“Standard sea level pressure,” was Golytsin’s surprising answer. “Just as inside the Mir. We haven’t had to work with high atmospheric pressures in some years now. We build very good in Russia, you see…”
Impressive, given that the outside seawater pressure on the GK-1 must be incredible. Dean did some fast calculations. The pressure exerted by seawater went up by.445 pounds per square inch for every additional foot of depth, he knew. Eight hundred meters was about twenty-six hundred feet and a bit, times.445…
At a rough estimate, the pressure at this depth was over half a ton per square inch. Most of the outside work at GK-1 must be handled by robots or with miniature submarines like the Mir, equipped with mechanical arms. He noticed that there weren’t any windows or portholes on the vessel, not even at the lower edge of the stern section, where he expected the bridge to be.
Skillfully Golytsin maneuvered the Mir underneath the docking tube, watching the approach through a TV monitor relaying the view from a camera mounted on the Mir’s dorsal hull next to the hatch. For a moment, Dean had memories of space-docking events he’d seen, of Apollo spacecraft docking with Lunar Excursion Modules, or the Space Shuttle connecting with the space station.
There was the faintest of bumps, and a hollow clang. Golytsin threw a series of switches. “We’re home,” he said.
“The last home they’ll ever know,” Braslov said with an unpleasant grin.
22
SSGN Ohio Arctic Ice Cap 82° 34' N, 177° 26' E 1112 hours, GMT-12
“BRIDGE, RADAR!” AN URGENT VOICE called over the intercom. “Two bogies incoming at very high speed, bearing one-seven-five, range twenty miles! We’ve got maybe fifty seconds!”
“Very well,” Captain Grenville replied. He glanced at the southern sky, saw nothing, and turned his attention back to the forward deck. The last of the Navy SEALs scrambled up the gangway. A deck detail of sailors started to haul the gangway in. Grenville picked up a loud-hailer. “Chief of the Boat!”
Master Chief Fuselli, bulky in his Navy-issue parka, turned and looked up at the weather bridge.
“Jettison the gangway!” Grenville called.
Fuselli tossed him a salute and started bellowing orders. In seconds, the lines making the gangway fast had been freed and the long metal bridge had been heaved over onto the ice.
He took another look at the Lebedev, just one hundred yards to the north. When the firefight had finally sputtered out, the SEALs had disarmed the crew and herded them into a hold, but it hadn’t taken long for Russians hiding elsewhere in the ship to set their comrades free. There’d been a couple of gunshots from the Lebedev as the SEALs crossed the ice, but nothing concerted and nothing accurate.
“Lookouts below,” he ordered. The two lookouts in their cockpits aft of the weather bridge began securing their posts. One pulled in the fluttering American ensign.
Grenville’s major concern at the moment was the fact that he didn’t know what the Russians were going to do. Those incoming aircraft might be lining up a bombing run on their very first pass… and that would be very, very bad. More likely, they would overfly first, to get an eyes-on look at the ships in the ice and to make sure they knew which targets were friendly, which hostile. Then they would attack if, in fact, they’d been ordered to do so.
Grenville assumed that the Russian pilots had those orders. From their point of view, their people had been attacked first, on board the Lebedev. They would assume the commandos had come from his boat. Besides, right now the Ohio was the only American target around.
Master Chief Fuselli was the last man down the forward hatch. Grenville heard it bang shut, saw the wheel dog tight.
“Diving Officer of the Watch,” he said over the intercom as his hand came down on the dive klaxon button. “Dive the boat!”
He turned to descend into the Ohio’s sail but stopped as he heard a low-voiced growl, a distant, trembling thunder. He looked south… and then, almost before his brain could register what he was seeing, two sleek high-performance jet aircraft streaked in low above the ice, traveling almost wingtip to wingtip. He had the briefest of instants to take in details-broad, delta wings; canards riding far forward under the cockpits; the glaring flash of sunlight off of canopies; the red-star-inside-white-star roundels on the wings.
