Ice Station Nautilus

by Rick Campbell

  “We’ve got another problem,” Lieutenant Commander Swenson said. “The potable water tanks have frozen. We can’t get any more water.”

  Of all the things they’d been worried about, Tolbert thought—air, power, and temperature—who would have thought water would be an issue? But submarines weren’t designed to operate at three degrees below freezing, and they had never had to think through the implications. He reviewed the different fluids aboard—seawater, pure water, diesel fuel, hydraulic fluid, and battery acid, and figured the only issues were the pure water–based systems.

  The reactor plant water would be fine. Even though the reactor was shut down, heat was still being generated from the radioactive decay of fission by-products, and Tolbert could feel the welcome warmth emanating from the bulkheads as he passed through the Reactor Compartment Tunnel. That left the Engine Room systems.

  “If potable water is freezing,” Tolbert said, “the Condensate and Feed systems will also freeze, if they haven’t already done so.”

  Swenson replied, “I just checked Condensate and Feed by opening some of the drains. The feedwater piping near the Reactor Compartment is still above freezing, but everything else is frozen.”

  They had realized the problem too late. As water froze, it would expand and potentially crack piping or separate joints.

  “Any evidence of damage?” Tolbert asked.

  “Nothing so far. I think we’re okay in the Feed System, as that piping is designed for high pressure so it can force water into the steam generator, but the Condensate System is low pressure. We could have some issues there. We won’t know for sure until we thaw everything out. Which brings up another problem. We have to thaw everything out before we start up.”

  Tolbert realized the implication immediately. They couldn’t start up with frozen Condensate and Feedwater systems, nor did he want to start spinning a turbine with ice formations inside. He would have to warm everything up first, placing an additional drain on the battery. His decision to open the battery breaker had been wise, preserving the remaining energy. They were going to need every bit of it.

  “We’ll restore the ventilation heaters and warm up the Engine Room before start-up,” Tolbert said. “Our immediate problem, however, is water. Any recommendations?”

  “Chief Johnson has one,” Swenson replied.

  Tolbert turned to Larry “Big Red” Johnson, the tall A-Gang Chief with red hair and a temper to match. Johnson answered, “As the Eng said, the metal near the reactor is still warm and some feedwater hasn’t frozen. I had Chief Scalise check, and the Pure Water Tank hasn’t frozen either.”

  Tolbert considered Johnson’s idea. Pure Water was used as reactor coolant. But as its name implied, it was pure water, nothing more. “Great idea, Chief. Use the Pure Water Tank for drinking water. Check the tank temperature with a surface pyrometer every hour, and if it drops to thirty-three degrees, drain the remaining water into containers and store them in the Reactor Compartment Tunnel.”

  With the water problem solved, Tolbert turned to Master Chief Murgo, “How are we doing on carbon dioxide?”

  “We’ve got one more day of CO2 absorbers left,” Murgo replied. “After that, we’ll have to start a scrubber, whether we’ve got a turbine generator up or not. It’s your call as to when, but Doc recommends we keep CO2 below one percent.”

  Tolbert wasn’t looking forward to the decision. Running a scrubber would drain the battery, leaving insufficient power for start-up, which was their only hope of long-term survival. It was a Catch-22 situation. Start a scrubber to save their lives, but seal their fate in the process.

  They needed to restore power, which was held up by the Condensate System repairs.

  “How much longer, Eng?”

  Swenson replied, “My best guess is … twenty-four hours.”

  32

  K-535 YURY DOLGORUKY

  In the upper level of Compartment One, Captain Nicholai Stepanov pulled himself to his feet, leaving behind his Chief Ship Starshina, asleep on the deck beside him with his back against a torpedo. He retrieved a water bottle from inside his survival suit and took a small sip. Now that temperature in the compartment had dropped below zero degrees Centigrade, he kept the bottle inside his suit to keep the water from freezing. He took a small sip for good reason; they had enough water bottles for each man to receive one more.

