Harrison slowed the SDV, allowing for a more thorough inspection, and Oliver began taking pictures. The welds attaching the bottom of the propulsor to North Dakota’s hull had broken and the entire propulsor tilted upward a few degrees.
Oliver gave Harrison a thumbs-up and Harrison maneuvered the SDV for a look at the other side of the submarine. There was no damage, and Harrison made a pass beneath North Dakota, starting from the bow. There was a ten-foot-wide gash running along the keel. The Outboard fairing was mangled and jammed into the adjacent section.
Between the bent propulsor and damaged Outboard fairing, there was no quick fix for North Dakota’s propulsion problem; repairs in a drydock would be required. Harrison turned the SDV around and headed toward Michigan.
* * *
Harrison lined up for an approach from astern, gliding over the submarine’s Missile Deck. The SDV coasted to a hover behind the Dry Deck Shelter, slowly sinking until it came to rest with a gentle bump on the rails. Two divers on each side latched the SDV to the rails, and Harrison and Oliver exited the mini-sub. The SDV was retracted inside, and once the divers joined Harrison and Oliver in the shelter, the large chamber door shut with a faint thud. Red lights flicked on and an air pocket appeared at the top of the chamber, the water level gradually lowering.
When the water level fell below their necks, the two SEALs removed their face masks and rebreathers and Harrison led the way into the transfer trunk and down into the missile tube, exiting into Missile Compartment Second Level. Wilson and McNeil were waiting for them in the Battle Management Center behind the Control Room, where Oliver extracted the memory card from his camera and inserted it into one of the SEAL laptops.
Wilson and McNeil reviewed the images, agreeing with Harrison’s assessment; North Dakota’s propulsion was down hard. Wilson entered Control and picked up the underwater telephone microphone, relaying what he had learned to North Dakota and Ice Station Nautilus.
52
K-157 VEPR
“Underwater communications, bearing zero-zero-five, designated Hydroacoustic two-four.”
Captain Second Rank Matvey Baczewski, seated in the Captain’s chair in the Central Command Post, listened intently to Hydroacoustic’s report. As the announcement faded from the speakers, his Watch Officer, Captain Lieutenant Dolinski, responded as he was trained.
“Steersman. Left full rudder, steady course two-seven-five.”
They had detected an underwater transmission almost dead ahead. The range was unknown, but underwater communications did not travel far. It was prudent to turn away and give fire control an opportunity to determine how close they were.
“Hydroacoustic, Command Post. Send bearings manually to fire control,” Dolinski ordered. As Vepr turned to port, Dolinski followed up. “What language is the underwater communication in?”
“English.”
Baczewski stood and joined his First Officer, Captain Third Rank Petr Lukov, at the navigation table. They were four kilometers from the American ice camp.
“Command Post, Hydroacoustic. Detect a second transmission of underwater communications, bearing zero-one-eight, designated Hydroacoustic two-five.”
Dolinski acknowledged the report, then Baczewski called out, “Hydroacoustic, Captain. Put the communications on speaker.”
The Hydroacoustic Party Leader complied, and the warbly sound of underwater communications filled the Central Command Post air. Although Baczewski didn’t understand English, his First Officer did, and Petr Lukov listened carefully to the transmission, then informed the submarine’s captain of its content.
There was a second American submarine under the ice—a guided missile submarine carrying Navy SEALs. They had inspected North Dakota, reporting that the submarine’s propulsion was severely damaged and would require drydock repairs.
So far, everything was correlating with the intelligence Baczewski had been provided. He checked his submarine’s speed and depth. Vepr had slowed to five knots as they approached the American ice camp, and was at 150 meters, well below the ice keels. He had secured their under-ice sonar, and the only emissions they were making were an occasional ping from their secure bottomsounder.
No one would detect Vepr’s approach.
53
K-329 SEVERODVINSK
“Central Command Post, Hydroacoustic. Hold a new submerged contact on the towed array, designated Hydroacoustic four-seven, bearing three-three-zero. Classified Shchuka-B nuclear attack submarine.”
