Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy

by Nicolas Kublicki

  END TRANS

  Navy rank 0-3 designated Carlton as a lieutenant. “Great. I’ve just pissed off one of our own,” Hendricks muttered. “And he was right about the icebreaker. Dammit.”

  He turned to Wathne. “XO. Find me the Russian icebreaker Rossiya, then plot a course to her. Do it fast.” He swallowed hard. “I’ve got some apologizing to do.”

  Erika and Carlton had held each other close as they waited for the Norwegian Search and Rescue seaplane to take her, Ramey, and DesJardins to safety. Despite his exhaustion, Carlton had been unable to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. He tossed and turned on the submarine cot, wondering where Forbes would hide Erika, whether he could keep her safe from Fress and his thugs until Forbes put him in the slammer. Finally accepting he wouldn’t sleep, Canton took a regulation thirty-second shower and shaved.

  The crew located a lieutenant’s uniform that fit him reasonably well. Pink, who managed to catnap for a bit, was issued a uniform stripped of Navy insignia. Feeling reasonably human again, they devoured steaks and baked potatoes in the officer’s mess while filling Hendricks in on the issues facing them. They washed down the blessedly revitalizing meal with Navy ‘bug juice.’

  “What do you mean it’s not there?” Carlton demanded, referring to the Rossiya.

  “It’s not there,” repeated Hendricks sitting on a chair facing backwards, his arms on its backrest. “We tried everything from active sonar to surface radar. There’s nothing there.”

  “Have you tried satellite imagery?” Pink asked.

  Pink was an enigma to Hendricks. Unlike with Carlton, the transmission had not divulged Pink’s institutional affiliation. Yet it was clear that the calm African-American was no ordinary civilian. Ordinary civilians weren’t rescued by Navy subs in foreign waters and given extreme courtesy, as ordered by the transmission. Now the man was asking about satellite imagery. Probably DIA or CIA, he suspected. Hendricks cautiously did as he was ordered. “We’re getting that in right now, Mr. Pink. We can go take a look once you’re done.”

  “Well,” Carlton took a last swig and rose from his chair, “tempis fugit, as we say at Justice. Lead the way, Commander.”

  A young ensign pointed to a chart under the glass of one of the two plotting tables in the control room. “Here, here, and here are the last reported positions of the Claire Sailing, the Russian patrol boat, and the Rossiya.”

  Each spot was marked with a different colored dot on the glass.

  “Satellite imagery of the past twenty hours confirms the Rossiya disappeared at the same time our sonar picked up Sierra 20, the signature of the fourth sinking ship.”

  “The fourth? I thought only two vessels sank.” Carlton squinted.

  “Negative, sir,” answered the ensign. “There were four. The first two were small ships moving fast from Murmansk to the Rossiya.”

  Carlton looked at Pink. “That was probably Yagoda’s GRU team.”

  “It would certainly explain why they never showed up to the party.”

  “We picked up two other sinking ships after that, about ten miles and half an hour apart,” Hendricks continued. “The first was most likely your ship, the Claire, the second the Rossiya.” He nodded to the ensign.

  “They sank the Rossiya?” Carlton exclaimed. “Then what’s left?”

  “Sir, the imagery reveals the last surviving vessel, the Russian patrol boat, is the Alexandr Nevsky,” the ensign continued. “It was officially decommissioned and sold over six months ago by the Russian Navy.”

  “Decommissioned and sold? That tends to prove my theory that Molotok’s thugs torpedoed the Claire Sailing,” Carlton said.

  “What about the patrol boat, the Nevsky? Is it still around?”

  “No sir. The imagery shows it proceeded due west immediately after the Rossiya sank.”

  “Which means that—” Carlton closed his eyes in concentration. “They brought us from the Rossiya back to the Claire, then they went back to the Rossiya,” he said, tracing the movements in the air with his hand, “torpedoed the Claire, took the diamonds from the Rossiya, scuttled the Rossiya, and went—West you said?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Went West in the Russian patrol boat, the Nevsky.”

