Under the Ice

Just thinking about his old friend caused a grin to lighten Mikhail’s face. They went back a long time together, and their shared exploits could fill a good-sized novel. Of course, the latest chapter of this book had only recently been concluded. Like a pair of slick black marketeers, they had exploited the two naive bureaucrats right in Mikhail’s own living room. Afterward, Ivan had briefly pulled Mikhail aside and congratulated him on his superb performance. Then after promising to celebrate in style once the rest of their mission was successfully completed, they’d joined their guests for the short helicopter ride back to the Irkutsk airport. Here Mikhail left the others to initiate his current journey.

Again the An-22 plunged downward in a sickening, gut-wrenching free-fall and the Admiral of the Fleet of the Soviet Union silently cursed the weather front responsible for this turbulence. Knowing now why he’d not joined the air force, the white-haired veteran diverted his gaze to the forward portion of the cabin.

There the only other passenger, an Aeroflot flight attendant, was somehow able to sleep through all this terrible weather.

Mikhail had never liked to fly, and doubted if he ever would, no matter how many times he was airborne.

There was something about not being at the controls himself, not understanding the systems involved, that bothered him. It felt uncomfortable to have one’s life in the hands of a complete stranger, no matter how many flight hours he might have logged.

Mikhail never experienced such anxieties when he was traveling by sea. Even when not personally at the helm he felt secure, for a ship’s fate was shared by its entire crew. Very seldom could the loss of a vessel be pinned on one man, though ultimately the captain was always the one held responsible.

The world’s oceans were his second home, and even though pleasant memories of his recently concluded hike to the shores of Lake Baikal were fresh in his mind, he was glad to be going back to sea. When his wife Anna heard of his intention, she’d cornered him while he was in the bedroom hurriedly packing and had fully vented herself.

“What do you mean, you’re going back to sea again? Don’t you realize you’re a seventy-six year-old man? And besides, Misha, you’ve got other responsibilities now. Leave the operational side of your job to younger, more fit individuals. An old man like you will only get in the way.”

Mikhail had been anticipating such a reaction, and did his best to dispel her apprehensions. While still continuing to fill up his dusty duffel bag, he countered, “You’re right, my dearest. It’s a young man’s world out there. But sometimes us old-timer’s are needed as counselors, to share our hard-earned experience, gained by sweat and toil and many years in the field. Besides, I’ll be gone less than a week. And I promise you, once this patrol is completed, I’ll hang up my duffel bag for good.”

This last statement served its purpose, and realizing that it was useless to fight him, Anna pushed him out of the way and completed the packing herself.

As it so happened, he hadn’t been lying to her about quitting the sea for good. There would be much to do upon his return, and he would have no time for the operational side of the Fleet. This would be left in the capable hands of the officers and enlisted men of the Soviet Navy, men who would be instrumental in helping him consolidate the glorious worldwide Socialistic state that would shortly unite all men in brotherhood.

Merely thinking about the realization of his goal caused shivers to run up and down his spine. At long last, the time for dreaming was over. Action was the order of the day, as the world anxiously perched on the verge of a brave new beginning.

It wasn’t mere whim that was calling him to Murmansk.

Rather, it was the Sierra Class nuclear-powered attack submarine, Neva. Less than a year old, the Neva was a state-of-the-art vessel, especially designed for under-the-ice operations. Mikhail had been at the Gorky shipyards and had participated in the sub’s launching. Yet never did he dream then that one day in the near future he’d be boarding the Neva himself, to lead it on the most important mission of his long career.

As the enormous airliner that was carrying him to his destiny shook in a violent wind shear Mikhail reached into the breast pocket of his uniform and briefly touched the case holding the steel-jacketed cassette tape that would play a key role in their rapidly unraveling plot. The Neva must get him and this tape to the northern coast of Baffin Island with due haste.

From what he knew of this submarine’s captain, there was no better officer in the entire Soviet fleet to accomplish this task. Sergei Markova was young and aggressive. The talented son of a decorated war hero, he had been groomed since birth for his present position.