Under the Ice

Still not certain what his shipmate was carrying on about, Lester made the mistake of turning up his volume gain a full notch just as a thundering explosion sounded above them. His eardrums painfully reverberating under the force of this sonic lashing, he ripped off his headphones. Yet instead of sympathy, his shipmate greeted him with a wide, beaming smile and a hearty pat on the back.

“We did it, Les! I told you the Skipper would see us out of this fix.”

“What in the hell happened?” queried the dazed junior technician.

Realizing the extent of his shipmate’s confusion, Stanley wasted no time explaining.

“Don’t you un294 understand, Les? Captain Colter had it planned from the very start. By sending us up almost to the surface, and then abruptly ordering the Defiance back down, he caused that Russkie torpedo to smack right into the ice. The old man’s a genius, pure and simple!”

Lester Warren listened to these spirited remarks, his ears still ringing in pain. Quite willing to forget about his own agony and join in the celebration, the Texan became puzzled when his colleague anxiously returned to his console to initiate yet another intensive scan of the surrounding waters.

“What in the hell is that all about, Stanley? With that fish gone, and the other one still chasing our decoy, we’re surely in the clear.”

The veteran held back his response until his scan located what he had been searching for.

“You seem to have forgotten the Defiance wasn’t the only sub under attack, Tex. Go ahead and isolate the bow hydrophone array, port side.”

As Lester gingerly replaced his headphones and reached forward to address his keyboard, Stanley Roth added.

“Ah, now this is sweet music to my ears, if I ever heard any. Because if you think the Defiance was just on a hectic roller-coaster ride, wait until you hear what Ivan’s in the midst of. Why that sub is cutting up the sea something fierce, with our three ever-loving torpedoes smack on its tail!”

“Captain Markova, for the sake of my poor wife and three young children, you must do something!

Why, we’re all going to die!”

As the Zampolit’s shrill pleas filled the previously hushed attack center, Admiral of the Fleet Mikhail

Kharkov reacted swiftly. Oblivious to the steeply canted, vibrating deck beneath him, the white-haired veteran crossed the entire length of the compartment and slapped the cowering Political Officer full on the cheek.

“Now that’s enough of your pathetic whining, Comrade Zampolit!” the fuming veteran chided.

“You’re a disgrace to both the Fleet and the Party, and I will have no more of this. Do you understand, comrade?”

Sobered by this surprise blow, the still-whimpering Political Officer managed a tear-stained reply.

“I’m sorry. Admiral. It’s just that I can’t bear the idea of my poor Katrina being such a young widow.”

“And don’t you think each one of us feels the same way about our loved ones?” countered the admiral.

“This is no way for a naval warrior to act, comrade. Especially when there’s still a very good chance we’ll yet escape this attack.”

The deck rolled hard to the right, and as Kharkov reached out to stabilize himself, the seated sonar operator called out dryly.

“The three torpedoes continue their approach. Captain. The range of the lead weapon is now down to a thousand meters.”

From the corner of the attack center directly opposite Mikhail Kharkov, the Neva’s Captain absorbed this observation with a pained grimace.

Beside him, his senior lieutenant did likewise.

“It’s obvious that these diversionary tactics are worthless,” reflected V’ktor Belenko somberly.

“The American Mark 48’s are quicker than we had anticipated, and even the Neva’s great speed won’t be enough to outrun them.”

Sergei Markova knew very well that his old friend was right. Even though the Neva’s turbines were spewing out an incredible forty-eight knots of forward speed, the trio of persistent torpedoes continued their relentless pursuit.

When it didn’t appear that their great speed would save them, Markova tried sending the Neva deep into the sea’s depths. Yet even a well-defined thermocline failed to fool the Mark 48’s, who were programmed to home in on the vessel’s acoustic signature.

Finally the captain decided, if they couldn’t outrun or out dive these persistent weapons, only one course remained open to them. Somehow Sergei would have to get the Neva in a position where he could order the power plant shut down. Then, once the mad, grinding wash of their propeller spun to a halt, the torpedoes would no longer have a target to home in on and the chase would be over.

As the frustrated young captain stared down at the bathymetric chart of the sound they currently sailed beneath, Viktor Belenko offered yet another desperate proposal.

“Perhaps we should try launching another decoy, Sergei. Even if it is the last one we carry.”

“What’s the use?” the captain sighed.

“The others were useless. Why should this one be any different?”

“That doesn’t sound like the Sergei Markova I know,” retorted the senior lieutenant.