Under the Ice

Admiral of the Fleet Mikhail Kharkov couldn’t believe their good fortune. Not only had they successfully escaped the Imperialist torpedo salvo, but the resulting blast had fractured the pack ice allowing the Neva a free ride to the surface. A look of genuine astonishment had graced their young captain’s face as he’d realized the situation and quickly acted to take the best advantage of it. Then, after sharing a brief cry of relieved joy with his shipmates, Sergei Markova barked out the orders that sent the sub’s radio antenna whirring up into the crisp Arctic air from its home in the enclosed sail.

The admiral had been anxiously waiting for this moment, and was standing directly behind the seated radio operator as he activated the receiver. With the band selector already set on the high-frequency channel, the seaman fine-tuned the knob and cautiously turned up the receiver’s volume gain. A throaty blast of static emanated from the elevated speakers, only to be followed by a pulsating, high-pitched staccato tone that brought a shout of sheer triumph from the white-haired veteran’s lips.

“Listen, Comrades, we’ve done it! We’ve found the black box!”

The sedate radio operator efficiently confirmed this fact, and proceeded to instigate a directional fix.

Only when this process was completed did a hint of excitement flavor his tone.

“Why it’s incredibly close, Captain. It can’t be more than a half-dozen kilometers to the southeast.”

Quick to join Kharkov behind the radio console was Sergei Markova.

“So we have indeed accomplished our mission. Admiral. This is truly an amazing morning. Why I thought the search for the cockpit voice recorder would take days to complete.”

Already mentally planning the actual recovery, Kharkov replied.

“Don’t forget that the tape is not yet in our hands. Captain Markova. But I’ll soon remedy that. It’s important that those five volunteers join me at once in the forward torpedo room so we can suit up. I want to be standing on the ice itself in another half-hour’s time.”

“I still think you should reconsider going along on this excursion, Admiral. That’s a full-scale blizzard going on outside this hull, and there’s no telling what hazardous conditions you’ll meet up with once you’re out there. I’m more than capable of leading the recovery squad in your place.”

“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.”