Arctic Gambit

by Larry Bond

  21 June 2021

  2250 Eastern Daylight Time

  The Executive Residence

  Washington, D.C.

  * * *

  They still read together in bed before sleeping, although it now sometimes included watching recorded video. Hardy thumbed the control and the flat-screen went dark. “Why did Dwight think you needed to see that?” asked Joanna. There was irritation in her voice. She jealously guarded their “quiet time” together and the CNN clip was nothing but an ugly intrusion. “Emmers is going to criticize you no matter what you do or say.”

  Hardy scowled for a moment, then answered, “Emmers is a horse’s patoot, but he’s also right. We don’t have enough intelligence to predict where Fedorin will move next. By the time we’d doped out what was going to happen in Belarus, it was too late.”

  “Maybe even Fedorin doesn’t know,” Joanna suggested. “He could just sit there and stir the pot until he sees an opening, and then act.”

  Hardy nodded agreement. “Being a dictator does let him move more quickly. But without taking the analogy too far, he has more than one bubbling pot on the stove, and there’s lots of different things he can do: build up the fire or put in different ingredients, and we don’t even know the recipes he’s trying to make.”

  “But you do know,” she insisted. “He’s trying to make borscht, every time.” Her husband’s annoyed frown caused her to chuckle. She held up a hand, smiling. “Okay, I’m sorry. I broke your metaphor. I understand that you need more information, and that Fedorin has the initiative. He can choose the time and place, and all you can do is react. But you also know his goals.”

  “And Ray Peakes is working that angle, as he tries to improve our intelligence collection and analysis capabilities on Russia. We’ve been spread pretty thin with most of our attention being in the Middle East and Asia for the last couple of decades, as you well know, my dear. We need to essentially rebuild our Russian analytical cadre. You just can’t order decent analysts online. They need to be recruited, trained, and grown. But this takes time, something that our allies, and my critics, don’t get.”

  “Meanwhile, Emmers and his allies will snipe at you.”

  “I’m not worried about that; I’m already developing a thick hide. But Fedorin is not our friend, and wants to do us harm.”

  “He’s trying to take over entire countries,” Joanna persisted. “He can’t do that entirely out of sight.”

  “Perhaps not. But, we’re still depending far more on luck than I’d like.”

  23 June 2021

  0700 Local Time

  USS Jimmy Carter

  Arctic Ocean

  * * *

  Commander Louis Weiss strolled slowly into the control room, carefully cradling his extra large mug. He wasn’t completely awake yet and he didn’t want to spill a drop of the precious hot black liquid. Although the mug was capable of holding twenty ounces, Weiss had only filled it to the “sea line,” which meant a mere sixteen. A gift from his wife, it was a simple, sturdy design adorned with the ship’s patch and motto, Semper Optima—“Always the Best.”

  Pausing to look around control, he found everything running smoothly, despite the fact that their deployment had taken a hard left turn. Two days earlier the boat had rendezvoused with the Coast Guard icebreaker Polar Star at Smith Bay, a remote ice-infested cove at the top of Alaska. Polar Star had hightailed it from Anchorage, on the other side of the state, after stopping just long enough to pick up a navy detachment and their cargo that had been flown into Elmendorf Air Force Base. It took nearly six days for the Coast Guard ship to reach the northern bay; thick broken ice slowed them down a little as they rounded Barrow.

  By comparison, Jimmy Carter had it easy. Weiss was able to bring her in submerged until they were well within sight of land. Once tied up alongside Polar Star, navy and coast guard personnel quickly transferred the supplies, spare parts, mission data, and mail. Commodore Mitchell had promised the last item as compensation for what promised to be a long deployment. Five hours later, Jimmy Carter slipped back beneath the Arctic Ocean.

  Acknowledging the officer of the deck’s greeting, Weiss wandered over to the plotting tables. His executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Joshua Segerson was hunched over the port table, studying a chart of the Severnaya Zemlya area.

  “Good morning, Skipper,” hailed Segerson without looking up.

  “Morning, XO. So how’s the search plan coming along?”

