The Zoryas

The S.S. Severnny Polyus pushes steadily through the newly fractured pack ice north of the Franz Josef Land Archipelago. The powerful xenon searchlights mounted on the bridge carve pale corridors through the polar night, their beams diffusing into the drifting snow and low Arctic haze.

From the bow, the world is a shifting geometry of ice and darkness. Massive slabs of white and blue sea ice — some rising two or three meters above the surface — buckle and split under the Polyus’s reinforced hull. The ship forces the broken pieces downward and aside, grinding them into the black water. Behind the icebreaker, a long ribbon of open sea trails in its wake, dark as ink and rimmed with vapor where the frigid air meets the comparatively warmer water. Within minutes, the lead begins to skin over with new ice: first a sheen of grease, then thin nilas spreading like a fragile membrane across the surface.

The Severnny Polyus had been recalled from a training rotation to assist a tanker trapped in heavy ice five hours to the southeast.

As the Polyus pulls away from Franz Josef Land, the islands fade into the darkness behind it — flat‑topped, ghostly white mesas rising from a monolithic plain of ice. Glaciers spill into the frozen sea, merging seamlessly with the pack ice until land and ocean become indistinguishable. In the polar night, the horizon is not a line but an idea.

But the Arctic Ocean does not believe in sleeping men.

Able Seaman Nikolay Kochetkov had spent the first hours of the rotation training the foreign correspondents on board. He was their assigned nastavnik — their instructor — and he took the responsibility seriously. Their lives depended on him.

“You must be attentive. Pay close attention.”

He spoke in English, shaped by a heavy Russian cadence. His face was kind, but the rhythm of his voice carried a different message: mistakes here had consequences.

“The ship will give short blasts. That is the general alarm — telling you to listen.”

He turned his head deliberately, meeting each journalist’s eyes.

“Then you will hear, in Russian: Obshchaya trevoga! Ostavit’ sudno! It means: General Alarm. Abandon Ship.”

The words hit Ms. Hartwell and Ms. Marchand like a blast of Arctic air. Their eyes widened; a small, synchronized gasp escaped them. Richard Hardenburg kept a steady expression — he already understood that this expedition involved real risk.

“What should we do? Run to the decks?” Richard interrupted.

“Mr. Hardenburg,” Kochetkov said, raising a hand, “do not run ahead of steam locomotive. First things first. After the announcement, there will be no English, French, or German translation. There is no time. So…”

He paused, letting the silence settle. Then he pressed his thumb and index finger together to form a circle, lifted both arms like a conductor preparing a choir, and said:

“Repeat after me: Obshchaya trevoga! Ostavit’ sudno!”

The three journalists stared at him, astonished.

“Davay, davay! Repeat: Obshchaya trevoga! Ostavit’ sudno!”

“Obshchaya trevoga! Ostavit’ sudno!” they echoed, awkward and out of sync.

“Again. Say it: Obshchaya trevoga! Ostavit’ sudno!  

Davayte! Repeat!”

“Obshchaya trevoga! Ostavit’ sudno!”

This time their voices carried more confidence, their bodies swaying slightly as if following his conducting.

“Again!”

“Obshchaya trevoga! Ostavit’ sudno!”

“I will write it in Russian and English and pin it to that corkboard,” Kochetkov said, pointing to the yellowed board on the wall of the journalists’ quarters.

“Now,” he added, “I will teach you how to put on the immersion suit.”

Activity on the bridge had grown more intense than usual. A military convoy had been spotted ahead, its silhouettes emerging faintly through the drifting snow. The officers stood still for a moment, scanning the short‑range darkness with their binoculars, the blizzard reducing visibility to only a few cables.

A sharp click sounded over the bridge speakers, followed by a voice:

“Captain of the S.S. Severnny Polyus, this is Captain Ivan Basistiy of the Admiral Sergey Gorshkov. Prepare to take position. Welcome to the convoy.”

The transmission ended as abruptly as it began.

“Captain, matching the convoy’s speed,” the first officer reported. “Temperature minus twenty‑five Celsius, blizzard conditions, visibility four cables.” He issued the final instructions to the sailors, guiding the Polyus into formation with the warships ahead.

“Thank you, Sergei,” Captain Makarov said. He lifted the microphone and addressed the ship.

“It is seventeen hundred hours. All personnel not on duty, proceed to the mess hall. Enjoy your meal.”

