Icebound

the current.”

“Two hundred fifty feet,” said the diving officer.

They had to get down at least six hundred feet. Approximately a hundred feet of ice had been visible above the water line, and only one seventh of an iceberg's mass rode above the surface. To be safe, Gorov preferred to descend to seven hundred feet, though the speed of the target's approach reduced their chances of attaining even six hundred in time to avoid it.

The sonar operator called the distance: “Three hundred eighty yards and closing.”

“If I weren't an atheist,” Zhukov said, “I'd start praying.”

No one laughed. At that moment none of them was an atheist — not even Emil Zhukov, in spite of what he'd said.

Even though everyone appeared cool and confident, Gorov could smell the fear in the control room. That was neither an exaggeration nor a theatrical conceit. Fear did have a pungent odor of its own: the tang of an unusually acrid sweat. Cold sweat. Virtually every man in the control chamber was perspiring. The place was redolent of fear.

“Three hundred twenty feet,” the diving officer announced.

The sonar operator reported on the iceberg as well: “Three hundred fifty yards and closing fast.”

“Three hundred sixty feet.”

They were in a crash dive. Going down fast. A lot of strain on the hull.

Even as each man monitored the equipment at his station, he found time to glance repeatedly at the diving stand, which suddenly seemed to have become the very center of the room. The needle on the depth gauge was falling rapidly, far faster than they had ever seen it drop before.

Three hundred eighty feet.

Four hundred.

Four hundred twenty feet.

Everyone aboard knew that the boat had been designed for sudden and radical maneuvers, but that knowledge did not relieve anyone's tension. In recent years, as the country had struggled to rise out of the impoverishment in which decades of totalitarianism had left it, defense budgets had been trimmed — except in the nuclear-weapons development programs — and systems maintenance had been scaled back, delayed, and in some instances postponed indefinitely. The Pogodin was not in the best shape of its life, an aging fleet submarine that might have years of faithful service in it — or that might be running with a stress crack serious enough to spell doom at any moment.

“Four hundred sixty feet,” said the diving officer.

“Target at three hundred yards.”

“Depth at four hundred eighty feet.”

With both hands, Gorov gripped the command-pad railing tightly and resisted the pull of the inclined deck until his arms ached. His knuckles were as sharp and white as bare bones.

“Target at two hundred yards!”

Zhukov said, “It's picking up speed like it's going downhill.”

“Five hundred twenty feet.”

Their descent was accelerating, but not fast enough to please Gorov. They would need to get down at least another hundred and eighty feet until they were without a doubt safely under the iceberg — and perhaps, a great deal more than that.

“Five hundred forty feet.”

“I've only been this deep twice before in ten years of service,” Zhukov said.

“Something to write home about,” Gorov said.

“Target at one hundred sixty yards. Closing fast!” called the sonar operator.

“Five hundred sixty feet,” the diving officer said, although he must have known that everyone was watching the platter-size depth gauge.

One thousand feet was the official maximum operating depth for the Ilya Pogodin, because she wasn't one of the very-deep-running nuclear-war boats. Of course, if its outer skin had suffered a loss of integrity in the earlier collision, the thousand-foot figure was meaningless, and all bets were off. The starboard- bow damage might have rendered the boat vulnerable to implosion at considerably less depth than that stated in the official manual.

“Target at one hundred twenty yards and closing.”

Gorov was contributing his share to the stench within the small chamber. His shirt was sweat-stained down the middle of the back and under the arms.

The diving officer's voice had softened almost to whisper, yet it carried clearly through the control room. “Six hundred feet and descending.”

Emil Zhukov's face was as gaunt as a death mask.

Still bracing himself against the railing, Gorov said, “We've got to risk another eighty feet or a hundred, anyway. We've got to be well under the ice.”

Zhukov nodded.

“Six hundred twenty feet.”

The sonar operator struggled to control hi voice. Nevertheless, a faint note of distress colored his next report: “Target at sixty yards and closing fast. Dead ahead of the bow. It's going to hit us!”

“None of that!” Gorov said sharply. “We'll make it.”

“Depth at six hundred seventy feet.”

“Target at thirty yards.”

“Six hundred eighty feet.”

“Twenty yards.”

“Six hundred ninety.”

“Target lost,” the sonar operator said, his voice rising half an octave on the last word.

They froze, waiting for the grinding impact that would smash the hull.

I've been a fool to jeopardize my own and seventy-nine other lives just to save one tenth that number, Gorov thought.

The technician who was monitoring the surface fathometer cried, “Ice overhead!”

They were under the berg.

“What's our clearance?” Gorov asked.

“Fifty feet.”

No one cheered. They were still too tense for that. But they indulged in a modest, collective sigh of relief.

“We're under it,” Zhukov said, amazed.

“Seven hundred feet and descending,” the diving officer said worriedly.

“Blow negative to the mark,” Gorov said. “Stabilize at seven hundred forty.”

“We're safe,” Zhukov said.

Gorov pulled on his neatly trimmed beard and found it wet with perspiration. “No. Not entirely safe. Not yet. No iceberg will have a flat bottom. There'll be scattered protrusions below six hundred feet, and we might even encounter one that drops all the way down to our running depth. Not safe until we're completely out from under.”

* * *

A few minutes after the concussion from the torpedo had rumbled through the ice, Harry and Pete cautiously returned to the cave from the snowmobiles, in which the others were still taking shelter. They proceeded only as far as the entrance, where they stood with their backs to the furious wind.

They needed to take the radio, which Harry was carrying, to the deepest and quietest part of the cave in order to contact Lieutenant Timoshenko aboard the Pogodin and find out what would happen next. Outside, the wind was a beast of thousand voices, all deafeningly loud, and even in the cabins of the sleds, the roaring-shrieking-whistling gale made it impossible to hear one's own voice, let alone comprehend what was being said by anyone on the radio.

With his flashlight beam, Pete worriedly probed the jumbled slabs in the ceiling.