Still on the water’s surface, Kowalski gaped as a blue mountain of ice slammed into the channel. A moment ago, a series of muffled detonations had gone off, accompanied by spats of fire—then the world had closed in front of them, blocked by that bulldozing wall of ice.
Ahead of him, the iceberg thundered as its bulk splintered and crashed into the opposite side. A wave of water welled toward him, pushed by that frozen behemoth.
That was their signal.
And a big one at that.
All three dove, letting that wave crest over them. They were pulled by small sleds with electric motors.
Kowalski followed behind the other two men. Both were experienced polar divers. Renny led the way, driving deep toward the newly birthed iceberg.
With the sun shrouded by fog, the visibility sucked, but still the little light that did reach these depths cast the world in shades of aquamarine. Blue walls rose on both sides. Their undersides formed inverted mountains, scalloped and scribed with algae. Fronds waved in the current created by the explosive calving of the ice floe. Small fish darted in flashes of silver. Roils of shrimplike crustaceans sped in panicked schools.
But Kowalski had no time for sightseeing as he sped after the others.
The trio reached the berg as it churned heavily, spun leadenly. It appeared to be half the size of a football field. They dove under it, and the world darkened, occluded by that mass of ice. Once beneath it, Kowalski was rocked by its motion, like a cork in rough seas. His ears filled with its creaking, popping, and cracking.
Renny swept onward, aiming for its far side. He clicked on the small dive torch at the tip of his sled. Kowalski pursued that tiny star through the darkness. Finally, the waters brightened ahead. Mitchell slowed his board and lifted an arm, spinning slightly, like an astronaut in space. They were to pause here, wait for their target.
Kowalski drew to a stop with the others. His insulated dry suit covered him from crown to toe. But now, hanging in place, Kowalski shivered in the cold. He pictured his girlfriend, Maria, who was in the Congo at a gorilla reserve on a special project. He wished he was there with her. He tried to draw that African warmth to him. But all he kept picturing was a cold beer, sweating in the savannah heat.
That would be nice, too, right now.
Renny and Mitchell swam closer to him. Both had backgrounds in the Aussie Navy. They checked on his status, offering okay symbols with their free hands. He returned it, but without enthusiasm.
And for good reason.
He was far from okay.
They all heard the growing rumble of the approaching patrol boat. It steadily rose in volume. Kowalski felt it in his gut, thrumming across his chest. He stared past their dark shelter to the brighter water.
Time ticked away, marked by the pounding of his heart.
Finally, a massive shadow swept toward them, a thundercloud across blue skies. The engine’s timbre changed, slowing, dropping to a low roar, then subsiding further.
Kowalski pictured the boat’s captain studying this dam across his boat’s bow. The hope was that through the fog, with the charges buried deep into drill holes, no one on board would have noted the brief explosive flashes. Additionally, the blasts could easily be mistaken for the natural cracking and thunderous pops of unsettled ice left in the wake of thePolar King’s passage.
But at the moment,hopefelt like a feeble shield against the immensity of the task ahead. Still, Kowalski clung to it.
The boat’s diesel engines continued to rumble, gliding the vessel’s four-hundred-foot length the last of the way. Bow thrusters engaged, sounding like fire hoses at full blast, which helped steady the craft in the channel.
Renny chopped an arm toward the boat.
Time to go.
Kowalski secured his sled under him and twisted its throttle. They didn’t know how long the Russian captain would ponder this obstacle, to judge if his boat could nose this massive floe out of its way or not.
The answer came fast, with the thudding chatter of heavy guns.
Kowalski flinched as rounds pounded into the berg overhead, churned out by the turreted AK-176MA naval gun mounted at the boat’s bow. The Russians weren’t holding back, firing on full auto, more than a hundred rounds per minute, clearly planning on bandsawing the berg into pieces.
Still, twenty feet of ice was as tough as ballistic armor.
For now, it kept Kowalski and the others shielded.
They fled from the deafening barrage and set out from under the floe. Keeping together, they sped toward the deep shadow of the boat’s keel. Once there, Renny led them along the hull’s centerline. The bulkof the massive boat hung overhead, a great steel whale. As they continued, the bow thrusters finally subsided to either side.
Nearing the stern, the trio slowed to a crawl. Through the murk, lit by their dive torches, they made out the two propellers, positioned to the port and starboard sides. The pair still turned, but only slowly as the engines idled. The props’ blades were three meters long, curved like bronze scimitars.