  Stepanov surveyed the dimly lit compartment. Aside from the faint glow from Captain Kovaleski’s flashlight, tending to Stepanov’s still unconscious First Officer, it was dark in upper level. Had he checked his watch, it would have told him it was 7 a.m., time to begin a new day. But only a few men were stirring. He figured that was best, minimizing the production of carbon dioxide. They had enough air regeneration cartridges to last another day.

  Stepanov reached for his lantern and began his round. He dropped down to middle level, where the men huddled around the air regeneration unit. He checked each man, talking for a moment with those awake. He did his best to project a positive outlook, but had few encouraging words. He could not hide the obvious facts from his men; Russia would not notice Dolgoruky was missing for another two months, and so far, there was no sign anyone was looking for the American submarine or that it had even sunk nearby.

  He finished his round, then returned to upper level and checked on his First Officer, still in his makeshift bed on an empty torpedo stow. Kovaleski was tending to him, and as the Medical Officer turned to greet the approaching light, Stepanov could see the dark circles under his eyes. Unlike the rest of Dolgoruky’s crew, Kovaleski was exhausted. He made constant rounds through the compartment, checking on the men and deciding who needed more time around the air regeneration unit based on their symptoms.

  “How is he doing?” Stepanov asked.

  Kovaleski glanced at Pavlov before answering, “There is no change.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Without knowing the extent of his injuries, I cannot tell.”

  Stepanov sensed the helplessness in his Medical Officer’s voice. He and Kovaleski were in similar situations; both were responsible for the crew, and each knew the almost certain outcome.

  “You are doing an excellent job,” Stepanov said. “We are fortunate to have you as our Medical Officer.”

  Kovaleski simply nodded.

  Stepanov returned to his spot beside his Chief Ship Starshina and slid down to the deck, placing his back against the cold metal skin of the torpedo again, and his emergency lantern beside him. He zipped his exposure suit tight around his face, then turned off the light.

  33

  ICE CAMP NAUTILUS

  The bright afternoon sun reflected off the white landscape, but Vance Verbeck didn’t notice inside the windowless plywood command hut. He was leaning over Alyssa Martin’s shoulder, examining the display for the above-ice sonar array, spread atop the polar ice cap a few miles to the north. Sitting beside Alyssa, Scott Walworth spoke into his microphone, transmitting again over RATS, their Remote Acoustic Transmission System, lowered through the hole in the command hut floor, then listened for a response.

  They had been transmitting on the command hut RATS throughout the night and into the morning, as well as on a second RATS deployed with the above-ice array, its hydrophone lowered through a hole drilled in the ice each time the array was moved. After transmitting on RATS, they would listen for a response on the array.

  The size of their above-ice array had been quadrupled for this trip to the polar ice cap, cobbling together their primary and backup arrays and adding in the spare hydrophones, expanding their search area from four to sixteen square miles. Still, they had 120,000 miles to cover, which would take a mere 7,500 searches. At their current pace, they could conduct six searches a day, which meant it would take three and a half years to search the entire area. Quite an improvement from their original eighty-year estimate, but a sobering fact nonetheless.

  Verbeck checked the map taped to the command hut wall. Their plan was to advanc
e the array straight north from North Dakota’s last known position until they reached the edge of the Barents Shelf, then head back toward Camp Nautilus on either the east or west side.

  Alyssa looked up at Verbeck. “There’s no response. I’m ready to move the array.”

  34

  USS NORTH DAKOTA

  Paul Tolbert stepped into the Reactor Compartment Tunnel, picking his way through the mattresses jammed on the passageway deck. After temperature stabilized at three degrees below zero, hypothermia had become an issue, and the Doc recommended the most affected personnel sleep in the warmest compartment. Tolbert examined his men as he passed through; they were bundled in SEIE suits and green foul-weather jackets, then layered beneath as many blankets the rest of the crew could spare. So far so good, though. No one had suffered permanent injuries.