  “Looks like that’s what happened,” Hendricks affirmed, turning to the young ensign. “Where is the Nevsky now?”

  “It dropped off screen three hours ago, sir.”He moved toward the plotting table. “Here.” He pointed to a spot between the Norwegian and Barents Seas, roughly 500 miles from Hammerfest, Norway, in the North Cape region.

  “Dropped off the screen? You mean it went out of range?”

  “Negative, sir. It just disappeared.”

  “It probably sank,” Hendricks concluded. “We just didn’t hear it. Maybe because of the convergence zone of hot and cold water up top.”

  “Disappeared?” Pink asked. “What is this, the Murmansk Triangle?”

  Carlton straightened his back, which cracked loudly. “These guys are after the diamonds, right? We’re not following people or boats. We’re following diamonds. They didn’t know the diamonds were on the icebreaker. They followed us until we led them to the Rossiya, then located the diamonds on board. Right?”

  Pink nodded.

  “So forget about us on the Claire Sailing for a moment. They took the diamonds from the Rossiya then eighty-sixed her. They took the Nevsky and disappeared north of Norway’s North Cape. Tell me, ensign, did the patrol boat disappear as it was sailing or did it stop first, then disappear?”

  “Well, I...” The ensign paused, thought it over. “It remained stationary for several hours before disappearing, sir.”

  Carlton grinned. “There’s the key.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me,” Hendricks admitted.

  “We’re not chasing people or boats, sir. We’re chasing diamonds,” Carlton reiterated. “If the Nevsky stopped before it disappeared or sank—”

  “The diamonds were transferred from the Nevsky before it sank,” Hendricks finished.

  “Right. Did any vessels make contact with the Nevsky before it disappeared?”

  The ensign shook his head. “Negative, sir.”

  “If it transferred the diamonds before sinking, it must have made contact with something.”

  “Helo?” Pink asked.

  “Negative. Too far away from the mainland,” Hendricks said. “I don’t know of any helo that could make that round trip even stripped down to a gas tank with rotor blades. A thousand miles. Plus time to load. No way.”

  “You said the Nevsky was decommissioned?” Carlton asked.

  “That’s right.” Hendricks swiveled and hit the intercom. “Sonar, conn. Give me course and heading for Sierra 21.”

  “Yes, sir.” The sonar watch supervisor pulled up Sierra 21 on the Busy Two. “Course heading at time of contact 2-0-1, speed 2-4 knots. Position was roughly 7-7 degrees latitude, 2-8 degrees longitude.”

  Hendricks turned back to the chart. “Seventy-seven degrees latitude is here. Twenty-eight degrees longitude. Here.” He marked the position on the chart with an erasable grease pencil. “His heading was 201. That’s this way.” He moved the ruler and extrapolated Sierra 21’s trajectory with the grease pencil. He looked back up at the confused faces around him, smiling. “I can tell you what made contact with the Nevsky, gentlemen. It was a Russian Delta Three–class nuclear submarine. The Pushkin. The Nevsky’s decommissioning gave it away. You see, the Pushkin was also decommissioned by the Russian Navy.”

  Carlton wiped the sweat from his brow, shook his head. “This is getting worse and worse and worse. Are you telling me that the Russian diamond stockpile is aboard a nuclear submarine manned by Molotok’s thugs?”

  Hendricks nodded. “Mr. Wathne, inform COMSUBLANT we’ve tracked down the Rossiya’s cargo to Sierra 21. Get me all available information including recent SOSUS readings on Sierra 21,” he ordered. He referred to the United States Navy’s $15 billion Sound Surveillance
System network of passive sonar underwater listening devices linked by 30,000 miles of underwater wiring installed during the Cold War for NATO. “And set a new course heading 3-1-0. Flank speed.” He turned to the others. “Don’t worry. The Pushkin can do twenty-four, twenty-five knots tops. We can do—well, we can do far better than that. Wherever she is, we’ll track her down.”

  Carlton stared into his coffee mug. “Hopefully, before it gets to where it’s going first.”

