Under the Ice

by Richard P. Henrick

  Except for the ship’s Zampolit, the crew seemed to mirror their captain’s state. Even Mikhail was under the man’s spell, and he found himself consciously holding back questions he wouldn’t hesitate to ask if another was at the helm.

  The sound of rushing seawater broke the veteran mariner’s ponderings, and he reached out to steady himself as the Neva began slowly drifting downward.

  Expecting to next hear the surging roar of the main ballast tanks being vented, Mikhail found himself with the distinct impression that something was not right here. Seconds later, this presentiment was confirmed by the frantic voice of the sonar operator.

  “We’ve got an unidentified submerged contact, bearing zero-eight-zero, Captain! From the racket it’s making, it’s headed toward us with a bone in its teeth.”

  “Belay that order to blow the main tanks!” directed Sergei Markova.

  “Senior Lieutenant, what’s the best course available to see us out of this trap?”

  Before Viktor Belenko could answer, the Admiral of the Fleet found himself crying out in protest.

  “You can’t be serious, Captain? This is no time to be fainthearted. If this vessel is the Yankee Sturgeon that we paid our respects to earlier, now is the time to finish them off for good.”

  This remark was given some substance by the sonar operator’s next report.

  “The computer shows a seventy-three percent probability that this contact is an American Sturgeon class submarine. Captain.”

  “We’ve got clear water ahead of us on course three-four-zero, Captain,” offered the senior lieutenant firmly.

  “That’s the coward’s way!” spat the white-haired veteran.

  “If we stand a chance of successfully completing this mission, we must make our stand here and now. Flood those torpedo tubes. Captain Markova, and rid the seas of this Imperialist menace once and for all!”

  For one brief confusing moment, Sergei Markova found himself vacillating between two drastically different choices. Under normal circumstances, he would not hesitate to send the Neva running for the cover of open water. The alternative was to launch a torpedo attack. In his relatively short but full career, he had never before given such a drastic order. As a veteran cold-warrior, he was well aware of how much one could get away with before crossing that thin line leading to the unthinkable — a global nuclear exchange.

  A set of unwritten rules existed that regulated the degree of escalation in the undersea realm. Each side probed deep into the other’s territory, and even such potentially dangerous practices as ramming were unofficially condoned. Yet an actual torpedo attack was definitely out of the question.

  “The contact continues on course, and is reaching our offensive threshold, Captain,” reported the sonar operator.

  “For the sake of the Motherland, launch those torpedoes. Captain! Don’t you see? We have no other choice in this matter.”

  Sergei turned to directly face Kharkov as the white-haired veteran continued his impassioned plea.

  “I realize such an attack is unprecedented in this time of fragile peace, Captain. But the moment the Imperialists shot down the Flying Kremlin, a new and violent stage of this so-called cold war came into being.

  “Don’t forget about that squadron of F-15 Eagles we monitored closing in on our 11–76 with their afterburners ignited. And how can you ignore the disruptive electronic interference sent skyward from their Polestar DEW line installation? The Soviet Union might have lost a beloved leader in the dastardly missile attack that followed, but I can guarantee you that we haven’t lost our resolve. So for the sake of Alexander Suratov’s memory, now is the time to start evening the score. And once the black box is ours you’ll realize the validity of these words, and the whole world will cry out for justice!”

  “Captain, the contact has entered our defensive zone,” interrupted the unemotional sonar operator.

  “From this point onward, the Neva is well within the range of the Sturgeon’s Mk-48 torpedoes.”

  “Shall I initiate immediate evasive maneuvers, Captain?” quizzed the concerned senior lieutenant.

  “A launch by the Sturgeon now would most likely prove fatal.”

  His gaze still locked on the distinguished face of the Admiral of the Fleet, Sergei felt the old-timer will him onward, and the young officer reluctantly nodded.

  “There will be no evasive maneuvers. Senior Lieutenant, until we first launch a salvo of our own,” declared the captain.

