Under the Ice

Barely three hours after Captain Sergei Markova and his senior lieutenant got the unexpected call that sent them sprinting from Sergei’s Murmansk apartment, the Neva was steaming out of its sub pen at Polyarny. With barely enough time to change from their civilian clothing, the two senior officers coordinated the rushed departure that brought the last of the Neva’s eighty-five crew members on board with only twenty minutes to spare before the mooring lines were loosed.

Still not certain where they were ultimately headed, Sergei followed the orders that had him chart a course into the Barents Sea, between the island of Svalbard and Franz Josef land. Authorized to travel at its top speed of forty two knots, the Neva’s progress was swift, and twenty-four hours after the vessel set sail, it had attained the edge of the Arctic ice pack.

From the vessel’s highly automated attack center, Sergei Markova made certain that there was plenty of spare room between the top of the Neva’s stubby sail and the deepest of the inverted ice ridges. Only when he was confident that such a safe depth had been attained did he look to his watch, and then address his second-in-command, who was standing at the nearby plotting table.

“It looks like it’s just about time to be off to the wardroom, Viktor Ilyich.”

“But what should we do about our course?” countered the puzzled senior lieutenant.

“We’ve completed the first leg of our transit, and still find ourselves without a clear-cut destination.”

“Patience, Viktor. I’m certain that’s why Admiral Kharkov called this conference in the first place.”

“So the old fox is finally going to emerge from his den,” observed Viktor Ilyich Belenko.

“I can’t believe that we’ve been at sea a whole twenty-four hours and he hasn’t shown himself even once.”

“It’s obvious that our esteemed Admiral of the Fleet hasn’t merely been pining away in my quarters with a serv ere case of seasickness,” offered Sergei.

“Our Zampolit has been bringing him a constant stream of dispatches and charts ever since we left port.”

The senior lieutenant smirked.

“I bet Konstantin Zinyagin hasn’t worked so hard since basic training.

Why from what I understand, our Political Officer even brings the admiral his meals!”

“It’s about time Zinyagin did his fair share of work around here, Viktor. But that’s immaterial. Now, shall we go see what this great mystery is all about?”

As Viktor beckoned him to lead the way, Sergei Markova crisply exited the hushed attack center and headed toward the aft portion of the one-hundredandtenmeter-long vessel. The narrow passageway that they were soon transit ting was lined with storage lockers and snaking, stainless steel cables. To the muted whine of the Neva’s single shaft, geared steam turbines throbbing in the distance, they passed by the locked radio room and ducked through a double-thick hatch that brought them to their desired destination. me officer’s wardroom consisted of a large oval-shaped mahogany table around which eight upholstered chairs were placed. The haunting strains of Borodin’s “In the Steppes of Central Asia” emanated from the mounted stereo speakers and the two senior officers seated themselves at the vacant table. Sergei Markova’s customary place was at the head, yet because of the high rank of their special guest, protocol guided him to take the seat directly opposite this position. Viktor Belenko sat down on his right and cautiously whispered.

“I tell you, Sergei, I don’t like what’s going on here one bit. To me, it has all the trappings of a conspiracy.”

The captain responded, also taking extra care to keep his voice low.

“Your fears are noted, comrade.

But I still find them completely groundless. For what kind of conspiracy can take place on a ship when its two senior officers aren’t even involved?”

“Admiral of the Fleet Kharkov is not the type of man to take lightly,” warned Viktor.

“And you mustn’t underestimate our Zampolit. Konstantin Zinyagin might not be much of a sailor, but he’s sly and crafty and that’s a dangerous combination.”

Sergei shook his head.

“I still think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

A prophetic tone flavored the senior lieutenant’s voice as he replied.

“I hope you’re right, comrade. But in this instance, my instincts tell me otherwise.”

Dismissing his subordinate’s unfounded suspicions as mere paranoia, Sergei Markova once again checked his watch. With a minute to go until the meeting was scheduled to begin, he glanced up at the colorful mural that hung on the wall before him. This expertly rendered painting showed one small portion of the river for which his command was named. Entitled

The Neva at Spring, the mural displayed that section of the river lying immediately east of the city of Leningrad. Here the Neva cut through a tract of wild marshland.