A puzzled look came over the young officer's face.
"I just remembered something," he said. "When I was studying in Russia, I heard about a secret German U-boat base discovered near the Lena Delta. The people who discovered it in the 1980s found fuel barrels, German Navy uniforms, money, and spare parts for submarines. I thought the story was apocryphal. But what if the Germans knew about Fast Movers and were trying to capture one?"
McCabe shook his head. "Nazi U-boats couldn't go under the ice cap, lieutenant."
"One could," Gates said. "The Walther U-boat." He turned to Sarah. "The one I told you about."
"But you said they never built an operational Walther," Sandford said.
"Not that we know of," the commander said, shrugging. "But if they had a secret submarine base in Russian territory, who knows?"
"This is very interesting," McCabe said, "but perhaps we should come back to the matter at hand?"
'The lieutenant is correct," Gates said. "So, with the melting ice cap, the Fast Movers are losing their refuge. Somehow, the Russians stumbled on one."
"Yes, sir," McCabe said.
"And now the Russians are trying to recover this Fast Mover," Gates said. "They have their own Project Azorian."
"Yes, sir."
"And the Navy is not happy about that."
"No, sir, we're not," said McCabe. "Nor is the CIA, the Pentagon, or the White House. We can't let the Russians have access to whatever this power source is."
"And just what is the Navy, et al., planning to do about it?" Gates asked, certain he already guessed the answer.
McCabe hesitated. After a moment, he sighed and shrugged.
"We're going to destroy the Vilanovsky and whatever lies beneath it," he said.
Chapter 22
"HOW MANY?"
Aleksandr Konstantin stood at the conference room window staring at the Vilanovsky's upper work deck and the drift ice beyond. The morning sunlight sparkled off the ice. A beautiful sight. Despite such reverie, Konstantin clenched his hands behind his back.
"Three," said Praskovya. "Two drowned, one shot. Most of the rest are recovering from varying degrees of hypothermia."
"And how did it happen?" Konstantin demanded.
Praskovya lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, blew the smoke out.
"They knew we were coming," he said. "They were prepared. We lost the element of surprise. Surprise is everything in this business."
Konstantin turned and braced his hands on the long table.
"And how did they know, Petya?"
Praskovya shook his head. The movement made the smoke hovering around his head turn in little pirouettes.
"I suspect we have a leak," he said. "My people—those capable of getting out of bed—are checking into it. First thing this morning, they checked this room for listening devices, in case the Americans left one behind when they visited. Nothing. Now they are checking every radio message logged, every radio telephone call made, every Internet message sent and received. We will search every cabin for any kind of clandestine messaging device."
"And if they find nothing?"
"They will, Aleks."
"But what if they don't?" Konstantin repeated. "How do we explain the Americans knew your people were coming?"
Praskovya smoked his cigarette, thinking.
"It is possible," he said. "But only possible."
"What damn it?"
"That this platform is under American satellite surveillance," Praskovya said. "There is a possibility they observed us launching the assault boats and radioed the research ship."
"They can do that in the dark?"
"Aleks, we are in the land of the midnight sun," the security officer said. "It is never really dark here in the summer. Yes, it is possible. At least their silly action cinema makes it appear so."
Konstantin paced the room, rubbing his hands together, shaking his head.
"This is terrible," he said. "If we are under satellite surveillance, who knows how much they know?"
"I said it was a mere possibility, Aleks."
Konstantin stopped and spun around. "It is a possibility we must assume is fact," he said, pounding his fist on the table. "This project is far too important for us not to assume the worst."
He crossed the room to a telephone and dialed a number. "Sergey? Konstantin. I need you in the conference room immediately," he said, then hung up.
The door opened less than a minute later, and Novikov entered, carrying a folder bulging with papers.
"Yes, sir?"
"What is our status?" Konstantin demanded.
"Sir?"
"How soon can we lift the object?"
