Under the Ice

by Richard P. Henrick

  “And what’s wrong with that?” countered the red-faced Defense Minister.

  “Here the Imperialists have been caught in a clear-cut case of cold-blooded murder and Comrade Kasimov doesn’t even want to retaliate!”

  “I didn’t say that!” the usually mild-mannered bureaucrat said forcefully.

  “I’d be the first to support such a strike, if you could supply me with some concrete proof of the West’s guilt.”

  “I agree!” added Dmitri Tichvin.

  “A nuclear strike is serious business. Yet if the Americans were indeed directly responsible for the downing of the Flying Kremlin, we have no choice but to teach them a lesson they’ll never forget.”

  All the time breathlessly watching this spirited exchange, Mikhail Kharkov could hardly believe what he was hearing. Sensing that he had his two naive colleagues right where he wanted them, the battle-wise veteran returned the focus of their discussion back to the Arctic map, as he tapped the end of the pointer up against the monitor’s glass screen.

  “Then what would you say, comrades, if I could get you that indisputable proof?” Mikhail questioned boldly.

  “Because I happen to know almost precisely where that evidence currently lies. All that we have to do now is find the Il-76’s cockpit voice recorder, or as it is more commonly called, its black box. And it so happens the cosmonauts in our Salyut space station have already picked up this device’s ultrasonic homing signal, on the ice directly adjoining the northern coast of Baffin Island. So all that remains to be done is to go up there and grab it. Then we merely have to analyze its digital tape; that holds a detailed account of every single second of that flight, from its liftoff in Irkutsk, to the plane’s final moments. And if it’s indeed learned that an American missile was responsible for taking the Flying Kremlin down, can I at the very least count on having your support in the planning and carrying out of a proper retaliatory attack?”

  “Why, of course!” returned the two bureaucrats almost simultaneously.

  Fighting to control his joy, Admiral of the Fleet Mikhail Kharkov turned his glance on his old friend, Ivan Zarusk. A wide smirk etched the Defense Minister’s face, and Mikhail couldn’t help but smile in this moment of triumph.

  Chapter Six

  It was late into the night before the USS Defiance was ready to set sail. A cool, penetrating breeze blew in from the north as two uniformed figures stood on the vessel’s exposed sail. The taller one pulled from his lips the pipe he had been smoking, and called out to a bearded dockhand below.

  “Release number one!”

  As the last line connecting the Defiance to the docks was freed, the XO addressed his next command to the bridge’s black plastic, intercom handset.

  “All back two-thirds.”

  A frothing patch of agitated seawater formed astern and the sub’s black hull began inching its way into the Thames River. Al Layman relayed another order into the intercom, and as the propeller shaft reversed the direction of its rotation, the vessel began to head for the open sea.

  “Well, Skipper, seems we’re not the only ones working late tonight. Looks like the men and women over at Electric Boat are getting in a little overtime themselves.”

  “That’s nothing unusual,” returned Matt Colter, as he scanned the brightly lit, industrial complex that hugged the waterfront on this portion of the Thames.

  “With all the new orders the Navy’s throwing their way, EB never shuts down nowadays. And even then, their backlog of past-due product is growing.”

  “That’s what we get for having only two company’s geared to produce submarines,” observed the XO.

  The blinding flare of a welder’s torch lit the black night, and the Defiance silently surged past the mammoth marine construction facility, where its own keel had been laid over fifteen years ago.

  “By the way Al, did you ever get ahold of your wife?” queried Matt Colter.

  “Sure did. Skipper,” replied the XO, who paused a second to put a flame to the tobacco in his pipe’s bowl.

  “Even got to see her for a whole quarter of an hour back in the officers’ club. She looked great. That aerobic’s class she’s been attending has done wonders for her.”

  “I hope you didn’t spill the beans on that second honeymoon you were planning.”

  “For once in my life I was able to keep this big trap of mine shut,” observed the XO.

  “Otherwise, that anniversary celebration could have been our last.

