Tears clouded Laurie Lansing’s eyes as she sighed heavily and tore her gaze away from the photograph that had triggered these intense memories. Absentmindedly scanning the cramped cabin of her current submerged home, she could only wonder what her father would have to say about her present duty.
Surely he’d be immensely proud of her. In his earlier days, Frank Lansing had spent many months at a time beneath the world’s oceans, while in the midst of a variety of experiments designed to enhance the nation’s fledgling nuclear submarine fleet. Yet the culmination of his long, selfless career wouldn’t be attained until his most cherished project went operational.
And it was up to Laurie to insure that it did.
The throbbing hum of a muted turbine sounded in the distance. Other than this barely audible noise, there was no hint of the true nature of her current means of transport. There was no shifting of the deck, no feeling of movement, as the 4,600-ton nuclear-powered attack sub cut through the icy Atlantic depths at a steady twenty knots of forward speed.
Truly this craft was an incredible engineering feat, and to be a part of a project intended to make such a technological marvel even better was a stimulus to the twenty-nine-year-old research engineer.
Chapter Seven
The view from the Antonov An-22 airliner was a limited one. Since it had crossed the Ural Mountains just south of the Siberian city of Vorkuta, the weather had progressively worsened. Even at its present cruising altitude of 12,500 meters, the sky was filled with nothing but roiling, black storm clouds. Accompanying this front were stiff northerly head winds, and because of the resulting turbulence, the pilot had long ago activated the seatbelt sign.
Peering out the rounded viewing port. Admiral of the Fleet Mikhail Kharkov looked out to the stormy skies and tried his best to ignore the mad, shaking vibration of the plane’s fuselage. Thankfully, he wouldn’t be in this bumpy, unstable craft much longer. For his immediate destination, Murmansk airport, was less than twenty-five kilometers distant.
Encountering an air pocket, the massive An-22 suddenly lost altitude, and Mikhail found himself tightly gripping his seat’s armrests as the plane sickeningly plunged downward. To the grinding roar of its four dual-propped Kuznetsov turboprop engines, the mammoth transport vehicle strained to stabilize itself.
Somehow it did so, yet Mikhail couldn’t help but wonder how the plane’s frame was able to stay in one piece.
The largest aircraft in the world apart from the American C-5A, the An-22 was a marvel of Soviet engineering. Not only could it carry a squad of T-62 battle tanks in its lower hold, but up to 100,000 kilograms of freight and 29 passengers as well.
Currently seated in the passenger cabin situated immediately aft of the flight deck, Mikhail Kharkov knew that he was very fortunate to get this lift. The route from Irkutsk to Murmansk was not a popular one, and nonstop flights were few and far between.
Originally having taken off from Vladivostok, the An-22 had subsequently been diverted to an unscheduled stop in Irkutsk by a single call from General Ivan Zarusk. Though the spirited Defense Minister would have liked to join Mikhail on this trip, affairs of state had sent him packing back to Moscow, along with Dmitri Tichvin and Yuri Kasimov.
Just thinking about his old friend caused a grin to lighten Mikhail’s face. They went back a long time together, and their shared exploits could fill a good-sized novel. Of course, the latest chapter of this book had only recently been concluded. Like a pair of slick black marketeers, they had exploited the two naive bureaucrats right in Mikhail’s own living room. Afterward, Ivan had briefly pulled Mikhail aside and congratulated him on his superb performance. Then after promising to celebrate in style once the rest of their mission was successfully completed, they’d joined their guests for the short helicopter ride back to the Irkutsk airport. Here Mikhail left the others to initiate his current journey.
Again the An-22 plunged downward in a sickening, gut-wrenching free-fall and the Admiral of the Fleet of the Soviet Union silently cursed the weather front responsible for this turbulence. Knowing now why he’d not joined the air force, the white-haired veteran diverted his gaze to the forward portion of the cabin.
There the only other passenger, an Aeroflot flight attendant, was somehow able to sleep through all this terrible weather.
