Polar Melt: A Novel

by Martin Roy Hill

  He hadn't seen Praskovya since the security chief dashed from the conference room. He had no way of knowing where his old friend was. Making his way toward a lifeboat like the others, no doubt.

  He wished Praskovya was with him at that moment. Throughout their many missions, when times were dire, the former commando's placid reserve had helped Konstantin stay calm. But here he was sweating heavily in the bitter air, his labored breathing pumping plumes of white condensate, and he could not deny he was panicking. He was afraid. No, he was terrified.

  Despite the wail of the siren, he heard the whine of the Kamov Ka-62's twin turbojets starting. He followed the sound, elbowing through the crowd, stumbling on the trembling deck. Some fool pushed him, causing him to trip over one of his bags. For a moment he feared being trampled, but someone more level-headed helped him to his feet.

  He looked for his bags. They were gone, carried along by the crowd. He dismissed the loss with a wave of his hands and plowed through the throng toward the helo pad. Somewhere along the way, he lost his fur cap. Ahead, the sound of the turbojets deepened as if the Kamov were lifting off. Were the cowards leaving him behind?

  He reached the landing pad, and the Kamov was still there. Sukelov, the copilot, stood next to its small stairs, waiting for him.

  "Mr. Konstantin, thank god," the copilot said. "Do you have luggage?"

  "Never mind that," Konstantin growled as he climbed the stairs. "Let us get off this death trap."

  Konstantin fell into a chair as Sukelov lifted the stairs inboard and secured the hatch. He secured his seatbelt as the turbojets screamed, the propellers overhead bit into the air, and the helicopter leaped from the platform.

  As they gained altitude, the full damage from the quakes came into view. The once pristine Vilanovsky was a wreck, with equipment toppled and a section of one module's roof collapsed. Fires licked from beneath the wreckage, belching black smoke. Konstantin saw the lifeboats fall one by one from their davits, plunge into the sea bow first, disappear, then bob back to the surface like corks, and motor away from the rig as fast as they could.

  The helicopter circled the scene at low altitude while the pilot radioed a distress message. Konstantin watched transfixed as the Vilanovsky gave a great shudder, and its towering drilling derrick swayed, bent, then tumbled to the deck. His hand ached, and he glanced at his bloodless fingers digging into the armrest of his chair.

  All this work, he thought. All the years and the technical difficulties they overcame. The once-in-a-lifetime chance to discover and contain a new source of boundless energy. All lost. Lost because some scientist, some seismologist parading around as an expert, did not warn them the floor of the Chukchi Sea was seismically active. For want of a nail, the war was lost. When he arrived back in Moscow, he would make certain the head of that Sukin sy, that son of a whore, rolled.

  The Vilanovsky heaved, rising straight out of the water, and collapsing back onto itself. The surrounding sea boiled, then erupted in a massive surge of energy that carried part of the ocean into the sky in an expanding wave. This was no ordinary seaquake, Konstantin thought. No quake could do that.

  Konstantin saw a large glowing object rise from the Vilanovsky's grave. It raced away at an unbelievable speed just below the surface. Then Konstantin understood. No sea quake wreaked this destruction. What sat below the Vilanovsky did.

  That object. That damned object.

  The energy wave sped closer to the Kamov. Konstantin heard the pilot curse and Sukelov scream. The wave cracked the helicopter's fuselage like an egg shell. For a moment Konstantin was flying free, still strapped to his seat, tumbling through the air. And in that last second of consciousness, of life, he glimpsed in the distance the object as it skimmed beneath the waves deeper into the Arctic Ocean and the shelter of what remained of the thicker ice.

  Chapter 32

  IT WAS SEVERAL HOURS before Gates regained consciousness. He woke in his own bed aboard the Franklin. Sarah Sandford, sitting in a chair at his bedside, greeted him with a kiss and a warm smile.

  That fabulous smile.

  The blow to the head he suffered as Chip tumbled out of control left Gates with a concussion. His head throbbed and his stomach heaved. He reached out to touch Sarah's face and felt the sudden need to race to the head. Frank Chee warned Sarah of the concussion's aftereffects, and she was ready with a waste can for Gates as he retched.

  "So much for romantic reunions," Gates muttered.

