Sarah cursed, struggling for control, willing with the strength of her concentration the DSV to answer its helm. When it did, Sarah sighed.

  The SEAL vehicle turned to port, taking up a course returning them to their mother sub. Sarah set her course for the Franklin and settled back.

  "What happened back there?" she asked. "To the guy shooting at you?"

  "He's dead," Gates said.

  "Did you—"

  "No," Gates said. "The stairs collapsed under him and they both fell into the moon pool."

  "So that's what that was," Sarah said. "Scared the bejesus out of me."

  Gates stiffened in his seat. "Oh, my god. Nikki!"

  "What?"

  "Nikki, who came to warn me," he said. "Did she get off?"

  "Who?" Sarah said.

  "Nikki, the young girl who warned me the Fast Mover was waking up. Did she make it off the rig? Did you see her?"

  "Doug, all I saw was you, McCabe, the SEALs, and that guy with the machine gun."

  "We've got to go back."

  "Are you crazy?"

  Sandford never got her answer. A force stronger than the previous struck the DSV. It spun the submersible and pushed it through the sea like the hand of God.

  The last thing Gates remembered was the sound of Sarah's screams.

  Chapter 31

  KONSTANTIN STUMBLED AND CURSED. He was unaccustomed to carrying his own bags and the Vilanovsky's swaying, the bustle of the frightened rig crew trying to reach their lifeboats, and the constant whine of the emergency alarms, only exasperated his own clumsiness. This was not the orderly exit from the drilling rig he had planned when he first told his pilots he was leaving for the mainland. This was a panicky flight from an engineering miracle that was shaking itself apart.