Under the Ice

“Welcome, Great Spirit, to the humble home of this neophyte shaman. You have been called here to fulfill the prophecy of the grandfathers. The time of trial is upon us, and to insure a favorable judgment, the people’s vision must be spotlessly clean. For already the red demon approaches, and it will be our petitions alone that will send this beast back to the cold depths from which it struggles to emerge!”

Akatingwah could only look on in horror as her husband’s eyes rolled up into his head and Ootah slipped into the deepest of trances. Fighting the urge to grab the alien blinking object herself and then dispose of it, she consoled herself by reaching out for her son. Hugging her beloved offspring close to her full breasts, the Inuit closed her eyes and prayed for the evil spell to pass. While in the distance, the mad shrieking howl of the wind signaled that the brunt of the blizzard was now upon them.

“Captain Markova, we have just reached the coordinates relayed to us by the cosmonauts on the Red Flag. Will we be surfacing now?”

The Neva’s commanding officer had been seated at the wardroom table with several of his crew when this news was personally delivered by the which man

After putting down the tea he had been sipping, Sergei anxiously responded.

“Why of course. Comrade Ustreka. Please let the senior lieutenant know I’ll personally join him in the attack center to supervise this ascent.”

“I’ll do so at once, sir,” snapped the Michman as he smartly pivoted to convey this message.

As Sergei Markova pushed back his chair and stood, the white-haired figure at the head of the table did likewise.

“I hope you don’t mind if I join you. Captain?”

queried Mikhail Kharkov.

“This is a historic moment, and I’d like the honor of witnessing it firsthand.”

“I don’t mind at all,” replied Sergei.

“Surfacing in the ice is always an adventure, and I’m certain that you won’t be bored.”

“So I remember,” reflected the Admiral of the Fleet, who addressed his next remark to the individual still seated at the table.

“Well, Comrade Zampolit, aren’t you interested in joining us? I’m sure that piece of cake will be waiting for you once we’re on the surface.”

Having been totally absorbed in the tasty poppy-seed cake the steward had just served him, Konstantin Zinyagin looked up and blushed. With his mouth still full, he awkwardly stood and began brushing the crumbs from his clipped mustache and beard.

Mikhail Kharkov shook his head in disgust and followed the captain out of the wardroom, the still-chewing Political Officer close on his heels. They were halfway down the passageway when the Neva banked violently over onto its side. The force of this unexpected turn was so great that both Sergei and his distinguished guest were forced to reach out for the handrail to keep from falling. Behind them, the Zampolit’s reactions were a bit slower, and the Political Officer went sprawling to the deck, where he landed squarely on his backside.

Not bothering to give Zinyagin the least bit of attention, the admiral quickly said, “What in the hell was that all about. Captain?”

Sergei held back his answer until the Neva’s deck was stable once more.

“I guess such tactics hadn’t been perfected when you took the first Victor up to the ice. Admiral. Such a turn is standard procedure when looking for a polynya in which to surface.

Most likely we just passed beneath such an opening, and the senior lieutenant ordered this abrupt course change so that we wouldn’t miss it.”

By the time they began to make their way down the passageway once again, the Zampolit had picked himself up. While rubbing his bruised rear end, the pained Political Officer did his best to continue on also.

Once in the attack center, they joined the Neva’s senior lieutenant as he stood beside the periscope well.

“What have you got. Comrade Belenko?” questioned Sergei.

The senior lieutenant was quick to answer.

“We just passed beneath what looks to be a fairly good-sized lead. Captain. The ice was thick to this point, and I thought it best if we didn’t pass this polynya up knowing our present coordinates and all.”

“You decided correctly, comrade,” returned the captain.

“We’ve got thin ice above us,” observed the seaman responsible for monitoring the surface-scanning Fathometer.

“All stop!” barked Sergei.

“Bring us up to thirty meters.”

The loud whirring growl of the ballast pumps activating filled the hushed compartment. This was followed by the sound of water flowing back into the tanks as the diving officer attempted to control the rate of ascent of the now-lightened vessel, “Secure flooding. Thirty meters. Captain,” said the diving officer.

“Up scope,” ordered Markova.

There was a loud hiss and the hydraulically controlled periscope lifted up from its well. Sergei pulled down the hinged grips and peered through the rubberized viewing coupling.

Behind the captain, Mikhail Kharkov softly addressed the Neva’s second in command.