Ice Station Nautilus (32 page)

The submarine’s commanding officer arrived, staring in disbelief as his eyes swept across the stripped consoles. He spotted the four Navy SEALs in the center of Control and headed over, introducing himself.

“Paul Tolbert, Commanding Officer of
North Dakota
.” He wasn’t sure who the senior SEAL was—no rank was displayed on their wet suits or Spetsnaz parkas, so his eyes wandered across the four men until Harrison responded.

“Lieutenant Jake Harrison.” He extended his hand.

“Thanks, Jake,” Tolbert said as they shook. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done.”

“Just doing our job,” Harrison replied. “But it looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you.” Tolbert followed Harrison’s gaze as he surveyed the gutted consoles.

“Do you know where everything is?” Tolbert asked.

“There are two shipments topside,” Harrison answered. “I’ll send the PRM to the surface to retrieve your equipment.”

“Thanks,” Tolbert said.

The submarine’s Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander Sites, plus the Chief of the Boat, Master Chief Murgo, arrived in Control, joining Tolbert and the SEALs. They were discussing how to quickly and safely reinstall the equipment when an excited report came over the speakers.

“Captain to the Torpedo Room!”

Tolbert and Harrison headed to lower level, followed by the XO and COB, stepping over a dead Spetsnaz at the base of the ladder.

The Torpedo Division Chief was there to greet them. “We got a problem,” he said as he led them to the forward end of the room and pointed to the nearest torpedo. A glance across the Torpedo Room revealed all twenty-four torpedoes were wired with explosives.

Harrison examined the explosive material, which was C-4, connected to a detonator. There was probably a master detonator, with the others slaved to it, which was either on a timer or awaiting a remote signal. He glanced around the Torpedo Room, his eyes settling on the dead Spetsnaz. There was something in his grip. Harrison hustled over and opened his hand, revealing a remote detonator, the red light blinking. It’d been activated, but there was no indication of how much time was left.

Harrison sprinted back to the first torpedo, examining the detonator again. A thin wire connected the detonator to an initiating tube, inserted into the C-4.

“We need to disarm the explosives,” he said to Tolbert. “This is what you need to do.”

Harrison grabbed the end of the initiating tube and pulled it from the C-4, then broke the wiring to the detonator. He moved to the next torpedo while the other men assisted, each man choosing a different torpedo. They moved from one torpedo to the next, until there was only one weapon remaining. Harrison was the first to come free, and as he approached the torpedo, he noticed its detonator was different. It displayed the time, which was counting down.

Additionally, it was placed atop the C-4, with its initiator apparently protruding from the bottom. Harrison had to remove the detonator, but worried about its design. Advanced detonators included motion sensors, which would send a signal if someone tried to remove them. The other four men gathered around Harrison as he evaluated his options, eliminating all but one.

He reached for the detonator.

86

ICE STATION NAUTILUS

Inside the command hut, Brackman conferred with McNeil and Verbeck, receiving updates on repairs and on McNeil’s SEALs. McNeil had lost six men during the Spetsnaz attack on Harrison’s squad and the counterassault. With sixteen men aboard
North Dakota,
that left ten able-bodied SEALs, plus McNeil at Ice Station Nautilus. The ten SEALs had donned the white outer layer of Arctic gear stripped from dead Spetsnaz, as had McNeil, and were standing guard along the perimeter of Ice Station Nautilus, in case the Russians got another bright idea in the middle of the Arctic night.

Verbeck had contacted the appropriate commands, relaying what had occurred at the ice station. Commander Steel was supervising his men as they pored over the rescue equipment, repairing the leaks in the manway and damage to the port decompression chamber. To rescue
Dolgoruky
’s entire crew, they would likely need both chambers operational.

It was a few hours before sunrise, but the cooks were already busy. One of the cooks, Sally Firebaugh, stopped by the command hut, letting everyone know food would be ready soon. She noticed the blood on Christine’s face, then after being assured she was okay, returned with a wet towel. It was then that Brackman noticed the tension in Christine’s shoulders and the look on her face.

