Ice Hunt (40 page)

No one argued with him.

2:53 P.M.
OUTSIDE OMEGA DRIFT STATION

Master Sergeant Ted Kanter lay in the snowdrift, half buried, dressed in a polar-white storm suit, covered from head to foot. He stared through infrared binoculars toward the U.S. research base. He had watched the Russian submarine surface fifteen minutes ago, steaming into the blizzard gale.

He lay only a hundred yards from the station. His only communication to the outside world was the General Dynamic acoustic earpiece clipped in place. He wore a subvocal microphone taped to his larynx. He had made his report and continued his watch.

He had been ordered to remain at alert but to make no move.

Such had been his orders since arriving.

A quarter mile away, two white tents bivouacked the remainder of the Delta Force advance team, minus his partner, who lay hidden in a snow mound a couple yards away. The six-man team had been stationed here for the past sixteen hours, flown in and dropped in the dead of night.

His team leader, Command Sergeant Major Wilson, designated Delta One for this mission, was with the rest of the assault team at Rally Point Alpha, four miles away. Their two helicopters were covered with Arctic camouflage, hidden away until the go-order was given.

In position this morning, Kanter’s team had watched from close quarters as the Russian submarine had arrived with the dawn. He monitored as the soldiers swamped the drift station and commandeered it. He had watched men killed, one shot only forty yards from his position. But he could not react. He had his orders: watch, observe, record.

Not
act,
not yet.

The mission’s operational controller had left standing orders to advance only once the go-code was transmitted. Matters had to be arranged, both political and strategic. In addition, the mission objective, nicknamed the “football,” had to be discovered and secured. Only then could they move. Until that moment came, Kanter followed his orders.

Fifteen minutes ago, he had watched the Russians leave the boat. He had counted the shore party, then added that number to the complement of hostiles previously stationed here, keeping track of the Russian forces.

Now men were returning. He squinted through his scopes and began counting down as the men returned to the sub and vanished through hatches. His lips tightened.

The pattern was clear.

He pressed a finger to his transmitter. “Delta One, respond.”

The answer was immediate, whispering in his ear. “Report, Delta Four.”

“Sir, I believe the Russians are clearing out of the base.” Kanter continued to subtract forces as additional men climbed over the nearby pressure ridge and headed to the docked sub.

“Understood. We have new orders, Delta Four.”

Kanter tensed.

“The go-code has been activated by the controller. Ready your men to move out on my order.”

“Roger that, Delta One.”

Kanter rolled back from his hiding spot.

Now the true battle began.

2:54 P.M.
USS
POLAR SENTINEL

Perry paced the control bridge of his submarine as it raced under the ice. No one spoke. The crew knew the urgency of their mission, the risk. The plan was almost impossible to fathom. He knew that even if he succeeded, it could cost him his captain’s bars. He didn’t care. He knew right from wrong, blind duty from personal responsibility. Still another question nagged: Did he know bravery from simple stupidity?

While en route to Omega, he had come close a hundred times to calling the
Polar Sentinel
back around, ordering it to return to the safety of the distant Alaskan coast. But he never did. He simply watched the distance to their destination grow smaller and smaller. Had captains of the past been plagued by such doubts? He had never felt so unfit to lead.

But there was no one else.

“Captain,” his chief whispered to him. The
Polar Sentinel
was baffled and soundproofed, but no one dared speak too loudly lest the dragon in the waters should hear them. “Position confirmed. The
Drakon
is already surfaced at Omega.”

Perry crossed to the man. He checked their distance to Omega. Still another five nautical miles. “How long have they been there?”

The chief shook his head. Up until now, details had been sketchy. Without going active with their sonar, staying in passive mode, the exact whereabouts and location of the
Drakon
had been fuzzy. At least they had found the other sub. Still, that narrowed their own window considerably. The Russians must already be evacuating the station. According to the intercepted UQC communication, the captain of the
Drakon
would blow the base once he began his descent. The Russian captain wouldn’t risk damaging his own boat during the conflagration.

