Ice Station Nautilus (23 page)

“Prepare both platoons. We depart one hour after sunset.”

Leonov acknowledged Klokov’s order, then addressed the most critical issue. “Once the mission is complete, what will we do with the witnesses?”

Klokov reflected on his discussion with Fleet Admiral Ivanov when the man had visited him in Pechenga. Ivanov had directed Klokov to keep the loss of life to a minimum. However,
minimum
was a subjective term. Klokov’s men were Spetsnaz, and they did not leave evidence behind, especially the talking kind.

Klokov answered his Executive Officer. “We will leave no witnesses.”

59

USS
NORTH DAKOTA

It was late afternoon aboard
North Dakota
when Commander Paul Tolbert stepped into the relatively quiet Engine Room. The submarine’s two electrical turbine generators were running, but the main engines were silent. Petty Officer Third Class Scott Turk looked up from his clipboard as the submarine’s Captain descended into Engine Room Forward, and his face brightened. He was three hours into his watch, and aside from the occasional pass-through by the Engine Room Supervisor and Engineering Watch Supervisor, there was no one to talk to in the bowels of the Engine Room. He stood as Commander Tolbert approached.

“How’s it going?” Tolbert asked, glancing at the condensate pump.

“Sounds a little funny, sir,” Turk replied, “but it runs okay.”

“Is it getting worse?”

“No, sir,” Turk replied. “It’s sounded funny since E-Div repaired it.”

“Got it,” Tolbert said. He wasn’t surprised their little Frankenstein sounded odd. But he figured it was a good sign as long as the sound remained the same. “Anything else unusual?”

Turk thought for a moment, then replied, “No, sir. With no propulsion orders and the turbines in a full-power line-up, there’s not much going on down here.”

Tolbert bid Petty Officer Turk good-bye, then ascended to Engine Room Upper Level and stopped in Maneuvering. The Engineering Officer of the Watch had nothing significant to report, and Tolbert headed forward. It was the same throughout the ship.
North Dakota
had resumed hovering at two hundred feet, and aside from the sonar techs who kept in communication with
Dolgoruky,
the watchstanders had settled into a routine one could best describe as boring.

Still, after a week of stress following the collision and flooding in the Engine Room, followed by a frantic race to restore power before the battery ran out, the calm aboard the submarine was welcome. However, Tolbert figured it was anything but calm aboard the Russian submarine. Their air was becoming toxic, and they had only a few hours left.

60

K-535
YURY DOLGORUKY

In the dark, frigid compartment, Nicholai Stepanov tilted his head back, lifting the water bottle to his parched lips. The few remaining drops of water dribbled into his mouth, then he placed the empty bottle on the deck beside him and prepared for another round through the compartment. The air regeneration unit, which had been a welcome source of warmth over the last week, was now a hunk of cold metal; they were out of air regeneration canisters.

The oxygen level was falling, while the concentration of carbon dioxide rose. As
Dolgoruky
’s Medical Officer predicted, oxygen was not the issue; it was still at fifteen percent. Carbon dioxide level, on the other hand, had reached four percent. Stepanov could feel the effects of the high CO
2
level. He was tired despite plenty of sleep, his head pounded from a severe headache, and his respiration was shallow and rapid.

He looked around the dark compartment. There were no emergency lanterns on. There were only a half-dozen left with good batteries. He had one of them and turned it on, the faint yellow glow illuminating a radius of a few meters. He pulled himself to his feet, supporting himself on a nearby torpedo, then flexed his stiff hands inside his gloves. Reaching down, he retrieved the lantern and aimed it around the ice-coated compartment.

Stepanov moved slowly, checking first on the men in upper level, huddled in small groups between the torpedo stows. The men who were awake murmured greetings to their Captain as he stopped for a moment. At the aft end of the compartment, Stepanov stopped near the sealed watertight door to Compartment Two. Starshina First Class Oleg Devin, one of Stepanov’s Torpedomen, manned the sound-powered phones.

“How are the men aft?” Stepanov asked.

“They have one more day of air regeneration canisters,” was the reply.

