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Authors: Alistair MacLean

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BOOK: Ice Station Zebra
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      Nor had the Russians' efforts stopped there. Both they and the Americans had made several flights over the area with front-line long-range bombers. Through the deep overcast and driving ice- and snow-filled winds, those planes had criss-crossed the suspected area a hundred times searching with their fantastically accurate radar. But not one single radar sighting had been reported. Various reasons had been put forward to explain the failure, especially the failure of the Strategic Air Command's B52 bomber whose radar was known to be easily capable of picking out a hut against contrasting background from ten thousand feet and in pitch darkness. It had been suggested that the huts were no longer there: that the radar's eye was unable to distinguish between an ice-sheathed hut and the thousands of ice hummocks that dot the polar cap in winter: and that they had been searching in the wrong area in the first place. The most probable explanation was that the radar waves had been blurred and deflected by the dense clouds of ice spicules blowing over the area. Whatever the reason, Drift Ice Station Zebra remained as silent as if no life bad ever been there, as lost as if it had never existed.
      "There's no percentage in staying up here and getting frozen to death." Commander Swanson's voice was a half-shout, it had to be to make him heard. "If we're going under that ice, we might as well go now." He turned his back to the wind and stared out to the west where a big, broad-beamed trawler was rolling heavily and sluggishly in the seas less than a quarter of a mile away. The _Morning Star_, which had closed right up to the edge of the ice pack over the last two days, listening, waiting, and all in vain, was about to return to Hull: her fuel reserves were running low.
      "Send them this message," Swanson said to the seaman by his side. "'We are about to dive and proceed under the ice. We do not expect to emerge for minimum four days, are prepared to remain maximum fourteen.'" He turned to me and said, "If we can't find them in that time--" and left the sentence unfinished.
      I nodded, and he went on with the message: "'Many thanks for your splendid co-operation. Good luck and a safe trip home.'" As the signalman's lamp started chattering out its message, he said wonderingly, "Do those fishermen trawl up in the Arctic the entire winter?"
      "They do."
      "The whole winter. Fifteen minutes and I'm about dead. Just a bunch of decadent limeys, that's what they are." A lamp aboard the _Morning Star_ flickered for some seconds, and Swanson said, "What reply?"
      "Mind your heads under that ice. Good luck and goodby."
      "Everybody below," Swanson said. As the signalman began to strip the canvas dodger, I dropped down a ladder into a small compartment beneath, wriggled through a hatch and down a second ladder to the pressure hull of the submarine, another hatch, a third ladder, and then I was on the control deck of the _Dolphin_. Swanson and the signalman followed, then last of all Hansen, who had to close the two heavy water-tight doors above.
      Commander Swanson's diving technique would have proved a vast disappointment to those brought up on a diet of movie submarines. No frenzied activity, no tense, steely-eyed men hovering over controls, no dramatic calls of "Dive, dive, dive," no blaring of kiaxons. Swanson reached down a steel-spring microphone, said quietly, "This is the captain. We are about to move under the ice. Diving now," hung up and said: "Three hundred feet."
      The chief electronics technician leisurely checked the rows of lights indicating all hatches, surface openings, and valves closed to the sea. The disc lights were out: the slot lights burned brightly. Just as leisurely he rechecked them, glanced at Swanson and said, "Straight line shut, sir." Swanson nodded. Air hissed loudly out of the ballast tanks, and that was it. We were on our way. It was about as wildly exciting as watching a man push a wheelbarrow. And there was something oddly reassuring about it all.
      Ten minutes later Swanson came up to me. In the past two days I'd come to know Commander Swanson fairly well, like him a lot, and respect him tremendously. The crew had complete and implicit faith in him. I was beginning to have the same thing. He was a kindly, genial man with a vast knowledge of every aspect of submarining, a remarkable eye for detail, an even more remarkably acute mind and an imperturbability that remained absolute tinder all conditions. Hansen, his executive officer and clearly no respecter of persons, had said flatly that Swanson was the best submarine officer in the Navy. I hoped he was right; that was the kind of man I wanted around in conditions like these.
      "We're about to move under the ice now, Dr. Carpenter," he said. "How do you feel about it?"