MiG-35s, definitely. They passed two hundred yards east of the Ohio, streaking past the Lebedev and dwindling to specks above the northern horizon. Grenville heard a far-off roar emerge from the dwindling thunder of engines and wondered what it was.
Then he knew. Cheering. The crew of the Lebedev was cheering.
He descended the ladder into the Ohio’s sail.
The Ohio’s ballast tanks were already flooding by the time he reached the control room. “Captain on deck!” the Officer of the Watch cried as he walked in.
“As you were. Radar! What’re our friends up there doing?”
“Bogies have made a full one-eighty and are coming back at us, bearing three-five-four, range five miles. Looks like an attack run, sir.”
“Very well. Diving officer. Take us down. Make depth two-five-zero feet.”
“Make depth two-five-zero feet, aye, aye, sir.”
Bridge operations on an American submarine were a meticulous choreography of order and order repeated back, each step checked and checked again to make sure a command had been properly heard and was being properly executed.
Grenville could hear the crack and rumble of ice on the hull. Normally, a submarine was moving forward as it dove and the diving planes were adjusted to literally “fly” the vessel into the depths. Starting from a dead stop surrounded by ice was a different matter. All you could do was pull the plug and go straight down.
Those MiGs would be almost on them now, bearing in from the north. What were the Russian pilots going to try to do? What were their orders?
He held the tactical layout in his mind… Ohio here… Lebedev there… aircraft there… and he smiled.
If they were trying for an attack run, the Lebedev was in the way. The ol’ Ohydro would have a few more crucial moments to slip back into her natural element.
GK-1 Beneath the Arctic Ice Cap 82° 34' N, 177° 26' E 1112 hours, GMT-12
The Mir’s hatch clanged open and Braslov climbed up the ladder. Dean followed, then McMillan, with Golytsin coming out last. Braslov gestured with his pistol. “This way.”
Although the submerged structure was huge, the livable portions were relatively few and cramped, which made sense given the tremendous pressure of their surroundings. Most of GK-1’s internal structure was given over to ballast and trim tanks, and to the machinery necessary for turning and maintaining the drill.
The passageway into which they’d emerged was so low that the three men had to stoop slightly to negotiate it; Dean noticed several emergency survival dry suits hanging from a rack along one side of the passageway-available, he assumed, in case there was a need for an emergency evacuation.
The sight of those emergency suits, and the claustrophobic feel of the corridor, drove home to Dean the nightmarish aspects of life on board this facility. It was cramped, it was damp, and it was cold, with moisture condensing on every exposed metal surface. Outside those curving steel decks, bulkheads, and overheads, the ocean was pressing in with an inexorable, crushing pressure of better than half a ton over every square inch. If anything went wrong down here, did the crew have any hope of escape at all? With an air pressure of one standard atmosphere on board, they weren’t going to be able to go outside without a very long period of pressurization inside an air lock. The only way to the surface in an emergency would be on board one of those miniature submarines docked outside.
As Dean walked, bent forward with his head brushing bundles of pipes and wiring with each step, it was all too easy to imagine those tons upon tons of seawater pressing in from every side.
What a hell of a way to live…
The passageway led them over the control room, rather than past it. A large, o
pen hatchway in the deck gave access to what was obviously the GK-1’s control center twelve feet below, a room thirty feet long filled with monitors, workstations, and consoles, and with both a ladder and an open elevator platform against the aft bulkhead leading up to the hatch at his feet. The perspective was odd and took some getting used to; it took Dean a moment to realize that the vessel was designed to ride both like a normal ship on the surface and in its vertical configuration during drilling operations. When the structure was rotated into the work configuration, decks became aft bulkheads, and forward bulkheads became decks.
There appeared to be eight or ten men on duty in the control center, though there were workstations for more than that. A large monitor on the forward bulkhead was showing what looked like a stark black-and-white image of the sea floor, though at this angle it was difficult to be sure. A murmur of Russian voices rose from the compartment.
