Robert Williams - Ice Fortress

Ketov knew his torpedoes had been lured of course by whatever decoys or countermeasures deployed by the American submarine. But that was almost expected in an age in which defense technology was constantly evolving in response to the weapons being produced by the major powers. That didn’t bother him. What did pique his curiosity was the response of the foolish Americans. Not only did they not return fire, the Kazan’s computers showed that the American submarine didn’t even lock a firing solution onto them. They simply went silent, turned and ran. Sonar hadn’t even detected the sound of their torpedo doors opening in anticipation of an engagement.

Hardly the response of an enemy planting intelligence gathering technology all over the Antarctic. The entire exchange was not aligning with the intelligence or the orders that had been transmitted to him.

Submarine commanders were granted considerably more operational latitude than their land or air counterparts simply because they were out of radio contact with their admirals during their patrols. Ketov chose to follow his instincts the minute his deadly Futlyar torpedoes were lured off target by the countermeasures. He resolved to find out what the American submarine was really doing in the region and why it had disappeared into the ice mountain.

“Fools,” he muttered again, shaking his head. They had no idea the Kazan had been following in their baffles, silently shadowing them. Patiently waiting.

If the report he had received from his sonar officer was to be trusted, things could start getting very interesting.

Gunfire and explosions.

Again, not activities suggesting the stealthy and underhanded planting of spy equipment.

What were those American cowboys doing up there?

“You can stay here, but I can’t. My mission is to secure that U-Boat.” Jack addressed the others then turned to Sam, “You’re with me, like it or not.”

“Not,” Sam countered.

Jack shot him a look that made it clear now wasn’t the best time to argue.

“The rest of you are probably better off in here, waiting for PACOM to send help.”

Jameson looked concerned. “You don’t even know what the layout is out there. We barely had time for a quick reconnaissance when you, well… arrived on the scene so explosively. You don’t know how many men they have or how well armed they are.”

“Lots and very,” Jack quipped.

Jameson’s eyes pinched at the corners in confusion.

“Lots of men and very well armed.”

A puzzled look came over Leah’s face. “I’m confused.”

“About which part? Staying here in the sub out of the line of fire, or going out there to face automatic weapons or the fact that he just seems to attract gunfire wherever he goes or the fact that we’ve been ordered to protect a Nazi U-Boat,” Sam scoffed.

“No, about you. Isn’t your name Sam?”

Sam nodded.

“So why do you call him ‘Bluey’?”

Jack thought he saw Leah’s icy exterior thaw a little. She’d seemed a bit cold ever since the time machine discussion and more so after the shooting started, which was understandable. Perhaps her attempt at humor was a way of dealing with the stress.

“Don’t get him started,” Sam snapped harshly.

“You couldn’t wait to get topside a few minutes ago,” Jack pointed out to Sam.

“That’s when I thought our guys were still alive up there.”

“Wait… are you saying they’re not?” Jameson looked gravely between Jack and Sam.

“It’s highly likely they were taken out with that first round of automatic fire we heard. They weren’t warning shots, that’s for sure. It went on for too long.”

“But they weren’t even armed…” Jameson was too distressed to continue.

“These guys aren’t playing fair. Not by a long shot.” Jack placed a reassuring hand on the captain’s shoulder. “But I can tell you this, I’ll make sure they pay. That’s what I do and I’m damn good at it.” An ominous and forbidding tone fortified his words.

“ Alert One !”

“ Alert One !”

“ Alert One !”

The message blasted through the entire submarine over the 1MC address circuit, buzzing with urgency. Although the crew of the USS Indiana were certain that this Emergency Action Message would be just another update on the situation in North Korea, pulses quickened at the EAM announcement. That was what life aboard a submarine primed to launch nuclear missiles at a moment’s notice was all about.

Until the message was decoded, adrenaline would run high, but each crew member would continue to maintain their watch station. Only a confirmed strike order would escalate the condition to Battle Stations Missile and then all hell would break loose as the missile launch crew prepared for launch. Even if it was only a WSRT.

Sometimes a surprise Weapons System Readiness Test was a welcome break from the monotony of months at sea, but that was as real as it ever got aboard the Indiana .

Commander Tom Ryan stood silently and waited for his officers, working as a pair, to retrieve, decode and authenticate the message without any outward show of emotion.

The Executive Office, Jackson Merrill, a silent, pensive man with a world weary face entered the control room bearing the code book he’d taken from the safe in the comms room. Lieutenant Walsh, a younger and less cynical officer, trailed behind brandishing the EAM he’d torn from the radio room printer as he passed. The pair would use the code book to decrypt the message.

The eyes of all watchstanders in the control room were fixed on the pair as they poured over the code book and EAM, translating it character by character, with Walsh writing the decoded message below the encryption.

The Lieutenant’s hands trembled uncontrollably as he read the transmission. The XO snatched it testily from the hands of the young officer, his only reaction, a sharp intake of breath as he absorbed the contents and implication of the Strike Order he held in his hands.

Now he too was trembling.

The EAM would put the boat into Battle Stations Missile and could thrust them in the center of an all-out nuclear conflict.

The message had to be authenticated before handing it to the commander.

The XO moved to the Control Room safe, spun the tumblers and opened the outer door. Lieutenant Walsh then proceeded to dial in the combination of the inner door and unlocked it before moving aside so that the XO, Merrill could extract the small plastic authenticator packet.

Snapping open the brittle plastic case of the packet, the XO ripped out the laminated authenticator card and began to read aloud the authentication sequence.

“Whisky-Tango-Juliet-Delta-Six-Zulu-Alpha-Bravo.”

“Sir, I concur. Whisky-Tango-Juliet-Delta-Six-Zulu-Alpha-Bravo” repeated the Lieutenant.

The XO turned to the commander. “Sir, we have properly formatted and authenticated EAM. It’s a Nuclear Strike Order, sir. No additional information.”

The silence that filled the confines of the crowded Control Room was like a weight crushing down on all of them. So quiet that even the normally inaudible whir of the many electronics systems cooling fans in the compartment could now be heard quite clearly.