“Absolutely not!” retorted the red-cheeked vet305 eran.
“Don’t let this old body fool you. Captain.
There’s thick Siberian blood within these veins, and a little snowstorm is not about to stand in my way.
A short hike is just what I need to properly stretch these cramped legs. And besides, I thought I made it perfectly clear that the Neva’s senior command staff must remain aboard the ship at all times. I’m not about to jeopardize this vessel by sending its officers away from their stations. They must stay here, where they belong.”
“As you wish, Admiral,” yielded Sergei.
“I will have the senior lieutenant muster the volunteers at once.”
Mikhail Kharkov felt like a young man again as he excused himself and headed for his stateroom. Once in his cabin, he quickly dressed himself for the trek.
His first layer of clothing was a set of long, open-mesh underwear. Next came a flannel shirt and corduroy trousers, and a triple-knit woolen parka. After slipping on two pairs of insulated socks and a rubberized inner shoe, he proceeded to the forward torpedo room to get the rest of his gear.
The Admiral of the Fleet was glad to find the five volunteers, in various stages of dress, waiting for him there. Altogether they were a robust, muscular group of lads, who didn’t mind a scrap now and then, and weren’t afraid to admit it. Kharkov stood in line with them as the quartermaster handed out their outerwear — caribou-fur jumpsuits that had hoods attached to them. Sealskin boots were issued to protect their feet, while double-thick reindeer-skin gloves over which woolen mittens were worn completed their outfits.
By the time all of this clothing was put on, Mikhail had broken out in a sweat. Such a flushed state could be dangerous upon exposure to the frigid air, and he made certain that the men gathered the rest of their gear as quickly as possible. This included lightweight 5.45mm Kalaishnikov assault rifles, RGD-5 hand grenades, extra ammunition, and a portable-directional finder to precisely home in on the pulsating signal.
The recessed hatchway that was cut into the sail’s base, saved them the trouble of having to climb up into the attack center and then crawl up through the conning tower itself. As this hatch was opened, a blast of bitterly cold air entered the Neva. A shrieking wind greeted them as one by one the volunteers ducked outside. The last one to leave was Mikhail Kharkov.
“Good luck. Admiral,” offered the ship’s captain, in a voice deepened by concern.
“Quit worrying so. Comrade Markova,” returned the Admiral of the Fleet.
“Just make certain there’s plenty of hot tea and cognac to go around when we get back.”
Then, with the briefest of nods, the veteran crawled out of the hatchway and joined his five colleagues on the sub’s frozen deck. Even with their woolen face masks and goggles in place, the blowing ice spicules stung their cheeks and eyelids. Turning their backs to the wind, they utilized a portable hand ladder to descend down to the ice pack.
Mikhail was surprised to find that the Neva was already encrusted in a glistening shroud of solid ice.
The lead into which they had ascended had already frozen over, and from the racket the ice ridge was making, he only hoped the pressure would remain constant until they returned. For if the ice should suddenly close in on the ship, they would be left stranded. To prepare for such a worst-case scenario, it had been established that if the Neva was forced to descend, a supply of additional survival gear would be left topside for those on the ice. And hopefully another polynya would be encountered in the vicinity so the ship might surface and effect a proper rescue.
With compass in hand, Mikhail turned to the southeast and beckoned the others in this direction.
This was all that was needed to get the squad moving.
Fortunately, that put the wind at their backs, and they could concentrate solely on the rugged terrain they were crossing over.
The contorted ice ridges made their progress slow at first. It took them over an hour to travel barely a half kilometer. By this time the submarine had long since disappeared behind them, and it took a bit of imagination just to realize that they were actually walking above the waters of Lancaster Sound. Only occasional encounters with open leads pointed to this fact.
