At 326 feet in length and 42 feet in width, the namesake of the class was a behemoth that displaced 9,150 tons of water submerged. She boasted a classified submerged top speed in excess of 50 knots, a test depth of 2,000 feet, greater comforts for her 140-man crew, and a deadly arsenal of 52 Mark 50 advanced capability (ADCAP) torpedoes, twelve Javelin cruise missiles, Harpoon anti-ship missiles, and a battery of decoys and mines. Its General Electric S6W pressurized water nuclear reactor was over twenty times more efficient than the latest state-of-the-art commercial reactors. In short, the Seawolf-class was the largest, fastest, quietest, and deadliest class of submarines ever constructed.
Manufactured by General Dynamics’ Electric Boat Division in Groton, Connecticut, at a cost of over $2 billion per vessel, the post—Cold War administration had forced the Navy to pare down its initial order of 29 to only three units.
The Seawolf’s captain, Commander Donald Grant Hendricks Jr., was physically unimposing. At forty-six years of age, the man was fit, but of average height and slight build. The stress of command had salted his dark brown hair with touches of silver at the temples. A graduate of the United States Naval Academy, he had married twice, once to the Navy and a second time to the submarine service—the ‘Silent Service.’ The Seawolf was his second submarine command, a reward for his flawless performance as the captain of a Los Angeles—class sub. Although his demeanor was stern and he rarely laughed, Hendricks was revered by his crew as much for his lack of fear as for his fairness and concern. Standing in the command center dressed in his on-board khaki uniform, reviewing naval charts on the electronic display table, drinking from a mug of Navy coffee - ‘bug juice’, Commander Hendricks seemed more comfortable than in a lawn chair by a pool in summer, yet he exuded a palpable sense of confidence and command necessary to every successful submarine mission.
A bell rang in the communications room aft of the attack center, signifying that the Very Low Frequency (VLF) radio antenna trailing aft of the submarine had received a transmission from the Navy’s massive underwater communications facility in Michigan. Because VLF transmissions were slow, approximately the speed of teletype, they were most often used to order the submarine to surface and receive a rapid communication from either an Ultra High Frequency (UHF) or Navy satellite signal. The sailor on watch called his officer, an 0-2 lieutenant, junior grade, who in turn called Commander Hendricks.
“Sir, VLF signals incoming FLASH priority transmission.”
Dammit, Hendricks cursed silently, never voicing his irritation at orders in front of his bubbleheads, as submariners were sometimes known. Although the namesake of the Seawolf-class was the quietest submarine ever to leave the Groton submarine yards, this was only true when submerged. Any part of the boat that peeked out of the waves, even for a second, immediately left it open to detection by satellites. In the Silent Service, even the most remote possibility of detection implied danger. Particularly when a U.S. nuclear attack submarine was in and around Russian waters near the country’s officially abandoned but still used nuclear testing range. They were supposed to be totally silent until they were away from Russian waters and back in the GIUK gap.
If we’re receiving a satellite transmission out here, it’s got to be damn important. “Acknowledged. Mr. Wathne, take us to antenna depth,” he ordered his executive officer (XO), Lieutenant Commander Jack Wathne.
“Antenna depth. Aye, sir.” The XO communicated the instruction to the diving officer and the chief of the watch, who respectively controlled depth and direction. The Seawolf rose close enough to the surface to poke its communication laser through the glacial waves and track the Navy’s Submarine Satellite Information Exchange (SSIX). The message was then ’sucked off’ the satellite on the sub’s directional S-band radio, and the Seawolf immediately dove back down to 500 feet. The signal was fed into the sub’s encryption system, decoded, printed, and delivered to the captain.
“Thanks, Jackson.”
Z73446
FR: COMSUBLANT
TO: CO USS SEAWOLF
URGENT PROCEED LAT 74°03’00”N LON 41°31’01”W
XFLTRATE US CITIZ CLAIRE SAILING
DIRECT ORDER USCINC REPORT ASAP
AWAIT FURTHER TRANS
END TRANS
“What the—” Direct order USCINC? CINC designated the commander-in-chief. The president of the United States. Holy— Hendricks handed the strip of paper to his XO. “Nav, plot the fastest course to 41-31-01 West, 74-03-00 North. Forward flank. This is by order of the president. Let’s move it, people!”