The mess hall was warm and insulated. It felt like a protective mother, ready to nourish her children after interminable hours hacking through the frigid Arctic night. There were no mechanic overalls or nuclear counters here; the patrons showed the calm uniformity of civilian attire.

“May I join your table?” asked Captain Leonov with a smile, placing a hand on the back of a chair.

“Of course,” responded Dr. Marino, gesturing politely for him to sit. Soon after, Richard arrived.

“Richard,” Leonov greeted with a gentle bow of the head.

“Captain Leonov.”

“Is this the Canadian table?”

“No, no!” Marino and Richard answered at once.

“Professor Ruderburg always comes late from the lab, but we are usually joined by—” Marino glanced to the side. “And Margaret and Clair always come.”

“Ms. Hartwell. Ms. Marchand,” Captain Leonov said, rising slightly from his chair in greeting.

“Captain.”

The table was rectangular, unlike the round tables used by the officers. Both were covered with impeccable linen cloths — white as the Arctic. Women with rosy cheeks and strong arms, mother’s arms, carried out white plates with a large meat patty, barley, and a red‑cabbage salad made with mayonnaise and cucumber pickles. It felt like a Sunday meal.

“Vashi golubtsy so smetanoy, kapitan,” said one of the women with a smile as she placed Captain Leonov’s steaming dish in front of him.

“Spasibo, vkusneye, chem u moyey mamy!” Leonov exclaimed.

“Poshol k chortu!” she replied with a grin, giving his shoulder a gentle slap before walking away.

“That looks great! Can we eat the same?” asked Margaret.

“It must be a secret menu,” Marino added, and everyone laughed.

“Yes!” clarified Captain Leonov. “Do you see those big serving bowls? Those are cabbage rolls — the same as this.” He pointed at his plate. “But she makes these especially for me. These are mine.”

“Captain Leonov,” Clair said, resting her right hand on the edge of the table, fork in hand. “How did you get started in the navy?”

Everyone lifted their eyes from their plates and looked at Leonov. For a moment, time was still, broken only when he spoke.

“In antiquity, the Greeks said…” He paused to wipe his mouth with a cloth serviette. “There are three kinds of people: the living, the dead, and those at sea.”

“Anacharsis…” Margaret Hartwell interjected softly.

“Exactly!” Leonov affirmed, tapping his spoon. “I wanted to be a cosmonaut, but…”

He gathered his thoughts. For a fraction of a second, his mind drifted to the shores of the Aldan River, in the Yakut settlement of Dzhebariki‑Khaya, where his father had been stationed as a Soviet coal engineer. He could see the big steamers transporting goods and passengers. He had fallen in love.

Leonov was about to continue when a sailor burst into the mess hall, scanning the room with urgency. He approached the table and whispered into the captain’s ear. Leonov nodded.

“I apologize. Duty calls. Some other time, perhaps,” he said, rising quickly and leaving with purpose.

"Captain Leonov on the bridge, sir," the first officer announced. Everyone on the bridge turned anxiously toward Leonov as he entered.

"Report," Leonov ordered.

"Captain Leonov, the North Star is not at the expected location," Captain Makarov reported, lowering his binoculars.

"Any emergency vehicles on the ice?"

"No, sir. We think it was never here." the bridge fell silent.

"We have been lured away!" Leonov said.  

"Captain Makarov, I am sorry it has come to this. I am relieving you, and taking command as per Northern Fleet and Atomflot conjoined Article Fifty, approved by the Ministry of Defense." Makarov's face went visibly pale, even under the green glow of the bridge instruments.

"Report to your office, and await further orders. Make a general warning announcement" Captain Leonov added, then turned to the first officer. "Unlock the green box and deploy its satellite antenna."

"Aye, captain."

On the Polyus PA, the announcement came fast after a distinct set of chimes: "Vnimanie, vnimanie, this is Kapitan Makarov speaking. This is not a drill. Remain at your stations; those of you off duty, return to your quarters. Review your evacuation schedule. Off."

On the bridge, Leonov addressed the convoy: "This is Captain Anatoly Leonov taking command of Admiral Grigory Potemkin."

"Captain Leonov, Captain Kolchak from Admiral Fyodor Fyodorovich Ushakov is on coms. It is urgent."

"Leonov."

"Captain, we have two aerial vehicles approaching. I do not have them on the schedule."

