Under the Ice

Seeing this, Mikhail Kharkov went into an absolute fit, and began madly ripping at the helmsman’s shoulder harness, to physically remove him from his position and personally replace him at the helm. It was at this point that the ship’s senior lieutenant ran forward to intercede on the helmsman’s behalf.

“Now hold on one moment. Admiral!” warned Viktor Belenko.

“Let go of that harness at once, or you’ll endanger all of us.”

As Kharkov continued furiously yanking on the harness’s jammed release mechanism, Viktor reached out and grabbed the white-haired veteran by one of his arms. An intense scuffle ensued, during which time the frenzied admiral reached into the folds of his sweater and pulled out his Kalashnikov pistol. Seconds later, the compartment filled with the reverberating explosive report of a single shot.

And when the confusion cleared, Viktor Belenko could be seen lying on the deck, holding his blood-soaked shoulder and writhing in sheer agony. Standing above him, with the still-smoking pistol in hand, was the suddenly sobered Admiral of the Fleet.

“Have you gone completely insane. Comrade Kharkov?” cried Sergei Markova as he ran over to disarm the veteran.

Surprisingly enough, Kharkov surrendered his weapon quite willingly. This enabled the captain to immediately turn to his wounded subordinate. As he bent to Viktor’s side, he called out firmly.

“Comrade Ustreka, you are to escort the admiral to his quarters at once. Please see to it that he remains there until I say otherwise.”

This time the which man didn’t hesitate, and as the muscular Kiev native walked over to carry out his orders, the Admiral of the Fleet pleaded desperately, “Please Captain, I’m truly sorry I lost control. It’s just that this mission is so all-important, and I couldn’t bear to see anything get in the way of its successful completion. That is why you must turn this ship around and initiate an immediate attack.

Please Captain, do this, or my entire life’s work will be in jeopardy!”

Barely paying these words any attention, Sergei pressed a clean handkerchief up against Viktor’s wound. An alert corpsman joined him, and while the seaman began staunching the flow of blood with a proper dressing, the captain stood to complete one last necessary task. Walking straight over to the admiral, he reached into Kharkov’s pocket and pulled out the two steel-cased cassettes the man had stored there. With this done, the captain silently nodded toward the which man who proceeded to lead the now-trembling old-timer out of the attack center.

“All right, comrades, that’s enough of this onsense!” shouted Sergei.

“Now let’s concentrate on the real threat that lies in the seas behind us. For if the fates are still with us, perhaps we’ll yet have a chance to outrun them.”

The call from the Defiance’s sound shack reached the vessel’s control-room crew over the compartment’s elevated public address speakers. There could be no denying the excitement that flavored Petty Officer First Class Stanley Roth’s words as he issued his latest report.

“We’ve tagged Ivan again, Captain! Though this time it was an explosive crack much like a gunshot that gave them away. Their bearing is three-two-zero, with a range of ten thousand yards. Shall I initiate a weapons’ interface. Captain?”

“That’s affirmative, Mr. Roth,” shot back Matt Colter.

“Lock on sonar on tubes one, two, and three.”

With this said. Colter turned to address his weapons’ officer.

“Prepare to launch three Mk 48’s, Mr. Sanger. Let me know when we have a green light on sensor interface.”

There was a determined look in Matt Colter’s eyes as he traded glances with his XO.

“They’re ours, Al,” observed the beaming captain.

“There’s no way in hell they’ll escape us now.”

“We’ve got a green light on weapons’ release,” observed Lieutenant David Sanger.

“Then let’s do it, gentlemen,” returned the captain.

“Fire one! Fire two! Fire three!”

The whining hiss of the three approaching torpedoes registered in the Neva’s hydrophones moments after the weapons were released from their tubes.

The shocked technician who monitored this frighteningly distinctive racket almost fell out of his chair as he twisted around to share this information.

“Torpedo salvo headed our way. Captain! I count three separate weapons coming in on bearing one-four-zero, at a range of nine thousand, five hundred meters.”

This was just the news Sergei Markova had dreaded to hear, and as he pounded his clenched fist into his thigh, he snapped his men into action.

“Take us down. Crash dive at speed! Begin preprogrammed evasive maneuvers, and pray that it’s not too late, comrades.”