“Once you’ve completed the reprogramming and gotten a little rest, I’d be honored if you’d join me on a proper tour of the Defiance. Besides, from what I gather, the crew’s even got money riding on when you’ll finally be making an appearance.”
The scientist blushed.
“I sure wouldn’t want to let them down, now would I, Captain?”
“Not if you know what’s good for you,” returned Colter with a wink. “Now, don’t hesitate to call out if you need anything — and get some rest!”
As he exited the sound shack. Colter found himself thinking about the warm smile she had flashed his way as he’d excused himself to get on with his duty.
She was certainly a hard worker, and there could be no doubting the sincerity of her intentions. Realizing that they’d soon know the results of her efforts, he transit ted a cable-lined passageway, and entered the familiar confines of the control room.
Lieutenant Commander Al Layman was waiting for him at the chart table, “Morning, Skipper. Did you sleep in this morning?”
“Afraid not, Al. Just spent a little longer on my morning walk through than usual.”
“I hope you found everything shipshape.”
Still thinking about the scientist’s smile. Colter absentmindedly replied.
“Everything was fine, Al.”
The XO knew his commanding officer well, and noting the distant look in Colter’s eyes, saw that his full attention was elsewhere.
“We can go over those charts another time. Skipper. There’s nothing here that can’t wait until later.”
Only then did Matt Colter realize how far his thoughts had been drifting. Such a thing could be dangerous in times of crisis, and he instantly regained control of himself.
“There’s no reason for that, XO. You can carry on.”
“If you say so, Skipper,” replied Layman as he pulled his pipe from his pocket and placed its bit between his lips unlit. He then reached down and switched on the light to the chart table.
Clearly displayed beneath the clear Plexiglas of the table was a polar projection chart of the eastern portion of North America. Utilizing a blue crayon, Al Layman marked a small x in the sea halfway between the extreme northern point of Labrador and the southern coast of Greenland.
“As you can see. Skipper, we’re well on our way to the Davis Strait by now. We’ve currently got Labrador’s Cape Chidley off our port bow, and Greenland’s Cape Farewell to our starboard.”
“We must have gotten a little help from the Labrador Current,” observed Colter. “We’re doing much better than I had anticipated. Any ice above us as yet?”
“As of two hours ago, the sea was clear, Skipper. But that could be a whole different story now. If I remember correctly, this is about where we spotted the first floes on our last visit.”
“Seems like just the other day,” reflected Colter. “How about taking us up to periscope depth and having a look around?”
“My pleasure. Skipper.”
As the XO relayed the orders that brought the Defiance up from the black depths. Matt Colter stepped up on the low steel platform that lay beside the plotting table. Only when the digital depth gauge reached sixty-five feet did the captain take over.
“Up periscope!” he barked.
An alert seaman hit the release switch, and to a loud hiss of pressurized hydraulic oil one of the two eight-inch-thick, steel cylinders that hung before Colter began sliding upward. Several drops of water ran down the cylinder’s barrel from its overhead fitting, as an eyepiece and a pair of folded handles emerged from the well. Bending over slightly, the captain snapped down the hinged handles and nestled his eyes up into the periscope’s rubberized lens coupling.
The direct light was at first so intense that it stung Colter’s eyes. The sky was a brilliant, deep blue, and as a wave of greenish seawater slapped up over the lens. Matt spotted several disturbingly familiar formations floating on the distant horizon. By merely increasing the magnification of the lens tenfold, these pure-white crystalline objects seemed to jump forward and a sudden heaviness formed in Colter’s gut.
For the monstrous icebergs meant only one thing, from this point onward, if something went wrong in the black depths below, the Defiance could no longer rely on the sea’s surface for a safe haven. Very much aware of this unsettling fact. Matt Colter sighed heavily and, like Arctic explorers for centuries past, consigned his fate to the spirits of the frozen sea.
Chapter Nine
Barely three hours after Captain Sergei Markova and his senior lieutenant got the unexpected call that sent them sprinting from Sergei’s Murmansk apartment, the Neva was steaming out of its sub pen at Polyarny. With barely enough time to change from their civilian clothing, the two senior officers coordinated the rushed departure that brought the last of the Neva’s eighty-five crew members on board with only twenty minutes to spare before the mooring lines were loosed.
Still not certain where they were ultimately headed, Sergei followed the orders that had him chart a course into the Barents Sea, between the island of Svalbard and Franz Josef Land. Authorized to travel at its top speed of forty two knots, the Neva’s progress was swift, and twenty-four hours after the vessel set sail, it had attained the edge of the Arctic ice pack.
From the vessel’s highly automated attack center, Sergei Markova made certain that there was plenty of spare room between the top of the Neva’s stubby sail and the deepest of the inverted ice ridges. Only when he was confident that such a safe depth had been attained did he look to his watch, and then address his second-in-command, who was standing at the nearby plotting table.
“It looks like it’s just about time to be off to the wardroom, Viktor Ilyich.”
“But what should we do about our course?” countered the puzzled senior lieutenant. “We’ve completed the first leg of our transit, and still find ourselves without a clear-cut destination.”
“Patience, Viktor. I’m certain that’s why Admiral Kharkov called this conference in the first place.”
“So the old fox is finally going to emerge from his den,” observed Viktor Ilyich Belenko. “I can’t believe that we’ve been at sea a whole twenty-four hours and he hasn’t shown himself even once.”
“It’s obvious that our esteemed Admiral of the Fleet hasn’t merely been pining away in my quarters with a severe case of seasickness,” offered Sergei. “Our Zampolit has been bringing him a constant stream of dispatches and charts ever since we left port.”
The senior lieutenant smirked.
“I bet Konstantin Zinyagin hasn’t worked so hard since basic training. Why from what I understand, our Political Officer even brings the admiral his meals!”
“It’s about time Zinyagin did his fair share of work around here, Viktor. But that’s immaterial. Now, shall we go see what this great mystery is all about?”
As Viktor beckoned him to lead the way, Sergei Markova crisply exited the hushed attack center and headed toward the aft portion of the one-hundred-and-ten-meter-long vessel. The narrow passageway that they were soon transiting was lined with storage lockers and snaking, stainless steel cables. To the muted whine of the Neva’s single shaft, geared steam turbines throbbing in the distance, they passed by the locked radio room and ducked through a double-thick hatch that brought them to their desired destination.
The officer’s wardroom consisted of a large oval-shaped mahogany table around which eight upholstered chairs were placed. The haunting strains of Borodin’s “In the Steppes of Central Asia” emanated from the mounted stereo speakers and the two senior officers seated themselves at the vacant table. Sergei Markova’s customary place was at the head, yet because of the high rank of their special guest, protocol guided him to take the seat directly opposite this position. Viktor Belenko sat down on his right and cautiously whispered.