Ice Station Nautilus

by Rick Campbell

  “Thank you, Don,” the president said. “Keep me informed.”

  After he hung up, he addressed his staff. “We’ve located North Dakota and the crew is safe. They have power and life support, and enough food to last several months. The issue is propulsion. They collided with a Russian submarine and damaged their main and backup propulsion systems and are stuck under the ice. The Navy is working on a plan to tow the submarine to a shipyard for repairs.”

  The president paused, and Christine waited for him to explain the reason for his expressions during the end of the call.

  “The Russian submarine was also damaged and sank nearby,” the president continued. “Two of the compartments are flooded and they’ve lost power, and they’re using emergency supplies to provide oxygen and remove carbon dioxide from the air. The best estimate is that they have a day and a half left before the air becomes toxic.

  “We’ve shifted the focus of our rescue effort to the Russian crew,” the president added. “However, the Russians are also setting up an ice camp a half-mile from ours, preparing for a rescue attempt of their own. The peculiar part is that they started setting up camp before we learned the Russian submarine sank nearby. It’s apparent they’ve known all along their submarine sank and haven’t told us.”

  “I thought the Russians learned their lesson after the Kursk debacle,” Hardison said. “Why would they keep the sinking of their submarine a secret and risk not only the crew, but another public affairs nightmare?”

  “The submarine is Yury Dolgoruky?” Christine asked.

  “It is,” the president said. “North Dakota trailed her under the ice cap.”

  “The Russians act oddly whenever their Borei class submarine or Bulava missile is involved. They’re hiding something from us,” Christine said. “The last thing they want is for us to rescue Dolgoruky’s crew, then take a walkabout aboard their submarine, loaded with Bulava missiles.”

  “I agree,” the president replied. “Your task is to figure out what they’re hiding. In the meantime, I’ll inform Kalinin that we’ve found their submarine and will do our best to rescue its crew.”

  Hardison asked, “How are you going to broach the issue of whether they’ve known their submarine sank and kept it from us?”

  The president replied, “I’ll state the facts and see what he says, then take it from there.”

  He checked his watch. It was 5 p.m. in Moscow, and Kalinin would likely still be in the Kremlin. The president picked up the phone and directed his secretary to put him through. A moment later, the call was connected, and the president put it on speaker.

  The two men exchanged pleasantries, and then the president said, “Yuri, I’m sorry to call you unexpectedly, but I have important information to share.”

  “It is not a problem,” Kalinin replied with the same light accent Christine remembered from their meeting in Moscow. “What is the issue?”

  “We’ve located our submarine under the ice cap. It collided with one of your submarines, which sank nearby.”

  “I am already aware,” Kalinin replied. “We have been monitoring ISMERLO and learned of the collision an hour ago. We are preparing to rescue our crew.”

  Christine was surprised at Kalinin’s matter-of-fact response. No accusations. An American submarine had been following Dolgoruky and disaster had occurred, but the expected finger pointing had not commenced. However, there was no way Russia learned only an hour ago that their submarine had sunk. The president decided to press the issue.

  “I noticed you established an ice camp near ours before we learned your submarine had sunk. Why is that?”

  Kalinin replied without hesitation, “We were preparing to help. Our submarine rescue equipment is designed to handle the harsh Arctic temperatures, and we were uncertain of your equipment. There must have been a breakdown in communication, and our offer of assistance was not relayed.”

  The president looked at Christine, who overrode her impulse to mouth the words, “He’s lying.”

  “Thank you,” the president replied. “I appreciate your assistance. We will do the same. If we complete preparations first, we will rescue Dolgoruky’s crew.”

  This time, there was hesitation on Kalinin’s end. After a few seconds, he replied, “Your assistance is not required. I will contact you if circumstances change. Thank you for the call.”

  Without another word, Kalinin hung up.

  The president turned off the speakerphone. “That was interesting,” he said.

