Under the Ice

“What in the world does he hope to see down here? We’re still a good ten meters away from periscope depth.”

“That we are. Admiral,” offered Viktor.

“But you’d be surprised what these new lenses can pick up while still submerged. Actually, all the captain is trying to do is locate any inverted ice ridges that the Fathometer may have missed.”

“Looks good from this angle,” observed Sergei as he backed away from the lens.

“Down scope. Bring us up to twenty meters. Comrade diving officer. But do it gently, my friend, just as you’d caress your lover.”

This remark was intended to help break the strained atmosphere inside the compartment as the ballast pumps once again whirred alive.

“Twenty-five meters,” noted the diving officer.

“We’ve still got thin ice above,” added the Fatho meter operator.

“Twenty meters and still rising,” said the diving officer a bit tensely. Then, “We seem to have hit a strong current of colder water and I can’t hold her!”

This revelation was followed by the distraught cries of the seaman assigned to the Fathometer.

“Heavy ice. Captain! We’re drifting out of the polynya!”

“Flood emergency!” commanded the captain.

To a blast of highly pressurized air the ballast tanks opened to the sea. Yet this order was given a fraction of a second too late, and the Neva smashed into the ice pack above with a deafening, bone-jarring concussion. Once again the Zampolit found himself thrown to the deck, yet this time he was not alone; several of his shipmates joined him along with an assortment of loose gear.

As the lights blinked off then on again, the frantic diving officer could be heard screaming, “Blow negative to the mark!”

The tons of seawater that the Neva had just taken on in its vain attempt to keep from striking the ice were vented, but not in time to keep the vessel from spiraling down into the black depths.

“One-hundred and fifty meters and still falling,” observed the sweating diving officer.

At a depth of two hundred meters the Neva’s welded steel hull began groaning as the ship approached its crush threshold. At two hundred and fifty meters this sickening, rending sound intensified prompting the ship’s Zampolit to cry out in panic.

“Can’t you do anything to save us. Captain?”

Knowing full well that it was out of his hands, Sergei Markova briefly caught the resolute stare of his white-haired passenger. Mikhail Kharkov appeared cool as ice as he turned toward the whimpering Political Officer and disgustedly spat out.

“Shut up. Comrade Zinyagin!”

It wasn’t until a depth of three hundred and twenty meters that the Neva quit falling. There were no shouts of celebration, no cries of joy. Only the firm voice of the vessel’s captain as he barked out commandingly.

“Take her back up, Comrade Diving Officer. And this time we’ll anticipate that inversion current and we’ll break through to the surface as we intended!”

Chapter Thirteen

Petty Officer First Class Stanley Roth was like a man reborn. Since his successful oral surgery, the constant pain that had left him listless and irritable for days on end was gone. And with this change for the better came an entirely new outlook on life.

Though his gum was still sore where the tooth had been removed, he could drink down a mug of hot coffee without having to howl out in agony. And for the first time in weeks, he actually slept for an entire six-hour stretch without resorting to a narcotic stupor to do so.

There was an expectant smile on his lips as he pranced down the passageway that led to the sound shack. It had been much too long since he’d really looked forward to going to work, and he felt like a wide-eyed recruit again.

Inside the padded door of the sonar compartment he found Seaman Lester Warren hunched over his console. The youngster was totally absorbed in his current scan, and didn’t even realize that his relief had arrived.

“Good afternoon, Seaman Warren. And how are you on this glorious day at fifty fathoms?”

Not certain who it was that was greeting him, the

Texan looked up from the repeater screen and had to do a double take when he spotted the grinning petty officer.

“Is that really you, Mr. Roth? Why you look like your old self once again.”

“Why I didn’t know that it showed,” Stanley jested, then added.

“Now I remember how it felt when I was a freshman and had my cherry popped by the hottest cheerleader in school. Why I feel absolutely wonderful!”

Unable to share the petty officer’s enthusiasm, Lester turned back to his screen. Stanley Roth could see that something was bothering the kid, and he gently touched him on his shoulder.

“What’s with the long face, Les? Life’s too short to be taken so seriously.”

The Texan replied while studying the repeater screen.

“I’m just doing my job, sir.”

“Oh, cut the crap, Les. What the hell is bothering you?”

The frustrated seaman emotionally vented himself without taking his eyes off the monitor.

“It’s that bogey, sir, and the way they were able to sneak up on us without me even knowing they were out there.