In the faint illumination, Stepanov could see the despair in the young man’s eyes. Devin knew that he, along with the other men in Compartment One, had only a few hours left. Stepanov squeezed the man’s shoulder, conveying what support he could. Devin placed his hand over Stepanov’s, holding it in place. He could feel the tremors in Devin’s hand.

Devin released Stepanov’s hand and Nicholai squeezed the young man’s shoulder again. “Do not give up hope.”

The young man nodded, then replied, “Yes, Captain.”

Stepanov continued his round through upper level and spotted his Medical Officer, Captain Kovaleski, examining a patient in a makeshift bed on one of the torpedo stows with a small flashlight. Kovaleski turned toward Stepanov, and as the lantern illuminated his features, Stepanov noticed a smile on his doctor’s face.

Stepanov almost lurched to a halt, wondering if his Medical Officer had become delusional in the high-CO
2
air, or if the bitter cold was impairing him.

“Captain,” Kovaleski said. “I was about to come get you.”

Stepanov approached his Medical Officer, who pointed toward the patient on the torpedo stow. It was Stepanov’s First Officer, who had been knocked out during the flooding and had remained unconscious for the last week. Pavlov’s eyes were open, and they were looking at Stepanov. Relief washed through him. For some reason, despite their impending doom, knowing his First Officer had survived buoyed his spirit.

“Captain,” Pavlov said groggily. “How bad is it?”

Stepanov looked to Kovaleski, wondering what the two men had discussed.

“He just awoke,” Kovaleski said. “I have not told him anything.”

Pavlov had clearly deduced, from the dark, frigid surroundings, that
Dolgoruky
was in dire straits. Stepanov decided not to withhold anything.

“Compartments Two and Three are flooded, and we have sunk to the bottom.” Stepanov paused, then forced the bitter words from his mouth. “
Dolgoruky
is lost.”

“How long do we have?” Pavlov asked.

Stepanov pulled the end of his glove back, exposing his watch. The sun had set an hour ago atop the ice cap.

“A few hours.”

61

ICE CAMP BARNEO • ICE STATION NAUTILUS

ICE CAMP BARNEO

Captain Klokov stood beside the helicopter fuselage in the darkness, beneath the downdraft of the rotor wash, as the first squad of men boarded the transport. Fifty feet to his left, Klokov’s XO did the same as another squad boarded, and not far away, the second platoon boarded their transports. After the twelfth and final man in Klokov’s squad climbed into the Ka-60 Kasatka, painted white to match the Arctic landscape, he grabbed a handrail inside the fuselage and swung himself aboard. The helicopter lifted off immediately.

The four Russian helicopters skirted the edge of Camp Barneo, then turned west, skimming fast and low, fifty feet above the ice, toward the lights in the distance.

ICE STATION NAUTILUS

They were almost ready. Christine stood in the cold under the bright ice camp lights, watching final preparations for the PRM launch. Standing beside her was Captain Brackman, his eyes likewise locked on the submersible about to be lowered into the ocean. All that remained was a final checkout by the pilot, who operated the PRM from the control van—a metal Conex container on top of the starboard Surface Decompression Chamber—and a briefing by Commander Steel. He stood not far from Christine, in front of a small team of personnel who would journey to the ocean bottom.

Although the eighteen-person-capacity PRM was normally manned by only two attendants, they would be joined on the first trip by the Disabled Submarine (DISSUB) Entry Team, who would remain aboard
Dolgoruky
to assist until the last survivor was evacuated. The DISSUB Entry Team included a submarine independent duty corpsman to assess the crew’s health, an Auxiliary Division chief to assist with entering the submarine and monitoring atmospheres, and a Russian translator.

While Christine waited for Steel to complete his brief, she admired the aurora borealis—the Northern Lights, illuminating the night sky in a diffuse green glow. As she wondered about the atmospheric conditions that created the phenomenon, she heard the sound of helicopters approaching the camp. Choppers had been coming and going all day, but why would helicopters arrive in the dark?

The sound faded, returning the camp to relative silence. Not long thereafter, a dozen armed men, wearing white Arctic uniforms and with their weapons drawn, emerged from the darkness at the ice camp perimeter, advancing toward them. One of the men shouted, “Lie down on the ground!”

