Knowing they dared not wait, Renny and Mitchell split off. Each glided toward one of the props. Kowalski stayed put, maintaining his role as back-up. He lifted a hand to the ordnance strapped at his chest. The bombs were equipped with Mag-Lok hooks for securing them in place, and timers set for five minutes.
Renny reached his side first. He looked like a sparrow hovering before a huge fan. The diver’s neck craned as he studied his target.
Earlier, Captain Kelly had explained that it was not uncommon for an icebreaker to damage or break a propeller. It required divers to repair them regularly, like these two. The weakest spot was where the shaft met those blades.
Renny planted his ordnance package where it would do the most damage, magnetically locking it in place. He stared over at Mitchell, waiting for his partner to do the same. Finally, the other succeeded and gave a thumbs-up. Both engaged their bombs’ timers, yanked their sleds up from where they hung on straps, and sped back toward Kowalski.
Again, Renny was faster, clearly the more experienced.
Mitchell lagged behind, struggling with his sled.
Something was wrong.
And then got immediately worse.
The propellers spun up, churning through the water, first slowly, then faster. Mitchell jerked a glance behind him, then back again, fighting his sled.
Renny failed to note his partner’s distress, concentrating on his flight away from the stern. The tidal pull of the turning screw caught Mitchell. He got his sled sputtering, but its small, foundering motor was no match against the giant diesel overhead.
Mitchell thrashed, momentarily holding his place, but it was a losing battle.
Kowalski swore, already working quickly, blindly. Then he ducked his head, twisted his sled’s throttle, and sped past Renny—who finally recognized something was wrong and fumbled into a turn.
Kowalski rushed to Mitchell, who had begun to draft back toward the starboard propeller. Once there, Kowalski spun, somersaulting to reverse his position. He kept hold of his sled with one hand and yanked Mitchell over to him. The panicked man abandoned his dying sled and snatched on to Kowalski’s belt.
Better hold tight.
Kowalski reached to his shoulder and flung his ordnance package behind him, toward the propeller. He had already flipped the timer from five minutes to fiveseconds.
This is going to hurt.
With two men on one sled, they could not fight the suction.
Then the world exploded behind them.
The concussion crushed his lungs, popped both ears, spurted blood from his nostrils. He got tossed forward by the blast, momentarily spinning. He managed to keep hold of his sled. Mitchell got thrown off.
Tens meters farther on, Renny was less affected by the explosion. He rushed in and recaptured his dazed partner. Kowalski got his sled under him, and they fled back toward the ship’s bow. Behind them, the starboard propeller still spun, crookedly, and with only one blade.
Luckily, the charges that Kowalski had crafted were not that powerful. They were meant as sabotage, to break joints, not sink a ship.
Still, his head would be ringing for days.
They raced along the hull of the patrol boat. The muffled barrage of the bow gun continued nonstop. Hopefully with all that noise, no one aboard had noted the smaller blast at the stern—or at least, not yet.
Kowalski and the others needed to be gone before that happened.
As they reached the front of the boat, the reason for the engagement of the propellers became evident. The massive naval guns had already chewed a deep gully through the massive floe. The boat had been moving forward to continue that trenching.
Kowalski stared ahead.
Above him, the huge gun chugged away. Its heavy rounds shattered both into the ice and through the water. White cavitating streaks shot across the dark blue, creating a deadly gauntlet.
Renny cast him a worried look, but they had no choice but to risk it.
Kowalski returned a nod, and they sped away. Burdened by Mitchell hanging on his belt, Renny fell behind. Kowalski tried to aim away from where the gun ate at the berg, but as the weapon strafed, rounds still sped around him, marked by collapsing pops of their passage. Still, he made it safely under the iceberg.
He raced another few meters, then twisted around.
