Ice Station Nautilus

by Rick Campbell

  Grushenko hurried down the walkway and knelt beside the figure. He lifted the person’s head up—a woman. Her eyes were closed and her face was pasty white; her lips blue. In the minus-two-degree air, her skin felt warm. He checked for a pulse on her wrist. There was none.

  He placed the woman’s head on her knees again, then pulled the radio from its holster and called Danilov.

  “I found someone,” Grushenko said.

  As he waited for the medic, he shined his light over the edge of the walkway. The compartment was partially flooded, water almost reaching the deck plates. He brought his light back to the upper level and examined the closed watertight door beside the woman. Water was seeping past the door seal. The compartments aft were completely flooded.

  A shaft of light approached, cutting through the darkness. Danilov stopped beside Grushenko.

  “Did you find any survivors?” Grushenko asked.

  “There is no one else,” Danilov replied.

  His light examined the human figure on the deck. “Is it the woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she alive?”

  “I could not find a pulse, but she is still warm.”

  Danilov knelt beside the woman, checking for signs of respiration as he placed two fingers against her carotid artery. After a moment, he said, “She has a pulse. Very faint, only thirty beats per minute.”

  Grushenko slid his flashlight into his pocket, then lifted the woman from the deck, cradling her in his arms. The two men headed toward the escape hatch, with Danilov illuminating the way.

  105

  MOSCOW

  An hour after receiving the American president’s phone call, Yuri Kalinin stared across his desk at Fleet Admiral Georgiy Ivanov, Commander-in-Chief of the Russian Navy, and Admiral Oleg Lipovsky, Commander of Russia’s Northern Fleet. Along the side of his office sat Boris Chernov, Russia’s minister of defense. One of these men was responsible for deploying the Spetsnaz unit and Vepr’s attack on Michigan.

  It was Lipovsky who professed his innocence first. “I assure you, Mr. President, that I was not responsible for issuing these orders. These units attacked without my direction.”

  “You expect me to believe,” Kalinin replied, “that a Polar Spetsnaz unit deployed to the ice cap, and a Northern Fleet submarine was operating in the vicinity of the ice camps without your knowledge?”

  “That is a different question,” Lipovsky replied. “Of course I was aware of their movements, but I was not aware of their assignments.”

  Kalinin leaned forward. “Then who gave the orders?”

  Lipovsky ran his finger along the inside of his shirt collar while he searched for an appropriate answer. Finally, he replied. “I do not know.”

  Kalinin leaned back in his chair. Lipovsky was lying. He had either given the orders or knew who did, and was crafting his answers to avoid implicating the guilty party.

  “Let me rephrase the question,” Kalinin said. “Besides you, who else could have given those orders?”

  Kalinin watched Lipovsky carefully. The obvious answer was one of the two other men in the room. But Lipovsky did not glance in Ivanov’s direction, nor did he look at Defense Minister Chernov. There was another possibility, however. Rear Admiral Leonid Shimko, Commander of 12th Squadron, could have given the order to Vepr. The submarine was under his command. But that scenario was more alarming. The Polar Spetsnaz unit was not under his purview, which meant there was at least one other person involved; a conspiracy willing to use military force without the president’s authorization.

  Fifteen seconds passed and Lipovsky still did not reply. The Admiral’s face grew flush and beads of sweat formed on his brow.

  “I’m growing impatient,” Kalinin said.

  Lipovsky sputtered, “I cannot say for sure.”

  Kalinin slammed his fist on his desk. “Answer the question or I will relieve you of command!”

  “I gave the orders.”

  Kalinin turned to Fleet Admiral Ivanov. The older man sat in his chair calmly, with no hint of distress. Ivanov had cleared Lipovsky. But not Chernov. Kalinin watched Chernov from the corner of his eye as he directed his next question at Ivanov.

  “Why did you give those orders?”

  “The potential gain was worth the risk.”

