27
ARCTIC OCEAN
Dawn was breaking across a white, barren landscape as a Cessna 182 sped north, skimming a few hundred feet above the ice. In the front passenger seat, Vance Verbeck leaned against the window, binoculars to his eyes, scanning the snow-covered ridges rippling across the otherwise flat landscape. The technical director of the Arctic Submarine Laboratory was looking for an ice floe strong enough to support an ice camp. The thickness of the surface ridges, where the edges of the ice floes buckled upward, was a good indicator. However, rescue from atop the ice might not even be possible, considering the weight of the rescue equipment.
Three hundred tons!
He nearly fell out of his chair when the commanding officer of the Undersea Rescue Command told him the weight of the fully assembled system, sitting inside a footprint smaller than a basketball court. North Dakota had better be stuck under some pretty thick ice. Luckily, based on his observations this morning, the ice was sufficiently thick this winter. After convincing himself the nearby floes were no thicker than the one he had selected, Verbeck directed the pilot to turn around and head back. The pilot banked the Cessna to the right, then steadied on a course returning to the GPS marker they had tossed onto the candidate ice floe.
A few minutes later, the ski-equipped Cessna glided to a halt atop the polar ice cap. Verbeck stepped from the aircraft, joined by Paul Leone, their most experienced ice pilot, hauling a duffle bag of equipment and an auger. They needed to determine the thickness of the ice and whether it was first-year ice or multiyear. First-year ice was prone to breaking apart.
Leone began drilling with the auger. The first indication was good; he had to attach several extensions to continue drilling. Finally, he broke through. By measuring the length of the auger drill, Leone determined the ice was six feet thick.
Based on the thickness, Verbeck was almost positive it was multiyear ice. But he had to be sure. The way to assess the age of sea ice was to measure its salinity. As seawater freezes, the salt water concentrates into brine, which stays liquid and gets trapped within the ice crystals. Over time, the heavy brine migrates down through the ice and eventually back into the ocean. As a result, the top of multiyear ice is nearly salt free and drinkable.
Leone scraped a chunk of ice from inside the hole and deposited it in a glass beaker, then placed it inside the warm Cessna. After the ice melted, he checked the salinity with a test strip, followed by a sip of the water. Both confirmed the water was salt free. After Leone informed him of the results, Verbeck pulled an iridium phone from his pocket, sending the GPS coordinates back to Svalbard Airport, where the rest of their gear was staged.
* * *
It wasn’t long before the next aircraft appeared, and the ski-equipped C-130 flown by the 109th Air Wing of the New York Air National Guard touched down nearby. The rear ramp of the C-130 lowered, and the first piece of equipment out was a bulldozer, used for building a landing strip suitable for aircraft without skis.
Next onto the ice were a half-dozen men from the Applied Physics Laboratory, University of Washington, along with six men from the Arctic Submarine Lab, who unloaded stacks of the special triple-layer plywood used to build the ice camp huts; two layers of plywood sandwiched around an inner layer of Styrofoam insulation. The huts weren’t fancy—nothing more than six-sided plywood boxes.
The first building constructed would be the command hut, where the communication gear, both satellite and underwater, would be installed. One of the floor panels had a precut two-foot-diameter hole, which would provide access to the ice beneath the hut. A hole would then be cut in the ice for the Remote Acoustic Transmission System, the same type of underwater transmitter submarines used. Once the building was constructed, the electronic gear would be installed inside and antennas mounted on the top.
Other teams were assembling the remaining components of an ice camp, beginning with the berthing hooches. As more men and equipment arrived, the galley and generator tents would be set up, and of course, no ice camp would be complete without outhouses and pee boxes.
Leone approached Verbeck. “You still haven’t picked a name for the ice camp.”
Verbeck had been too busy, overseeing the hundreds of details involved with establishing an ice camp. “Any suggestions?”
“How about Nautilus?”
USS Nautilus was the first nuclear-powered submarine, and the first to transit from the Pacific to the Atlantic Ocean beneath the polar ice cap.