Their point man was a hearty Siberian who had been born and raised in the town of Yakutsk. A torpedoman by trade, he took to the ice like a duck to water. Trusting in his judgment explicitly, Mikhail did not balk when the point man signaled for the group to halt and gather behind an immense shelf of sloping ice. With this obstacle providing a convenient windbreak, the Siberian pointed to yet another ridge that lay immediately before them.
“That looks like the coastline,” he observed firmly.
“From here on in we must stick close together, and constantly be on the alert for crevasses.”
“Are we still on course?” quizzed the admiral.
To answer this question, the seaman who was assigned to carry the receiver slipped off his backpack and removed the compact, battery-powered homing device. A senior radio technician aboard the
Neva, he had little trouble switching on the unit, extending its long whiplike antenna overhead, and adjusting the frequency knob to the desired channel.
Only when a green light began flashing did he speak out.
“That we are. Admiral. The signal seems to be projecting from somewhere over that ridge.”
Following the direction of his outstretched finger, Mikhail made a brief alignment with his compass.
“We will continue on bearing one-four-zero,” instructed the veteran.
As the radio technician stowed away the receiver, he momentarily began brushing away the coating of ice that had formed over his coat’s length. Quick to stop him was their point man.
“Don’t do that, Yuri! That ice serves as an additional insulator, and could turn out to be a real lifesaver.”
Nodding that he understood, the radio man shouldered his backpack and signaled that he was ready to go. As they began to make their way toward the coastline, Mikhail found himself marveling at the professional manner in which the young sailors were behaving. Quick to help each other, they went on with their difficult mission heedless of the biting wind, the frigid temperatures, and the dangerous conditions of the ice itself. These were the kind of men that filled the veteran’s heart with pride.
There were many in the Defense Department who were forever grumbling about the poor quality of troops being recruited into the Motherland’s armed forces. These were the same individuals who complained that the military was not prepared to go to war because it was comprised of a vast mixture of racial and ethnic groups that could never jell as a single, unified fighting unit.
Mikhail begged to differ with such individuals. He knew it was this very racial diversity that gave the Motherland’s military forces their unique edge. This morning’s mission proved his point. For in his present squad were two Siberians, a Ukrainian, an Estonian, and a native Muscovite. Instead of working against each other, they each had a unique quality or talent that made the team that much stronger.
It was no different during the Great War. Faced with a continuous shortage of trained men, the military often had to make do with raw recruits who had been called to duty from the far corners of the Motherland. On many of the ships Kharkov had commanded, a good majority of his men couldn’t even speak Russian. Yet regardless of this handicap, the standing orders of the day were somehow always translated, and when it came to actual hostilities, these same sailors were often the first ones to offer their lives for the sake of their country. Only in the rarest of incidents had Mikhail been forced to deal with acts of cowardice under fire or desertion. And he’d soon learned, it was just as likely for a Great Russian to abandon his post when the shells began flying as it was for a raw recruit from Azerbaijan.
The Admiral of the Fleet only wished that the bureaucrats from whose mouths these groundless complaints issued could be here now. They’d all too soon see the errors of
their ways, and learn to praise the military for the difficult job it was doing, instead of constantly bellyaching. Of course in the new world order that would soon be upon them, these same spineless public officals were doomed to lose their positions of power. Most would be sent packing to the far eastern frontier, where they would be reeducated in the virtues of hard work and humility, virtues they had somehow lost sight of while serving behind the insular walls of the Kremlin.
With such thoughts to keep his mind occupied, Mikhail Kharkov ignored the bitter elements. With his eyes glued to the feet of the seaman immediately ahead of him, the veteran readily matched the squad’s pace. And before he knew it, they were helping each other scramble up over the raft of inverted ice that had brought them to the snow-covered plains of Baffin Island’s Brodeur Peninsula.
It proved to be the mad howling of the wind outside that broke Ootah from his sound slumber.
As his eyes popped open, he was immediately greeted by the bright. Hashing red light of the mysterious black object Arnuk had found partially buried in the snow. The compact, rect angularly shaped box sat in the center of the domed room, exactly where he had left it earlier.