      "I'd feel better if I could see where we were going."
      "We can see," he said. "We've got the best eyes in the world aboard the _Dolphin_. We've got eyes that look down, around, ahead, and straight up. Our downward eye is the fathometer, or echo-sounder, which tells us just how deep the water below our keel is and as we have about five thousand feet of water below our keel at this particular spot, we're hardly likely to bump into underwater projections and its use right now is purely a formality. But no responsible navigation officer would ever think of switching it off. We have two sonar eyes for looking around and ahead, one sweeping the ship, another searching out a fifteen-degree path on either side of the bow. Sees everything, hears everything. You drop a wrench on a warship twenty miles away and we know all about it. Fact. Again it seems purely a formality. The sonar is searching for underwater ice stalactites forced down by the pressure of rafted ice above, but in five trips under the ice and two to the Pole, I've never seen underwater stalactites or ridges deeper than two hundred feet, and we're at three hundred feet now. But we still keep them on."
      "You might bump into a whale?" I suggested.
      "We might bump into another submarine." He wasn't smiling. "And that would be the end of both of us. What with the Russian and our own nuclear submarines busy crisscrossing to and fro across the top of the world, the underside of the polar ice cap is getting more like Times Square every day."
      "But surely the chances--"
      "What are the chances of mid-air collision to the only two iiruaft occupying ten thousand square miles of sky? On paper, they don't exist. There have been three such collisions this year already. So we keep the sonar pinging. But the really important eye, when you're under the ice, is the one that looks up. Come and have a look at it."
      He led the way to the after-starboard end of the control room, where Dr. Benson and another man were busy studying a glassed-in eye-level machine that outwardly consisted of a seven-inch-wide moving ribbon of paper and an inked stylus that was tracing a narrow, straight black line along it. Benson was engrossed in adjusting some of the calibrated controls.
      "The surface fathometer," Swanson said. "Better known as the ice machine. It's not really Dr. Benson's machine at all, we have two trained operators aboard, but as we see no way of separating him from it without actually courtmartialing him, we take the easy way out and let him be." Benson grinned, but his eye didn't leave the line traced out by the stylus. "Same principle as the echo-sounding machine: it just bounces an echo back from the ice--when there is any. That thin black line you see means open water above. When we move under the ice, the stylus has an added vertical motion which not only indicates the presence of ice but also gives us its thickness."
      "Ingenious," I said.
      "It's more than that. Under the ice it can be life or death for the _Dolphin_. It certainly means life or death for Drift Station Zebra. If we ever get its position, we can't reach it until we break through the ice, and this is the only machine that can tell us where the ice is thinnest."
      "No open water at this time of year? No leads?"
      "'Polynyas,' we call them. None. Mind you, the ice pack is never static, not even in winter, and surface-pressure changes can very occasionally tear the ice apart and expose open water. With air temperatures such as you get in winter, you can guess how long the open water stays in a liquid condition. There's a skin of ice on it in five minutes, as inch in an hour, and a foot inside two days. If we ge to one of those frozen-over polynyas inside, say, three days we've got a fair chance of breaking through."
      "With the conning tower?"
      "That's it. The sail. All new nuclear subs have specially strengthened sails designed for one purpose only: breaking through Arctic ice. Even so we have to go pretty gently as the shock, of course, is transmitted to the pressure hull."
      I thought about this for a moment and then said, "What happens to the pressure hull if you come up too fast--as I understand may happen with a sudden change in salinity and sea temperature--and you find out at the last minute that you've drifted away from the indicated area of thin ice and have ten solid feet of the stuff above you?"
      "That's it," he said. "Like you say, it's the last minute. Don't even think about such things, much less talk about them: I can't afford to have nightmares on this job." I looked at him closely, but he wasn't smiling any more. He lowered his voice. "I don't honestly think that there is one member of the crew of the _Dolphin_ who doesn't get a little bit scared when we move in under the ice. I know I do. I think this is the finest ship in the world, Dr. Carpenter, but there are still a hundred things that can go wrong with it, and if anything happens to the reactor or the steam turbines or the electrical generators, then we're already in our coffin and the lid screwed down. The ice pack above is the coffin lid. In the open sea, most of those things don't matter a damn: we just surface or go to snorkel depth and proceed on our diesels. But for diesels you need air-- and there's no air under the ice pack. So if anything hap. pens we either find a polynya to surface in, one chance in ten thousand at this time of year, before our standby battery gives Out, or. . . well, that's it."
