Under the Ice

by Richard P. Henrick

  The captain pointed toward the two sailors seated to the right of the diving console. Both these individuals wore safety harnesses and gripped airplane-like steering columns.

  “Over here are our planes men Once we’re underway at speed, they’ll influence the ship’s up-and-down movement by controlling the tilt of the diving planes located on our sail and at the stern.”

  There was a loud grinding noise as the submarine broke free from the grip of the ice and began sinking down into its intended medium.

  “Take us down to three hundred feet, Mr. Marshall.

  All ahead one-third.”

  Even as the vessel’s turbines engaged, there wasn’t the slightest hint of forward movement. Yet Colter showed him otherwise as he pointed to the digital speed indicator mounted on the bulkhead before the planes men

  They had attained a velocity of ten knots when Colter once more addressed his crew.

  “Bring us around to course zero-four-zero. Dr. Lansing, do you see anything that might get in our way overhead?”

  This time it was the seated woman who answered.

  “We should be fine at this depth. Captain. Though my laser scan shows an inverted ridge off our port bow, that extends some two hundred feet down into the water.”

  “We’ll be staying well away from that monster,” returned Colter, who next led his guest over to the chart table.

  Here they joined the XO before a detailed bathymetric map of the Lancaster Sound. There were a confusing series of colored lines and x’s on this chart, yet before asking what they all meant, Redmond softly vented his curiosity.

  “You know, I never realized that the US Navy had women aboard its submarines.”

  “We normally don’t,” answered the captain.

  “Dr. Lansing is on temporary loan from the Naval Arctic laboratory. She’s currently operating a prototype surface-scanning Fathometer that uses lasers to determine the exact state of the ice conditions topside. It was such a device that helped us surface as close to the northern edge of the Brodeur Peninsula as we did.”

  “We’re at depth and on course. Captain,” said a voice from behind.

  This revelation seemed to reenergize Colter, whose face suddenly turned in a broad grin.

  “Now, Lieutenant Redmond, I’ll show you how we’re going to catch up with a group of very nasty Russians.”

  “All ahead, flank speed!” he ordered firmly.

  “And someone better call the boys in the torpedo room and the sound shack and let them know that the season for Ivan hunting has officially opened!”

  In the locked confines of Viktor Belenko’s cramped cabin, both of the Neva’s senior officers were in the midst of an intense hushed conversation.

  “I tell you Sergei, as sure as the snows fall in Siberia, our esteemed admiral is holding something back on us. Why did you see his face when he got back to the ship? He looked like a little boy who had just been given the keys to the candy shop!”

  Sergei Markova grunted.

  “I know what you mean, Viktor. That smirk was painted all over his face, and he could barely tone it down when he matter-of factly informed us of the deaths of all five of the men sent along with him.”

  “He certainly was possessive about that cockpit voice recorder,” observed the senior lieutenant.

  “From what I understand, he wouldn’t even let any of the men help him with it as he whisked it off to the safe in your stateroom. It’s just too bad our Zampolit chose this inopportune moment for the weekly Komsomol meeting. Instead of giving the speech he’d promised to present, the admiral could be analyzing that precious tape that he’s been ranting and raving about ever since we left Murmansk.

  Do you really think that the Americans would have the audacity to shoot down the Flying Kremlin, Sergei?”

  The Neva’s captain hesitantly answered.

  “I don’t know what to think anymore. Comrade. Though I do know that it was a big mistake to incur the wrath of that Sturgeon class vessel like we did. We had no business ramming them in the first place. We should have just gone ultra quiet and let them pass on their merry way in peace. Then we could have gone on and completed our mission with Uncle Sam none the wiser.”

  “The old fox certainly did some job of stirring us up to a feverish pitch,” Viktor commented.

  “With all that talk of launching torpedoes, you would have thought there was actually a war going on.”

  Sergei sighed.