  “What risk?” Kalinin asked. “The loss of Vepr and two Spetsnaz platoons?” Kalinin’s anger built as he continued. “A direct attack on the United States?” The Russian president’s anger crested as he leaned forward, adding, “The end of your career and your incarceration!”

  “Yes.”

  Kalinin glared at his Fleet Admiral, who remained unfazed, wondering why Ivanov was so calm. Was he following orders, preparing to absolve himself with his next statement? Kalinin glanced at Chernov. The Defense Minister seemed nervous, changing his position in his chair, his eyes shifting between Ivanov and Kalinin.

  Kalinin followed up, “Were you following orders, or did you come up with this idea by yourself?”

  “It was my idea,” the Admiral replied. “No one else was involved.”

  Kalinin noted Chernov’s reaction. His Defense Minister seemed relieved, but that could be because Ivanov was covering for him or because he had been worried Ivanov would falsely accuse him. Kalinin could not be sure, but with Ivanov accepting full responsibility, there was little more to probe.

  “Fleet Admiral Ivanov,” Kalinin replied. “You are relieved of your command and reduced in rank to Admiral pending disciplinary action.”

  There was no visible reaction from the former Fleet Admiral. He sat there, staring at Kalinin as he awaited further direction.

  “You are dismissed,” Kalinin added.

  Ivanov pushed himself to his feet, then left without a word, glancing briefly at Chernov as he passed by.

  Kalinin turned to Lipovsky. “You are now the acting Fleet Admiral. Attend to this mess and keep the defense minister informed of all issues. You are dismissed.”

  The relief in Lipovsky’s face was apparent as he rose and left the president’s office, closing the door behind him. Kalinin shifted his gaze to Chernov.

  “I will call the American president and let him know what I’ve learned, then come to an agreement as to what will be made public. Our task is more difficult, as we have to explain the loss of two attack submarines. Do you have a recommendation?”

  It appeared Chernov had been contemplating the matter, because he replied immediately. “I suggest,” he began, “that we be truthful about the collision between Dolgoruky and the American submarine. These things happen, and it would be difficult to conceal the damage to the American submarine when it returns for repairs. Regarding Vepr and Severodvinsk, they collided while searching for Dolgoruky, and the reason for the Spetsnaz deaths can be easily concealed.

  “That leaves the American casualties to explain, and I am sure an understanding can be reached. As a concession to America, we will credit them with the rescue of Dolgoruky’s crew, and praise their assistance as we rescue survivors aboard Vepr and Severodvinsk.”

  Chernov added, “We will highlight that during this difficult time, our two countries have put aside our political differences and are working closely together, strengthening the bond of our unique relationship.” Chernov smiled.

  Kalinin absorbed Chernov’s words as the defense minister added, “We will brief all parties involved on our side, so that only the official story is released. The American president will have to do the same.”

  After a moment of reflection, Kalinin nodded his approval and picked up the phone.

  106

  USS MICHIGAN

  Christine’s eyes opened, then fluttered shut in the bright light. She opened her eyes again, this time just a tad, letting them adjust to the light as she tried to figure out where she was. She was lying on a bed somewhere with a heated blanket wrapped tightly around her. As her surroundings came into focus, she noticed an insulated IV Warmer hanging from the bulkhead beside her, with the clear
plastic tubing running out the bottom and tucked inside the blanket on her left side. She could feel warmth radiating up her left arm.

  “Welcome back to the living, Ms. O’Connor.”

  Christine turned in the direction of the man’s voice, spotting Commander Joe Aleo standing beside her. She realized she was aboard Michigan, in Medical—Doc’s office, lying on the single bed against the bulkhead. It was in this same office that he had stitched her arm up after being shot on the way out of Beijing. Aleo pulled a pocket flashlight from his coveralls and examined her pupils.

  “Can you talk?”

  “Yes,” Christine replied.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Christine.”

  Doc asked several more questions, and she saw the relief on his face when she answered them correctly.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Tired,” she replied, “but okay otherwise.”