Christine had uncharacteristically declined to participate in the conversation with Verbeck and McNeil, and had moved to the far corner of the command hut. She was leaning against the edge of a table, her arms folded across her chest and her eyes fixed on the floor. It didn’t take Brackman long to realize what she was worried about. There had been no word since the platoon of SEALs descended toward
North Dakota
.

Brackman broke away from McNeil and Verbeck and went to her.

When Christine looked up, he said, “He’ll be okay.”

“Is it that obvious?’ she asked.

“No,” Brackman replied. “But I know you well enough to pick up a cue or two.”

“Good.” Christine said. “Don’t tell anyone. Especially Jake.”

“I’m pretty sure he already knows.”

His assurance didn’t ease the pain on her face, and she tightened her arms across her chest. He was only trying to help, but had somehow made the situation worse. Christine’s relationship with Harrison was complicated. After they ran into each other on
Michigan
last year, Brackman could tell her feelings for him had resurfaced. The problem was—Harrison was married now.

Brackman stepped close to Christine and lowered his voice so no one overheard. “You’re a smart, beautiful woman, Christine, with a personality a hell of a lot more pleasant than Hardison’s.”

Christine laughed at Brackman’s jab at the president’s chief of staff, her White House nemesis. “That’s not saying much,” she replied.

“My point,” Brackman added, “is that you can have almost any man you want. Don’t dwell on Harrison. You need to move on.”

“I know,” Christine said. She forced a weak smile. “Thanks.”

A squawk on Verbeck’s radio interrupted their conversation. They listened as Commander Steel informed Verbeck that
North Dakota
had been secured with no casualties, and the PRM was on its way up with Harrison and fifteen dead Spetsnaz. Steel added that the Spetsnaz had wired
North Dakota
’s torpedoes with explosives, but the detonators had been disarmed in time. Brackman watched the relief wash over Christine.

*   *   *

The PRM returned to the surface, and after an update from Harrison on
North Dakota
and its crew, Brackman sent the PRM down with the first load of
North Dakota
’s equipment while Commander Steel’s men continued their repairs. On the next trip up, the PRM would bring the platoon of SEALs, then return with the final load of
North Dakota
’s electronics. By then, the flexible manway repairs should be complete, so the PRM could descend to
Dolgoruky
and return while pressurized.

*   *   *

The fifteen SEALs returned to the surface, and not long thereafter, Commander Steel arrived at the command hut, approaching McNeil and Brackman.

“The manway has been repaired, but we’re still working on the port decompression chamber. Some of the electrical interconnects were damaged in the firefight and we don’t have enough spares. We’re splicing the damaged cables together, which will take a while. However, we don’t need the port chamber right away. The first two groups from
Dolgoruky
can go into the starboard chamber.”

Steel finished his update with, “We’re ready to commence rescue ops.”

Christine zipped up her parka and stepped outside. There was an orange glow on the horizon.
Dolgoruky
’s last report stated the air in Compartment One would become toxic just before sunrise.

87

K-535
YURY DOLGORUKY

In the dark, bitterly cold compartment, Stepanov’s head was pounding and his breathing was shallow and rapid, indications that the CO
2
concentration was approaching a toxic level. Stepanov’s mind was becoming sluggish and he had difficulty concentrating. He even imagined he heard the faint rumble of underwater explosions.

In Stepanov’s hand was the last functioning emergency lantern, capable of emitting only a weak yellow light. He had not turned it on for several hours, conserving the remaining energy for one more trip through the compartment, checking on his men one final time. They had abandoned the air regeneration unit, and were huddled together in small groups. Stepanov’s First Officer, who had regained consciousness, was still weak, confined to his makeshift bed on one of the torpedo stows.

Stepanov’s mind was playing tricks on him. He heard a faint clank against the hull. Maybe a metallic fish had bounced into the submarine. He imagined what it looked like; shiny metal scales, a tail that swiveled back and forth like a rudder, and robotic eyes looking in two separate directions. He heard another metallic sound. The fish was persistent, bouncing into the hull again. It should go around. Surely it was smart enough to figure that out.