  Except that twenty hours into the Seawolf’s mad rush, the Pushkin went dead silent, though no particular sound presaged the silence. Just loud flank speed one minute, dead silence the next.

  “Well it didn’t just disappear, ”Hendricks nearly shouted at Ears and his colleagues over the intercom in the sonar room. “Go dead,” he commanded, hoping that stopping their engines would enable the Seawolf to detect the Pushkin.

  “All stop. Aye, sir.”

  Although the Seawolf’s single screw immediately ceased churning, it took several minutes for the 9,150-ton submarine to stop. Freed from the noise pollution generated by the Seawolf’s propeller blades, the sonar technicians were able to detect a far wider range of acoustic signals. Human ears and electronic-signal-processing units strained to distinguish the Pushkin’s acoustic signature from the myriad new audible sounds.

  The Seawolf possessed an impressive arsenal of sonar detection equipment that allowed its sonar crew to hear almost any vessel within 50 miles, no matter how silent—unless a vessel was stopped: a BQS24 spherical bow array, a conformal low frequency array, a TB-16D medium range low frequency array, a TB-29 thin-line towed array, and a WLR-9 acoustic intercept active sonar receiver.

  Despite the sub’s state-of-the-art sonar surveillance equipment, all that the sonar crew detected were USN and Royal Navy surface vessels preparing to engage in maneuvers in the far North Sea, and cargo vessels in the Barents Sea. The Pushkin remained undetected. Not even a ‘hole in the water’—which was an acoustical area in the water empty of background acoustical signals.

  “Sir, what are the possible explanations for the loss of signal?” Asked Carlton.

  “God only knows. It could be a whole bunch of things. Underwater warm and cold convergence layers, power failure, stopping dead to see if anyone’s around.”

  “What about surfacing? Could the Pushkin have surfaced?”

  Hendricks shook his head. “No surfacing sounds. When a sub surfaces, it makes a ton of noise. The Pushkin was down 700 feet, moving about 24 knots. Surfacing from that depth requires expelling water from ballast tanks, which makes noise. The decrease in water pressure makes the hull expand, which makes it groan and pop. We didn’t hear any of those sounds, which would have been as loud, if not louder, than the screw noise.”

  “What if it surfaced slowly? Really slowly. Would the ballast and hull popping sounds have been as loud?”

  “Far less, but still there. I doubt we would have missed it. What are you getting at?”

  “From what you stated, unless the Pushkin’s got some amazing new silencing technology, which is doubtful since the sub was scrapped, as you pointed out, then it’s stopped either on the surface or underwater, right?”

  “It could be running. It’s not necessarily stopped. But I see your point. It’s only”- he paused to calculate — “four hours away if running, two hours away if it’s immobile.”

  “This is time-sensitive, Captain. If the Pushkin is able to get the stockpile to Waterboer, as sure as God made little green apples you’ll be facing 50 more fully armed Pushkins out there within a matter of months. Or worse.”

  Carlton anticipated fierce resistance to his attempt to dictate Hendricks’ course. Instead, there was only silence, while Hendricks contrasted his two options.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “You’re the advisors. It’s a bit strange, but I suppose these are strange circumstances. Instead of locating the Pushkin first, then intercepting, we’ll take the risk that she might be moving and intercept her at her last known position.” Hendricks turned to his XO.

  “Mr. Wathne. Forward flank. Continue original course heading and update COMSUBLANT.”

  “Forward flank. Maintain heading. Aye, sir.”

  58 SEARCH

  USS Seawolf

  Arctic Circle Boundary

  Norwegian Sea

  675 miles Northwest of Mo i Rana, Norway

  3:05 P.M.

  With nothing to do but wait, Carlton decided to do the only logical thing he could: sleep. He walked clumsily through narrow hallways to the cramped crew sleeping area where a bunk had been assigned to him and Pink. Using the submarine procedure of ‘hot-bunking,’ the two were supposed to use the bunks alternately every six-hour shift, into which U.S. Navy subs’ twenty-four-hour days were divided. Currently, it was Pink’s turn. A loud snore emanated from behind the drape.