  “You gave us quite a scare,” Aleo said. “You were rescued from Dolgoruky just in time. You were about to turn into an ice sculpture.”

  Christine asked what happened, and Aleo explained how they had used the Russian submersible to rescue her. It had then surfaced in a nearby lead along with USS Michigan, where she was transferred aboard the guided missile submarine so she could be placed in one of the Dry Deck Shelter hyperbaric chambers to decompress, and had been released a few hours ago.

  “How’s your hearing?” he asked.

  “A little muffled,” Christine replied.

  “Your eardrums are ruptured,” he explained. “It must have happened when Dolgoruky was torpedoed, from the pressure transient when the submarine flooded. Most eardrum ruptures heal with no loss of hearing, but my bigger concern is hypothermia. You’re out of the danger zone now, but there might be some permanent damage. I won’t know for another day or two. We’ll see how things go and I’ll do my best.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  “You should thank Harrison,” Aleo replied. “He was the one who talked the Russians into checking Dolgoruky before rescuing their two submarine crews. If you had been down there much longer, you wouldn’t have made it.”

  Before Christine could respond, Aleo said, “Wait right here.” He smiled, realizing she wasn’t going anywhere. She was wrapped tightly in the heated blanket. “I’ll let everyone know you’ve regained consciousness.”

  Aleo stepped from his office, and as Christine waited for his return, she wished he had turned off the lights. She was already feeling drowsy, and the bright lights were annoying. She was about to close her eyes when the door opened and Jake Harrison entered, stopping beside her.

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  “Remarkably well, considering the circumstances.”

  Harrison nodded. “You certainly manage to get yourself into difficult situations.”

  Christine smiled. “I appreciate your help, convincing the Russians to rescue me.”

  Harrison didn’t respond, so Christine decided to be more direct. “Thank you for saving my life.”

  “I would have done it for anyone.”

  Under normal circumstances, Harrison’s response would have irritated her. But she was too tired. Instead, she said, “Why can’t you just say You’re welcome?”

  Harrison stared at her for a moment, then leaned over near her ear. “You’re welcome.” He kissed her on the cheek, then stood erect, a grin on his face.

  “Don’t try stealing any real kisses,” Christine replied. “I’m completely at your mercy.” Her arms were pinned against her sides with the blanket tucked under her.

  Harrison started to lean over when the door opened. This time it was Lieutenant Commander Kelly Haas, Michigan’s Supply Officer. As she stopped beside Harrison, Christine noticed her height again; she was nearly as tall as Jake.

  “Welcome back aboard Michigan, Ms. O’Connor,” she said. “I’m rounding up some clothes for you.” She offered a warm smile, then added, “It looks like you’ll need to borrow some underwear again. We were going to throw yours in the laundry, but noticed you were wearing men’s underwear. Exciting times down there?”

  Christine laughed. “Yes, very exciting.”

  Captain Wilson stepped into Medical. It was getting crowded in Doc’s small office.

  “Welcome back aboard Michigan, Christine.”

  “Thanks for the hospitality,” she replied. “Is the food still as good?”

  “You bet.” Wilson grinned. He glanced at the IV bag. “We’ll get you out of here and eating normally as soon as possible.” He added, “Commander Aleo will make sure you’re stable and don’t have any frostbite or other issues. When you’re ready, the SEALs can take you back to Ice Station Nautilus in one of the SDVs, or, if you want, you can remain aboard until we return to port. But it’ll be a while. We’ve been assigned tow-truck duties for North Dakota.”

  Doc Aleo returned to his cramped office. “All right, everyone. I’ve got work to do. Move along now.” He looked at Wilson. “Respectfully, sir.”

  Wilson patted Aleo on the arm as he exited.

  Kelly Haas left, leaving Harrison and Aleo in Medical with Christine. The Doc stared at the SEAL, waiting for him to depart.

  Harrison turned to Christine. “I’ll see you around.”

  “Thanks for stopping by,” she said.

