Ice Station Nautilus (14 page)

“Your stateroom,” was all he said.

*   *   *

Ivanov followed Baczewski into his stateroom, then closed and locked the door.

“To what honor do we owe your visit?” Baczewski asked, attempting to break the ice.

“It is no honor,” Ivanov replied. “Be seated.”

Baczewski took his seat as Ivanov settled into his. The Admiral reached into his overcoat and retrieved a sealed envelope, which he placed on the table between them. “Your orders.”

Vepr
’s commanding officer opened the envelope, and as he read the letter, signed by the Admiral, mixed emotions surged through him—fear, and excitement. After a moment of reflection, he decided his reaction was as it should be for someone heading into battle.

“It is only a contingency measure,” the Admiral said. “And you may decline the order.”

Baczewski read the order again, evaluating the possible scenarios. There was no way to predict the risk to his crew. However, Ivanov would not have made the request without good reason. Baczewski folded the letter and placed it back into the envelope.

“I have no reservations, Admiral. I will do as you instruct.”

Ivanov nodded. “How soon can you get underway?”

“The reactor is shut down. By the time we start up, it will be dark. Unless it’s imperative we get underway tonight, I recommend we get underway first thing tomorrow morning.”

“You will depart tonight,” Ivanov answered.

The Admiral stood, and before turning toward the door, he said, “Keep the envelope in a safe place. If you are called into service and survive, you will need it to absolve yourself.”

*   *   *

Ivanov’s sedan was parked on the pier, not far from
Vepr
’s brow, the back door held open by his driver. Ivanov slid into the back seat of the warm sedan—the car engine and heater had been left running. The driver shut Ivanov’s door and climbed into the front seat a moment later. He looked at the Admiral through the rearview mirror. “Back to the airport, sir?”

“No,” Ivanov replied as he took his gloves off. “Pechenga.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

He put the car in gear and guided it down the narrow pier. Not long thereafter, the sedan pulled onto Route E105, headed northwest toward the far corner of the Kola Peninsula.

30

PECHENGA, RUSSIA

In the northwest corner of the Kola Peninsula, not far from the Norwegian and Finnish borders, Fleet Admiral Ivanov looked out his sedan window at the sprawling base in the Pechengsky District. Originally part of the Swedish Empire, the district was annexed by Russia in 1533, then ceded to Finland in 1920 after the Finnish civil war. However, after five million tons of nickel deposits were discovered in the region, the land was seized by the Soviet Union during 1939’s Winter War, then reclaimed by Finland during the Continuation War, joining Nazi Germany’s assault on Russia. The Soviet Union prevailed, however, and with tremendous underground wealth and a tumultuous history, it was not surprising there was a Russian military base in the remote rural district.

It was late in the afternoon, with the sun slipping toward the craggy peaks of the Pechenga Mountains, when Ivanov’s sedan reached the installation. The guard at the security gate checked the identification of the driver, then waved them through. The driver followed Ivanov’s directions, and pedestrian and vehicular traffic thinned as they headed deeper into the base, until no cars or soldiers were visible.

“Stop here,” the Admiral commanded.

The sedan ground to a halt in front of a four-story redbrick building. Ivanov stepped from the car and entered the facility. The quarterdeck watch saluted briskly, holding his salute until the Admiral dropped his.

“Inform Captain First Rank Klokov that Fleet Admiral Ivanov is here.”

The Starshina Third Class picked up the phone, and after speaking into the handset, hung up. “Captain Klokov is on his way.”

Captain First Rank Klokov was the commanding officer of Russian military unit 10511. Its official title was the 585th OMRP, which stood for Otdel’nyy Morskoy Razvedyvatel’nyy Punkt and translated in English to “Detached Naval Reconnaissance Point.” Outside Russia, however, the unit was known as Spetsnaz.

Spetsnaz were elite special forces, with several units being Marine Commandos, the equivalent of America’s Navy SEALs. There were over one hundred Spetsnaz units spread throughout the Russian military and intelligence organizations, but only a few met Ivanov’s needs. Marine Commandos would have been a suitable selection. However, those units were under the direct control of the military’s Main Intelligence Directorate, or GRU. Ivanov needed a unit under his command, and there was one unit that met the specifications for the mission Boris Chernov had outlined. The Polar Spetsnaz unit, based in Pechenga.