Braslov gave Dean a hard nudge in the back with the muzzle of his weapon. “Keep moving,” he growled.
How many people were on board the facility? A normal drilling rig might have as few as fifty or sixty people on board, while one of the giants might have a population of hundreds. There would be other crew spaces-sleeping quarters, a mess deck that might double as a rec room, laundry facilities, probably lab spaces for analyzing core samples.
They reached a turning in the passageway and a door-set in the bulkhead this time, rather than in the floor. Golytsin produced a set of keys and fumbled at the lock. The door opened, and a young man tried to emerge.
“Hold it right there,” Braslov said, pointing his weapon at the prisoner. “Back!”
“Let me out of here!” the prisoner cried. “You have no right-”
“You two,” Braslov said, turning to Dean and McMillan. “Inside.”
“What’s this?” Dean said. “The brig?”
“It’ll do for now, until we decide what to do with you. Go on.”
Dean followed McMillan inside. It was a storeroom, mostly empty, but with a pile of musty-smelling mattresses at the back, stacked crates labeled with Cyrillic lettering, and shelves of folded sheets and blankets.
“There’s a bucket for your… sanitary needs,” Golytsin said, pointing to one corner. “I’m sorry about the accommodations, but as you can imagine, we’re a little cramped for space down here. Someone will bring food to you a little later.”
“If you’re lucky,” Braslov added with a sour sneer.
The door slammed shut, and they heard the sound of Golytsin’s key turning in the lock.
Dean looked at their new roommate. “Harry Benford, I presume?”
The man’s eyes widened. “Yeah! How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
“Listen! They’re trying to blame me for murdering Ken Richardson! It’s a damned lie! I never murdered anyone!”
“Oh? Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know! It… it was Commander Larson. He shot Ken. Then I hit the commander with a pry bar, took him down. But then the Russians came in and arrested everybody! And they took me off from the others and brought me down here. And now they say they’re going to blame me for the murder!”
“Sounds like your playmates play pretty rough,” Dean said.
“Kathy! You gotta believe me! I didn’t kill anybody!”
“Harry, right now we’re all in a pretty bad fix. I suggest you sit down, be quiet, and let us think about how we’re going to get out of this.”
Benford seemed inclined to argue. “They can’t do this to us!”
Dean stepped between McMillan and Benford, towering over the smaller man. “Do as the lady says,” he growled. “We’ll worry about who did what later, after we get out of here.”
“Who are you, anyway?”
“Charlie Dean. I’m here to help.”
“Looks to me like you’re a prisoner just like us! Fat load of help you’ll be!”
“Sit down and shut up.” Dean considered whether or not to let Benford know how much he knew and decided that the information might give them a psychological edge. “Just so you know, Benford, we know you were feeding information to the Russians, we know you gave them blueprints to help them build this station-possibly illegally-and we know the Russians planned to use a murder at the NOAA station as a pretext for taking it over. If they knew about the murder in advance, then the murder was planned ahead of time… and that strongly suggests that you were the killer.”
As Dean spoke, Benford’s eyes got wider and wider, his mouth open. He tried to interrupt at several points but was unable to do more than sputter protests.
“You… you’re with them! It’s all lies!…”
“You can prove your innocence later. Now shut up!”
Sullen, Benford retreated to the back of the storeroom, collapsing on a mattress on the deck with his back to Dean and McMillan.
“I’m Kathy McMillan,” she said.
“I know. Charlie Dean.”
“Are you-”
He held up his hand, then tapped his ear. “Never say anything,” he told her.
Her eyes widened slightly, and she nodded. Dean didn’t know if the room was bugged or not, but the oldest trick in the book was to put prisoners in a room where they could talk freely with one another-and listen in from somewhere nearby.
“So… is that all true?” she asked Dean quietly. “He was a Russian agent?”
“Looks that way,” Dean told her, his voice a low murmur. Even if there were no hidden mikes, he didn’t want Benford listening, either. “He had a small, one-channel receiver. We think the Russians gave him a signal and he murdered Richardson to give them their excuse to come in.”