“I like it,” Verbeck said. “Ice Camp Nautilus it is.”
Verbeck checked on the bulldozer. It had finished the landing strip with no time to spare. To the southwest, a half-dozen aircraft were headed their way, small dark specks on the horizon.
They had a long day’s work ahead of them.
28
SEVEROMORSK, RUSSIA
It was just after sunrise on the northern shore of the Russian province of Murmansk, the sun climbing slowly into a clear blue sky. Standing on the afterdeck of Mikhail Rudnitsky, Julius Raila pulled his black wool watch cap down farther over his ears, the edges of his cap mating with his thick gray beard. Rudnitsky’s deck was a flurry of activity, and Raila brought his hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the bright winter sun as he watched his men unbolt the submarine rescue equipment from its foundations.
Rudnitsky, mother ship to AS-34, a Priz class Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle, was tied to a wharf in the Northern Fleet port of Severomorsk. In addition to the DSRV, Rudnitsky was outfitted with the handling gear for the submersible, plus decompression chambers for the submarine crew once they were rescued. Thankfully, the equipment was far less integrated into the ship than the new Divex system aboard Igor Belousov, and could be disassembled and transported with relative ease.
Rudnitsky’s crane swung AS-34 over the side and deposited it onto one of ten flatbed trucks waiting on the wharf. Personnel strapped the DSRV down for its trip to Murmansk Airport, where several Anatov 124s, the Russian equivalent of American C-5 cargo transports, were waiting. Raila ran his fingers through his beard. The disassembly was the easy part. Once the Russian ice camp was set up and his equipment arrived, he would begin the painstaking process of reassembling everything, not to mention carving a hole through the ice big enough for AS-34. Whether the heavy Anatov 124s could land on the ice was beyond his expertise. However, getting the equipment onto the ice was someone else’s problem. He had enough of his own.
29
GADZHIYEVO, RUSSIA
In the normally crowded Northern Fleet base of Gadzhiyevo, only a single submarine remained tied to the pier. The banner affixed to the ship’s brow identified the submarine as K-157 Vepr, a third flight Shchuka-B nuclear attack submarine, dubbed Akula II by NATO. Inside the officers’ mess, Captain Second Rank Matvey Baczewski sat at the head of the table, flanked by twelve of his officers as they gathered for lunch.
It was unusually quiet during the meal, his officers sulking over their lack of orders. Every other attack and guided missile submarine had sortied to sea yesterday in search of Dolgoruky. But Vepr’s orders had been canceled without explanation. Northern Fleet had singled her out for some reason, deciding she, and she alone, was not worthy. It flew in the face of reason. Vepr was the most capable submarine in their squadron, consistently earning all departmental and ship awards.
Baczewski noticed the furtive glances from his officers, wondering if their Captain’s Polish heritage had anything to do with their canceled order. But Baczewski had done well in the Navy thus far; his ethnicity had not been an issue.
“Fleet Admiral, arriving.”
The announcement from topside over the submarine’s communication system caught Baczewski by surprise, and the Duty Officer almost choked as he swallowed a mouthful of tea. Lieutenant Chaban grabbed the napkin from his lap, wiping his face as he stood, almost knocking his chair over in the process. He looked toward his Captain, belatedly requesting to be excused from the table. Baczewski nodded and Chaban left
the wardroom, hurrying topside to greet the Russian Navy’s highest-ranking Admiral.
The other officers at the table stared at their Captain, some with their soup spoons suspended in the air, awaiting direction.
“Eat,” Baczewski said.
His officers remained frozen. An unannounced visit by the Fleet Admiral after canceled orders did not bode well. “Eat,” Baczewski repeated, adding a warm smile this time. “Admiral Ivanov and I are old friends. He was my commanding officer on my first submarine.”
The officers followed their Captain’s order and resumed eating. Baczewski pushed back from the table, then headed forward.
* * *
Baczewski waited in the upper level of Compartment One as Fleet Admiral Ivanov climbed down from topside.
“Welcome aboard Vepr, Fleet Admiral,” he said as Ivanov stepped off the ladder.