“Forward flank. Aye, sir.”
First Mate Vasily Damov led the way down the exterior staircase and into the lower portion of the Rossiya and stopped. ”Where does the capitan wish to go?” He asked, pleased at the chance to help the Russian Navy. His father, a captain in the Soviet Navy, had regaled young Damov with tales of the glorious navy at the time other nations trembled at Russia’s military might.
“I want to inspect every square centimeter of the interior. Not the living areas or the engine room. Only the areas where terrorists could plant a bomb or hide without being spotted.”
“I understand, Capitan. Follow me.”
“This one’s a real mother. Must have been reinforced,” Chen said after ten minutes of cutting. He had cut three sides of the square section, was working on the fourth. “Almost there.”
The air seemed as thick as the metal plate. Carlton wiped sweat from his brow, fought the urge to pull off the heavy Arctic parka that was nearly asphyxiating him.
“Done.” Chen turned down the flame as Carlton and Pink grabbed the plate on either side.
Carlton grunted with the effort. “Man, this thing is heavy.”
They placed the heavy plate to the side, against the inner hull. Pink directed the camera neck into the cavity. After a foot, it refused to go any further. Pink glanced at the monitor. The screen showed thick rubberized bags stacked one on top of the other inside the hull. “Bingo!”
Carlton grabbed one of the bags. It was incredibly heavy. He grunted, hoisting it out of the cavity with both hands, dragged it to the deck. Its top was closed with a tight knot. “Houdini couldn’t have untied this thing.” Krebski handed him his knife. The sharp blade easily sliced off the top of the heavy gauge nylon bag. Carlton shined his beam inside.
He stared at the contents, dumbfounded.
“My God,” he finally whispered. Staring back at him were stones of such brilliance they made him wish he had brought his sunglasses. He dug into the bag, removed a handful of diamonds. All were cut and faceted. All were over one carat, many of them two to five, he guessed, some even larger. It did not take Therese de la Pierre or any other diamond expert to conclude they were gem-quality diamonds. One was a blue diamond nearly as large as a golf ball, brilliant cut into a 58-facet stone that sparkled with such brilliance it seemed to glow from inside. He held it up to his beam, stared at it, mesmerized.
Pink exhaled a sigh of relief. “I can’t believe it.”
“Neither can I,” a loud voice echoed from the shadows behind them. The four turned in unison as overhead lamps turned on and bathed the long corridor in bright white light.
Carlton, Erika, Pink, and the others stared in stunned terror at the barrels of a dozen Kalashnikov AK47 submachine guns leveled at them.
“Hands behind your head,” Ulianov ordered in perfect English. “I must thank you for deciphering Pyashinev’s puzzling message. A boat named Rossiya and its third layer. Who would have thought it would be so simple? Of course, it would take an American to think of something so childishly simple.” The smile disappeared. “Follow my man, single file.”
“So you’re working with Waterboer,” Carlton said without emotion, accepting his fate, but looking for a way out.
“Why do you say that?” Ulianov shot back.
“Who else would pay you for these diamonds?”
Ulianov laughed dryly. “You Americans. Always believing people do things only f
or money.” He sneered. “Like you, stealing our impoverished country’s diamonds. We have no interest in Waterboer. Our only goal is to make sure Russia’s diamonds stay safe inside Holy Mother Russia. Where they belong.”
Holy Mother Russia? Hammers and sickles on the hats? Whoever these guys were, Russian Navy they weren’t. Probably not Yagoda’s GRU team either.
“Then how did you know where we were?”
“It was simple, Mr. Carlton. But I won’t bore you with the details,” Ulianov said, pointing toward the Nevsky.“ Across the gangplank.”
