“Otherwise, you’d most probably keep working until you just dropped to the deck. How are your quarters, by the way? I’m sorry I couldn’t get by here sooner to ask, but the past couple of days have been hectic for all of us.”
“No apologies are necessary, Captain. My cabin is most satisfactory, and the crew has been most helpful, what little I’ve seen of them. Lately, I’ve been going right from my cabin to the officer’s wardroom to grab a bite to eat, and then straight over here.”
“Once you’ve completed the reprogramming and gotten a little rest, I’d be honored if you’d join me on a proper tour of the Defiance. Besides, from what I gather, the crew’s even got money riding on when you’ll finally be making an appearance.”
The scientist blushed.
“I sure wouldn’t want to let them down, now would I, Captain?”
“Not if you know what’s good for you,” returned Colter with a wink.
“Now, don’t hesitate to call out if you need anything — and get some rest!”
As he exited the sound shack. Colter found himself thinking about the warm smile she had flashed his way as he’d excused himself to get on with his duty.
She was certainly a hard worker, and there could be no doubting the sincerity of her intentions. Realizing that they’d soon know the results of her efforts, he transit ted a cable-lined passageway, and entered the familiar confines of the control room.
Lieutenant Commander Al Layman was waiting for him at the chart table, “Morning, Skipper. Did you sleep in this morning?”
“Afraid not, Al. Just spent a little longer on my morning walk through than usual.”
“I hope you found everything shipshape.”
Still thinking about the scientist’s smile. Colter absentmindedly replied.
“Everything was fine, Al.”
The XO knew his commanding officer well, and noting the distant look in Colter’s eyes, saw that his full attention was elsewhere.
“We can go over those charts another time. Skipper.
There’s nothing here that can’t wait until later.”
Only then did Matt Colter realize how far his thoughts had been drifting. Such a thing could be dangerous in times of crisis, and he instantly regained control of himself.
“There’s no reason for that, XO. You can carry on.”
“If you say so, Skipper,” replied Layman as he pulled his pipe from his pocket and placed its bit between his lips unlit. He then reached down and switched on the light to the chart table.
Clearly displayed beneath the clear Plexiglas of the table was a polar projection chart of the eastern portion of North America. Utilizing a blue crayon, Al Layman marked a small x in the sea halfway between the extreme northern point of Labrador and the southern coast of Greenland.
“As you can see. Skipper, we’re well on our way to the Davis Strait by now. We’ve currently got Labrador’s Cape Chidley off our port bow, and Greenland’s Cape Farewell to our starboard.”
“We must have gotten a little help from the Labrador Current,” observed Colter.
“We’re doing much better than I had anticipated. Any ice above us as yet?”
“As of two hours ago, the sea was clear, Skipper.
But that could be a whole different story now. If I remember correctly, this is about where we spotted the first floes on our last visit.”
“Seems like just the other day,” reflected Colter.
“How about taking us up to periscope depth and having a look around?”
“My pleasure. Skipper.”
As the XO relayed the orders that brought the Defiance up from the black depths. Matt Colter stepped up on the low steel platform that lay beside the plotting table. Only when the digital depth gauge reached sixty-five feet did the captain take over.
“Up periscope!” he barked.
An alert seaman hit the release switch, and to a loud hiss of pressurized hydraulic oil one of the two eight-inch-thick, steel cylinders that hung before Colter began sliding upward. Several drops of water ran down the cylinder’s barrel from its overhead fitting, as an eyepiece and a pair of folded handles emerged from the well. Bending over slightly, the captain snapped down the hinged handles and nestled his eyes up into the periscope’s rubberized lens coupling.
The direct light was at first so intense that it stung Colter’s eyes. The sky was a brilliant, deep blue, and as a wave of greenish seawater slapped up over the lens. Matt spotted several disturbingly familiar formations floating on the distant horizon. By merely increasing the magnification of the lens tenfold, these pure-white crystalline objects seemed to jump forward and a sudden heaviness formed in Colter’s gut.
