Ice Station Nautilus (9 page)

They had enough air regeneration cartridges to last eight days, assuming they didn’t freeze to death in the meantime. However, no one would miss
Dolgoruky
until they failed to report in at the end of patrol. It would be two months before the Fleet realized disaster had befallen them. They would be dead by then.

“What do we do now, Captain?” Lukin asked.

“We wait,” Stepanov answered, “and pray the American submarine also sank and their Navy comes looking for it.”

“If the Americans reach us first, what then? We cannot abandon
Dolgoruky
and let them board her.”

Stepanov contemplated Lukin’s assertion, then replied, “We will deal with it when the time comes.”

13

SUITLAND PARK, MARYLAND

Established in 1882, the Office of Naval Intelligence is the United States’ oldest intelligence agency. Tasked with maintaining a decisive information advantage over America’s potential adversaries, ONI’s focus on naval weapons and technology was why Christine O’Connor, along with Captain Steve Brackman in the passenger seat of her car, were entering the forty-two-acre compound of the National Maritime Intelligence Center, only a short drive from the White House. Christine stopped in visitor parking, and after retrieving a notepad from her briefcase on the backseat, she and Brackman approached the four-story building.

Waiting inside the lobby was Pam Bruce, a supervisor in the three-thousand-member organization. After introducing herself, she said, “We have the appropriate experts waiting upstairs.”

Pam escorted Christine and Brackman to a third-floor conference room occupied by two men in their fifties. “Greg Hartfield”—Pam pointed to the man on the left—“is our senior expert on Russia’s Borei class submarines, and Stu Berman is our premier expert on the Bulava missile.”

After introductions were complete, Christine spent several minutes providing the background on the new nuclear arms reduction treaty being negotiated with Russia, culminating with Russia’s refusal to allow U.S. inspectors to board their Borei class submarines or inspect the Bulava missile. When she finished, she asked, “Why would the Russians take this position?”

“I’ll go first,” Hartfield said, “and provide an overview of the submarine, then Stu can follow up with the Bulava missile.” Christine opened her notepad as Hartfield continued, “Russia has eight active ballistic missile submarines: one Typhoon, a Delta III, and six Delta IVs. All are approaching their end of life, with three slated for retirement in the next eighteen months.

“Enter the new Borei class. Russia plans to build eight total, and the last five will be an improved version with twenty missile tubes instead of sixteen. The first Borei class submarine,
Yury Dolgoruky,
was launched several years ago, but has been plagued with material problems and software issues with its missile launch system, which delayed its commissioning for five years. Even after it was commissioned, her initial patrol was postponed repeatedly by issues with its new Bulava missile, which is Stu’s area of expertise.”

Greg Hartfield fell silent and Berman began. “Originally, the Borei submarines were supposed to carry an upgraded version of the R-39 missile designed for the Typhoon class. However, after the first three test firings resulted in catastrophic failures, the R-39 upgrade program was terminated. Instead, Russia developed the Bulava, an entirely new missile. It too was plagued with problems, due to the shortened timeline to develop a new missile quickly enough to support the Borei class submarines.

“Each missile has a range of six thousand, two hundred miles, and can be equipped with up to ten warheads, although there is some debate on the maximum number. The warheads are fully shielded against electromagnetic pulse damage and have a yield of one hundred fifty kilotons each. The Bulava is highly advanced, and we believe it is capable of evasive maneuvering and may have decoys that can be deployed to fool anti-ballistic missiles.

“As I mentioned, the Bulava missile was plagued with problems, with six of the first twelve test launches being failures. It appeared they had resolved the problems, because the next six launches were successes, and the Russian Navy accepted the missile into service two years ago. However, missile production was suspended eighteen months ago and all missiles were recalled.”

“Why did they halt production?” Christine asked.

“Most likely for an upgrade. What type, we don’t know. They must be back in production, however, because they loaded missiles aboard
Dolgoruky
, which raises some concerns.”

“What concerns?” Christine asked.

