Ice Station Nautilus (17 page)

Raila’s cell phone vibrated. He answered and received the news he’d been awaiting. They had located the American submarine. Camp Barneo would be established one kilometer away from the new American base camp, and the AN-74s would be taking off within the hour, followed by the AN-124s once Raila’s equipment was loaded. The AN-124s would land at Svalbard Airport in Norway, where his equipment would be ferried to the camp.

He hung up the phone, and as he surveyed his men completing final maintenance checks on AS-34, he realized they were fortunate to have developed new batteries. Unlike the American deep-submergence rescue vehicle, Russia’s Priz class submersibles had a range of thirty-eight kilometers. They didn’t need to establish an ice camp directly over the disabled submarine. Anywhere close would suffice.

41

USS
MICHIGAN

Depth: 600 feet.

Speed: Ahead Flank.

Captain Murray Wilson leaned over the navigation plot in Control, examining their transit across the Arctic Ocean. In the deep-water basins,
Michigan
could proceed at maximum speed without fear of hitting the ocean bottom or ice keels descending from above.

In front of Wilson stood Petty Officer Second Class Pat Leenstra, on watch as Quartermaster. The electronics technician was analyzing the ship’s two inertial navigators for error. Once
Michigan
passed eighty-four degrees north latitude, both had been shifted to Polar Mode to compensate for the reduced effect of the Earth’s rotation. Traveling across the top of the world was always touchy when relying on inertial navigators. For example, when at the North Pole, no matter which direction you turned, you were headed south.

“How are we doing, Leenstra?”

“Good, sir. Both inertial navigators are tracking together.”

Wilson nodded at the good news, then glanced around the quiet Control Room. It was 6 a.m. and watch turnover was in progress. The enlisted watchstanders had already relieved, and the oncoming Officer of the Deck was reviewing the ship’s status with the off-going OOD. Per custom, the on-coming officer was the last member of his watch section to relieve, the turnover occurring as close to the hour as possible.

The two men completed their turnover and Lieutenant DeCrispino announced that he had the Deck and the Conn. As Petty Officer Leenstra entered the event into the ship’s log, Wilson began his tour through the submarine, swinging first through Radio and Sonar.

The tour through Radio was uneventful, aside from the Radioman of the Watch noting they were approaching the end of their broadcast window. Wilson had accounted for that in his Night Orders, which laid out the schedule for the next day. Lieutenant DeCrispino would slow and come shallow, allowing their floating wire antenna to rise close enough to the ice to receive VLF transmissions. A quick stop in Sonar confirmed what Wilson already knew. They held no contacts, and hadn’t since they’d entered the Bering Strait.

With his tour of Operations Compartment Upper Level complete, Wilson dropped down one level to the officer staterooms. The XO’s door was closed, as were the doors to the three-man staterooms shared by the other twelve officers. Wilson continued to Operations Compartment Third Level, where the cooks were wrapping up breakfast, and after a quick tour through the Torpedo Room in Lower Level, Wilson felt the submarine tilt upward and the vibrations in the deck ease. Lieutenant DeCrispino was slowing and coming shallow to copy the broadcast.

Wilson continued his tour, heading aft toward the Missile Compartment. In
Michigan
’s previous life, he would have stopped in Missile Control Center, reviewing the status of the ship’s twenty-four nuclear warhead–tipped missiles. But MCC was now outfitted with the Attack Tomahawk Weapon System, and there would be no missile launches while under the ice. Wilson bypassed MCC and entered the Missile Compartment on the port side, by Missile Tube Two.

Tubes One and Two had been converted into access hatches to the Dry Deck Shelters attached to
Michigan
’s Missile Deck. In the other twenty-two tubes, Tomahawk seven-pack launchers had been installed, arming
Michigan
with 154 Tomahawk missiles. However, each of the Dry Deck Shelters covered two of the Tomahawk tubes, reducing
Michigan
’s available arsenal to eighteen tubes. The Tomahawk launchers took up only the top one-third of each tube, and the remaining space had been configured for various uses. Two of the missile tubes had been converted into magazines, which stored over sixty tons of ordnance—every type of weapon and explosive a SEAL team could require.

