Ninety Degrees North

by Stephen Makk

  The torch had a self-ignite system, so he switched it on. The flame spouted out and blew bubbles at its end. Innes found a tie wrap and started cutting through one of the good blades. He knew it would be a battle and it was. Cut blade, vent bag, cut blade. It went on and on.

  Finally, he’d cut through the first blade, and he moved back and pulled the blade clear. It fell away into the darkness. Now for the next one.

  Innes played the flame on the next blade. It took time, but he got most of the way through. Soon it would be ready to pull away.

  “Innes, Chief here.”

  He stopped cutting. “Sir?”

  “I have the XO here. She wants to speak to you.”

  What? That’s odd. What does Boat’s Thong want with me?

  Some of the crew called Nikki that after Seaman Vasqez said he’d seen her leave the mid head, the one with a shower installed, in a thong and bra. Then she’d headed forward to her bunk room. Nobody believed him; it was 40 yards and the next bulkhead to her bunk room. Quizzing her female roommates got people nowhere as there was a brick wall of female solidarity. They knew if one of them had her secrets revealed, then all would be next.

  “Innes?”

  “Yes, sir, what’s wrong?”

  “We’ve got an unwelcome visitor,” Nikki said. “Upstairs we have a Kamov Helix, dipping his sonar in. He’s a mile away, but we want to play safe. So, it’s no noise until we call you. Sit there until he goes.”

  “Ok, sir, will do.”

  He turned the gas off, held onto a blade and hung there. Minutes went by, and the cold started telling on him. He hung in the black, 200 feet down. He knew the cutting wouldn’t be loud, but the bubbles would be an odd sound, and a blade could clank on another while freeing it. He had to wait.

  He got to thinking about the mission. What if they needed to get away? They’d use the prop. There’d be no time to warn him. It would spin up and rip him half to death before moving away. He’d be injured, arms or legs wholly or partly cut off. He’d be bleeding to death, the suit ripped open, buoyancy gone.

  He remembered the lifting bag. It’d be hard to control, but it would get him to the surface. Then again, bleeding as he would be, limbs partly missing, he’d die up there. Stop it, you damn fool. He told himself not to dwell on it.

  Time dragged on. He started to think about the prop starting… Shut up, you idiot.

  “Innes?” It was the XO.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The Helix is dipping closer. Keep quiet.” He knew it was inevitable this goddamn disk would soon spin up. He thought about standing off, but he knew there was a cross current and it would take him faster than thousands of tons of submarine. He’d never swim back.

  Hugging the prop, he willed the Russian helicopter away. Please go. His life depended on it. In the deep cold blackness under the Barents Sea, Innes wrestled with his demons.

  “Innes, it’s the Chief.” Thank God. It had been 23 minutes; he’d just checked for what must be the twentieth time.

  “Here, sir.”

  “The Helix has gone off miles to the west. Start your cutting again.”

  “Yes, sir. Thanks, sir.” He started the gas and ignited it again.

  He was soon through the good blade, and he pulled it away. He turned and started on the damaged blades.

  Finally, he got through the last damaged blade, and when he pulled it away, it fell into the deeps.

  He shut the torch off and brought the camera up. He started filming. “Jackson, Innes here. I got them. Filming the prop.”

  A minutes later, his earphones sounded. “Chief here. That’s it; good work, Innes. Get yourself back inside.”

  “Yes, sir.” Great.

  He made his way back to the sail, pulling the lifting bag and gas cylinders behind him. All were loaded into the sail chamber.

  He took a final look around outside and closed the hatch after himself, spinning the wheel closed. The water drained away, the hatch was opened, and he handed down his gear and was then bundled onto the companionway floor.

  The XO stood there smiling. She looked as beautiful as ever.

  “Well done, Innes. Get yourself to the galley and then to your bunk. Your duties are covered for now.”

  The boat headed for the Russian Fleet, then turned north and increased revs.

  “Sitrep on the prop, Benson?” asked Nathan.

  “Sir, we’re noisier now and the acceleration is down, but we’re not in bad shape. She’ll need to go back to Groton for a new prop soon. I think she’s still in the fight.”

  Nathan nodded. “Lemineux, ask COMSUBPAC for Operation Second Coming.”