Mikhail had never liked to fly, and doubted if he ever would, no matter how many times he was airborne.
There was something about not being at the controls himself, not understanding the systems involved, that bothered him. It felt uncomfortable to have one’s life in the hands of a complete stranger, no matter how many flight hours he might have logged.
Mikhail never experienced such anxieties when he was traveling by sea. Even when not personally at the helm he felt secure, for a ship’s fate was shared by its entire crew. Very seldom could the loss of a vessel be pinned on one man, though ultimately the captain was always the one held responsible.
The world’s oceans were his second home, and even though pleasant memories of his recently concluded hike to the shores of Lake Baikal were fresh in his mind, he was glad to be going back to sea. When his wife Anna heard of his intention, she’d cornered him while he was in the bedroom hurriedly packing and had fully vented herself.
“What do you mean, you’re going back to sea again? Don’t you realize you’re a seventy-six year-old man? And besides, Misha, you’ve got other responsibilities now. Leave the operational side of your job to younger, more fit individuals. An old man like you will only get in the way.”
Mikhail had been anticipating such a reaction, and did his best to dispel her apprehensions. While still continuing to fill up his dusty duffel bag, he countered, “You’re right, my dearest. It’s a young man’s world out there. But sometimes us old-timer’s are needed as counselors, to share our hard-earned experience, gained by sweat and toil and many years in the field. Besides, I’ll be gone less than a week. And I promise you, once this patrol is completed, I’ll hang up my duffel bag for good.”
This last statement served its purpose, and realizing that it was useless to fight him, Anna pushed him out of the way and completed the packing herself.
As it so happened, he hadn’t been lying to her about quitting the sea for good. There would be much to do upon his return, and he would have no time for the operational side of the Fleet. This would be left in the capable hands of the officers and enlisted men of the Soviet Navy, men who would be instrumental in helping him consolidate the glorious worldwide Socialistic state that would shortly unite all men in brotherhood.
Merely thinking about the realization of his goal caused shivers to run up and down his spine. At long last, the time for dreaming was over. Action was the order of the day, as the world anxiously perched on the verge of a brave new beginning.
It wasn’t mere whim that was calling him to Murmansk.
Rather, it was the Sierra Class nuclear-powered attack submarine, Neva. Less than a year old, the Neva was a state-of-the-art vessel, especially designed for under-the-ice operations. Mikhail had been at the Gorky shipyards and had participated in the sub’s launching. Yet never did he dream then that one day in the near future he’d be boarding the Neva himself, to lead it on the most important mission of his long career.
As the enormous airliner that was carrying him to his destiny shook in a violent wind shear Mikhail reached into the breast pocket of his uniform and briefly touched the case holding the steel-jacketed cassette tape that would play a key role in their rapidly unraveling plot. The Neva must get him and this tape to the northern coast of Baffin Island with due haste.
From what he knew of this submarine’s captain, there was no better officer in the entire Soviet fleet to accomplish this task. Sergei Markova was young and aggressive. The talented son of a decorated war hero, he had been groomed since birth for his present position.
Graduating first in his class at Leningrad’s Frunze Naval Academy, Markova had gained Mikhail’s attention while he was att
ending postgraduate courses at the A. A. Grechko Academy. Acting as a silent patron, Mikhail had made certain that the young officer’s first active assignment had been on one of the Motherland’s newest attack subs. As Mikhail expected, Markova distinguished himself as an officer who could be relied upon, and quickly moved up the ranks.
In an unprecedented five years’ time, Sergei Markova was a full captain. As one of the youngest, most intelligent commanding officers in the submarine force, it was only natural that he be given the newest, most technologically advanced attack vessel in the fleet. Powered by two pressurized water-cooled nuclear reactors, the Neva was built for speed and endurance. The sub’s primary operational area was the Barents, Kara, and Laptev Seas, and of course, the Arctic Ocean. Here the Neva accomplished several diverse missions — from escorting the mammoth Typhoon class ballistic missile-carrying submarines to patrolling clandestinely. Several of these latter types of missions involved surfacing in the pack ice while in unfriendly waters, and not once had Markova failed to fulfill his orders.
