Under the Ice

by Richard P. Henrick

  “Shall I inform the chief to halt work and secure the engine room. Skipper? We can be under this stuff in a couple of minutes flat.”

  A deafening, high-pitched shriek rose above the constant howl of the gusting wind, and Colter had to practically scream at the top of his lungs to be heard.

  “I hate to do it to them, but I don’t think we have much of a choice right now. Under the circumstances, I think it’s best if I run down there and tell them myself.”

  “You do that. Skipper. I’ll tough it out, and keep an eye on things from up here.”

  With a fluid ease. Colter climbed down the sail’s internal ladder, ducked into the control room, and began to make his way aft, without even bothering to take off his parka. Inside the ship, the noise of the fracturing ice was further amplified, and the deck was beginning to vibrate with the resulting shock waves This vibration intensified as the captain rushed into the engine room and approached the potbellied, Tshirted figure, working on the damaged pump with a large wrench.

  “Chief, I’m afraid I’m going to have to order you to suspend your repair effort. The lead we picked to surface in is rapidly closing in on us, and I have no choice but to take us under.”

  “So that’s what all that infernal noise is about,” observed the grease-stained chief engineer.

  “And here I thought it was the hordes of hell playing a little Arctic lullaby on the Defiance’s hull. I’ll have this gear stashed and secured in five minutes, sir.”

  “Thanks, Chief,” returned the captain as he turned to head for the control room.

  Noting that there wasn’t the merest hint of complaint in the chiefs response, even though his work was now to be doubled. Colter passed through maneuvering and climbed up to the deck above. It was as he hurriedly crossed through the wardroom that he realized the noise of the fracturing ice could no longer be heard. This fact was most apparent as he climbed back up to the sail and was met only by the incessant howling of the wind and the excited voice of his XO.

  “It stopped, Skipper!”

  “So I’ve noticed, Al. It looks to me like those pressure ridges have diminished some.”

  “They have, Skipper. And not only that, the ice actually seems to be receding.”

  Colter looked out to the ever-widening channel of open water that surrounded them and cursed angrily.

  “Damn it! And I just got through telling the chief to close up shop.”

  “You never know, Skipper. The ice might just start moving in once again.”

  Colter considered this observation and shook his head.

  “I don’t think so, Al. As far as I’m concerned, this polynya is as good as any other. So I’m going to call the chief and have them start up again.”

  “Whatever you say. Skipper. I’ll get him on the horn for you.”

  As the XO bent over and fumbled for the handset with his mittened hands. Matt Colter stared out at the ice pack. Nothing was as dangerous as a captain who had trouble making up his mind. This was the quickest way to lose a crew’s confidence, and once this occurred, a successful command was all but impossible.

  Yet an officer also had to be open to the constantly changing variables that influenced a decision, and had to be unafraid to change his mind when new facts were presented to him. Thus, Matt Colter had few reservations as he closely cupped the intercom to his lips and informed the Chief to resume the repair effort.

  During this entire sequence of events, the two senior officers were all but oblivious to the industrious efforts of the vessel’s radio man. Locked deep within the bowels of the Defiance, behind an acoustically padded, sealed doorway. Petty Officer Jules Thornton was about to initiate his second consecutive duty shift. Though a junior rating was all set to relieve him, Thornton would have none of it. Well aware of the unique nature of their mission, the Chicago native wanted to spend as much time as possible monitoring the recently activated receiver.

  This process was especially important now that they were on the surface. At long last the antenna had been fully extended, and he could begin listening for the homing beacon that had sent them up to these frozen waters.

  Because the cockpit voice recorder they had been sent to retrieve was Soviet in origin, there was still some question as to the exact frequency it would be transmitting on. Thus Thornton was forced to monitor a wide variety of channels in the hope that the proper one would eventually be chanced upon.

  With a pair of bulky headphones covering his ears, the senior radioman hunched over his console. As he routinely flipped through the frequency selection knob, he closed his eyes in order to focus his attention solely on the static-filled signals that were being sucked into the receiver.