For the monstrous icebergs meant only one thing, from this point onward, if something went wrong in the black depths below, the Defiance could no longer rely on the sea’s surface for a safe haven. Very much aware of this unsettling fact. Matt Colter sighed heavily and, like Arctic explorers for centuries past, consigned his fate to the spirits of the frozen sea.
Chapter Nine
Barely three hours after Captain Sergei Markova and his senior lieutenant got the unexpected call that sent them sprinting from Sergei’s Murmansk apartment, the Neva was steaming out of its sub pen at Polyarny. With barely enough time to change from their civilian clothing, the two senior officers coordinated the rushed departure that brought the last of the Neva’s eighty-five crew members on board with only twenty minutes to spare before the mooring lines were loosed.
Still not certain where they were ultimately headed, Sergei followed the orders that had him chart a course into the Barents Sea, between the island of Svalbard and Franz Josef land. Authorized to travel at its top speed of forty two knots, the Neva’s progress was swift, and twenty-four hours after the vessel set sail, it had attained the edge of the Arctic ice pack.
From the vessel’s highly automated attack center, Sergei Markova made certain that there was plenty of spare room between the top of the Neva’s stubby sail and the deepest of the inverted ice ridges. Only when he was confident that such a safe depth had been attained did he look to his watch, and then address his second-in-command, who was standing at the nearby plotting table.
“It looks like it’s just about time to be off to the wardroom, Viktor Ilyich.”
“But what should we do about our course?” countered the puzzled senior lieutenant.
“We’ve completed the first leg of our transit, and still find ourselves without a clear-cut destination.”
“Patience, Viktor. I’m certain that’s why Admiral Kharkov called this conference in the first place.”
“So the old fox is finally going to emerge from his den,” observed Viktor Ilyich Belenko.
“I can’t believe that we’ve been at sea a whole twenty-four hours and he hasn’t shown himself even once.”
“It’s obvious that our esteemed Admiral of the Fleet hasn’t merely been pining away in my quarters with a serv ere case of seasickness,” offered Sergei.
“Our Zampolit has been bringing him a constant stream of dispatches and charts ever since we left port.”
The senior lieutenant smirked.
“I bet Konstantin Zinyagin hasn’t worked so hard since basic training.
Why from what I understand, our Political Officer even brings the admiral his meals!”
“It’s about time Zinyagin did his fair share of work around here, Viktor. But that’s immaterial. Now, shall we go see what this great mystery is all about?”
As Viktor beckoned him to lead the way, Sergei Markova crisply exited the hushed attack center and headed toward the aft portion of the one-hundredandtenmeter-long vessel. The narrow passageway that they were soon transit ting was lined with storage lockers and snaking, stainless steel cables. To the muted whine of the Neva’s single shaft, geared steam turbines throbbing in the distance, they passed by the locked radio room and ducked through a double-thick hatch that brought them to their desired destination. me officer’s wardroom consis
ted of a large oval-shaped mahogany table around which eight upholstered chairs were placed. The haunting strains of Borodin’s “In the Steppes of Central Asia” emanated from the mounted stereo speakers and the two senior officers seated themselves at the vacant table. Sergei Markova’s customary place was at the head, yet because of the high rank of their special guest, protocol guided him to take the seat directly opposite this position. Viktor Belenko sat down on his right and cautiously whispered.
“I tell you, Sergei, I don’t like what’s going on here one bit. To me, it has all the trappings of a conspiracy.”
The captain responded, also taking extra care to keep his voice low.
“Your fears are noted, comrade.
But I still find them completely groundless. For what kind of conspiracy can take place on a ship when its two senior officers aren’t even involved?”
“Admiral of the Fleet Kharkov is not the type of man to take lightly,” warned Viktor.
“And you mustn’t underestimate our Zampolit. Konstantin Zinyagin might not be much of a sailor, but he’s sly and crafty and that’s a dangerous combination.”
Sergei shook his head.
“I still think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”
A prophetic tone flavored the senior lieutenant’s voice as he replied.
