Ice Station Nautilus (2 page)

North Dakota
would be there to greet her.

2

GADZHIYEVO, RUSSIA

Along the snow-covered shore of Yagelnaya Bay, a cold Arctic wind blew in from the Barents Sea as Captain First Rank Nicholai Stepanov emerged from the back of his black sedan. The icy wind bit into his exposed face, and he pressed the flaps of his ushanka fox-fur hat tighter against his ears. The month-and-a-half-long polar night had finally ended, and Stepanov welcomed the faint warmth of the early-morning sun, hovering in a clear-blue sky just above the snow-covered hills to the east.

Stepanov stood beside his car, taking in the scene. Tied up along the center pier of Gadzhiyevo Naval Base, its curving shoreline forming a semicircular bay, was the pride of the Russian fleet—K-535
Yury Dolgoruky,
the Navy’s first new ballistic missile submarine in seventeen years. The sun glinted off the sides of the 170-meter-long submarine, the ship’s black hull trapped in a thin layer of coastal ice. Nearby, the nuclear-powered icebreaker
Taymyr
waited patiently for orders to clear a path to sea.

A second sedan pulled up and two Russian Admirals emerged. Stepanov saluted his superiors—Rear Admiral Shimko, commander of the 12th Submarine Squadron, and Admiral Lipovsky, commander of the Northern Fleet. The two Admirals returned Stepanov’s salute, but no words were exchanged. Stepanov already knew Admiral Lipovsky desired to speak with him, in private, following this morning’s ceremony.

Stepanov turned and strode onto the pier toward his submarine. The two Admirals joined him, their feet crunching through a fresh layer of snow deposited by the weekend storm. As the three men headed down the long pier, Stepanov’s eyes went to a podium on the pier across from his submarine. The sides of the temporary ceremonial stand were draped in red, white, and blue striped bunting that matched the colors of the Russian Federation flag.

Yury Dolgoruky
’s crew was already assembled on the submarine’s missile deck; 107 men—55 officers and 52 enlisted—were standing in formation with the seven battle department commanders in front of their respective men. Stepanov’s First Officer, Captain Second Rank Dmitri Pavlov, stood at the head of the formation. On the pier, in front of the podium and facing
Yury Dolgoruky,
were assembled the three submarine staffs under the purview of Rear Admiral Shimko—his own 12th Squadron staff, plus those of the 24th and 31st Submarine Divisions.

Stepanov and the two Admirals climbed the wooden stairs onto the platform, and Rear Admiral Shimko approached a lectern while Stepanov and Lipovsky settled into chairs behind him. Shimko greeted his staff and Stepanov’s crew, and, after a short introduction, relinquished the lectern to Lipovsky. The Commander of the Northern Fleet stepped forward, studying
Dolgoruky
’s crew before beginning his speech. As Lipovsky spoke, Stepanov’s mind drifted. He had heard it all before.
Yury Dolgoruky
was a symbol of the Russian Navy’s bright future, not unlike the sun climbing into the sky after the long polar night.

Like Gadzhiyevo, the Russian Navy had emerged from dark times. In the years that followed the collapse of the Soviet Union, the once proud Soviet Submarine Fleet had decayed, submarines rusting alongside their piers due to inadequate funding for even the most basic repairs. But the economy finally gained traction and the government had begun the task of rebuilding the Navy, committing to two new nuclear attack submarines per year, plus eight Borei class submarines to replace the aging Akyna, Kal’mar, and Delfin class submarines—called Typhoon, Delta III, and Delta IV by the West.

The rusting hulks had been towed to nearby Guba Sayda, a holding pen for submarines awaiting dismantling, or had already been scrapped at nearby shipyards. The submarines that remained at Gadzhiyevo Naval Base in addition to
Yury Dolgoruky
—six ballistic missile and a half-dozen nuclear attack submarines—were fully operational.

Yury Dolgoruky
was also operational.
Finally
. It had slipped from its floating dock at the Sevmash shipyard into the White Sea six years ago, and the submarine and its new nuclear warhead–tipped ballistic missile, the Bulava, had been plagued with countless design and material issues. After a seemingly endless series of sea trials, shipyard repairs, and test missile firings,
Yury Dolgoruky
was finally ready to commence her first patrol.

