Voyage of the Devilfish

“What happened. Captain?” Vlasenko asked, “I was under arrest, I don’t know what happened, although I know what Admiral Novskoyy had in mind. When he found out he had me locked up.” Novskoyy. The real enemy. Pacino looked at the older Russian, now regaining consciousness. His face was gray and lined, his breath wheezing in and out of blackened, badly chapped lips, his skin afflicted with frostbite. Blood had matted into a mess above one eyebrow, and his face was swollen and bruised. It was Vlasenko who finally broke the silence, his voice tight with anger. “This is Admiral Alexi Novskoyy, Supreme Commander of the Northern Fleet—” Pacino stopped hearing. Admiral Novskoyy, the man who had murdered his father, the man he had considered his nemesis. Instinctively, his right hand clenched into a fist, cocked itself at his shoulder. He had almost let it go, wanted to let it go, until he looked at the man’s face. Novskoyy was half-conscious, beaten up. It would be like beating a dumb animal. The fury that had been in him was gone, sunk to the bottom of the ocean with the hull of the Devilfish. Right now they were both seemingly condemned to this white bubble in the arctic, waiting for a rescue that grew less likely with every hour. Waiting for death. Pacino dropped his fist to his side as Novskoyy fell back into unconsciousness.

NORFOLK, VIRGINIA

COMSUBLANT HEADQUARTERS

Admiral Donchez came into the blast door to Flag Plot, met by the grim face of Watch Officer Kodiak.

“No word from the polar icecap, sir. And no break in the storm.”

“Anything from the Russians? Indication of a distress call?”

“Sorry, sir.” Donchez looked up at the Arctic Ocean plot. A blue X flashed in the Barents Sea, indicating the uncertain presence of a U.S. submarine. The legend next to it read USS ALLENTOWN SSN-764.

“Any word from Allentown?”

“No, sir. But we weren’t expecting any, were we?”

“No, guess not.” Donchez looked over at the Atlantic plot, now nearly empty. A single blue X flashed, the legend below reading USS BARRACUDA SSN-663.

“We’ve got other bad news, sir. The Barracuda, the unit you’re sending to the polar ice cap to investigate the explosions… she’s reported a casualty in the air-conditioning units. Total loss of the lithium bromide plant. And the R114 unit is leaking refrigerant all through the engine room, contaminating the atmosphere. They’ve had to shut down all electronics up forward — sonar, firecontrol and navigation. Temperatures aft are 120 degrees. The crew are in gas masks. We have to call her back, sir. Without sonar she really shouldn’t even be submerged. Her captain wants an answer.” Don’t we all, Donchez thought. “Tell the Barracuda to surface and come home. Anybody else still at sea? Any other Piranhas?”

“A few could be ready to go in a day, maybe even hours. But we’d want to load them out with food and arctic gear. And, sir, by the time they got to this explosion position two weeks will have gone by. Sir… there are no detects under the ice cap, no infrareds in the last half-dozen KH-17 passes, and this storm is severe enough that even if there were any survivors yesterday there’s little possibility any of them are living through today… I think we need to face the likelihood that the crew of the Devilfish are dead—”

“Send up a replacement for the Barracuda,” was Donchez’s angry reply. “I want a Piranha submarine headed north by tonight. Make it happen, dammit. Any problems with that, you let me know.” Donchez left Flag Plot and headed back to his office, thinking that the Piranha class boats were getting too damn old. Maybe he was, too. In his office he cleared his desk and went to the window overlooking the expanse of grass up to the fenceline, to the Stingray monument across the street. Two cranes were hoisting the marble slab up into position, getting ready to put it down on its foundation. Donchez stood there, unmoving, watching. And wondering what he was going to tell Hillary Pacino and her son.

POLAR ICE SURFACE

Novskoyy had not regained consciousness. Vlasenko, now sitting up, was telling the Americans around him about the Kaliningrad and her mission.

“What was the message he was transmitting? What did it mean?” Pacino said. Vlasenko told him, hesitantly, feeling almost personally responsible even though he had been imprisoned in the pod by Novskoyy. Pacino looked at Novskoyy, feeling not only outrage but frustration — here was his father’s killer, the object of his revenge… and yet what would be the satisfaction in doing what he badly wanted to do when the man was half-dead, his ship on the bottom too? Pacino looked over at Rapier, then back to Vlasenko.

“Did he transmit the go-message?” Vlasenko looked grim as he felt. Outside the wind howled, shaking the walls of the shelter.

“I can’t say. I told you, I was arrested and put into the escape pod. Was there any word from your headquarters?”