“Why’d the Russians blame him, then?”
Dean shrugged. “Probably because it’s just not that plausible that the commander of a NOAA scientific expedition would kill the leader of the Greenworld contingent at his base. Doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t know,” McMillan said. “There was no love lost between those guys. Scientists and nutcase environmentalists. It was bad news, believe me.”
“You’re not serious!”
She smiled. “No, I honestly don’t think Commander Larson would have killed anyone… not even someone as annoying as Richardson.”
“If it’s any consolation, the rest of the expedition people were being evacuated off the Lebedev about the time I ran into you and Golytsin.”
“That’s good.” She folded her arms and shivered. The storeroom was cold. Dean went to a storage shelf, pulled down a military-style wool blanket, and draped it over her shoulders. “Thank you. Aren’t you cold?”
He shook his head. “This dry suit’s almost too warm.” He was eyeing the door, the bulkheads, the overhead. “We need to think of a way to get out of here.”
“I don’t suppose you brought along any James Bond gadgets? A thimble-sized laser to cut through the door, maybe? An origami flamethrower?”
Dean made a face. “Gadgets have their place, I suppose,” he said. “But the only thing that’s essential is right here.” He tapped his forehead.
In fact, Dean was wishing he’d brought along something-the components of a binary explosive, for instance, with which he could have shattered the lock. Lacking that, however, the possibilities included finding something here in the storeroom that would help them break out-unlikely-and waiting for the bad guys to show up and overpower them.
“Let’s check those crates and see what we have to work with,” he said.
SSGN Ohio Arctic Ice Cap 82° 34' N, 177° 26' E 1120 hours, GMT-12
“You knew those guys weren’t going to shoot at us, Skipper!” Lieutenant Dolby said. “How?”
Grenville gave a modest shrug. “They zipped past south to north, pulled a major U-turn, and came straight back for us, north to south. But on that bearing, the Lebedev was between us and them. At their altitude, they weren’t about to drop anything nasty, not without hitting their own people. Hell, they were lucky if they didn’t
clip the Lebedev’s mast.”
The Ohio drifted once again in her preferred world, the abyssal deep, her screw turning over just enough to give her way.
Grenville picked up a microphone and keyed it. “Sonar, this is the captain.”
“Sonar, aye,” came the immediate response.
“Talk to me, Chief. What’s out there?”
“It’s pretty much a hash, sir,” Sonar Chief Kevin Mayhew replied. “Ice grinding. Lots of incidentals from the Russian ships.” There was a puzzled hesitation. “I… I think they’re cheering over there.”
“You can hear that, Mayhew?”
“That’s what it sounds like, sir.”
“What about submarines?”
“We had two on the waterfall for a while there, sir. Sierra One-one-five was the midget. The library tagged Sierra One-one-six as a probable Victor III. Right now, they’re both shut down. Not a thing on the boards.”
“Any sign of the Pittsburgh?”
“Sir, they could be right alongside and all we’d hear would be the hole in the water.”
“Well, do your best listening, understand? I want to know the moment you hear a shrimp fart.”
“Shrimp fart. Aye, aye, sir.”
The Ohio had been in terrible danger while exposed on the surface. She might pack 154 Tomahawk cruise missiles in her vertical launch tubes, capable of striking targets fifteen hundred miles away, but she had absolutely no way to defend herself against an air strike save by seeking the quiet safety of the depths.
Now, however, she was in far greater danger. It was one of the axioms of submarine warfare: the best way to kill a submarine is with another sub, and somewhere out in all of that ice-noise hash, there was a Russian Victor III waiting… and listening.
Victor IIIs were decent attack submarines-about the same size as the American Los Angeles boats but a little lighter, a little slower. Some of them had an odd eight-blade screw consisting of two co-rotating four-bladed props, which gave them a unique signature on passive sonar. Grenville had dogged a Victor or two back when he’d skippered the Miami and, earlier, when he’d been the XO on the Cincinnati.
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