  "Here," Sarah said, handing him a glass of water and two pills when he finished. "Your medic said these should help your stomach and your head."

  Gates took the pills, washed them down with the water, then leaned back on his pillow with a moan.

  As he recovered in bed, Sarah and Leland Strange filled Gates in on the aftermath of the aborted Vilanovsky raid. Because of the turbulence experienced inside the moon pool, Sarah had strapped herself into her pilot's chair with the seat belt. She blamed herself for Gates injury; in the excitement of the escape, she forgot to warn him. The blast wave or energy wave or whatever the hell it was the Fast Mover created, hurled Chip forward as if it were a body surfing on an underwater wave. Once it dissipated, and Sarah regained control of the DSV, she discovered they had covered more than half the distance to the Franklin. Chip was a wreck, with most of its impeller pods torn away. The main section of the DSV, designed to withstand the pressures of the ocean's depths, remained intact. The little sub limped back to its mother ship like a battle-scarred veteran.

  There was less knowledge of the fate of the Vilanovsky. Moscow simply reported "a catastrophic mechanical failure" doomed the oil rig. The Kremlin also said since drilling operations had not started, there was no oil spill.

  "Of course, we know the Vilanovsky wasn't built for oil drilling," Strange added.

  According to Moscow's report, most of the Vilanovsky's crew got away in the rig's lifeboats and survived. However, Konstantin and his two pilots were missing, as was an unnamed chief of security. Rescue efforts were still ongoing and the United States joined with several other nations in offering to help with those efforts. Moscow had not responded to the offers.

  "And the Fast Mover?" Gates asked.

  Strange shrugged.

  "Don't know, sir," he said. "My guess is it got away, same as the one the Glomar Explorer was after. Funny thing is, as soon as the Vilanovsky collapsed and, I assume, the Fast Mover escaped, our power came back online, including main propulsion. Captain Gunnar waved off the rescue tug and has the Franklin underway and headed toward Nome. Chief Stalk reports all the spy gadgets in the hidden compartment are up and running again, too. Just turned on by themselves, she said. You think that Fast Mover was affecting our power network?"

  Gates winced as he nodded. "I think so. I think it—they—wanted us to stay."

  "They?" Sarah said.

  Strange leaned closer to Gates and whispered, "You talked to it, didn't you, sir?"

  Gates gave the young officer a sharp look. He glanced at Sarah. She gave him an odd look.

  "Sorry, sir," Strange mumbled, backing away.

  "You are psychic," Sarah declared. "Just like—"

  "Just like what?" Gates demanded.

  "Well . . . Captain Gunnar hinted that . . ."

  Gates sighed.

  "It wasn't talking," he said. His eyes focused on something not in the cabin. "More like being shown . . . images of things I don't fully understand. But I got the impression it was 'they' and not 'it.'"

  "But why would they want us to stay, sir?" Strange asked.

  "To help them," Gates said. "And to warn us again to stay away from them."

  Gates shut his eyes.

  "Leland, I need to rest," he said. "I feel like shit."

  "Sure, sir," Strange said. "Rest up."

  He started toward the door, then stopped.

  "Oh, one more thing, sir," he said. He waited until Gates opened his eyes again. "The admiral called on the sat phone. He said he received a message for y
ou from Lieutenant McCabe. It was routed from the sub his team was on through SUBPACFLT to the admiral. Funny message. All it said was, 'Thanks again, Coastie.'"

  Gates smiled and said, "Good. That means his team made it back okay."

  Strange opened the door to leave, stepped aside as Captain Gunnar entered, then left

  "How's our patient?" he asked Gates.

  "I've felt better, captain," Gates said.

  "I'm sure you have, Doug," Gunnar said.

  He glanced at Sarah, and she mouthed, He needs to sleep. He nodded.

  "Well, I just wanted to check in on you," Gunnar said. "I'll leave you in Sarah's capable care. Get some rest, son."

  Gunnar turned to the door, but Gates called his name.

  "Yes, Doug?"

  "Captain, did Nikki make it back to the ship okay?"

  "Who?"

  "Nikki. She said you sent her to warn me."

  "Warn you?" Gunnar said. He looked at Sarah. She shrugged. "Who are you talking about, Doug?"

