And it had been Golytsin who’d recommended that the Dekabrist be deployed to the area around GK-1, as a bit of added insurance. The Americans, he’d argued, were certain to arrive, and the chances were good that they would arrive by submarine. Any submariner could tell you that the best way to catch a sub was to use a sub.
Those idiots back at Severomorsk HQ had hesitated. They feared a confrontation with the United States and didn’t see the GK-1 project as one of Russia’s vital national interests. What they didn’t understand was that Russia couldn’t possibly lose in this new round of international brinksmanship. If the Americans managed to sink the Russian boat, as some of the Northern Fleet’s admirals feared, it would simply be wood to the fire of Russia’s case before the court of world opinion: the Arctic Ocean properly belonged to Russia, and the United States was unfairly using its superior submarine technology to bully Moscow into yielding.
If, on the other hand, a submarine battle ended in a Russian victory, Moscow could simply claim that it was legitimately defending its own interests from the bellicose Americans. More to the point, the Americans were notoriously weak when it came to accepting necessary military losses. American military leaders were as afraid of open war in the Arctic as their opposite numbers at Severomorsk, and the American President would be reluctant to commit to yet another unpopular war. The Americans would . . . what was their delightful expression? Cave. That was it. The Americans would cave.
Either way, Russia would win.
And with the GK-1 project now fully in place, when Russia won, the Organizatsiya would win as well, would win to the point that, soon, the Tambov group would control all petroleum and natural gas production and sales across the Motherland, with an annual income to be measured in the trillions of rubles. Russia, and with her, Tambov, would again become a major player on the world stage.
And Feodor Golytsin would at last have his revenge over certain men, politicians prominent under both the Soviet regime and the new Federation, who’d been responsible for him freezing his ass for three bitter years in the gulag.
Captain First Rank Kirichenko was a good man, Golytsin knew, experienced, and a cunning tactician. If anyone could beat the Americans at their own game beneath the ice, it was Valery Kirichenko. But Golytsin needed to be sure Kirichenko knew what was at stake.
Turning to the computer keyboard on his desk, he began composing his reply to the Dekabrist’s commanding officer.
USGN Ohio
Arctic Ice Cap
82° 34' N, 177° 26' E
0942 hours, GMT–12
Dean met the others at the air lock leading to the Ohio’s aft deck and the waiting ASDS, located in a cramped compartment aft of the control room. A heavy, watertight door stood open as one SEAL passed a bundle of equipment through to a waiting SEAL inside, and he, in turn, passed the bundle up the ladder to someone out of sight overhead.
Taylor gave Dean a dark look as he walked in, and Dean knew that he resented what he thought of as micro-management on Dean’s behalf.
This would require tact and diplomacy. Perhaps a preemptive strike. . . .
“Mr. Taylor,” Charlie Dean said, “I know you don’t like the fact that I’ve been assigned to operate with your platoon. I regret that . . . but I had nothing to do with the order. I hope you’ll let me prove that I can be an asset on this mission.”
“That’s one you’re going to need to prove to me, Mr. Dean,” Taylor growled. “I don’t like being told who’s coming along on my op. I don’t like having to leave one of my men behind because I have to make room for a damned tourist. And I damned sure don’t like babysitting a fucking suit. You understand me?”
“I hear you.” So had every man in the SEAL unit preparing to board the ASDS, plus Captain Grenville and Lieutenant Commander Hartwell and three enlisted ratings helping the SEALs with their gear. This was going to be tougher than Dean had expected. “You will not need to babysit me.”
Taylor ignored him. “You will be responsible for your own equipment. And you will follow my orders to the exact letter. Copy?”
“Copy,” Charlie Dean said, his irritation evident in his voice.
“All right. Just so we understand one another. You’d better get suited up, suit.”
“I think that’s enough tantrum, Mr. Taylor,” said the captain. “And please try to remember that you’re just a fucking lieutenant.”
That comment was a conversation stopper. “Yes, sir,” Taylor replied in a normal tone of voice.
