by Larry Bond
Hardy went over to the chart table to check the new course, then the fire-control display. “Mr. Holtzmann, assume an exercise area fifteen miles on a side, centered on the pinger’s current position, then add the detection range of a first-line SSN’s sonars. How wide is the danger zone?” Hardy sounded like he already knew the answer.
“I’ll assume an Akula II with a Skat-3 sonar suite,” Holtzmann answered as he brought up a detection/counter-detection program on the HP computer. “We’re ultra-quiet, so that roughly quarters the noise we are putting into the water.”
He punched in the data, then moved to show the display to Hardy as his finger traced a graph. Hardy shook his head. “Remember, mister, he’s trying to avoid detection as well. Assume he’s ultra-quiet, too.”
Chagrined, Holtzmann punched in the corrections, then followed another line on the plotted graph. Hardy nodded and said, “Add that distance to the size of the box and plot a course around it.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“And then figure out the distance we have to be from the box before we can secure from ultra-quiet.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
* * * *
Jerry and Holtzmann turned over the watch at noon, with the boat creeping north-northeast, away from the Russian exercise area. Lunch was cold cuts in the wardroom, eaten in almost total silence and with Jerry being careful not to scrape his chair across the deck. The two ladies were even more careful than the rest of the crew, speaking in whispers, setting down a glass slowly to prevent any sound.
They secured from ultra-quiet in mid-afternoon, and an almost tangible weight lifted from Jerry’s shoulders. Staying quiet wasn’t a hardship, or even difficult, but it meant being constantly aware and constantly careful. That awareness also included the presence of Russian forces, not really the enemy, but a dangerous and capable opponent.
* * * *
Jerry came back on watch at six, after eating an early dinner. Although most officers would stand one watch section out of every three or four, Jerry had doubled up to get in the experience he needed in this one patrol. Sleep would have to wait until they got back home.
Memphis was on course and at transit speed, but there was something new on sonar. Lieutenant Commander Ho was OOD this time, and he steered Jerry to the sonar display. “Here’s something new,” he announced.
The waterfall display was filled with bright speckles, like a thin fog. The “fog” lay in front of them, and as he watched it move down the display, it widened slightly. That meant it was filling more of the horizon. They were headed straight for it. Into it.
“It’s the Marginal Ice Zone,” Jerry announced. “We’re picking up the sound of the ice floes as they melt and hit each other.”
“Correct,” replied Ho. “This time of year, you’ve got to go pretty far north to reach it. Implications?”
“Reduced passive detection ranges. And we have to be more careful when using the periscope, or any mast.”
Ho nodded. “And this is just small junk. They weigh less than a hundred pounds apiece. Later we’ll get into the bigger stuff.”
By the middle of the watch, they had entered the Marginal Ice Zone. The waterfall display was covered with tiny white specks, like slow-moving static. Above them, the ocean’s surface was littered with an ever-thickening cover of ice floes and a slushy mix of seawater and small ice chunks. To Jerry, everything felt the same, but now there was a roof on their world.
“The good news is,” Ho explained, “we don’t have to worry too much about Russian ASW aircraft and ships. The bad news is that Russian subs operate under this all the time. Their detection ranges are reduced as well, but they’re used to it.”
Ho continued to lecture Jerry as the watch continued. “We can surface in this stuff, if we had to.” His tone made it clear that they wouldn’t do it casually. “Later on, it’ll be solid pack ice. We can navigate well enough under it, but we can’t surface through that. Some subs can, but we are not, I repeat, not, ice-capable. Late-flight 688’s have bow planes they can retract, but we’d wreck our fairwater planes if we tried to go through solid ice.”
“So what happens if we have a problem?” Dr. Patterson entered the control room from the forward passageway. She’d overheard the conversation.
Ho asked, “You mean the kind of problem where we might need to surface?” His tone was light, but when he saw her expression, his changed as well. “We’ve got air as long as the reactor is working, and even if the reactor failed, the battery will last long enough to get us out of trouble.”
Patterson waved her hands in the air, as if warding off biting insects. “Please, don’t tell me all the precautions because that means you have to tell me what might go wrong. I’m sure you’ve thought it all through, just like NASA. But things don’t always go well for them, either.”
“That must be why they pay us the big bucks,” one of the enlisted men muttered sarcastically.
Ho shot him a hard look, but said, “We do our best and try to be ready.” He shrugged. He turned back to Jerry “I need you to stay alert, Mr. Mitchell. Our charts of the area are less than complete.”
Patterson rolled her eyes, but Ho saw the gesture and motioned toward the chart. “The path we’re taking, especially as we get closer to Russia, hasn’t been traveled all that often by U.S. boats, and we weren’t able to get current charts from the Russian Hydrographic service or AAA. Look at the numbers that show depth, Doctor. See how they run in lines. You can almost see where every U.S. submarine has passed in these waters by following the soundings they took.”