  “Such a drastic decision is necessitated by a single concern. As long as that Sturgeon remains in these waters, our ultimate mission is compromised. So we have no choice but to eliminate it.”

  A relieved grin broke upon Mikhail Kharkov’s face as he listened to the young captain call out forcefully.

  “Prepare tubes one and three for firing. Sonar, we’re going to need a sonic interface between the target’s signature and those warheads. And for our very lives, make it a secure one!”

  Helping tag the suspected Soviet submarine as it attempted to smash its way through the ice, was just the kind of thing that Seaman Lester Warren needed to snap him out of his doldrums. A new spirit of self-confidence infused the junior sonar technician as this contact was confirmed and the Defiance moved in to intercept it.

  Any thoughts of abandoning his console to fill his empty stomach were far from the Texan’s mind. Instead he was very content to remain right at his duty station, with his veteran shipmate manning the terminal on his right.

  Since initially picking up the enemies’ signature, they had monitored them making yet another futile attempt to smash their way to the surface. Currently headed downward for what appeared to be one last effort, the Russians had just taken on additional ballast. Even at a range of thirty miles, this distinctive racket was clearly audible.

  One of the unusual features of under-ice operations was the manner in which such signatures traveled. Because the sound waves were reflected upward by the seabed and downward by the ice cover, man-made signatures could be heard for a great distance. This would be particularly significant if the ambient sounds of the ice itself could be filtered out.

  Yet since this was extremely difficult to achieve, Warren was quite content to receive startlingly clear readings at their present range.

  They were rapidly approaching the point where the Defiance could initiate a torpedo attack if it so desired. Though Lester Warren thought such a response was more than appropriate considering the scare Ivan had given them, it was Captain Colter’s decision. However, anxious to know if this was indeed the course they would next take. Warren sat forward expectantly when Stan Roth hung up the intercom handset on which he had been talking.

  “You’ll never guess who I just got off the horn with, Les? That was none other than Lieutenant Commander Layman, and he wanted to personally convey to you a job well done.”

  Though this was certainly better than another censure, the Texan still found such a remark unnecessary.

  “That’s all very well and good, Stanley. But what did he say about the Russkies? Are we going to take them out, or what?”

  Noting his shipmate’s impatience, Stanley Roth snickered.

  “My, aren’t you the eager one. Since when did you become such a hawk?”

  “To tell you the truth, Stan, I always thought I had a pretty good understanding of the Soviet people. They impressed me as a levelheaded sort, who wanted peace just as much as we did. But my opinion abruptly changed the moment they rammed us.”

  “I hear you, Les. And you’ll be happy to know that the captain happens to feel likewise. In fact, the XO just told me to lock Ivan’s sound signature into the Mk-48’s in tubes one through three.”

  “All right! We’re finally going to play hardball,” exclaimed the Texan as he watched his shipmate hit the switches that would feed the Russian sub’s sound signature directly into the computers mounted inside their torpedoes.

  Yet as the reality of this bold new step sunk in, Lester’s tone sudden
ly revealed concern.

  “Do you think this will mean war, Stan?”

  Only after he had successfully completed the interface did the senior technician answer.

  “That’s hard to say, Les. But where I’m sitting, the prospects for detente sure don’t look very promising.”

  This statement was punctuated by a distant muted whirring sound that flowed into their headphones from the direction of their target. In all his years of service, Stanley Roth had only heard this distinctive racket during sea trials with the fleet. Yet this certainly wasn’t an exercise. A look of pure disbelief came on the veteran’s face as he cried out in horror.

  “Holy Mother Mary, Ivan just launched a broadside at us!”

  Listening on in sheer terror as the signatures of two separate torpedoes filtered in through his headphones, Lester Warren found that his worst nightmare had at long last been realized — they were at war!

  The frantic call from the sound shack caught Captain Matt Colter and his XO huddled around the plotting table.

  “Damn it?” cursed Colter.

  “I should have known this Ivan would be the type to shoot first and ask questions later. Let’s return the favor. Lieutenant Sanger, hit ‘em with tubes one, two, and three. Then release our MOSS Mk-70 decoy out of tube number four.”

