Arctic Gold

“What was that explosion?” Kathy wanted to know.

“Damned if I know,” Dean said. “It wasn’t us; that’s all I know. Golytsin! Can you disable that bastard’s props?”

“If you get me close enough to the stern, yes.”

He was studying the other craft narrowly in the glare from the Mir’s outside work lights. It didn’t appear to be damaged, but it wasn’t going anywhere at the moment. It appeared to have a very slight negative buoyancy, but it was still upright, still intact under the terrible, crushing pressure outside.

He cut the forward power back by half and pulled the Mir into a tight turn until the other minisub’s stern was directly ahead and below. Dean didn’t want to spend too much time here; other Russian construction subs might have launched from the GK-1 and be in the vicinity.

But if he, Golytsin, and Kuthy could cripple Number Four, that would be one sub, at least, that would not pursue them to the surface.

Nomer Chiteereh Beneath the Arctic Ice Cap 82° 34' N, 177° 26' E 1211 hours, GMT-12

Braslov groaned and opened his eyes. That had been an underwater explosion, and one close by. A smear of blood glistened on the control panel in front of him-his blood. That explosion had slammed him forward, momentarily stunning him. He raised a hand to lightly touch his forehead; it came away wet with blood.

No matter. He’d suffered a lot worse. The important thing was… what was the condition of his submarine? Quickly he looked around, checking monitors, checking readouts. The hull was still intact, power still good, trim still good…

And the Mir with the Americans on board was swinging around onto his tail.

Braslov grinned. That would get them nowhere.

He reached again for the controls.

Mir Beneath the Arctic Ice Cap 82° 34' N, 177° 26' E 1211 hours, GMT-12

With Golytsin working the controls, both of the Mir’s mechanical arms extended, reaching toward the other craft’s starboard side screw. Before Dean could grab hold, however, the propeller suddenly spun to life, the shroud pivoting as Braslov put the craft into a sharp turn.

Damn!

“Okay. We’ll just have to try to race him to the surface,” Dean said. He brought the Mir’s nose up and rammed the power handle full-forward. “I don’t suppose there are torpedoes on this thing?”

“No,” Golytsin said. “No torpedoes.”

Sluggish, the Mir began climbing.

Behind it, the construction submarine turned a clumsy circle, then began to give chase.

Beneath the Arctic Ice Cap 82° 34' N, 177° 26' E 1214 hours, GMT-12

Three miles away, the two torpedoes fired from the Russian submarine Dekabrist continued their flight through the lightless deep, continuing to descend as they raced through the water at fifty knots. Though the American submarine captain was not yet certain of the fact, there’d been no backup programming directing the weapons into a search sweep. They would continue to drive into the depths until they either ran out of fuel and sank… or hit the bottom.

Groaning like a dying man, the wreckage of the Dekabrist settled toward the bottom as well. They could hear the sounds in the sonar rooms on board both the Pittsburgh and the Ohio as steel bent and twisted. Now and then, a compartment sealed off from the rest of the vessel would give way under the steadily increasing pressure, a sharp, chilling pop as seawater inexorably forced its way inside.

The bottom here was eighteen hundred meters down… just over a mile.

It would take the Dekabrist a long time to get there.

Mir Beneath the Arctic Ice Cap 82° 34' N, 177° 26' E 1218 hours, GMT-12

Dean checked the aft monitor. Sure enough, Braslov was on their tail, and coming fast. Dean could see the work lights on the construction sub like four dazzling stars in the night, the bow of the sub a vaguely seen insect’s face between them.

“He can move faster than us,” Golytsin told Dean. “Especially in ascent. More power, and larger ballast tanks.”

“Great. Fucking great…”

“But the Mir is more maneuverable,” Golytsin continued. “And more rugged.”

“How much more rugged?” Dean wanted to know.

“Mir can outdive him by perhaps twenty percent.”

“Meaning it can take more pressure on the hull?”

“Yes. Wait… you’re not-”

“No,” Dean said. “I’m not going to try to lure him beneath his crush depth. That would be crazy.”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to try to ram him. Kathy! You’ve got Benford secured?”

“Yeah,” Kathy replied. “There was some rope in this locker back here.”

“Okay. Strap yourself down.”

“No seat belts, Charlie.”

“Then hold on, damn it. Golytsin! Where are the ballast controls on this thing?”

Golytsin pointed.

“Flood the ballast and trim tanks,” Dean said. “And kill the forward lights! Let’s see if we can discourage the bastard!”

He pulled over on the stick, bringing the nose of the Mir up even higher, then over and around. Like a jet aircraft in a stall, the little submersible hung suspended for a moment, then nosed over, beginning to descend.

Ahead, the four work lights on the construction sub grew brighter, and seemed to stretch farther apart.

“God in Heaven,” Golytsin said, eyes widening. “What are you doing?”

“Playing dolphin to his shark, Admiral.”

“You’ll kill us!”

“Where’s your faith in good old, solid Russian engineering, Admiral?”

At twelve knots, the Mir slammed into the construction sub, bow to bow. There was a savage bang that rang through the hull, followed by the scrape and tear of metal.

And all of the lights went out.

Nomer Chiteereh Beneath the Arctic Ice Cap 82° 34' N, 177° 26' E 1218 hours, GMT-12

Braslov had been puzzled when the Mir’s work lights winked off, then decided the American was hoping to lose his dogged pursuer. Idiot! Nomer Chiteereh had sonar and would be able to hunt him down easily even in the pitch blackness of the depths.

Braslov was reaching for the sonar switch when he caught a shiver of movement in his forward view port. The Mir was just ahead, coming into the illumination cone of his own work lights.

His full attention was yanked back onto the other craft. It was close… impossibly close, and swelling to fill the forward port as though racing down to meet him.

The shock threw Braslov out of his seat, slamming him to the deck as the construction submarine heeled far over to port. The sound was an explosion of raw noise, the shock indescribable. Several internal pipes gave way, and streams of ice-cold water blasted into the construction ship’s compartment.

Braslov struggled to get up, to get back to the control panel, but the deck was now a bulkhead and threatening to become a ceiling, and it was all he could do to cling to the deck grating as the submarine heeled over.

Then salt water hit wiring, and the interior lights flicked off, came on, then flickered off once more, leaving