But what was the time frame?

His diving officer, Lieutenant Liang, stepped to his side. His features were tight with worry. “Sir, I’ve run the proposed scenario over with the helm crew. We’ve wrangled various options.”

“And what’s the time estimate for the maneuver?”

“I can position us in under three minutes, but we’ll need another two to rise safely.”

“Five minutes…”
And we still have to get there.

Perry glanced to their speed.
Forty-two knots
. It was blistering for a sub running silent, but that was the
Sentinel’
s advantage. Still, they dared go no faster. If the
Drakon
picked up the cavitation of their propellers or any other telltale sign of their approach, they were doomed.

He calculated in his head the time to reach Omega, to get in position, to orchestrate the rescue…and escape. They didn’t have the time. He stared at his chief. If only the
Drakon
hadn’t already been in position, weren’t already evacuating Russian forces…

Liang stood quietly. He knew the same. They all did. Once again, he prepared to call their boat around. They had made a run for it, but it was hopeless. The Russians had beaten them.

But he pictured Amanda’s smile, the crinkles at the corners of her eyes when she laughed, the way her lips parted under his own, softly, sweetly…

“Chief,” Perry said, “we need to delay the
Drakon’
s departure.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to ping the other boat with active sonar.”

“Sir?”

Perry turned to his men. “We need to let the
Drakon
know someone shares their waters. That someone is watching.” He paced, running out his plan aloud. “They expected us long gone. That no one would be around to witness what is going to happen. By pinging them, it will force their captain to confer with his commander, delay a bit longer. Perhaps buy us the time we need.”

“But they’ll be on full alert with all their ears up,” Liang said. “As it is, we’ll be hard-pressed to sneak under their nose and perform the rescue maneuver.”

“I’m aware of that. We were sent north to run the
Polar Sentinel
through its paces. To prove its capacity in speed and stealth. That’s just what I intend to do.”

Liang took a deep, shuddering breath. “Aye, sir.”

Perry nodded to the chief. “One ping…then we go dead silent.”

“Aye to that, sir.” The chief shifted over to the sonar suite and began conferring.

Perry turned to his diving officer. “As soon as we ping, I want the helm to heel the boat away at forty-five degrees from our present course. I don’t want them to get a fix on us. We run fast and silent.”

“As a ghost, sir.” Liang turned on a heel and retreated to his station.

One of the sonar techs suddenly jumped to his feet. “Sir! I’m picking up venting! Coming from the
Drakon
!”

Perry swore. The Russian sub was preparing to dive, taking on ballast, venting air. They were too late. The evacuation had already been completed.

The chief stared over at him. His face was plain to read:
Continue as planned or abort?

Perry met the other’s gaze, unflinching. “Ring their doorbell.”

The chief spun around and placed a hand on the sonar supervisor. Switches were flipped and a button punched.

The chief nodded to him.

It was done. They had just given themselves away. Now to observe the reaction. A long moment stretched even longer. The
Sentinel
swung under their feet, deck plates tilting as the sub adjusted to a new trajectory.

Perry stood with clenched fists.

“Venting stopped, sir,” the technician whispered.

Their call had been heard.

“Sir!” Another sonar tech was on his feet, hissing urgently for attention. The tech wore headphones. “I’m picking up another contact. Noise on the hydrophones.” He pointed to his earpiece.

Another contact?
Perry hurried to him. “Coming from where?”

The tech’s eyes flicked upward. “Directly on top of us, sir.”

Perry waved for the phones. The technician passed them to him, and he pressed an earpiece to his head. Through the phone, he heard what sounded like drums, beating slowly…more than one…their cadence picked up rapidly.

Perry had once been a sonar tech. He knew what he heard drumming through the ice from above. “Rotor wash,” he whispered.

The technician nodded. “There are two birds in the air.”

