“Espionage aside,” Rubens continued, “it’s the President’s assumption that the Russians have a perfect right to drill for oil up here. That’s not the issue. They do not have the right to hold American citizens hostage, to take over American science stations, or to claim half of the Arctic Ocean as their own personal backyard.”
“I understand, sir.”
“And they especially don’t have the right to kill or capture my people.”
That, of course, was the telling point-especially to a former Marine. Presidents and politicians might take their countries into war for the most selfish, shortsighted, vainglorious, or otherwise idiotic of reasons… but the men on the front lines didn’t fight for political causes. Not really. They fought for their buddies, the other grunts in the trenches with them. That had most likely been a basic principle of war even before Narmer united Egypt.
“If Braslov’s up here, I’ll find him,” Dean said.
“Good. Alive. I’ll also want you to keep an eye on the people the SEALs rescue, make sure they all get out okay. Two of them are intelligence operatives, remember-Yeats and McMillan-and McMillan is one of ours.”
“Yes, sir.”
“According to the diplomatic communiqué, two of the hostages are injured, one of them seriously.”
“Jesus. What happened?”
“No details yet, but the Russians reportedly have both of them in the hospital facility on board one of the ships. They also have a body.”
“Of who?”
“According to the Russians, the dead guy is Kenneth Richardson. He was the leader of the Greenpeace film crew at the NOAA ice station. They say the NOAA CO shot him twice, and that another Greenpeace guy smacked the CO in the face with an iron bar.”
“That’s the badly injured man?”
“Commander Larson, yes.”
“And the guy who hit him?”
Rubens’ mouth twitched in an almost smile. “Harry Benford.”
“Well, well, well. The possible spy.”
“Benford is the other man. Apparently, Larson shot him in the arm before Benford was able to hit Larson.”
“And if Benford was working for the Russians, maybe he set the whole thing up.”
“That is the belief of the analysts we have working on the intelligence developed by Miss DeFrancesca and Mr. Akulinin,” Rubens said. “The Russians were looking for an excuse to move in and grab the NOAA station. Quite possibly, they’d already realized that we were spying on their base from one of our met stations nearby. A murder is reported-a murder supposedly committed by the leader of the scientific expedition, no less-and the Russians, claiming that region as their legal jurisdiction anyway, move in. They probably hope to use the incident in support of their official claim to the Arctic basin.”
“It sounds pretty tangled.”
“It is. And untangling it will not be your job, for which you can be duly thankful. But you’re going to have a damned full plate. Whatever goes down, I want you to make sure we have Braslov alive. If they’ve separated our intelligence operators from the rest, I want them found and freed. Whatever it takes.”
“Yes, sir.” No man left behind.
“And remind the SEAL platoon commander that there are two wounded men and a body, probably in the ship’s sick bay. We’ll need at least the wounded men for questioning, if we’re to make sense of this mess.”
A knock sounded on the wardroom door. “Mr. Dean?” a very young voice called from the other side. “The skipper says for you to get ready for the shore party. They’re getting ready to go.”
“I’ll be right there,” Dean called back. He looked at Rubens’ image again. “It’s time for me to go, sir.”
“Right. Good luck, Dean,” Rubens said. And the image winked off.
CFS Akademik Petr Lebedev Arctic Ice Cap 82° 34' N, 177° 26' E 0920 hours, GMT-12
A sharp rap sounded from the door to Golytsin’s office. “Come.”
One of the naval marines assigned to the Lebedev opened the door and stepped inside. “Sir!” He handed a message flimsy across to Golytsin. “This just came in from the Dekabrist. It has been decoded.”
Golytsin accepted the message. “Very well.”
The marine saluted, turned, and left. Golytsin read the flimsy.
FROM: COMMANDING OFFICER, CFS DEKABRIST TO: F. GOLYTSIN, CFS AKADEMIK PETR LEBEDEV SONAR DETECTED SOUNDS OF UNIDENTIFIED SUBMARINE
SURFACING IN ICE AT 0810 HOURS. LOCATION
UNKNOWN BUT SUSPECT INTRUDER TO BE WITHIN 20
KILOMETERS GK-1. REQUEST SHOOT-FIRST ORDERS IF
INTRUDER SUBMARINE APPROACHES PERIMETER. SIGNED: KIRICHENKO, CAPTAIN FIRST RANK
Brief and to the point. Golytsin frowned, wishing there’d been a bit more information… like a bearing, for God’s sake.