They had a combat dry suit for Dean, a one-size-fits-almost-all worn over warm clothing. Unlike a standard wet suit, which allows water from the outside to get in between skin and suit and become warm with body heat, the dry suit worked by keeping cold water out. It was colored in a gray and white camo pattern that would be conspicuous on the ice but help the wearer blend in on board a gray-painted ship. The rig included a combat vest, boots, and a hood. Dean decided that if he actually fell into the water, the weight of his fashion statement was going to take him straight to the bottom.
“We won’t be doing a lot of swimming,” Taylor told him. “The dry suit should keep you alive for the swim up from the ASDS to the ship. Just stick close, do what you’re told, and be ready to hotfoot it up the boarding ladder when we tell you.”
“In broad daylight?” Dean asked.
“This here’s the land of the midnight sun, cupcake. It’s always broad daylight, at least for the next few months. But Captain Grenville here is going to create a small diversion for us.”
Grenville nodded. “We’ll be listening for our cue through our sonar system. When we get it, we’ll surface alongside the Lebedev, about a hundred yards off her port side. That should keep them looking at us and not at you, and should also mask any noise you make going aboard.”
“After that,” Taylor added, “it’s all up to us. Your boss said you have some gadgets that will help. Whatcha got?”
Dean was kneeling at the pack he’d brought on board, uncasing a bulky weapon with an oversized muzzle and a rotary cylinder. Reaching into an ammo case, he pulled out a blunt projectile.
“Forty mike-mike grenades?” one of the SEALs said with a dark chuckle. “Ain’t nothing new about those.”
“There is about this one,” Dean said. “It’s a tiny UAV. Has a camera in it that will send live-feed video, both visible light and infrared. It’ll help us keep track of where the bad guys are, and where our people might be.”
“I was told the hostages are on the main deck, in the aft superstructure,” Taylor said.
“And they might get moved as soon as the Russians know we’re on deck.”
Taylor nodded. “Okay, Dean. Maybe you’re a keeper after all. Just stay the fuck out of our way, right?”
“Ooh-rah,” Dean replied, the battle cry of the Marines.
“Shit, man,” Taylor said, grinning. “This is the Navy SEALs. It’s hoo-yah!”
The SEALs began filing into the airlock and up the waiting ladder.
19
ASDS-1
Arctic Ice Cap
82° 34' N, 177° 26' E
1010 hours, GMT–12
IT WAS, DEAN THOUGHT, LIKE being locked in a steel closet.
And fifteen Navy SEALs were locked inside with him.
The Advanced SEAL Delivery System was the latest evolution in using miniature submersibles to handle covert insertions of special operations teams. For decades, there’d been fierce turf battles between Navy SpecOps and the submarine force over the design of such craft.
The original SDVs, or SEAL Delivery Vehicles, had been wet subs, meaning that the SEALs on board rode in a water-filled compartment. After hours inside their cramped conveyance, they arrived at the Area of Operations cold, wet, and tired—a no-good way to begin a critical covert op. Requests for dry delivery vehicles had repeatedly been scotched by the submarine service, which insisted that all such vessels be under its control.
Eventually, though, the ASDS had surfaced as a comp
romise. In the forward compartment, Dean knew, were two men, a pilot/commander who was a Navy submariner and a SEAL copilot who handled navigation and sonar. It was an awkward division of responsibility, at times, but the two officers had cross-trained in each other’s jobs in case one or the other was incapacitated.
The aft compartment was large enough—just—for sixteen men and their weapons and equipment, and it had the added capability of becoming a hyperbaric chamber if there was a diving medical emergency. Between the two compartments was a spherical lock-out chamber with watertight doors above and below, and fore and aft. The design, drawn from the earlier DRSV deep-rescue submersibles, allowed the ASDS to dock with a variety of submarines, or for swimmers to exit or enter the minisub while it was underwater.
Dean sat on the narrow bench, his knees touching the knees of the SEAL sitting opposite him, his shoulders pressed against those of the men to either side. His weapon, ammo, and the UAV controller were inside a watertight pouch resting on the deck beneath his feet. Each man wore a Dräger rebreather unit on his chest, and held in gloved hands a full-face mask that included built-in short-range radio transceivers. Short flippers were strapped on over their boots and would be discarded as soon as they reached the Lebedev.