The Hydroacoustic Party Leader followed up a moment later, “Command Post, Hydroacoustic. Contact tonals match K-157 Vepr.”
Captain Buffanov stood at the back of the Central Command Post, appreciating the advanced tactical systems of his Yasen class submarine. The sonar on older submarines would not have detected the quiet third flight Shchuka-B submarine to the northwest.
While traveling under the ice, Buffanov had received a third Commanding Officer Only message, informing him of Vepr’s presence and assigning the waterspace around the American ice camp to Vepr. Severodvinsk would remain at the boundary until the prescribed time. He checked his submarine’s speed and position; they had slowed to five knots and were less than a kilometer from Vepr’s water.
According to the last satellite image received, there was a surface ridge a few hundred meters ahead. Where there was a surface ridge, there would also be an ice keel, although without his under-ice sonar running, he would not know how deep it went. That wasn’t critical, however. It was almost assuredly deep enough to hide behind.
Buffanov addressed his Watch Officer. “Prepare to ice pick.”
Captain Lieutenant Ronin initiated the process. “Steersman, all stop.” As Severodvinsk coasted to a halt, he gave the next order. “Topsounder, determine distance to ice canopy.”
The Michman energized the topsounder, sending a single ping from the conning tower hydrophone toward the ice. He reported, “Distance to ice is one hundred twenty meters.”
Ronin followed up. “Compensation Officer, engage Hovering. Set depth to thirty meters.”
Severodvinsk rose toward the ice, settling out at a depth of thirty meters.
He turned to his commanding officer. “Captain, we are ready to ice pick.”
“Very well,” Buffanov replied. “Set Hovering to twenty meters. Limit vertical velocity to five meters per minute.”
Ronin relayed the order and Severodvinsk rose slowly upward, impacting the ice with a dull thud two minutes later. He checked the status of the equipment in the conning tower; as expected, there was no damage.
Severodvinsk’s floating wire drooped and they lost sync with the radio broadcast. “Communication Post, Captain. Shift to the conning tower VLF antenna.”
Radio acknowledged, and moment later reported, “Command Post, Communications. In sync with the VLF broadcast.”
Buffanov settled into his chair in the Command Post. Severodvinsk was resting against the polar ice cap, just outside Vepr’s waterspace, in continuous communications.
The only thing left to do now was wait.
54
K-157 VEPR
“Your orders, sir?”
Vepr’s Watch Officer, Captain Lieutenant Dolinski, stood behind the fire control consoles, waiting for the expected order from Captain Baczewski. The tactical situation could not have been more ideal. Both American submarines were motionless, hovering beneath the ice cap, and would be easy prey for a salvo of torpedoes.
While Vepr loitered outside the Marginal Ice Zone, Baczewski had drilled his officers on the capabilities of their potential adversaries, but after receiving the second Commanding Officer Only message, he had concentrated on only one class of submarine. Their target was the SSGN, the less capable of the two submarines.
During the conversion of the first four Ohio class submarines into SSGNs, the United States had modernized their tactical systems. From a weaponry standpoint, the guided missile submarines were as capable as other American submarines, carrying MK 48 Mod 7
torpedoes and the new BYG-1 combat control system. Their sonar systems had been upgraded as well, but only the hardware and software inside the ship. The legacy components outside the submarine, particularly the bow array hydrophones, had not been upgraded. With her towed array either stowed or useless due to the vertical droop, the guided missile submarine’s ability to detect Vepr was impaired.
Dolinski waited for the order from his Captain. However, Baczewski spoke to the Electric Navigation Party Leader instead. “Display the latest satellite map.”
An image of the polar ice cap, with latitude and longitude lines overlaid, appeared on the screen beside the navigation table. Baczewski studied the map, identifying the feature he desired. He would not need to find thin ice. There was an open lead of water three kilometers to the northwest.
He gave the order to Dolinski, but not the one his Watch Officer expected. “Come to course three-one-zero. Prepare to surface.”