  “We were lucky to get by with our lives. And for what, may I ask? A damn black box, that we could have just as easily have asked the Canadians to retrieve for us.”

  “I still think Kharkov’s trying to pull something off on us, Sergei. At the very least, he should have postponed that damn Komsomol meeting and gotten right down to the analysis of that cockpit voice-recorder’s tape like you asked him to do. Why the way he looked at you when you made this request, you would have thought you had asked him to burn his Party card!”

  The captain nodded.

  “The way I read Kharkov, it appears he’s not in a rush to analyze that tape because he already thinks he knows what’s on it. And no matter what it contains, he’s still going to blame the crash on the Americans.”

  Viktor absorbed this thought, then leaned forward and lowered his voice even further.

  “From what I hear, the Admiral of the Fleet and Premier Suratov were not exactly kissing cousins. Tanya has a niece who’s a secretary in the Ministry of Defense, and she says it’s no secret that the admiral has gone on record as opposing Alexander Suratov’s peace initiatives with the West every step of the way. Why when Kharkov heard of the Premier’s Arctic demilitarization proposal, he supposedly threw a nasty fit that included overturned furniture and torn-out phone wires. For an old-timer, the old fox certainly has some fire left in him.”

  “I’ll say,” said Sergei.

  “He’s in remarkable physical shape for his age. To even think he was out there on the ice the whole day, and we almost froze our buns off just standing on the bridge to greet him.”

  Viktor sat back, and absentmindedly picked up his roommate’s portable cassette player. While studying its compact lines, a thought suddenly came to him.

  “You know, I was talking to Chief Koslov earlier, and he was telling me that he worked for Aeroflot two years before enlisting in the navy. One of his jobs was to replace the cockpit voice-recorder tapes.

  Did you know that the latest models are designed to fit into a machine as small as this one?”

  There was a devilish look in the senior lieutenant’s eyes, and Sergei responded, “If I get your drift, I gather you’d like me to open the safe and listen to the tape. Am I correct?”

  Viktor smiled, and Sergei was quick to add.

  “Don’t you think such a move on my part is a little rash, comrade? After all, the admiral will be done with his meeting eventually; we can surely wait until then.”

  “Come on, Sergei,” urged his old friend.

  “You know those Komsomol meetings can last for hours on end. And besides, if this tape really is so important, I think that it’s in the best interest of the Motherland to listen to it at once. As for the seriousness of such an infraction, how can you get reprimanded for breaking into your own safe? After all, you’re still the captain of this ship, and nothing it contains should be held back from you.”

  This argument hit home, and Sergei took a deep breath and reflected.

  “I must admit that your proposal is most tempting, Viktor,” he finally said.

  “But could I make sense out of the tape’s contents even if I heard it?”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” returned the grinning senior lieutenant as he handed his shipmate the portable recorder.

  “You have a listen, while I stand guard outside.

  Driven by insatiable curiosity and a desire to express his dominion over every square centimeter of his vessel, Sergei Markova accepted his roommate’s challenge.

  Once a week
like clockwork, the Zampolit of the Neva called together the ship’s Party members for a meeting of the Komsomol. At this time, issues were discussed in a forum like environment, issues that touched upon the past, present, and future direction of Soviet Communism.

  When Konstantin Zinyagin had learned that they would have a distinguished guest on this patrol, he’d made certain to prepare a stimulating agenda for the Admiral of the Fleet’s behalf. With over a dozen seamen packed into the enlisted men’s mess hall, the Zampolit took a second to reintroduce Mikhail Kharkov, who sat in the front row of chairs. The admiral had promised to give a special presentation on the role of the Navy as an instrument of State policy, and Zinyagin opened the meeting with a brief speech of his own.

  However, the Political Officer’s “cursory” introduction had already turned into a forty-five minute discourse on the history of the Soviet Navy, from its inception as a limited coastal fleet to its current worldwide status. Utilizing a variety of charts that he had prepared himself, Zinyagin stood at the rostrum that had a picture of Lenin tacked to it’s front.

