Ice Station Nautilus (26 page)

“You like my body?” she asked.

“It is wonderful. You are a beautiful woman.”

Christine smiled. “I hope you enjoy this.”

She leaned forward again, pressing her left breast into his face as she ran her fingers through his hair, then cradled his head in the crook of her left arm. As his mouth opened to take in her nipple, she clamped down tightly with her left arm and pulled her right hand back, then jammed the ice pick into Klokov’s temple.

Christine kept his face squeezed tightly against her breast, muffling his scream as she worked the ice pick back and forth, slicing through his brain. Blood spurted from his head, coating her arm and splattering onto her shoulder and face as Klokov started convulsing.

His body finally went slack, his arms dropping to his side. She kept his face clamped against her breast until the blood spurting from his head slowed to an ooze, then she gradually released him from her embrace. His head tilted back; his mouth was open, as were his eyes, staring at the ceiling.

Christine pulled the ice pick from his head, then wiped the blood from it with the front of his shirt. She cleaned herself off, then placed the ice pick on the table and donned her clothing. Next, she searched for a firearm. She found a pistol in a harness hanging from a peg on one of the walls, but there was no silencer on the barrel. She had to kill the guard outside without alerting the four Spetsnaz in the adjacent hut, or any others in the camp.

Her search of the hut produced no other weapons, nor a silencer for the pistol. She slid the pistol into her parka pocket, then grabbed the ice pick and headed for the door. She stopped when she reached it, thinking through how to kill the guard outside. The Spetsnaz had taken station on the left side of the door, so she kept the ice pick in her right hand, against her thigh so its view was blocked by her body. She took a deep breath, then opened the door.

The Spetsnaz was to her left, as expected. He turned toward her, looking past her briefly for a sign of Klokov. Christine stepped onto the hardened snow beside the Spetsnaz. She answered his questioning look with a smile, then swiveled toward him and jammed the ice pick through his throat. However, he didn’t die quickly like Klokov.

He grabbed her hand holding the ice pick, and then her throat with his other hand, slamming her against the hut. Christine tried to twist the ice pick to the side, ripping a gash in the man’s neck, but with her body pinned against the hut and his hand firmly around hers, she could barely move the ice pick. Blood was spurting from the puncture wound, but he seemed unaffected. His gloved hand around her neck tightened like a vise, cutting off her air. He tried calling for help, but the only sound that came out was a sick, wet gurgle. His eyes narrowed and his hand around her neck clamped down even harder.

Christine tried to pry his hand from her throat with her left hand, but he was too strong. She thought about releasing the ice pick, giving her two hands to break his grip, but decided it was a bad idea. Once she released the ice pick, he’d extract it, and it’d come her way a second later. It was a standoff. Blood spurted from the puncture wound with every heartbeat, and it was only a matter of time before he lost too much blood. But time was counting down for her as well; she could live without oxygen for only so long.

She thought about Klokov’s pistol. Unfortunately, the pistol was in her right pocket, and her right hand was stuck holding the ice pick. Her eyes moved to the pistol strapped to the man’s waist. It was just out of reach. If he reached for the gun, however, she was ready. The instant he released her, she’d twist her body and rip the ice pick through his neck. It seemed the man understood his peril, because he kept her immobile, pinned against the hut, cutting off her air.

Christine started to feel light-headed. She redoubled her effort to pry his hand from her neck, even for just a second—long enough to gasp for air—but he was too strong. Her vision started to narrow, blackness creeping in from the periphery, when the man’s grip weakened. She pried his fingers loose and sucked in a breath of cold air. His grip went flaccid a moment later and he dropped to his knees. His eyes closed and his hands fell limp to his sides.

She laid his body on the snow and extracted the ice pick. She looked around, and seeing no one, tossed the ice pick into the hut, then dragged the man inside. She searched his pockets and located the wire snips he used to cut her plastic ties, then retrieved his pistol. After exiting the hut and closing the door, she covered the red stain on the ground with a layer of fresh snow. Stepping back, she assessed the scene. There was no indication there were two dead Spetsnaz inside.

With the guard’s pistol in her hand, she ran to the berthing hut where Brackman and Tarbottom were held, and slipped inside.

“It’s me,” Christine whispered.

Brackman replied, “What did they want you for? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Where are the Spetsnaz?”

