Under the Ice

“But the American’s will be waiting for us,” repeated Viktor.

“To hell with the Americans!” exclaimed Mikhail Kharkov passionately.

“I don’t give a damn if their SOS US line does indeed pick us up, for we’ll be in and out of there long before the pathetic Imperialists will be able to react to our presence.”

Again the admiral snapped his fingers, and in instant response, Konstantin Zinyagin once more unfolded another chart. This one was of a meteorological variety, and as the two senior submariners looked on, Mikhail Kharkov was quick to explain it.

“Please note the series of tight circular lines that are located off the northern coast of Baffin Island. This unique pattern is indicative of an intense low-pressure system. The chart that you see before you was compiled from data relayed to the Neva by way of the Salyut space station. Red Flag. It is less than three hours old, and shows a storm of great magnitude, currently stalled over the waters of Lancaster Sound.

Since it appears that this powerful system will be influencing the region for at least forty-eight more hours, we can forget about the threat of encountering any type of observation from above. No airman in his right mind would brave such a blizzard. And concerning the possibility of meeting up with a surface vessel, I think this photo speaks for itself.”

Quick to take the hint, the Zampolit uncovered a large glossy, black and white photograph and handed it to Sergei Markova. As Belenko leaned over to take a look at the picture, the Admiral of the Fleet continued his narrative.

“What you are now seeing has also been relayed to us by Red Flag; I took the liberty of bringing it along with me from Murmansk Fleet headquarters. Taken two days ago, it shows the Canadian Coast Guard cutter, Louis St. Laurent, hopelessly trapped in the ice to the west of Lancaster Sound. This pitifully weak icebreaker is the only ship in the entire Imperialist fleet that could possibly give us any trouble. And unless the spring thaw comes six months early this year, the Neva won’t have to worry about sharing these waters with a boatload of crazed Canucks.”

As he placed the photograph back on the wardroom table, Sergei Markova voiced himself.

“This is all rather fascinating. Admiral. But I still don’t understand why it’s so urgent for us to get into the waters of Lancaster Sound.”

“Of course you don’t, Captain,” Kharkov answered.

“But if you’ll hear me out a bit longer, all your confusion will soon be gone.”

Pushing his chair back and standing at this point, the white-haired veteran continued, his voice strong with conviction.

“Taking it for granted that the Neva will successfully reach Lancaster Sound in the minimum amount of time, I will need five members of the crew. These men have got to be tough enough to take an inordinate amount of physical punishment, and they must have resolute characters. They will be outfitted with special Arctic survival gear that has already been brought onto the ship, and will leave the Neva under my command, once the vessel has surfaced in a suitable polynya.

“At this point I will utilize a directional homing device to locate the Flying Kremlin’s cockpit voice recorder, or, as it is more commonly known, its black box. Such an instrument contains a specially constructed cassette tape on which a full account of the flight is recorded. Hopefully this black box can be located before its battery pack runs low, and the ultrasonic beacon it continually projects stops transmitting.

The Salyut space station Red Flag has already picked up this signal, and has definitely traced its origin to somewhere on the northern shore of Baffin Island. Unfortunately, these were the most accurate coordinates that could be relayed to us.”

“How long before this battery is scheduled to fail?” questioned Sergei.

Glad to see that the captain was following him, the admiral replied.

“The best estimate gives us another seventy-two hours before the transmissions stop.”

“Then no wonder it’s so important we get there with such haste,” reflected Viktor Belenko.

“Precisely, comrade,” responded Mikhail Kharkov, as a hint of gathering excitement flavored his tone.

“If the fates are with us, then the black box will be successfully retrieved. And once it’s conveyed back to the Neva, I will be able to complete an almost-instant analysis of the tape’s composition by using the ship’s computer and a special software program that is curntly locked in my cabin’s safe. Within minutes, we’ll soon enough know the true nature of the disaster that led to our Premier’s tragic passing. And if it’s indeed learned that a Yankee missile was responsible for the Flying Kremlin’s demise, then the Neva’s next mission will be one of pure revenge!”

These last words rang out with a threatening intensity, and as the Neva’s two senior officers shared the briefest of concerned glances, the wardroom’s intercom rang. Without hesitating, Viktor Belenko reached out for the nearby plastic handset.