“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. “I realize the other decoys only served to temporarily divert the Mark 48’s, but at least there’s a slim chance this one will do better. And even if it doesn’t, at the very least we’ll have a few minutes reprise to come up with something better. Otherwise, my friend, our fate is all but sealed.”
Still intently gazing at the chart, Sergei smashed his fist down onto the table’s Plexiglas top.
“Damn!” he cursed. “If only we could buy enough time to successfully scram our reactor. That’s the only thing that would save us.”
“Torpedo range is down to eight hundred meters, Captain,” said the sonar operator.
This grim observation was followed by the strained voice of the Neva’s diving officer.
“We’ve attained a depth of seventy-five meters. Captain, and are presently running out of water. Shall I proceed with another dive? For the surface-scanning Fathometer shows a nasty-looking inverted ice ridge above that could be a problem shortly.”
This innocent remark registered in Sergei’s mind, and he was all set to order yet another plunge into deeper waters when an idea suddenly came to him.
“Comrade diving officer, is this inverted ridge that you speak of large enough to shelter a vessel the size of the Neva?”
Not certain of what the captain was getting at, the diving officer answered.
“Most definitely. Captain. It’s one of the largest and thickest I’ve seen so far, and extends downward well over forty meters.”
“Then that’s it!” exclaimed Sergei. “We’ll launch our last decoy, then as the Mark 48’s give it their usual brief chase, we’ll ascend into the cover of this ridge, scram our reactor, and when the American torpedoes reinitiate pursuit, they’ll be unable to find us because of the ice!”
Hurriedly crossing the attack center’s length to join the captain was Mikhail Kharkov.
“Why that’s a brilliant plan, comrade! Yet we mustn’t tarry, for time is of the essence.”
With the invaluable assistance of Viktor Belenko, Sergei Markova’s unorthodox maneuver was put into action. In a growling, swirling rush, the Neva’s last remaining decoy was launched. Soon afterward, the trio of attacking torpedoes were fooled into checking this new vibrant signature out for themselves.
Though this deception would only be a temporary one, it gave the Sierra class submarine time to drastically cut its forward speed, level out, and begin the intricate process of inching its way upward until it was nestled beneath the shelter of the inverted ice ridge.
No sooner had the sub’s reinforced sail delicately touched up against the roof of this barrier than the three torpedoes realized the decoy was not their intended prey. With a whining vengeance, they turned back toward the Neva’s last known coordinates and attempted to seek out the vessel that they had been sent to destroy. It was fate alone that allowed the Mark 48’s sensitive acoustic sensors the opportunity of getting one last fix on the Neva’s propeller wash seconds before its turbines were deactivated and its reactor scrammed. Knowing now where the true enemy lay, the torpedoes streaked upward to complete their mission.
Guided solely by acoustic sound waves, the Mark 48’s took the quickest route to their target’s last known fix. Ignoring the fact that the signature suddenly stopped transmitting, the torpedoes surged forward in their final attack run. The trio of weapons impacted almost simultaneously. A blindingly bright, earsplitting detonation followed, during which time over three-thousand pounds of high-density TORPEX explosives bit into the solid wall of ice the warheads had mistakenly run into.
On the surface, this massive blast was hardly noticeable.
As the incessantly howling wind scarred the pack ice smooth with trillions of bits of flying razor-sharp ice pellets, a sudden fracture formed on the ridge’s surface. Immense in size, this rift was fed by the tremendous heat of the explosion that had just occurred a few meters below. As this fracture continued to widen, it eventually tore apart the entire ridge itself with a grinding, gut-wrenching crack. With the ice now open to the sea below, an immense, black-hulled vessel popped up from the depths to fill this sudden gap. And in just such an unlikely manner, the Sierra class nuclear submarine Neva came to rest on the ice-encrusted surface of Lancaster Sound.
Chapter Fourteen
The Arctic dawn broke dull and gray. As the Rangers scrambled from their igloo, they were met by a shrieking gust of frigid wind that provided instant proof the storm had yet to pass. The snow had continued to fall during the night, and many of the drifts were waist high or better. It proved to be an effort just to locate two of the snow cats though the dogs fared better because of the protective berm the soldiers had built for them.
With his snow goggles already covered by a translucent coating of frost, Lieutenant Jack Redmond did his best to break camp with all due haste.
“Sergeant-Major! Forget about exhuming those buried snow cats and get up there on that ridge with the directional receiver. Take Corporal Eviki with you, and see if we’re close enough to pick up that homing signal as yet. I’ll take care of everything else.”
As Cliff Ano crisply saluted and pivoted to begin this task, Redmond turned for the staging area where their vehicles had been parked. Several of the men were there, digging into the snow drifts in an effort to find the two missing snowmobiles. Joining in with a collapsible shovel, the senior commando motivated his men to do their utmost.
“Come on, lads! It’s got to be down here somewhere. The sooner we get moving again, the closer we’ll be getting to this mission’s conclusion. And I’ll personally guarantee a week in Hawaii if we should manage to pull this thing off.”
This last remark was all that was needed to inspire his men to really put their backs into their work. And minutes later, the first of the snow cats was reached. As the other vehicle was also uncovered, Redmond helped his men remove the excess snow.
With a collective grunt, they lifted up the ice-encrusted snowmobiles and transferred them out of the thick drifts.
The breathtaking cold made their labor all the more difficult, and it was a supreme effort merely to get the vehicles in line and ready for travel. While supervising this job, Redmond shouted out to his men.
“Do any of you know how to hookup that dogsled? The sergeant-major should be back shortly, and I’d like to be ready to take off as soon as he does so.”
A young, mustached Inuit private, who had been busy scraping the frost off the windshields, was quick to respond.
“I think I can do it, Lieutenant. Though I never had a team of my own, I helped my grandfather harness his team when I was a kid.”
“Then get to it. Private!” screamed Redmond, who turned to duck back inside the snow house to make certain all the supplies had been removed.
Ignoring the empty ration cans that lay scattered on the igloo’s floor, Redmond pocketed a compass that had been dropped. He also found a dog-eared girlie magazine, that had been absentmindedly stuffed in between two snow blocks. This was obviously a treasured piece of literature, for its pages were worn and wrinkled. The weathered commando couldn’t help flipping through its pages and was surprised to find that the scantily clad models were entirely Oriental. The centerfold was a gorgeous creature with long dark hair and a huge, firm bosom. For the first time that morning he was unmindful of the constant bitter cold. Yet his reverie was brief, as he was joined by his breathless sergeant-major.