  For as long as he could remember, radios had always fascinated him. As a Cub Scout he had built his own crystal set, and by his eighteenth birthday Jules was a licensed ham operator. To further follow his fascination, he got a job at an FM radio station based in Glenview, Illinois. There he could indulge himself to his heart’s content on a wide variety of excellent equipment, the upkeep of which was his responsibility.

  It was during a radio interview that he met a commander stationed at the nearby Glenview Naval Air Station. Already looking for additional challenge, Jules followed up on the officer’s invitation and visited the base on his first day off. As it turned out, the sophisticated radio gear he was soon introduced to was the type of equipment he had always dreamed about. And a week later he had enlisted, and was soon in basic training.

  Jules picked submarine duty because communications were such a vital part of such a warship’s operations.

  The very nature of seawater refracted and diffracted the majority of radio signals sent into it.

  Since only signals of a very low frequency could penetrate the depths, the systems were geared to utilize these. To cover depths of up to fifty feet, the VLF-very low frequency — bands were put into use, while deeper operations necessitated the use of the ELF (extra low frequency) channels. Since submarines desired to initiate their patrols as deep as possible to avoid detection, these latter ELF bands were ideal.

  Yet there was one major problem: such frequencies transmitted data at a very slow rate, with some three-letter codes taking up to fifteen minutes to go from sender to receiver.

  In addition to land-based communications, the submarine could also be contacted by TACAMO, take charge and move out, a Lockheed EC-130A aircraft that served as an airborne relay station. In the wake of such a plane trailed a six-and-a-half-mile-long antenna that could broadcast on a variety of wave lengths. Communications buoys were yet another method of establishing contact, and could be dropped from a passing ship or a suitably equipped aircraft.

  While in Navy radio school, Jules learned about an experimental system that could someday revolutionize his chosen field. This technology used blue-green lasers to penetrate the ocean’s depths. Such a communications system was dependent upon a considerable power source, and it was hoped that this problem could be solved by basing the transmitters on land and using a space-based satellite to reflect the signal back down into the sea.

  Though his current duty didn’t involve any such exotic, high-tech machinery, it was stimulating nonetheless.

  For somewhere on the surrounding icepack, lay the wreckage of a plane that had been carrying the Premier of the Soviet Union. And the key to finding this debris was the emergency signal being broadcast from that aircraft’s black box. The entire world was anxiously waiting for this device to be recovered and analyzed so that the cause of this tragic crash could be determined. Jules was quite aware of the importance of his present assignment, and applied himself diligently.

  It was on a pure hunch that the twenty-four-year-old petty officer switched the dial over to the ultrahigh frequency bands. Such a channel was infrequently used, especially by emergency equipment.

  Yet knowing the Russians’ paranoia when it came to such matters, Thornton figured it would be just like them to assign such a band to the cockpit voice
recorder’s transmitter.

  A throaty blast of static immediately met his ears, and as he reached out to activate several filters that he had available to him, a barely audible, high-pitched tone arose from the clutter. Unlike any signal that he had ever received before, the alien tone seemed to pulsate with a throbbing regularity, and he was certain that it was man-made and not an atmospheric anomaly.

  Jules Thornton’s pulse quickened as he urgently accessed his computer to determine from which direction the signal was emanating.

  While the senior radioman initiated this task, his commanding officer was in the nearby control room, an intercom handset snuggled up to his ear and a wide smile turning the corners of his mouth.

  “Why that’s fantastic news. Chief. You and your men are going to get a commendation for this, I promise you. How soon until we can start up both turbines?… Are you certain that’s all the time you need?… Why of course I’m anxious to get underway, even if the ice has quit closing in on us. Thanks again. Chief, and pass on a job well done to your men.”

  Matt Colter hung up the handset and directly addressed his XO.