  And consistent, Christine thought. Any time Dolgoruky was involved in the conversation, the Russian response was irrational. There was only one way to figure out what was going on. She would need help, though. Greg Hartfield and Stu Berman, the ONI experts on the Borei class submarine and Bulava missile, would be a start. Plus Brackman. As a former commanding officer of a ballistic missile submarine, his insight might prove valuable.

  “Mr. President,” Christine said. “I’d like to visit our ice camp, and bring Captain Brackman and two ONI experts with me.”

  “What would you do once you got there?” the president asked.

  “A walkabout.” Christine smiled, then added, “If we complete preparations first and rescue the Russian crew, we could then return and … take a look around.”

  As the president considered Christine’s request, Hardison said, “That’s not a bad idea. If the opportunity presents itself, I recommend we have a team of experts board Dolgoruky.”

  After a long moment, the president replied, “Coordinate with ONI to assemble a team, and if we rescue Dolgoruky’s crew, go back aboard and check things out. I want to find out what they’re hiding.”

  48

  ICE CAMP BARNEO

  Darkness had descended over the wintry landscape, temperatures dipping into the negatives as Julius Raila, Russia’s Chief of Search and Rescue Services, took a sip of hot tea. He was seated in his berthing hut, reviewing his notes scribbled on sheets of paper scattered across the table’s surface. There were no manuals for stripping the rescue equipment from Mikhail Rudnitsky and reassembling it atop the polar ice cap. As he scratched his cheek through his thick gray beard, he realized there was an American term for what he was doing. He was winging it.

  Once the equipment was reassembled, he was confident it would work properly, even in the subzero temperatures. What concerned Raila was lowering their submersible through the three-meter-thick ice after digging a five-by-fifteen-meter wide hole. They had to excavate over two hundred tons of ice.

  As Raila wondered whether the equipment could withstand the rigors of digging through multiyear ice as hard as concrete, his attention was captured by the whirr of helicopter rotors. But unlike the heavy beat from the MI-26 cargo helicopters, the sound was a soft purr. He donned his jacket and opened the door, examining the heliport on the east side of camp.

  As the helicopters approached, the bright lights around the landing pad were extinguished. In the faint illumination from the remaining ice camp lights, Raila watched the first of four white helicopters land and a dozen soldiers in white Arctic gear exit. It took only fifteen seconds and the helicopter lifted off, settling to rest in the snow twenty meters to the east. One by one, the three other helicopters landed, each off-loading another dozen men, although the fourth helicopter off-loaded two extra soldiers, whom Raila assumed were the unit’s senior officers, for a total of fifty.

  Raila watched the camp director, Demil Poleski, greet the men and direct them toward their berthing huts. When Raila returned his attention to the heliport, he had difficulty locating the white helicopters blending into the landscape. As he closed the door, he wondered why a Polar Spetsnaz unit had been sent to Camp Barneo.

  49

  SVALBARD, NORWAY

  Christine leaned back in her seat aboard the C-32 executive transport, the military version of Boeing’s 757, looking out the window as the aircraft descended. The C-32, normally used by the vice president, was designated Air Force One whenever the president
was aboard, or Air Force Two when the vice president was being flown. However, with only Christine, Brackman, and twelve ONI personnel as passengers today, neither call sign applied.

  Seven hours earlier, Christine had departed Joint Base Andrews just outside Washington. Pam Bruce at ONI had assembled a team of experts on short notice; there was no lack of volunteers. Stu Berman and Greg Hartfield sat behind Christine and Brackman, with both men gazing out the window while Brackman sat in an aisle seat beside Christine, his eyes closed.

  They were flying over Spitsbergen, the largest and only permanently inhabited island in the Norwegian archipelago of Svalbard. Through a break in the clouds, Christine spotted the town of Longyearbyen, the world’s northernmost city, with a population of two thousand. In Norwegian, Longyearbyen translated to Longyear City; the town was founded by John Longyear, an American who established a mining operation on the archipelago in 1906. A more appropriate name, however, would have been Longnight City.

  In late October, the sun sets for the last time each year, remaining below the horizon and shrouding Longyearbyen in the Arctic night for almost four months. Thankfully, it was mid-March and the sun rose at the respectable time of 6 a.m. In another month, the Arctic day would begin, the sun not setting until late August.

