by Larry Bond
Jerry got that “submariner feeling,” the urge to crouch, an itch between his shoulder blades that could only be scratched by deep water. He mentally plotted an intercept with Memphis and adjusted the Manta’s course accordingly. As it moved away from the shore, the water depth increased and Jerry concentrated on hugging the bottom. It not only reduced the Manta’s detectability, but it gave him something to do.
With the Manta in a tail chase, it took over an hour to reach Memphis, still moving away from the coast and heading for deeper water. Hardy slowed just long enough for Jerry to recover the Manta and then he increased speed, moving farther and farther away from the coastline.
Jerry headed up to control, curious about the Bear. He found Hardy and the XO standing over the plotting table, occasionally staring at the plane’s track on the fire-control display, or at least the portion that Memphis had observed. Several classified documents were open, including one titled Russian Northern Fleet Operational Deployments, 2003-2004.
Bair read from another booklet with a red-striped cover. “The nearest airfield known to have Tu-142 Bear Foxtrots is at Arkhangelsk. That’s about six hundred miles as the seagull files.”
“That’s a long way to come,” Hardy commented darkly.
“Not for a Bear, sir. He’s got great legs. But it’s a good distance for a training mission, about an hour and a half each way.”
“If that was a training mission, they almost hit the jackpot. I don’t like it, XO, it’s too damn coincidental.”
“What would they have done if they’d spotted us?” asked Patterson.
“Reported us. Sent more planes to track us,” ventured Hardy.
“Lined up the Northern Fleet across the north edge of the Kara Sea,” added Bair. “They’d be mad as hornets to find us here, but they’d also do everything possible to keep us from leaving, at least until they had proof of our presence.”
“But we’re in international waters,” protested Patterson.
Hardy answered, “If they detect us, they may or may not get a good fix on our position. We certainly wouldn’t do anything to help them. Skirting the twelve-mile limit like we’ve been, a Russian commander would be reasonable to assume we’re in his waters—or have been—until proven otherwise. We, or more properly, the U.S. Government, would have to provide proof that we weren’t. And along the way explain why we’re there at all.”
“Messy. Embarrassing.” Bair commented.
“And bad for the mission.” Hardy added. “If I had my druthers, Doctor, I’d head north right now and call it a mission.” Seeing the panicked expression on her face, he quickly added, “But I owe you one more Manta sortie.” His expression was grim as he said it and he cautioned, “But we will leave the area the instant we’ve finished searching Techeniye Guba, or if I see another Russian naval unit. I get the feeling we’ve used up our good luck.”
They remained in deep water, well off the coast, for several more hours. There was no point in returning any sooner, because the Manta had to recharge its batteries.
As the UUV neared its full charge, Hardy brought Memphis back in position at little more than creep speed. He picked a spot that put the Manta in range of its search area, but also left Memphis a short distance from deeper water, or as deep as it got in the Kara Sea.
The launch was routine, although as it lifted off, Jerry could feel his nerve endings extending out into the Manta. In the back of his mind, he was calculating how quickly he could recover the vehicle if another Bear appeared.
With Hardy keeping Memphis on the sixty-fathom curve, it took the Manta half an hour to reach the near edge of the planned search area—the last one. Although Jerry paid careful attention to the display, he couldn’t keep from thinking about the end of the mission and marking the time left until the Manta was finished.
Just over an hour into the search, Emily Davis came into the torpedo room. Her manner was anxious and hurried, although she’d walked softly because the sub was at ultra-quiet routine. She came straight over to Jerry. With a dead serious expression, she said, “You have to come with me to control, Jerry.”
Puzzled, Jerry replied, “I can’t leave my station while the Manta is out searching.”
“Yes, you can. You have to. Davidson can watch the display for you, and besides, it doesn’t matter anymore.”
The urgency in her voice combined with her last statement piqued Jerry’s curiosity. Reluctantly, he followed her up to the control room. As they were climbing the ladder, he asked Emily what had changed, but she only shook her head and kept moving.
As they approached the control room, they could hear Patterson arguing with Hardy. Trying to expand the area of the Manta’s sortie, her voice carried out into the passageway. “All I’m asking for is for a couple more Manta runs to expand the search . . .”
They walked in to see both Patterson and Hardy bent over one of the plotting tables, his expression one of strained patience, hers desperate.
“Out of the question, Dr. Patterson. We are finishing up the last of twenty-four sorties, and we have nothing to gain by adding more,” Hardy said firmly.
“Even if we managed to find one site that met your criteria, it wouldn’t change your findings significantly. Let’s face it, Doctor, the environmental threat you pitched to the President isn’t here. It might be, in a few decades, but not now . . .”
“Excuse me, Captain,” said Emily politely.
“. . . and I don’t intend to risk being detected,” continued Hardy, “just to bail your political butt out of the sling you put it in!”
Enraged by Hardy’s accusation, Patterson lashed out. “How dare you suggest that I. . .”
“Dr. Patterson, please,” pleaded Emily.
“I’m not going to debate this further. We’re leaving as soon as the Manta ...”
“As the mission commander, I say when we leave, not you or anyone . ..”
