The junior seaman seemed unaffected by these words of wisdom, and Roth sighed heavily.
“You damn kids today take life so seriously. Nobody’s perfect, and no machine is either.”
Realizing that he was wasting his breath, the veteran walked over to the adjoining console and seated himself. It felt as if he had just returned to work from a long vacation. While absorbing the familiar sights and smells, he activated his repeater screen and clipped on his headphones.
He initiated his scan by isolating the hydrophones set into the upper portion of their bow. As Roth had expected, he was immediately greeted by the gut-wrenching sounds of the ice. No matter how hard he tried to filter them out, they still prevailed. When one nearby floe fractured, it sounded like the explosive crack of a rifle shot. A passing ice ridge expressed the monumental pressure it was under by groaning loudly and sounding like the rusty hinge of a gate. And yet another ridge surrendered, and could be heard buckling under with a high-pitched squeal of protest.
Well aware of the great difficulty of picking out a man-made sound signature in this maelstrom of white noise, Stanley readjusted his scan to take in that portion of the sea that lay beneath them. As soon as he completed this connection, his headphones filled with a mournful, high-pitched cry that was followed by a sharp series of resonant clicks and whistles. From several different directions this call was answered, and the senior sonar technician mentally visualized the graceful creatures responsible for this distinctive racket.
Because of their current position in the waters of Lancaster Sound, these undersea mammals were either the white-skinned beluga whale or its legendary cousin, the narwhal. The males of this latter species were known for the long spiraling ivory tusk that pierced their upper lip on the left side of the jaw; it could extend toward for as much as ten feet.
Once selling for up to twenty times their weight in gold, these tusks were treasured in medieval Europe where they were ground up and utilized as an aphrodisiac or the filler for a magical amulet.
Stanley had once read a National Geographic article that described these creatures in detail. He had been surprised to learn that scientists were still confused as to the reason such tusks were needed. It used to be believed that the narwhals used these appendages to stir up the seafloor for food. But the tusks themselves were hollow for most of their length and could easily be broken. The going theory was that they played some sort of sexual role, though Stanley couldn’t begin to theorize on what this might be.
Beyond the singing whales, a herd of seals could be heard harshly barking. While an assemblage of shrimp chattered away in the distance like a bunch of hyperactive castanets. To the veteran sonar operator, all of these sounds were like old friends. This would be his twelfth Arctic patrol, and during many a long lonely duty segment, the noises of the ice pack and of the creatures that lived there were his only company.
As he scanned the Defiance’s baffles, that sound absorbent cone that lay immediately aft of their spinning propellers, Stanley realized that his colleague was still seated before his console.
“Jesus Les, don’t you even want to grab some chow, or at least a cup of joe? You’ve been at this for a straight four-hour clip, and I’m more than capable of handling it on my own.”
The determined Texan replied without taking his eyes off the repeater screen.
“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to hang around a little longer. Maybe with both of us listening, Ivan will finally give himself away.”
“Suit yourself,” returned Stanley. “Though all the overtime in the world isn’t going to make up for the fact that Ivan was able to use a combination of stealth and the natural ambient noises of these waters to land a crisp right jab to the Defiance’s kisser. No matter how many ears we had listening for their approach, chances are they still would have been able to get within punching distance.”
“All I’m waiting for is just one damn chance to even the score,” muttered the Texan. “Just one damn chance!”
The young technician was obviously not the type of person who accepted failure easily, and Roth knew that the best way to let him vent his frustrations was to let him work them out. After a couple more hours in front of the repeater screen, his growling stomach and sore back would send him packing.
Stanley was in the process of isolating the hydrophones mounted into the very tip of the ship’s spherical bow, when he heard a series of distant crashing sounds that were followed by a muted, throbbing whine that was disturbingly familiar. His shipmate also heard this alien racket and shouted out excitingly.
“Do you hear that, Stanley? It sounds like the commotion the Defiance made when we slammed into the ice on our last patrol!”
This acute observation hit home, and Roth was able to identify the pulsating whine that followed the initial clamor.
“Jesus Christ, you hit the nail right on the head, Les. That’s a friggin’ ballast pump! Hang in there, my friend. You wanted a chance for revenge, and if I know the Skipper, you’re about to get your wish.”
Admiral of the Fleet Mikhail Kharkov was absolutely certain he had picked the right man for the difficult job at hand as he watched the Neva’s young captain in action. Faced with a variety of calamities ranging from an unexpected collision with the ice to an unscheduled dive to depths that tested the very integrity of their hull, Sergei Markova remained absolutely cool under fire. Not even stopping to wipe the sweat from his brow, the Neva’s commanding officer barked out the orders that would once again send the vessel topside to meet the challenge of the ice.
Persistence was a quality Mikhail greatly respected. It was his great uncle who’d given him his first lesson in that all-important virtue. They had been hiking beside the wooded shores of Lake Baikal at the time, and had come across one of the many hot springs in the area. As his adult guide ripped off his clothes and invited Mikhail to join him in the steaming water, Mikhail humbly admitted that he didn’t know how to swim.
“That makes not a bit of difference,” instructed his great-uncle as he immersed himself in the torrid pool. “Jump right in and you’ll learn soon enough.”
Mikhail did just that, yet since he neglected to close his mouth, the youngster almost drowned in the process. His great-uncle pulled him out, and though Mikhail was more than content to forget all about this swimming lesson, his guardian would have no part of it.
“You must jump back in at once, Misha,” wisely directed the grizzled trapper. “Otherwise one bad experience might cause you never again to enter the water.”
With a bit more circumspection, Mikhail took the old-timer’s advice and jumped back into the pool, this time making absolutely certain to keep his mouth closed. And less than a half hour later, the youngster was actually swimming all on his own.
Throughout his career, Mikhail remembered this invaluable lesson. He utilized it time and again, especially during the traumatic years of the Great War. Battle brought out both the best and worst qualities in men. And even the bravest soldier’s nerves were put to the test each time he went into harm’s way.
After returning from his first wartime submarine patrol, common sense would have had him ask for a transfer to the surface fleet at once. For their vessels were not of the best quality, and the exploding Nazi depth charges put a fear in a sailor’s soul that none would ever forget. Yet with his great-uncle’s words in mind, he returned to the undersea world and came back from his second patrol with his first confirmed kill — a fully loaded German troop transport.