Shocked expressions worked their way across everyone’s faces as three more groups of soldiers appeared, each from a different direction, searching the huts they passed by as they approached. The polar bear watches were at the front of each formation, with soldiers carrying their shotguns.

The first man shouted again, “Down on the ground. Now!”

One by one, everyone complied. Christine lay down and watched the soldiers inspect each person as they were pulled to their feet. Two men approached her, pulling her upright, then checked her pockets and unzipped her parka to check for weapons. Satisfied she was unarmed, they moved on, leaving her standing beside Brackman, who had also been pulled to his feet and searched. As Christine zipped her parka back up, she noted the soldiers spoke Russian. They were Spetsnaz. But why would they assault Ice Station Nautilus?

The Spetsnaz finished inspecting the ice station personnel, then forced everyone into a line, with Brackman on one side of her and Peter Tarbottom on the other. The Spetsnaz walked down the line, examining name tags. Senior Navy personnel were pulled forward, forming a second line in front of another Spetsnaz soldier, whom Christine concluded was the unit commander. The four Americans in line were Vice Admiral Dahlenburg, Captain Naughton, Captain Brackman, and Commander Steel.

The Spetsnaz commander moved in front of Vice Admiral Dahlenburg.

“This is the plan,” he said. “My men are going to take a trip in your rescue vehicle. You need to supply the personnel to operate the equipment. Understand?”

The Admiral did not respond.

The Spetsnaz commander continued, “All you have to do is give the order.”

Dahlenburg stared back.

The Spetsnaz pulled a pistol from its holster and pointed it at the Admiral’s head. “Do not make this difficult,” he said. “You have until the count of three.”

Admiral Dahlenburg said nothing.

“One.”

It didn’t take long for Christine to figure out where the Russians were headed once they boarded the PRM. The unsuspecting crew aboard
North Dakota
would be taken by surprise. Admiral Dahlenburg apparently came to the same conclusion.

He remained silent.

“Two.”

The Spetsnaz commander had his arm extended, his pistol pointed at Dahlenburg’s head. The Russian waited an extra second, then spoke again.

“Three.”

A gunshot rang out in the still Arctic air and Dahlenburg’s head snapped back, then he collapsed onto the ice. Blood poured from the wound in his forehead, soaking into the snow.

The Spetsnaz examined the name tags of the two Navy Captains in front of him: Captain Mike Naughton, Commodore of Submarine Squadron ELEVEN, and Brackman, the president’s senior military aide. The Russian correctly deduced Naughton was the next man in the undersea rescue chain of command, and he stepped in front of the Commodore.

“As you can see,” the Spetsnaz said, “I do not count to four.” He raised his pistol, pointing it at Naughton’s head. “Order your men to operate the equipment, or you will suffer the same fate as your Admiral.”

Naughton’s eyes darted to the Admiral’s body in the snow, then to the Spetsnaz commander’s pistol, then to Commander Steel.

“One.”

Naughton’s eyes went back to the pistol, then to the Spetsnaz commander’s face.

“Two.”

The Commodore’s posture stiffened, then he finally spoke.

“Go to Hell.”

“Three.”

A second gunshot rang out, and this time Captain Naughton crumpled to the ice. The Russian commander stepped in front of Brackman, placing the pistol against his forehead.

“It is only a matter of time,” the Russian said. “Someone will give the order. Save yourself.”

Brackman stared ahead, giving no indication he would comply.

“One.”

Christine’s heart began to race. She knew Brackman would not give the order. She wasn’t even sure he
could
give it. Although he was senior to Commander Steel, the Commander wasn’t in Brackman’s chain of command. Christine’s eyes went to Steel, but he was staring directly ahead, just like Brackman.

“Two.”

Brackman remained silent, and Christine panicked.

She stepped forward. “Stop it!”

Tarbottom grabbed her arm and yanked her back in line, but it was too late. The Spetsnaz commander’s head snapped toward Christine, his cold eyes locking on to her.

He stepped in front of Christine, examining her for a moment. Then he grabbed both sides of her face, his gloved hand under her jaw, and tilted her head up. “What is a beautiful Russian woman doing with the likes of these men?”

Christine slapped his hand away. “I’m not Russian. I’m American.”

The Spetsnaz commander smiled and said something loudly in Russian, and several of his men laughed.