Under the Ice

He had spent a marvelous afternoon with his daughter Sasha. Dressed to the hilt in preparation for the storm that would soon be upon them, they’d made the round of the local stores. With their precious purchases in hand, they walked home in the thickly blowing snow. Once back at the apartment they were greeted by their guests, Viktor and Tanya Belenko. It had been while Viktor and Sergei sat before the fireplace that Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 5 in E minor began blaring forth from the room’s mounted radio speakers. Over drinks and appetizers, and the continually developing music, they had all joked, told stories, and relaxed in a casual atmosphere as alien to that of the Neva as day is to night.

The symphony was just reaching its spirited conclusion when the fateful phone call that was to put an abrupt end to their party came. Could Sergei ever forget the look of pained disappointment that painted the face of his dear wife as he revealed that call’s grim purpose? Viktor’s beautiful wife had been equally shocked, and when Sasha had learned that her Poppy was leaving for the sea once again, her tears had been instantaneous.

As it turned out, Sergei had had little time to share their frustrations. He’d been too busy packing his clothes and mentally formulating the long list of tasks that would have to be taken care of before the Neva was able to put to sea as ordered. He last glimpsed his beloved family as he sprinted out the lobby doors to Viktor’s waiting automobile. Even the duty woman seemed to have tears in her eyes as Sasha ran up to the frosted windows to wave one last goodbye.

From that point on, Sergei’s official military duties had occupied him completely. Yet the chance playing of one of the loveliest pieces of music ever written had unlocked precious memories, and Sergei’s heart was suddenly heavy, with a loneliness only a sailor could understand, as his heavy eyelids closed and he surrendered to his exhaustion.

He awoke an hour and a half later when a firm hand shook his shoulder. Reaching up to remove the headphones — he had fallen asleep with them on-Sergei looked up into the concerned face of his senior lieutenant.

“I’m sorry to have had to awaken you, comrade, but we’ve picked up something on sonar that I know you’ll be interested in.”

The captain replied while sitting up and wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“I bet it’s an active sonobuoy from a Yankee P-3 Orion. I knew they’d tag us the moment we exited the Nares Strait.”

Viktor Belenko shook his head.

“I’m afraid your hunch is wrong this time, old friend. For what we’ve discovered in the waters before us is not a mere sonobuoy but another submarine!”

This revelation hit Sergei with a jolt, and he was suddenly wide awake.

“You don’t say, Viktor. Any idea as to its nationality? And have they realized they’re not alone as yet?”

An excited gleam flashed in Viktor’s eyes as he answered, “The computer shows a forty-seven percent probability that this contact is an American Sturgeon class vessel. They’re apparently traveling northward in a hell of a hurry, and it appears that they have no idea we’re out here.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Sergei, who stood and hastily threw on his coveralls.

“Let’s sound general quarters and see just what it is that our enemy is doing in these waters.”

“I’ve already taken the liberty of sending the men to their battle stations, comrade. Admiral of the Fleet Kharkov is anxiously waiting for us in the attack center.”

“Then we’d better be quick and join that old fox before he takes out the Yankees with a torpedo salvo,” Sergei jested, as he beckoned his subordinate to lead the way to the Neva’s control room.

A hushed, tense atmosphere prevailed in the attack center as the vessel’s two senior officers hurriedly entered and made their way to the sonar console.

Here they joined Admiral Kharkov and the Neva’s Zampolit.

It proved to be the white-haired veteran who anxiously greeted the newcomers.

“Ah, it’s about time, Captain. It appears that we’ve caught ourselves an unwary Imperialist Sturgeon all right. The probability is now up to sixty-eight percent.”

With his eyes glued to the repeater screen that showed the vessel’s sound signature as a line of quivering light, Sergei Markova thoughtfully observed, “This is most unusual, comrades. It’s very rare to catch the overly cautious Americans at a sprint speed such as this. One can’t help but wonder where they’re off to in such a hurry.”

“Why that’s only too apparent,” offered Konstantin Zinyagin, as he patted his sweating jowls dry with a handkerchief.

“The Sturgeon is obviously bound for the frozen waters of Lancaster Sound, just like we are.”

“The Zampolit’s observations are correct,” concurred Mikhail Kharkov.

“For it’s to their advantage to retrieve the Flying Kremlin’s black box before anyone else does and reveals to the world the real cause of our beloved Premier’s tragic passing.”

“Sounds logical to me,” reflected the senior lieutenant.