Under the Ice

Manned by a crew of one hundred and seven of the US Navy’s best, the Defiance was a proud ship with a proud tradition. Ever grateful for the opportunity to lead these brave men into battle if that should become necessary. Matt Colter restlessly stirred. Only then did he realize that he was lying there completely clothed.

This was not the first time he had fallen asleep in such formal attire, and he stiffly sat up, intending to wash and change into a fresh uniform.

Standing before his pullman-type metal washbasin, Matt soaked his face with cool water. Deciding not to shave, he momentarily caught his reflection in the wall-mounted mirror. Surprisingly enough, the tired face that stared back at him could easily have been a twin of his Uncle Bill in earlier days. He had the same short, spiky blond hair, deep blue eyes, highly etched cheekbones, and rounded, dimpled chin.

With this thought in mind. Matt wondered how his uncle would have handled their present mission.

Would he have ordered them to return over a week early as Matt had done, or would he have attempted yet another series of ascents to the frozen Arctic ice pack?

If it had been wartime, and the success of their mission depended upon such an ascent. Matt did not doubt that he would have given it another try. Yet the way he saw it, they had absolutely nothing to gain by such an attempt at this time and place.

It was evident that the new surface-scanning Fathometer still had quite a few bugs in it. It was a far from a reliable system, and until these flaws were worked out, it placed the entire crew in jeopardy. Thus as captain of the Defiance, Matt had no choice but to cut their mission short before the ship was once again needlessly endangered.

The theory behind such a device was fairly basic. In reality it was but a converted Fathometer, mounted on the topside of the submarine. The older machines utilized sound waves to determine the location of any surface ice. The device that had been installed on the Defiance used a sophisticated laser that was supposed not only to locate the smallest of usable open leads above, but also to interface with the boat’s navigation system to help the sub undergo a precise ascent.

Without such an instrument, the control-room crew had no reliable way of knowing what lay above them. Though sturdily built, a submarine could be readily damaged by a collision. Thick pack ice could be extremely unyielding, its submerged razor-sharp ridges able to easily puncture even the sturdiest of steel hulls.

One unusual feature of the Arctic ice fields was that even in the coldest parts of winter, open leads, or polynyas formed. Such openings extended from a few yards to many miles, and provided a submarine a safe haven in which to surface.

Matt Colter had been on several past Arctic missions during which time ascents to the surface were made. In each instance, even with perfectly functioning equipment, the atmosphere inside the control room had been tense as the submarine rose to meet its fate. Collisions with the ice weren’t unknown, and on one submerged ridge they had even damaged their vulnerable rudder. Yet their hull had remained intact, and after a series of makeshift repairs, they’d continued on with their patrol.

The Defiance had a specially strengthened sail, or conning tower, that could puncture up to a foot of solid ice. During the last week they had attempted to surface in three different, promising polynyas. Yet each time their best efforts were thwarted by an impenetrable sheet of ice that produced a deafening, bone-jarring jolt. Fortunately, most of the damage was limited to their nerves. But would they be so lucky the next time? Determined not to buck the odds. Matt had made the difficult decision to cut short their cruise and return to port. Certain that his uncle would have made the same choice, he mentally prepared himself for the icy reception that would be awaiting him in New London.

The scent of perking coffee met his nostrils, and he was suddenly aware that he had passed by both breakfast and lunch. Determined to make up for these missed meals, he turned away from the washbasin to change into a fresh set of coveralls and go to the nearby wardroom.

Chapter Two

A full moon cycle had passed since Ootah’s terrifying confrontation with Tornarsuk on the ice pack. In this time span, the Inuit hunter had succeeded in closing up his camp and moving his family out of that cursed spot. They traveled to the north, finally halting on the shore of the great ice sea known to the whites as Lancaster Sound. Here the fates were with him, and his harpoon took down a fat walrus. The meat of this animal was sweet and nourishing, and with their bellies finally filled, life was once again bearable.