“Missile production hasn’t resumed at their manufacturing facility, yet
Dolgoruky
was able to load out. That means there is a second production facility we know nothing about, and without the ability to target it for intelligence gathering, we’re completely in the dark as to what kind of modifications they’ve made and what type of payload is installed.”

“That would certainly explain why they don’t want us to inspect the Bulava missile,” Christine said. Turning toward Hartfield, she asked, “Do you know of any reason why the Russians wouldn’t want START inspectors aboard Borei class submarines?”

Hartfield answered, “It’s possible the launch system displays the number and type of warheads loaded on each missile, as well as its countermeasures, so operators can monitor their status as the missile is spun up and target packages are assigned. That’d be my guess.”

Christine asked Captain Brackman, “Do you have any questions?”

Brackman shook his head. “I think we’ve covered everything.”

Christine turned back to the two men. “Thank you, gentlemen. You’ve been very helpful.”

14

K-535
YURY DOLGORUKY

After two days, the emergency lanterns in Compartment One were starting to dim. Stepanov had divided them into four sets, so that all together, they would last eight days. As the light decreased, so had the temperature. It was just above freezing. Although their survival suits guarded against hypothermia, it was still painfully cold. Thankfully, the air regeneration canisters generated heat as they produced oxygen and absorbed carbon dioxide, and Stepanov’s men took turns gathered around the air regeneration unit.

Stepanov was in the midst of a round through the compartment, checking on his men. His First Officer was still unconscious, and Medical Officer Kovaleski was worried he might not recover. Stepanov stopped by Starshina First Class Oleg Devin, who was taking air samples. He broke the tips of the glass tube and inserted it into the handheld pump, then squeezed it five times, drawing air through the tube. This tube measured oxygen, and read 17.2 percent.

Stepanov moved on, stopping by Senior Lieutenant Ivan Khudozhnik, the Torpedo Division Officer, whose men were taking turns manning the sound-powered phones, staying in communication with the men in Compartments Four through Nine. Stepanov found it both odd and comforting; this was the Torpedomen’s compartment, and it was their duty to man the phones during emergencies. It was as if they were oblivious to the fact that their submarine was wrecked, that they would likely not survive. The adherence to their obligation to man the phones, however, provided a sense of normalcy.

“How is everyone doing?” Stepanov asked.

“It is quiet,” Khudozhnik replied.

Khudozhnik’s response was as close to
all is well
as one could expect.

15

USS
NORTH DAKOTA

Commander Tolbert headed aft, stepping from the freezing Forward Compartment into the welcome warmth of the Reactor Compartment Tunnel. Even though the reactor was shut down, it was still generating heat from the decay of fission by-products. It was probably only sixty degrees in the passageway, but compared to the other two compartments, it was downright balmy. It was now thirty-five degrees inside the Forward Compartment and Engine Room.

Tolbert stepped through the watertight doorway into the Engine Room. Inside the near-freezing compartment, his breath condensed into white mist. Several crew members wore the orange “pumpkin suits,” thick full-length foul-weather gear worn by personnel on the Bridge in harsh weather. However, the ship had only ten suits, and the rest of the crew had donned Submarine Escape Immersion Equipment suits to preserve body heat. The insulated SEIE suits, also orange, came with flexible black neoprene gloves and a polar fleece head mask.

Upon entering the Engine Room, Tolbert took in the scene. It was a virtual rain forest. As the temperature plummeted, the water vapor in the air condensed on the cold metal surfaces, and water was dripping from piping, machinery, and walkways. Tolbert entered Maneuvering, a ten-by-ten-foot control room. Normally occupied by an officer and two enlisted, there was only one man present. Petty Officer Second Class Allen Terrill manned the Electric Plant Control Panel, monitoring battery discharge rate and voltage.

“What do you think?” Tolbert asked.

“It doesn’t look good, Captain,” Terrill replied. “The battery is already down to thirty percent; enough power for one more day. It’s probably the low temperature, reducing capacity.”

The battery was draining faster than expected. They needed to return a condensate pump to service soon. He had headed aft to get an update, and the answer better be—within a day.

