Crossing Savage

by Dave Edlund

  Berry was studying the track when Meier observed, “I haven’t seen a track like that before.”

  “Distance and bearing?” Berry said.

  “The signal is very weak, sir. I make it fifteen degrees. Distance is probably at least 40 miles.”

  “Continue to track. Let’s see if we can close the gap. Maybe we can improve the resolution and get a solid ID.”

  “What do you make of it?” asked Meier.

  “I’m not sure just yet. But if it’s a Russian or Chinese sub, we need to shadow her. If the boat has been previously tracked and ID’d, then the computer should recognize her unique acoustic signature. Sonar, keep working the problem. I want to know when you have something.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Three hours later sonar announced, “Sir, the computer has ID’d the target with a high degree of probability. Russian submarine Saint Petersburg, bearing 27 degrees, distance fifteen miles. She’s at a depth of 900 feet, beneath a thermocline. That’s probably why we had so much trouble identifying her.”

  “The Saint Petersburg was commissioned recently. I believe she uses a fuel-cell propulsion system,” Meier reported.

  “This is the first time I’ve encountered a fuel-cell boat. She’s pretty quiet; I’ll say that for her,” added Captain Berry.

  The captain was contemplating why the Saint Petersburg was here, very close to United States territorial waters. “Sonar, what’s her bearing and speed?”

  “Twenty-eight degrees; speed nine knots.”

  “If she remains on her present course,” said Meier, “she’ll have to rise to avoid the shelf. We should get a much better fix on her then.”

  “Agreed,” said Berry. “Stay with her and keep our distance; try to get in her shadow. She may not know we’re here. I want to keep it that way. When she comes up through the thermocline, be ready to record her signature. I want more audio data on her.”

  The USS New Mexico continued to shadow the Saint Petersburg as it stayed on its heading. Predictably, the target sub rose to climb above the continental shelf about 75 miles south of Sand Point and slowed to four knots. As she came up through the thermocline, leaving the colder deep water for the warmer surface water, her acoustic signature became clear. Sonar started recording and would continue until ordered by the captain to cease.

  Continuing on her path, the Saint Petersburg eventually crossed into U.S. territorial waters. “What’s her business inside U.S. waters?” wondered Captain Berry aloud. “Tom, project her course on the screen.”

  The XO put the present known course of the Saint Petersburg into the navigational computer. It was shown as a red line on an electronic chart displayed on a high-resolution color LCD screen.

  “Looks like her present course will take her just east of Chernabura Island and directly toward one of these islands just to the north—either Little Koniuji Island or Simeonof Island. At her present speed, I’m estimating it will take about twenty hours to reach either island.” He was pointing at a couple of large, irregular islands on the chart about ten to twelve miles northeast of Chernabura Island.

  The captain and his XO intently studied the chart, looking for a clue to explain why the Saint Petersburg was heading in that direction.

  “Maintain speed and distance from the target. I want to know everything she does. If she stops, we stop. If she turns, so do we. Do not lose her, and do not let her know we are here,” said Berry. Then he left for his quarters. He had a scheduled message to send, and this time he had something of interest to report.

  The New Mexico did not have to surface to send or receive messages. But she did have to rise to a shallower depth to deploy her main antenna. Captain Berry prepared his coded message and ordered his communications officer to send it to COMSUBPAC on schedule. He reported the presence of the Saint Petersburg, as well as the New Mexico’s actions in shadowing the target.

  The hours ticked by slowly as they continued this game of cat and mouse. Both submarines moved in tandem north into shallower water, creeping toward Chernabura Island. The Saint Petersburg had slowed dramatically after she crossed the continental shelf. In order to have more maneuvering room, Captain Berry placed his boat farther east from the Saint Petersburg so that his target was to his port side.

  Berry and Meir had hardly slept in the past 36 hours, and it was only the coffee and excitement that kept them sharp. All too often—fortunately—the patrols were routine and dull. Now they had a challenge, a purpose to practice and demonstrate their skills honed through years of training.

