Under the Ice Read online

  Practically screaming to be heard over the deafening roar of venting air, Marshall addressed the crewcut, veteran sailor seated to his right.

  “Blow that negative to the mark. Chief!”

  With one eye on the depth gauge, that was mounted on the forward bulkhead. Matt Colter added.

  “Shut the flood, vent negative.”

  As these orders were carried out, another roaring blast of compressed air filled the control room. His gaze still riveted on the depth gauge, the captain allowed himself a brief sigh of relief only when the counter hit the three-hundred-and-sixty-foot level and remained constant.

  Colter’s hand went to his pant’s pocket, to remove a white handkerchief. He mopped dry his sweat-stained forehead, re pocketed the handkerchief, and quickly scanned the hushed compartment. It was as his intense glance locked on a tall, thin, mustached officer who was standing beside the chart table, that the captain exploded in rage.

  “Damn it, All I thought you said we had open water up there? The way we smacked into that pack ice, it’s a miracle we didn’t split open our sail or damage the rudder.”

  Not used to having to make excuses, Lieutenant Commander AI Layman, the sub’s executive officer, nervously cleared his throat.

  “I’m sorry. Skipper, but the ice machine definitely gave us a green light.”

  “Damn that friggin’ machine!” cursed Colter.

  “That’s the third time this week it almost got us killed.”

  “I realize that. Skipper,” offered the XO.

  “I guess it still has some bugs in it.”

  Colter shook his head.

  “That’s an understatement if I ever heard one. As far as I’m concerned, they can rip that whole damn unit out and replace it with the gear we used to carry. The old ice machine never failed us, even if it was based on technology that was over three decades old.”

  Having vented his frustration, the captain crossed the control room to join his second-in-command.

  “I’m sorry if I snapped at you, Al. I realize it’s not your fault Command gives us gear that’s not properly tested.”

  “No apologies necessary. Skipper,” countered the XO, whose gangly frame was a good four inches taller than Matt Colter’s.

  “After all, I was the one picked to operate the unit. I only wish my training was a bit more extensive. One week isn’t a hell of a lot of time to learn the intracacies of a complicated system such as this one. Who knows, maybe the laser was calibrated improperly.”

  The captain grunted.

  “That shouldn’t be our concern, Al. It’s evident that the engineer who dreamed up this newfangled process failed to think it out completely.

  And unfortunately, we were picked to be the human guinea pigs who almost lost our lives because of a pencil pusher’s incompetence. What I wouldn’t give for five minutes alone with the fellow responsible for this boondoggle. He needs to be reminded that human lives are at stake out here.”

  “They should have sent him along,” offered the XO.

  “I guarantee you, the first time we smacked into the pack ice, he would have gotten that gear working properly.”

  “Either that, or he’d have died from fright while trying,” jested Matt Colter.

  A grin turned the corners of the XO’s mouth.

  “Since we have no reliable way of determining if there’s clear water above, how are we going to complete the rest of our mission?”

  “We’re not going to even try,” answered the captain.

  “As far as I’m concerned, the safety of this crew takes number-one priority. It would be foolhardy to try another ascent. And since our orders revolve around surfacing in a variety of ice conditions, I’ve no alternative but to send us packing, back to New London.

  So, how about charting us the quickest route back to the Davis Strait?”

  “Aye, aye. Skipper,” returned the XO, relief clearly painted on his handsome face.

  Well aware that barring any mechanical difficulties they’d be home in another five and a half days. Matt Colter excused himself and went to his quarters. A combination of emotional stress and a simple lack of sleep had finally caught up with him. Confident that his XO was well qualified to take over. Colter gratefully closed the door of his cabin behind him. Without even bothering to take off his shoes, he collapsed on his narrow mattress and was instantly asleep.

  He awoke with a start, precisely four hours later.

  Having emerged from a vivid dream, it took him several confusing seconds to reorient himself. The soft glowing lights of the digital depth, speed, and course indicators mounted on the bulkhead at the foot of his bunk finally brought him back to full waking consciousness. The rest of his cabin was pitch black, and he momentarily remained on his bunk unmoving.