“Would you two shut up!” Emily yelled angrily.
An abrupt silence formed in control, as everyone was utterly astonished by Emily’s uncharacteristic outburst. All the watchstanders focused intently on their controls and indications; no one dared look back toward the plotting tables, out of fear that they’d meet either the Captain’s or Patterson’s gaze.
“I beg your pardon,” demanded Hardy after the shock wore off.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve had enough of your fighting,” protested Emily. “You two sound just like my parents. You’re just as stubborn, self-centered, and pompous as they are. Well, now you two are going to listen to me.”
Hardy and Patterson briefly looked at each other with confusion, and then back at the mouse that just roared. “Emily, what is the meaning of this?” questioned Patterson defensively.
Before Emily could answer, Hardy finally noticed Jerry standing there. Embarrassed, Hardy demanded, “Mr. Mitchell, why aren’t you at your station?”
Davis answered for him. “We’ve got a problem, Captain, a very big problem. And it involves him as much as the rest of us.” Davis answered urgently. She then handed Patterson a computer printout and waited silently while she scanned the results. Hardy and Jerry both waited as well, the Captain glaring at Jerry, who fervently hoped whatever was on that paper would justify his being here.
Patterson’s face became a mask, so neutral that Jerry guessed she was struggling to control her emotions. She sat down suddenly and then looked around. By now, everyone in control was watching.
She started explaining. “All of the samples we take contain various amounts of radioactive material. Cesium, cobalt, uranium, strontium, whatever might show up in fuel, spent fuel, or other radioactive materials. It’s usually a mix of all of them, and the combination is a good way to identify the kind of waste. With some combinations, we can even identify the type of reactor they came from.”
She held up the printout. “This gamma-ray spectrum analysis doesn’t show any of the elements that we’d expect from any type of nuclear fuel, spent or otherwise.
It’s remarkably uniform, too uniform. Emily, have you double-checked the results?”
“I triple-checked it, Doctor. There was no trace of fission products, activation products, uranium or any of the other plutonium isotopes. The readings are consistent with essentially pure plutonium-239-weapons-grade plutonium-239.”
Jerry’s mind raced as Emily delivered the stark conclusion of her analysis. Pu-239 is one of many plutonium isotopes that typically showed up in small amounts in spent nuclear fuel, particularly fuel that had a lot of Uranium-238 in it. They had found trace amounts of Pu-239, along with five other isotopes, on the seabed at many of the sites they had surveyed. But it was impossible for concentrated Pu-239 to exist in spent fuel. It had to be extracted and purified, and this took human effort. He watched Captain Hardy go through the same thought process and saw his expression become a mixture of caution and concern. “What’s the chance of a false reading?”
Patterson answered. “None. The tests are based . . .”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He looked around, then asked the group, “Can anyone think of a good reason, no matter how bizarre, for weapons-grade nuclear material to be on a sunken barge in the Kara Sea?” He turned to face Bair. “XO?”
“I can think of a lot of reasons, but none of them are good.” Bair smiled as he said it, but it was a worried smile.
Patterson was pale, but spoke firmly. “Captain, we have to go back and find out every scrap of information about that barge. When it was scuttled, exactly what is in the hold, what’s in those cases. . .”
Hardy cut her off. “I agree. I don’t like it. In fact, I hate it, but I agree. Mr. Mitchell, get the Manta back here ASAP Use maximum speed. XO, as soon as the Manta’s recovered, head Memphis toward the barge. Work with Mr. O’Connell to find the closest spot on the forty-fathom curve to the barge’s location. I want a fast approach and a clear exit path.”
Hardy stopped to look at Jerry. “Mister, what are you still doing here?” Jerry took that as a dismissal. As he left, he heard Hardy say, “And get me the COB!”
As soon as the Manta was stowed, Memphis began working her way toward the barge and into shallow water. As nervous as Hardy was about shallow water, the divers would need as short a swim as possible. It would also reduce the time that Memphis was vulnerable, with men outside her hull.
The XO led a hasty planning meeting in the wardroom. Jerry immediately volunteered to be one of the divers, but Bair killed the idea. “We’ll need you here to drive the Manta, Jerry. You are going to carry the swimmers over to the barge and bring them back.”
He turned to Reynolds. “COB, how fast can the Manta go with you and Harris hanging on?” ET2 Harris was the third ship’s diver. “The Manta can do up to twenty.”
The COB smiled and said, “Anything over five knots will require a harness. If we rig harnesses to the attachment points and it tows us, maybe ten knots. But I’d want to work up to that speed slowly,” he added quickly.
One of the quartermasters hurriedly knocked on the wardroom door and leaned in. “XO, the Captain says we’ll be on station in twenty-five minutes.”
The XO looked at Davis. “You’ll need to launch one of the ROVs first. We’ll need its camera and lights for the COB and Harris so they can rig the Manta and attach themselves to it.”
“They can only do that after I’ve launched it,” Jerry reminded him. “The docking skirt is too close to the tie-down points. They’re the same ones they use to hoist the Manta off the boat.”
