Ice Station Nautilus (35 page)

As Christine descended the ladder into the abandoned Russian submarine, cold, stale air greeted her. Chief Stankiewicz waited on the deck below, shining his flashlight around the deserted compartment, its surfaces covered in a thin layer of ice. Christine reached the bottom of the ladder and stepped onto an angled deck. As she shined her flashlight around, she realized the Russian submarine had settled on the bottom of the Barents Sea at a twenty-degree down-angle and fifteen-degree list to port.

They were in the center of what looked like the Engine Room, standing on a walkway suspended in the air. She leaned over the railing and shined her flashlight below; it looked like they were on the upper of two levels. Beneath her sprawled the submarine’s main engines and reduction gears, and in the distance toward the stern of the submarine, she could see the shaft, with water trickling into the submarine from around the shaft seals.

She moved forward to create room for Brackman and Berman, and after the two men landed on the walkway, they continued forward to make room for the rest of the ONI team. Brackman led the way toward a watertight door, open on the latch. He stepped into the next compartment, followed by Christine and Berman, the white beams from their flashlights cutting through the darkness.

Christine heard it first. Faint, high-pitched pings. She’d heard the noise before, while aboard USS
Michigan
off the coast of China. The pitch of these pings was a tad higher, but unmistakable nonetheless. Brackman heard the noise as well, stopping on the walkway, his head cocked as he listened to the distinct sound, growing gradually louder.

Berman heard it next, and as he stopped to listen to the unusual noise, there was a deafening explosion behind them and the submarine jolted, knocking Christine and the two men to the deck. There was a pressure transient and pain pierced her ears, and the roaring sound became muffled.

Christine pulled herself to her feet, as did Brackman and Berman, and as all three turned their flashlights toward the compartment behind them, a torrent of water blasted through the watertight door opening, hitting Berman and knocking him backward. He ricocheted off Christine and tumbled over the upper-level walkway, and his impact and the surge of water knocked Christine the other way. She hit the waist-high railing and flipped over it, but managed to grab on to the metal bar with one hand.

As she dangled from the walkway, her grip started to slip, so she released the flashlight and grabbed on to the railing with her other hand. She tried pulling herself onto the walkway, but the water surging into the compartment buffeted her with too much force. Her left hand lost its grip and she clamped down hard with her right, but the railing slipped away and she tumbled into the darkness.

95

USS
MICHIGAN
• K-329
SEVERODVINSK

USS
MICHIGAN

Michigan
shuddered as she slammed into the polar ice cap. The air was filled with the groan of twisting metal as water sprayed from both periscope barrel seals, dousing Wilson on the Conn. He moved to the port side of Control, turning back to examine the damage. A quick glance told him the flooding was within the capacity of the drain pump, but the bigger concern was that the seawater was spraying on the combat control consoles. The dual screen consoles were water resistant, not waterproof. The watchstanders remained at their consoles, processing the Quick Reaction Fire command as the sound of an explosion rumbled through
Michigan
’s hull.

Checking the nearest sonar display, Wilson noted the second torpedo had disappeared from the screen, while the bearing to the first torpedo remained constant, which meant it was on an intercept course with
Michigan
.

Sonar called out, “Estimated range to torpedo is five hundred yards.”

Wilson focused again on firing preparations as seawater doused the four combat control consoles. Petty Officer Malocsay at the Weapon Launch Console was making final preparations, sending presets to the weapon, when his console began to spark. Lieutenant Benjamin and Malocsay stepped away as the XO directed one of the other fire control technicians to reconfigure his console for Weapon Control. As Benjamin moved behind the reconfiguring console, the three remaining workstations dropped off-line.

Wilson stared at four dead consoles. They could not shoot back.

“Two hundred yards to incoming torpedo!”

Their only hope was that the acoustic jammer and
Michigan
’s proximity to the ice canopy would confuse the torpedo enough.

