Icebound

“One has.”

“But they headed north only two hours ago!”

“The Melville is ten or twelve years older than the Liberty. She could probably ride out a storm like this easily enough, but she doesn't have the power or bow construction to plow into it head-on, under power and against the wind. Her captain's afraid she'll break apart if he doesn't turn back now.”

“But he's still on the fringe of the storm.”

“Even there the seas are bad.”

Gunvald wiped one hand across his suddenly damp face and blotted his palm on his pants. “The Liberty is continuing?”

“Yes.” The American paused. The radio hissed with static, as if it were filled with snakes. “Look, if I were you, I wouldn't pin my hopes on her.”

“I've nothing else to pin them on.”

“Maybe not. But her skipper really isn't much more confident than the captain of the Melville.”

“I suppose you still can't get a chopper in the air,” Gunvald said.

“Everything's grounded. Will be for days. We're not happy about it, but there's nothing we can do.”

Static crackled from the speaker.

Gunvald said nothing.

Finally, sounding embarrassed, the officer at Thule said, “The Liberty might just make it, you know.”

Gunvald sighed. “I'm not going to tell the others about the Melville. Not yet.”

“That's up to you.”

“If the Liberty turns back too, then I'll have to tell them. But there's no sense depressing them with this news while there's still some hope.”

The man at Thule said, “We're pulling for them. The story already hit the news in the States. Millions of people are pulling for them.”

3:05

The communications center of the Ilya Pogodin was full of light and motion as seven radiant video display terminals flickered with decoded messages that had been intercepted by the main surveillance aerial one hundred feet above. The programming consoles were aglow with all the primary colors. Two technicians worked at one end of the cramped chamber, and Timoshenko stood near the entrance with Nikita Gorov.

Among the hundreds of communications being continuously sorted and stored by the Ilya Pogodin's computers, a steady stream of data pertained to the Edgeway crisis. The computer had been instructed to create a special file for any intercepted messages that contained one or more of five key words: Carpenter, Larsson, Edgeway, Melville, Liberty.

“Is this complete?” Gorov asked when he finished reading the Edgeway material.

Timoshenko nodded. “The computer produces an updated printout every fifteen minutes. This one is only ten minutes old. There may have been a few minor developments. But you have the basics, sir.”

“If the weather on the surface is half as bad as they're saying, the Liberty will turn back too.”

Timoshenko agreed.

Gorov stared at the printout, no longer reading it, not even seeing it. Behind his night-black eyes was the image of a fresh-faced, golden-haired little boy with arms open wide. The son he had been unable to save.

At least he said, “I'll be in the control room until further notice. Let me know at once if there's any important news about this.”

“Yes, sir.”

Because the Pogodin was not actually under way but was hanging motionless in the sea, the control-room watch consisted of only five men in addition to First Officer Zhukov. Three were sitting in the black command chairs, facing the wall of scopes, gauges, graphs, dials, and controls opposite the diving stations. Zhukov was perched on a metal stool in the center of the chamber, reading a novel that he had propped on the big electronic chart table.

Emil Zhukov was the sole potential opposition with which Gorov would have to contend if he were to carry out the plan that he had begun to formulate. Zhukov was the only man aboard the submarine with the authority to relieve the captain of his command if, in Zhukov's opinion, Gorov had lost his senses or had disobeyed a direct order of the Naval Ministry. The first officer would use his power only in an extreme emergency, for he would have to justify his assumption of command when he got back to Russia; nevertheless, he posed a real threat.

Emil Zhukov, at forty-two, was not a great deal younger than his captain, but their relationship had a subtle child-and-mentor quality, primarily because Zhukov placed such a high value on social order and discipline that his respect for authority bordered on an unhealthy reverence. He would have regarded any captain as a mentor and a source of wisdom. Tall, lean, with a long narrow face, intense hazel eyes, and thick dark hair, the first officer reminded Gorov of a wolf; he had a lupine grace when he moved, and his direct stare sometimes seemed predatory. In fact, he was neither as impressive nor as dangerous as he appeared to be; he was merely a good man and a reliable though not brilliant officer. Ordinarily, his deference to his captain would ensure his faithful cooperation — but under extreme circumstances, his obedience could not be taken for granted. Emil Zhukov would never lose sight of the fact that there were many men of higher authority than Gorov — and that he owed them greater respect and allegiance than he owed his captain.

At the chart table, Gorov put the printout of Edgeway material on top of the novel that Zhukov was reading. “You better take a look at this.”

When he reached the last page of the document, the first officer said, “Quite a trap they've gotten themselves into. But I read a little about this Edgeway Project in the papers, way back when they were still in the planning stages, and these Carpenters sounded like extremely clever people. They might scrape through this.”

“It isn't the Carpenters who caught my eye. Another name.”

Quickly scanning the printout, Zhukov said, “You must mean Dougherty. Brian Dougherty.”

Gorov sat on the only other stool at the Plexiglas-topped, lighted chart table. “Yes. Dougherty.”

“Is he related to the assassinated American President?”

“Nephew.”

“I much admired his uncle,” said Zhukov. “But I suppose you think I'm naive in that regard.”

Gorov's disdain for politics and politicians was well known to his first officer, who quietly disapproved of his attitude. The captain could not convincingly pretend to have had a change of heart just to win Zhukov's backing for the risky operation that he wanted to conduct. Shrugging, he said, “Politics is strictly about power. I admire achievement.”

“He was a man of peace,” Zhukov said.

“Yes, peace is something they all sell.”

Zhukov frowned. “You think he wasn't a great man?”

“A scientist who discovers a cure for disease — that's a great man or woman. But politicians…”

Zhukov was not one of those who longed for a return of the old regime, but he had little patience for the series of unstable governments that had afflicted Russia in recent years. He admired strong leaders. He was a man who needed to have someone to whom he could look for direction and purpose — and good politicians were his ultimate heroes, regardless of their nationality.

Gorov said, “No matter what I think of the late President, I'll admit the Dougherty family handled their tragedy with grace and fortitude. Very dignified.”

Zhukov nodded solemnly. “An admirable family. Very sad.”