“I hope you’re right, comrade. But in this instance, my instincts tell me otherwise.”
Dismissing his subordinate’s unfounded suspicions as mere paranoia, Sergei Markova once again checked his watch. With a minute to go until the meeting was scheduled to begin, he glanced up at the colorful mural that hung on the wall before him. This expertly rendered painting showed one small portion of the river for which his command was named. Entitled
The Neva at Spring, the mural displayed that section of the river lying immediately east of the city of Leningrad. Here the Neva cut through a tract of wild marshland.
As it so happened, Sergei had visited this exact same spot several years before, while he was a cadet at Leningrad’s Frunze Naval Academy. Having been born and raised near the Black Sea resort city of Odessa, this trip to Leningrad proved to be his first visit to the north. He found himself particularly fascinated by the swamps and marshes that Peter the Great had first tried to tame almost three centuries ago, and made an effort to get out into the countryside whenever possible. One fair day in May, Sergei’s wanderings had brought him to the same section of riverbank that currently graced the wardroom’s wall. On that magical morning, he’d been able to view the same magnificent landscape that had inspired the mural’s creator. He’d seen the swirling blue current, the stunted birches that hugged the Neva’s wide banks, and the immense fields of blooming red poppies that filled the landscape with their vibrant color. He had been sincerely touched by this inspirational vista, and when he’d come across the exact same scene gracing the wardroom of his first command almost a decade later, Sergei had taken this as an excellent omen.
So far, the vessel had not let him down. The Neva was a submariner’s dream. Packed with the most advanced equipment the Motherland had to offer, and manned by an experienced, handpicked crew, the Neva proved herself time after time to be a first-rate warship. And thus it was only fitting that she be named after the great river that brought life to the people of Leningrad.
Sergei’s ponderings were abruptly broken by the arrival of the ship’s Zampolit. Konstantin Zinyagin strode into the wardroom with all the self-important airs of an Oriental potentate. With his dark, bushy brows, beady eyes, clipped mustache, and short, pointed beard, he resembled Socialism’s great founder, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. Yet this was as far as the physical similarity went, for the Political Officer was not only the smallest man on the Neva, but the plumpest as well. As he placed the assortment of rolled-up charts he held in his pudgy hands down on the table, the Zampolit stepped aside and stiffened his portly frame to attention. Seconds later. Admiral of the Fleet Kharkov emerged from the aft hatchway.
In vast contrast to Konstantin Zinyagin, Mikhail Kharkov was tall, trim, and aristocratic. Only his snow-white hair gave away his advanced years as he acknowledged the two senior officers with an alert nod.
“Good morning, Captain Markova, Senior Lieutenant Belenko,” greeted the admiral.
“Please join me for some tea and then we can get on with the briefing.”
Impatiently looking over at the Zampolit, Mikhail Kharkov implored.
“The tea. Comrade Zinyagin!”
“Of course,” stuttered the Zampolit. Then he clapped his hands twice.
This signal brought forth a white-coated steward carrying a silver tray holding four cups of tea and a platter of sweet rolls. Only when this steward pivoted and disappeared back into the passageway did the admiral seat himself at the head of the table, clear his throat, and continue.
“First off, I’d like to take this opportunity to personally thank you for giving up your cabin, Captain Markova. These old bones have found your cot quite comfortable, and the privacy of your stateroom has provided a most conducive work environment.”
“Your thanks are not needed, Admiral,” returned Sergei Markova.
“It is an honor to have you aboard, and the best that the Neva has to offer is yours, sir.”
“You are a most gracious host. Captain,” replied the white-haired veteran.
“Having captained a submarine, I realize how awkward such an unexpected visit can be. I do hope that you haven’t been too inconvenienced.”
Sergei briefly caught Viktor’s curious gaze before responding.
“Actually, I’m using the extra bunk in Senior Lieutenant Belenko’s cabin. As long as he can put up with my snoring, I should get along just fine.”