“One hundred yards to incoming torpedo!”

Wilson grabbed on to a nearby piping run, bracing himself for the explosion.

He counted down the distance, finally reaching zero.

There was no explosion.

He waited a few more seconds, then Sonar made the report he’d hoped for.

“Conn, Sonar. Torpedo bears three-five-zero. Down Doppler.”

The torpedo was on the other side of
Michigan
and heading away. However, the Russian submarine was still out there, and its Captain would soon realize his torpedo had missed. It would not be long before he steered the torpedo back toward
Michigan
or fired another one.

SEVERODVINSK

Josef Buffanov stood at the back of his Command Post, listening to the report from his Weapons Officer.

“Second-fired torpedo has homed to detonation on
Yury Dolgoruky
.”

Buffanov was pleased with the report, but destroying a submarine lying on a smooth ocean bottom was not challenging. His first torpedo, however, faced a more difficult task. The Americans had ejected a powerful acoustic jammer, and Hydroacoustic had reported air transients, followed by a loud metallic transient. The American Captain had emergency blown and hit the ice, hoping his proximity to the ice cap would fool the incoming torpedo.

The Weapons Officer announced, “First-fired torpedo bears three-four-zero, range three-five hundred meters. No detection.”

Buffanov joined his First Officer, examining the fire control solution. The American submarine was at a range of 3,200 meters. Their torpedo had passed it. He decided against a steer; it would turn their torpedo around, headed not only toward the American submarine, but also toward
Severodvinsk
. It would be better to launch another torpedo, and keep them both heading away.

The lack of counterfire from the American submarine was comforting. It must have experienced Command Post damage from the ice impact. Buffanov decided to approach even closer before firing his next torpedo, leaving the America Captain with insufficient time to react, just in case he had another trick up his sleeve.

Buffanov examined the bearing to Hydroacoustic four-nine, then ordered, “Steersman, left twenty degrees rudder, steady course three-four-zero. Slow to ahead one-third.”

Severodvinsk
turned toward its target, slowing to reduce the sound of its approach.

Buffanov ordered his Weapons Officer, “Reload tubes One and Two. Make both tubes ready in all respects.”

96

K-535 YURY DOLGORUKY

Christine fell through the darkness, expecting to break her legs when she hit the metal deck. Instead, she plunged into ice-cold water. She kicked her way to the surface and flailed about, hoping to grab on to something. But her heavy boots and Arctic clothing became waterlogged and started to pull her under. Just before she slipped beneath the water, she took a last gasp of air.

As she sank toward the bottom of the compartment, she ripped off her gloves and tore at her bootlaces, pulling the second boot off as her back hit the deck. She planted her feet and pushed upward, ascending only a few feet before sinking again. Terror tore through her mind when she realized she could not reach the surface while wearing the heavy Arctic clothing, and there wasn’t enough time to remove it; she already felt lightheaded.

She tried once more, squatting low and thrusting upward, kicking with her legs and pulling herself up with her arms, but a moment later her feet hit the deck again. As she searched frantically for a solution, a light plunged into the water, traveling quickly to the bottom. The light scanned from left to right, and as it illuminated her profile, Christine repressed a scream when she spotted Stu Berman floating beside her, his eyes frozen open and blood flowing from a gash in his head.

The light grew brighter, then moved past her. There was a tug on her parka hood, dragging her backward. The light extinguished and she was hauled upward, and just when she thought she couldn’t hold her breath any longer, her head was lifted above the surface.

As she gasped for air, she heard Brackman’s voice in the darkness, a few feet above her. “Grab on to the ladder.”

Christine felt the ladder behind her and twisted around, grabbing the cold metal and gaining a foothold. Brackman released her parka, then withdrew the flashlight from his pocket and shined it around. They were halfway up the compartment and the water level was rising rapidly; it had already reached her chin again. Brackman aimed the light upward, following the ladder until it reached a walkway in upper level. He began climbing and Christine followed.