“Understood,” answered the XO, “just hold it steady for them.”
Reynolds didn’t look happy. “XO, sir, this is a really complicated dive. We’re moving too fast. I can’t build a proper dive plan. What if we leave a tool behind on the sub? What if the Russians show up again? What about the crates?”
Bair nodded. “I agree with you, COB, but the Captain wants this done ASAP. I’m beginning to agree with him that the Bear was no accident. We’re on borrowed time. We do this quickly, then we leave the neighborhood forthwith.”
He sighed. “Dr. Patterson’s rigging a sample container that will be radiation-proof. We’re hoping that whatever’s in those crates will fit inside. You’ll have cameras to take photographs. Dr Davis will monitor the radiation with the ROV and will flash the danger sign if the reading is too high. And the instant you get that signal, you drop everything and hop the Manta for a fast ride home. We’ll stand by with a decontamination team ready, just in case.”
The meeting ended as quickly as it had been held. Davis went to help Patterson and Jerry went aft to help the COB and Harris with their preparations.
Sometimes it is necessary for men to go topside when a submarine is underway. Because of the low freeboard and the chance of being washed over the side, subs carry safety harnesses. Similar to a parachute rig, they could be attached to a special track in the hull. It was simple to adapt two so they could use the lift points on the Manta. What wasn’t simple was fitting the harnesses to Reynolds and Harris on top of all their diving gear.
By the time they arranged the straps so they didn’t interfere with the tanks or tools or the ability to move, Hardy was calling for Jerry to launch the Manta.
“I don’t have a camera, but the passive sonar should pick up taps on the hull,” Jerry reminded them.
“Yessir,” answered the COB. “Just keep the active sonar off while we are in front of the Manta. I hate getting pinged. It feels like someone is hitting you with a two-by-four.” At close range, the pressure wave generated by an active sonar could stun a diver.
Jerry grinned reassuringly. “I’ll pull the breaker and red-tag the switch.” Then more seriously, he added, “I wish I was going with you, Master Chief.”
“In a sense, you will be, since you’ll be flying that UUV that we’ll be riding—and that’s pretty important to Harris and me.” Reynolds then reached over and grasped Jerry by the shoulder. “Actually, I’m glad you’ll be on the boat.” Jerry’s puzzled expression caused Reynolds to grin. “Mr. Mitchell, you’re damn good with that Manta. Not to put you under any undue pressure, mind you, but I’m expecting you to bring us home.”
Reynolds extended his hand; Jerry grasped it firmly and said, “Count on it, COB. Good luck and be safe.”
“Always, sir,” said Reynolds, winking.
Jerry turned and left them by the forward escape trunk with two enlisted men. Between the COB and Harris and net full- of tools, it would take two cycles to get them all outside.
By the time he reached the torpedo room, Emily already had Huey out and trained on the Manta hangar. Jerry started the launch sequence and realized that although he’d watched films of the prototype Manta being launched, he’d actually never seen the launch from Memphis.
The hangar was a raised rectangle halfway back the hull, about where it started narrowing toward the screw at the stern. The Manta nestled in a cutout, half-buried to reduce drag and flow noise when Memphis was underway. As Jerry released the latches, the Manta, slightly buoyant, slowly floated up and away.
The standard launch sequence automatically positioned the Manta five hundred yards off the sub’s port or starboard beam. This was out of the question, so instead Jerry overrode the sequence and just did his best to hold the UUV stationary over the aft hull. He resisted the temptation to bring the Manta forward to the divers. They’d discussed it in the wardroom, but even with the ROV’s camera to help him see, it wasn’t built for close-in maneuvering. He couldn’t guarantee that the Manta wouldn’t strike the sub—or God forbid, one of the divers.
Memphis floated, dead in the water and neutrally buoyant, in forty fathoms of water. Although Hardy would have preferred hugging the bottom, he’d brought her shallow, to a keel depth of eighty feet. Since Memphis stood sixty feet from her keel to the top of the sail, that left precious little water above them, but it made the divers’ job a lot easier. At sixty feet, they had almost an hour to get to the barge, enter, open a crate, retrieve a sample, and then return
. At a depth of ninety feet, they would have had only thirty minutes.
It was hard to trim the Manta to neutral buoyancy. Jerry found he had to use a little motion to keep the slightly buoyant UUV from rising. He concentrated on keeping the nose down and moving as slowly as possible. He also had to tell Emily what he was doing, so she could anticipate his movements and keep the lights and camera properly positioned. It was dark enough at this depth so that the lights were essential. Without Huey’s lights, Reynolds and Harris might never find the Manta. Luckily, only Huey had a control cable. If both vehicles had used wires for control and maneuvered so closely, they would constantly risk entangling them.
He waited impatiently for Reynolds and Harris to reach the Manta. It was easy for Jerry to imagine, or remember, what it felt like as the water filled the escape lock—the cold and the pressure. This wasn’t sport diving off some colorful tropical reef. It was hard to move quickly or gracefully, and you couldn’t waste time. It was work. The dry suit mitigated the cold, but it still sucked the energy out of your arms and legs, turning them to wood.
