Under the Ice

by Richard P. Henrick

It wasn’t until a depth of three hundred and twenty meters that the Neva quit falling. There were no shouts of celebration, no cries of joy. Only the firm voice of the vessel’s captain as he barked out commandingly.

  “Take her back up, Comrade Diving Officer. And this time we’ll anticipate that inversion current and we’ll break through to the surface as we intended!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Petty Officer First Class Stanley Roth was like a man reborn. Since his successful oral surgery, the constant pain that had left him listless and irritable for days on end was gone. And with this change for the better came an entirely new outlook on life.

  Though his gum was still sore where the tooth had been removed, he could drink down a mug of hot coffee without having to howl out in agony. And for the first time in weeks, he actually slept for an entire six-hour stretch without resorting to a narcotic stupor to do so.

  There was an expectant smile on his lips as he pranced down the passageway that led to the sound shack. It had been much too long since he’d really looked forward to going to work, and he felt like a wide-eyed recruit again.

  Inside the padded door of the sonar compartment he found Seaman Lester Warren hunched over his console. The youngster was totally absorbed in his current scan, and didn’t even realize that his relief had arrived.

  “Good afternoon, Seaman Warren. And how are you on this glorious day at fifty fathoms?”

  Not certain who it was that was greeting him, the

  Texan looked up from the repeater screen and had to do a double take when he spotted the grinning petty officer.

  “Is that really you, Mr. Roth? Why you look like your old self once again.”

  “Why I didn’t know that it showed,” Stanley jested, then added.

  “Now I remember how it felt when I was a freshman and had my cherry popped by the hottest cheerleader in school. Why I feel absolutely wonderful!”

  Unable to share the petty officer’s enthusiasm, Lester turned back to his screen. Stanley Roth could see that something was bothering the kid, and he gently touched him on his shoulder.

  “What’s with the long face, Les? Life’s too short to be taken so seriously.”

  The Texan replied while studying the repeater screen.

  “I’m just doing my job, sir.”

  “Oh, cut the crap, Les. What the hell is bothering you?”

  The frustrated seaman emotionally vented himself without taking his eyes off the monitor.

  “It’s that bogey, sir, and the way they were able to sneak up on us without me even knowing they were out there.

  Why if lady luck wasn’t with us, we all could have been killed!”

  “Easy, kid,” prompted the veteran.

  “Ours is far from a perfected art, and these things happen from time to time.”

  “Tell that to the XO,” retorted the distraught seaman.

  “Lieutenant Commander Layman came down here and really read me the riot act after those cowardly bastards rammed us. Yet when I played him back the tapes, he had to admit that with all the natural commotion going on in the water around us, even he had a hard time identifying Ivan’s signature.”

  Stanley shook his head.

  “It’s this damn ice, Les.

  The way it’s always fracturing and cracking, the Queen Mary could be on our tail and we’d never know the difference. So relax kid, and look on the bright side. The Defiance survived Ivan’s best blow to the chops, and now that we’ve got all of our turbines back on line, it’ll soon be our turn to even the score. That’s the way it works in this game.”

  The junior seaman seemed unaffected by these words of wisdom, and Roth sighed heavily.

  “You damn kids today take life so seriously. Nobody’s perfect, and no machine is either.”

  Realizing that he was wasting his breath, the veteran walked over to the adjoining console and seated himself. It felt as if he had just returned to work from a long vacation. While absorbing the familiar sights and smells, he activated his repeater screen and clipped on his headphones.

  He initiated his scan by isolating the hydrophones set into the upper portion of their bow. As Roth had expected, he was immediately greeted by the gut-wrenching sounds of the ice. No matter how hard he tried to filter them out, they still prevailed. When one nearby floe fractured, it sounded like the explosive crack of a rifle shot. A passing ice ridge expressed the monumental pressure it was under by groaning loudly and sounding like the rusty hinge of a gate. And yet another ridge surrendered, and could be heard buckling under with a high-pitched squeal of protest.