      "This is all very encouraging," I said.
      "Isn't it?" He smiled, none too soon for me. "It'll never happen. What's the worthy Benson making all the racket about?"
      "Here it is," Benson called. "The first drift block. And another. And another! Come and have a look, Doctor."
      I had a look. The stylus, making a faint, soft hissing sound, was no longer tracing out a continuously horizontal line, but was moving rapidly up and down across the paper, tracing out the outline of the block of ice passing astern above us. Another thin, straight line, more agitated vertical movements of the stylus, and again another block of ice had gone. Even as I watched, the number of thin, horizontal lines became fewer and fewer and shorter and shorter until eventually they disappeared altogether.
      "That's it, then," Swanson nodded. "We'll take her deep now, real deep, and open up all the stops."
      When Commander Swanson had said he was going to hurry, he'd meant every word of it. In the early hours of the following morning I was awakened from a deep sleep by a heavy hand on my shoulder. I opened my eyes, blinked against the glare of the overhead light, then saw Lieutenant Hansen.
      "Sorry about the beauty sleep, Doc," he said cheerfully. "But this is it."
      "This is what?" I said irritably.
      "85° 35' north, 21 °20' east--the last estimated position of Drift Station Zebra. At least, the last estimated position with estimated correction for polar drift."
      "Already?" I glanced at my watch, not believing it. "We're there already?"
      "We have not," Hansen said modestly, "been idling. The skipper suggests you come along and watch us at work."
      "I'll be right with you." When and if the _Dolphin_ managed to break through the ice and began to try her one-in-amillion chance of contacting Drift Station Zebra, I wanted to be there.
      We left Hansen's cabin and had almost reached the control room when I lurched, staggered, and would have fallen but for a quick grab at a hand rail that ran along one side of the passageway. I hung on grimly as the _Dolphin_ banked violently sideways and around like a fighter plane in a tight turn. In my experience, no submarine had ever been able to begin to behave even remotely in that fashion. I understood now the reasons for the safety belts on the diving-control seats.
      "What the hell's up?" I said to Hansen. "Avoiding some underwater obstruction ahead?"
      "Must be a possible polynya. Some place where the ice is thin, anyway. As soon as we spot a possible like that, we come around like a dog chasing its own tail, just so we don't miss it. It makes us very popular with the crew, especially when they're drinking coffee or soup."
      We went into the control room. Commander Swanson, flanked by the navigator and another man, was bent over the plotting table, examining something intently. Farther aft, a man at the surface fathometer was reading out ice-thickness figures in a quiet, unemotional voice. Commander Swanson looked up from the chart.
      "Morning, Doctor. John, I think we may have something here."
      Hansen crossed to the plot and peered at it. There didn't seem to be much to peer at--a tiny pinpoint of light shining through the glass top of the plot and a squared sheet of chart paper marked by a most unseamanlike series of wavering black lines traced out by a man with a pencil following the track of the tiny moving light. There were three red crosses superimposed on the paper, two very close together, and just as Hansen was examining the paper the crewman manning the ice machine--Dr. Benson's enthusiasm for his toy did not, it appeared, extend to the middle of the night-- called out "'Marl!" Immediately the black pencil was exchanged for a red and a fourth cross made.
      "'Think' and 'may' are just about right, Captain," Hansen said. "It looks awfully narrow to me."
      "It looks the same way to me, too," Swanson, admitted. "But it's the first break in the heavy ice that we've had in an hour, almost. And the further north we go, the poorer our chances. Let's give it a try. Speed?"
      "One knot," Raeburn said.
      "All back one third," Swanson said. No sharp imperatives, not ever, in the way Swanson gave his orders, more a quiet and conversational suggestion, but there was no mistaking the speed with which one of the crewmen strapped into the diving-stand bucket seat leaned forward to telegraph the order to the engine room. "Left full rudder."

BOOK: Ice Station Zebra
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