  With his clipped beard, mustache, full brows, and piercing dark eyes, Zinyagin looked remarkably like the founding father of Socialism, though this was as far as the physical similarity went.

  The Zampolit was in the midst of explaining the current state of the modern Soviet Navy, and his scratchy high-pitched voice whined on with a monotonous sameness. “… So you see, the Soviet leadership has at long last awakened to the all-important value of a powerful Fleet. Beyond its use in war, our Navy can be used to support our friends in times of crisis. The great mobility of our fleet and its flexibility in the event that limited military conflicts are indeed brewing permit it to have an influence on coastal countries, and to employ and extend a military threat to any level, beginning with a show of military strength and ending with the actual landing of forces….”

  As the Zampolit continued to ramble on, his white-haired guest began to fidget. Mikhail Kharkov had heard this same speech time after time, and he found himself in no mood to sit through it once again. His back and legs hurt after his long ordeal on the ice, and besides, there was still important work to be done back in his cabin.

  Though the black box was securely locked away in the safe in his quarters, it still had to be opened and the switch of tapes made. Only after the original had been destroyed would he be able to relax completely.

  And since the Zampolit showed no signs of bringing his remarks to an end, the weary veteran had no choice but to take matters into his own hands.

  It was as the Political Officer briefly halted to display a chart showing the current composition of the fleet, that Mikhail loudly cleared his throat and stood.

  “Pardon me, Comrade Zampolit. But I must take this opportunity to regretfully excuse myself.

  Though I find your well-researched observations most astute, my physically demanding journey on the ice is finally catching up with me. This old body needs rest, and though I was looking forward to this meeting to share my own thoughts with your members, I’m going to have to take my leave early.”

  A look of disappointment came to the Political Officer’s face as he turned from the chart and protested.

  “Are you certain you can’t stay but a little longer. Admiral? Why I was just about to initiate my closing remarks. And all of us were so looking forward to hearing you speak. Why we might never have such an honor again.”

  Mikhail stretched his sore back and stifled a yawn.

  “No, comrade, I’m afraid this old man’s had it. But I’ll tell you what. Once I’ve had a good rest, I’d be happy to continue on with this inspiring program.

  Is tomorrow afternoon at this same time convenient for you?”

  The Zampolit looked out to the other occupants of the room and politely nodded.

  “Though all of us will be sorry to see you go, we’d be honored to reinitiate this discussion in twenty-four hours. May your rest be peaceful, comrade.”

  As Mikhail anxiously ducked out the aft hatchway, the Political Officer wasted no time returning to an explanation of the chart he had just uncovered.

  Kharkov’s pace was somewhat slowed by an alien pain in his calves and knees. This was most likely an aftereffect of his hike through the deep snow drifts earlier. A couple of aspirin and a hot toddy would soon take the aches away, so he might focus on the vital task that still faced him.

  As the admiral hurriedly crossed through the officer’s wardroom, he was somewhat surprised to find the Neva’s senior lieutenant standing idly in front of the shut door of Mikhail’s cabin. Viktor Belenko seemed to be an efficient officer who had been rather emotionless and tight-lipped to this point. Yet upon spotting Kharkov, his eyes opened wide and he immediately stepped forward to greet him.

  “Why, Admiral, you’re just the man I was thinking about. How did the Komsomol meeting go? It certainly didn’t last very long.”

  Mikhail grunted.

  “Actually, I excused myself early.

  I’m afraid the aftereffects of my excursion on the ice have finally caught up with me.”

  “I thought that might be the case,” offered the senior lieutenant somewhat nervously.

  “I can’t help but admit that I was surprised when you agreed to attend the Komsomol meeting so soon after your return. How about me getting you some lunch? The cook has brewed up a pot of his specialty — Ukrainian borscht — and I’m certain you won’t be disappointed.

  Just come and have a seat at the wardroom table, and I’ll take care of all the rest.”