  Well aware of the great difficulty of picking out a man-made sound signature in this maelstrom of white noise, Stanley readjusted his scan to take in that portion of the sea that lay beneath them. As soon as he completed this connection, his headphones filled with a mournful, high-pitched cry that was followed by a sharp series of resonant clicks and whistles. From several different directions this call was answered, and the senior sonar technician mentally visualized the graceful creatures responsible for this distinctive racket.

  Because of their current position in the waters of Lancaster Sound, these undersea mammals were either the white-skinned beluga whale or its legendary cousin, the narwhal. The males of this latter species were known for the long spiraling ivory tusk that pierced their upper lip on the left side of the jaw; it could extend toward for as much as ten feet.

  Once selling for up to twenty times their weight in gold, these tusks were treasured in medieval Europe where they were ground up and utilized as an aphrodisiac or the filler for a magical amulet.

  Stanley had once read a National Geographic article that described these creatures in detail. He had been surprised to learn that scientists were still confused as to the reason such tusks were needed. It used to be believed that the narwhals used these appendages to stir up the seafloor for food. But the tusks themselves were hollow for most of their length and could easily be broken. The going theory was that they played some sort of sexual role, though Stanley couldn’t begin to theorize on what this might be.

  Beyond the singing whales, a herd of seals could be heard harshly barking. While an assemblage of shrimp chattered away in the distance like a bunch of hyperactive castanets. To the veteran sonar operator, all of these sounds were like old friends. This would be his twelfth Arctic patrol, and during many a long lonely duty segment, the noises of the ice pack and of the creatures that lived there were his only company.

  As he scanned the Defiance’s baffles, that sound absorbent cone that lay immediately aft of their spinning propellers, Stanley realized that his colleague was still seated before his console.

  “Jesus Les, don’t you even want to grab some chow, or at least a cup of joe? You’ve been at this for a straight four-hour clip, and I’m more than capable of handling it on my own.”

  The determined Texan replied without taking his eyes off the repeater screen.

  “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to hang around a little longer. Maybe with both of us listening, Ivan will finally give himself away.”

  “Suit yourself,” returned Stanley.

  “Though all the overtime in the world isn’t going to make up for the fact that Ivan was able to use a combination of stealth and the natural ambient noises of these waters to land a crisp right jab to the Defiance’s, kisser.

  No matter how many ears we had listening for their approach, chances are they still would have been able to get within punching distance.”

  “All I’m waiting for is just one damn chance to even the score,” muttered the Texan.

  “Just one damn chance!”

  The young technician was obviously not the type of person who accepted failure easily, and Roth knew that the best way to let him vent his frustrations was to let him work them out. After a couple more hours in front of the repeater screen, his growling stomach and sore back would send him packing.

  Stanley was in the process of isolating the hydrophones mounte
d into the very tip of the ship’s spherical bow, when he heard a series of distant crashing sounds that were followed by a muted, throbbing whine that was disturbingly familiar. His shipmate also heard this alien racket and shouted out excitingly.

  “Do you hear that, Stanley? It sounds like the commotion the Defiance made when we slammed into the ice on our last patrol!”

  This acute observation hit home, and Roth was able to identify the pulsating whine that followed the initial clamor.

  “Jesus Christ, you hit the nail right on the head, Les. That’s a friggin’ ballast pump! Hang in there, my friend. You wanted a chance for revenge, and if I know the Skipper, you’re about to get your wish.”

  Admiral of the Fleet Mikhail Kharkov was absolutely certain he had picked the right man for the difficult job at hand as he watched the Neva’s young captain in action. Faced with a variety of calamities ranging from an unexpected collision with the ice to an unscheduled dive to depths that tested the very integrity of their hull, Sergei Markova remained absolutely cool under fire. Not even stopping to wipe the sweat from his brow, the Neva’s commanding officer barked out the orders that would once again send the vessel topside to meet the challenge of the ice.