  Tolbert entered the Engine Room, then climbed down into Engine Room Forward. He stopped beside the Engineer and Chief Moran as Petty Officers Brandon and Thompson completed the final assembly of the controller and condensate pump. The repairs had been completed none too soon; they had just expended their last carbon dioxide absorber.

  Thompson stepped back from the controller. He didn’t bother trying to close the cabinet cover. With the number of jumpers installed, bypassing bad circuit cards and cutting in crude replacements, the cover wouldn’t close. Brandon finished assembling the condensate pump, then stood, stretching out his back. All eyes turned to Chief Moran, who had inspected the work as it progressed.

  “We’re ready to give it a whirl, Captain.”

  They couldn’t run the pump for long, because the condensate system was still frozen and there was no water to pump, but they could determine if it worked.

  Tolbert turned to the Engineer. “Shut the battery and port condensate breakers.”

  The Engineer gave the order to Petty Officer Brandon, who donned a sound-powered phone headset and relayed the orders to Engine Room Upper Level and the Forward Compartment, where electricians were standing by to shut the breakers.

  A moment later, Brandon reported, “The battery and port condensate breakers are shut.”

  The three electricians turned to examine the controller, hoping for a lack of smoke. There was no visible problem, so Brandon approached the condensate pump switch, turning to his Chief for direction.

  Tolbert felt the tension in the air.

  “Put it in slow speed,” Moran ordered.

  Brandon reached out and rested his hand on the switch for a moment, as if saying a silent prayer, then twisted it to SLOW.

  The pump lurched to life with a squeal that quickly faded, replaced by a steady whirr. After thirty seconds, Moran said, “Secure the pump.”

  Brandon switched the pump off and it coasted to a halt.

  “Well done, men,” Tolbert said. “Once we get the ice cream machine up, you guys get first dibs.”

  The other men grinned.

  “I’ll take a long hot shower,” Brandon said.

  “You got it,” Tolbert said. “Speaking of hot”—he turned to Lieutenant Commander Swenson—“restore Engine Room ventilation and heaters. Let me know once everything has thawed and you’re ready to commence start-up.”

  The Engineer acknowledged, and Tolbert left Engine Room Forward, stopping in Maneuvering to check on the battery. Electrician’s Mate Second Class Allen Terrill was the sole person on watch again, seated at the Electric Plant Control Panel with a worried look. Tolbert followed his eyes to the battery meters, and was shocked at the low voltage.

  Tolbert’s bubble of excitement over repairing the condensate pump had been burst. Battery capacity had dropped from thirty percent when they opened the battery breaker to only fifteen percent now.

  “We’ve lost capacity because the battery cooled down after we open-circuited it,” Terrill said. “Maybe it will recover as it warms back up, giving us a few more hours than it appears.”

  Tolbert hoped Terrill was right.

  35

  USS NORTH DAKOTA

  Eight hours later, Tolbert returned to the crowded Engine Room, shielding his eyes from the light as his pupils adjusted. They were getting close to commencing reactor start-up, so essential equipment had been energized, along with a portion of the Engine Room lights. Now that the ventilation heaters in the compartment had been restored, every member of North Dakota’s crew congregated in the warm compartment, thawing out after living in a sub-zero climate for the last week. However, even though the Engine Room had been heated to eighty degrees, it was taking longer than expected to melt the ice in the Condensate and Feed systems. As he reached Maneuvering, he almost didn’t want to receive the update on the battery’s status.

  Tolbert entered a fully manned Maneuvering this time, with the most experienced personnel on watch. With the battery draining ever faster as voltage lowered, they might have to take a few shortcuts during the Engine Room start-up, so the Engineer Officer had stationed his most senior personnel in Maneuvering and throughout the Engine Room. Lieutenant Vaugh, the most experienced Engineering Officer of the Watch, sat at his console behind the two enlisted watchstanders: Electrician’s Mate Art Thompson as the Electrical Operator, and Electronics Technician Joe Hipp, who was seated at the Propulsion Plant Control Panel.

  Lieutenant Commander Swenson joined Tolbert in Maneuvering, his eyes focusing on the battery voltage and discharge rate. Battery capacity was down to five percent.