  Except for a distant muted whine, there was no indication that the three-hundred-foot-long vessel that surrounded him was even moving. But Colter knew differently. The Defiance was currently four hundred feet beneath the frozen waters of Lancaster Sound, moving along at a crisp twenty-five knots.

  Their course was taking them due eastward and would soon turn to the southeast, once they reached the Davis Straits. The ship would remain on this heading for almost two-thousand miles, until the coast of Newfoundland was attained. Here they would round Cape Race and turn to the southwest, for yet another thousand-mile jaunt to their home port.

  Throughout this entire trip, not once was the Defiance scheduled to break the water’s surface. They would do so only upon reaching Long Island Sound.

  Thus they would be traveling oblivious to the fickle state of the tempestuous seas above. This was quite all right with Matt Colter, who was as prone to seasickness as any other normal mortal.

  He would never forget his first encounter with this sailor’s arch nemesis. He had only been a lad at the time. It was spring break, and his Uncle Bill had invited him down to Sarasota, Florida. This was to be Matt’s first trip all on his own, and he boarded the prop-driven airplane with a promise to his parents to be on his best behavior.

  Bill was his father’s older brother, and had always been Matt’s favorite relative. They only got to spend time together during those all-too-brief, yearly family reunions, during which his uncle never failed to enchant him with tales of the sea.

  His uncle had been a submarine captain during World War II. Yet it wasn’t until Mathew arrived at his Florida home that he learned Bill’s ship had been responsible for sinking over a dozen Japanese surface vessels.

  Anxious to learn more about his uncle’s wartime experiences. Matt eagerly accepted an invitation to join him for a day of sailing on Sarasota Bay. This was the youngster’s first excursion on a body of water larger than the Arkansas lake he grew up on, and he was thrilled beyond belief.

  The day started off splendidly. The sky was clear, the air warm, with a moderate breeze blowing in from the west. His uncle was an expert mariner, who handled his thirty-five-foot sloop with the ease of a veteran sailor. He was quick to teach his inquisitive nephew the basics of seamanship, and in no time at all, Matt was at the helm, guiding them through the channel markers.

  Invigorated by the warm sun, cool ocean spray, and the ease with which the boat handled. Matt found himself entranced by his uncle’s war stories. He was particularly fascinated by the type of vessel Bill had commanded. He found that the very word submarine had an exotic ring to it. Able to utilize the black ocean depths to sneak up on the enemy and then deliver a fatal blow, the submarine was an effective killer.

  In the course of his stories. Bill made certain to explain the submarine’s shortcomings as well. Dependent upon limited battery power when submerged, and air-guzzling diesels when topside, the submarine was a far from a perfect weapon. Yet Bill explained that new technology would change all this.

  Matt had a basic understanding of nuclear power from school, yet he’d never dreamed it could be adapted to propel a submarine, thus freeing the craft from having to ascend to the surface at all. The fi
rst nuclear-powered submarine was called Nautilus, and was already on sea trials. His uncle was a great advocate of such a warship, and promised to keep Matt informed on its future deployment.

  While Matt was visualizing a vessel that could travel around the world submerged, without refueling, a distant rumble of thunder sounded. Quick to point out the rapidly advancing storm. Bill replaced Matt at the helm and turned the sloop back toward port.

  Matt could just make out the marina when the first violent gust of wind hit them. Moments later, a torrent of rain soaked them to the bone. Ordered down into the enclosed cabin, he prepared himself to ride out the storm. Confident in his uncle’s ability to see them out of harm’s way, he looked at this experience as a great adventure. Yet as the boat continued to rock to and fro, any such pleasant ponderings on his part were soon replaced by sheer misery for a wave of nausea overcame him.

  Never had he been so miserable in his short lifetime!

  Even after he’d deposited the remains of his breakfast and lunch on the deck, the nausea would not leave him. Dizzy and flushed, he emptied his stomach completely before succumbing to a disorienting wave of dizziness. As it turned out, his uncle got them safely ashore and Matt returned home with a new respect for the sea. He also found himself with an exciting new goal in life. For he had decided to be a nuclear submariner.