  After Harrison left, Christine asked, “What’s the plan, Doc?”

  “Give me another day or two to make sure you’re fully recovered, and in the meantime, why don’t you get some sleep? Hypothermia takes a toll.”

  Christine could hardly disagree. Her eyelids were getting heavy. She closed her eyes as she replied, “Aye aye, Doc.”

  EPILOGUE

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  A light snow was falling from a gray, overcast sky as a cold March wind swept up the green slopes of Arlington National Cemetery. Christine O’Connor stood behind a row of vacant chairs alongside an open pit that would become Captain Steve Brackman’s grave. Standing beside her was Kevin Hardison, along with other members of the president’s staff and cabinet, with others arrayed in several rows behind them. Navy divers had retrieved Brackman’s body from Dolgoruky, and in the distance, working its way up the curving road toward the gravesite, was the horse-drawn limber and caisson carrying his flag-draped casket. Following closely behind was a procession of cars carrying the president and Brackman’s family.

  Positioned alongside the road, awaiting the arrival of the burial procession, was the six-member honor guard who would serve as Brackman’s casket team, led by the Officer-in-Charge of the ceremony. One hundred feet from the foot of Brackman’s grave stood the firing detail, a seven-member rifle team that would fire three volleys at the appropriate time. Not far away, up the slope of Arlington National Cemetery, the solitary bugler stood ready.

  As Christine waited for the ceremony to begin, her thoughts drifted to the events of the past two weeks. After a few days aboard Michigan, she had returned to Ice Station Nautilus, then began the long journey home to Washington, D.C. During the trip, she was painfully aware of the vacant seat beside her that Brackman would have occupied.

  Upon arriving in Washington, her first stop after briefing the president was the Office of Naval Intelligence. ONI personnel had been surprised at her revelation of what Dolgoruky carried. The Bulava missile’s poor performance during flight tests was originally thought to have been the result of inadequate quality control of critical components, which had been corrected. After reassessing their intel, ONI concluded the Bulava missile had a serious flaw that would require an extensive redesign, resulting in a gap of operational submarine launched ballistic missiles as the last Typhoon and Delta submarines reached their end of life. Russia was about to lose its only survivable leg of their nuclear triad, a fact they were desperately trying to conceal.

  It had cost Russia two of their nuclear attack submarines. Russia was able to rescue the survivors aboard Vepr and Severodvinsk, but the death toll had still been high; forty-five Russian
sailors and almost two full platoons of Spetsnaz, not to mention Brackman and twenty-four other Americans.

  The president was still evaluating Kalinin’s proposal; it would be difficult to permanently conceal so much carnage above and below the ice, but so far, the details had been withheld from the media. In the meantime, Kalinin had agreed to include inspections of Russia’s Borei class submarines and Bulava missiles in the follow-on nuclear arms treaty, and the president was wringing additional concessions from Kalinin on a number of international issues, holding the threat of going public with what Russia had done over his head. The president was still seething, searching for other ways to punish Russia.

  The limber and caisson carrying Brackman’s casket pulled to a halt just past the six-man casket team, and the president and Brackman’s family stepped from their sedans. Although there were over a hundred persons in attendance, there were only three members of Brackman’s family: Brackman’s mother, father, and older sister, Lisa. Brackman’s wife and daughter were not present, having died three years earlier.

  The president and Brackman’s family stopped alongside the road, and the ceremony OIC signaled the casket team, who moved into position behind the caisson, marching slowly in unison. Brackman’s casket was removed from the caisson, and the chaplain took station at the head of the casket team, leading the procession up the slope to the gravesite. Brackman’s family and the president followed.

  Brackman’s casket was placed atop the supports that would lower his body to its final resting place, and the casket team remained standing at attention, three men on each side. The chaplain moved to the head of Brackman’s grave while Brackman’s family took their seats in the chairs alongside the gravesite. The president remained standing, stopping behind the chairs, next to Christine.