  “Sir.”

  The boat came to periscope depth and a satellite message was sent. The mast was withdrawn for 15 minutes, then the Communications Officer raised it again.

  “Sir, we have confirmation: Operation Second Coming at 10.08 hours.”

  Above the icecap, B52s circled, topped up by Pegasus tankers. They turned for Russia with the remaining JASSM, LASSRM and Tomahawks aboard. There’d now be a second, smaller attack on the Northern Fleet.

  Nathan looked at Nikki, and she gave him a faint smile and a shrug. They both knew this was it. This was the endgame. They’d win or lose, do or die that day.

  General Thomas J ‘Stonewall’ Jackson didn’t fight at the fateful battle of Gettysburg. But for the crew of his namesake, USS Stonewall Jackson, Operation Ninety Degrees North would be their Gettysburg.

  21

  USS Stonewall Jackson advanced on the Russian Fleet from the west at 8 knots; she was 300 feet deep.

  Nathan looked at his wristwatch. The long, thin second hand with its small white disk moved up to the top. It was 09.08 and Operation Second Coming was on.

  In the sky, to the north of the Northern Fleet, flew angels of vengeance. The Second Coming had arrived. JASSM and LRASM missiles flew into their targets. Ships were hit and balls of fire and black smoke reached for the sky. Tomahawk cruise missiles flew in from east and west in an attempt to saturate the defences.

  Several missiles were taken out by AK-630 CWIS; AA guns blazed away. Battlecruiser Peter the Great spit forth SA-N-9 Gauntlet surface-to-air missiles. But damage and shock were heavy.

  It was the distraction Nathan wanted; it was his way in amongst them.

  “Sir, approx two miles away from the nearest escort Destroyer, a Udaloy class ship,” reported Benson.

  “How much further beyond that is the man?”

  “Peter – sorry, Tango one – is six miles east of the escort.”

  “Weaps, confirm warload.”

  “Tubes one to four Mk48, sir. Tube five, Scooby; tube six, Ren. We had a faulty Tomahawk in VPM tube two, but 49ers is now serviceable.”

  He was happy with the weapons mix. “If we deploy a Pointer, Weaps, get a Mk48 in the tube El Rapido.”

  “I have them waiting, sir.”

  The boat cruised on toward the enemy fleet.

  After several minutes, Benson shouted out, “Sir, surface transits. Their sounds are consistent with ASW mortars entering the sea above and slightly to the south.”

  “Come hard to port. Emergency deep, emergency deep.”

  The boat flooded her forward buoyancy vessels and her prop revs climbed to max. In the control room, the bow dipped, and she rolled to the left and north, and the crew hung on or leaned in their harnesses.

  “Sir, they’ll be UDAV-1,” said Weaps. “Probably a salvo of SG with impact-time fuze. They’ll be set to bracket 300 feet; it’s about whether we can get deep enough, quick enough.”

  The boat plunged down into the deeps and safety.

  Nathan wished they’d approached the fleet deeper. Too late for that now; he knew it was a fine line between hit and escape. Come on, down, get down.

  She plunged deeper, and above the mortars fell, waiting for their time to explode. Jackson approached the 600-feet mark when the first mortar exploded.

  Boom. It could be heard throughout the boat. F
ittings shook, and the hull groaned due to the pressure wave. Then another and another. Boom, boom. The boat shifted and bucked, and the crew could hear the hull straining. The salvo finally came to an end.

  “Sir,” said Benson. “I think the ship’s sonar heard us as we’re noisier than normal.”

  Nathan breathed again. “Planesman, level out at 600 feet, resume the heading.” Nathan cursed and looked to the XO. “Goddamn it, Nikki, it’s like driving an old U-boat.”

  “Not really, sir. They couldn’t go thousands of feet deep and we can dive a lot longer than the Kriegsmarine could.”

  “I know. It’s just annoying.”

  Benson looked over at him. “We’re passing under where the Udaloy was, now leaving his track.”

  Now Nikki looked over to Nathan. “Sir, he’s still a threat.”

  “I know he is.”

  Just at that point, Benson called out. “Sir, more surface transits. He’s lobbing more mortars in. They’re to our west, in our direction.”

  “Come hard to starboard. Emergency deep, emergency deep.”

