Under the Ice

The bow of the Neva abruptly turned downward, and as Sergei reached out to steady himself, the Neva’s turbines roared alive in the background. His hands straining against the cold steel tubular railing that kept him from falling forward, the captain managed to take in the digital depth gauge mounted above the helm. With an incredible rapidity, this counter ticked off their dive’s progress. Yet even then, it seemed to take a virtual eternity to break the five-hundred-meter barrier. When this finally occurred, they were plunging downwards at a speed of forty-one knots. And as man and machine were once more pushed to their limits, Sergei could only wonder if even their best would be good enough this time.

“The torpedoes continue their approach,” monitored the sonar operator.

“Range is down to eight thousand meters and closing.”

“Where’s that infernal thermocline?” queried Sergei, who listened as the hull of the Neva began protesting under the great pressure it was now being subjected to.

“Sir, we’re approaching the seven-hundred-meter mark. Will we be pulling up here?” quizzed the anxious diving officer.

“Not yet,” managed Sergei as the deck began wildly vibrating beneath them.

“We’re going to have to push the envelope on this one, and then some.”

Again the groaning sound of the straining hull filled the attack center, and Sergei was thrown violently to the side as the deck suddenly canted hard to the right. It was the diving officer who attempted to explain what this unexpected disturbance was all about.

“We’ve seemed to hit some sort of current, Captain.

It’s a struggle just to keep the helm steady.”

“Hang in there, comrade!” urged Sergei.

“For this current could very well be our savior.”

At a depth of eight-hundred and sixty meters, the deck abruptly stopped vibrating. It was apparent that they had broken into a different strata of water, and the captain’s next command was given with great relief.

“Level off the dive, and bring us up!”

Seconds later, Sergei lurched violently backward and had to hold on for dear life, as the Neva reversed its course and headed out of the depths like a bullet. Again the disturbed strata was encountered.

But just knowing that they were now ascending made the wildly vibrating gyrations that coursed through the ship’s hull, and the mere act of standing upright a challenge, all the easier to accept.

The depth gauge registered six-hundred and ninety-one meters when the disturbance ceased. This put them back out of the thermocline, that significantly cooler portion of the sea’s depths in which Sergei had hoped to lose the pursuing torpedoes.

Still forced to hold onto the overhead railing to keep from falling backward, the Neva’s captain managed to wipe the sweat off his forehead with the upper portion of his arm. And his desperate prayers indeed seemed to have been answered, when the sonar operator’s voice rang out firm and clear.

“We’ve lost them. Captain! The torpedoes don’t seem to be on our tail anymore.”

A shared chorus of relieved chatter rang out, only to be interrupted by the captain’s cautionary words.

“I’m afraid we’re not out of the thick of this just yet, Comrades. For somewhere out there that American submarine is still lurking.”

Yet before Sergei could reveal his plan to negate this threat, the sonar operator’s strained voice once again took prominence.

“I’m picking up a single torpedo signature. Captain!

I don’t know where in the hell it came from, but it’s apparently been trailing in our baffles all this time. I don’t think that we’re going to be able to—” These words of warning were cut short by an earsplitting explosion and a violent concussion that rolled the Neva over hard on its side, and sent those crew members not constrained by safety harnesses crashing to the deck below. Sergei Markova was one of these unfortunate individuals. Thrown hard against the flat surface of the chart table, he took a wicked blow to his back and left shoulder. As pain coursed through his body, the lights failed and the attack center was shrouded in a confusing veil of blackness.

An aftershock caused the vessel to cant violently in the opposite direction, and there was a deafening racket as loose debris and fallen crew members shifted to the other side of the ship. Somehow Sergei managed to hold onto the base of the chart table, and as the ship eventually righted itself, he cried out into the pitch dark confines of the attack center.

“Someone hit the emergency lights! And I’m going to need an immediate damage report. Helmsman, is the ship still responding?”

A frightened voice timidly answered.

“We seem to be dead in the water, sir. The helm is completely unresponsive.”

Silently cursing this news, the captain was in the process of attempting to pick himself up when the emergency lights suddenly blinked on. The dim red illumination was just adequate enough for him to gauge the amount of damage that surrounded him.