  “Nav finished it about half an hour ago, he was up all night tweaking the damn thing. I had him hit the rack.”

  Weiss nodded his understanding; the ship’s navigator, Lieutenant Commander Kurt Malkoff, was a perfectionist. “Yeah, well, Kurt can get pretty focused when he thinks he needs to.”

  “Which is all the time,” noted Segerson with confidence. “But still, after thirty-some hours staring at this chart I figured there was a distinct risk of us ending off of Australia, so I booted him out.” The executive officer stood up straight, rolled the chart up and offered it to Weiss. “I’ve just finished looking it over, and it is one finely polished cannonball. It’s ready for your review, sir.”

  “Thanks, I’ll study it when I grab my second mug,” said Weiss as he stuffed the chart under his arm. “But what’s the bottom line, XO? How long does Kurt think it’ll take to find Toledo?”

  Segerson shook his head. “I asked him the same thing, Skipper, and I got a typical answer. If we’re really lucky, about a week, if we’re really unlucky, never, and then there is everything in between.”

  “I just hope we find her, Josh. There’s a lot of attention on this mission. A lot of presidential attention.”

  “I’d say that’s normal when a boat goes missing.”

  Weiss shook his head vehemently. “No, no, XO, it goes way beyond that. You see, the new president, our squadron commodore, and Toledo’s skipper all served together on Memphis. From what I heard, that wardroom got really tight during their last mission—a SPECOP in Russian waters.”

  Segerson whistled softly, then said, “No pressure.” He hadn’t been aware of that little fact.

  “You got that right, Josh.” Weiss paused to take a stiff drink of his coffee and then motioned toward the navigation chart. “We’re still good, position-wise?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll be in the search area in a little less than twenty-four hours. Then the real fun begins. I take it you still intend to make a quick pass of the area, get the lay of the land, in a manner of speaking?”

  Weiss nodded. “Yes, XO, and we go in at battle stations. I don’t know what happened to Toledo, but I’m not taking any chances.”

  3

  DRAGON’S LAIR

  24 June 2021

  1100 Local Time

  Prima Polar Station

  Bolshevik Island, Russia

  * * *

  Vice Admiral Nikolai Vasil’evich Gorokhov steadied himself against the biting wind as he peered through his binoculars out into the Laptev Sea. He didn’t like what he was seeing. Theoretically it was summer, theoretically. But at the far end of Cape Baranova he was nearly thirteen degrees north of the Arctic Circle, and while the current temperature of minus one degree Celsius was balmy by comparison to the frigid cold of a typical Arctic winter, it still wasn’t all that cozy. The blustery northwest wind didn’t help matters, coming in from over the polar ice pack with gusts of up to twenty-five knots. The wind-chill factor wasn’t horrible; he’d experienced much worse while stationed in the Northern Fleet. No, his concern was the large ice floes the wind was pushing into his construction area.

  From his perch on the small cliff, he could see the icebreaker Arktika and the floating workshop, PM-69, rocking at their moorings some thirteen kilometers away. The background was filled with large chunks of ice heaving in the swells, advancing slowly on the islands that made up Severnaya Zemlya. Sea spray and the ever-present overcast skies made it difficult to see any details; at times he could barely make out the vessels themselves. He
felt bad for the men on the two ships as they struggled to get the last monstrous launch tube lowered over the icebreaker’s side and down to the divers 180 meters below. But the weather would be the least of their worries if they didn’t keep to the schedule.

  A frustrated sigh escaped his lips; the warm air quickly formed a cloud that was instantly swept away by the wind. Turning, Gorokhov headed back to the command shack; there was nothing more he could do here. He had ventured out to see for himself if the bad news brought to him by the staff meteorologist was accurate—bad news confirmed. The walk back was short, only a few hundred meters, but it gave him time to organize his thoughts. He’d have to break the unpleasant news to the minister of defense carefully. Gorokhov knew from experience that General Trusov was a reasonable man; he would readily admit that weather-related delays were beyond human influence. Unfortunately, the man the defense minister worked for could be just as unreasonable.