55
ICE STATION NAUTILUS
Inside the crowded command hut, Christine stood between Verbeck and Brackman, listening to the underwater communications between Vice Admiral Dahlenburg and the American submarines. As the communications drew to a close, Dahlenburg directed Michigan to remain on station and monitor the WQC. If the attempt to rescue Dolgoruky’s crew from topside was unsuccessful, Michigan would be called into service.
Verbeck turned to Christine. “Why don’t we check on the status of rescue preparations?”
Christine glanced at Brackman and Berman, to see if they wanted to join her.
“I’ll come along,” Brackman said, as did Berman.
Verbeck led Christine and the two men from the command hut toward an assortment of metal objects, explaining they were components of the Submarine Rescue Diving and Recompression System. Verbeck headed toward two men standing near a twenty-five-foot-long cylindrical submersible that resembled a giant yellow medicine capsule. An umbilical cord and two metal cables led from the top of the submersible to an immense metal A-frame structure over the vehicle.
The two men turned toward them as they approached. Name tags identified the man on the right as Commander Ned Steel from the Undersea Rescue Command, and the other as Peter Tarbottom from Phoenix International. Verbeck led a round of introductions, and Christine noticed Tarbottom’s Australian accent. Verbeck then asked Steel to explain the SRDRS and provide an update on rescue preparations.
“No problem,” Steel replied. “We’ve got fifteen minutes before the first milestone.” He turned to Tarbottom. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
Tarbottom acknowledged, then headed toward men climbing over the A-frame, and Christine listened as Steel explained that the SRDRS, or Submarine Rescue Diving and Recompression System, was actually two systems. The first was the Assessment and Underwater Work System, which was a pilot in an Atmospheric Diving Suit, along with its launch and recovery system. The pilot would be the first in the water, descending to the disabled submarine, where he would inspect the hatch and clear any debris.
The other half of SRDRS was the Submarine Rescue System, which had three main components. The yellow submersible was the Pressurized Rescue Module, or PRM. The second component was the Launch and Recovery System, or LARS, a large hydraulically operated A-frame, which would lift the PRM from the deck cradle and outboard it over the ocean, then lower and retrieve it. The third main component consisted of two decompression chambers for the crew after they were rescued.
The Pressurized Rescue Module was named Falcon, in honor of ASR-2 USS Falcon, which participated in the first successful rescue of men trapped aboard an American submarine: USS Squalus in 1939. Falcon was a remotely operated vehicle guided by a pilot from topside, and could transport eighteen persons—two attendants and sixteen sailors—rescuing them from a depth of up to two thousand feet. The PRM could mate with a submarine resting on the ocean floor at up to a forty-five-degree angle or list due to a skirt on the bottom of Falcon, which could be adjusted to match the angle of the submarine while the PRM remained level.
Falcon could gain access to a submarine pressurized up to five atmospheres absolute due to flooding. Although five ATAs corresponded to a depth of only 132 feet, oxygen toxicity became a problem above five atmospheres, and the crew would die before the SRDRS could arrive on scene. The next component, the Launch and Recovery System, was being assembled, and they would test it momentarily.
The last major component was the Surface Decompression System, which included two hyperbaric chambers that could hold thirty-four persons each: thirty-two rescued sailors plus two attendants to assist personnel during the decompression process. The SRS was the first American system capable of rescuing an entire crew from a pressurized submarine.
Peter Tarbottom approached the group, stopping beside Steel. “We’re ready to outboard unmanned.”
Steel led everyone toward the LARS as he explained, “This is the first test of the system to see if it will operate in the Arctic.”
Before the giant A-frame could be extended over the ocean, or in this case over the hole in the ice yet to be created, they had to solve the problem of what to attach the LARS to so the contraption didn’t topple over when it tried to outboard the PRM. It was normally bolted to supports welded to a ship’s deck, but there was no ship here. So they bolted the LARS directly to the ice. Or rather, through the ice. Holes had been drilled in the ice underneath each LARS mount, and NAVSEA had manufactured long bolts with spring-loaded flanges on the end, essentially giant hollow-wall anchors, which had been inserted through the ice cap. They had just tightened the last bolt and finished connecting the LARS electrical and hydraulic systems.