After almost forty minutes, Admiral Lipovsky finished his speech and retreated from the lectern. It was Captain Stepanov’s turn to inspire his crew. He approached the lectern, resting his hands along the edges as he surveyed his men. They had been standing in formation in the bitter cold for almost an hour, assembling topside twenty minutes before the two Admirals and their Captain arrived. Stepanov decided to keep his speech short.

“Station the underway watch.”

He could see the faint smile on his First Officer’s face as his second-in-command saluted crisply. Stepanov returned the salute, and Captain Second Rank Pavlov turned to address the battle department commanders. A moment later, the formation dissolved into a mass of men moving toward the submarine’s three hatches. One by one, the men disappeared down the holes.

Rear Admiral Shimko wished Stepanov good luck, then headed down the pier with the three squadron staffs, leaving Admiral Lipovsky and Stepanov behind.

“Your stateroom,” the Admiral said.

*   *   *

A few minutes later, the two men entered Stepanov’s stateroom, a three-by-three-meter room containing only a narrow bed and a table seating two persons. Lipovsky closed the door, then settled into one of the chairs, motioning Stepanov into the other with a wave of his hand. The Admiral kept his coat and gloves on; their discussion would not take long.

“You are a man of few words,” the Admiral said as Stepanov took his seat. “I should learn from you. I sometimes like to hear myself speak.”

“The men appreciate your visit,” Stepanov replied.

“And I appreciate your dedication,” Lipovsky said. The Admiral fell silent, his eyes probing Stepanov until he finally spoke again.

“How many men know what
Yury Dolgoruky
carries?”

It was Stepanov’s turn for silence, reviewing in his mind the images of the loadout three days ago in the missile handling facility.

“The entire crew knows,” Stepanov replied. “Missile Division assisted with the loadout, and you cannot keep something like this a secret.”

Lipovsky leaned forward. “You
must
keep it a secret. No one besides your crew and the personnel in the missile handling facility can know.”

Stepanov nodded. “I have already spoken to my men. They know not to speak about this to others. Not even family members.”

“Good,” Lipovsky replied. “We cannot underestimate our peril if others learn of our deception. The
Rodina
itself would be at risk.” Lipovsky paused before continuing, expressing his fear more distinctly. “The Americans cannot discover what you carry.”

3

USS
NORTH DAKOTA

Just off the coast of Russia’s Kola Peninsula, USS
North Dakota
cruised at periscope depth, the top of its photonics mast sticking above the ocean’s surface. Seated at the command workstation near the front of the Control Room, the submarine’s Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant Scott Molitor, studied the left display on the dual-screen console, examining the image from the photonics mast as he rotated it clockwise with a tilt of the joystick. Molitor paused on each revolution to study Kola Bay to the south, the exit point for warships stationed in the Northern Fleet ports along the shores of the Murmansk Fjord, searching for their target of interest.

Yury Dolgoruky
.

The latest INTEL message reported the Russian ballistic missile submarine was preparing for her first patrol. If things went as planned,
North Dakota
would accompany her.

Molitor had only one hour left on watch, but so far had nothing to show for his effort. After five hours of scrutinizing the shore and surrounding ocean, he had detected only a few merchant ships far out to sea. He commenced another sweep with the photonics mast, shifting to the low-power Wide-Field view with a push of a button on the joystick. He was thankful
North Dakota
had photonics masts instead of periscopes. He couldn’t imagine going round and round on his feet for six hours straight,
dancing with the Gray Lady
—the senior officers’ phrase for countless hours spent circling with one of the mechanical periscopes on older submarines.

As Molitor continued his clockwise rotation, the Sonar Supervisor, standing only a few feet away, spoke into his headset, his report coming across the speakers in Control.

“Conn, Sonar. Hold a new surface contact on the towed array, ambiguous bearings designated Sierra three-two and three-three, bearing one-nine-zero and one-one-zero. Analyzing.”

North Dakota
’s towed array was a valuable asset, detecting contacts at longer ranges than the submarine’s other acoustic sensors. However, the array was an assembly of hydrophones connected in a straight line, which meant it could not determine which side the sound arrived from, resulting in two potential bearings to the contact—one on each side of the array.