But at least the waiting was over. The Americans were here.
They’d been expected, after all. The diplomatic message announcing the capture of fourteen American scientists and Greenpeace activists would have arrived on the desk of the American President several days ago. There’d been time for an American submarine to be redeployed north.
The problem, though, was that American submarines were so hellishly quiet. During the Cold War-the original Cold War that had so focused the military might of both the United States and the old Soviet Union-American technology had consistently outstripped the Russian Navy’s attempts to keep pace. The Walker spy ring, operating from 1967 to 1985, had helped tremendously, had in fact been responsible for a whole new generation of ultra-quiet Russian submarines, but that hadn’t significantly helped the Soviets track American subs.
Golytsin had been part of the Soviet naval intelligence team working on the information provided by the Walker ring. He’d also commanded two Russian submarines during the early 1980s, and he knew something about American submarine technology. It was good, very, very good. Time after time, American attack subs had picked up Soviet missile boats as they exited their lairs in the White Sea or along the north coast of the Kola Peninsula and trailed them, often just a few tens of meters astern, sometimes slipping close enough to photograph details of the Soviet craft’s hull through the periscope, and the Russian sonar operators had never heard a thing. A number of the better than two hundred thousand encrypted messages deciphered with Walker’s help had been top-secret reports on the movements of Soviet submarines, and their astonishing accuracy had alerted the Red Fleet’s high command to the problem.
Feodor Golytsin was one of the few men alive who knew just how difficult it was to track an American submarine, especially under the Arctic ice, where bizarre sonar echoes came ringing back from every direction and subs could play hide-and-seek among the polynyas, keels, and subsurface ice ridges.
And it had been Golytsin who’d recommended that the Dekabrist be deployed to the area around GK-1, as a bit of added insurance. The Americans, he’d argued, were certain to arrive, and the chances were good that they would arrive by submarine. Any submariner could tell you that the best way to catch a sub was to use a sub.
Those idiots back at Severomorsk HQ had hesitated. They feared a confrontation with the United States and didn’t see the GK-1 project as one of Russia’s vital national interests. What they didn’t understand was that Russia couldn’t possibly lose in this new round of international brinksmanship. If the Americans managed to sink the Russian boat, as some of the Northern Fleet’s admirals feared, it would simply be wood to the fire of Russia’s case before the court of world opinion: the Arctic Ocean properly belonged to Russia, and the United States was unfairly using its superior submarine technology to bully Moscow into yielding.
If, on the other hand, a submarine battle ended in a Russian victory, Moscow could simply claim that it was legitimately defending its own interests from the bellicose Americans. More to the point, the Americans were notoriously weak when it came to accepting necessary military losses. American military leaders were as afraid of open war in the Arctic as their oppo
site numbers at Severomorsk, and the American President would be reluctant to commit to yet another unpopular war. The Americans would… what was their delightful expression? Cave. That was it. The Americans would cave.
Either way, Russia would win.
And with the GK-1 project now fully in place, when Russia won, the Organizatsiya would win as well, would win to the point that, soon, the Tambov group would control all petroleum and natural gas production and sales across the Motherland, with an annual income to be measured in the trillions of rubles. Russia, and with her, Tambov, would again become a major player on the world stage.
And Feodor Golytsin would at last have his revenge over certain men, politicians prominent under both the Soviet regime and the new Federation, who’d been responsible for him freezing his ass for three bitter years in the gulag.
Captain First Rank Kirichenko was a good man, Golytsin knew, experienced, and a cunning tactician. If anyone could beat the Americans at their own game beneath the ice, it was Valery Kirichenko. But Golytsin needed to be sure Kirichenko knew what was at stake.
Turning to the computer keyboard on his desk, he began composing his reply to the Dekabrist’s commanding officer.