In the level beneath Wilson, the bulk of the crew slept in nine-man bunkrooms between the missile tubes, while the SEALs and Navy divers slept in berthing installed in second level during the submarine’s conversion to SSGN. Wilson headed down the port side of the submarine toward the Engine Room, spotting yellow light leaking from one of the SEAL bunkrooms. He stopped and rapped his knuckles on the side of tube Twelve, then pulled back the dark brown curtain covering the entryway. In the top of three bunks, Lieutenant Jake Harrison laid prone, the light above his bunk illuminating a book in his hands.

Harrison looked over. “Good morning, Captain.”

He swung his feet over the edge of his bunk and dropped onto the deck. The forty-two-year-old prior-enlisted SEAL was an imposing physical specimen; six feet, two hundred pounds, with deep blue eyes set within a chiseled face. Over the last few days, Wilson had met with Harrison and Commander John McNeil, who was in charge of
Michigan
’s SEAL detachment. They had discussed the capabilities of McNeil’s SEALs and Navy divers and how to rescue
North Dakota
’s crew, or at least transfer emergency supplies aboard, should the rescue from topside fail.

“Morning, Lieutenant,” Wilson replied. “You’re up early.”

“I just finished working out,” he replied, “then I decided to read a while before the day got started.”

Wilson was about to head aft when he spotted the photos taped to the top of Harrison’s rack; pictures of his wife and daughter, plus one of another woman. She had one arm in a sling and a crutch under the other.

“Is that Christine O’Connor?” Wilson asked.

Harrison followed Wilson’s gaze. “Yes, sir. That’s when we were in Guam, waiting for
Michigan
to pull in.”

Christine had accompanied the SEAL team into Beijing, and she and Harrison were the only two who survived, neither without injury. Wilson’s eyes went to Harrison’s shoulder. “How’s the arm?”

“Good as new.”

There was an awkward silence as Wilson debated whether to ask Harrison about his relationship with O’Connor. Having a photo of another woman taped to your rack, beside your wife’s, was unusual. Finally, he decided to ask.

“Rumor has it you and Christine were engaged.”

“We were,” Harrison replied. “But that was twenty-four years ago, and we’ve gone our separate ways. She’s a good friend now. Nothing more.”

There was another awkward silence, interrupted by the Messenger of the Watch, who pulled to a halt behind Wilson, almost passing by the Captain in his haste. He handed Wilson the message board. “New orders, sir.”

Wilson flipped through the OPORD, reading the pertinent details. They had located
North Dakota,
and
Michigan
had been directed to rendezvous at prescribed coordinates.

As he handed the board back to the Messenger,
Michigan
tilted downward and Wilson felt the vibration in the deck return. Lieutenant DeCrispino had ordered the submarine deep again, and back to ahead flank.

42

K-329
SEVERODVINSK

With his nuclear attack submarine at periscope depth just outside the Marginal Ice Zone, Captain Second Rank Josef Buffanov sat at his desk in his stateroom, reviewing the weekly reports. Since receipt of the Commanding Officer Only message three days ago, he had reflected on the mission he had been assigned. It was only a precautionary measure, he told himself, and hopefully the plan would not be executed. If the order was received, however,
Severodvinsk
was well armed for the task.

There was a knock on his stateroom door, and after Buffanov acknowledged, the door opened to reveal the Communication Post Messenger.

“Captain,” the young senior seaman began, “we have received another Commanding Officer Only message.”

Buffanov arrived in the Communication Post a moment later, stopping by the printers as the radioman looked up. Buffanov announced, “Ready,” and a single sheet of paper emerged. As he read it, his fear was confirmed.
Severodvinsk
was being called into service.

He left Communications and entered the Command Post at the same time his First Officer, Captain Third Rank Anton Novikoff, arrived. Novikoff had obviously been informed of the second Commanding Officer Only message. There were few things Buffanov kept from his First Officer. Buffanov eyed Novikoff as the younger man waited by the navigation table. At the proper time, he would seek his counsel. Until then, he would not reveal their mission.

Buffanov ripped off the bottom of the message and handed it to Novikoff. “Have the Navigating Officer plot a course to this position.”