  “You got it. Captain,” answered the alert weapons’ officer as he punched the buttons of the ship’s Mark 101 A fire-control system.

  Seconds later, the sound of four exploding blasts of compressed air filled the control room with a resonant roar. The deck beneath them quivered as the now-empty tubes began filling with water to compensate for the great weight they had just lost.

  “All four weapon’s running straight and true,” observed the breathless weapons’ officer.

  “Then let’s get the hell out of here!” yelled Colter.

  “Take her down deep and quick, Mr. Marshall. I want to leave a knuckle in the water that those Red torpedoes will never be able to follow.”

  As the muted whining sound of the turbines engaging filled the control room, the Defiance seemed to lurch forward in a sudden burst of speed. The helmsmen made the most of this additional momentum, and the 5,000-ton vessel canted hard on its side and initiated a tight, spiraling dive into the black depths below. With all the grace of a jet fighter, the sub made a corkscrew maneuver that left a hissing vortex of agitated seawater in the ship’s baffles.

  “Five hundred feet,” observed the diving officer coolly.

  Tightly gripping the rail behind the chart table, Matt Colter absorbed this information. His practiced gaze scanned the compartment, and he watched how the crew fought to keep their balance as the deck violently tilted from side to side. The g-forces proportionally increased to a point where loose objects such as unsecured coffee mugs and rulers began crashing to the deck.

  The digital knot indicator that lay mounted on the forward bulkhead before the harness-constrained helmsmen registered twenty-one knots. Yet the turbines were just getting warmed up and before this maneuver was over they would be shooting through the water at a speed of over twice their present one.

  “Seven-hundred and fifty feet,” said the diving officer.

  The boat canted hard on its left side and seemed to momentarily shudder as it penetrated a depth to which few other man-made vessels could safely hope to venture. As the hull began to groan in protest of the great water pressure it now encountered. Colter looked over and caught the concerned gaze of his XO.

  “Well, Mr. Layman, do you think we shook those Red fish yet?”

  The XO answered directly.

  “I’d say there’s a damn good chance that we did. Skipper. We’re getting awfully close to our depth threshold, and now might be a good time to pull out of this dive and see what’s behind us.”

  Almost to punctuate this response the diving officer dryly called out, “Nine-hundred feet.”

  Colter held back his reply until the depth gauge read an even thousand.

  “Helmsmen, pull her up and hold us at nine-hundred and ninety feet. Make your new course one-six-zero.”

  Glancing up at the knot indicator, the captain disgustedly called out to his XO.

  “Damn it, All Get on the horn to the chief and tell him to get the lead out of this old lady’s pants. We need at least forty knots, and we need it now!”

  As the XO alertly nodded and picked up the nearest handset. Colter addressed his next remarks to the quartermaster.

  “Mr. Lawrence, patch in the sound shack with our overhead speakers, and activate the remote pickup.”

  This allowed the captain to talk directly to the sonar room, with the response filtering back through the public address system for all inside the control room to clearly hear.

  “Mr. Roth, this is the captain. Do you read me?”

  “I hear you, sir,” returned the tense voice of the senior sonar technician.

  Noting this tension, Colter responded.

  “Good. Now take a deep breath and tell me, did that little knuckle we left behind do the trick?”

  Stanley Roth’s voice remained strained as he responded.

  “It looks like our decoy took care of one of ‘em, Captain. Yet the other one wasn’t so easily fooled and is still on our tail. Range is thirty-thousand yards and starting to close.”

  “Damn!” cursed Colter, whose eyes flashed to the knot counter.

  “Where’s that additional speed, XO?”

  With the intercom handset still cradled up against his ear, Al Layman could only hunch his shoulders as the digital indicator seemed to remain locked on thirty-five knots.

  “Helmsman, swing us around to bearing one-zero-zero. And make it crisp!”

