Under the Ice

Men such as their current Zampolit were less tolerant of that horror, and expressed their anxieties openly. As a commanding officer, Mikhail had learned to control his emotions. For fear was contagious, and a subordinate only had to see it on his captain’s face to lose whatever courage he might have summoned up to that point.

A prime example of an officer who appeared to be in perfect control was Sergei Markova. As Mikhail had noted while watching him in action in the flooding engine room, the Neva’s young captain met even the direst of emergencies with a cool acceptance. His confident, levelheaded demeanor was especially evident now as he stood behind the diving console.

Except for the ship’s Zampolit, the crew seemed to mirror their captain’s state. Even Mikhail was under the man’s spell, and he found himself consciously holding back questions he wouldn’t hesitate to ask if another was at the helm.

The sound of rushing seawater broke the veteran mariner’s ponderings, and he reached out to steady himself as the Neva began slowly drifting downward.

Expecting to next hear the surging roar of the main ballast tanks being vented, Mikhail found himself with the distinct impression that something was not right here. Seconds later, this presentiment was confirmed by the frantic voice of the sonar operator.

“We’ve got an unidentified submerged contact, bearing zero-eight-zero, Captain! From the racket it’s making, it’s headed toward us with a bone in its teeth.”

“Belay that order to blow the main tanks!” directed Sergei Markova.

“Senior Lieutenant, what’s the best course available to see us out of this trap?”

Before Viktor Belenko could answer, the Admiral of the Fleet found himself crying out in protest.

“You can’t be serious, Captain? This is no time to be fainthearted. If this vessel is the Yankee Sturgeon that we paid our respects to earlier, now is the time to finish them off for good.”

This remark was given some substance by the sonar operator’s next report.

“The computer shows a seventy-three percent probability that this contact is an American Sturgeon class submarine. Captain.”

“We’ve got clear water ahead of us on course three-four-zero, Captain,” offered the senior lieutenant firmly.

“That’s the coward’s way!” spat the white-haired veteran.

“If we stand a chance of successfully completing this mission, we must make our stand here and now. Flood those torpedo tubes. Captain Markova, and rid the seas of this Imperialist menace once and for all!”

For one brief confusing moment, Sergei Markova found himself vacillating between two drastically different choices. Under normal circumstances, he would not hesitate to send the Neva running for the cover of open water. The alternative was to launch a torpedo attack. In his relatively short but full career, he had never before given such a drastic order. As a veteran cold-warrior, he was well aware of how much one could get away with before crossing that thin line leading to the unthinkable — a global nuclear exchange.

A set of unwritten rules existed that regulated the degree of escalation in the undersea realm. Each side probed deep into the other’s territory, and even such potentially dangerous practices as ramming were unofficially condoned. Yet an actual torpedo attack was definitely out of the question.

“The contact continues on course, and is reaching our offensive threshold, Captain,” reported the sonar operator.

“For the sake of the Motherland, launch those torpedoes. Captain! Don’t you see? We have no other choice in this matter.”

Sergei turned to directly face Kharkov as the white-haired veteran continued his impassioned plea.

“I realize such an attack is unprecedented in this time of fragile peace, Captain. But the moment the Imperialists shot down the Flying Kremlin, a new and violent stage of this so-called cold war came into being.

“Don’t forget about that squadron of F-15 Eagles we monitored closing in on our 11–76 with their afterburners ignited. And how can you ignore the disruptive electronic interference sent skyward from their Polestar DEW line installation? The Soviet Union might have lost a beloved leader in the dastardly missile attack that followed, but I can guarantee you that we haven’t lost our resolve. So for the sake of Alexander Suratov’s memory, now is the time to start evening the score. And once the black box is ours you’ll realize the validity of these words, and the whole world will cry out for justice!”

“Captain, the contact has entered our defensive zone,” interrupted the unemotional sonar operator.

“From this point onward, the Neva is well within the range of the Sturgeon’s Mk-48 torpedoes.”

“Shall I initiate immediate evasive maneuvers, Captain?” quizzed the concerned senior lieutenant.

“A launch by the Sturgeon now would most likely prove fatal.”

His gaze still locked on the distinguished face of the Admiral of the Fleet, Sergei felt the old-timer will him onward, and the young officer reluctantly nodded.