Ice Station Nautilus (38 page)

104

AS-34

Mikhail Grushenko leaned forward in the Priz class deep submergence rescue vehicle, watching the sonar display over the pilot’s shoulder as the submersible descended toward the ocean floor. Seated beside Grushenko and behind the co-pilot, their medic, Pavel Danilov, kept himself busy, checking for the fourth time the atmosphere monitoring equipment they would use at the end of their long journey. As they approached the bottom of the Barents Sea, a white blip appeared on the sonar display, just ahead and a few degrees to starboard. The pilot activated the forward port thruster, and AS-34 turned slowly toward the object.

The angle of the submersible finally leveled off, and AS-34 cruised thirty meters above the ocean floor. Grushenko shifted his eyes from the sonar screen to the video display as the co-pilot brought the camera and external lighting systems on-line. In the distance,
Yury Dolgoruky
slowly materialized, its bow buried in the silt and the stern rising from the bottom.

AS-34 passed slowly over
Dolgoruky
from astern, the bright lights from the submersible aimed downward, illuminating the stricken submarine. As they glided above, Grushenko spotted a large hole in
Dolgoruky
’s stern, the jagged and twisted edges of the hull bent inward. AS-34 continued forward, slowing to a hover over the Fifth Compartment hatch, where the co-pilot adjusted the angle and list of the submersible until it matched that of the submarine. The pilot lowered AS-34 onto the submarine’s deck, then the co-pilot pumped the water out from the cavity between the submersible and submarine hatches.

It was not long before the hatch beneath AS-34 was opened, and Grushenko dropped down onto
Dolgoruky
’s hull. Danilov handed him a hammer, and Grushenko banged on the submarine’s hatch, transmitting the prescribed tap codes.

There was no response.

Danilov passed the hatch-opening tool to Grushenko, who inserted it into the center divot of the hatch fairing. He twisted the tool firmly, and the hatch mechanism broke free. Grushenko turned the tool slowly until the hatch popped open a fraction of an inch.

There was a whistling sound as stale, cold air flowed into AS-34.

Grushenko monitored the inflow of air with concern. The submarine compartment had been pressurized, which meant it was at least partially flooded. If the compartment pressure had equalized with the ocean depth, they would not be able to gain access; Grushenko and the other men in AS-34 could not be pressurized to twenty atmospheres.

The pressure inside the submersible increased, approaching the limit where they would have to abandon their effort and shut AS-34’s lower hatch. But then the rate slowed and pressure steadied at five atmospheres absolute. The compartment below was only partially flooded.

Grushenko resumed twisting the T-bar until the hatch popped open a few inches. He reached down and lifted it to the open-latched position, then aimed his flashlight into the darkness.

There was no one.

He lowered the sampling tube into the submarine and Danilov activated the atmosphere monitoring equipment. The oxygen and carbon dioxide levels were marginal, but sufficient to allow access. Grushenko felt his way down the ladder into the dark, frigid compartment.

Grushenko landed on the sloping deck, and he panned his flashlight slowly around the compartment, the beam of light reflecting off ice-coated surfaces. At the forward end of the compartment was an open watertight door; another one aft. While he waited for Danilov, he called out, then listened for a response. Only a low, metallic groan greeted him. The submarine was above crush depth, but its hull had been compromised by the explosion. They had to move fast.

Danilov descended, then headed forward while Grushenko checked each level of the compartment they had entered. There was no one present. He headed aft, into the Reactor Compartment Tunnel. The bulkheads were cold—there was no residual heat from the reactor. He traveled farther aft, straining to detect signs of life. As he entered the next compartment, his flashlight illuminated a human figure at the end of a long walkway, sitting on the deck beside a closed watertight door. The person was leaning against the bulkhead, knees drawn to their chest and head resting on their knees.

Grushenko hurried down the walkway and knelt beside the figure. He lifted the person’s head up—a woman. Her eyes were closed and her face was pasty white; her lips blue. In the minus-two-degree air, her skin felt warm. He checked for a pulse on her wrist. There was none.

He placed the woman’s head on her knees again, then pulled the radio from its holster and called Danilov.

“I found someone,” Grushenko said.

