Under the Ice

“Come here. Admiral. I’d like you to take a look at something.”

Surprised by this request, Mikhail Kharkov proceeded to have a look through the lens. An expanse of startlingly clear water met his eyes. This was in itself astonishing, since most of the world’s oceans would appear pitch black at this depth. The veteran mariner was struck with wonder when a translucent, rainbow-colored blob gracefully floated by. One look at this creature’s long, flowing tentacles and Mikhail was able to identify it as a jellyfish.

“Well, I’ll be,” reflected the admiral as he backed away from the scope.

“So we’re not so alone in these frozen waters after all.”

“We certainly aren’t,” returned Sergei Markova.

“And from the clarity of the water and the amount of light visible, I’d say if there is ice above us, it should be thin enough for us to smash through with our sail. Shall we give it a try, Admiral?”

Not about to tell the captain otherwise, Mikhail beckoned him to get on with it and Sergei snapped into action.

“Down scope. Bring us up ever so gently. And don’t worry about that current. We’re well above it as the jellyfish that surround us seem to be just hanging there motionless.”

The ballast pumps again activated and the diving officer anxiously reported.

“Fifteen meters.”

“Thin ice above,” observed the seaman assigned to monitor the surface-scanning Fathometer.

“We’re close, comrades. So very close,” said the captain.

“Stop the pumps!”

The muted hum of venting ballast suddenly ceased, to be followed by a barely perceptible bumping sensation.

“Our sail’s up against the ice pack!” exclaimed the captain.

“Now it’s time to break on through. Lighten those tanks.”

The diving officer once again activated the ballast pumps. The familiar throbbing hum returned, yet even with this increase in positive buoyancy, the ice remained immovable.

Mikhail Kharkov watched as the captain thoughtfully walked over toward the diving console.

“That’s enough, comrade. You can stop pumping now since it’s evident this ice is a bit more dense than we assumed.”

It was at this point that the ship’s Zampolit stepped out of the shadowy corner in which he had been perched.

“What are we to do now, Captain? Shall we go and find a more suitable polynya?”

“And why in Lenin’s name should we go and do a thing like that. Comrade Zinyagin?” returned the captain.

“It’s foolish to waste all this effort just because of a little tough ice. And besides, have you already forgotten that it’s to this very sector duty calls us.”

“But how are we to get topside if the ice blocks our way?” continued the puzzled Political Officer.

Sergei Markova grinned.

“I guess we’ll just have to go and smash our way through. Flood her down, comrade diving officer. But only ten meters or so.

Then lighten our load, and we’ll see what kind of icebreaker the Neva makes.”

Unable to hide his unease, the Zampolit sighed heavily. As he removed his handkerchief to mop his dripping wet jowls, he returned to his corner to brace himself for that inevitable collision that would soon be coming.

A carefully monitored surge of onrushing seawater brought the submarine down another ten meters in depth. Then with a single turn of his wrist, the diving officer vented this additional ballast and the now lightened vessel drifted upward.

There was a loud crack and for a moment the deck below quivered and trembled. Yet the Neva still found itself beneath the dome of solid ice.

“So it’s going to take a little more muscle,” observed the captain.

“Take us down fifteen meters, and this time blow the main ballast. With a couple of hundred tons of additional positive buoyancy, the Neva will smash on through that ice like a fist through a plate-glass window.”

Though stimulated by the young captain’s vigor, Mikhail Kharkov knew that such a procedure was not without its dangers. The encompassing ice could be thicker than they anticipated, and even if their specially reinforced sail could take the resulting collision, their fragile rudder might not. And there was always the ever-present threat of encountering an inverted spike of ice that could pierce the Neva’s hull and send them all to their watery doom. Yet such were the risks of Arctic operations. And since the completion of their mission depended upon a successful ascent, they had few alternatives, other than gambling on locating another polynya close by.

For the first time in years, Kharkov felt his gut tighten with dread. And only then did he realize what a sheltered existence he had been living as a landlocked bureaucrat. As a sailor, fear had been a constant companion. Though infrequently acknowledged, it showed itself every time a storm at sea was encountered, or enemy waters were attained. At such times even the most decorated individuals felt that dreaded twinge deep in their bellies as they prepared for one more brush with mortality.