Chapter Twenty-seven

His triceps muscles bulging through parka sleeves, Tiger finished his hundredth push-up on the stateroom’s blanketed floor. His breath formed mist as he spoke in Mandarin to Jaguar in the rack above.

“You wait until I’m done,” Tiger said. “Then you can have the floor for your exercises. Or you can go to the engine room. The heaters are on there.”

“I will wait,” Jaguar said. “I do not want to freeze to death walking back there. I wish we were off of this submarine. The stupid American naval officer has added days to this mission for nothing.”

The room’s third commando, the wiry Cheetah, responded from the highest rack.

“Slate is starting the reactor now,” Cheetah said. “Why are you complaining? He has kept you alive, has he not?”

Tiger felt like slapping Cheetah for being complacent, but he let the two above him argue while he pumped out push-ups.

“He performed so well that we were hunted under the ice,” Jaguar said.

“He avoided the torpedo,” Cheetah said.

“The Frenchman saved us. Not the American,” Jaguar said.

“Slate shut us down to fool the torpedo.”

“All he did was shut off the heat so that we had to spend two days in this small room. Then when he listened on sonar, there was no one near us. We wasted two days freezing.”

“He did not waste our time,” Cheetah said. “He made a tactical decision. You do not stand watch with him. I do. He knows this ship and how to command it.”

“I could say the same of the Frenchman,” Jaguar said. “When I see how quickly he figures out things on this submarine, it does not seem so impressive. The country needs the warheads, not our caution. Slate is taking his time for no good reason.”

As Tiger finished his hundred and twentieth push-up, he heard Cheetah call upon him.

“What do you say, Shin?”

Tiger stood, shook his arms, and pointed at Cheetah’s nose.

“I’m telling Sergeant Kao to inform the American that we need to drive faster than five knots.”

“What if he disagrees?” Cheetah asked and pushed Tiger’s finger away.

“Then I will put a steak knife into Slate’s heart myself. This slow speed is cowardice.”

 

*

In maneuvering, Jake flipped switches on the reactor panel and heard concern in Renard’s voice.

“The plant is completely liquid?” Renard asked.

“Yeah. Solid plant. The steam pocket in the pressurizer vessel condensed. I’ve got the pressurizer heaters on, and I’m starting a pair of coolant pumps to heat us up with flow friction,” Jake said.

“The lack of a compressed vapor bubble in the primary piping makes pressure control complex, is that not right?”

“Yes. Bass is on the phone with Gant in middle level. Gant’s going to discharge water into retention tanks if we need to keep pressure down,” Jake said.

“How are we doing on pressure, Bass?” Jake asked.

“We’re way low,” Bass said. “We might not have to discharge.”

“Alright,” Jake said. “I’m going to start pulling rods. We’ll go critical to accelerate the heat up.”

Jake twisted a shim switch on the reactor panel. Relays clicked and motors whirred. His gaze flickered across analog digits that rolled off inches of control rod depth within the core.

“How do you know when you’re critical?” Renard asked.

“You forgot?”

“It has something to do with neutron count acceleration.”

“Bingo.”

Jake nodded at the neutron count meter.

“We’re still way sub-critical, but you can see the neutron population just beginning to accelerate.”

Minutes passed. Jake released the shim switch. Motors droned and stopped.

“Neutron count is trying to hold,” he said. “Baby wants to go critical a half inch below critical rod height...nope, not quite.”

“May I smoke now?” Renard asked.

“Just because we’re nearing criticality?”

“No, because I’m dying for a cigarette.”

“Sure, and...the reactor is critical,” Jake said. “I’ll keep withdrawing rods into the functional range.”

He felt a tickle in his throat and coughed.

“Sorry,” Renard said and lowered his cigarette.

“Can’t you do something useful?” Jake asked.

“Yes, of course. How can I help?”

“Go read the gyroscopic navigators reset procedure. That’s next on our list. It’ll take fifteen hours to reset them.”

“Fifteen hours?”

“You’d risk under-ice travel without inertial navigation?”

“Of course not,” Renard said. “It would be suicide.”

“The full procedure for resetting the gyroscopic navigators takes three weeks tied to a pier. I’m doing the condensed version while drifting under an icecap. We’ll be lucky if we know our location within five miles.”