Ivanov did not reply. Instead, his eyes swept the compartment, examining the weapons in their stows and the condition of Baczewski’s ship. Baczewski repressed a smile. In twenty years, Ivanov hadn’t changed; he had been a demanding commanding officer. Finally, Ivanov’s eyes met Baczewski’s. But there was no warm greeting.
“Your stateroom,” was all he said.
* * *
Ivanov followed Baczewski into his stateroom, then closed and locked the door.
“To what honor do we owe your visit?” Baczewski asked, attempting to break the ice.
“It is no honor,” Ivanov replied. “Be seated.”
Baczewski took his seat as Ivanov settled into his. The Admiral reached into his overcoat and retrieved a sealed envelope, which he placed on the table between them. “Your orders.”
Vepr’s commanding officer opened the envelope, and as he read the letter, signed by the Admiral, mixed emotions surged through him—fear, and excitement. After a moment of reflection, he decided his reaction was as it should be for someone heading into battle.
“It is only a contingency measure,” the Admiral said. “And you may decline the order.”
Baczewski read the order again, evaluating the possible scenarios. There was no way to predict the risk to his crew. However, Ivanov would not have made the request without good reason. Baczewski folded the letter and placed it back into the envelope.
“I have no reservations, Admiral. I will do as you instruct.”
Ivanov nodded. “How soon can you get underway?”
“The reactor is shut down. By the time we start up, it will be dark. Unless it’s imperative we get underway tonight, I recommend we get underway first thing tomorrow morning.”
“You will depart tonight,” Ivanov answered.
The Admiral stood, and before turning toward the door, he said, “Keep the envelope in a safe place. If you are called into service and survive, you will need it to absolve yourself.”
* * *
Ivanov’s sedan was parked on the pier, not far from Vepr’s brow, the back door held open by his driver. Ivanov slid into the back seat of the warm sedan—the car engine and heater had been left running. The driver shut Ivanov’s door and climbed into the front seat a moment later. He looked at the Admiral through the rearview mirror. “Back to the airport, sir?”
“No,” Ivanov replied as he took his gloves off. “Pechenga.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
He put the car in gear and guided it down the narrow pier. Not long thereafter, the sedan pulled onto Route E105, headed northwest toward the far corner of the Kola Peninsula.
30
PECHENGA, RUSSIA
In the northwest corner of the Kola Peninsula, not far from the Norwegian and Finnish borders, Fleet Admiral Ivanov looked out his sedan window at the sprawling base in the Pechengsky District. Originally part of the Swedish Empire, the district was annexed by Russia in 1533, then ceded to Finland in 1920 after the Finnish civil war. However, after five million tons of nickel deposits were discovered in the region, the land was seized by the Soviet Union during 1939’s Winter War, then reclaimed by Finland during the Continuation War, joining Nazi Germany’s assault on Russia. The Soviet Union prevailed, however, and with tremendous underground wealth and a tumultuous history, it was not surprising there was a Russian military base in the remote rural district.
It was late in the afternoon, with the sun slipping toward the craggy peaks of the Pechenga Mountains, when Ivanov’s sedan reached the installation. The guard at the security gate checked the identification of the driver, then waved them through. The driver followed Ivanov’s directions, and pedestrian and vehicular traffic thinned as they headed deeper into the base, until no cars or soldiers were visible.
“Stop here,” the Admiral commanded.
The sedan ground to a halt in front of a four-story redbrick building. Ivanov stepped from the car and entered the facility. The quarterdeck watch saluted briskly, holding his salute until the Admiral dropped his.
“Inform Captain First Rank Klokov that Fleet Admiral Ivanov is here.”
The Starshina Third Class picked up the phone, and after speaking into the handset, hung up. “Captain Klokov is on his way.”
Captain First Rank Klokov was the commanding officer of Russian military unit 10511. Its official title was the 585th OMRP, which stood for Otdel’nyy Morskoy Razvedyvatel’nyy Punkt and translated in English to “Detached Naval Reconnaissance Point.” Outside Russia, however, the unit was known as Spetsnaz.