She reached the walkway and followed Brackman toward an open watertight door, illuminated in the distance. After entering the next compartment, Brackman tried to shut the door, but the door latch was encased in a layer of ice. Water began surging through the door opening as he hammered the latch with the back of his flashlight, knocking off chunks of ice, and it finally broke free.

Brackman tried to close the door, but was unable to overcome gravity and the force of water rushing through the opening.
Dolgoruky
had settled with a twenty-degree down-angle and fifteen-degree list, and both were working against him. Christine joined in, pushing with her hands while Brackman put his shoulder into it, and the door began closing. But their feet slipped on the sloping deck, and the door started to inch in the wrong direction.

With the water level halfway up the door opening, Brackman shouted over the roar of the inrushing ocean. “Hold on to the door!”

Brackman gradually let go, and Christine’s feet slid across the deck as the door opened, until her right foot hit a stanchion. Brackman stuck his flashlight in her parka pocket, bulb end out, and he pulled himself through the door opening into the adjacent compartment.

Brackman turned around and grabbed the handwheel in the center of the door from the other side, bracing himself with both feet on the bulkhead. It took a second for Christine to realize what he was doing. They had no leverage pushing the door shut, their feet slipping on the angled deck. So he had climbed into the adjacent compartment where he could use the strength of his back and legs, pulling the hatch closed. The problem was—once the door was shut, Brackman would be on the wrong side.

Christine refused to help, shouting through the door opening instead. “What are you doing?”

“Push the door shut!” Brackman shouted.

“No!”

“This is the only way!”

The terror Christine felt moments earlier as she was about to drown returned, but this time she feared for Brackman. She was unable to will her body into motion; to sentence Brackman to death.

“No!” Christine replied. “Let’s try from this side again.”

“It won’t work,” Brackman shouted. “Either I die, or we both die. There’s no other option!”

Christine realized she had to make a decision. Her strength was fading, while the force of water they were pushing against was increasing.

Reluctantly, she concluded Brackman was right.

She lowered her shoulder and pushed against the door. It moved slowly closed until there was only a fraction of an inch remaining, water spraying out from around the watertight door seal. Christine twisted the handwheel, and as the lugs dogged down, the water spraying past the door seal slowed to a trickle, then stopped.

Christine dropped down to the circular glass viewport in the door, illuminating Brackman on the other side with her flashlight. The water level had risen above the watertight door, and with the downward angle of the submarine, the only pocket of air would be on the far side of the compartment; too far for him to swim to in his bulky Arctic gear.

She stood frozen at the watertight door in disbelief. As she struggled to accept Brackman’s fate, the realization of what she had done settled low and cold in her gut.

Brackman remained on the other side of the door, his eyes locked on hers as he held his breath. He finally exhaled, and Christine watched him choke as he inhaled icy seawater into his lungs. His hands remained on the door handwheel until his eyes glazed over and his grip loosened. Slowly, he drifted into the darkness.

97

K-329
SEVERODVINSK
• USS
MICHIGAN

SEVERODVINSK

“Captain, Torpedo Tubes One and Two are reloaded, flooded, and muzzle doors reopened. Both tubes are ready in all respects.”

Buffanov acknowledged his Weapons Officer’s report as they approached their target. Fire Control’s new solution held the American submarine a few hundred meters away from its original position, stationary, hiding near the ice. However, Buffanov’s Yasen class submarine was up to the task, with the most advanced sensors ever built into a Russian submarine. His Hydroacoustic Party was also well trained, with significant experience under the ice, and they had locked on to their target’s main tonals from among the ice reflections.

There had still been no counterfire from the American submarine, which meant it was either damaged or its crew had not yet detected
Severodvinsk
. Buffanov examined the distance to his target.

Two thousand, five hundred meters.

Another three minutes before they closed to two thousand meters.

The American submarine would not get away this time.