  “They’ve done the impossible yet again, Al. The chief promises full power in another ten minutes.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Skipper!” retorted the astonished XO.

  “Why that means they’ve pulled it off a whole two hours ahead of schedule, and their preliminary estimate was far from a conservative one.”

  The captain shook his head.

  “I hope to God it’s no joke, but that’s what the chief says and I’m not about to call him a liar. Prepare the boat to dive, Mr. Layman.

  We’ve got us a little business to settle with a certain Russkie submarine crew.”

  “With pleasure. Skipper,” snapped the XO, as he turned to relay this directive to the ship’s diving officer.

  Matt Colter was on his way to the plotting table to chart the most logical intercept course, when a sudden disturbance diverted his attention. In the process of sprinting through the aft hatchway was a single ecstatic figure, whom the captain recognized as being their normally reserved senior radio man.

  “I’ve done it. Captain!” cried Jules Thornton excitedly.

  “I’ve located the black box!”

  This surprise revelation was all it took to grab the undivided attention of all the men who heard it.

  Relishing the spotlight, the radio operator added, “Those paranoid bastards are transmitting on ultrahigh frequency, yet I got ‘em all the same.”

  “For God’s sake, where man?” shouted the captain.

  Somewhat sobered by this firm query, Jules Thornton managed a deep calming breath and matter-of factly responded.

  “I’ve locked the homing beacon on bearing two-two-zero, sir. Its relative rough range is approximately eighty miles.”

  With these figures in mind. Colter looked down to the chart that was spread out before him. Bearing two-two-zero lay to their southwest, and a course in that direction would take them to the northern coast of Baffin Island’s Brodeur Peninsula. Confident that their quarry could most likely be found in these very same waters. Matt Colter barked out to his XO.

  “Make our course two-two-zero, Mr. Layman. And get the chief engineer on the horn — let him know that we’re going to call his bluff. It’s going to be a cold day in hell before Ivan gets another cheap shot at the USS Defiance. That I can assure you!”

  Chapter Twelve

  The first hint that something was wrong came just after they fed the dogs their evening meal. Instead of burrowing into the snow and resting at this point, the agitated huskies restlessly yanked on their canvas tethers and yelped incessantly. Cliff Ano was the first of the Arctic Rangers to notice this unusual behavior.

  The commandoes had been chowing down themselves, in the snow house they had hastily built on the floor of the windswept valley. Because of the continuing inclement weather and the unstable nature of the terrain they were crossing, their progress was much slower than anticipated. Exhausted by the constant detours they were forced to take, and hindered by the rapidly falling twilight, the Rangers had decided to bed down for the night and get a fresh start in the morning.

  The sergeant-major had just crawled out of the sturdy, snow-block igloo to relieve himself when he heard the barking dogs and walked over to investigate.

  Even with his presence, they failed to calm down, and the Inuit intently scanned the icy ridge of snow-covered rocks that surrounded their bivouac.

  Through the bare light of dusk, his keen glance spotted no visible trespassers, yet his instincts warned otherwise.

  Quick to return to the igloo, he approached Jack Redmond and discreetly commented.

  “The dogs are barking up a storm. Lieutenant. I think that we could have some uninvited visitors outside.”

  Putting down the tin cup filled with the tea he had been sipping, Redmond curtly queried.

  “Wolves?”

  The sergeant-major nodded.

  “Could be. Yet if that’s the case, our dogs won’t stand a chance. And don’t forget my deal with my uncle.”

  Redmond grinned.

  “I doubt if you’d let me, Sergeant-Major.

  What do you propose we do to scare ‘em off?”

  Ano briefly checked the room, taking in the other commandoes as they finished their rations and sipped their drinks. Several exhausted soldiers had already turned in for the night.

  “I’d like to reconnoiter the perimeter of our camp,” answered the Inuit.

  “Though I’d sure hate to go out there without someone watching my back.”

  “You got it,” Redmond retorted. He silently rose to put on his gear.