  Inwardly grinning at this long-forgotten recollection, Captain Mathew Colter peered out into the black void of his cabin. Over thirty years had passed since that fated day on Sarasota Bay. In that time he had grown to manhood and subsequently followed his childhood dream to the very end. Proud of this fact and never sorry for the difficult career he had chosen, he nonetheless regretted that his Uncle Bill had not lived long enough to see him get his dolphins.

  Stricken with cancer. Bill had passed away on the same day that Matt was accepted into the Naval Academy.

  Though he wasn’t able to be with his uncle at the end, Matt dedicated his stay at Annapolis to him, and he graduated in the top ten percent of his class. Submarine school followed, and after a decade of hard work, he finally got a command of his own.

  The Defiance was the type of vessel that his uncle had dreamed about. Powered by a single water-cooled nuclear reactor that could go years between refueling, Matt’s present command was a first line man-of-war.

  Should the Defiance ever be called upon to do so, she could hit the enemy with an awesome amount of firepower that included a mix of Mk48 dual-purpose torpedoes, nuclear-tipped SUBROC antisubmarine missiles. Harpoon antiship rockets, and even a newly fitted complement of long-range Tomahawk cruise missiles. To make certain that these weapons hit their mark, a sophisticated fire-control system had been incorporated into the Defiance’ hull, and she was outfitted with the latest in sonar and communication equipment.

  Manned by a crew of one hundred and seven of the US Navy’s best, the Defiance was a proud ship with a proud tradition. Ever grateful for the opportunity to lead these brave men into battle if that should become necessary. Matt Colter restlessly stirred. Only then did he realize that he was lying there completely clothed.

  This was not the first time he had fallen asleep in such formal attire, and he stiffly sat up, intending to wash and change into a fresh uniform.

  Standing before his pullman-type metal washbasin, Matt soaked his face with cool water. Deciding not to shave, he momentarily caught his reflection in the wall-mounted mirror. Surprisingly enough, the tired face that stared back at him could easily have been a twin of his Uncle Bill in earlier days. He had the same short, spiky blond hair, deep blue eyes, highly etched cheekbones, and rounded, dimpled chin.

  With this thought in mind. Matt wondered how his uncle would have handled their present mission.

  Would he have ordered them to return over a week early as Matt had done, or would he have attempted yet another series of ascents to the frozen Arctic ice pack?

  If it had been wartime, and the success of their mission depended upon such an ascent. Matt did not doubt that he would have given it another try. Yet the way he saw it, they had absolutely nothing to gain by such an attempt at this time and place.

  It was evident that the new surface-scanning Fathometer still had quite a few bugs in it. It was a far from a reliable system, and until these flaws were worked out, it placed the entire crew in jeopardy. Thus as captain of the Defiance, Matt had no choice but to cut their mission short before the ship was once again needlessly endangered.

  The theory behind such a device was fairly basic. In reality it was but a converted Fathometer, mounted on the topside of the submarine. The older machines utilized sound waves to determine the location of any surface ice. The device that had been installed on the Defiance used a sophisticated laser that was supposed not only to locate the smallest of usable open leads above, but also to interface with the boat’s navigation system to help the sub undergo a precise ascent.

  Without such an instrument, the control-room crew had no reliable way of knowing what lay above them. Though sturdily built, a submarine could be readily damaged by a collision. Thick pack ice could be extremely unyielding, its submerged razor-sharp ridges able to easily puncture even the sturdiest of steel hulls.

  One unusual feature of the Arctic ice fields was that even in the coldest parts of winter, open leads, or polynyas formed. Such openings extended from a few yards to many miles, and provided a submarine a safe haven in which to surface.