  Now, I only pray Donna doesn’t get wind of the fact I’ve got another woman shacked up in my quarters here on the Defiance.”

  “Like a good Navy wife, she’d understand, Al. I hope you were able to make our guest comfortable.”

  The XO thoughtfully exhaled a long ribbon of fragrant smoke from his nostrils before responding.

  “At least Ms. Lansing didn’t seem to be carrying any hair curlers or blow dryers on board. With the eager assistance of Lieutenant Marshall, Chief Sandusky, and several assorted gawking seamen, we were able to accommodate her. For a dame, that one sure travels light. She seemed to be carrying along more technical gear than personal belongings.”

  “I don’t like having a woman on board any more than you, Al. But if she’s able to get that newfangled surface-scanning Fathometer working like it should, it’ll be well worth the hassle she’s causing. Besides, Dr.

  Lansing seems to be definitely low profile. She’ll do her work and hopefully stay well out of the way of the men.”

  “I sure hope so, Skipper. Because even without a lot of makeup and provocative clothing, the doctor seems to exude plenty of good old-fashioned sex appeal.”

  The captain grunted.

  “So I’ve noticed, XO. So I’ve noticed.”

  A contemplative silence followed, and all too soon they were leaving the lights of Connecticut behind them and entering the black waters of Block Island Sound. It was as the sub’s rounded bow bit into the first Atlantic swell that a sudden voice sounded over the intercom speaker.

  “Captain, we have a surface contact on radar, bearing one-four-zero. Range five and a half miles and closing.”

  The lights of this ship could barely be seen in the distance. Matt Colter spoke into the intercom handset.

  “Helmsman, come port to one-one-zero true.”

  As the bow of the Defiance swung left, Colter stretched his arms and yawned.

  “I’ll leave the Defiance in your capable hands, Al. When we reach thirty fathoms, submerge and set your course for Nantucket Shoals, speed twenty knots.”

  “So it looks like I’ll get out to Nantucket this evening after all,” reflected the XO, as he watched the captain turn for the hatch leading to the ship’s interior.

  Exhausted after the full day of last-minute preparations, Matt Colter climbed down the steep, steel ladder, heading below. With practiced ease he passed through a narrow, water-tight hatch and stepped down into the control room.

  Lit by an ethereal red light designed to protect the crew’s night vision, the control room was hushed, a serious atmosphere prevailing. Trying not to break this spell. Colter briefly glanced at the helmsman, who sat strapped to his padded chair, the airplane-type steering column gripped firmly in hand.

  Mounted before this alert seaman was a compass repeater, their exact course clearly displayed in a dimly glowing, digital readout screen.

  Behind the helmsman was the ship’s diving station.

  Here Chief Sandusky passed the time sipping a mug of coffee, while waiting for the inevitable order that would cause him to trigger the ballast mechanisms and send the Defiance plunging down into the silent depths below.

  Before heading on to his cabin. Colter took a moment to visit the station that was set immediately aft of the diving console. Silently picking his way through the equipment-packed deck, the captain caught sight of the glowing, green fluorescent display of the radar screen. Projected on this monitor was a portion of the coastline they had long since left behind them, and a si
ngle blinking contact that was situated off their starboard bow.

  Matt Colter firmly addressed the young seaman who was perched beside this screen.

  “Make certain to inform Lieutenant Commander Layman the moment that contact changes its course.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” shot back the alert sailor.

  “As it appears now, our closest point of approach will be three miles.”

  The captain nodded.

  “Good. I want to keep it that way. Any idea what type of vessel it might be?”

  Ever ready to impress his commanding officer, the seaman retorted.

  “Looks like a fishing trawler, sir.”

  “If that’s the case, let’s just hope they don’t have any nets in the water. We certainly wouldn’t want to get snagged.”

  His gaze still glued to the radar monitor, the young seaman cleared his throat and dared to put forth a single question.