“Excellent.” The Admiral of the Fleet reached out for his teacup and thoughtfully stirred the amber-colored liquid.
“I must admit that these past twenty-four hours have been quite stimulating. Though I’ve seen precious little of the submarine, I can’t get over how smoothly things are run around here. This efficiency is only one of the reasons why the Neva has been selected from all the vessels in the fleet for this all-important mission.”
As he took a sip of his tea, the veteran introspectively grinned.
“Thirty-three years ago, when I had the honor of taking the first nuclear-powered November Class submarine to sea, vessels such as the Neva were but a dream. But through an unprecedented effort, our brilliant engineers somehow made this dream come true, and in ships such as this one, the fantasy has been realized.
“Because of the great advances of the last three decades, I can reveal the details of our present mission with full confidence that our difficult goal can be achieved. For the Neva has been picked to undertake a perilous journey deep into the frozen waters of the enemy. It is a mission in which failure of any sort can’t be accepted, as the future security of the Motherland rests in our hands!”
Noting that he had his audience’s rapt attention, Mikhail Kharkov continued.
“Two days ago, the plane carrying our beloved Premier, Alexander Suratov, disappeared off the northern coast of Baffin Island. The Bear-E recon plane that was sent up to monitor the Flying Kremlin on its flight to Ottawa, watched the II76 drop off its radar screens. No further contact of any type was established with the Flying Kremlin, and it is presumed to have crashed with the subsequent loss of all aboard. Now the question is, was this tragedy the result of a mechanical failure, or was another party responsible for the death of our great leader?
“According to the instructions of our Defense Minister, General Ivan Zarusk, I initiated an immediate investigation in an effort to answer this question, and the facts I soon uncovered were shocking. Fifteen minutes before the 11–76 dropped from the radar screens a final time, a flight of two American F-15 Eagles took off from Thule, Greenland, with afterburners fully engaged. At this same time, a top-secret NORAD radar installation known as Polestar was monitored directing a powerful beam of electronic interference toward
the Flying Kremlin. It is my supposition that this activity was not an innocent probe, but signaled a deliberate attempt by both the Americans and the Canadians to jam the Il-76’s sensors, while the F-15’s proceeded to blast our aircraft out of the skies with a Phoei-ix air-to-air missile.”
“Why, that’s incredible!” dared Viktor Belenko.
“Wouldn’t such a thing be a direct act of war?”
The admiral sneered sardonically.
“It certainly would, Senior Lieutenant. But before we can answer this act of cold-blooded murder with a suitable response, the members of the Politburo have asked me to provide them with concrete evidence proving it was a willful act of Imperialist aggression that sent the Flying Kremlin plummeting down to the frozen ice fields below. And with the Neva’s invaluable help, I intend to do just that.”
The veteran only had to snap his fingers a single time to get Konstantin Zinyagin into action. With sweat rolling down his flushed forehead, the stocky Zampolit unfolded one of the charts he had brought along, and spread it out on the table. Both of the submarine’s senior officers recognized this map as an exact twin of the polar projection currently gracing the Neva’s chart table.
After consuming a mouthful of tea, the admiral continued.
“If I’m not mistaken, taking into account the course which I relayed to you at the beginning of our journey, and the fact that we have been traveling at flank speed, our current position should be somewhere between Svalbard and Franz Josef Land. If we continued on this same course, in another twenty hours or so, we’d be transit ting directly beneath the North Pole. Long before we reach the Pole, it is my intention that the Neva turn toward Cape Morris Jesup and the Lincoln Sea. Here we will penetrate the Nares Strait between the western coast of Greenland and Ellesmere Island. Utilizing such a direct route, we will enter Baffin Bay and be in perfect position to access the frozen waters of Lancaster Sound.”
“Excuse me. Admiral,” interrupted Sergei Markova.
“But I question the wisdom of using the route you just mentioned. The Nares Strait is not only extremely narrow with treacherous currents, it is also littered with American and Canadian SOS US arrays.
Under the Ice Page 17