"But, sir, we are still experiencing equipment problems," Novikov said, holding out the thick folder. "The gremlins . . ."
"I don't want to hear about make-believe creatures," Konstantin said. "I am tired of excuses. When can the object be lifted?"
"Mr. Konstantin," Novikov said, "the lifting cradle is in position, but there is still the obstacle—"
"When can the obstacle be removed?"
"We have removed approximately fifty percent of it," said Novikov, "maybe a little less. It must be done by hand—"
"Why?"
"Sir?"
"Why must it be done manually?" Konstantin asked. "Why not use explosives to remove it?"
"Aleks, Aleks," Praskovya said. He lit another cigarette. "If we use explosives, the blast wave would be confined to the interior of the caisson. It might destroy the object we are trying to retrieve. Not to mention this platform."
Konstantin paced again. He waved Praskovya's cigarette smoke away from his face as he spoke.
"We must speed up our progress," he said. "The Americans could discover what we are doing at any time." He stopped and turned on Novikov. "Sergey, you have forty-eight hours to remove the obstacle. If you cannot do so manually, we will risk explosives." He turned to Praskovya. "That, Petya, is your department. There must be a way of breaking apart the obstacle without creating all this damage you mention. Miners blast holes into mountains. How is this different?"
"Aleks," Praskovya said, "water is non-compressible. The blast wave from an underwater explosion is far greater than one from an explosion in the open air or underground."
"I do not care," Konstantin said. "I do not want excuses. In two days, three at the latest, I want that obstacle removed and the object lifted into the moon pool. Do I make myself clear?"
Before they could answer, a tremor shook the floor of the meeting room.
"What is that?" Konstantin demanded.
"I'm not sure, sir," Novikov said. "Machinery? Perhaps they are using the tractor crane on the drilling deck."
The shaking intensified, rattling the coffee service sitting on the table.
"Look!"
Praskovya pointed out the window where a web of support cables strung across the platform were swaying. The tremor died away and the cables slowed their gyrations. Konstantin pushed a button on a wall-mounted intercom.
"Control room? Konstantin speaking. What was that?"
"Sea quake, Mr. Konstantin," was the reply.
"Sea quake? This is supposed to be a geologically staple region."
"Yes, sir," the distant voice said, "but there are active regions deeper into the Arctic Ocean. Maybe we felt shaking from a distant quake."
"Very well," Konstantin said, snapping off the intercom.
"Sir?" It was Novikov.
"What?" Konstantin snapped.
"Sir, I think there may be another solution . . . to the obstacle question."
"Go on."
Novikov adjusted his glasses and wet his lips.
"We might reposition the lifting cradle and use it to move the obstacle aside."
Konstantin stared at the operations director. "That is possible?"
"It is . . . feasible," Novikov said. "Afterwards, we reposition the cradle over the object again."
"Then why did we not do that before?" Konstant
in demanded.
"I said it is feasible, sir. That does not mean it is the correct way to remove the obstacle," Novikov explained. "But if it works, it might be faster."
Konstantin looked at Praskovya. The security chief shrugged.
"It is worth a try," he said.
"Good," Konstantin said, turning back to Novikov. "Then get to it."
He left the room, slamming the door behind him, leaving the security chief and the operations director looking at each other through the swirling gray cloud of cigarette smoke.
Chapter 23
"HOW?" GATES ASKED. "HOW are you planning to destroy the Vilanovsky?"
"That, commander, is my mission," McCabe said. "It's not your worry."
"Understood," Gates said. "But here's how I see it. You're not parachuting onto the platform, and you're not fast-roping either. Both require violating Russian airspace, and you'd be spotted by their air defense systems. Assault boats are no help. You saw how easily we spotted the Russians because of the midnight sun.
"That leaves a subsurface approach. It wouldn't be the first time the U.S. sent a sub into Russian territory. But I think in this case, our government would rather not violate Russian waters, not after the experience Sarah and I had. That leaves combat swimmers. Too far and too cold to swim to the platform, so that makes me think you'll be using a SEAL Delivery Vehicle. Still a frigid ride."