Bathed in the sullen red light illuminating the narrow chamber, Taylor was standing at the forward end of the compartment, his hand pressed against the side of his head, listening to a small receiver plugged into his ear. “Okay, men,” Taylor said after listening intently. “We’re passing under the Lebedev. Remember the op plan. Teams two and four, deck security. Team three, secure the hostages. Team one, water security and tactical reserve, once we’re on deck. Dean, you’re team one, with me. Everyone with me?”
He was answered in a subdued chorus of affirmatives. The Lebedev almost certainly had hydrophones in the water that would pick up loud noises, at least, so conversation was kept low and to a minimum.
“Okay,” Taylor continued. “Masks on!”
Dean pulled the diving mask on over his head, making sure the straps were tight at the back. The faceplate was triangular, covering his mouth as well as his nose and eyes. He checked the controls on his rebreather pack; air was flowing, though it had a faintly bitter chemical taste to it.
“Radio check,” Taylor’s voice said in Dean’s ear. “Sound off. One-one, okay.”
“One-two, right.”
“One-three, check.”
The SEALs ran down the line, identifying themselves by fire-team number. Each of them wore a tightly fitting hood over his head, with a short-range radio receiver next to the ear, a microphone pressed up against the throat. They would be able to talk while underwater.
“One-four, okay,” Dean said.
“Two-one, ready to rock.”
There were no portholes, of course, or TV monitors. Dean was aware of the faint vibration through the deck and the curved bulkhead at his back as the craft’s powerful electric motor drove it forward. Moments later, the deck tilted up sharply, and he felt the vibrations lessen.
“We’re at ten to twenty feet,” Taylor told them. “Twenty yards off the Lebedev’s starboard side. Commander Hartwell says we’re sending the signal now.”
Lieutenant Commander Hartwell was the SEAL officer forward, acting as copilot, navigator, and sonar operator for the ASDS. A coded sonar chirp would be easily picked up through the Ohio’s new Lockheed Martin AN/BQQ-10(V4) sonar-processing system, alerting the sub that it was time to surface and commence the diversion.
Minutes dragged by as the deck rocked gently beneath Dean’s feet. The minisub’s commander must be juggling his trim and ballast tanks, trying to keep the ASDS at a motionless hover beneath the surface.
“Right,” Taylor said, still listening to his earpiece. “The Ohio is surfacing.”
And Dean could hear it now, a kind of heavy, crackling thunder filtering through the thick steel hull of the ASDS, sounding both muffled and very close.
“That’s our cue,” Taylor said, removing the headset. “Let’s get wet! Hoskins!”
“Sir!”
“You make sure our . . . ah . . . guest makes it to the roof.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
The SEALs stood in the cramped compartment, gathering up their gear in tightly secured satchels, checking straps and buckles on one another, making sure everything was cinched tight and that there was no loose equipment to tangle, trip over, or fall. The SEAL behind Charlie Dean turned him around and tugged at several straps, then checked the settings on the Dräger unit secured to his chest before clapping him on the shoulder and motioning him forward.
Dean waited in line, then, as the SEALs, two by two, entered the lock-out chamber. Since the ASDS was hovering just a few feet beneath the surface, they didn’t have to lock the doors and pump water in and out of the chamber each time. Instead, the air pressure inside the submarine kept the seawater from entering the lock-out chamber; when it was Dean’s turn to go, he ducked his head to step through into the spherical compartment and saw black water lapping in the open, circular hatch in the deck. Hoskins, the SEAL assigned to get him to the surface, pointed and gave him a gentle shove. Careful not to snag his baggy suit on the hatch combing, and with his waterproof gear bundle clasped tight in one hand, Dean stepped into the water, sliding down a pole extended from the side of the hatch for the purpose, letting himself sink.
