Under the Ice

“All I’m waiting for is just one damn chance to even the score,” muttered the Texan.

“Just one damn chance!”

The young technician was obviously not the type of person who accepted failure easily, and Roth knew that the best way to let him vent his frustrations was to let him work them out. After a couple more hours in front of the repeater screen, his growling stomach and sore back would send him packing.

Stanley was in the process of isolating the hydrophones mounted into the very tip of the ship’s spherical bow, when he heard a series of distant crashing sounds that were followed by a muted, throbbing whine that was disturbingly familiar. His shipmate also heard this alien racket and shouted out excitingly.

“Do you hear that, Stanley? It sounds like the commotion the Defiance made when we slammed into the ice on our last patrol!”

This acute observation hit home, and Roth was able to identify the pulsating whine that followed the initial clamor.

“Jesus Christ, you hit the nail right on the head, Les. That’s a friggin’ ballast pump! Hang in there, my friend. You wanted a chance for revenge, and if I know the Skipper, you’re about to get your wish.”

Admiral of the Fleet Mikhail Kharkov was absolutely certain he had picked the right man for the difficult job at hand as he watched the Neva’s young captain in action. Faced with a variety of calamities ranging from an unexpected collision with the ice to an unscheduled dive to depths that tested the very integrity of their hull, Sergei Markova remained absolutely cool under fire. Not even stopping to wipe the sweat from his brow, the Neva’s commanding officer barked out the orders that would once again send the vessel topside to meet the challenge of the ice.

Persistence was a quality Mikhail greatly respected.

It was his great uncle who’d given him his first lesson in that all-important virtue. They had been hiking beside the wooded shores of Lake Baikal at the time, and had come across one of the many hot springs in the area. As his adult guide ripped off his clothes and invited Mikhail to join him in the steaming water, Mikhail humbly admitted that he didn’t know how to swim.

“That makes not a bit of difference,” instructed his great-uncle as he immersed himself in the torrid pool.

“Jump right in and you’ll learn soon enough.”

Mikhail did just that, yet since he neglected to close his mouth, the youngster almost drowned in the process. His great-uncle pulled him out, and though Mikhail was more than content to forget all about this swimming lesson, his guardian would have no part of it.

“You must jump back in at once, Misha,” wisely directed the grizzled trapper.

“Otherwise one bad experience might cause you never again to enter the water.”

With a bit more circumspection, Mikhail took the old-timer’s advice and jumped back into the pool, this time making absolutely certain to keep his mouth closed. And less than a half hour later, the youngster was actually swimming all on his own.

Throughout his career, Mikhail remembered this invaluable lesson. He utilized it time and again, especially during the traumatic years of the Great War. Battle brought out both the best and worst qualities in men. And even the bravest soldier’s nerves were put to the test each time he went into harm’s way.

After returning from his first wartime submarine patrol, common sense would have had him ask for a transfer to the surface fleet at once. For their vessels were not of the best quality, and the exploding Nazi depth charges put a fear in a sailor’s soul that none would ever forget. Yet with his great-uncle’s words in mind, he returned to the undersea world and came back from his second patrol with his first confirmed kill — a fully loaded German troop transport.

Now to watch the Neva’s brave young captain at work brought a satisfied grin to the white-haired veteran’s cracked lips. Not about to let adversity get in the way of his mission’s success, Sergei Markova hunched over the extended periscope and called out firmly.

“Looks good from this angle. What’s our depth, comrade diving officer?”

“Thirty meters,” replied a tense, high-pitched voice.

As he backed away from the scope, the captain added.

“Now this time the Neva will be anticipating that cold current, and will be more than prepared to counter it. Bring us up, comrade, as gently as if your own mother were on top of our sail.”

A muted surging hum filled the attack center as the ballast pumps were activated. As the now-lightened sub began to rise, the diving officer reversed the ballast process to insure that the ship was heavy enough to meet the temperature inversion that had sent them shooting upward like a rocket last time.

“We’re at eighteen meters, and holding. Captain,” he proudly observed.

“Keep her right there. Comrade,” ordered the captain.

“At this depth we should be just above that current and we’ll be able to drift right under the polynya.”

As Sergei returned to the periscope well, he peered inside the lens coupling and eagerly called out.