  As they prepared to land and begin the final leg of their journey to the polar ice camp, Christine figured the first-class seats would be the last creature comforts she would experience for a while. A few minutes later, the C-32 touched down at Svalbard Airport and coasted to a halt opposite the terminal and adjacent hangar. While she waited for the staircase, she examined the scenery through the cabin window. The airport was running out of parking space.

  Lining one side of the runway were fifteen C-17 aircraft, their ramps down and cargo bays empty, while a CH-53E Super Stallion, the U.S. military’s most powerful cargo helicopter, hovered above the pavement, attached to the last load of equipment. In addition to the American aircraft, a dozen Russian Anton AN-74s were parked alongside the runway, their ramps also lowered and cargo bays empty. It looked like Svalbard Airport had become a staging point for both countries establishing ice camps.

  Christine nudged Brackman and his eyes opened. After a glance out the window, he stood and pulled Christine’s luggage from the overhead, then his. They donned their coats and Christine headed toward the front of the cabin, followed by Brackman and the ONI team. The cabin door opened and a blast of frigid air hit Christine. As she descended the staircase, several four-person transporters approached, stopping near the base of the stairs. The driver exited the first vehicle and greeted Christine as she stepped onto the tarmac.

  “Good morning, Ms. O’Connor,” he said loudly over the whine of the C-32’s jet engines. “I’m Bobby Pleasant, director of the Arctic Submarine Lab. I’ll get your team geared up for your stay at the ice camp and send you on your way.”

  Christine thanked him and climbed aboard with Brackman and Berman, and the vehicle took off with a jolt. Pleasant spoke into a handheld radio as the transporter curved toward the hangar, and the forty-foot-tall double doors slid open. Inside, men were placing equipment on cargo pallets and rolling fifty-gallon drums toward awaiting aircraft. There was a row of offices on the left side, and along the back wall, arranged on hanging racks and shelves, was an assortment of winter clothing. Pleasant stopped beside a rack of black jackets, each with a fur-lined hood, an American flag on the left shoulder, and the Arctic Submarine Lab patch on the right breast. After they exited the vehicle, Pleasant eyed Christine, then pulled a jacket from the rack and handed it to her.

  “Try this on.”

  Christine removed her coat and slipped into the thick insulated jacket. The arm length was right, but it was loose fitting otherwise.

  “It’s a little big,” she said.

  “It’s perfect,” Pleasant said. “Once you’re bundled up in the rest of your gear, there won’t be extra room.”

  He handed jackets to Brackman and Berman, who tried them on. After a nod of satisfaction, Pleasant sorted through a box and retrieved three black leather name tags with gold lettering on the front and Velcro on the back. He pressed one tag onto Berman’s jacket, over the corresponding Velcro patch on the left side, then slapped the second onto Brackman’s jacket. He stopped by Christine and was about to press her name tag onto her jacket when he pulled up short and handed the tag to her instead. The Velcro patch was over her left breast.

  “You should probably put this on,” he said.

  Christine smiled. “No problem.”

  Pleasant led them down the line of clothing, explaining what the items were as he piled them in their arms. “On the polar ice cap, you’ll wear three layers of clothing: the parka and bib overalls, a mid-layer fleece pullover and pants; and a base layer of thermal underwear.”

  He added a balaclava to keep her head and neck warm, gloves, and four pairs of wool socks. Finally, he stopped by a bin and pulled out three green duffle bags.

  “Stow your gear in these,” he said, “then put on two pairs of socks.”

  After donning the socks, Christine tried on a pair of boots Pleasant provided, which were a perfect fit.

  “There’s an empty office where you change into your gear. Hop in.”

  The transporter took off with a jolt again, leaving the rest of the ONI team behind as they accumulated their clothing, and Pleasant pulled up to the empty office.

  “When you change,” he said, “turn your cell phones off. They won’t work on the ice cap. No signal. We use special Iridium phones.”