As he waited for the medic, he shined his light over the edge of the walkway. The compartment was partially flooded, water almost reaching the deck plates. He brought his light back to the upper level and examined the closed watertight door beside the woman. Water was seeping past the door seal. The compartments aft were completely flooded.

A shaft of light approached, cutting through the darkness. Danilov stopped beside Grushenko.

“Did you find any survivors?” Grushenko asked.

“There is no one else,” Danilov replied.

His light examined the human figure on the deck. “Is it the woman?”

“Yes.”

“Is she alive?”

“I could not find a pulse, but she is still warm.”

Danilov knelt beside the woman, checking for signs of respiration as he placed two fingers against her carotid artery. After a moment, he said, “She has a pulse. Very faint, only thirty beats per minute.”

Grushenko slid his flashlight into his pocket, then lifted the woman from the deck, cradling her in his arms. The two men headed toward the escape hatch, with Danilov illuminating the way.

105

MOSCOW

An hour after receiving the American president’s phone call, Yuri Kalinin stared across his desk at Fleet Admiral Georgiy Ivanov, Commander-in-Chief of the Russian Navy, and Admiral Oleg Lipovsky, Commander of Russia’s Northern Fleet. Along the side of his office sat Boris Chernov, Russia’s minister of defense. One of these men was responsible for deploying the Spetsnaz unit and
Vepr
’s attack on
Michigan
.

It was Lipovsky who professed his innocence first. “I assure you, Mr. President, that I was not responsible for issuing these orders. These units attacked without my direction.”

“You expect me to believe,” Kalinin replied, “that a Polar Spetsnaz unit deployed to the ice cap, and a Northern Fleet submarine was operating in the vicinity of the ice camps without your knowledge?”

“That is a different question,” Lipovsky replied. “Of course I was aware of their movements, but I was not aware of their assignments.”

Kalinin leaned forward. “Then who gave the orders?”

Lipovsky ran his finger along the inside of his shirt collar while he searched for an appropriate answer. Finally, he replied. “I do not know.”

Kalinin leaned back in his chair. Lipovsky was lying. He had either given the orders or knew who did, and was crafting his answers to avoid implicating the guilty party.

“Let me rephrase the question,” Kalinin said. “Besides you, who else could have given those orders?”

Kalinin watched Lipovsky carefully. The obvious answer was one of the two other men in the room. But Lipovsky did not glance in Ivanov’s direction, nor did he look at Defense Minister Chernov. There was another possibility, however. Rear Admiral Leonid Shimko, Commander of 12th Squadron, could have given the order to
Vepr
. The submarine was under his command. But that scenario was more alarming. The Polar Spetsnaz unit was not under his purview, which meant there was at least one other person involved; a conspiracy willing to use military force without the president’s authorization.

Fifteen seconds passed and Lipovsky still did not reply. The Admiral’s face grew flush and beads of sweat formed on his brow.

“I’m growing impatient,” Kalinin said.

Lipovsky sputtered, “I cannot say for sure.”

Kalinin slammed his fist on his desk. “Answer the question or I will relieve you of command!”

“I gave the orders.”

Kalinin turned to Fleet Admiral Ivanov. The older man sat in his chair calmly, with no hint of distress. Ivanov had cleared Lipovsky. But not Chernov. Kalinin watched Chernov from the corner of his eye as he directed his next question at Ivanov.

“Why did you give those orders?”

“The potential gain was worth the risk.”

“What risk?” Kalinin asked. “The loss of
Vepr
and two Spetsnaz platoons?” Kalinin’s anger built as he continued. “A direct attack on the United States?” The Russian president’s anger crested as he leaned forward, adding, “The end of your career and your incarceration!”

“Yes.”

Kalinin glared at his Fleet Admiral, who remained unfazed, wondering why Ivanov was so calm. Was he following orders, preparing to absolve himself with his next statement? Kalinin glanced at Chernov. The Defense Minister seemed nervous, changing his position in his chair, his eyes shifting between Ivanov and Kalinin.

Kalinin followed up, “Were you following orders, or did you come up with this idea by yourself?”

“It was my idea,” the Admiral replied. “No one else was involved.”

