Roger Crossland - Red Ice

I favored this kayak technique over a lockout. One advantage to wet-deck launches was they could begin farther offshore and allow the sub to stay in deeper, safer water. Another advantage was that kayakers were less susceptible to currents and cold-water immersion. On the other hand, submariners like wet-deck launches as much as a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

Later that evening I drifted up to the conning tower for some fresh air. A freak front of warm air gave the waters approaching the La Pérouse Straits a singular appearance. The sky was clear and the stars bright, but a thin two- or three-foot blanket of fog covered the sea and concealed the deck of the submarine. The conning tower floated above it like a disembodied bandstand. Here and there the underlying ocean boiled through and then disappeared as quickly as it appeared.

Occasionally a small cake of ice appeared in these glimpses of ocean. I wondered idly if in time these cakes would grow or melt.

For no reason I could think of, the expression “a snowball’s chance in hell” came to mind. The expression was all wrong. A snowball had a very good chance—in a frigid hell like this. Whoever first portrayed hell as full of fire and brimstone must have taken the quick tour run by the Chamber of Commerce. Surely he had not been shown some of the more esoteric variations and did not know the true agony of severe cold… the way a frogman did.

Someone had once described the frogman’s place in hell to me. The description involved that wizened old man, Charon, whose ferry plied the waters of the Styx carrying new arrivals to hell, or more properly, Hades. The surviving mythology has been vague as to the propulsion of Charon’s craft, and understandably so. Few would grasp its poetic justice. Charon’s ferry wasn’t poled, rowed, sailed, motored, or drawn by some clever pulley arrangement across the inky Styx. Such efficient methods—by above-ground standards—were worthless squanderings of resources in this strange underground world with a surfeit of labor… and time.

No, Charon’s ferry did not trifle with the conventional methods of its above-ground brothers who labored in the light of the sun. Instead, before it, harnessed in buddy pairs that stretched off into the low-lying fog where hot air met cold water, swam combat swimmers doomed to course the ice-water currents of the Styx for eternity.

In the lead traces stroked the swimmers used by Alexander to attack Tyre. Next came Beowulf and Breca, who had each fought bloody swimming battles of epic proportions. They were followed by an assortment of frogmen—French Nageurs de Combat, Italian Incusori, German Kampfschwimmers, British Royal Marines and Clearance Divers, Norwegian Marinejaegers, Japanese Fukuryu, and the older Ninja—all these warriors strained in their harnesses as clouds of vapor steamed from their mouths and nostrils. No pining, graceful Leanders here, but bruising, powerful hulks with the glazed look of the near drowned. Their common sin had been to turn a harmless pastime into a lethal occupation. And so, the punishment was made to fit the crime.

A fiendish joke caused a strange reverse evolution to work on them. They now shared a single physical trait; each had webbed feet. Among the living they had left the land to fight in or below the sea. Now their degeneration was complete and they could never again live normally on land. Their reverse evolution had stopped at this point, however. They could not develop thicker skins, and so the icy water kept them in neck-tensing discomfort just short of numbness. Their swimming would continue as long as there were doomed souls to transport from the world above. Simply, in Charon’s traces there can be no rest or peace.

The La Pérouse Straits, like the Nemuro Straits, were shared by Japan and Russia. Commander Cho had told me that he suspected that Russian sonar modules dotted the straits. These devices served to detect ships and submarines entering the Sea of Okhotsk.

As we approached the straits, he submerged the sub and shadowed an old merchant steamer closely. The resulting irregular sonar signature, he hoped, would confuse the Soviet sonar men. He banked on the fact that the shallow water of the straits, where such devices were notoriously unreliable, would cause watch standers to ignore confusing signals. Where confusion set in, any explanation, such as shallow water distortion, would be readily accepted. Anyway, the steamer was easily visible and obviously harmless.

Twice after we passed through the straits, the sub’s klaxon sounded, sending the boat’s crew once more to emergency diving stations. We were now snorkeling only at night and chugging along submerged at a feeble six knots. Sometimes during the long submerged periods, the air grew so foul, members of the crew couldn’t keep their cigarettes lit. Condensation within the hull left everything soggy and lifeless.

One evening, Chamonix whisked by me in a passageway. “We’re in Ivan’s backyard now,” the legionnaire pronounced somberly. “No turning back from here on out. God have mercy.”

The night of the launch arrived at last. Mid-March in Siberia—it could have been worse. I had trouble visualizing how.

I kissed Keiko good-bye in the stateroom. Those big liquid black eyes held me immobile for a moment. The distance between us remained. In view of my slim chances of returning, perhaps this was the best way. I closed the stateroom door carefully. Dravit would watch out for her. “Come back,” had been all she said.

I moved down the darkened passageway and took my place below the after hatch with my eight dry-suited men and a detail of Korean sailors. We crouched on our watertight bundles and waited for the signal that would send us topside for the launch. The meager red lights played lightly across pale faces with the faint sheen of tension.

The ship’s head was getting a good deal of traffic. No matter how you tried to tough it out, your body always betrayed you.

Gurung came back from a trip down the ladder glistening with sweat. He collapsed on one bundle and I caught the odor of vomit. The boat was caught in a series of slow, hesitating rolls. The wave action and the mental strain had combined to make him seasick.

The Gurkha was hard and steadfast. He never groused, and grousing was to be expected. I often sensed he did not always understand all that was going on around him, and yet that did not seem to bother him. From time to time I’d pull him aside and quiz him. His responses indicated he fully comprehended all of the military aspects of our project. In essence, he functioned on an intuitive level. He sensed where to focus his attention during each evolution and in whom to place his trust. You couldn’t help but admire our steady Nepalese hill man. He was like one of those epic warriors who were always wandering into mythical lands where the earthly rules did not apply. They invariably prevailed by courage and determination alone. Submarines were as far as you could get from the peaks of the Himalayas, and you could tell he was proud of his stoic ability to trudge into the fantastic and unknown.

Chief Puckins gagged. Then the freckled Texan hiccuped. He hiccuped again. And again. And again. Everyone’s eyes were on Puckins.

He hiccuped loudly and something white and round popped from his mouth. As he wiped the front of his face with a towel, the object bounced to the floor. He closed his mouth and with a hiccup another white object became visible. He wiped his mouth again.

“Wass going on?” Alvarez said with a befuddled look. The husky Cuban picked up the white object and examined it hesitantly. You had to be very careful these days. Alvarez was the group’s skeptic.