  * * *

  Once Christine and the two men were properly clad, Pleasant guided them toward an aircraft with its rear ramp lowered, explaining the Casa C-212 twin turboprop cargo plane would take them to the ice camp. There were no executive transports; everything hauled cargo. Inside the aircraft were a dozen fifty-gallon drums, six on each side, leaving the center aisle clear. At the front of the cargo bay were two bench seats facing rearward.

  Pleasant disappeared into the cockpit and reemerged with a man who looked like a backwoodsman, with a bushy beard, knit cap, sweatshirt, and coveralls.

  “This is Frank Salimbene, your pilot.”

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” Salimbene said, breaking into a grin as he gestured to the bench seats, outfitted with thin, worn pads. “We’ve got a two-hour trip. If you want,” he added, “I’ve got an extra seat in the cockpit, if anyone wants to join me.

  Stu Berman immediately perked up but didn’t say anything, and Christine could tell he was waiting for her to accept or decline.

  “Why don’t you join Frank?” Christine said.

  Berman smiled. “Thanks, Ms. O’Connor.”

  “Well,” Pleasant said, “that wraps things up on my end. You’ll be in good hands from here on out. The rest of your team will follow in additional aircraft.”

  Pleasant shook everyone’s hands, then headed down the cargo bay ramp. Christine and Brackman deposited their duffle bags on the bench seats on one side of the aircraft, then settled into their seats on the other side, with Christine by the window and Brackman along the aisle again. A moment later, the ramp lifted upward, and she felt the vibration in the deck as the twin turboprops began spinning. There were six small portals on each side of the cargo bay, and Christine looked out the nearest one as the Casa exited the hangar, then taxied onto the airstrip and took off.

  This time of year, the Svalbard archipelago was ice-locked, and it was only a few minutes before the island of Spitsbergen faded in the distance, leaving nothing but a white landscape. As far as she could see, there was nothing but flat ice, interrupted only by ragged ridges that marked where the edges of the ice floes met. From their altitude of only a few hundred feet, the ridges looked like raised ant trails, wandering randomly across the polar ice.

  * * *

  The drone of the Casa’s turboprop engines filled Christine’s ears as it plodded steadily northeast toward the ice camp. In the unheated cargo bay of the air
craft, Christine’s left shoulder began to ache. She tried massaging it through her thick jacket, but her efforts had no effect. Brackman noticed and watched for a while, then spoke.

  “Does it always hurt?”

  “Only when it’s cold and my muscles tighten up.”

  Brackman glanced at her legs. “How’s the thigh?”

  “It’s fine.”

  The aching in her shoulder and Brackman’s questions pulled Christine’s thoughts into the past, when she had been trapped in Beijing’s Great Hall of the People during China’s war with the United States. She had left a trail of six bodies, but the seventh and final death had always been difficult to reconcile. With bullets in her thigh and shoulder, and blood running down her face from a gash in her head, she had been in no mood for negotiation. Christine knew she was impulsive and it sometimes got her into trouble, but this time she had put a bullet in the head of a defenseless man who knelt at her feet.

  She had replayed the scene in her mind a thousand times, wondering how different choices would have turned out. As she relived the encounter, a lump formed in her throat. She glanced at the hand that pulled the trigger, then looked out the small window, trying to divert her mind from what she had done.

  Christine felt Brackman’s hand on hers, and she turned and met his eyes.

  “You did the right thing,” he said. “Stop second-guessing yourself.”

  Brackman had somehow known where her thoughts were. In the heat of the moment, it had seemed justified; the lives of many Americans were at stake. In hindsight, she wasn’t sure. It was murder, despite the justification.

  “I can’t,” she replied.

  Brackman left his hand on hers, and Christine wondered if there was something more to his gesture. She recalled his kiss in the Pentagon when USS Kentucky’s last warhead was destroyed, a kiss that lingered too long for a simple congratulation. However, Brackman had given no other indication he was interested in her. That was fine with Christine. A romance with another member of the president’s staff would have complicated her life.