USGN Ohio Arctic Ice Cap 82° 34' N, 177° 26' E 0942 hours, GMT-12
Dean met the others at the air lock leading to the Ohio’s aft deck and the waiting ASDS, located in a cramped compartment aft of the control room. A heavy, watertight door stood open as one SEAL passed a bundle of equipment through to a waiting SEAL inside, and he, in turn, passed the bundle up the ladder to someone out of sight overhead.
Taylor gave Dean a dark look as he walked in, and Dean knew that he resented what he thought of as micro-management on Dean’s behalf.
This would require tact and diplomacy. Perhaps a preemptive strike…
“Mr. Taylor,” Charlie Dean said, “I know you don’t like the fact that I’ve been assigned to operate with your platoon. I regret that… but I had nothing to do with the order. I hope you’ll let me prove that I can be an asset on this mission.”
“That’s one you’re going to need to prove to me, Mr. Dean,” Taylor growled. “I don’t like being told who’s coming along on my op. I don’t like having to leave one of my men behind because I have to make room for a damned tourist. And I damned sure don’t like babysitting a fucking suit. You understand me?”
“I hear you.” So had every man in the SEAL unit preparing to board the ASDS, plus Captain Grenville and Lieutenant Commander Hartwell and three enlisted ratings helping the SEALs with their gear. This was going to be tougher than Dean had expected. “You will not need to babysit me.”
Taylor ignored him. “You will be responsible for your own equipment. And you will follow my orders to the exact letter. Copy?”
“Copy,” Charlie Dean said, his irritation evident in his voice.
“All right. Just so we understand one another. You’d better get suited up, suit.”
“I think that’s enough tantrum, Mr. Taylor,” said the captain. “And please try to remember that you’re just a fucking lieutenant.”
That comment was a conversation stopper. “Yes, sir,” Taylor replied in a normal tone of voice.
They had a combat dry suit for Dean, a one-size-fits-almost-all worn over warm clothing. Unlike a standard wet suit, which allows water from the outside to get in between skin and suit and become warm with body heat, the dry suit worked by keeping cold water out. It was colored in a gray and white camo pattern that would be conspicuous on the ice but help the wearer blend in on board a gray-painted ship. The rig included a combat vest, boots, and a hood. Dean decided that if he actually fell into the water, the weight of his fashion statement was going to take him straight to the bottom.
“We won’t be doing a lot of swimming,” Taylor told him. “The dry suit should keep you alive for the swim up from the ASDS to the ship. Just stick close, do what you’re told, and be ready to hotfoot it up the boarding ladder when we tell you.”
“In broad daylight?” Dean asked.
“This here’s the land of the midnight sun, cupcake. It’s always broad daylight, at least for the next few months. But Captain Grenville here is going to create a small diversion for us.”
Grenville nodded. “We’ll be listening for our cue through our sonar system. When we get it, we’ll surface alongside the Lebedev, about a hundred yards off her port side. That should keep them looking at us and not at you, and should also mask any noise you make going aboard.”
“After that,” Taylor added, “it’s all up to us. Your boss said you have some gadgets that will help. Whatcha got?”
Dean was kneeling at the pack he’d brought on board, uncasing a bulky weapon with an oversized muzzle and a rotary cylinder. Reaching into an ammo case, he pulled out a blunt projectile.
“Forty mike-mike grenades?” one of the SEALs said with a dark chuckle. “Ain’t nothing new about those.”
“There is about this one,” Dean said. “It’s a tiny UAV. Has a camera in it that will send live-feed video, both visible light and infrared. It’ll help us keep track of where the bad guys are, and where our people might be.”
“I was told the hostages are on the main deck, in the aft superstructure,” Taylor said.
“And they might get moved as soon as the Russians know we’re on deck.”
Taylor nodded. “Okay, Dean. Maybe you’re a keeper after all. Just stay the fuck out of our way, right?”
“Ooh-rah,” Dean replied, the battle cry of the Marines.
“Shit, man,” Taylor said, grinning. “This is the Navy SEALs. It’s hoo-yah!”
The SEALs began filing into the airlock and up the waiting ladder.