  About five miles east-northeast of Chernabura Island, the Saint Petersburg slowed to a half knot—just enough forward speed to maintain maneuverability. The New Mexico did the same. The separation between the two submarines had remained constant at 8,000 yards. Both boats were at about the same depth, 210 feet.

  “Now what?” the captain asked rhetorically.

  They continued crawling north. Suddenly the sonar operator broke the silence. “New sound. Torpedo tube is being flooded.” The sonar man had his left hand on the headset while his eyes were locked on the displays in front of him, swiftly scanning back and forth, taking in the visual and audio data. He paused—listening, interpreting—before continuing his narration. “Now the outer door is opening.” His voice was beginning to rise and the atmosphere instantly became very tense. Meier felt minute drops forming on his forehead as it seemed the temperature had suddenly risen twenty degrees.

  “Stay calm. There’s no indication we’ve been detected. If she goes active, say so immediately,” instructed the captain.

  Berry turned to the XO. “Load two Mk-48s in tubes two and four. Have them set to go active on command. Load the current position of the target into the torpedo guidance computer and have fire control on standby. Spread the word; this is not a drill.”

  “Yes, sir.” Meier relayed the orders and huddled with the fire-control officer.

  When he came back to the captain he said, “Sir, at 8,000 yards we’re pushing the effective range of the Mk-48. If the Saint Petersburg takes evasive action—and it will—then our fish may run out of juice before they reach the target.”

  “Understood, but I’m not taking any chances. If she turns and begins to close the distance, I don’t want to be caught with our pants down.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Meier. He was a good officer, thought Berry, but still lacked experience. Berry had learned that being prepared never cost you anything, and it could save your ass if it all went to hell in a hurry.

  “Continue to track and monitor. I still don’t think she knows we’re here, but I can’t explain her actions so far. If she turns toward us and launches, we’ll be ready to fire immediately and have time to deploy countermeasures and run at top speed for the shelf. If the Saint Petersburg is trying to avoid our two fish homing in on her, she’ll be too busy to chase after us. Once at the shelf, we can go deep and set up an ambush.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Nothing like on-the-job training, huh, Tom?” Berry said with a sly grin. “It’s the only way to grow the next generation of able captains.”

  “Sir, I’m getting a new sound,” said the sonar officer.

  Meier followed immediately, “The Saint Petersburg is steady on the same heading, no change.”

  “Sonar, tell me what you have,” commanded Berry.

  “Compressed air… now water flowing over an irregular object. No screws. This is not a torpedo. I think the target just jettisoned a canister or something.” As Meier breathed a silent sigh of relief, he couldn’t tell if his captain was registering any emotion at all.

  “Could it be a mine?” asked Berry.

  “Could be, sir, but they have only jettisoned one, whatever it is.”

  Berry was silent, contemplative. A couple minutes later sonar reported again. “I’m picking up what sounds like divers in the water. I have clear sounds of bubbles from scuba gear.” He continued to listen intently. The officers were huddled close to the sonar ope
rator with an intensity and focus reminiscent of someone concentrating on a ballgame being announced, play by play, on the radio.

  “Now I have sounds from the surface.” There was a pause and then, “I think they’ve inflated a boat.”

  Captain Berry asked, “Are you sure?”

  “One moment, sir.” Then after another pause, “Yes, sir. It’s a small boat. High-speed prop. I make its course … two-five-nine degrees.”

  “The boat’s headed for Chernabura Island,” observed Meier.

  “So, now we know. They dropped off a team to land on the island. Why?” Berry continued to think out loud.

  “Continue to track the surface boat and the primary target. I want to know anytime the status changes,” Berry ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” replied the sonar officer.

  The captain was deep in thought. After several moments he turned to his XO. “Are there any other contacts in the area?”

  “Just a single fishing trawler that’s 29 miles to the southeast and moving farther east.”

  “Hmm. Why would they be inserting a covert team onto a small, desolate island in the Aleutians? Is there anything significant about Chernabura Island?”

  “Certainly nothing that I can recall.”