Tolbert left Maneuvering and descended to Engine Room Forward, where he found the Engineer Officer, Lieutenant Commander Roger Swenson; the Electrical Division Chief, Mike Moran; and two first class electrician’s mates, Art Thompson and Tim Brandon. Thompson was working on a condensate pump controller, while Brandon was repairing one of the pumps.

The covers were off both controller cabinets, and as Chief Moran aptly described it, they were a hot mess. Almost every circuit card had been damaged, some with charred components, while other cards were more difficult to diagnose. Even the smallest component gone bad could prevent operation. Supply didn’t have a spare for every card in the controller, forcing Thompson to triage the cards with no spares. He had picked the best one between the two controllers, and was now diagnosing which components had been damaged. The cards were laid on a rubber mat, keeping them away from dripping water, and he was taking measurements with a multimeter.

Brandon was working on the pump. Normally, a wetted pump had a decent shot of returning to service. However, Number One Condensate Pump had been running for several hours, and when its hot internals had been doused with twenty-nine-degree salt water, the pump had turned into a rotating molten fireball. Number One Condensate Pump was unrepairable.

That left the second pump. Unfortunately, Number Two Condensate Pump had turned on when its partner tripped off-line, starting up at the same time it was submerged in seawater. It had fared much better, but its stator had been damaged. There was little Brandon could do to fully repair it, but he was giving it his best shot.

Chief Moran was supervising the two first class Petty Officers, studying the controller schematic in the tech manual. At the end of the day, they didn’t need to fully repair a controller and pump. The pump just had to run. Moran was figuring out how to circumvent the bad components that could not be replaced.

Moran had his four best electricians working the problem. Thompson and Brandon had this twelve-hour shift and Bowser and Radek the other. By the time the electricians were done, the controller and pump were going to look like little Frankensteins, pieced back together. Tolbert didn’t care as long as they came alive when the switch was flipped, and that the repairs were completed before the battery was expended.

The Engineer Officer wasn’t much help when it came to controller and pump repairs, but there was nothing more important than restoring the condensate system, so he hovered in Engine Room Forward like an expectant father.

“Eng, how much longer?” Tolbert asked.

The Engineer looked at Moran. The chief must have felt eyes on him, because he looked up from the schematics. “Three, maybe four days.”

Moran’s response hit Tolbert in the gut. The battery would be drained in one day.

“You’ve got twenty-four hours, Chief,” Tolbert said. “Make it happen.” Tolbert often challenged his subordinates to meet tight schedules. This time, however, it didn’t work.

“It can’t be done, Captain,” Moran replied. “We’re going as fast as we can. Three or four days is what it’s going to take.”

Tolbert looked to his Engineer, but Swenson confirmed his Chief’s assessment. “It’s the best we can do, sir.”

“Then we need to solve the battery problem,” Tolbert said.

The Engineer replied, “We need to preserve enough power to complete a reactor and engine room start-up. I recommend we open the battery breaker.”

Tolbert considered his Engineer’s suggestion.
North Dakota
would become completely dead—a cold metal carcass beneath the polar ice cap. However, he could think of no alternative.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll let the crew know what’s going on. In the meantime, you’ll need to set up to continue repairs using emergency battle lanterns.”

*   *   *

A few minutes later, Tolbert entered the Control Room. Even though the tactical systems had been deenergized, he had left the normal underway watches stationed; they were performing an important task. Moisture was condensing on the metal surfaces, including the sonar and combat control consoles, navigation plot, Radio Room equipment—everything. It was one thing for water to drip from piping and machinery in the Engine Room, another to allow it to seep inside the tactical consoles. Each watchstander was armed with Kimwipes, the Navy version of lint-free paper towels, and the men were wiping down the consoles.

Tolbert stopped beside Lieutenant Molitor, who was stationed as the Officer of the Deck, and explained the plan. Molitor passed the word to all spaces, and a few minutes later, he retrieved an emergency battle lantern mounted in the overhead, then gave the order.