  "Nikki, the ship's steward," Gates said. He tried to raise himself. The pain in his head forced him back into his pillow. His eyes closed in concentration, trying to remember how to pronounce the girl's full name. "Panik Ublureak. A small, attractive Inuit girl."

  Gunnar stared at Gates, then at Sarah. His lips pursed for a moment, then formed a small, wry smile. A glint shown in his old, sea-gray eyes.

  "Doug, there is no steward on my crew," he said. "And no Inuit girl named Nikki."

  Gates eyes flashed open and he stared at Gunnar.

  "But—"

  "You know, Doug, I started my sea-going career in these waters. Spent several years plying the trade in and around Alaska and Canada. Got to know many Inuits—even learned a little of their language. This name you gave me—Panik Ublureak—I recognize it from the Inuit mythology."

  "Mythology?" Gates said.

  "Many Inuit cultures believe their ancestors or their gods came down from the stars," Gunnar said.

  "That's what Nikki said," Gates replied. "She told me her people originally came from the stars and settled here. She seemed . . . She seemed to have this amazing ability to predict when and where a meteor would fall from the sky."

  Gunnar nodded, his eyes still twinkling.

  "Perhaps, Doug, they weren't meteors," Gunnar said.

  Gates studied the old seaman while he rubbed his aching head. "Captain, you're making my head hurt worse," he said. "If not meteors, what could . . ."

  Gates' words trailed away. His mouth drooped open and his eyes widened. He looked back at Gunnar, shaking his head.

  "No, couldn't be," he said. "Could it?"

  "What?" Sarah looked at both men. "What?"

  "What I'm saying, Doug, is this: strange and mysterious things happen at sea. You say you met a young steward on this ship when no such person exists. You saw her again on the Vilanovsky where she tried to warn you."

  Gunnar opened the cabin door and smiled at Gates. His eyes shined with good humor.

  "Doug," he said, "Panik Ublureak is Inuit for Daughter of the Stars."

  Gunnar stepped through the door and closed it. Gates lowered his head back onto the pillow and groaned.

  "Doug," Sarah said, "what did Gunnar mean by that?"

  Gates squeezed her hand.

  "Just as he said," Gates said. "Strange and mysterious things happen at sea."

  Author's Note

  THIS IS A WORK of fiction. However, many of the incidents mentioned in this story actually occurred. In 1968, four submarines from different countries did disappear within weeks of each other. Wreckage of three of those subs have been located, including the Russian K-129 which the CIA tried to raise with the Glomar Explorer. The cause for the loss of those submarines has never been definitively determined. Operation Mainbrace was an actual NATO naval exercise. According to contemporary news reports, it was plagued with sightings of mysterious air and undersea craft. A secret German facility, described in local news accounts as a U-boat base, was discovered in northern Russia in the 1980s. What it was used for, no one knows, though the Germans did establish a number of secret weather stations throughout the Arctic during WWII, including in Allied territory. The stories of the Octavius and the Baychimo are true. In fact, Alaska's state government launched a search for the Baychimo, now presumed sunk as she has not been spotted since her last appearance in 1969. Submariners have repeatedly reported hearing strange and unidentifiable sounds while travelling beneath the Arctic ice. Altogether, this just proves that fact is, indeed, stranger than fiction.

  About the Author

  MARTIN ROY HILL IS the author of the award-winning Linus Schag, NCIS, thrillers, the Peter Brandt thrillers, Eden: A Sci-Fi Novella, and the award-winning collection of short stories, DUTY. He is a former journalist and national award-winning investigative reporter for newspapers and magazines. His nonfiction work has appeared in Reader’s Digest, LIFE, Newsweek, Omni, and many others. He has written articles on military history for several publications and websites. His short fiction has appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, ALT HIST: The Journal of Historical Fiction and Alternate History, Nebula Rift, Mystery Weekly, Crimson Streets, and others.

  Martin served in the U.S. Coast Guard Reserve, the Navy Reserve, and the California National Guard. He lives in San Diego, California, with his wife, Winke, son, Brandon, and their feline overseer, Harry.

  Follow Martin Roy Hill on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/Martin.Roy.Hill, on Twitter at https://twitter.com/MartinRoyHill, or visit his website at https://www.martinroyhill.com.

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