Deep, blue-green water closed over his head, and he felt the sharp bite of the cold at exposed portions of skin at wrists and ankles. The dry suit kept the rest of his body dry, however, and the temperature overall seemed cool but not cold. For a scary instant, claustrophobia threatened to close him in and paralyze his breathing, but he forced himself to stay calm and to continue to pull in each breath at a slow, steady pace. His Marine training kicked in, and he began to move to one side, getting out from under the open hatchway above him.
Air rasped through his face mask, dry and cold. Unlike a standard SCUBA rig, the Dräger unit received his exhalations without releasing a telltale column of bubbles.
The red lighting inside the ASDS had allowed the men’s dark adaptation to kick in during the hour-long cruise after releasing from the Ohio. Dean found himself adrift in a surreal blue-green cosmos with crystal-clear visibility, but where it was almost impossible to judge scale or distance. The ASDS loomed directly overhead; to his left was a curving steel cliff extending for some distance into the depths—the underwater portion of the Lebedev’s side. Beyond the ASDS, there appeared to be a ceiling of tortured, convoluted ice, the surfaces smooth and rounded but piled and folded into fantastic geometries that teased and tricked the eye.
The surface of the water around the ship appeared clear of ice, however. Sunlight blazed and danced with the movement of the water, with shafts of light entering from above almost parallel to the surface. Below, the blue-green emptiness deepened into midnight black, a yawning gulf far beneath Dean’s gently stroking swim fins.
Toward the aft end of the Lebedev, Dean could see the vast and shadowy shapes of the ship’s massive screws, along with several cables that appeared to descend straight down into blackness. In the opposite direction, toward the bow, he could just make out a shadowy something snug against the Lebedev’s side, but details were lost in the blue-green haze of ice-roofed water and scattering sun dance from above.
Dean was having some trouble. Though skilled with re-breathers as well as standard SCUBA gear, thanks to Marine training decades before, he’d never used a full-face mask, and each time he breathed out, he tended to loosen the mask’s seal with his face slightly. Icy water had already seeped in between the mask and his face and was collecting now at the bottom of the faceplate, salty at his lips. Awkwardly, one-handed because he was still holding his gear, he tried to clear it, pushing down on one side, turning his head, and exhaling hard to force the water out.
“Team one!” Taylor’s voice said over the underwater radio. “Deploy. . . .”
Dean felt a sharp tug at his elbow
; Hoskins hovered at his side, jerking his thumb up toward the surface. Dean’s mask still wasn’t clear, but he nodded and followed the SEAL toward the gleaming, shifting light, knowing he could remove the mask once he broke the surface. Several gentle kicks were sufficient to propel Dean toward the rust-streaked steel cliff ahead, then straight up along the Lebedev’s side. In another moment, his head broke the surface.
He and three other SEALs had surfaced directly alongside the ship, which towered over them now, the side black against an intensely blue sky. They were so close that the chop of the water bumped them up against the metal; anyone on deck wouldn’t have been able to see them without leaning out over the starboard rail.
Hoskins and another SEAL had taken up positions in the water several yards out from the ship, kicking gently to stay on the surface while holding submachine guns to their shoulders, the weapons trained at the railing above. They were the fire team one water security element, carrying special CAR-15s modified for use in seawater, with sound suppressors on their muzzles and with laser-sight targeting modules attached to their rails. “Water security,” in this instance, meant staying in the water to provide cover for the rest of the SEALs as they went up the side. They’d already pulled out the tight-fitting plastic plugs in muzzles and receivers that kept the salt water out of the weapons and were training them now on the ship’s main deck.
A black rubber boat had been inflated and secured to the ship’s side with a length of white line and a powerful ceramic magnet with a mooring eye. Some of the SEALs had already removed fins, face masks, and Draeger units and tossed them into the boat, freeing them for the ascent. It was amazing how swiftly the evolution was proceeding. These men, Dean realized, had practiced this sort of maneuver time after time after time, until they had the closely choreographed movements down perfectly.
“Ladders up,” a voice said.
Stephen Coonts' Deep Black: Arctic Gold Page 29