Upon the first missile strike on the surface, Perry had ordered the Sentinel to dive deep. The Drakon was clearly under attack from the surface. This was confirmed a moment later when his sonar chief had reported a successful rocket attack. Listening from a half mile away, they had heard the explosion and the resulting bubbling of a ruptured submarine.
“It looks like the cavalry finally arrived,” Lieutenant Liang had said, grimly relieved, voicing everyone’s opinion.
The XO was probably right. The attackers had to be the Delta Force team noted in Admiral Reynolds’s last message.
Still, Perry had wanted confirmation before letting anyone know of their presence in these waters. The timing of this attack was too perfect. How had the Delta Force team crossed the blizzard to arrive so opportunely? And why hadn’t the two helicopters been heard before now? Had they been flying too high and were only picked up by the hydrophones as they made their bombing dive toward the surface?
Perry didn’t like questions he couldn’t answer—and in a submarine, paranoia was a survival trait. It kept you alive in dangerous waters.
As such, Perry stood in the forward chamber, watching the battle through the Sentinel’s window. He had wanted to see with his own eyes what was happening. He had tried to use the exterior cameras from the control bridge, but they didn’t have the zoom capability to cross the distance.
So Perry had improvised. Standing now in the Cyclops chamber, he used a set of ordinary binoculars to watch the battle.
Half a mile away, the Drakon was nose up in the waters, silhouetted in the storm light beaming through the open lake above. She listed at close to sixty degrees, almost vertical in the water.
Perry watched, knowing that his counterpart on the other sub must be sounding the evacuation alarm. The battle was already over. The Russian crew had only one chance here: to abandon ship.
Then through the binoculars, a bright flash ignited the waters, freezing the image upon Perry’s retina before temporarily blinding him. He blinked away the dazzle as the dull explosion roared to him. It sounded exactly like a rumble of thunder, followed by the rattling of deck plates from the distant concussion.
Perry’s vision cleared. The Drakon was fully upright, surrounded in a whirlpool of bubbles. Chunks of ice, blown down from above, rattled back up out of the depths.
The room intercom buzzed. “Captain, Conn. We’re reading a depth charge!”
Perry hurried away, tapping the intercom as he passed. “Pull us out of here!” he called out, then ducked through the hatch and ran back toward the bridge.
Another explosion shuddered through the boat, rocking the Sentinel.
These icy waters were about to get too damn hot.
3:03 P.M.
OMEGA DRIFT STATION
John Aratuk accepted death. He had seen entire villages, including his own, meet brutal and harsh ends. He had held his wife’s hand as she lay dying, trapped in the wreckage of his drunken accident. Death was a constant in his life. So as others around him shouted or cried, he sat quietly, his hands bound with plastic ties behind his back.
Another explosion shook the barracks building, setting the hanging lamps to swinging. The ice under the buildings bowed and rattled from the forces of the nearby explosions, threatening to shatter the entire area.
Around John, the military men were struggling to get free of their bonds, using whatever sharp edge they could find to saw through the tough plastic.
The Russians had bound them after Jenny and the seaman had escaped, keeping them under constant armed guard. Then a few moments ago, the Russians had fled. It was clear from their hurried departure and frantic grab for supplies that they were abandoning the base.
But why? Had they discovered what they came to find? And what was to be their own fate? These questions had been bandied about, mostly among the civilian scientists. But John had seen the answer in Lieutenant Commander Sewell’s eyes. He had overheard the conversation about the V-class incendiary bombs planted throughout the drift station. There was no doubt what was going to happen, what the Russians intended.
Then the blasts had started, rocking the ice, deafening even the storm.
“Everyone stay calm!” Sewell yelled in a firm authoritative voice. His attempt at assuredness was weakened as he almost lost his footing with another rattle of ice. He caught himself on one of the bed frames. “Panic will not help us escape!”
John continued to sit, unconcerned. Jenny had escaped. He had heard the Twin Otter buzz by overhead. John positioned his feet closer to the space heater.
At least he’d die warm.
3:04 P.M.
OUTSIDE OMEGA DRIFT STATION
Master Sergeant Kanter lay on the far side of a steep pressure ridge. The rocket launcher he had used to pierce the sub was propped beside him, but it was no longer needed. His ears ached from the concussion blows of the depth charges. Even though he was half shielded by the ridgeline, the explosions felt like punches to his solar plexus. Each one pounded at him.
He watched drum after drum drop into the sea, sink the preset ten feet, and blow. Water ballooned up, then exploded skyward, casting a funnel of water and ice high into the air. The float ice under Kanter bucked with each blow.
The wide lake of the polynya had turned into a roiling and hellish pool. Fires burned onshore. The edges of the lake were shattered. Steam flowed into the snowy blizzard, masking and shrouding the bulk of the sinking submarine. It foundered in the lake, vertical in the water, only its nose visible—and even this was sinking rapidly.
Kanter spotted a pair of Russian sailors bob up in the lake, struggling to keep their heads above water. They wore orange float suits. Evacuees, attempting to escape. It did them no good. A depth charge landed a yard from them. It blew, casting their shattered and broken forms through the air to smash against both ice and their own boat.
There would be no escape.
Farther out, the Sikorsky helibus circled the hovering Seahawk. It had dropped the remaining team members and awaited further orders. Somewhere Delta One was organizing ground forces to retake the U.S. research base.
But Kanter’s attention remained on the polynya.
The majesty of the attack was breathtaking, a symphony of ice, fire, water, and smoke. He felt each explosion down to his bones, becoming a physical part of the attack himself.
Kanter had never been prouder than at this moment.
Then he spotted movement on the flank of the dying sub.
3:06 P.M.
ABOARD THE DRAKON
Mikovsky was strapped in a seat, as were most of the key bridge crew, trying to keep some semblance of order. Their boat was dead: compartments crushed, flooding everywhere, engines almost gone. Smoke choked through the bridge, making it difficult to think, to see. The explosions deafened them. The bridge crew wore emergency air-breathing masks, but such meager safety devices would not save them—only allow them one last act of revenge.