  Already at 600 feet, the boat dived further into the black crushing depths.

  “Nine hundred, 1,100,” called Nikki, “one thousand three hundred feet.”

  “Planesman, level out.”

  Above the mortars started to explode, and although further away, they were still close. The hull strained under the pulsing force. Fittings rattled and throughout the boat, crew hung on and blinked at every thud. Nathan knew at this depth they were in the hunting zone of any Russian SSN down here patrolling the fleet.

  “Any boats down here with us, Benson? Sniff ’em out.”

  Benson spent time listening and watching his dripping oil screen. After a couple of minutes, he was satisfied. “Clear, sir. I hear no boats.”

  “Good. One day you’re going to have to teach me that oil screen thing.”

  Benson grinned. “It’s easy, sir. Like reading tea leaves.”

  “Yeah.” He rolled his eyes. “Planesman, up bubble fifteen, make your depth 600 feet, speed 8 knots.”

  “Aye sir, up 15, 600 feet, 8 knots.”

  With the quarry ahead, Nathan knew it was time for some help. “Weaps, flood and open outer doors on tubes five and six. Let Scooby and Ren off the leash. Scooby to the north of Tango one and Ren to her center.”

  A rushing sound came from up forward.

  “Pointers deployed, sir.”

  The two drones made their way towards Peter the Great faster than USS Stonewall Jackson. Scooby emitted sounds that made him seem like his master, while Ren remained silent.

  Up forward, torpedo room sailors used the hanging gantries to manoeuvre two Mk48s into the now vacant tubes. The six Mk48 CBASS fish were now ready and waiting for the call.

  USS Stonewall Jackson stalked her target, Pyotr Velikiy, Peter the Great. One of the world’s most powerful warships.

  “Damn,” said Benson. “Dipping sonar three miles south west. It’s a Helix ASW chopper.”

  Nathan knew the Russians would be looking hard.

  “Sir, Scooby’s taken a salvo of UDAV-1 ASW mortars from Tango one. We’re both in range,” said Benson.

  “I’ve set him to go emergency deep,” said Weaps, “and make sounds like we would.”

  “Ok, guys, keep on it.”

  A minute later.

  “The mortars are going off over Scooby and he… Wait one, wait one...” The control room listened to Benson, the Virginia Visionary. “Ship launched Type 53 torpedo from Tango one. It’s running for us, range three miles, speed too damn fast.”

  They were being hunted by a large torpedo; the same type as was launched from their SSNs.

  Benson sat up at his chair; the room noticed and waited. “Holy fuck, we have a fish in the water. It’s an APR-3 dropped from the Helix. It’s in a spiral search looking for us.”

  A nightmare, knew Nathan. They were now a target for a heavy Mk53 and a light APR-3. Either could deliver a fatal blow given the chance.

  “Both fish running in.”

  Nathan knew the APR-3 airdropped was closer. “Emergency deep, emergency deep. Prepare and load countermeasures port and starboard. Weaps, Ren’s at the central location, closer to the 53, that right?”

  “Yes, sir, he’s about equidistant from us and Tango one.”

  “Right, get him to flood tubes etc, make like he’s carrying out a Mk48 attack on the Pyotr Velikiy. And stream out our tail; get Lucy out at one mile.”

  “Nine hundred feet,” called out Nikki.

  “All ahead stop, let the negative buoyancy take us down,” said Nathan. “I want us dropping silent as a nun’s panties.”

  Nikki looked at him reproachfully.

  “You know how quiet they are coming off?” He winked at her. “I’ll tell you about a night in Denver one day.”

  Weaps raised his fist. “Ren’s making like an SSN.”

  Nathan nodded.

  “One thousand one hundred feet,” said Nikki.

  “APR still closing, 900 yards, 750, 500. It’s terminal. Closing fast.”

  “Get ready, Planesman.”

  He waited until the last possible moment.

  “One fifty, 120.”

  “All ahead full, hard to port, blow ballast. Launch countermeasures to starboard.”

  The boat rolled to the left and pitched up, the crew were pushed hard to the right. The bow was up sixty degrees and the power and buoyancy pushed her upwards.

