“Bring your planes up… full rise,” insisted Lozak. “We’re going deeper.”
“They are full, Captain. There’s too much water forward. We need to blow—”
“No way to blow anything… more speed,” he shouted into the speaker to engineering. Besides, how could you blow flooded compartments?
“You’ve got everything we can give you,” a hollow voice responded from engineering.
“I have everything,” murmured Lozak to himself. “I have nothing,” he added as he studied the depth gauge. They were falling more rapidly. He turned in Danilov’s direction. “We aren’t going to succeed. Admiral. They have way on… they’re pulling away. We can’t hold our depth… we…”
“I understand.” Danilov smiled back through sightless eyes. “Shh,” he added calmly, “I can hear her.” His finger was at his lips. “Shh…” His great head tilted to one side. “Good night, Anna, good night…” His voice became fainter until Lozak could no longer hear his words, though the lips continued to move.
Stevan Lozak experienced the first traces of loneliness. Admiral Danilov had transported himself elsewhere. Sergoff, who really wasn’t a bad sort, was dead. Of those men who managed to return to their stations, a few blindly remained at their posts. Others whimpered silently as the diving officer read off the depth every twenty-five meters.
Captain Lozak remained in his favorite position, one arm around the polished chrome stanchion near the periscope. He continued to study all the instruments until the hull burst in about him.
Andy Reed waited until sonar confirmed Seratov’s death before he gave the orders to surface in a nearby lead. Houston’s survivors needed them — and it was time to establish contact.
His action report to Washington was beamed off a communications satellite in plain language so that the Kremlin would receive it at the same time. There was no need for further loss of life. There had been a winner… and a loser. Washington and Moscow would surely want to discuss details in the next few hours.
Imperator could be jury-rigged by her crew so that she might continue her mission. It was safe now under the ice, and finally she could surface off Norway for the world to see.
Epilogue
ON THE TENTH day, Imperator surfaced in bright sunlight off Norway’s North Cape. Her arrival could have been recorded by satellite but the navy wouldn’t have it that way. The media had been flown out to gaze in awe at her power as her immense bulk broke the surface of a calm Barents Sea. Her injuries had been patched by a repair team parachuted to her near the pole. Imperator radiated a venerable lethality to those who looked down upon her from the skies.
The gull-wing doors were opened forward. One after another, her helicopters deployed with troops for exercises near Hammerfest. Tanks and field artillery were ferried ashore — and all of it was filmed for the world to see.
There was no reason to expect that the Russians would attempt to harm her. Agreement had already been reached — NATO observers were overseeing the complete withdrawal of all Soviet troops and equipment near the Norwegian border; American attack submarines had been recalled from a certain faceoff with the Soviet missile fleet; the government in Oslo had been assured that American marines would be airlifted out in forty-eight hours; both the United States and the Soviet Union had agreed to a series of meetings in Geneva, sponsored by the United Nations, to discuss withdrawal of military forces from the Arctic Ocean. Collectively, the world powers had condemned the Far North as a battlefield.
It was on the tenth day also that now-retired Admiral Sergei Gorshkov stopped by the Danilov apartment to pay his respects. There had been no parades for the loser, no state funeral, nothing made available to the general public that a great Soviet admiral had fought his last battle and in losing had perhaps saved his nation from a bitter defeat. The admiral found Anna Danilov sleeping peacefully forever. She was clutching a single red rose, the last one from the bouquet Abe had given her the night he left for Polyarnyy.
The We Eight was a good size, able to handle the entire Reed family comfortably. With just the three of them, each one could stretch out and enjoy the sun as the sailboat moved down Chesapeake Bay at a leisurely clip. There couldn’t have been a more perfect midsummer day for a sail.
From the moment they turned through the gates of the academy and headed toward the launch area, Hal Snow had experienced a warm feeling. The buildings, the roads, the statues, and then from the water the old landmarks. Tolly Point drifted off to starboard, then the beautiful old homes gradually faded in the distance as they moved down the bay. Snow closed his eyes and listened to the soft ruffle of the wind in the mainsail.
“Here, you take over the driving for a while,” Lucy Reed whispered, gently placing Snow’s arm over the tiller. “The old captain’s asleep,” she added, nodding at her husband, “and it’s time to break out the stores.”
There was no opportunity to refuse. Lucy had transferred the responsibility with an ease that sent a thrill through him. There was no need for her to add any other words. It was simply implied that since she had something else to do, and Andy was dozing, that Snow was perfectly competent to control the situation — she had total confidence in him. As she moved down the ladder into the tiny forward cabin, she turned back and winked.
At first he experimented. He loosened the line to the main sheet and let the sail swing farther out until it began to luff. Then he hauled in until the wind was as perfect as it could get. Gradually, he shifted the rudder, turning first to port until the sheet again luffed and the We Eight began to flatten out. When he pushed the tiller in the opposite direction, the sail again filled and the little craft began to heel. God, it felt good! We Eight was just under thirty feet, but Hal Snow was experiencing a sensation that he was afraid might have died weeks before under the arctic ice. He felt in control again!
A champagne cork popped in the cabin and Andy Reed stirred. He glanced over at Snow, smiled comfortably, and stretched. “I’m going below to give the chef a hand. You can hold this course if you like… or come about and head for Kent Island, We’re game for whatever you want to do.” And with that, he ducked below to help Lucy.
Snow grinned to himself. You’ve got the conn, old man. No sense in following a rhumb line on such a beautiful day. “Coming about,” he shouted happily.
Lucy’s lunch was superb, the crackling cold champagne so good that they downed a second bottle. Neither of the Reeds touched the tiller for the remainder of the day as Snow tacked back and forth across Chesapeake Bay. And when he brought the little craft alongside the pier that evening, the landing was perfect.
That night. Snow was effusive, dredging up many of their old memories, regaling them with stories that had magnified over the years, recalling old jokes. And over coffee, he offered simply, “I’m going to leave the navy Monday morning. I hate to… but it’s time.” He was free again. He’d sensed it on that first tack, known it as they docked.
“No need to,” Reed said.
“I know that. It’s just time.”
“When will you be back?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to call my kids. We have a lot of time to make up.”
“When you come back, there’s a job waiting here for you.” Reed’s stare was level and expressionless.