On the opposite side of the snow house Akatingwah could just be seen beneath the furs on the sleeping pallet. Their son was in her arms, and for a second Ootah fought the temptation to crawl in beside them. Yet a greater duty called to him as he fondled the bone amulet that hung from his neck, and he somewhat reluctantly sat up to continue his lonely vigil before the enigmatic object that had fallen from the heavens.
With his eyes focused on the constantly blinking light, he kneeled down directly before it. In a matter of minutes, a heavy, drowsy feeling overcame him. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open as his heartbeat pounded away to the rhythm of the flashing strobe.
Though Ootah really wasn’t certain if he had fallen asleep or not, his inner eye began filling with a vibrant vision. In it, Nakusiak appeared before him and beckoned his son to join him outside.
Ootah did so, and found himself in a grass-filled valley. Wildflowers painted this meadow with vibrant color, while above the sun glistened in all of its summertime radiance.
As Ootah followed his father deeper into the valley, he spotted a herd of shaggy musk oxen. Instead of quickly forming a defensive circle, the massive, horned beasts continued grazing, completely ignoring the human’s presence. This strange behavior bothered Ootah, who was to get an even greater shock upon viewing a pack of gray wolves peacefully interspersed amongst the musk oxen. These perpetual hunters, who were even a danger to man, merely lay basking in the warm sun, at total peace with the world around them.
Ootah was preparing to point this strange sight out to his father, when a cold wind hit him full in the back. And in the blink of an eye he was transferred to the center of a frozen lake. A circular breathing hole cut in the ice lay before him. Floating on the water’s surface was a disturbingly familiar eider feather.
Though his instincts warned him to back away from the edge of this open lead, his feet were stuck to the ice below, and any escape on his part proved impossible. Forced to look down into the waters of the circular pool, he viewed a series of bubbles rise up from the depths. This disturbance increased, until a constantly blinking, intense red light could be seen glowing from the water below. This blindingly bright strobe seemed to have hypnotic powers, and began rising from the depths with a frightening swiftness. Again Ootah struggled to flee, yet he could only stand there and tremble in terror as a huge, black rectangular object broke through the ice and towered above him. Two men in fur parkas could be seen standing in a well that had been cut into this monolith’s top. One of these men had snow-white hair and bright red cheeks. Above this figure, the flashing strobe incessantly blinked away from its perch on a thin black pipe that extended high into the heavens.
It was at this point that Ootah snapped awake.
The pictures this trance had painted were still disturbingly real. This was especially true of the flashing strobe that continued blinking from the floor of the igloo before him. Vainly trying to make some sort of sense out of this macabre vision, the Inuit could suddenly hear his dogs barking in the distance.
There was an intense urgency to these yelps, and Ootah stiffly rose to see what this commotion was all about.
He hastily pulled on his caribou-skin parka and crawled out the tunnel-like entryway. The icy wind greeted him like a slap to the face as he scanned the horizon. Though the muted dawn was just forming, he could see his dogs perched anxiously beside their tether pole. They were howling away like Tornarsuk himself was after them, and Ootah made his way through the snow to attend to them.
It was because of the whinings of his lead dog, Arnuk, that Ootah directed his gaze to the northwest.
Here a line of men were visible. These figures were dressed in strange fur parkas, and had rifles slung over their shoulders. The Inuit’s instincts warned of trouble, but he walked out to greet them anyway.
The strangers seemed to be of immense size. Because of the woolen masks they wore, Ootah was unable to see their faces. Yet this was soon to change when one of the figures who had been traveling at the back of the pack walked out and raised his voice in greeting.
Though this stranger’s words were of a strange dialect the Inuit had never heard before, they were spoken with a forceful directness that hinted this man was the leader. Only when it was apparent that his words weren’t sinking in did this figure pull back his hood and yank off his mask. Taking in this stranger’s face, Ootah shuddered in horror. For staring back at him was the white-haired, red-cheeked man whom he had just encountered in his vision!