More angry than afraid, Carlton stepped onto the metal deck of the Alexandr Nevsky, followed by the others. He wasn’t surprised that his encrypted call to Forbes had been monitored. Fress would hear it, relay the information to Waterboer, and Waterboer would give their Russian contacts orders to track them down and recover the diamond stockpile that they had been unable to find. So Waterboer-backed Russian mafiya nationalists popping up hardly surprised him. What really pissed him off was that neither Yagoda’s nor Forbes’ rescue teams had arrived.
“You should be more careful when communicating.”
“What are you going to do with us?” Erika demanded.
“What do you think? We are taking you back to your boat. Our mission is accomplished. We have the diamonds. You don’t.”
“You mean you’re not going to...”
The dry chuckle returned. “Kill you? It doesn’t matter that you know we have the diamonds. In fact, I’m pleased you do.” He turned to one of his men. “Take them to their boat and destroy their communications suite. Where one American soldier is, a thousand others are nearby. We can’t risk them calling for reinforcements.” He swiveled back. “Have a safe trip,” he shouted at them from the railing of the Rossiya.
“They didn’t...they couldn’t just let us go,” Erika announced, trembling back on board the Claire.
Pink pored over the fried jumble of molten electronics the Volki grenade had created in the communications room. Some wires still sparked.
“Let’s not sit around waiting to find out. Jack, get us the hell out of here,” Carlton ordered Ramey.
Ramey was already starting the Claire’s massive engines. “You don’t need to twist my arm.” He jammed the throttles as far forward as they would move in their steel grooves. “Chen, Krebski, get below and check the engines for any weird stuff they may have left behind. Be careful.”
“Aye.”
“How’s it look, Tom?” Carlton inquired.
Pink shook his head. “Nothing doing.”
“You sure?”
“That radio doesn’t need a repairman. It needs a priest. And the portable’s range is too short.”
“At least the ship’s still working. What did you make of those guys?”
“Not regular Russian Navy or GRU, that’s for sure.”
“Captain, where is the nearest—”
Carlton was interrupted by a violent shudder, followed immediately by a second.
Ramey shouted as the lights cut in and out. He hit the engineering room intercom button. “Chen, what’s going on? Chen? Chen! Come in!”
The ship began to list to port, slightly at first, then heavily. “Krebski! Report! DesJardins! Come in!”
The intercom crackled. “We’ve been torpedoed.” Krebski’s voice was muffled. “Amidships and stern. We’re taking on water fa—”
Two more massive shudders knocked everyone on the bridge to the deck. Ramey recovered first, only to see flames roar up from the bow.
“Krebski? Dammit, the line is dead.”
DesJardins climbed the staircase on to the bridge. “Krebski says the hull ruptured in four places, Capitan.” He panted heavily. “She’ll be under inside ten minutes.”
“We’ll either burn or drown. We’ve got to get off.”
Ramey cursed. Another blow knocked him forward toward the communications console. Carlton yanked him backward an instant before his head could slam into the steel console. “You’re right. We’ve got no choice.” Ramey turned to the PA. ”Abandon ship. Everybody, abandon ship.”
The PA system reverberated against the metallic hull, then the lights went out. “There goes the power. Come on. Let’s go.”
The backup lights winked on and glowed an eerie red.
They groped their way through the tilted hallways and surreally angled outer decks. Erika and DesJardins donned parkas with difficulty while clinging to the railing. As they crept up the tilted deck, Pink stared in horror at the lifeboat cradles ahead. All four were empty, loose wires hanging uselessly from the metal arms. The Volki had been thorough.
“All of the others are dead,” DesJardins announced angrily. The vessel was large but its crew members were few.
“Any other lifeboats?” Pink shouted to Ramey over a surge of flames. The deck twisted abruptly as the Claire Sailing’s bow lifted out of the water, her stern now entirely submerged in the icy water.
“The inflatables in the supply room,” replied Ramey, pointed back inside the vessel. The roaring flames advanced quickly, their heat burning the group’s faces.
Carlton disappeared into the dark confines of the rapidly sinking hull.
“Pat, no!” Erika shouted. “Don’t!” She made for the door, but Pink held her back, pushing a life jacket into her arms.