The Polar Spetsnaz brigade was trained and equipped for warfare in Arctic conditions, with DT-30P Vityaz tracked vehicles. However, against their potential adversary, they would not need their armored vehicles. Their training, small arms weapons, and helicopters would suffice.

Captain Klokov arrived at the quarterdeck and the two officers saluted each other. After the required greetings, Klokov led the Admiral down a hallway and into his office. Ivanov settled into a chair across from Klokov’s desk, then Klokov took his seat.

Klokov began with the expected pleasantries, but Ivanov interrupted him. “I have an assignment for your unit.”

Ivanov laid out the unit’s assignment and timeline. When he finished, Klokov said nothing while he worked through the various scenarios. He finally responded, addressing a critical issue.

“There will be many witnesses.”

“Minimize the casualties,” Ivanov replied, “but mission success is paramount.”

*   *   *

Ivanov departed without ceremony, then stepped into the back of his sedan. His driver awaited guidance, and Ivanov said, “Murmansk Airport.”

As the car headed toward the base exit, Ivanov reflected on what he had done today. The plan had been put in motion, but he could not predict the outcome or his fate if it failed. His career had been distinguished, guiding Russia’s Navy through its darkest times, and he’d been Fleet Admiral longer than anyone. As he leaned back, sinking deeper into the leather upholstery, he told himself again that the potential gain was worth risking what was left of an old man’s career.

31

USS
NORTH DAKOTA

Commander Paul Tolbert stood in the deserted Control Room, the light from his battle lantern cutting through the darkness and reflecting off ice-coated consoles. Without power to run the ventilation heaters, temperature had stabilized at twenty-nine degrees Fahrenheit, matching that of the ocean beneath the polar ice cap. The watchstanders had wiped away the moisture condensing on the submarine’s metal surfaces, but now that temperature had dropped below freezing, everything was coated in a thin sheen of ice.

As the temperature fell, hypothermia became an issue, and after conferring with
North Dakota
’s corpsman, Tolbert secured all watches except the essential ones in the engineering spaces, and sent everyone to their racks, where they were hibernating in their SEIE suits beneath every available blanket. Tolbert shined his light on the dead Ship Control Station. He had no idea what depth the ship was at, but was confident they had pumped off enough water to keep them pinned against the bottom of the ice cap.

He was about to head aft to check on Electrical Division’s progress again, but decided otherwise. There had been little else to do the last three days, and repairs were proceeding even slower than Chief Moran had predicted. As the temperature plummeted, the electricians lost dexterity in their fingers, affecting their ability to conduct the delicate repairs. Even though the SEIE suits came with flexible neoprene gloves, they were of no use since the work required bare hands.

Tolbert spotted a yellow glow creeping his way. A moment later, the Chief of the Boat, Master Chief Paul Murgo, entered the Control Room, a battle lantern in hand. Like Tolbert, he conducted frequent tours, checking on the condition of the men and ship.

Murgo shined his light across the frozen consoles.

“Ahh, there’s no place like home.” The Alaskan native seemed unfazed by the frigid temperatures. “What I wouldn’t give for a hundred and thirty pairs of red slippers, though,” he said. “Just click three times…”

“We’re not in Kansas, anymore, Toto,” Tolbert replied.

Murgo grinned.

Two more beams of light appeared, and the Engineer Officer and Auxiliary Division Chief entered Control. They joined Tolbert and Murgo around the navigation plot. In the dim light, Tolbert noticed worried looks.

“We’ve got another problem,” Lieutenant Commander Swenson said. “The potable water tanks have frozen. We can’t get any more water.”

Of all the things they’d been worried about, Tolbert thought—air, power, and temperature—who would have thought water would be an issue? But submarines weren’t designed to operate at three degrees below freezing, and they had never had to think through the implications. He reviewed the different fluids aboard—seawater, pure water, diesel fuel, hydraulic fluid, and battery acid, and figured the only issues were the pure water–based systems.