2:56 P.M.
ABOARD THE
DRAKON

Mikovsky was getting the same information from his sonar crew. A moment ago, their boat had been pinged, deliberately and precisely. Clearly someone was in the waters below—and now another party was in the skies above.

The
Drakon
was pinned down, trapped.

If the other sub had pinged them, then they certainly had a weapons lock. He could almost sense the torpedo aimed at his ass. The fact that no fish was already in the water suggested the ping had only been a warning.

Don’t move or we’ll blast your boat out of the water
.

And he could not argue. He had no defense. Trapped in the polynya, the
Drakon
had no way to maneuver, no way to escape an enemy attack. Surrounded on all sides by ice, he couldn’t even get a decent sonar sweep. While surfaced here, he was half blind.

Still, that wasn’t the greatest danger.

He stared over the shoulder of his XO and studied the radar screen. The snowstorm and wavering magnetic fluxes in the region wreaked havoc with the readings. Two helicopters sped toward him, low over the ice, making contact difficult and target locks impossible, especially in the blowing whiteout surrounding the boat.

“They’re coming in shallow, hugging ridgelines,” Gregor warned.

“I’m detecting a missile launch!” another sonar man yelled.

“Damn it!” Mikovsky glanced to the monitors feeding from exterior cameras. He could make out vague outlines of the pressure ridges surrounding the lake. The rest of the world was solid white. “Aerial countermeasures. Blow chaff!”

There was no weaker position for a sub than surfaced. He’d rather be lying on the bottom of a deep ocean trench than where he was now. And that was where he was going…to hell with whoever had pinged them. He’d rather take his chances below.

“Flood negative!” he shouted to Gregor. “Sound emergency dive!”

“Flooding negative.” A klaxon blared down the length of the boat. The submarine rumbled as ballast tanks were swamped.

“Continue blowing chaff until sail is awash!” Mikovsky swung to the crew at the fire control station. “I want to know who’s down here with us. Weapons Officer, I need a lock and solution as soon as we clear the ice.”

Nods met his orders.

Mikovsky’s attention flicked back to the video monitor. From the deck of his boat, a cloud of shredded foil belched into the air. The chaff was intended to distract the incoming missile from its true target. But the blizzard winds tore the foil away as soon as it exited from the sub, stripping the boat, leaving it exposed.

As the dive tanks flooded, the
Drakon
dropped like a stone—but not before Mikovsky noted movement on the monitor.

A spiral of snow…coming right at them.

A Sidewinder missile
.

They would not escape.

Then the sea swelled over the exterior cameras, taking away the sight.

The explosion followed next, deafening. The
Drakon
jolted as if struck by a giant hammer. The sub rolled, carrying the video camera back to the surface. The streaming feed on the monitor showed the back half of the polynya. Its edge was cratered away, a blasted cove. The docking bollards sailed skyward. Fire spread over ice and water.

The missile had missed! A near miss, but a miss nonetheless. A lucky blow of chaff must have pulled the weapon a few degrees off course.

But from the force of the concussion through the water, the sinking
Drakon
had been shoved to the side and forced slightly back to the surface, exposing itself again. But not for long. The sub rocked stable and recommenced its stony plunge. The outside decks slipped under the sloshing water.

Mikovsky thanked all the gods of sea and men and turned away.

Then something caught his attention. On another video monitor. This camera, submerged a yard underwater, was aimed back toward the surface. The image was watery, but through the blue clarity of the polar sea, the image remained strangely vivid, limned by the flaming explosion of the Sidewinder.

On the video monitor, a soldier, dressed in polar camouflage, climbed into view on the opposite ridge. He bore a length of black tube on one shoulder, aimed square at the camera.

Rocket launcher
.

A spat of fire flamed from the far end of the weapon.

Mikovsky screamed. “Ready for impact!”

He didn’t even finish his shout when the
Drakon
shuddered from the rocket strike. This time it was no miss.

Mikovsky’s ears popped as the rocket pierced somewhere aft, exploding a hole through the plating.
An armor-piercing shell
.