The young captain was said to have nerves of steel, and this was just the type of individual the Admiral of the Fleet was looking for. Mikhail was not deceiving himself into believing this was going to be an easy mission. For they would be going deep into enemy territory, surfacing in frozen, uncharted waters, and then searching for an object that was as insignificant as the proverbial needle in a haystack.
The risks were great, yet, if successful, this mission could very well signal a turning point in world history.
As significant as the glorious October Revolution, the outcome of this upcoming patrol could mean the difference between another century of Soviet mediocrity or the final fulfillment of Lenin’s prophetic vision of a world united in equality and brotherhood.
Thus, Mikhail couldn’t even begin to ponder the possibility of failure. For the future of the Motherland, he had to succeed!
A slight change in the An-22’s cabin pressure signaled that the airplane had at long last begun its descent into Murmansk. As the veteran mariner yawned to clear his blocked eardrums, he was thrown violently forward, and then shaken from side to side, by the worst turbulence yet encountered. The entire fuselage vibrated with an unnatural intensity, and as the overhead bins began snapping open, even the soundly sleeping attendant was roused from his slumber.
Mikhail tightly gripped the armrests of his chair, and looked on as the door to the flight deck suddenly popped open. Like a sailor on a three-day drunk, out stumbled the airplane’s senior pilot. A look of concern was on his weathered face as he struggled to make his way down the aisle of the constantly rocking plane.
“Shouldn’t you be buckled up snugly in your seat, Captain, in anticipation of our landing?” Mikhail asked tensely.
The senior pilot held on tightly to the chair beside that of his distinguished passenger as he replied “I’m afraid I’ve got some rather distressing news for you, Admiral. I don’t have to tell you what the weather’s like up here. But down in Murmansk, there’s a regular blizzard blowing. This storm is so bad the airport there has just closed down until further notice. It looks like we’ll be diverting to Severodvinsk. And if we’re lucky, maybe we’ll get there before this storm does.”
Not believing what he was hearing, Mikhail firmly retorted.
“We are not going to Severodvinsk, Captain!
If I have to fly this plane myself, we’re going to land in Murmansk as planned.”
“But the airport’s closed!” the pilot pleaded, holding on for dear life as the plane suddenly canted hard on its left side.
“We’re barely holding together up here at ten thousand meters. Down below, it will be even worse.”
“I don’t care if there’s a full-fledged hurricane down there, Captain. The security of the Motherland hinges on my reaching Murmansk before the next tide changes.”
“But that’s impossible!” protested the red-faced pilot.
“So was the defense of Stalingrad,” barked the determined mariner.
“There will be no deviations from our flight plan, comrade. As Admiral of the Fleet of the Soviet Union, I order you to land this aircraft at the Murmansk airport right now! Do I make myself absolutely clear. Captain?”
Obviously outranked the grim-faced pilot could only shrug his thin shoulders.
“All right. Admiral. If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get. It’s your funeral. To tell you the truth, in this line of work, I never expected to live past forty anyway.”
Like a punch-drunk boxer, the pilot proceeded to return to the flight deck, while Mikhail Kharkov took a deep, full breath to regain his composure. The veteran mariner had come too far to be delayed now, and neither a cowardly pilot nor a tempest from hell itself would keep him from attaining his goal.
The storm hit Murmansk right at the start of the late afternoon rush hour. Already overcrowded with trucks, buses, and automobiles, the icy streets were gridlocked. In this weather, the expedient commuter moved by foot, though even this means of transport had its hazards. Blinded by blowing snow, and forced to pick their way around the already gathering drifts, thousands of scurrying pedestrians left their places of work and madly scrambled to get home before the snow made even walking impossible.
When Sergei Markova and his six-year-old daughter Sasha left their apartment, only a few scattered flurries were falling. By the time they had finished their shopping, the blizzard had struck in all its fury.
