“Why, that’s incredible!” dared Viktor Belenko. “Wouldn’t such a thing be a direct act of war?”
The admiral sneered sardonically.
“It certainly would, Senior Lieutenant. But before we can answer this act of cold-blooded murder with a suitable response, the members of the Politburo have asked me to provide them with concrete evidence proving it was a willful act of Imperialist aggression that sent the Flying Kremlin plummeting down to the frozen ice fields below. And with the Neva’s invaluable help, I intend to do just that.”
The veteran only had to snap his fingers a single time to get Konstantin Zinyagin into action. With sweat rolling down his flushed forehead, the stocky Zampolit unfolded one of the charts he had brought along, and spread it out on the table. Both of the submarine’s senior officers recognized this map as an exact twin of the polar projection currently gracing the Neva’s chart table.
After consuming a mouthful of tea, the admiral continued.
“If I’m not mistaken, taking into account the course which I relayed to you at the beginning of our journey, and the fact that we have been traveling at flank speed, our current position should be somewhere between Svalbard and Franz Josef Land. If we continued on this same course, in another twenty hours or so, we’d be transiting directly beneath the North Pole. Long before we reach the Pole, it is my intention that the Neva turn toward Cape Morris Jesup and the Lincoln Sea. Here we will penetrate the Nares Strait between the western coast of Greenland and Ellesmere Island. Utilizing such a direct route, we will enter Baffin Bay and be in perfect position to access the frozen waters of Lancaster Sound.”
“Excuse me. Admiral,” interrupted Sergei Markova. “But I question the wisdom of using the route you just mentioned. The Nares Strait is not only extremely narrow with treacherous currents, it is also littered with American and Canadian SOSUS arrays. Such undersea hydrophones will surely pick up the Neva as we initiate our transit. Wouldn’t it be more prudent to approach Lancaster Sound from the other direction, by way of the M’Clurc Straits?”
Quick to support Sergei was his senior lieutenant.
“I agree with the captain. Three months ago, the Neva attempted to penetrate the Nares Strait and enter the waters of Baffin Bay undetected. After carefully skirting the known SOSUS station at Alert, off the northeastern coast of Ellesmere Island, we activated our anechoic masking system and cautiously continued southward. Yet for all our circumspection, waiting for us as we entered Baffin basin was a US Navy P-3 Orion that was able to tag us with an active sonobuoy on its very first pass. Surely this indicates that no matter how stealthily we might travel, the Nares Strait’s SOSUS line will be able to pick us up.”
“I appreciate the wise feedback, comrades,” Admiral Kharkov responded. “And under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t hesitate to heed your excellent advice. But we currently find ourselves in a situation where time is of the essence. For it’s imperative that we reach Lancaster Sound with all due haste.”
“But the American’s will be waiting for us,” repeated Viktor.
“To hell with the Americans!” exclaimed Mikhail Kharkov passionately. “I don’t give a damn if their SOSUS line does indeed pick us up, for we’ll be in and out of there long before the pathetic Imperialists will be able to react to our presence.”
Again the admiral snapped his fingers, and in instant response, Konstantin Zinyagin once more unfolded another chart. This one was of a meteorological variety, and as the two senior submariners looked on, Mikhail Kharkov was quick to explain it.
“Please note the series of tight circular lines that are located off the northern coast of Baffin Island. This unique pattern is indicative of an intense low-pressure system. The chart that you see before you was compiled from data relayed to the Neva by way of the Salyut space station Red Flag. It is less than three hours old, and shows a storm of great magnitude, currently stalled over the waters of Lancaster Sound. Since it appears that this powerful system will be influencing the region for at least forty-eight more hours, we can forget about the threat of encountering any type of observation from above. No airman in his right mind would brave such a blizzard. And concerning the possibility of meeting up with a surface vessel, I think this photo speaks for itself.”
Quick to take the hint, the Zampolit uncovered a large glossy, black and white photograph and handed it to Sergei Markova. As Belenko leaned over to take a look at the picture, the Admiral of the Fleet continued his narrative.
“What you are now seeing has also been relayed to us by Red Flag; I took the liberty of bringing it along with me from Murmansk Fleet headquarters. Taken two days ago, it shows the Canadian Coast Guard cutter, Louis St. Laurent, hopelessly trapped in the ice to the west of Lancaster Sound. This pitifully weak icebreaker is the only ship in the entire Imperialist fleet that could possibly give us any trouble. And unless the spring thaw comes six months early this year, the Neva won’t have to worry about sharing these waters with a boatload of crazed Canucks.”
As he placed the photograph back on the wardroom table, Sergei Markova voiced himself.
“This is all rather fascinating. Admiral. But I still don’t understand why it’s so urgent for us to get into the waters of Lancaster Sound.”
“Of course you don’t, Captain,” Kharkov answered. “But if you’ll hear me out a bit longer, all your confusion will soon be gone.”
Pushing his chair back and standing at this point, the white-haired veteran continued, his voice strong with conviction.
“Taking it for granted that the Neva will successfully reach Lancaster Sound in the minimum amount of time, I will need five members of the crew. These men have got to be tough enough to take an inordinate amount of physical punishment, and they must have resolute characters. They will be outfitted with special Arctic survival gear that has already been brought onto the ship, and will leave the Neva under my command, once the vessel has surfaced in a suitable polynya.
“At this point I will utilize a directional homing device to locate the Flying Kremlin’s cockpit voice recorder, or, as it is more commonly known, its black box. Such an instrument contains a specially constructed cassette tape on which a full account of the flight is recorded. Hopefully this black box can be located before its battery pack runs low, and the ultrasonic beacon it continually projects stops transmitting. The Salyut space station Red Flag has already picked up this signal, and has definitely traced its origin to somewhere on the northern shore of Baffin Island. Unfortunately, these were the most accurate coordinates that could be relayed to us.”
“How long before this battery is scheduled to fail?” questioned Sergei.
Glad to see that the captain was following him, the admiral replied.
“The best estimate gives us another seventy-two hours before the transmissions stop.”
“Then no wonder it’s so important we get there with such haste,” reflected Viktor Belenko.
“Precisely, comrade,” responded Mikhail Kharkov, as a hint of gathering excitement flavored his tone. “If the fates are with us, then the black box will be successfully retrieved. And once it’s conveyed back to the Neva, I will be able to complete an almost-instant analysis of the tape’s composition by using the ship’s computer and a special software program that is curntly locked in my cabin’s safe. Within minutes, we’ll soon enough know the true nature of the disaster that led to our Premier’s tragic passing. And if it’s indeed learned that a Yankee missile was responsible for the Flying Kremlin’s demise, then the Neva’s next mission will be one of pure revenge!”