There was another metal clank, this one louder, and Stepanov’s mind cleared. He pulled himself to his feet and turned his lantern on, aiming its weak yellow beam toward the ladder leading to the access hatch. Other men stirred as Stepanov made his way through the compartment, stopping at the base of the ladder.

There were no more clanks, but he thought he heard a faint humming sound. As he wondered what it was, he was joined by his Chief Ship Starshina, Egor Lukin. Several minutes passed, then loud metal clanks from above echoed through the compartment.

Tap codes.

Someone was on the other side of the hatch, requesting they open it.

There was no cheer from his weakened men, but Stepanov knew they were relieved. He handed the lantern to Lukin, then climbed the ladder, stopping when he was within reach of the hatch handwheel. He reached up carefully and twisted it with both hands, but it wouldn’t budge, and he almost lost his footing on the ice-coated ladder. Stepanov locked his feet inside the ladder rails, gripped the handwheel tightly, then twisted it with all his strength until finally the handwheel broke free, chunks of ice falling from the hatch lugs.

Stepanov twisted the handwheel, fully retracting the lugs. He was exhausted from the effort, but he climbed one rung higher and shoved upward on the hatch. It lifted slowly, and he could see a man’s hands on the edge, pulling the hatch fully open onto the latch. He shielded his eyes from the bright light above as he inhaled fresh air.

He greeted his rescuers, but the response was in English.

Stepanov froze. The fresh air helped clear his mind as he worked through the implications. Another man greeted him in Russian, explaining an American submersible had attached to
Dolgoruky,
and a Disabled Submarine Entry Team would assist in evacuating Stepanov’s crew. He also explained that they had food and water for his crew, as well as atmosphere support stores to help absorb CO
2
and replenish the oxygen in the air. He then requested permission to board the Russian ballistic missile submarine.

Stepanov concurred and climbed down the ladder. Three men followed, each carrying a bag of equipment and an emergency lantern. It didn’t take long for Stepanov’s crew to realize the men weren’t Russian. The American flag was sewn onto the right shoulder of their black parkas.

One American extracted atmosphere monitoring equipment from his bag and began taking air readings, while the other two men approached Stepanov and Lukin. Captain Kovaleski joined them as the American on the right explained he was a translator, the man to his left was a medical corpsman who could assist if there were injuries, and that the submersible would take Stepanov’s men to the surface in batches of sixteen.

Stepanov informed him there were forty-five men in Compartment One and another fifty-seven men aft, and the air situation aft was slightly better. The translator replied the plan was to evacuate everyone from the forward compartment, then rescue the crew members trapped aft.

Kovaleski coordinated with the American corpsman, selecting sixteen sailors for the first journey to the surface.
Dolgoruky
’s hatch was sealed again, this time with three Americans aboard
Dolgoruky
and sixteen fewer Russians. As Stepanov waited for the rescue vehicle to complete its round trip, he retreated to the torpedo stow where his First Officer lay, motioning for his Chief Ship Starshina to join him.

Stepanov and Lukin gathered beside Pavlov, and Stepanov briefed his First Officer. Pavlov was as concerned as Stepanov, not wanting
Dolgoruky
to fall into American hands.

Lukin suggested, “Perhaps we should contact the Engineering Officer and direct him to leave armed volunteers behind, hidden in the aft compartments to prevent access.”

After considering Lukin’s words, Stepanov replied, “If the Americans are intent on boarding
Dolgoruky,
that would serve only as a temporary delay. We will evacuate the entire crew, and hope the Americans are not inquisitive enough to search the Missile Compartment. Let us pray instead that they let our submarine lie in its grave on the ocean bottom.”

88

WASHINGTON, D.C. • MOSCOW

WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was almost midnight when the president slipped into bed alongside the slumbering first lady, and it seemed he had closed his eyes for only a few seconds when the phone beside his bed rang. It was his chief of staff, Kevin Hardison. The Russians had assaulted the American ice station and taken control of USS
North Dakota
. The president sat bolt upright. Hardison added that SecDef Richardson was on his way over with more details, and they would be ready in the Situation Room in fifteen minutes. The first lady stirred, turning toward her husband. Her eyes were still heavy with sleep when she asked him what was going on.