  Matt Colter had been on several past Arctic missions during which time ascents to the surface were made. In each instance, even with perfectly functioning equipment, the atmosphere inside the control room had been tense as the submarine rose to meet its fate. Collisions with the ice weren’t unknown, and on one submerged ridge they had even damaged their vulnerable rudder. Yet their hull had remained intact, and after a series of makeshift repairs, they’d continued on with their patrol.

  The Defiance had a specially strengthened sail, or conning tower, that could puncture up to a foot of solid ice. During the last week they had attempted to surface in three different, promising polynyas. Yet each time their best efforts were thwarted by an impenetrable sheet of ice that produced a deafening, bone-jarring jolt. Fortunately, most of the damage was limited to their nerves. But would they be so lucky the next time? Determined not to buck the odds. Matt had made the difficult decision to cut short their cruise and return to port. Certain that his uncle would have made the same choice, he mentally prepared himself for the icy reception that would be awaiting him in New London.

  The scent of perking coffee met his nostrils, and he was suddenly aware that he had passed by both breakfast and lunch. Determined to make up for these missed meals, he turned away from the washbasin to change into a fresh set of coveralls and go to the nearby wardroom.

  Chapter Two

  A full moon cycle had passed since Ootah’s terrifying confrontation with Tornarsuk on the ice pack. In this time span, the Inuit hunter had succeeded in closing up his camp and moving his family out of that cursed spot. They traveled to the north, finally halting on the shore of the great ice sea known to the whites as Lancaster Sound. Here the fates were with him, and his harpoon took down a fat walrus. The meat of this animal was sweet and nourishing, and with their bellies finally filled, life was once again bearable.

  Even Ootah’s father seemed a bit stronger. Though the cough that brought blood to his lips was still with him, Nakusiak was as feisty as ever. Demanding that he share equally in the workload, the old-timer helped build their snow house Quick to remind his son to locate the entrance to the igloo below ground level, so that the cold air that would otherwise enter their living space would be trapped, Nakusiak supervised the placement of the last of the smooth ice blocks into the structure’s rounded roof. Afterward, he assisted Akatingwah in butchering the massive walrus Ootah had triumphantly dragged into their new camp.

  With the first winter storm of the season howling madly outside, they settled in to wait for the icy tempest to vent itself
. Nakusiak was more than content to take his young grandson aside and teach him the ancient Inuit throat songs. While these resonant tones filled the interior of the igloo, Ootah stripped off his clothes and slipped under the thick fur blankets with Akatingwah close at his side.

  His mate’s skin was warm and soft as they embraced in the way of a man and a woman. His fingers’ touch aroused the sensitive buds of her ripe breasts, and as her breath quickened, Ootah slipped his manhood deep inside her. With Nakusiak’s spirited song providing the perfect accompaniment, Ootah pulled his hips back until only the tip of his erect phallus touched the lips of his wife’s pulsating love channel.

  Sensing her need, he slowly plunged his hips downward until his all was given. He repeated this process until an ever-quickening rhythm was established.

  Akatingwah moaned softly in delight, and as her embrace tightened, Ootah sensed a sudden flow of hot fluid from deep inside her. It was then that his own seed rose, and a rapturous pleasure beyond description filled his being as he deposited the milk of life into her wet depths. If the fates so willed it, an infant would next be crawling from Akatingwah’s loins when the summer returned to the land of the Inuit.

  With his mate still locked tightly in his embrace, Ootah listened as her previously pounding pulse slowly returned to normal. While beyond, his father’s monotonous song continued, the distant howling wind a fitting accompaniment.

  Ootah’s dream was soon in coming. In this vision, he was conveyed high into the rugged mountains that lay to the east of Arctic Bay. It must have been summer,

  for no snow lay upon the ground. In its place, an unending carpet of bright red and gold wildflowers stretched to the horizon. As he climbed down to the floor of a particularly luxuriant valley, he spotted a herd of musk oxen grazing before him. Upon viewing the Inuit, the round-shouldered, shaggy beasts immediately took up a defensive circle, with the lead bull lowering its horned head and stepping forth to do battle. Strangely enough, even though he wasn’t armed, Ootah advanced to meet the bull’s challenge.