The reactor plant water would be fine. Even though the reactor was shut down, heat was still being generated from the radioactive decay of fission by-products, and Tolbert could feel the welcome warmth emanating from the bulkheads as he passed through the Reactor Compartment Tunnel. That left the Engine Room systems.

“If potable water is freezing,” Tolbert said, “the Condensate and Feed systems will also freeze, if they haven’t already done so.”

Swenson replied, “I just checked Condensate and Feed by opening some of the drains. The feedwater piping near the Reactor Compartment is still above freezing, but everything else is frozen.”

They had realized the problem too late. As water froze, it would expand and potentially crack piping or separate joints.

“Any evidence of damage?” Tolbert asked.

“Nothing so far. I think we’re okay in the Feed System, as that piping is designed for high pressure so it can force water into the steam generator, but the Condensate System is low pressure. We could have some issues there. We won’t know for sure until we thaw everything out. Which brings up another problem. We have to thaw everything out
before
we start up.”

Tolbert realized the implication immediately. They couldn’t start up with frozen Condensate and Feedwater systems, nor did he want to start spinning a turbine with ice formations inside. He would have to warm everything up first, placing an additional drain on the battery. His decision to open the battery breaker had been wise, preserving the remaining energy. They were going to need every bit of it.

“We’ll restore the ventilation heaters and warm up the Engine Room before start-up,” Tolbert said. “Our immediate problem, however, is water. Any recommendations?”

“Chief Johnson has one,” Swenson replied.

Tolbert turned to Larry “Big Red” Johnson, the tall A-Gang Chief with red hair and a temper to match. Johnson answered, “As the Eng said, the metal near the reactor is still warm and some feedwater hasn’t frozen. I had Chief Scalise check, and the Pure Water Tank hasn’t frozen either.”

Tolbert considered Johnson’s idea. Pure Water was used as reactor coolant. But as its name implied, it was pure water, nothing more. “Great idea, Chief. Use the Pure Water Tank for drinking water. Check the tank temperature with a surface pyrometer every hour, and if it drops to thirty-three degrees, drain the remaining water into containers and store them in the Reactor Compartment Tunnel.”

With the water problem solved, Tolbert turned to Master Chief Murgo, “How are we doing on carbon dioxide?”

“We’ve got one more day of CO
2
absorbers left,” Murgo replied. “After that, we’ll have to start a scrubber, whether we’ve got a turbine generator up or not. It’s your call as to when, but Doc recommends we keep CO
2
below one percent.”

Tolbert wasn’t looking forward to the decision. Running a scrubber would drain the battery, leaving insufficient power for start-up, which was their only hope of long-term survival. It was a Catch-22 situation. Start a scrubber to save their lives, but seal their fate in the process.

They needed to restore power, which was held up by the Condensate System repairs.

“How much longer, Eng?”

Swenson replied, “My best guess is … twenty-four hours.”

32

K-535
YURY DOLGORUKY

In the upper level of Compartment One, Captain Nicholai Stepanov pulled himself to his feet, leaving behind his Chief Ship Starshina, asleep on the deck beside him with his back against a torpedo. He retrieved a water bottle from inside his survival suit and took a small sip. Now that temperature in the compartment had dropped below zero degrees Centigrade, he kept the bottle inside his suit to keep the water from freezing. He took a small sip for good reason; they had enough water bottles for each man to receive one more.

Stepanov surveyed the dimly lit compartment. Aside from the faint glow from Captain Kovaleski’s flashlight, tending to Stepanov’s still unconscious First Officer, it was dark in upper level. Had he checked his watch, it would have told him it was 7 a.m., time to begin a new day. But only a few men were stirring. He figured that was best, minimizing the production of carbon dioxide. They had enough air regeneration cartridges to last another day.

Stepanov reached for his lantern and began his round. He dropped down to middle level, where the men huddled around the air regeneration unit. He checked each man, talking for a moment with those awake. He did his best to project a positive outlook, but had few encouraging words. He could not hide the obvious facts from his men; Russia would not notice
Dolgoruky
was missing for another two months, and so far, there was no sign anyone was looking for the American submarine or that it had even sunk nearby.