He pointed to their own track, drawn on the chart. “See where we’ve crossed these blank areas? The mapmakers will use our fathometer logs to fill in some of the empty spots and also check to see if there have been any changes. Because the seafloor up here never stays the same.”
Ho looked over at Jerry, standing by the chart table and listening to the conversation. “Mind the gauges, mister.” Mitchell quickly turned back to his watch station.
Dr. Patterson said, “Thanks for the explanation, although I’m no less nervous for knowing why the charts are incomplete. What are the chances of hitting an underwater mountain or something?”
“We watch the fathometer closely,” Ho assured her, “and if the bottom starts sloping, either up or down, we find out why—and quickly. We have a high-frequency mine-avoidance sonar mounted in the sail and on the lower part of the bow that we can use to look for obstacles ahead of or over us, but it’s an active sonar, so we won’t use it unless we have to.”
“And if we do hit something?” she asked.
Ho shrugged. “Depends on what it is. If we strike something head-on, at speed, it would damage the hull and cause injuries inside, since we’re not wearing seat belts. When USS Ray, an old Sturgeon-class attack boat, hit a sea mountain in the Med at flank speed, her bow looked like a stubbed-out cigar. But she managed to limp home.”
Patterson gave Ho a dirty look that told him that she was tired of constantly hearing about the worst-case scenario. Clearing his throat, he quickly moved on to a more likely possibility. “Our biggest fear is that we could scrape our bottom on a shallow spot that isn’t on our charts. Most likely it would only cause minor damage. There’s almost no chance of rupturing the pressure hull. That’s a couple of inches of HY80 steel. It might limit our speed or make us noisier, which would be a real pain. Of course, if the screw or rudder is damaged, then we’d be in a world of. . .” Ho stopped talking, suddenly conscious of Patterson’s exasperated expression.
After a small pause, she changed the subject. “How long until we reach the area?” Patterson asked.
“You mean the dump sites?” Ho asked and she nodded.
Ho rummaged through several rolled-up charts and pulled out the same one she’d shown at the briefing after they’d gotten underway. He noted the location of the first dump site and made a pencil mark on the larger navigational chart. He measured the distance from Memphis’ current po
sition and said, “About fifty-five hours at this speed. We should be in position early on the 26th, the day after tomorrow.”
Patterson nodded again, as she followed along with Ho’s explanation. Then hesitantly, she asked, “What will the Russians do if they find us? I mean specifically.”
Ho thought for a moment and spoke carefully. “Pretty much what we’d do, under similar circumstances. They’ll try to track us, filling the area with as many units as they can. The first to arrive will be aircraft, because they’re faster, but they’ll send surface ships out as well. They probably won’t use subs to chase us, because they don’t want to confuse us with one of their own. If they can pin us down long enough, they’ll talk to us over sonar, ordering us to surface and identify ourselves.”
“Not that we’d do that,” Patterson replied. Her tone didn’t match the certainty of her words.
“No, ma’am, we wouldn’t. We’d just keep evading and eventually break away. We couldn’t continue the mission after that, obviously.”
“They wouldn’t try to shoot at us? To keep us from getting away?”
“Outside territorial waters, firing at us would be an act of war. Of course, they view this whole area as their territory, and if we’re skirting the border, they won’t take an exact navigational fix before they shoot. Ships and planes have been lost before doing what we’re doing.”
Ho stopped for a moment, then repeated himself. “Yes, ma’am. If we’re found near their territorial waters, especially within twelve miles of land, they’ll do their best to sink us, and it’s their backyard. They know these waters better than we do, and they’ll have numbers on their side, we can’t even call for help. We certainly won’t shoot back. They’ve got all the angles. We’ve got stealth and surprise. As long as they don’t detect us, we’ll be just fine.”
“So we really are risking our lives on this mission.” Patterson looked thoughtful.
“Yep. Days of boredom punctuated by brief moments of mind-numbing terror.” He smiled. “But it’s going to be a milk run, right?”
* * * *
Dangerous Ground
May 26,2005
Oga Guba, Novaya Zemlya
Memphis continued on a northerly course, slipping farther and farther under the marginal ice zone. Here the ice floes got larger and icebergs became more of a navigation hazard. On more than one occasion, Memphis had to dodge a lumbering giant as it moved slowly southward. As they neared the northern tip of Novaya Zemlya, the polar ice pack appeared as a solid wall on the mine-avoidance sonar. With the exception of a few polynyas, large open cracks in the pack ice, the surface became an impenetrable barrier. Tension grew as the crew took their non-ice-capable boat farther under the polar ice cap.
Within hours of passing under the polar cap, the ambient noise went from a cacophony of cracking ice to almost complete silence. Only the occasional stuttering of a forming ice ridge or the low singing of a distant whale broke the near perfect absence of sound. And while the significantly reduced background noise improved Memphis’ passive sonar capability, it also worked against them, as it would enhance any Russian submarine’s sensors as well. Turning eastward, they rounded the northernmost portion of Novaya Zemlya. Within two watch sections, they were heading south into the Kara Sea, approaching their destination.