Carlton returned two long minutes later, clutching a single large backpack. “One better be enough because it’s all I found.” He yanked the rip cord and watched as the black rubber raft automatically inflated.
A large wave burst into the main cabin, the force of the water knocking the raft out of Carlton’s hand. The Claire abruptly rolled to port in response. The resulting air pocket exploded the glass windows outward, sending shards of glass flying at the five survivors.
“Jump before it’s too far,” ordered Ramey. One at a time, Erika, Pink, Carlton, DesJardins, then finally Ramey jumped into the raft. Ramey turned back, watching in frustrated rage as the vessel under his care sank unceremoniously under the glacial water.
Soon the flames consumed the burning fuel floating on the water. The frigid darkness enveloped them, with only a sparkle of stars between the clouds above for light. They could barely even see the Rossiya. The icebreaker was three miles away, but it might as well have been in Murmansk. Yet they had do something. They began to paddle.
53 CONTACT
USS Seawolf
Barents Sea
381 miles Northeast of Murmansk
11:14 P.M.
The USS Seawolf was deathly silent and self-sufficient. The vessel’s highly classified ability to decrease noise was so effective that its two 52,000-shaft horsepower turbines radiated only about as much energy as a child’s night light. The nuclear plant’s controlled fission reaction turned water into steam, which turned the generator blades and produced electricity. Air scrubbers removed carbon dioxide from the submarine’s internal atmosphere and silently bled it into the surrounding water aft of the fairwater while nitrogen/oxygen generators produced breathable air. A freshwater plant produced 10,000 gallons of water daily.
As a result, the Seawolf could remain submerged far longer than its typical six-month cruises; its underwater journeys limited only by the vessel’s large but finite food supply. It enabled the Seawolf to submerge off the coast of its home port of Groton, Connecticut, and pop up in almost any sea on the globe undetected.
But this presumed that the sub was not traveling at its classified top speed of over 50 knots, as it now was. At such speed, even the best-designed and cut screw blades made noise. Called cavitation, the sound resulted from high-pressure water crushing pockets of tiny vapor bubbles on the blades created by the rapidly moving gigantic single screw. Noise made the sub detectable. Detectability signified danger. Danger triggered intensified vigilance.
Sonar technician Jorge de la Torre Gonzales closed his eyes and cocked his head, concentrating hard. Nicknamed “Ears” by his fellow crew members, Gonzales had an uncanny talent for dete
cting even the faintest signals before the Seawolf’s powerful General Electric BSY-2— “Busy Two”—submarine combat system.
Ears thought he heard something. A faint noise amid the fuzz coming through his headphones. He looked at the Busy Two’s ‘waterfall’ screen, which monitored frequencies vertically.
Nothing.
The sound reappeared. Longer, this time. Ears adjusted the acoustical controls to isolate the sound, then lifted his right index finger. The signal was now continuous. Continuous and repetitive. Far too repetitive to be biological. Definitely mechanical, Ears concluded. He looked up at the screen again. Bingo. There it was. Faint, but there. A solid vertical line on the waterfall. “Sir, I have a contact,” he announced to the sonar watch supervisor. “Bearing northwest.”
“Acknowledged.” The sonar watch supervisor hit the intercom button. “Conn, sonar. New contact designated Sierra Twenty One bearing northwest.”
‘Sierra’ identified a new sonar contact. Each contact was assigned a new number. This new contact was the twenty-first since the Seawolf began its patrol. It was a large number of contacts for a patrol that had started only one week ago, but for the fact that they had passed through the busy GIUK gap before war games.
“Can you identify?” Asked the XO.
“Analyzing now, sir.” The sonar supervisor craned his neck. “What’s it sound like, Ears?”
It would have been much easier for the sonar technician to identify Sierra Twenty One’s signature had the Seawolf been running silent. But its high speed caused so much cavitation that it drowned out most of the new contact’s faint signal. “It’s far, but it’s moving like a bat out of hell. Cavitating all over the place. Sounds like a...sounds like a”—it can’t be, Ears reflected— “like a Delta Three, sir.”
“That can’t be right. The Delta Threes were all scrapped.”
Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy Page 35