Spetsnaz were elite special forces, with several units being Marine Commandos, the equivalent of America’s Navy SEALs. There were over one hundred Spetsnaz units spread throughout the Russian military and intelligence organizations, but only a few met Ivanov’s needs. Marine Commandos would have been a suitable selection. However, those units were under the direct control of the military’s Main Intelligence Directorate, or GRU. Ivanov needed a unit under his command, and there was one unit that met the specifications for the mission Boris Chernov had outlined. The Polar Spetsnaz unit, based in Pechenga.
The Polar Spetsnaz brigade was trained and equipped for warfare in Arctic conditions, with DT-30P Vityaz tracked vehicles. However, against their potential adversary, they would not need their armored vehicles. Their training, small arms weapons, and helicopters would suffice.
Captain Klokov arrived at the quarterdeck and the two officers saluted each other. After the required greetings, Klokov led the Admiral down a hallway and into his office. Ivanov settled into a chair across from Klokov’s desk, then Klokov took his seat.
Klokov began with the expected pleasantries, but Ivanov interrupted him. “I have an assignment for your unit.”
Ivanov laid out the unit’s assignment and timeline. When he finished, Klokov said nothing while he worked through the various scenarios. He finally responded, addressing a critical issue.
“There will be many witnesses.”
“Minimize the casualties,” Ivanov replied, “but mission success is paramount.”
* * *
Ivanov departed without ceremony, then stepped into the back of his sedan. His driver awaited guidance, and Ivanov said, “Murmansk Airport.”
As the car headed toward the base exit, Ivanov reflected on what he had done today. The plan had been put in motion, but he could not predict the outcome or his fate if it failed. His career had been distinguished, guiding Russia’s Navy through its darkest times, and he’d been Fleet Admiral longer than anyone. As he leaned back, sinking deeper into the leather upholstery, he told himself again that the potential gain was worth risking what was left of an old man’s career.
31
USS NORTH DAKOTA
Commander Paul Tolbert stood in the deserted Control Room, the light from his battle lantern cutting through the darkness and reflecting off ice-coated consoles. Without power to run the ventilation heaters, temperature had stabilized at twenty-nine degrees Fahrenheit, matching that of the ocean beneath the polar ice cap. The watchstanders had wiped away the moisture condensing on the submarine’s metal surfaces, but now that temperature had dropp
ed below freezing, everything was coated in a thin sheen of ice.
As the temperature fell, hypothermia became an issue, and after conferring with North Dakota’s corpsman, Tolbert secured all watches except the essential ones in the engineering spaces, and sent everyone to their racks, where they were hibernating in their SEIE suits beneath every available blanket. Tolbert shined his light on the dead Ship Control Station. He had no idea what depth the ship was at, but was confident they had pumped off enough water to keep them pinned against the bottom of the ice cap.
He was about to head aft to check on Electrical Division’s progress again, but decided otherwise. There had been little else to do the last three days, and repairs were proceeding even slower than Chief Moran had predicted. As the temperature plummeted, the electricians lost dexterity in their fingers, affecting their ability to conduct the delicate repairs. Even though the SEIE suits came with flexible neoprene gloves, they were of no use since the work required bare hands.
Tolbert spotted a yellow glow creeping his way. A moment later, the Chief of the Boat, Master Chief Paul Murgo, entered the Control Room, a battle lantern in hand. Like Tolbert, he conducted frequent tours, checking on the condition of the men and ship.
Murgo shined his light across the frozen consoles.
“Ahh, there’s no place like home.” The Alaskan native seemed unfazed by the frigid temperatures. “What I wouldn’t give for a hundred and thirty pairs of red slippers, though,” he said. “Just click three times…”
“We’re not in Kansas, anymore, Toto,” Tolbert replied.
Murgo grinned.
Two more beams of light appeared, and the Engineer Officer and Auxiliary Division Chief entered Control. They joined Tolbert and Murgo around the navigation plot. In the dim light, Tolbert noticed worried looks.
Ice Station Nautilus Page 10