Under the Ice

The admiral breathlessly watched as the Neva’s second-in-command sprinted over to the annunciator.

Seconds later, the shaft began spinning in reverse, and as the sub’s huge propeller bit into the surrounding seawater, the Neva shook wildly and trembled with such force that Mikhail Kharkov had to reach out to a nearby bulkhead to steady himself.

Cowering at the admiral’s side, the Zampolit looked at the veteran mariner, his eyes filled with horror, and somehow found the words to express his worst fears.

“And to think that all this is happening while we’re under the ice. We’ll never be able to get to surface again!”

Kharkov was all set to slap some sense into the cowardly Political Officer when a torrent of water exploded from the still-spinning shaft. This geyser shot through the air like a tidal wave, and with his own uniform now thoroughly soaked. Admiral Mikhail Kharkov sensed that something was seriously wrong. The roar of the spinning propeller rose to an almost deafening crescendo, and with the hull still wildly vibrating around him, the white-haired veteran found his own gut tightening with fear. For the first time since the closing days of the Great War, when an exploding Nazi depth charge almost sent his command to the bottom, he prepared himself for a painful but quick, watery death.

It was at that exact moment the leak sealed itself.

With the sound of spraying water suddenly absent, Captain Sergei Markova’s voice rang out clear and true.

“Stop the shaft, Viktor!”

As the senior lieutenant faithfully carried out this directive, the mad vibration finally halted. Noting that only a small trickle of water was now seeping through the seal, Kharkov listened as the Neva’s captain cried out forcefully.

“All ahead two-thirds, Viktor. She’ll hold now, I can just feel it!”

Once more the shaft began rotating. Yet this time as it started rapidly spinning, the trickle of leaking water stopped flowing completely. As the young captain had said, the seal had indeed held — the crisis was over!

Exhaling a grateful breath of relief. Admiral of the Fleet Mikhail Kharkov looked down to the man responsible for their salvation. Sergei Markova stood on the still partially flooded deck, his blue-eyed stare locked on the spinning shaft. With his wet blond hair slicked back off his forehead, the captain looked strikingly handsome, like a movie actor playing out a scene in a remarkably accurate set.

A sudden feeling of pride swelled in the old warrior’s chest. He had picked Sergei Markova to be a winner when the man was but a cadet in postgraduate school. As a secret patron, Mikhail had guided the young officer’s career from its very start, and he had been an instrumental force in getting Markova his current command. Certain now that he had picked the right man for the all-important mission that faced them, the white-haired veteran turned to head for his cabin and a change of clothing.

Chapter Ten

The storm struck Arctic Bay soon after the Aurora CP-140 aircraft carrying Lieutenant Jack Redmond and his squad of Rangers landed at the settlement’s primitive airport. With the gathering winds already beginning to strengthen in velocity, the commandoes hurriedly unpacked their gear. As Jack Redmond supervised this effort, his sergeant-major rushed into the adjoining town to see about getting the services of a dog team and sled to lead them across the ice fields.

The Rangers were in the process of carefully carrying their six snowmobiles out of the plane’s cargo bay and down onto the windswept tarmac when a short, powerfully built figure approached them. Dressed in a heavy, down-filled parka and wearing a distinctive dark blue hat, this individual climbed up into the plane’s rear cabin and quickly cornered the squad’s commanding officer.

“Excuse me, sir. You must be Jack Redmond. I’m Lieutenant Bill Elliot, the local representative of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Welcome to Arctic Bay.”

Redmond accepted the Mountie’s firm handshake and replied.

“Thank you. Lieutenant Elliot. Looks like we got here just in time to beat this storm. Eh?”

“You certainly did,” returned the Mountie.

“From what I understand, it’s going to be a real bad one. In fact, if this Aurora doesn’t get airborne in a hurry, they’ll be staying right here for at least the next thirty-six hours. May I ask what your exact plans are? The telephone briefing I got was a bit sketchy.”

With the wind howling in the background, and his men scurrying around them to unload the supplies, Redmond answered.

“We’re off for the northern portion of the Brodeur Peninsula. Seems Ottawa feels the plane carrying the Soviet Premier could have gone down here, and we’ve been dispatched to search for any debris that would prove it did. We’re particularly interested in finding the aircraft’s cockpit voice recorder.”

“Sounds like you’ve certainly got your work cut out for you,” reflected the Mountie.