  Persistence was a quality Mikhail greatly respected.

  It was his great uncle who’d given him his first lesson in that all-important virtue. They had been hiking beside the wooded shores of Lake Baikal at the time, and had come across one of the many hot springs in the area. As his adult guide ripped off his clothes and invited Mikhail to join him in the steaming water, Mikhail humbly admitted that he didn’t know how to swim.

  “That makes not a bit of difference,” instructed his great-uncle as he immersed himself in the torrid pool.

  “Jump right in and you’ll learn soon enough.”

  Mikhail did just that, yet since he neglected to close his mouth, the youngster almost drowned in the process. His great-uncle pulled him out, and though Mikhail was more than content to forget all about this swimming lesson, his guardian would have no part of it.

  “You must jump back in at once, Misha,” wisely directed the grizzled trapper.

  “Otherwise one bad experience might cause you never again to enter the water.”

  With a bit more circumspection, Mikhail took the old-timer’s advice and jumped back into the pool, this time making absolutely certain to keep his mouth closed. And less than a half hour later, the youngster was actually swimming all on his own.

  Throughout his career, Mikhail remembered this invaluable lesson. He utilized it time and again, especially during the traumatic years of the Great War. Battle brought out both the best and worst qualities in men. And even the bravest soldier’s nerves were put to the test each time he went into harm’s way.

  After returning from his first wartime submarine patrol, common sense would have had him ask for a transfer to the surface fleet at once. For their vessels were not of the best quality, and the exploding Nazi depth charges put a fear in a sailor’s soul that none would ever forget. Yet with his great-uncle’s words in mind, he returned to the undersea world and came back from his second patrol with his first confirmed kill — a fully loaded German troop transport.

  Now to watch the Neva’s brave young captain at work brought a satisfied grin to the white-haired veteran’s cracked lips. Not about to let adversity get in the way of his mission’s success, Sergei Markova hunched over the extended periscope and called out firmly.

  “Looks good from this angle. What’s our depth, comrade diving officer?”

  “Thirty meters,” replied a tense, high-pitched voice.

  As he backed away from the scope, the captain added.

  “Now this time the Neva will be anticipating that cold current, and will be more than prepared to counter it. Bring us up, comrade, as gently as if your own mother were on top of our sail.”

  A muted surging hum filled the attack center as the ballast pumps were activated. As the now-lightened sub began to rise, the diving officer reversed the ballast process to insure that the ship was heavy enough to meet the temperature inversion that had sent them shooting upward like a rocket last time.

  “We’re at eighteen meters, and holding. Captain,” he proudly observed.

  “Keep her right there. Comrade,” ordered the captain.

  “At this depth we should be just above that current and we’ll be able to drift right under the polynya.”

  As Sergei returned to the periscope well, he peered inside the lens coupling and eagerly called out.

  “Come here. Admiral. I’d like you to take a look at something.”

  Surprised by this request, Mikhail Kharkov proceeded to have a look through the lens. An expanse of startlingly clear water met his eyes. This was in itself astonishing, since most of the world’s oceans would appear pitch black at this depth. The veteran mariner was struck with wonder when a translucent, rainbow-colored blob gracefully floated by. One look at this creature’s long, flowing tentacles and Mikhail was able to identify it as a jellyfish.

  “Well, I’ll be,” reflected the admiral as he backed away from the scope.

  “So we’re not so alone in these frozen waters after all.”

  “We certainly aren’t,” returned Sergei Markova.

  “And from the clarity of the water and the amount of light visible, I’d say if there is ice above us, it should be thin enough for us to smash through with our sail. Shall we give it a try, Admiral?”

  Not about to tell the captain otherwise, Mikhail beckoned him to get on with it and Sergei snapped into action.