"What is their position?"

"They are ten kilometers behind and seem to be following the wake."

"They are in range. Engage them, and destroy them. I assume responsibility." Leonov turned to the second officer.

"Second officer, transmit on the Morse lamp: Right standard rudder, steady on course two-seven-zero, stop, relay."

"Right standard rudder, steady on course two-seven-zero, stop, relay. Aye, captain."

On the bridge, all officers stood rigid, binoculars pressed to their faces as they looked into the immensity of the night.

"Second officer, transmit on the Morse lamp: Initiating the Zorya, operational quadrant at seventeen-hundred by forty-five. Stop, relay."

"Initiating the Zorya, operational quadrant at seventeen-hundred by forty-five. Stop, relay. Aye, captain."

"Captain, the entire Arctic region will lose communications!" the first officer pushed back, a sense of alarm ending into his voice.

"The enemy will lose it too, first officer." 

Captain Leonov leaned over the green‑cased terminal. Cyrillic text flickered across the screen: Priobretenie… uplink… Zorya priobretena.  

He checked his wristwatch.

“Deploying Zorya. Execute.”

The terminal responded at once: Instruction loaded. Executing.

In Valkaria, General Vladimir Antonenko was in charge of the Sword Strike Battalion, the VSSB, head quartered in an undisclosed location in the region of Krakivdonar.

“General, we’ve lost contact with the delivery vehicle and with the Admiral Potemkin,” the operator said, eyes fixed on the monitors.

"A malfunction?"

"No, general." The officer measured his words. "The entire Arctic circle has lost communications."

"How widespread is the problem? Would a solar flare cause this anomaly?"

“Unlikely, sir. A solar flare would affect an entire hemisphere. This blackout is confined to the Arctic.”

"Have we lost the delivery platforms?"

"Not sure, however..." the operative made a pause while examining the screens. He continues "They’re designed to switch to internal navigation. Less reliable — but it’s all we have."

"General, the president is on the line."

"Mr. President."

"I have been informed we've lost contact with the Potemkin..." The line went quiet. Antonenko could hear the president’s anxious breathing — faint, but unmistakable. The success of the mission rested on his shoulders.

“We have, sir,” Antonenko said. “But the mission continues. We are in pursuit.”

“Keep me informed.”

The line went dead.

"General, once communications fail, the delivery platforms will release the autonomous vehicles. They’ll follow the wake to the target."

The bridge of the Admiral Fyodor Fyodorovich Ushakov lay in dim white‑blue lighting. Captain Kolchak stood at the center console, his posture rigid.

“Battle stations,” he ordered.

The Boyevaya Trevoga erupted through the ship — harsh, metallic, relentless — its clanging echoing down steel corridors like a hammer striking the hull.

"Communications" 

"We are under Zorya Captain."

"Radar."

"Operational."

" Aerial?"

"Two aerial vehicles, approaching. Four nautical miles."

Kolchak’s jaw tightened. "First officer. Aerial defense."

"Missiles ready... targets acquired."

"Execute."

"Execute. Aye, Captain."

From the deck of the Ushakov, two flaming arrows tore upward into the night almost in perfect synchronization. Their screeching ascent lit the bridge in a sudden orange flare, stretching long shadows across the officers’ faces before vanishing into the dark. Outside, the unnatural glow washed over the Arctic, revealing the torn wound in the ice where the convoy had passed.

Two explosions burst in the sky, twin stars ripping open the blackness.

“We got them—”

“Captain,” the sensor officer called out, “two vehicles on the water — approaching fast, following the wake.”

Binoculars snapped toward the fading light of the explosions, searching the dark channel behind the convoy.

“Open fire with everything we have,” Kolchak ordered.

“Aye, Captain.”

“Full ahead! Full left rudder!”

“Full ahead. Full left rudder, aye, captain.”

The turbines screamed as the Ushakov lunged forward. The bow swung hard to port, the stern dragging behind it, the whole ship pivoting sideways until its hull wedged across the narrow ice channel, blocking it completely.

A shudder ran through the vessel as ice cracked along the starboard plating. Tracer fire rained over the water. Searchlights swept the wake. Then — two explosions. A sonic boom rolled across the Arctic. A fireball rose from the starboard side, shards of burning metal flung into the air.

“Damage report!” Captain Kolchak shouted.

S.S. Severnny Polyus

Leonov