  From their cache of supplies he removed two powerful, waterproof flashlights and a pair of Ml 6 assault rifles. Only after he was certain both weapons were loaded with full clips did he hand one to the Inuit and beckon Ano to join him outside.

  The huskies were still barking up a storm as the two commandoes assembled in front of the igloo.

  The dark gray sky had just a hint of light in it as the Inuit spoke, just loud enough to be heard over the gusting wind.

  “I’m going to start behind the dogs and follow the ridge around to the floor of the valley. If there’s a pack of wolves on the prowl, they’ll most likely be found somewhere along the way.”

  “I’ll follow about ten meters behind you, Sergeant-Major.

  If these guys are as hungry as that bunch we encountered earlier in the day, its going to take at least a full clip to put the fear of god into those buggers.”

  The Inuit flashed Redmond a thumbs-up and turned to begin his reconnoiter. With a fluid ease he scrambled up the ridge of rock that lined this portion of the valley and deftly proceeded down the icy ledge. As he passed behind the tethered huskies, he switched on his flashlight and aimed its narrow beam at the ground below.

  Halfway between their campsite and the valley’s floor, the ridge widened into a large clearing. At first the Rangers had chosen this site to build their igloo in, but Cliff had pointed out the danger of an avalanche of rocks from above. As he now crossed this flat expanse, his torch picked out a series of large animal tracks in the deep powdery snow. They were freshly deposited and immense in size, and the Inuit didn’t need to see anymore to know what was disturbing the dogs so.

  Moments later, Jack Redmond joined him in the clearing. His torch clearly illuminating his discovery, Ano firmly whispered, “It’s Tornarsuk. My ancestors called him the one who gives power, but we know him by a different name — polar bear.”

  Redmond’s gut tightened.

  “What in the hell is a bear doing out in this weather? I thought they’d be in their dens by now.”

  The Inuit was quick with a response.

  “One can’t generalize when Tornarsuk is involved. Lieutenant.

  Though a good majority might be in hibernation at this time, others are still putting on fat to sustain them until spring. While some won’t even bo
ther to den at all.”

  “Do you think he’ll bother us?” queried Redmond.

  “Chances are he’s already scented our dogs. That means he won’t rest until he’s checked out the possibilities firsthand.”

  “Tied to their tethers like they are, they won’t stand a chance,” said Redmond.

  “Not only that, after he finishes off the dogs, he’ll most likely come after us,” added the Inuit all too seriously.

  A pained expression crossed Jack Redmond’s face.

  “I’ve had my fair share of bear troubles this week, Sergeant-Major. Any ideas on how we can solve our problem? I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this damn wind. And besides, I was looking forward to snuggling up in my blanket and cutting some z’s.”

  While waiting for some sort of response, Redmond noted that the Inuit’s glance had suddenly shifted. As Cliff Ano’s narrow gaze centered on that portion of the clearing directly behind his commanding officer, Redmond sensed the approach of trouble.

  “Your prayers have just been answered. Lieutenant,” managed the Inuit in the barest of whispers.

  “Just stay cool and don’t make any sudden moves.”

  Redmond’s pulse quickened as he whispered back.

  “Is it the bear?”

  The Inuit nodded that it was and smoothly flicked off the safety of his rifle. Then in one smooth movement he pushed Jack Redmond aside and let loose a deafening volley of gunfire. By the time Redmond regained his balance and pivot ted to put his own weapon into play. Cliff Ano had squeezed off the last 5.56mm bullet of his thirty-round clip.

  It only took one look at the mammoth, bloodstained body lying motionlessly at the edge of the clearing less than ten yards away for Redmond to lower the sights of his rifle. The polar bear lay fully extended, as if the Inuit had caught it while it was in the midst of a charge. It was at least twelve feet tall, its sinewy muscles still twitching in the last throes of death.

  “Sweet Jesus!” managed Redmond as he slowly approached the bear and viewed its deadly razor-sharp claws.