  “Down scope. Bring us up ever so gently. And don’t worry about that current. We’re well above it as the jellyfish that surround us seem to be just hanging there motionless.”

  The ballast pumps again activated and the diving officer anxiously reported.

  “Fifteen meters.”

  “Thin ice above,” observed the seaman assigned to monitor the surface-scanning Fathometer.

  “We’re close, comrades. So very close,” said the captain.

  “Stop the pumps!”

  The muted hum of venting ballast suddenly ceased, to be followed by a barely perceptible bumping sensation.

  “Our sail’s up against the ice pack!” exclaimed the captain.

  “Now it’s time to break on through. Lighten those tanks.”

  The diving officer once again activated the ballast pumps. The familiar throbbing hum returned, yet even with this increase in positive buoyancy, the ice remained immovable.

  Mikhail Kharkov watched as the captain thoughtfully walked over toward the diving console.

  “That’s enough, comrade. You can stop pumping now since it’s evident this ice is a bit more dense than we assumed.”

  It was at this point that the ship’s Zampolit stepped out of the shadowy corner in which he had been perched.

  “What are we to do now, Captain? Shall we go and find a more suitable polynya?”

  “And why in Lenin’s name should we go and do a thing like that. Comrade Zinyagin?” returned the captain.

  “It’s foolish to waste all this effort just because of a little tough ice. And besides, have you already forgotten that it’s to this very sector duty calls us.”

  “But how are we to get topside if the ice blocks our way?” continued the puzzled Political Officer.

  Sergei Markova grinned.

  “I guess we’ll just have to go and smash our way through. Flood her down, comrade diving officer. But only ten meters or so.

  Then lighten our load, and we’ll see what kind of icebreaker the Neva makes.”

  Unable to hide his unease, the Zampolit sighed heavily. As he removed his handkerchief to mop his dripping wet jowls, he returned to his corner to brace himself for that inevitable collision that would soon be coming.

  A carefully monitored surge of onrushing seawater brought the submarine down another ten meters in depth. Then with a single turn of his wrist, the diving officer vented this additio
nal ballast and the now lightened vessel drifted upward.

  There was a loud crack and for a moment the deck below quivered and trembled. Yet the Neva still found itself beneath the dome of solid ice.

  “So it’s going to take a little more muscle,” observed the captain.

  “Take us down fifteen meters, and this time blow the main ballast. With a couple of hundred tons of additional positive buoyancy, the Neva will smash on through that ice like a fist through a plate-glass window.”

  Though stimulated by the young captain’s vigor, Mikhail Kharkov knew that such a procedure was not without its dangers. The encompassing ice could be thicker than they anticipated, and even if their specially reinforced sail could take the resulting collision, their fragile rudder might not. And there was always the ever-present threat of encountering an inverted spike of ice that could pierce the Neva’s hull and send them all to their watery doom. Yet such were the risks of Arctic operations. And since the completion of their mission depended upon a successful ascent, they had few alternatives, other than gambling on locating another polynya close by.

  For the first time in years, Kharkov felt his gut tighten with dread. And only then did he realize what a sheltered existence he had been living as a landlocked bureaucrat. As a sailor, fear had been a constant companion. Though infrequently acknowledged, it showed itself every time a storm at sea was encountered, or enemy waters were attained. At such times even the most decorated individuals felt that dreaded twinge deep in their bellies as they prepared for one more brush with mortality.

  Men such as their current Zampolit were less tolerant of that horror, and expressed their anxieties openly. As a commanding officer, Mikhail had learned to control his emotions. For fear was contagious, and a subordinate only had to see it on his captain’s face to lose whatever courage he might have summoned up to that point.

  A prime example of an officer who appeared to be in perfect control was Sergei Markova. As Mikhail had noted while watching him in action in the flooding engine room, the Neva’s young captain met even the direst of emergencies with a cool acceptance. His confident, levelheaded demeanor was especially evident now as he stood behind the diving console.