Arctic Drift (Dirk Pitt 20)

83

A DOZEN YARDS FROM THE EDGE OF THE SEA ICE, a bearded seal frolicked in the dark green water, searching for a stray Arctic cod. The gray-coated mammal caught sight of a black protrusion rising out of the water and swam over to investigate. Pressing a whiskered snout against the cold metal object, it detected no sign of potential nourishment, so turned and swam away.

Sixty feet beneath the surface, Commander Barry Campbell chuckled at the close-up image of the seal. Refocusing the viewing lens of the Type 18 search periscope at the red-hulled icebreaker a quarter mile away, he carefully examined the ship. Stepping away from the periscope, he waved over Bill Stenseth, who stood nearby in the USS Santa Fe’s cramped control room.

Stenseth had taken an immediate liking to the submarine’s energetic captain. With sandy hair and beard, sparkling eyes, and a ready laugh, Campbell reminded Stenseth of a youthful Santa Claus, pre belly and white hair. A twenty-year Navy man, the jovial Campbell operated with a sense of purpose. There was no hesitation when Stenseth urged him to conduct an electronic search for Pitt and Giordino and the missing submersible. Campbell immediately piloted the attack sub to the south, with its full complement of sonar at play. When the icebreaker was detected lingering in the area, Campbell had ordered the sub to dive in order to maintain its stealth.

Stenseth stepped over to the periscope and peered through its dual eyepiece. A crystalline image of the red icebreaker burst through the magnified lens. Stenseth studied the flattened bow of the vessel, surprised that the damage wasn’t greater from its high-speed collision with the Narwhal.

“Yes, sir, that’s the vessel that rammed us,” he said matter-of-factly. Keeping his face pressed against the eyepiece, he focused on a man in black approaching the ship on foot. Tracing his path, he observed several additional men congregated on the beach.

“There are several men on the shoreline,” he said to Campbell. “They appear armed.”

“Yes, I saw them, too,” Campbell replied. “Swing the periscope to your right about ninety degrees,” he requested.

Stenseth obliged, rotating the periscope until a bright yellow object blurred past. Moving back, he refocused the lens while a lump grew in his throat. The Bloodhound appeared through the lens wedged against the sea ice, its top hatch thrown open.

“That’s our submersible. Our men Pitt and Giordino must have gone ashore,” he said, a rising tone of urgency in his voice. He stood up and faced Campbell.

“Captain, the men on that icebreaker sank my ship and tried to murder the crew of the Polar Dawn. They’ll kill Pitt and Giordino, too, if they haven’t already. I have to ask you to intervene.”

Campbell stiffened slightly. “Captain Stenseth, we sailed into Victoria Strait for the strict purposes of a search-and-rescue mission. My orders are clear. I am not to engage Canadian military forces under any circumstances. Any deviation will require a request up the chain of command, which will likely take a twenty-four-hour response.”

The submarine captain exhaled deeply, then gave Stenseth a crooked smile as his eyes suddenly gleamed. “On the other hand, if you tell me that two of our own are lost in the elements, then it is within my duty to authorize a search-and-rescue mission.”

“Yes, sir,” Stenseth replied, reading his drift. “I believe two of the Narwhal’s crew are either aboard the icebreaker awaiting transfer or are ashore without proper food, clothing, or shelter, and require our assistance.”

“Captain Stenseth, I don’t know who these people are, but they sure don’t look or act like the Canadian military to me. We’ll go get your NUMA boys. And if these jokers interfere with our rescue ops, I guarantee you they will wish they hadn’t.”

THERE WAS NO WAY Rick Roman was going to be denied. Though he and his commando team were severely weakened by their ordeal on the barge, they knew there was unfinished business to take care of. When word filtered down that a SEAL team was being assembled to search for Pitt and Giordino, Roman pleaded with the Santa Fe’s captain to participate. Knowing that his SEAL team was undermanned, Campbell reluctantly agreed. And in a nod toward just retribution, he let Roman lead the team to board and search the icebreaker.

With a hot shower, dry clothes, and two extended trips to the officers’ mess, Roman almost felt human again. Dressed in a white Arctic assault suit, he stood assembled with his team and the SEAL commandos in the enlisted mess area.

“Ever thought you’d be making an amphibious assault off a nuclear sub?” he asked Bojorquez.

“No, sir. I’m still and always will be a landlubber. Though after tasting the chow they serve these squids, I am beginning to rethink my choice about joining the Army.”

A deck above them in the control room, Commander Campbell was easing the submerged Santa Fe to the edge of the ice field. He had spotted a large hummock nearby that appeared to offer some measure of concealment from the distant icebreaker. Dropping the periscope, he watched as the diving officer inched the submarine under the ice, then stopped and gently rose to the surface.

With uncanny precision, the Santa Fe’s sail barely broke through the ice, protruding just a few feet above the surface. Roman’s team and a pair of SEALs were quickly ushered out the bridge and onto the adjacent sea ice. Five minutes later, the sail and masts sank out of sight and the submarine again became a phantom of the deep.

The commandos quickly split up, the two SEALs moving to investigate the Bloodhound, while Roman and his men crept toward the icebreaker. The ship was a half mile away across a mostly flat sheet of ice that offered only sporadic ridges and hummocks for concealment. In their Arctic whites, however, they blended perfectly. Moving methodically, Roman approached the vessel from the sea side, then circled wide around its bow, having to avoid the watery lead that tailed the stern. Spotting a side stairwell that dropped down the ship’s port hull, he moved the team within twenty yards, then ducked behind a small ridge. A few anxious seconds ticked by when a pair of men in black parkas descended the steps, but they turned toward shore without even a glance in the direction of Roman and his team.

With their position secure, Roman sat and waited as a chill wind rifled over their prone bodies.

84

A DECKHAND POSTING WATCH DUTY ON THE OTOK ’ S bridge was the first to detect it.

“Sir,” he called to the captain, “there’s something breaking up the ice off our port beam.”

Seated at the chart table drinking a cup of coffee, the visibly annoyed captain rose and walked slowly to the port bridge window. He arrived in time to witness a house-sized mass of ice rise up and crumble as a pair of gray-speckled tubes poked through the surface. A second later, the black teardrop-shaped sail of the Santa Fe burst through, scattering shards of ice in all directions.

A 688-I Los Angeles class attack submarine, the Santa Fe had been modified for under-the-ice operations. With strengthened hull, fairwater, and mast components, she was easily capable of penetrating ice three feet thick. Rising fifty yards off the Otok’s beam, the Santa Fe’s full hull cracked through the ice field, exposing a narrow black strip of steel three hundred feet long.

The Otok’s captain stared in disbelief at the sudden appearance of the nuclear warship. But his mind began to race when he saw a steady flow of white-clad men burst out of the sub’s forward hatch armed with machine guns. He felt only minimal solace when he noticed that the armed men all raced toward the island rather than his ship.

“Quick, pull up the drop steps,” he shouted at the deckhand. Turning to a crewman seated at the radio set, he barked, “Alert whatever security force is still aboard.”