Molitor acknowledged and rotated the photonics mast to a bearing of one-one-zero, shifting to Narrow-Field view. There were no contacts. He swung to the south. As he examined Kola Bay, he spotted a small speck on the horizon. He called to the Electronic Surveillance Measures watch. “ESM, Conn. Report all radar contacts to the south.”

“Conn, ESM. I hold no contacts to the south.”

Molitor reached for the ICSAP handset and pressed the button on the touch-screen display for the Captain’s stateroom. A few seconds later, Commander Paul Tolbert answered.

“Captain.”

“Captain, Officer of the Deck. Hold a new surface contact, designated Sierra three-two, bearing one-nine-zero, exiting Kola Bay. Hold no navigation radar.”

“Very well,” the Captain replied. “I’ll be right there.”

Commander Tolbert entered the Control Room a moment later, his arrival announced by the Quartermaster. “Captain in Control.”

*   *   *

Commander Paul Tolbert stopped behind the command workstation, examining both displays over the shoulder of his junior officer. Molitor had resumed his visual search routine, and the photonics mast was rotating slowly clockwise.

“Show me what you’ve got,” Tolbert directed.

Molitor swung the photonics mast to a bearing of one-nine-zero, then shifted to Narrow-Field view. The speck on the horizon was larger now, but was still difficult to classify. It was
hull-down
—only the top of the distant ship was visible due to the curvature of the earth. All Tolbert could see was the contact’s boxy superstructure. Since it was transiting through coastal ice, it had to be an icebreaker.
Breaking the ice for what?

Tolbert ordered, “Take an observation using the laser range-finder.”

Lieutenant Molitor repeated back the order, then pressed a soft key on his command workstation, activating the laser range-finder on
North Dakota
’s photonics mast.

Molitor called out, “Prepare for observation, Victor one, Number One mast.”

One of the two fire control technicians manning the starboard consoles reported, “Ready.”

Molitor aligned the photonics mast to the contact, then announced, “Bearing, mark,” and squeezed the trigger on the joystick.

The fire control technician called out, “Bearing one-nine-zero, range ten thousand yards.” Lieutenant Molitor added, “Angle on the bow, zero.”

If the icebreaker was clearing a path for a warship, Tolbert now knew its range. It would trail close behind the icebreaker, traversing the clear water before ice chunks floated back into the open channel. However, the icebreaker’s large superstructure blocked
North Dakota
’s view, making the detection of a ship behind it impossible. They needed to move off the icebreaker’s track so they could see behind it. Tolbert decided to turn perpendicular to the icebreaker’s course.

“Come to course zero-nine-zero.”

The Pilot tapped in the ordered course, and as
North Dakota
turned to port, Tolbert suppressed an involuntary shudder. It had taken a while to get used to the Virginia class design. Although he was now comfortable with a Control Room containing sonarmen but no periscopes, and calling the Helm a Pilot, he still got the willies from normal course and depth changes.

On older submarines, the Officer of the Deck would give a rudder order when changing course more than ten degrees, and when changing depth, the Diving Officer would order a specific up or down angle for the boat. On Virginia class submarines, however, “the ship” made those decisions. The Officer of the Deck would order a new course or depth and the Pilot would enter it into the Ship Control Station, and the ship’s computer would automatically adjust the submarine’s rudder, bow, and stern planes to the optimal angles. If desired, manual control could be taken by ordering a specific rudder or ship angle. But it was normally a “hands-off’ operation.

North Dakota
steadied on the ordered course and the ship’s computer returned the rudder amidships. They were at periscope depth traveling at only five knots, and Tolbert’s submarine moved slowly off the icebreaker’s track. Tolbert and Molitor studied the photonics display, searching behind the icebreaker. Slowly, a black rectangle appeared—a submarine sail.

“Sonar, Conn,” Molitor called out. “Hold an outbound submarine behind Sierra three-two. Report additional contacts in vicinity of Sierra three-two.”

“Conn, Sonar,” the Sonar Supervisor replied. “The only thing we hold is Sierra three-two. It’s masking anything behind it.”

Tolbert studied the submarine’s sail. Based on its size and shape, he discarded one submarine class and then another, leaving only one.
Yury Dolgoruky
was headed to sea.