  The command shack was a large Quonset hut, just one of the two dozen structures that made up the Ice Base Cape Baranova Observatory, also known as the Prima Polar Station. Established in the late 1980s, the ice base was used for scientific investigation of the Arctic environment, glacier studies, and the research of Arctic fauna, especially birds. It also functioned as a base camp for floating ice stations, since it had a runway capable of handling medium-sized cargo aircraft. It was shut down in 1996 due to a lack of funding, yet another victim of Russia’s severe financial difficulties. The ice base was reopened in the summer of 2013 and focused on studying the effects of pollution at high latitudes. It also became a tourist attraction for those adventurers interested in taking a cruise on a Russian icebreaker up to the North Pole. Business seemed to be rather brisk, but the ice base was closed again after the 2020 season. The official reason given was that the facilities were old and outdated, in dire need of upkeep and improvements that would take about two years to complete. The official reason was partially true, but the “improvements” had nothing to do with scientific research.

  Gorokhov braced himself as the wind gusted again; was it his imagination, or was it getting stronger? He placed each step with care; there was still plenty of snow and ice on the rocky surface and the windswept terrain hid the more slippery spots. He’d lost his footing on more than one occasion, and he had the bruises to prove it. As he approached the red-and-white hut, he noted the large number “14” painted near the entrance. During winter storms it was not unheard of for people to get lost walking from one building to another, sometimes with fatal results. Each structure had large numbers on its exterior to help guide those who had to go outside in poor visibility.

  Once inside the entryway, the admiral removed his sheepskin mittens and ushanka and shook the snow off his heavy parka. Now that his “refreshing” stroll was over, he had to get back to real work. As soon as he opened the door to the inner workspaces he was met by his chief of staff, Captain First Rank Kalinin, with a steaming cup. Gorokhov handed his winter gear and binoculars to a waiting petty officer, then smiled as he reached for the hot liquid.

  “Thank you, Boris. I definitely need this,” remarked Gorokhov as he raised the cup. But before he took a sip, he paused, eyed his aide and said, “It is properly ‘seasoned,’ yes?”

  “Absolutely, Comrade Admiral.”

  “Good,” Gorokhov grumbled.

  “I take it then that it’s as bad as Captain Third Rank Chekhov reported?” Kalinin asked cautiously.

  Gorokhov nodded, then added after a sip, “Perhaps worse. I don’t know if Apalkov’s men will be able to continue working under these conditions. The damn ice floes are coming right into the mouth of the strait from the Laptev Sea. That and the big swells will make it very dangerous for the men below.”

  “Ahh, I see,” replied Kalinin. “Perhaps that is why Sergei called.”

  The admiral stopped drinking his tea, sighed, and asked, “When?”

  “About fifteen minutes ago, sir. He said it was urgent.”

  “I’m sure it is.” There was a note of resignation in Gorokhov’s voice. “Very well, get him back on the secure radio. This isn’t going to get any better by waiting.”

  “Yes, Comrade Admiral.”

  * * *

  Gorokhov could hear the wind howling in the background as Captain First Rank Sergei Ivanovich Apalkov gave his report. The captain was the lead construction engineer for Project Drakon—Project Dragon, a long-range, nuclear-propelled, nuclear-armed land attack torpedo system. In Russian terminology, the Dragon was a deep-sea torpedo-rocket strike complex, a strategic weapon that combined an incredibly large torpedo with a hypersonic land attack cruise missile.

  A follow-on development to the huge submarine-carried Status-6 land-attack torpedo, the Project Dragon weapon was even larger and heavier. With a diameter of nearly two meters, a length of twenty-seven meters, and a displacement of fifty-six tons, it was larger than any of the Russian Navy’s current submarine-launched ballistic missiles. But unlike the Status-6, which had a multi-megaton nuclear warhead, Project Dragon had a very high-speed missile as its payload, able to reach targets well inland. The torpedo part of the new weapon had also undergone significant modifications and was a lot quieter than the Status-6.