Kalinin noted Chernov’s reaction. His Defense Minister seemed relieved, but that could be because Ivanov was covering for him or because he had been worried Ivanov would falsely accuse him. Kalinin could not be sure, but with Ivanov accepting full responsibility, there was little more to probe.

“Fleet Admiral Ivanov,” Kalinin replied. “You are relieved of your command and reduced in rank to Admiral pending disciplinary action.”

There was no visible reaction from the former Fleet Admiral. He sat there, staring at Kalinin as he awaited further direction.

“You are dismissed,” Kalinin added.

Ivanov pushed himself to his feet, then left without a word, glancing briefly at Chernov as he passed by.

Kalinin turned to Lipovsky. “You are now the acting Fleet Admiral. Attend to this mess and keep the defense minister informed of all issues. You are dismissed.”

The relief in Lipovsky’s face was apparent as he rose and left the president’s office, closing the door behind him. Kalinin shifted his gaze to Chernov.

“I will call the American president and let him know what I’ve learned, then come to an agreement as to what will be made public. Our task is more difficult, as we have to explain the loss of two attack submarines. Do you have a recommendation?”

It appeared Chernov had been contemplating the matter, because he replied immediately. “I suggest,” he began, “that we be truthful about the collision between
Dolgoruky
and the American submarine. These things happen, and it would be difficult to conceal the damage to the American submarine when it returns for repairs. Regarding
Vepr
and
Severodvinsk,
they collided while searching for
Dolgoruky,
and the reason for the Spetsnaz deaths can be easily concealed.

“That leaves the American casualties to explain, and I am sure an
understanding
can be reached. As a concession to America, we will credit them with the rescue of
Dolgoruky
’s crew, and praise their assistance as we rescue survivors aboard
Vepr
and
Severodvinsk
.”

Chernov added, “We will highlight that during this difficult time, our two countries have put aside our political differences and are working closely together, strengthening the bond of our unique relationship.” Chernov smiled.

Kalinin absorbed Chernov’s words as the defense minister added, “We will brief all parties involved on our side, so that only the official story is released. The American president will have to do the same.”

After a moment of reflection, Kalinin nodded his approval and picked up the phone.

106

USS
MICHIGAN

Christine’s eyes opened, then fluttered shut in the bright light. She opened her eyes again, this time just a tad, letting them adjust to the light as she tried to figure out where she was. She was lying on a bed somewhere with a heated blanket wrapped tightly around her. As her surroundings came into focus, she noticed an insulated IV Warmer hanging from the bulkhead beside her, with the clear plastic tubing running out the bottom and tucked inside the blanket on her left side. She could feel warmth radiating up her left arm.

“Welcome back to the living, Ms. O’Connor.”

Christine turned in the direction of the man’s voice, spotting Commander Joe Aleo standing beside her. She realized she was aboard
Michigan,
in Medical—Doc’s office, lying on the single bed against the bulkhead. It was in this same office that he had stitched her arm up after being shot on the way out of Beijing. Aleo pulled a pocket flashlight from his coveralls and examined her pupils.

“Can you talk?”

“Yes,” Christine replied.

“What’s your name?”

“Christine.”

Doc asked several more questions, and she saw the relief on his face when she answered them correctly.

“How do you feel?”

“Tired,” she replied, “but okay otherwise.”

“You gave us quite a scare,” Aleo said. “You were rescued from
Dolgoruky
just in time. You were about to turn into an ice sculpture.”

Christine asked what happened, and Aleo explained how they had used the Russian submersible to rescue her. It had then surfaced in a nearby lead along with USS
Michigan,
where she was transferred aboard the guided missile submarine so she could be placed in one of the Dry Deck Shelter hyperbaric chambers to decompress, and had been released a few hours ago.

“How’s your hearing?” he asked.

“A little muffled,” Christine replied.

“Your eardrums are ruptured,” he explained. “It must have happened when
Dolgoruky
was torpedoed, from the pressure transient when the submarine flooded. Most eardrum ruptures heal with no loss of hearing, but my bigger concern is hypothermia. You’re out of the danger zone now, but there might be some permanent damage. I won’t know for another day or two. We’ll see how things go and I’ll do my best.”