  “Sir, is it true that we’re headed back for the ice?”

  The astounding speed with which Navy scuttlebutt spread never failed to impress Colter. He cautiously answered, “I’ll be officially announcing our destination tomorrow, sailor. But in the meantime, if I were you, I’d keep those woolen sweaters and long Johns handy.”

  The radar operator grinned; “I’ll do that. Captain.”

  Having affectionately patted the young sailor on the back. Colter turned for his quarters. It had been a long tiring day. The unexpected sailing orders had caught everyone by complete surprise, himself most of all. It had taken a combined effort to get the Defiance once again ready for the sea. The restocking of their limited food supply was a primary concern.

  Yet because they had just returned a week earlier than anticipated, their larders hadn’t been totally empty.

  Since their reactor didn’t need to be refueled for at least another year. Colter next concentrated on tracking down those crew members who had already left the ship to be with their friends or families. While phone calls, and even messengers, were used to track down these errant seamen, Matt turned to yet another major concern — the surface-scanning Fathometers.

  No matter how you looked at it, the Defiance would soon be on its way to the frozen Arctic without either of its Fathometers in working order.

  Hopefully, this deficiency would be rectified in three days’ time. Yet Matt was still hesitant to rely on the prototype system. Regardless of the fact that Laurie Lansing was aboard to insure that the device was functioning properly, his gut feeling warned him to be extra cautious this time around. At the first sign of trouble, he intended to switch over to the old unit; the chief engineer had promised it would also be operational in three more days. Of course, by that time he’d most probably have the rest of his orders and know precisely what their mission was.

  Unexpected patrols such as the one they were on were a headache to coordinate, but they were exciting.

  Usually designed with a definite purpose in mind, such missions were far more invigorating than dull sea trials and predictable maneuvers with the fleet. Because Dr. Lansing had been ordered to sea with them, it was evident that the orders he’d soon be receiving would have something to do with an ascent to the surface of the polar ice cap.

  Remembering his all too recent meeting in New London, Colter wondered if the admiral had known about this mission all along. Could this then be the reason why Long had proceeded to vehemently question Matt about his decision to return a week early? It would also explain why he had resurrected the incident concerning Matt’s reluctance to surface beside the English weather station, over a year ago. It was evident that Command was afraid he had lost his nerve, and wouldn’t be fit to lead the next mission under the ice they already had in mind for him!

  Bravado and recklessness were two vastly different terms that were sometimes confused. This was especially true when a careless act, carried out with total disregard for human life, reaped successful consequences.

  Wars were full of such incidents. Yet Matt Colter was not about to risk his ship and crew merely to show that he was made out of the right stuff. To him, human life was sacred, and shouldn’t be needlessly wasted if a legitimate threat existed.

  The brand of coward stung every man. Even more so those who’d chosen to be officers in the military.

  There was a thin line between responsibility for carrying out the order of the day and the obligation to look after the welfare of those entrusted to one’s command.

  For Matt Colter, the choice had been obvious.

  He had been unwilling to compromise his ideals, and stood behind his decisions one hundred percent. The mere fact that he had once again been sent to sea proved that the powers that he had accepted his judgment, and that his choice had been the correct one.

  Satisfied with this realization. Colter stepped through the hatchway that led to officers’ country.

  The wardroom table was empty as he turned to his left and entered his cramped private domain.

  It seemed that he had just fallen asleep, when his cabin filled with the resonant sound of the diving klaxon. Briefly opening his weary eyes, he stared out into the pitch black confines of his stateroom, and instinctively felt the angle of the deck alter as the Defiance took on ballast and dipped its spherical bow beneath the surging Atlantic. Confident of his crew’s ability to safely run the ship in his absence, Matt Colter yawned and almost instantly fell back into a sound dreamless sleep.