McCabe scratched his ear as a smug smile curled his lips.
"Your intel is dated, commander," he said. "We now use the new Dry Combat Submersible. Fully enclosed. It keeps us dry and warm."
Gates ignored McCabe.
"You can't place explosives at the base of the caisson," Gates said. "It's too thick, too sturdy. You'll have to place them above the caisson, on the outside decks. That means scaling the caisson walls. Difficult but not impossible. Except you won't have the element of surprise. When the Russians came after us, we turned off our deck lights to give us the element of surprise. But the Vilanovsky is covered with deck lights, and they have a well-armed security force. We only had fire hoses. The Vilanovsky has a water cannon on each corner of its first deck, and who knows what else."
McCabe sighed again.
"With due respect, commander," he said, "we've been planning this mission for weeks—"
"I'm sure of that, lieutenant," Gates interrupted. "But you weren't able to do an onsite reconnaissance of the platform. I've been there—twice. And my advice—speaking as someone with training in marine architecture—is the best way to bring down the Vilanovsky is not from the outside, but from the inside."
"I don't understand, sir."
"The Vilanovsky has an underwater portal into the caisson and a large moon pool."
McCabe stared at Gates for several moments before he said, "A portal? You mean a doorway?"
"An opening," Gates said. "We saw it before we were ambushed. It's how their DSVs and divers get access to the open sea."
"And you can tell me how to find it?"
"Better yet," Gates said. "I—and Sarah—can show you." He glanced at Sandford and Gunnar. "That is, if Sarah and Captain Gunnar agree."
Gunnar looked at Gates, then Sandford, then shook his head.
"After the last time, Doug, I don't think—"
He stopped when Sarah touched his arm.
"Please, captain." She pleaded with her eyes as much as her words. "For Johnny?"
Gunnar grimaced, shaking his head. Then, accepting defeat, he sighed, "Very well." He wagged his finger at Gates. "But you take care of her, Doug. And no more self-flagellation like last time if things get mucked up."
Gates smiled. "Yes, sir." He turned to McCabe. The frost in the SEAL's eyes melted the smile.
"I haven't agreed to any of this, commander," the SEAL said.
"Lieutenant, Sarah and I can get you to the rig, and we can guide your people inside fast. In and out, that's how you like it, right? And if everything goes to hell . . ." He nodded toward Sandford. ". . . We'll have the best damn submarine driver the Navy ever trained."
McCabe stared at Sarah. "Navy?"
Sarah planted her elbows on the table, rested her chin on knitted fingers, and batted her eyelashes at the SEAL.
McCabe ran his hands through his short blond hair, exhaling sharply. He paced back and forth in the conference room, then stopped in front of Gates. He held up an index finger.
"One, I can't make this decision on my own. I need to talk to my superiors," he said. Another finger joined the first. "Two, if they do approve, you two . . ." He waved indicating Gates and Sandford. "Do not leave your mini-sub. You guide us in, then you get the hell out of Dodge. Understood?"
Gates held up both hands in supplication.
"Understood, lieutenant."
"Fine." McCabe said, as he stomped out the door. "I need to make a call."
Gates smiled as he turned to Sandford.
"Sarah, you better go over Chip and make sure he's fit to sortie. Senior chief, help her with anything she needs." Leland caught Gate's eye. The dark eyes behind the black horn-rimmed glassed implored him. "Fine. You, too, Leland."
☼
Several miles to the north of the Franklin, an American special operations submarine nosed its way beneath the surface of the Arctic Ocean. Lieutenant Davids, second in command of McCabe's SEAL unit, stomped through the passageway, a message flimsy crushed in his hand. At his team's compartment, he stopped and gave three smart raps on the watertight door. There was a clunk as the dogging latches released and the door cracked opened. An unfriendly blue eye peered out at him.
"Open up, chief," Davids said.