  He turned to Tolbert, “The Feed System is ready to go, but Condensate is still frozen in a few spots.” He glanced at the battery meters. “We can’t wait any longer. I recommend we start up now, and by the time we’re ready to open the steam stops, Condensate should be ready.”

  Tolbert concurred. “Commence reactor start-up.”

  Swenson passed the order to the Engineering Officer of the Watch, who initiated the procedure.

  Once all prerequisites were verified, the Propulsion Plant Operator announced, “Latching Group One rods,” then he twisted the shim switch to the IN position while applying latching current. A moment later, he announced, “Withdrawing Group One rods,” then shifted the shim switch to the OUT position.

  Tolbert watched the battery discharge rate rise as the Control Rod Drive Mechanisms atop the reactor pulled the control rods upward. Petty Officer Hipp alternated between control rod groups, withdrawing each set in stages as he monitored reactor start-up rate.

  A short while later, he announced, “The reactor is critical,” meaning the fission rate inside the reactor had become self-sustaining, no longer overcome by control rod neutron absorption. Hipp continued withdrawing the control rods, and a few minutes later announced, “The reactor is in the power range.”

  Power had been increased to one percent and the reactor was now generating heat. But they still had a long way to go. They needed to heat the plant several hundred degrees to its normal operating temperature, but could heat up only so fast. Submarine reactors were pressurized water reactors, meaning the water inside was kept at extremely high pressure to keep it from boiling, which would interfere with heat transfer from the fuel cells.

  Because of the high pressure, submarine reactors were built with one-foot-thick Inconel walls. At extremely low temperatures, the reactor vessel could brittle-fracture if the thermal stress across the metal was too great. They had to warm the reactor vessel slowly. From a temperature this low, it would be several hours before the plant was hot enough to generate steam.

  Tolbert’s eyes went to the battery meters. It was going to be close.

  * * *

  It was barely an hour later when Tolbert received the bad news. He was still in Maneuvering with the Engineer when the Electrical Operator reported, “Battery cell reversal has begun.”

  North Dakota’s battery was comprised of 126 cells connected in series. There were minor manufacturing differences in the four-foot-tall, two-thousand-pound cells and some would deplete faster than others. When a cell depleted, it would reverse, and begin charging itself at the ex
pense of others. They needed to disconnect reversed cells quickly to minimize the power drained from the remaining good cells.

  The Engineer Officer ordered, “Get me a readout of all cells.” A minute later, Vaugh handed the Engineer a printout. Swenson circled a few readings with his pen, then handed it to Tolbert. Cell eighty-nine had reversed, and there were six other cells whose voltage was lower than the rest and wouldn’t be far behind.

  “I recommend we jumper out these seven cells.”

  Tolbert agreed. However, they had a problem. The battery breaker was usually opened before jumpering a cell, to eliminate current flow while personnel were inside the cramped Battery Well. Unfortunately, the battery was their only source of power, which meant he would have to send someone into the Battery Well with the breaker still shut.

  The Engineer reached the same conclusion. “Request permission to jumper out cells without opening the battery breaker.”

  * * *

  In Forward Compartment Lower Level, Chief Moran held the battle lantern in the darkness while Petty Officer Tim Brandon stripped the SEIE suit from his body, then removed all metal accoutrements from his clothing. No belt buckles, metal-framed glasses, military insignia—nothing metal would go into the Battery Well aside from the tools and cables needed to jumper out the bad cells. However, the tools and cables were rubber coated, with bare metal exposed only at the ends, so he could handle them without getting electrocuted.

  Brandon folded the paper Moran had given him, listing the cells to be jumpered out, and slid it into his pocket, then inventoried his tools and jumper cables. “I’m ready,” he said.

  Moran spoke into his headset. “Maneuvering, Forward Compartment Lower Level. Request permission to enter the Battery Well. The battery breaker is still shut.”

  Seconds later, Moran replied, “Enter the Battery Well, aye.”