“Then I suppose it will dismay you to hear that Mister Lion recently informed me that his team is very concerned about the five-knot speed limitation you’ve imposed.”

“How concerned?” Jake asked.

“Enough to make me worry.”

 

*

John Brody dreamt of his wife Carole. His subconscious mind relived his honeymoon. She wore a red satin backless dress that caressed her soft brown skin on a moonlit Jamaican beach.

Carole slipped away. A new image wearing a bathrobe appeared, fifteen pounds heavier, with a scornful expression. Cold eyes locked with him as she said that she was leaving.

The dream disappeared as a fist hammered Brody’s door.

“Messenger, sir. The Officer of the Deck requests your presence in the control room.”

Brody squinted at a digital display that showed eight knots - seven knots slower than he had prescribed. He slipped into his jump suit and trotted to the control room.

Jerry Skiff, the Miami’s navigation officer, furrowed his brow.

“Sir, under-ice sonar indicated that the roof was starting to slant down on us. I went deeper, but we’re getting squeezed to the floor. I wanted you here before I went any further.”

Brody rubbed his eyes. His sleep had been fitful.

“Are we on track?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Skiff said. “I’ve double-checked three times. We’re in the deepest water around here and should have cleared the ice by now, but we’re hitting a dead end.”

“The charted paths are no guarantee for what Mother Nature does with the ice year to year,” Brody said. “We’re lucky we made it this far without having to turn around. Slow to four knots, push until we get thirty feet above and below us, and then turn east. There’s got to be a way around this ridge.”

 

*

Jake sat in the captain’s chair in the Colorado’s wardroom. He suppressed a cough as Renard indulged in a drag of his Marlboro. Commandos filled six of the remaining eight chairs with Kao by his side.

“Mister Slate, we are concerned that five knots speed will cost us too much time,” Kao said. “We are already nine days behind schedule. The rendezvous ship may not wait.”

“I planned for up to two weeks of contingencies. That’s how long the rendezvous ship should be willing to wait for us,” Jake said.

For the first time, Jake saw the younger men protest. He could not understand their Mandarin, but he heard its biting tone. Kao snapped a word and they fell silent.

“Every day is added risk for the rendezvous ship, and for the nation itself,” Kao said. “They need the warheads now.”

“Look, we have a ripped right fairwater plane from the aircraft attack, and we probably just bent the left one against the roof. That means noise, and there’s probably someone still looking for us.”

“Moving slow did not prevent us from being hunted once before. Perhaps speed is a superior tactical alternative.”

Jake felt reality inverting as a Taiwanese commando told him how to drive a Trident submarine under the ice.

“Safety dictates that we move slowly,” he said. “Our navigation is going to be inaccurate due to the gyroscopic navigators restart. We’ll have a tough time working through this maze, and we could smack our bow into an ice wall if we go too fast.”

Kao directed his question to Renard, and Jake felt his authority slipping.

“You have experience, Mister Renard. What is the real danger if we impact an ice structure?”

“Jake’s concerns are well founded,” Renard said. “With the complete and alert crew on the Amethyst, I would brave fifteen knots. With this sluggish Trident and its personnel limitations, I would fear more than say, eight – and that as an extreme.”

“Eight knots. At least you agree that-” Kao said.

“Ten!” Jake said.

The room quieted. Jake stared at Kao.

“Ten knots, Mister Lion. Mister Renard doesn’t realize how long our ballast tanks are against those of his precious Amethyst. If we go ten knots, I can make up for two days. If something goes wrong and we smack the ice, then we have a sonar dome and three ballast tanks to take the blow. We’ll crumple like a car hood, but we might live.”

Kao’s face remained stone.

“Is this acceptable?” Jake asked.

“Ten knots is acceptable,” Kao said.

Jake pushed back his chair and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

 

*

As he squatted in his shower stall, Jake let hot water pour over his back. He lowered his head into his hands. The heat melted the artic chill from his bones, but the chill in his soul remained ice.

The Frenchman had been right weeks ago when they had intercepted the Custom Venture. His few friends were gone, or at best distant. He was empty and alone - living for survival itself.