“I show a green light on laser activation, proceeding to interface with the Defiance’s Nav system.”
Dr. Laurie Lansing’s words rang out through the control room. The crew had long since adjusted to the presence of the hardworking scientist, and continued to pursue their individual duties without the least bit of distraction.
Captain Matt Colter was thankful for this fact. As he stood at the chart table watching the attractive civilian efficiently address the new surface-scanning Fathometer’s keyboard, he found himself inwardly hoping that the new device would function properly.
Not only for the Defiance’s sake, but for Lansing’s as well.
“Skipper, we should be just about at those coordinates our last radio fix relayed to us.”
The XO’s observations caused Colter to shift his line of sight back to the chart that lay spread out before them.
“I don’t think we’re going to be able to get much closer to the coastline,” said the captain.
“It shouldn’t be more than a kilometer hike,” observed
Al Layman, who pointed to the north shore of the Brodeur Peninsula with the well-chewed stem of his pipe.
“And if our fix is accurate, another kilometer or so inland should bring us right there.”
Matt Colter intently studied the chart and thoughtfully responded.
“I’m glad it’s not much further than that. Our last meteorological reading showed that blizzard still blowing with a fury topside.
A hike on the ice is dangerous enough, even without this storm.”
“We’ll manage. Skipper. Besides, at least we don’t have that Russian sub to worry about anymore.”
Colter looked up and directly met his XO’s stare.
“Can you really say that for certain, AI. I know we heard our three fish explode, but after that, all that followed was the sound of fracturing ice. We copied absolutely no evidence that indicates a successful hull penetration.”
The XO shook his head.
“Even if we didn’t hear their hull imploding, the chances are good we did enough damage to at least knock out their propulsion system. Why I’ll bet they’re sitting up there dead in the water right now, trapped beneath the ice cover.”
“Either that or they’ve scrammed their reactor on us and are playing possum,” offered the captain, who
turned around when a woman’s voice excitedly called out behind him.
“The lasers show thin ice above us. Thin ice!”
Scrambling over to the scientist’s side. Colter studied the green-tinted monitor screen. Unlike their old ice machine that printed out its information on a crude piece of graph paper, the new Fathometer provided a three-dimensional sketch of the exact conditions existing on the surface. It proved to be the alert civilian technician who explained just what he was looking at.
“The lasers indicate a polynya precisely five hundred and ninety feet long and two hundred and thirty-one feet wide. An inverted ridge extending some twenty feet deep surrounds the north face of the lead, while the southern edge is composed of relatively young ice, barely three feet deep.”
“That should be more than sufficient,” replied the captain.
“Did the Defiance’s nav computer accept your interface?”
Laurie Lansing pointed to the green light located to the right side of the monitor screen’s lower edge.
“I show a definite lock, Captain.”
“Well, from here on in I guess the rest is up to you. Doctor. You may proceed with an automated ascent. And please, don’t hesitate to call out the second something doesn’t look right. I’ll be standing close by to go manual if needed.”
“Let’s hope that won’t be necessary. Captain,” returned the civilian. She then took a deep breath and began addressing her keyboard.
Matt Colter wasted no time informing the diving officer that the Defiance was now being driven by the computer. It looked strange to see the two seated helmsmen release their steering columns, and watch as the wheels began turning on their own.
As the vessel began a wide banking turn, the ballast pumps automatically activated. To a soft, muted whine the ship was lightened, and ever so gradually, they began ascending.
At a depth of one hundred and ten feet, the Defiance hit an unexpected pocket of colder water and began rising more quickly than anticipated.
Matt Colter watched as the depth gauge lost over thirty feet in a matter of seconds. He was just about to order a manual override when Laurie Lansing intervened in his place.
Under the Ice Page 28