  Meanwhile, on the deck immediately below. Petty Officer First Class Stanley Roth sat in the crew’s mess room, gingerly spooning down a bowl of oatmeal. At the same table, his shipmate Brian MacMillan was also in the midst of a meal. Yet unlike the sonar technician, Mac as he was known to the crew, was well into a four-course steak dinner. Wolfing down his chow like he hadn’t eaten for a week, Mac started with a bowl of onion soup and a tossed salad. Once this was consumed, he began working on a plate filled to capacity with a juicy T-bone steak, fried potatoes, and an ear of steamed white corn.

  His mouth still filled with partially chewed meat, the curly, blond-haired torpedoman gulped down a sip of milk and addressed his dining companion.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to try a bite of this steak, Stan? For once in his life, Cooky prepared it good and rare like a steak ought to be.”

  Stanley Roth wearily downed another spoonful of oatmeal before replying.

  “I’ll take a rain check, Mac.

  This tooth of mine is still a bit sensitive.”

  “But I thought you were going to see the base dentist today?” quizzed the torpedoman in between bites of potato.

  Stanley disgustedly threw down his spoon and cautiously rubbed the lower left side of his jaw.

  “I did, Mac.”

  “Well if that’s the case, why can’t you have a real supper?” queried the puzzled seaman.

  Reaching into his pocket, Stanley removed a folded sheet of prescription paper, and attempted to read from it.

  “The doc says I have a deep peridontal pocket on the distal of my left mandibular first bicuspid.”

  “Sounds fatal,” reflected the torpedoman as he went to work on his corn. He proceeded to polish off half the ear before adding.

  “Now, in English, what the hell type of ailment is that?”

  Stan Roth seemed utterly frustrated.

  “How the hell should I know, Mac? I’m no jaw breaker!”

  Sensing the degree of his shipmate’s distress, the torpedoman put down his partially eaten cob.

  “Easy, Stan. I’m not purposely trying to aggravate you. I only wanted to know what that dentist did for your toothache.”

  After a series of calming breaths, the sonar technician replied.

  “First off, I should have walked right out of there the moment I entered that clinic, because there wasn’t a soul in the waiting room. Some scrawny nurse had me put what seemed like my whole life’s history on a form and then led me into the back room. We must have surprised the hell of that jaw breaker, because we caught him red-handed
, putting golf balls into one of those electronic gadgets that simulate a golf hole.

  “He must have been right out of dental school, because not only did he look as innocent as a choir boy, he had pimples as well. But that’s beside the point, because the next thing I know he’s got me in the chair and that’s when the fun really began.”

  “Did he use the drill?” quizzed the wide-eyed torpedoman who had temporarily abandoned his silverware.

  Stanley shook his head.

  “No, he only poked around a bit with some sort of probe. Then, after scraping off a bit of tartar, he treated the gum with some horrible-tasting medicine and dismissed me with a warning to brush and floss after every meal or I’d lose that tooth for sure.” While carefully rubbing his lower jaw, Stan added.

  “Right now, I’m beginning to wonder if he shouldn’t have pulled it right there. At least it still wouldn’t be bothering me.”

  Compassion etched his dining companion’s face, as Brian picked up knife and fork and responded while cutting up the remainder of the T-bone.

  “I don’t know about that, Stan. The pain has got to go away sometime, and why lose a perfectly good tooth if you don’t have to.”

  “Jesus, Mac, I’ve had this damn toothache for over two weeks now, and it’s really starting to get to me!

  Why I can’t even get down a cup of hot coffee without it killing me.”

  “Now that’s serious,” retorted the torpedoman between bites of meat.

  “Say, didn’t those painkillers Pills gave you last week do some good?”

  Stanley pushed away his bowl of half-eaten oatmeal and replied.

  “Sure, they took away the ache for a while, but in the process they left me so doped up I couldn’t even stand my normal watch. And when they eventually wore off, I was stuck with that same damn throbbing pain all over again.”

  “My friend, I really do have compassion for you,” offered Mac as he cleaned off his plate, mopped up the remaining juices with a piece of bread, and reached for a big slice of apple pie.