He wanted to trust Renard. The Frenchman had proven himself a worthy ally thus far, but everything he had done for Jake was self-serving. He wondered if Renard would jab a knife in his back when their agendas crossed.

Jake accepted that he might never be able to trust anyone. He curled into a ball and let the water burn away at an icy core that wouldn’t seem to melt.

 

Renard dreamt...

He sat on a slab of granite atop Mont Saint Victoire. Storm clouds swallowed the mountain. As freezing rain pelted his face, he saw a dark figure pierce the swirling blackness and disappear.

He assumed it a dragon or some other nightmarish beast, but he heard jet engines whine between cracks of lightning.

Stinking of blood and gunpowder, a pistol appeared in his hands. He tightened his grip and rose to his feet.

A puddle of mud chilled his first barefooted step. He froze. A black serpent slithered over his foot and vanished into bushes behind a boulder. Renard followed it around a corner, and two men locked in combat came into view.

Jake wore a charred cotton jump suit and bounced on his feet. Facing him, a middle-aged Taiwanese commando in a black wetsuit approached, his legs spread wide and his rigid hand forward.

Lightning flashed, and Jake unleashed a flurry of kicks. He connected with Kao’s ear, and the commando staggered. Lightning cracked again, and Kao buried his heel into Jake’s gut.

Mud splashed on Renard’s feet as Jake landed before him. The tugging at his pants reminded him of a widow he had long ago created. He wondered if he was ruining another life as Jake clawed at his rain-drenched cotton dress shirt.

“Help me!” Jake said.

“What should I do?” Renard asked.

“You got me into this, you bastard. Get me out!”

Lightning crashed. Renard awoke.

 

Renard showered away cold sweat. He pulled his shirt over his shoulder and studied his reflection.

His eyes looked dull, and his skin sagged.

His knees cracked as he climbed the stairs to the control room where he joined Jake by the navigation chart and studied the coordinates that placed the Colorado one hundred miles north of Alaska.

“Shit, Pierre,” Jake said. “You look as tired as I feel.”

Renard lit a Marlboro.

“You handled the confrontation well yesterday.”

“Are we in this too deep?” Jake asked.

“The dangers within the ship now equal those outside.”

“Yeah, even though my friend on the Miami is the one who tried to kill us.”

“You verified the acoustic evidence from the torpedo exchange?” Renard asked.

“I ran the tape,” Jake said.

“Then it is as we feared. The best submarine commander in the world, present company excluded, is on our tail.”

Renard inhaled. The sweetness of nicotine filled his lungs and he blew smoke away from Jake.

“And I’ve got a revolt brewing within the ship,” Jake said, “and there’s a chance that this submarine might become an ‘us versus them’ world. Six frogmen against four sailors is normally no match, but remember, this is my ship.”

“Stop reminding me.”

“Well, it is, and I keep a few tricks up my sleeve. I don’t know who the hell you became after commanding the Amethyst, and I don’t know how deep you’re in with the Taiwanese. But if it comes down to it, you’ll need to choose a side.”

Sadly, he’s correct, Renard thought. The situation on this ship is more volatile than he knows.

 

*

Brody ran his finger over a penciled trace of the Miami’s voyage. From the plot’s overhead perspective, he reviewed a path once sealed by ice, a turn to the east, and then a southerly trek under an ice roof that ascended into the Arctic Ocean’s southern body of water, the Chukchi Sea.

He walked to the periscope and stuck his eye to the optics as the Miami ascended. Daylight broke through the Arctic Ocean and painted shallow water turquoise. Brody swiveled the scope. A wall of white ice rose behind him and an iceberg touched the horizon.

“No close contacts,” he said. “Chief of the Watch, raise the radio mast. Radio room, transmit one outgoing message. Let the world know that we found the Colorado.”

 

*

In Nome, Alaska, Grant Mercer cast a line off a forty-eight-foot trawler.

As he tiptoed his way along the deck with the agility learned while operating his father’s sailboat on Lake Michigan, he felt the idling three hundred horsepower diesels rumbling below.

Under the canopy of the powerboat’s pilothouse, he nudged an aircraft-type throttle. Mercer watched the bow push aside chunks of ice as he entered the darkness of the Snake River en route to the Chukchi Sea.