  The captain’s forceful directive was met by such a sharp turn to port, the loose material that had already been deposited on the deck careened across the floor. Forced to further tighten his grip to keep from being flung to the deck himself, Matt Colter locked his gaze on the speed counter. His glance seemed to narrow as the indicator suddenly rose one, two and three complete knots.

  “That’s more like it!” cried the captain.

  “Yet since it’s doubtful we can outrun that damn fish, we’re going to have to lose it another way. Planesman, bring us up to a depth of three-hundred feet and do it quickly.”

  As the seated seaman responsible for operating the ship’s two, sail-mounted planes yanked back on his airplane-type steering column, the bow angled sharply upward. This change of course caused those sailors not having the luxury of stabilizing seat harnesses to grasp some support to keep from being flung backward.

  Matt Colter gripped a rail. With the sweating palms of his hands rubbed raw by the tubular steel his grip had locked onto, the captain watched as the depth gauge passed the six-hundred-foot mark. Doing his best to ignore the excruciating pain that shot up his wrists. Colter queried.

  “Mr. Roth, what’s that torpedo doing?”

  An awkward moment of silence forced the captain to repeat his question. It was now met by a stuttering response from the mounted speakers.

  “Uh, sorry about that, sir. But I’m afraid the news is still grim. The fish is coming up with us, and has now closed the gap to eighteen thousand yards.”

  Instinctively, Colter’s gaze went to the digital speed counter. It registered a blistering forty-three knots, and since any additional speed on their part was highly unlikely, the captain held back on venting his fury on the chief engineer.

  “We’re approaching three hundred feet. Captain,” observed the diving officer.

  “Torpedo’s still closing, sir,” added the intense voice of Stan Roth.

  “Range is now down to twelve thousand yards.”

  Matt Colter caught his XO’s somber stare. The two senior officers seemed to be attempting to silently read each other’s thoughts when a sudden flash of inspiration gleamed in the captain’s eyes.

  “The damn ice!” reflected Colter fervently.

  “We’ll head right on up to t
he surface, and then plow back down into the depths. And if we’re lucky, that torpedo will breach and smack right into that ever-loving ice!”

  The barest of grins broke out on the XO’s previously worried face, and this was all that Colter needed to convince him to put his hastily conceived plan into action.

  “Mr. Marshall, we’re going to go all the way up to one hundred feet before flooding the tanks and going back down to crush depth. I know it’s going to be a hell of a roller-coaster ride, but if the Lord is with us, this one should do the trick.”

  As the diving officer prepared to implement this highly complicated and dangerous maneuver, the two occupants of the ship’s sonar compartment remained anxiously glued to their consoles. With their headphones tightly clipped to their ears and their stares locked to the flashing repeater screens, both Stanley Roth and Lester Warren waited for what seemed to be inevitable.

  “It doesn’t look good,” quietly observed the concerned young Texan to his partner.

  “That fish can’t be less than eight thousand yards off our tail.”

  “I’m afraid it’s more like seven, and closing in with each passing second,” returned Roth grimly.

  “Maybe it will run out of fuel,” offered Lester.

  “It can’t keep on going like that forever.”

  The veteran sonar technician shook his head.

  “Don’t underestimate those Russkie engineers, Les. They build ‘em tough and with plenty of staying power.”

  As the menacing whine of the approaching torpedo continued to fill his headphones, the Texan took a deep breath and prepared himself for the worst.

  “Well, if it does catch up with us, I hope we won’t go down without taking some Reds with us.”

  This pessimistic remark was met by a passionate response.

  “Don’t even think that way, kid! The Defiance ain’t licked just yet. You’ll see. Why the old man is probably cooking something up even as we speak.”

  With this said, the steep angle of ascent that had forced them to tightly grasp the edges of their consoles to keep from sliding backward, abruptly evened out. For a few fleeting seconds, the Defiance ran level in the water before initiating a sickening, gut-wrenching plunge downward. Now it was all that they could do to keep from being cut in half by their consoles as the ship began yet another incredibly steep, spiraling dive.