“They have no idea I’m here. I killed the Spetsnaz commander and another one.”

“How did you do that?”

“Ice pick.”

Christine was relieved when Brackman didn’t ask her to elaborate. Pulling the wire snips from her pocket, she knelt down and cut the two men free. “We need to contact someone so they can send help,” she said. “Any ideas?”

Tarbottom answered, “There should be an Iridium phone in the command hut. We can contact the Arctic Lab in Svalbard, and if we’re lucky, help will arrive tomorrow.”

“We don’t have until tomorrow,” Christine replied. “The Spetsnaz plan to kill everyone at the ice camp before sunrise to cover their tracks, and I think they’re going to kill everyone aboard
North Dakota,
too. We need help tonight.”

“We can contact
Michigan
and have them send SEALs,” Brackman said. “They should be monitoring underwater comms. If we can get to the command hut, we can use the RATS.”

“What about
North Dakota
?” Christine asked. “If
Michigan
can hear us, will the Spetsnaz on
North Dakota
hear us too?”

“It’s possible,” Brackman replied. “But if the Spetsnaz have taken over the submarine, I doubt anyone is monitoring underwater comms.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“We need to get to the command hut without being seen,” Brackman said. “Do you know how many Spetsnaz are at the camp and where they are?”

Brackman had directed his question at Christine, but Tarbottom answered. “I saw one platoon board their helicopters and head to the Russian camp. I think there are eight left here at Nautilus, not counting Klokov. There’s one in the PRM control van and another at the LARS operating station. I don’t know where the other six are.”

“I know where five of them are,” Christine replied. “Four are in the berthing hut beside Verbeck’s, and a fifth is dead inside Verbeck’s hut, along with Klokov. That leaves one.”

She pulled Klokov’s pistol from her jacket and handed it to Brackman. He took the gun, then moved to the door, cracked it open, and peered outside. “I don’t see anyone,” he said, then opened the door and led Christine and Tarbottom into the cold night air.

66

USS
MICHIGAN

“Captain to Control.”

Wilson’s first indication something was amiss was the 1-MC announcement, requesting his presence in the Control Room. He was touring the submarine’s spaces and had just returned to the Operations Compartment. He ascended the nearest ladder, reaching the Control Room seconds later.

Lieutenant Barbara Lake was on the Conn, holding the WQC microphone, wearing a worried look. “We’ve been contacted by Ice Station Nautilus,” she began. “The station has been taken over by Russian Spetsnaz, who have also taken control of
North Dakota
.”

“What?” Wilson said as he reached Lake. “Give me the mike.”

Wilson brought it to his mouth. “Ice Station Nautilus. This is
Michigan
actual. Say again, over.”

A response over the WQC followed. “
Michigan,
this is Captain Steve Brackman, the president’s senior military aide. The ice station has been assaulted by Russian Spetsnaz, and they have also taken control of
North Dakota
. Request immediate assistance, over.”

Wilson connected the dots. The Russians wanted the tactical hardware and software aboard a Block III Virginia class, and were willing to resort to nefarious means.

He activated the WQC. “Ice Station Nautilus, this is
Michigan
. Understand all. Wait, over.” He turned to the Chief of the Watch, “On the 1-MC, request Commander McNeil’s presence in Control.”

The Chief of the Watch passed the word and a moment later, the head of
Michigan
’s SEAL detachment arrived. Wilson brought McNeil up to speed.

“How many Spetsnaz are we talking about?” McNeil asked.

Wilson relayed the question over the WQC, which was followed by the response, “There are seven Spetsnaz at Ice Station Nautilus, sixteen aboard
North Dakota,
and twenty-four at the Russian ice camp. Over.”

“May I?” McNeil gestured toward the microphone, and Wilson handed it to him. The SEAL asked his next question. “Ice Station Nautilus,
Michigan
. Do you know where the Spetsnaz at Nautilus are deployed?”

McNeil listened intently as Brackman informed him there were two Spetsnaz at the submarine rescue equipment control stations, four in a berthing hut, and one on patrol.

“Understand all. Will send assistance,” McNeil replied. Brackman explained they would wait at the edge of the PRM ice hole, then McNeil handed the WQC microphone back to Wilson. “Request you pass on the 1-MC, SEAL platoon OICs report to Control.”