  The admiral shook his head.

  “You’re much too kind. Senior Lieutenant. But right now fatigue has overcome my hunger. After a couple of hours’ rest, I’ll be happy to take you up on your offer.”

  “It’s not healthy to go to bed on an empty stomach, Admiral. You could get ulcers that way.”

  Mikhail patted his stomach.

  “Your concerns are noted, comrade. But this old belly of mine has served me well, and a missed meal now and then hasn’t seemed to have bothered it any. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be off to my bunk now.”

  Seemingly deaf to this request, Viktor Belenko voiced himself anew.

  “Before turning in, perhaps you’d like to see that stealth, equipment you were asking about earlier. We’re just about to activate it, and this is the perfect time to see how this amazing system operates.”

  A bit aggravated by the officer’s persistent rambling, Mikhail’s tone sharpened.

  “Please, Comrade Belenko! All I want to do is to get into my stateroom.

  Is that too much to ask?”

  Without waiting for a response, he pushed the senior lieutenant aside, inserted his key into the door’s lock, and after quickly ducking inside, slammed the door shut behind him. He was in the process of exhaling a breath of relief, when he realized with a start that he wasn’t alone. Seated at the cabin’s cramped desk, a pair of lightweight headphones clamped over his ears, was Captain Sergei Markova. At his feet was the now opened cockpit voice recorder!

  As his face flushed with anger, the admiral asked, “Are you finding anything interesting. Captain?”

  Sergei Markova’s astonishment at being discovered was tempered by the equally shocking contents of the tape he had been listening to. Taking a moment to switch off his cassette player, he peeled off the headphones and replied.

  “As a matter of fact, I am, Admiral. Because as you’ll soon hear for yourself, it wasn’t an American F-15 that was responsible for taking down the Flying

  Kremlin, it was a bomb!”

  As a look of puzzlement etched the veteran’s face, Sergei excitedly said, “Here, listen for yourself. The voices are a bit muddled, but the sequence of events is startling clear. It all seems to have started when an incendiary device ignited inside the console holding the Il-76’s communications’ equipment. As they lost the effective use of their radio, the fire spread, until the plane’s operational systems were affected. At this point
the 11–76 lost altitude and swerved off course, as the crew valiantly fought to control the choking flames. And in the process of this desperate struggle, yet another bomb was found attached to an avionic’s panel. This device had yet to detonate, and appears to have been controlled by some sort of timing mechanism, for you can hear the frantic cries of the flight crew as they struggled to disarm it.”

  Taking a moment to control his rising emotions, Sergei somberly continued.

  “Soon afterward an ear-shattering explosion overrode their shouts of concern, and was followed by the sickening, wrenching sounds of the plane breaking apart and proceeding to fall from the skies.

  “Yet one thing still confuses me. Admiral. Upon opening my safe, I found yet another cassette tape lying beside the sealed black box. It proved to be constructed exactly like that tape inside the cockpit voice recorder. It had the same stainless-steel casing.

  Yet when listening to it, I found it filled with nothing but undecipherable static.”

  “You had no business doing such a thing!” the enraged admiral protested.

  “I demand that you hand over both of these tapes at once. Captain Markova.

  Or the severest penalties possible will be applied to you.”

  “And why is that?” Sergei dared ask.

  “Is it because you knew what was on the original tape, and intended to switch it for the other one you brought along?”

  Conscious that the intuitive young officer still had no real proof of this, the veteran mariner decided to try another tack. Instead of trying to directly confront him, he would now attempt to win him over.

  With a shrug of his shoulders, and the barest of forced smiles, the Admiral of the Fleet addressed Markova.

  “You are most astute. Captain. And since it would be a waste of my breath to attempt to deceive you, I’ll be frank. Yes, my friend, it was a series of bombs that took down the Premier’s plane. And not only did I know this long before I recovered the aircraft’s black box, I was responsible for having these devices placed in the 11–76 as well.”