  “Sonar, could you determine how many divers exited the target?” asked Berry.

  “No, sir. I could pick up the sound of their bubbles but it’s impossible to accurately determine the number of divers.”

  “How fast is the surface craft moving?”

  “She’s taking it slow, only ten knots.”

  As the captain continued to ponder the meaning of this bizarre action, the sonar officer reported. “Sir, the surface boat has stopped. Engine off; the craft is dead in the water.”

  “Last known position?” asked Meier.

  “Approximately 1,000 yards off the east coast of Chernabura Island.”

  “Do you think she’s waiting for a signal or something?” asked Meier.

  “Could be,” replied Berry.

  Then the sonar officer said, “The engine has been restarted, and the craft is moving into shore.”

  Meier made a quick calculation, then reported, “The surface craft will land in approximately four to five minutes at her present speed and course.”

  “What’s the Saint Petersburg doing?” asked Captain Berry.

  “She’s picking up speed… approaching two knots. Same heading. No, now she’s turning to starboard. Outer tube doors are closed.”

  “Tom, stay on her, plot her course. I want a clear separation between us—no accidents, no fender benders.”

  What an understatement, thought Meir. There are no minor accidents when subs collide; men die.

  “Yes sir,” and Meier turned his attentions away from the sonar room and its waterfall display. Captain Berry remained, finding the constantly changing tracks almost hypnotic in their ability to help him focus on the problem.

  The surface boat beached and it was clear from the waterfall track that the engine had been turned off. All the characteristic sounds of the surface boat had ceased— exactly what one would expect from a small landing boat beaching. With nothing more to track from the small boat, they could now afford to focus all their attention on the Saint Petersburg.

  “She’s coming to a new heading—one-seven-one degrees—that will take her to the southeast and over the shelf in four hours at her present speed,” reported Meier. “It’s likely she’s trying to maintain a high degree of stealth and is willing to sacrifice speed to do so.”

  “Stay with her. Maintain a separation of 8,000 yards. Match course and speed.”

  A warrant officer arrived with a tray holding three coffee mugs filled with steaming dark-brown liquid. The captain took one, and so did the first officer. Berry liked his coffee black and hot, the hotter the better.

  Berry sipped his coffee. “I’ll be the first to say, I’ve never encountered anything like this before. The actions we’ve witnessed have all the indications of an insertion of a covert team onto American soil. And I’ll be damned if I can come up with a single plausible reason for it.”

  Meier sipped his coffee, thinking. He wanted to impress his boss, but he had no clue as to why the submarine would be dropping off a team of special ops soldiers on a desolate island almost in the middle of nowhere. It would make sense if there were a military installation on the island. You could argue that the infiltrators’ mission was to gather intelligence. But there was nothing on Chernabura Island other than trees and wildlife—and Meier had no idea how much of either was actually there. It didn’t even have a permanent population, as far as he knew.

  “I’m going to break protocol and radio this into command,” Berry decided. He headed to the radio room to send another coded message to COMSUBPAC. This would be the second message in less than 24 hours.

  As the tension ratcheted down, and with Berry off to the radio room, Meier took stock of his performance. He noticed the filtered air had a slightly musky odor; it reminded him of a locker room. He had felt the first onset of fear, if only for a moment, and yet Captain Berry seemed perfectly in control, functioning like a machine, devoid of emotions. Tom Meier had little experience tracking submarines from other nations, and he had never been in a real situation that could easily have resulted in firing upon another vessel. He cataloged this experience, mentally chastising his performance and vowing to improve.

  Captain Berry had just returned to the sonar station and was still pondering the situation when the radio man approached and handed him a folded paper. “This just came in sir, not more than three minutes after your message went out.”

  Captain Berry opened the paper and read the message. His face betrayed no emotion, but it seldom did. Meier knew Berry would be a formidable poker player. Berry handed the paper to his XO. “You should read this.”

  Meier scanned the message.