A moment later, Lieutenants Jake Harrison and Lorie Allen arrived. McNeil explained the situation, then instructed Harrison, “Take a squad in the two SDVs and head to the surface ASAP. The rest of us will follow via mass lockout.”

67

K-157
VEPR

Captain Second Rank Matvey Baczewski made his way through his Shchuka-B attack submarine, assessing the readiness of his ship and crew. He was in Compartment One, checking the status of his eight torpedo tubes and forty torpedoes. Although
Vepr
carried twelve 650-millimeter-diameter wake-homing torpedoes, designed to chase down American aircraft carriers, Baczewski focused on the twenty-eight 533-millimeter-diameter, multipurpose torpedoes, with both wake and active/passive sonar homing capability. If
Vepr
was called into action beneath the ice, they would use their smaller, but still deadly, sonar homing torpedoes.

In preparation, Baczewski had already ordered tubes One through Four loaded. His crew and submarine were ready, but for now, they waited. Since surfacing in the lead of open water a few kilometers from the American ice camp, it had been quiet aboard
Vepr
. One of its antennas was raised to receive radio transmissions and a periscope was up to monitor activity at the American ice station.

There was no guarantee
Vepr
would be called into action, however. Their presence near the disabled American submarine was a contingency plan; one that Baczewski hoped was implemented. After all, what was the purpose of building such magnificent submarines and the thousands of hours spent training their crews if they were never used? The thought of retiring from the Navy after never firing a torpedo or missile in defense of his country grated on him. An opportunity had finally presented itself, but it remained just beyond his grasp. His orders were clear—he could not act without justification.

Baczewski continued his tour through the submarine; it was his way of pacing, relieving the nervous energy. He was about to leave the Torpedo Room when the speakers in the compartment energized.

“Captain, Hydroacoustic. Receiving underwater communications. Request your presence in Hydroacoustic.”

Baczewski headed into Compartment Two, arriving at Hydroacoustic a moment later. He opened the door to the darkened room, revealing four Hydroacoustic Party members, along with Lieutenant Chaban. Baczewski had augmented each Hydroacoustic watch with someone who understood English, so underwater communications between the American ice station and their two submarines could be monitored.

Lieutenant Chaban relayed what he had heard. Spetsnaz had taken control of the American ice station and attack submarine, but someone at the ice station had managed to call for help. The American guided missile submarine was preparing to send SEALs to the ice station. Baczewski considered contacting the Spetsnaz unit, warning them of the threat from below. However, Fleet Admiral Ivanov had been clear; no details of their endeavor could be transmitted on official channels. However, if
Vepr
eliminated the SEALs, Baczewski was confident the Spetsnaz would deal with the issue at the American ice station.

He retrieved the microphone and pushed the button for the Central Command Post.

“Watch Officer, this is the Captain. Man Combat Stations. Prepare to submerge.”

68

USS
MICHIGAN
• K-157
VEPR

USS
MICHIGAN

Lieutenant Harrison climbed the ladder inside Missile Tube One, pulling himself through the hatches at the top into the starboard Dry Deck Shelter. Petty Officer Tim Oliver and two more SEALs followed, while in Missile Tube Two, Chief Jeff Stone led a second four-man team into the port Dry Deck Shelter.

After Commander McNeil’s order, Harrison had selected the members of his eight-man squad. They would be the first to the surface, followed by the remaining twenty-four SEALs. There had been a flurry of activity, with thirty-two SEALs preparing for combat, while the other half of the detachment—Navy divers—prepared to operate the shelters, air systems, and other equipment necessary to deploy the two SEAL platoons.

Harrison climbed into the hangar where the SEAL Delivery Vehicle was stowed. After donning air tanks and fins, he climbed into the SDV along with the other three SEALs. He rendered a thumbs-up to the diver on the other side of the Plexiglas shield, and dark water surged into the shelter. After the hangar door was opened, the mini-sub exited and Harrison spotted the other SDV emerging from the port shelter. The two SDVs lifted off their rails, then passed above the Dry Deck Shelters and over
Michigan
’s bow. In the distance, the ice station lights illuminated the hole cut for the rescue equipment. Harrison adjusted course, as did Chief Stone, and the two SDVs angled toward the light.