Novikoff read the coordinates, no doubt realizing they were headed deep under the polar ice cap. He looked up at Buffanov, waiting for him to explain why. Buffanov did not amplify.

“Yes, Captain. I will have the Navigating Officer plot our new course. When will we head under the ice?”

Buffanov considered his First Officer’s question. The timeline for
Severodvinsk
was fluid and uncertain. However, the sooner they arrived, the better.

“Come down from periscope depth and station the Ice Detail. Inform me when we are ready to enter the Marginal Ice Zone.”

43

K-157
VEPR

Captain Second Rank Matvey Baczewski sat in the Captain’s chair in the Officers’ Mess, with a half-dozen of his senior officers flanking each side of the table.
Vepr
’s Weapons Officer was at the front of the Mess, standing beside a flat panel monitor, reviewing the features of their 533-millimeter torpedoes and the optimum settings. Shooting torpedoes under the ice was challenging, and over the shallow Barents Shelf, even more so. The torpedo would receive many false returns. The surface reflections from the ice canopy would be strong, and there would also be bottom bounces. If the settings were improper, their torpedoes could follow the reflections and smash into the surface ice or ocean bottom.

Complicating matters were the random ice keels. Even if the settings were optimal, their torpedoes might interpret an ice keel as a valid target. Of course, they could instruct their torpedoes to ignore immobile objects, but then they would also ignore a submarine playing possum against the ice.

The communication panel on the bulkhead buzzed, and a glance at the red light told Baczewski it was from the Communication Post.
Vepr
was at periscope depth just outside the Marginal Ice Zone, monitoring communications as directed. An important message must have been received for officer training to be interrupted.

Baczewski picked up the handset. Another Commanding Officer Only message had been received; one he had been waiting for.

A moment later, Baczewski was in the Communication Post, standing by one of the printers. “Ready,” he said, and the message slid out. As he read it, he realized the basic plan hadn’t changed. Their target, however, was a surprise. And she was heavily armed. Baczewski thought for a moment on the potential reasons they would engage this target, then decided it didn’t matter. He had accepted the mission from Fleet Admiral Ivanov, and
Vepr
would not fail.

Baczewski pulled a blank sheet of paper from the printer and wrote down the coordinates, then headed into the Command Post.

“Station the Ice Detail,” he said to his Watch Officer as he handed him the sheet of paper. “Plot a course to this position.”

44

PECHENGA, RUSSIA

In the northwest corner of the Kola Peninsula, not far from the coast and only ten kilometers from the Norwegian border, Captain First Rank Josef Klokov took a break from reviewing paperwork, gazing out his window at the sprawling military base. For the sake of external appearances, Klokov’s unit was a component of the 200th Independent Motor Rifle Brigade, and his men wore the same uniform with no special designation. However, they were no ordinary soldiers. His unit was one of two highly trained Polar Spetsnaz brigades.

Klokov’s Executive Officer, Captain Second Rank Gleb Leonov, entered Klokov’s office with a message folder in hand. Klokov accepted the folder and read the directive. His unit was being deployed. The Russian ice camp setup had commenced and suitable habitats were being constructed for his men.

“Your orders, Captain?” Leonov asked.

The message was deliberately vague, but Admiral Ivanov had explained the details during his visit. If the Americans won the race to rescue the two submarine crews, Klokov’s unit would be employed to …
rectify
the situation.

The American ice camp would likely not be armed, aside from the polar bear watches. A single Spetsnaz platoon of twenty-four men would be sufficient for the task. However, they would also need to board the American submarine, so he decided two platoons would be required. As far as timing went, the Russian ice camp accommodations would be ready by nightfall.

“Prepare two platoons,” Klokov said. “We deploy tonight at dusk.”

45

ICE STATION NAUTILUS

“
North Dakota
is directly beneath us.”

Standing atop the ice floe with Paul Leone, Vance Verbeck acknowledged the report from his ice pilot. Earlier this morning, after detecting the sonar pulse from the American submarine, personnel had flown north to determine a more accurate position, drilling holes in the ice every five hundred yards, dropping hydrophones to listen for
North Dakota
’s sonar pulse. After cutting three holes, they triangulated the submarine’s position, and Verbeck was now standing directly over the disabled submarine.