  The APR-3 was tempted towards the countermeasures. It exploded. The boat was rolled and pushed, the lighting failed, and the dull red light came on. The crew heard the hull groan and strain like never before. She raced for the surface and came slowly under control; the boiling sea was left below.

  “Chief, damage control, get on it.” He knew that wasn’t the only threat down here. “Benson, Weaps, how’s Ren doing with the Type 53?”

  “Sir, he’s leading the fish a merry dance. He’s on auto deception and he’s doing a good job of looking like a Los Angeles class SSN. The best copy of USS Pittsburgh that that fish has ever seen. Oh, oh no. No.”

  “What’s up?”

  Benson hung his head. “The 53’s gone off. The bastard took poor Ren with it.”

  Nathan wanted to whoop, but knew the crew wouldn’t like it. Ren had done his job; he’d saved them. But the crew wouldn’t see it like that.

  Nathan took the intercom off its hook. “I have to tell you that seaman Ren has just defeated a Russian torpedo. As a result, we’re safe. But he lost his life doing his duty. God rest seaman Ren.” He replaced the handset. Command required you to do odd things; morale mattered.

  “Chief, damage control report.”

  “I can’t believe how well we got through that. Mitsubishi, Kawasaki and Electric Boat make a tough submarine. Some pipes are fractured, a buoyancy pump will need replacing. Some electrical boards are blown. But all can be fixed in a couple of hours. We’ve bypassed where needed. The boat’s still in fighting shape, sir.”

  He knew the time was now; they had to close with the foe.

  “Planesman, make your depth 600 feet. Benson, what’s Tango one up to?”

  “Sir, he’s heading north at 15 knots. Nothing unusual.”

  “He’s in range, sir,” said Nikki.

  “Yeah, but I want to close on him before we engage. He has some very good defensive weapons, but he can’t make time.”

  The boat headed closer to the target. The minutes passed by.

  “Sir, entry splashes, above and south of us. It’s two salvos of UDAV-1 ASW mortars from Tango one,” said Benson.

  “We need to go deep, now,” said the XO. Her voice was worried.

  “Damn, another salvo to our forward. He’s got three of them in and dropping on us,” Benson said, tension clear in his voice.

  “Deep, sir,” said Nikki.

  The mortars fell and Nathan timed them. He’d noticed a developing pattern to the mortar attacks.

  He knew many peopl
e thought ASW mortars were just old-fashioned World War II style depth charges. In a way they were, but they were dangerous and lethal; these time fuze weapons were formidable.

  Nathan waited. They’d straddle his depth range, and realistically no submarine could survive a well-targeted mortar attack. There were just too many in a mortar cloud.

  Nikki looked at him with a wide-eyed anxious stare. He was leaving it late to go deep and escape.

  He checked his wristwatch and waited. Now. “Blow all ballast forward, all ahead full.”

  The deck tilted down from the bow and the boat headed up through the mortar cloud raining down on them.

  “What the fu…?” began Nikki.

  A mortar clunked off the hull and slid down the side, scraping by.

  “Shit,” said Benson.

  More mortars hit the hull as the boat raced upwards. Then the first mortars exploded below. They were too far away to cause real damage, but the multiple explosions caused the crew to close their eyes or call on their God.

  Gas clouds from the detonations below bubbled up and caused the boat to roll and buck. The explosions finally came to an end. Nathan looked to the depth gauge. “Planesman, make your depth 300 feet.”

  “What’s with that? Going up?” Nikki asked.

  He smiled at her. “They expect you to go emergency deep. I noticed that they anticipated that and were setting the fuze timers to go off deeper. So I did what they didn’t expect and came upwards. The fuzes went off deeper than 600 ft, so more separation.”

  “But they could have been contact activated also. One of them making contact could have gone off.”

  Nathan shook his head. “The Russians don’t think that way. If it’s a depth timer, then that’s what it is. If it’s a contact fuze, then it’s contact. Keep it simple and straight up the middle.”

  “You could have been wrong… sir.”

  “I wasn’t though, was I?”

  Nikki knew there wasn’t much to say to that. She smiled and shrugged.

  “Weaps, flood tubes one to six, open outer doors on one to three.”

  “Sir.” His fingers dashed over the panel. “Tubes one to three ready in all respects.”

  “Get Scooby to simulate an attack run on Tango one.”