Fortunately, Sergei’s wife had made them bundle up properly before leaving home. An avid follower of the weather forecast, Lara had been anticipating this storm, and though it had hit earlier than expected, she’d made certain her family was sufficiently clothed.
With his right hand holding the large mesh bag in which their recently purchased treasures were stored, the thirty-seven-year-old submarine captain prepared to leave the bakery, their last stop of the day. Comfortably dressed in a red nylon, down-filled ski jacket that he had picked up while on shore leave in Gdansk, Sergei turned to see what was keeping his daughter.
As he expected, the precocious youngster was still standing beside a bakery rack, munching away on a freshly baked cookie. She looked like a little marshmallow in her long white fur coat with the matching hat, mittens, and boots, and her proud father couldn’t help but grin as he called out to his only child.
“Come now, Sasha. It’s time that we got going.
We’ve been gone long enough, and Mommy’s going to be worried. Besides, you don’t want to miss Uncle Viktor and Aunt Tanya’s visit, do you?”
Eyeing the rack of freshly baked cookies that had just come out of the oven, the youngster excitedly replied.
“Oh, Poppy, can’t I have just one cookie before I go? They’re my very favorites!”
Lev, the white-haired baker, heard this request and briefly caught Sergei’s gaze and winked. Without another word said, he put several of the cookies in a small sack, bent over, and handed them to Sasha, who was one of his favorite customers.
“Here you go. Now be a good girl and give the package to your father so that he can put it in his parcel.”
“But I want one now!” the stubborn six-year-old demanded.
The potbellied baker had five children of his own so he knew how to deal with her.
“You’ve already had two whole cookies, young lady. And with supper time rapidly approaching, you won’t have any room for that cake that your father just bought you for dessert.”
Having already forgotten about this anticipated treat, Sasha weighed the likeable baker’s words. Then with the brown paper sack holding the cookies clutched tightly in one mittened hand, she bid the baker farewell.
“Goodbye, Comrade Lev. Thank you for the cookies.”
As he guided the youngster to her father’s side, the baker responded.
“And goodbye to you, Sasha Markova. Enjoy your treats and don’t eat too much and get a bellyache.”
Admiring the manner in which the red-cheeked p
roprietor handled his headstrong daughter, Sergei safely stashed away Sasha’s prized cookies and addressed the portly figure who had baked them.
“Good day to you. Comrade Petrofsky. And thank you again for taking such good care of my family while I’m out at sea.”
“Nonsense, Captain,” retorted the baker.
“It’s you who deserve all the thanks. All of us can sleep just a bit more soundly at night knowing that our shores are protected from the advance of any enemy.”
The two men exchanged a warm handshake as a howling gust of wind sounded from outside the glassed-in storefront. Through the steamed-up windows, the blowing blanket of snow that accompanied these gusts could be seen.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to give you a lift home. Captain?” the baker offered.
“My truck is parked right in the back lot.”
Sergei Markova shook his head.
“That’s most kind of you, Comrade. But I imagine that the going will be just as fast on foot. And besides, we don’t have far to go, and my wife made absolutely certain that we were dressed warmly enough for a polar expedition.”
The baker chuckled at this and escorted them to the door.
“Walk carefully, my friends,” he said as he opened the door and watched them duck out into the thickly falling snow.
Outside, Sergei found the brisk air invigorating.
His daughter seemed oblivious to the cold, and was already scraping the snow off the bakery’s window ledge and compacting it in a tight ball.
“Let’s have a snowball fight. Poppy!”
Before he could answer her, she let loose the powdery snowball that struck Sergei on his right thigh.
“Now hold on a minute, young lady!” he responded, practically shouting to be heard over the howling wind.
“Since I’m carrying all the packages, I can’t defend myself. You could at least wait until we get home and I stash away our goodies. Then I’ll take you on.”
“All right!” Sasha screamed, glee in her voice.
Under the Ice Page 13