19
ASDS-1 Arctic Ice Cap 82° 34' N, 177° 26' E 1010 hours, GMT-12
IT WAS, DEAN THOUGHT, LIKE being locked in a steel closet.
And fifteen Navy SEALs were locked inside with him.
The Advanced SEAL Delivery System was the latest evolution in using miniature submersibles to handle covert insertions of special operations teams. For decades, there’d been fierce turf battles between Navy SpecOps and the submarine force over the design of such craft.
The original SDVs, or SEAL Delivery Vehicles, had been wet subs, meaning that the SEALs on board rode in a water-filled compartment. After hours inside their cramped conveyance, they arrived at the Area of Operations cold, wet, and tired-a no-good way to begin a critical covert op. Requests for dry delivery vehicles had repeatedly been scotched by the submarine service, which insisted that all such vessels be under its control.
Eventually, though, the ASDS had surfaced as a compromise. In the forward compartment, Dean knew, were two men, a pilot/commander who was a Navy submariner and a SEAL copilot who handled navigation and sonar. It was an awkward division of responsibility, at times, but the two officers had cross-trained in each other’s jobs in case one or the other was incapacitated.
The aft compartment was large enough-just-for sixteen men and their weapons and equipment, and it had the added capability of becoming a hyperbaric chamber if there was a diving medical emergency. Between the two compartments was a spherical lock-out chamber with watertight doors above and below, and fore and aft. The design, drawn from the earlier DRSV deep-rescue submersibles, allowed the ASDS to dock with a variety of submarines, or for swimmers to exit or enter the minisub while it was underwater.
Dean sat on the narrow bench, his knees touching the knees of the SEAL sitting opposite him, his shoulders pressed against those of the men to either side. His weapon, ammo, and the UAV controller were inside a watertight pouch resting on the deck beneath his feet. Each man wore a Dräger rebreather unit on his chest, and held in gloved hands a full-face mask that included built-in short-range radio transceivers. Short flippers were strapped on over their boots and would be discarded as soon as they reached the Lebedev.
Bathed in the sullen red light illuminating the narrow chamber, Taylor was standing at the forward end of the compartment
, his hand pressed against the side of his head, listening to a small receiver plugged into his ear. “Okay, men,” Taylor said after listening intently. “We’re passing under the Lebedev. Remember the op plan. Teams two and four, deck security. Team three, secure the hostages. Team one, water security and tactical reserve, once we’re on deck. Dean, you’re team one, with me. Everyone with me?”
He was answered in a subdued chorus of affirmatives. The Lebedev almost certainly had hydrophones in the water that would pick up loud noises, at least, so conversation was kept low and to a minimum.
“Okay,” Taylor continued. “Masks on!”
Dean pulled the diving mask on over his head, making sure the straps were tight at the back. The faceplate was triangular, covering his mouth as well as his nose and eyes. He checked the controls on his rebreather pack; air was flowing, though it had a faintly bitter chemical taste to it.
“Radio check,” Taylor’s voice said in Dean’s ear. “Sound off. One-one, okay.”
“One-two, right.”
“One-three, check.”
The SEALs ran down the line, identifying themselves by fire-team number. Each of them wore a tightly fitting hood over his head, with a short-range radio receiver next to the ear, a microphone pressed up against the throat. They would be able to talk while underwater.
“One-four, okay,” Dean said.
“Two-one, ready to rock.”
There were no portholes, of course, or TV monitors. Dean was aware of the faint vibration through the deck and the curved bulkhead at his back as the craft’s powerful electric motor drove it forward. Moments later, the deck tilted up sharply, and he felt the vibrations lessen.
“We’re at ten to twenty feet,” Taylor told them. “Twenty yards off the Lebedev’s starboard side. Commander Hartwell says we’re sending the signal now.”
Lieutenant Commander Hartwell was the SEAL officer forward, acting as copilot, navigator, and sonar operator for the ASDS. A coded sonar chirp would be easily picked up through the Ohio’s new Lockheed Martin AN/BQQ-10(V4) sonar-processing system, alerting the sub that it was time to surface and commence the diversion.
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