Steel gave the order and the A-frame’s two lift winches began retracting their cables attached to the top of the PRM. The PRM rose slowly in the air, and when it reached the top of the A-frame, two bayonet spikes snapped into the A-frame, locking the PRM in place. Two massive pistons on each side of the LARS tilted the A-frame outboard until the PRM was extended over the ice. All eyes shifted between the PRM, swaying gently in the air at the top of the A-frame, to the base of the LARS. It remained firmly affixed to the ice.
The bayonet spikes were retracted, and the lift winches slowly lowered the PRM. When the PRM was only a few feet from the ice, Tarbottom’s men stopped the descent, and after a ten-minute hold time, the Australian joined Steel and the rest of the group.
“So far, so good,” he said. “We’re ready to inboard.”
Commander Steel issued a second order, and the winches lifted the twenty-ton submersible upward, then the pistons on each side of the LARS pivoted the PRM back to the inboard position. The evolution was completed flawlessly, and Christine could sense the tension ease as the men congratulated each other.
Steel continued his explanation of the Submarine Rescue System. With the PRM in the inboard position, the hatch on the end of the submersible mated with what looked like a man-sized hamster habitrail. A pressurized flexible manway connected the PRM to the two-story deck transfer lock, which had three exits, one to each of the decompression chambers through additional habitrail tunnels, and a deck access so the PRM could be provisioned between dives.
Tarbottom stopped beside Commander Steel. “The only thing left is the final assembly of the Transfer Under Pressure system”—Tarbottom pointed to the habitrail—“and everything should be squared away by nightfall.”
Steel and Tarbottom seemed pleased with their efforts, but Christine’s eyes went to the patch of ice the PRM had been suspended over. Being able to inboard and outboard was great, but what good would it do them without a hole in the ice?
“What’s the plan for the ice hole?”
Tarbottom and Steel looked to Verbeck, who answered, “That’s my department. We’ve got lots of experience cutting holes in the ice to retrieve torpedoes. Those holes are only three feet wide, while we need a thirty-foot-wide hole for Falcon, but the same process should work. We just need the right equipment, which will arrive soon.”
> The radio in Verbeck’s pocket squawked, then called his name. It was the polar bear watch on the west side of the ice station. Something peculiar had appeared on the horizon.
Verbeck bid farewell to Commander Steel and Tarbottom, then led Christine, Brackman, and Berman to the west edge of the camp. The polar bear watch was examining something through his binoculars. He handed them to Verbeck, who scanned the horizon.
“That’s interesting,” he said, then handed the binoculars to Christine.
She surveyed the flat, white landscape, moving slowly to the right until an object appeared. She adjusted the optics and a black, rectangular shape came into focus. She had an idea of what it was, but handed the binoculars to Brackman for him to confirm. It took him a few seconds to locate the object and a few more to come to a conclusion.
“It’s a submarine sail,” he said.
There were only two American submarines under the ice cap, and they were both hovering beneath Christine’s feet. The submarine in the distance was Russian.
56
ICE CAMP BARNEO
Julius Raila stepped from the warm galley after lunch, pulling the hood of his parka over his head as he headed toward the sound of metal crunching into ice. It wasn’t long before he reached the five-by-fifteen-meter-wide ice hole, with an excavator on each side of the oval depression, breaking apart chunks of ice and lifting them to the surface in their buckets.
As Raila stopped beside the hole, one of the four excavators swiveled around and lowered its bucket onto the ice cap. In the subzero temperatures, metal became brittle, and half of the bucket’s teeth had broken off. It was only a minute before a cargo transporter headed toward the excavator with a replacement bucket. They had worked out the kinks in the process, and a new bucket would be installed and the excavator back in operation in an hour. Still, that was another hour lost, and at least one other excavator would break down in the meantime. This was their seventh bucket replacement today, and it was just past noon. Raila peered over the edge into the ice hole. They had been at it for over a day and were only halfway through. At the current pace, they would be too late to save the men in Dolgoruky’s Compartment One.
Ice Station Nautilus Page 16