  SSN 779. REPORT RECEIVED. INTEL WORKING PROBLEM. STAY ON STATION. CONTINUE TO TRACK ST. P. REPORT ON SCHEDULE. BE ADVISED—FRIENDLY SPECIAL OPS UNDERWAY NEAR YOU. BE READY TO LEND ASSISTANCE.

  Just what the hell was going on, Meier wondered.

  Chapter 8

  September 24

  Chernabura Island, Southeast side

  At the same time the scientific expedition was landing on the west side of the island, a chartered De Havilland Beaver floatplane landed on a long, oval lake on the far side of Chernabura Island, about two miles to the southeast of the cabin and on the other side of the ridge of peaks dividing the island.

  The floatplane gently grounded in shallow water and two men wearing wading boots disembarked, splashing noisily as they carried their gear and provisions to the gravel beach. After several trips back and forth, the pile was complete—two rifle cases, two duffel bags stuffed with warm clothing, a small tent, three large boxes filled with a variety of essential camp items, as well as dehydrated food, sleeping bags, and folding camp cots.

  The two men were here to hunt. Rex Tremont, an experienced hunting guide, had been guiding clients from around the world on hunts in the Aleutian Islands for the past fifteen years. He had just witnessed his 44th birthday and couldn’t think of any better place to celebrate. He loved being in the woods or on the ocean, relishing just about any opportunity to enjoy and challenge the natural elements.

  Rex never felt alone in the wilderness. He had no close friends and no family. Although he enjoyed the company of many women when in town—seldom the same one twice—he never felt the need for a constant companion. If he wasn’t hunting, chances were good you’d find Rex fishing commercially on the Bering Sea or for pleasure with a fly rod on a secluded stretch of river.

  On this trip he had only one hunter with him, a man named Brad Smith. A muscular man with bleached-blond, short-cropped hair, he looked to be in his early thirties and in very good physical condition. Brad claimed to be from Texas, and judging by what he was willing to pay for this one-on-one guided hunt for bear, Rex figured he must be fairly well off.
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  “I still don’t quite understand why you insisted on hunting on this small chunk of rock,” said Rex. “There are other areas that are better than this.”

  “Well, it’s like I said. My daddy told me stories of hunting here when he was a young man working on the crabbing boats. His stories were tales of adventure and daring—man against beast. Daddy past away last year, and I promised myself I would come here to see for myself what he so fondly remembered.” Brad paused. “It’s not so much about hunting as it is reliving an adventure from my daddy’s youth.”

  “I see,” agreed Rex. He paused for a moment, then added, “I can respect that.”

  “But don’t get me wrong, Rex. I would surely love to tag a large brown bear!”

  Rex laughed. “Well, that’s why we’re here. And I guarantee that if there are any big bears on this island we’ll find ‘em. Let’s get camp set up—no hunting today anyway—it’s illegal to hunt in Alaska on the same day you fly in.”

  They set up camp about 100 yards from the lake on a patch of flat ground covered with soft grass. The landscape was marked with a patchwork of groves of mature spruce and fir trees, so gathering firewood presented little challenge. The Beaver had taken off and would return in ten days. If they tagged out early or if someone needed immediate medical attention, Rex had a short wave radio, and a flight would be dispatched to pick them up, weather permitting.

  As it all came together, the hunting camp was a simple affair. They set up a four-person tent with two cots covered with warm sleeping bags. A table in one corner of the tent supported the camp stove. But there would be no need for cooking other than boiling water for their dehydrated meals. There was one case of beer and, naturally, two bottles of Wild Turkey.

  Rex and Brad spent the afternoon scouting around the island. Brad suggested they go north along the coast, skirting the eastern flank of the mountain ridge. The air was crisp and heavily scented with evergreen. But what Brad noticed most was the lack of any sound associated with human civilization. In fact, the only sounds he heard other than their own footsteps were squirrels chattering, the gentle breeze rustling in the trees, and an occasional explosion of feathers beating against air signaling a flushed grouse. They followed the coast, looking for signs of bear, especially in the grassy tidal flats, covering almost two miles in about one and a half hours.