Under the Ice

“Who knows? Pills sure hopes so, but he admits that he still doesn’t know what’s wrong with the guy. Because other than the bruise and his unconscious state, he appears to be the picture of perfect health.

Though he certainly could use a bath. And here I thought you Texans got funky after missing a few showers.”

“Very funny,” said Lester.

“Ease up, Les. I’m only having a little fun with you. What have we got out there that’s got you all hot and bothered?”

The Texan replied while turning up his volume gain a notch.

“The captain’s sure making things hard for us, Stan. Ever since we steamed out of Lancaster Sound, he’s been pushing the Defiance at flank speed. With all the racket produced by our own signature, it’s going to take a miracle to pick up the guys we’re supposed to be chasing.”

“The Skipper sure enough knows what he’s doing,” offered Stanley as he got back to work.

“Ivan’s only got a single route to get back home, and since they’ve got that head start on us, the Defiance is still playing catch-up. When the time’s right. Captain Colter will slow us down, and then we can do what we do best.”

“Do you think we’ll trade shots with the Russian’s once we tag ‘em?” quizzed the anxious Texan.

Stanley turned up his own volume gain and answered.

“We’re certainly not going to ring Ivan up on the underwater telephone and trade sea stories with him. The way I see it, they’re the ones who instigated this little misunderstanding, and the Defiance ain’t quitting until we get a chance to return the favor.”

With this said, both sonar operators focused their attentions solely on the hissing rush being conveyed into their headphones, as the Sturgeon class attack sub entered the northernmost extremity of Baffin Bay.

The atmosphere inside the Neva’s hushed attack center was tense, as the ship’s senior officers came storming in to counter the threat that had just been detected in their baffles. Without bothering to confer with either his senior lieutenant or his distinguished passenger, Sergei Markova wasted no time taking the initiative.

“Comrade Michman, notify Chief Koslov that we’re going to need emergency speed at once. Our course will remain on bearing three-two-zero.”

Quick to question these orders was the Admiral of the Fleet.

“Surely you can’t be serious. Captain?

This is no time for running away. We must take a stand and fight. For the Sturgeon class submarine is the only witness to our trespass here, and must be destroyed.”

Not used to having his command doubted, Sergei angrily retorted.

“As captain, I’ll be making the tactical decisions aboard the Neva, Admiral. And I say it’s just too risky to take on the Americans at this time. Not only have we spent our last decoy, but the Sturgeon class vessel has already shown the ability to outrun our torpedoes. So before opening ourselves up to being attacked once more, I say the wisest choice is to use our superior speed to transit the Nares Strait and then head straight back to Murmansk.”

“Are you saying that the pride of the Soviet Fleet is no match for a class of vessel whose first hull was laid down over two decades ago?” the unbelieving veteran asked.

Directly meeting Kharkov’s icy gaze, Sergei replied.

“That’s not the point. Admiral. As far as I’m concerned, our mission has been completed, and now it’s up to me to get us back to port as quickly and safely as possible.”

“This mission is not over until I say so. Captain!” barked Mikhail Kharkov.

“You forget who you’re sharing this bridge with, comrade. And since you’re obviously not man enough to carry out your duty, I’ll have to do it for you.”

Turning his head to address the other members of the attack center’s complement, Kharkov cried out.

“As Admiral of the Fleet of the Soviet Union, I am replacing Sergei Markova as the commanding officer of the Neva. Comrade Michman, I want you to personally see to an immediate reversal of our course.

“Battle stations, torpedoes. Comrades! It’s time to teach the proud Imperialists a badly needed lesson in humility.”

Confused by this unprecedented change of command, the Michman hesitated in carrying out his new orders. As the puzzled warrant officer looked over to the senior lieutenant for guidance, Mikhail Kharkov stormed over to the helm.

“Are you deaf. Comrade Michman?” screamed the infuriated Admiral.

“Well, since it appears that you have joined the ranks of your spineless captain, I’ll just have to carry out your duties for you. Helmsman, reverse our course right now! And ready the ship to attack.”

Equally confused was the junior seaman currently steering the Neva. This was only his third submarine patrol, and all three were with Sergei Markova as commanding officer. Since he wasn’t used to taking orders from anyone but his captain, like the hesitant which man he wouldn’t budge.