A long narrow island that curved out to the north from Russia’s northern coast, Novaya Zemlya separates the Barents Sea on the west from the Kara Sea on the east. A northern extension of the Ural Mountains, it was little more than a rocky ridge that protruded above the surface of the water. Before the Soviets, the few inhabitants that lived there had supported themselves by fishing, trapping, and seal hunting. Nothing green grew on the rocky island, but ice prospered.
Oga Guba, the first of four bays they would explore, was almost halfway down the eastern coast. Their general plan was to work northward along the coast, so that by the end of the mission they’d be at the northern end and ready to go home.
* * * *
“Man manta and ROV LAUNCH STATIONS.” Jerry was already in the torpedo room when the word was passed over the IMC. In fact, he’d been there since three-thirty that morning. He’d gotten off watch at midnight, but found it impossible to sleep. Instead, he’d worked on his quals, and then came down to the torpedo room.
He’d sat at the Manta station, going over the controls and flipping through the manual again and again. Jerry kept looking for something he might have missed, special commands or limitations or pages with big yellow warning labels that read: don’t ever do this!
It took three months of ground school before the Navy would let him even touch an airplane, and two years before they considered him fit to fly in a line squadron. That training served a purpose. It made you so familiar with the aircraft that it was an extension of your own body. You even knew when it might fail.
And yet, he’d been surprised by that blowout. At least the Manta didn’t have landing gear. But a three-week course and a few practice runs hadn’t bonded him with the UUV. He still felt like he was playing an unfamiliar video game.
They’d finally passed the word at 0500 to man the Manta and ROV stations, and the torpedo division started pouring into the room, followed by a sleepy Emily Davis. The torpedomen moved around as quietly as they could, more out of habit than anything else, but there was still a lot of bustle as they checked their gear, positioned Huey for loading and donned the sound-powered phones. Emily now wore her own set so she could communicate with control about the ROVs without using the noisier intercom or going through an overloaded phone talker. Greer and Davidson settled into their positions and reported they were ready. Jerry began the Manta’s system checks and warm up sequence.
This had all been worked out the day before. Who would be where, who would do what, who would do the talking, and especially who would give the orders.
That last issue had taken up a good part of yesterday. First Patterson had to be convinced that only one person should be giving orders to the ROV. A few sea stories about confused orders and their effects had settled that issue. But both Hardy and Patterson had good reasons to be in charge of the ROV—his operational, hers scientific.
Doctors Patterson and Davis were both civilians and unfamiliar with submarines, much less the tactical situation. They didn’t know the risks, or all the possibilities. Hardy was adamant that someone with a uniform approve any orders to the ROV as a reality check before they were executed. Patterson was loath to have anything interfere or challenge her control of what she termed a “delicate scientific operation.” She didn’t help matters by likening naval control to “pushing a crystal vase through a knothole.”
The XO had finally suggested an acceptable compromise. As mission commander, Patterson would direct the ROV’s operations. Hardy would pass her orders to Davis through a phone talker and she would actually control its actions. Meanwhile, Jerry would run interference with the Manta— also under Hardy’s direction.
This meant that Hardy and Patterson both had to be in the control room. This was good for Jerry and Emily. Otherwise, Hardy or Patterson or both would probably be in the torpedo room, closely—perhaps too closely— monitoring the ROV operations.
Hardy needed to be in control. Navigating a submarine in shallow water at bare steerageway using sketchy charts and watching for Russian patrollers required his fulltime attention. Repeater displays in control would let him and Patterson see what the Manta and the ROV were seeing and doing.
Last night they’d practiced the arrangement, actually slowing and pretending to deploy both vehicles and then passing information back and forth until they were satisfied that all the circuits worked properly and everyone knew their duties.
Now, they were approaching the first dump site in Oga Guba. Memphis was about fifteen miles from the coast. The water had gradually shallowed until they had approached the sixty-fathom line. Three hundred and sixty feet of water isn’t very deep when a submarine stands about sixty feet from the bottom o
f the keel to the top of the sail. It also happened to be exactly the length of the boat.
Submariners hate shallow water. There’s nowhere to hide. Even submerged, if the boat went too fast, it would leave a visible wake on the surface, and if their depth control wasn’t perfect, they could strike the bottom or broach the surface.
In special circumstances, a boat could go as shallow as forty fathoms, but Hardy insisted the charts weren’t good enough for that. And if you’re caught in forty fathoms, there’s really nowhere to go, except to head for deeper water.
By international law, Russian territorial waters extended twelve miles out from the island, and by presidential order, they had to stay outside that limit. Luckily, both the Manta and the ROVs had sufficient range to work in the shallow water while Memphis stood outside the twelve-mile limit.
Jerry was also wearing phones, and he heard Lieutenant Richards’ voice say, “Control online.” Making the Weapons Officer the control room phone talker was another one of Hardy’s insurance policies. Richards wouldn’t do anything unless Hardy told him to do it.
