Under the Ice

Graduating first in his class at Leningrad’s Frunze Naval Academy, Markova had gained Mikhail’s attention while he was attending postgraduate courses at the A. A. Grechko Academy. Acting as a silent patron, Mikhail had made certain that the young officer’s first active assignment had been on one of the Motherland’s newest attack subs. As Mikhail expected, Markova distinguished himself as an officer who could be relied upon, and quickly moved up the ranks.

In an unprecedented five years’ time, Sergei Markova was a full captain. As one of the youngest, most intelligent commanding officers in the submarine force, it was only natural that he be given the newest, most technologically advanced attack vessel in the fleet. Powered by two pressurized water-cooled nuclear reactors, the Neva was built for speed and endurance. The sub’s primary operational area was the Barents, Kara, and Laptev Seas, and of course, the Arctic Ocean. Here the Neva accomplished several diverse missions — from escorting the mammoth Typhoon class ballistic missile-carrying submarines to patrolling clandestinely. Several of these latter types of missions involved surfacing in the pack ice while in unfriendly waters, and not once had Markova failed to fulfill his orders.

The young captain was said to have nerves of steel, and this was just the type of individual the Admiral of the Fleet was looking for. Mikhail was not deceiving himself into believing this was going to be an easy mission. For they would be going deep into enemy territory, surfacing in frozen, uncharted waters, and then searching for an object that was as insignificant as the proverbial needle in a haystack.

The risks were great, yet, if successful, this mission could very well signal a turning point in world history.

As significant as the glorious October Revolution, the outcome of this upcoming patrol could mean the difference between another century of Soviet mediocrity or the final fulfillment of Lenin’s prophetic vision of a world united in equality and brotherhood.

Thus, Mikhail couldn’t even begin to ponder the possibility of failure. For the future of the Motherland, he had to succeed!

A slight change in the An-22’s cabin pressure signaled that the airplane had at long last begun its descent into Murmansk. As the veteran mariner yawned to clear his blocked eardrums, he was thrown violently forward, and then shaken from side to side, by the worst turbulence yet encountered. The entire fuselage vibrated with an unnatural intensity, and as the overhead bins began snapping open, even the soundly sleeping attendant was roused from his slumber.

Mikhail tightly gripped the armrests of his chair, and looked on as the door to the flight deck suddenly popped open. Like a sailor on a three-day drunk, out stumbled the airplane’s senior pilot. A look of concern was on his weathered face as he struggled to make his way down the aisle of the constantly rocking plane.

“Shouldn’t you be buckled up snugly in your seat, Captain, in anticipation of our landing?” Mikhail asked tensely.

The senior pilot held on tightly to the chair beside that of his distinguished passenger as he replied “I’m afraid I’ve got some rather distressing news for you, Admiral. I don’t have to tell you what the weather’s like up here. But down in Murmansk, there’s a regular blizzard blowing. This storm is so bad the airport there has just closed down until further notice. It looks like we’ll be diverting to Severodvinsk. And if we’re lucky, maybe we’ll get there before this storm does.”

Not believing what he was hearing, Mikhail firmly retorted.

“We are not going to Severodvinsk, Captain!

If I have to fly this plane myself, we’re going to land in Murmansk as planned.”

“But the airport’s closed!” the pilot pleaded, holding on for dear life as the plane suddenly canted hard on its left side.

“We’re barely holding together up here at ten thousand meters. Down below, it will be even worse.”

“I don’t care if there’s a full-fledged hurricane down there, Captain. The security of the Motherland hinges on my reaching Murmansk before the next tide changes.”

“But that’s impossible!” protested the red-faced pilot.

“So was the defense of Stalingrad,” barked the determined mariner.

“There will be no deviations from our flight plan, comrade. As Admiral of the Fleet of the Soviet Union, I order you to land this aircraft at the Murmansk airport right now! Do I make myself absolutely clear. Captain?”

Obviously outranked the grim-faced pilot could only shrug his thin shoulders.

“All right. Admiral. If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get. It’s your funeral. To tell you the truth, in this line of work, I never expected to live past forty anyway.”

Like a punch-drunk boxer, the pilot proceeded to return to the flight deck, while Mikhail Kharkov took a deep, full breath to regain his composure. The veteran mariner had come too far to be delayed now, and neither a cowardly pilot nor a tempest from hell itself would keep him from attaining his goal.