The door swung open and Davids stepped into the compartment. Chief Drummond, the unit's senior noncommissioned officer, was short and stocky but well-muscled. Closely cropped light-brown hair crowned his head. One glance at Davids and he knew there was a problem.
"Bad news, sir?"
"Bad news, chief."
The converted ballistic submarine had a special compartment reserved for SEAL detachments. A row of bunks two high lined each bulkhead, leaving little room in between. As cramped as it was, it was a luxury compared to smaller attack subs. SEALs sat on the bunks. A few read books or magazines. Others cleaned weapons or sharpened knives.
A card table stood at the far end of the bunks, holding a scale model of the Vilanovsky. Davids, a tall, lanky officer in his late twenties, marched the length of the compartment until he stood next to the model.
"Listen up," he said. The sailors stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to him. "I just got message traffic from the skipper." He showed them the message flimsy. "The sub had to nearly surface to put its antenna up to download the message, so you know it's important. We've got new orders."
"Is the mission off, XO?" asked a commando, using the short-hand term for executive officer, or the next senior most officer of a team.
"No," Davids said, "but we're scrapping the plan we've spent the last several weeks on. Instead of assaulting from the outside—" Davids grabbed the top of the oil platform model and removed it from its base. He pointed to the interior of caisson. "—we're assaulting from within the caisson."
"How the hell are we supposed to get inside the caisson, XO?" Drummond said, his voice doubtful.
"Lieutenant McCabe says there is a portal into the caisson, chief," he said.
"A what?" a sailor asked.
"A door," Davids said. "An underwater entryway. We'll sail right through it."
"And then what, sir?"
"We'll blow the fucker up from the inside." Davids pointed to the inside of the model. "There's a moon pool here. We surface inside the rig, plant our explosives, and go out the same way.
"How does the skipper know about this portal, sir?" Drummond asked. "And the moon pool?"
"That Coast Guard team on board that research ship sent people over to the Vilanovsky. They got a good look at the moon pool and the rest of the rig. The ship has a DSV and a hotshot former Navy submersible p
ilot. The DSV pilot and a Coastie made an underwater recce of the rig. They found the entry." He hesitated before continuing. "They'll guide us in."
"For Christ’s sake, the Coast Guard?" the chief growled. Grumbling echoed the chief's sentiment.
"Enough. Enough," Davids said, the message flimsy flapping in his hand as he tried to wave the compartment quiet. "They're only guiding us in, then they leave. We surface, get out of the DCS, set our explosives, and leave the way we came. It's an easier plan."
"Ours is not to reason why . . ." someone said, in a mocking voice.
"All right. All right," Davids said. "We've got a lot of planning to do. Chief, let's look at our intel on the Vilanovsky. Especially those news videos of its sister platform. Maybe there are interior images that might help."
"Yes, sir."
"What was that stuff about 'reasoning why'?" someone asked.
"It's from a poem," another answered. "'Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or die.'"
"We're fucked," someone else said.
Chapter 24
THE DECK WAS SHAKING again.
Konstantin watched the roiling surface of the coffee in his cup. Since the first sea quake two days before, the Vilanovsky's decks had rattled with growing frequency and strength. None of the scientists aboard the platform could offer an explanation other than the ocean floor in the Chukchi Sea was more seismically active than believed. The frequent shaking was adding to the equipment problems. Konstantin cursed. Too many delays. He was sick of so many delays.
"Excuse me, sir."
Novikov stood at the door of Konstantin's private quarters, a small suite that included a sitting room with a desk, a private toilet, and a small bedroom. It was modest by most standards, but compared to Novikov's one-room compartment, it was spacious.
Konstantin looked up from his coffee cup. Novikov appeared less nervous than usual.
"Good news, I hope," Konstantin said.
"Yes, sir," Novikov said. "I think so."
"You think so?"
"I think you will appreciate it," the ops director said.
Polar Melt: A Novel Page 13