With the flashing box in tow, the stranger forced Ootah to join him on a snowmobile. And off they went, on a pilgrimage that he was just starting to make some sense out of.
Could he ever forget the moment when his struggles caused the vehicle to crash into a snowdrift and overturn?
And his memory would always be etched in horror when he recalled his white-haired captor raising the pistol and shooting practically point-blank at him. So no wonder this place in which he had just awoken seemed strange. This was no dream vision.
Rather it was the first house of the land of the dead!
Chilled by this thought, the Inuit rushed over to dress himself. His clothing felt good on his skin. Only when he was completely decked out in parka, boots, and mittens did he dare attempt to leave the room, to continue this greatest of journeys from which no mortal was ever known to have returned.
A cramped passageway took him down a narrow corridor filled with snaking pipes that were marked in some indecipherable tongue. Wondering why his father, Nakusiak, wasn’t there to greet him, Ootah caught a glimpse of a blue-suited, black man crossing the hallway in front of him. Quickly ducking down to hide himself, the Inuit breathed a sigh of relief only when this figure disappeared into yet another snaking tunnel. Cautiously peeking around the corner, he viewed some sort of ladder leading directly upward. A draft of cool fresh air drew him to its base, and as he looked up to see where it led, he spotted a familiar gray expanse of sky beckoning invitingly in the distance.
He needed no more additional prompting to begin anxiously climbing.
On the exposed sail of the USS Defiance, its two parka-clad senior officers stood, studying the massive, black-hulled vessel that lay off their bow less than twenty yards distant. Over seventy feet longer than the Defiance, the Sierra class submarine had a stubby, elongated sail, and its retractable planes were mounted in its bow. A prominent pod sat upon the ship’s tail-fin, and intelligence assumed that some sort of towed hydrophone array was stored here.
“Well, we did it. Skipper,” reflected the XO. “Though for a while there, I really thought Ivan was going to play a fast one on us.”
“I must admit I wasn’t so sure myself.” Matt Colter winked. “But Lieutenant Redmond helped sway me into giving this crazy scheme a try.”
“And it’s a good thing for all of us he was aboard to give us a hand,” returned the XO, who pointed to the Russian boat’s aft access way as several sailors emerged. One of these figures had to be carefully lifted out of the hatch, and then helped down a portable ladder that led to the ice itself.
“That must be the Neva’s senior lieutenant,” said the XO. “Pharmacist Mate Krommer deserves to get his medical license after this patrol’s over. First extracting Roth’s tooth, then treating that Eskimo, and now a real gunshot wound — Old Pills has really got his hands full on this trip.”
The harsh buzzing sound of the intercom activating filled the bridge, and a familiar amplified voice soon followed.
“Captain, this is Lieutenant Sanger. Captain Markova has arrived in the control room and would like permission to join you.”
“Send him up. And make certain that our translator comes along also,” replied Colter, who caught the gaze of his XO.
“This should be interesting,” said Al Layman, as he pulled out his pipe and put its scarred bit between his lips.
While waiting for their guest to join them. Matt Colter briefly scanned the horizon. The storm that had greeted them earlier had long since passed. The howling wind was noticeably absent, and in its place was a gentle, brisk zephyr that reminded him a bit of a New England winter’s day.
A thick covering of grayish clouds drifted overhead, while the eastern horizon was just tinged with color as the Arctic dawn so slowly developed. With nothing but solid ice extending in all directions, it was hard to believe that they were currently floating on a frozen sea. And Mathew Colter was just about to share this observation with his XO, when their visitors arrived.
The Defiance’s captain was soon facing a solidly built, blond-haired officer, who appeared to be about his own age. With his blue eyes locked on Colter’s gaze, this newcomer held out his hand and greeted the American in broken, Slavic-flavored English.
“Good morning. I am Captain Sergei Markova, commander of the Neva.”
There was a genuiness to his tone, and Matt Colter sized his counterpart up as a hardworking, honest soul who had been caught by circumstances over which he’d had little control.
“Good morning to you, sir. I’m Captain Matthew Colter, commanding officer of the USS Defiance. Welcome aboard.”
They shook hands warmly, and then the Russian proceeded to reach into his pocket and pull out a pair of steel-cased cassettes. At this point he began talking slowly in his native tongue, and Lieutenant Jack Redmond of the Canadian Arctic Rangers translated.
“On behalf of the crew of the Neva, Captain Markova would like you to have these tapes, sir. One of them is the original that he himself pulled out of the cockpit voice recorder. It will show that it was a series of internal bomb blasts that brought the plane they call the Flying Kremlin down. The other tape is proof of a plot by a twisted minority of his fellow countrymen. These few desired to blame this crash on the Western powers, and intended to initiate a nuclear strike in response.”
Matt Colter reached out, took the tapes and was quick with his response.
“I realize how important these tapes are to you. Captain Markova. And I want to thank you for entrusting them to me like this. You can be assured they will be handled with the best of care, and eventually returned to the Soviet Union, once an impartial study of them has been completed.”
As the Canadian completed his translation, the Soviet naval officer once again reverted to broken English to add.
“And now I would like to take this opportunity to personally thank you for saving my life and the lives of my crew. I will never forget your gallantry, and will be eternally grateful to you for the rest of my life. Why, you have given me a chance to see my beautiful wife and daughter once more!”
These words were delivered with such innocence that Matt Colter found his eyes filling with tears. This inspirational moment was abruptly broken by the shouts of his XO.
“Now what in the hell do you make of that. Skipper?”
Turning to see what Al Layman was referring to, Colter gazed over the bridge and watched as a single individual dressed in a heavy fur-skin parka, finished climbing out of the aft access way. Without stopping to catch his breath, this stranger began to climb over the side of the Defiance. That done, he sat down and proceeded to use the rounded hull of the ship to slide down to the ice below. The moment he got to his feet, he turned to take one last look at the vessel from which he had just escaped. His glance centered on the exposed bridge. He seemed to realize at this point that he was being watched, and he meekly bowed in response before pivoting and beginning to quickly make his way over the ice pack.
The harsh buzzing sound of the intercom was followed by a breathless voice from below.
“Captain, it’s the Eskimo! He’s not in sickbay, and Pharmacist Mate Krommer thinks that he might be loose in the ship.”
Now knowing the identity of the party he had just been watching leave the Defiance, Matt Colter fought back laughter as he replied, “Tell the good pharmacist’s mate I’m afraid he has just lost a patient. Maybe Pills’ bedside manner needs improving, because our Eskimo friend just took off for home. And the way that he’s hauling ass, it seems that he can’t get there soon enough!”