  Unfortunately, all these changes made the weapon so enormous that it couldn’t possibly be carried by any Russian submarine currently at sea, or on the drawing board. This left a ground-based launcher as the only near-term deployment option, and that led the Russians to the far north. The Bolshevik Island ice base was an ideal location. Its high northern latitude made it difficult for imagery satellites and spy aircraft to get a good look at it. And that assumed the weather was conducive for visual reconnaissance, which it often was not. In addition, Cape Baranova ran right up to the edge of the Nansen Basin in the Arctic Ocean. This enabled the launchers to be placed in relatively shallow water, but still have easy access to water depths greater than one thousand fathoms. The trick was getting the launchers built in an environment that was anything but cooperative.

  “Comrade Admiral,” shouted Apalkov over the radio, “we need to temporarily cease the unloading evolution. The weather conditions have degraded and are causing the icebreaker to roll and pitch excessively. We cannot control the launch tube’s position and it’s getting very dangerous.”

  Gorokhov rubbed his forehead as he listened; he had expected as much. Apalkov was a very good engineer and knew his business. If he said the situation was too dangerous, he had already exceeded normal safety protocols. Still, the admiral had to hear for himself that everything that could be done had been done to continue the construction work.

  “I understand, Sergei. Is there any way to stabilize the tube? Isolate it from the ship’s motion?”

  “I’ve used every trick I know, sir; the beast is wandering around like a drunken yak. It almost hit the launch complex; we only managed to just stop it.”

  Gorokhov winced at the very idea of one of the twenty-eight-meter-long steel tubes smashing into the reinforced concrete structure and steel frames that were to hold the six launchers. That would have ended any hope of having the Dragon system online by the fall.

  Apalkov kept on going, “And it’s not just the launch tube, it’s a diver-safety concern as well. We were pushing it when the winds gusted to eighteen knots. By regulations I should have pulled the divers then, but we managed to keep going. Now that we’re seeing sustained winds of twenty-plus knots, it’s getting very difficult for the men to keep their footing, let alone trying to do their job.

  “One diver has already been injured when his tether went momentarily slack and then snapped back as the floating workshop rolled. Thank God he was in an atmospheric diving suit and we were able to haul him to the surface immediately.”

  Gorokhov recalled how Apalkov had fought fervently during the planning meetings for the use of atmospheric diving suits, rather than the more traditional saturation diving approach. In the diving suits, the men didn’t have to worry about the pressure eff
ects normally associated with deep diving as the suits were kept at atmospheric pressure. In addition, the dry, comfortable environment meant that they could work longer without having to rest and recuperate. The disadvantages were that men in diving suits didn’t have the same range of motion and control as a saturation diver, and the suits themselves were expensive. But in the end, Apalkov won the argument by showing how the project could be completed faster if the probability of diver injury, or death, were minimized.

  “Very well, Captain,” conceded Gorokhov. “Cease unloading operations and recover the divers. What do you intend to do about the launch tube?”

  Apalkov chuckled over the airwaves. “I’ll park it on the bottom, sir. The winds would have to reach hurricane force before they’ll be able to move this twenty-ton son of a sewer tube.”

  24 June 2021

  1130 Local Time

  USS Jimmy Carter

  Nansen Basin, Arctic Ocean

  * * *

  The submarine approached the Severnaya Zemlya archipelago from the northwest, passing by Komsomolets Island first, then October Revolution Island, and finally Bolshevik Island. Weiss kept Jimmy Carter in deep water and well away from the conventional twelve-mile limit on this first pass. Paralleling the major islands’ coastlines from twenty nautical miles out enabled Weiss to get a good look at the Russian activity near the planned search areas. Using the edge of the pack ice as cover, Carter swept by at twelve knots, the sonar arrays scanning the area all around them. From the sound of things, it was really an ugly mess up on top. The background noise was deafening as massive chunks of polar ice violently smashed into each other. Weiss’s senior sonar operator described the acoustic environment as akin to being inside a cement mixer. Fortunately, the two towed arrays were largely immune to the higher-frequency ruckus and had no trouble picking up the two ships to the south.