  He shook Pink insistently. “Come on, Sleeping Beauty. Wakey, wakey.”

  Practically before Pink realized what was happening, Carlton had taken his place in the bunk and drawn the drape closed. But as soon as his head touched the pillow, Carlton knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Erika. Waterboer. Fress. Forbes. Mazursky. MacLean. Wenzel. Osage. They all blended in a general buzz of anxiety too disturbing to cover with the blessed calm of sleep.

  He prayed, tossed and turned, but could not exorcise his demons. He peered at his watch. Forty minutes, still wide awake.

  He drew back the drape, went to the head, grabbed a cup of Navy bug juice from a tray, and walked to the control room. Pink stood behind the helmsman and planesman, arms crossed. “What’s going on?”

  “Still nada.” Pink uncrossed his arms and pointed at him angrily. “You had no right waking me up like that. I was dreaming about this incredible woman that I—”

  “If it’s true love, she’ll be there when you get back.” Carlton grinned. “Anyway—”

  “Sierra 21 reacquired!” The intercom shrieked. “Bearing southwest.”

  “Heading, range, and speed?” Demanded Hendricks.

  “Heading is...0-4-7. Range is 3-point-0 nautical miles. Speed 1-0 knots. Sir, she’s headed directly for us!”

  Carlton froze.

  “Depth?”

  “5-0-4 feet, sir.”

  “Continue course and speed. Give me distance and depth every ten seconds.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Why would it head directly for us?” Carlton asked.

  “She heard us coming,” Hendricks said. “She knows she can’t hide and can’t outrun us. Her only hope is to surrender or...”

  “Or?”

  He squinted. “Or take us down.”

  Carlton admired Hendricks, his Navy colleague. In a tin can surrounded by thousands of pounds of pressure, heading straight for a rogue Russian sub near the Arctic, the man was cool as a cucumber. The expression of total concentration on the wiry man’s face made it clear he’d take this to the very end.

  “Plot firing solution,” Hendricks ordered to the fire control technician. His voice was calm, steady.

  “Aye, sir. Stacking the dots now.” The technician referred to the mechanism by which a target’s course, range, and speed were matched with time.

  Hendricks detached a microphone from the wall, punched a button. “Torpedo room,” a voice answered.

  “This is the captain. Give me fifties in tubes 1-2-3-4.”

  “Aye, sir. Fifties in tubes 1-2-3-4.”

  Hendricks replaced the mike. “Range?”

  “Target is 2-point-5 nautical miles, speed 1-0 knots, sir.”

  “Ready to shoot when loaded, sir.” Fire Control announced.

  At the Seawolf’s bow, two torpedomen began the arduous task of moving a 1,500-pound Gould Mark 50 torpedo into four of the sub’s eight 26-inch torpedo tubes. The wire-guided torpedoes could home into targets up to 27 miles away. With practiced, calm, flowing movements, they moved the Mark 50s from their storage racks onto loading trays. Each of the tubes was inspected for any leftover torpedo wir
e and dispenser. Satisfied that the tubes were clean, the torpedomen loaded one torpedo—nicknamed a ‘fish’—into each tube with the help of a loading ram. They attached the ‘A cable’ to the rear of each torpedo, which would transmit data from the launched fish directly to Fire Control in the command center. Finally, they attached a guidance wire to each weapon to enable the Fire Control technician to ‘swim’ each fish directly to its target after launch. Finished, they sealed each of the four tube hatches. As his subordinate attached the ‘Warshot Loaded’ signs to each loaded tube door, the chief torpedoman hit the intercom button. “Conn, torpedo room. Tubes 1-2-3-4 loaded, sir.”

  Upstairs and aft, the display for each torpedo tube winked on. Four red lights labeled “loaded” indicated that all four tubes contained a Mark 50. The Fire Control technician inspected the display. “Fire Control verifies tubes 1-2-3-4 loaded, sir.”

  “Range to target 2-point-3 nautical miles.”

  “Continue speed and course. Warm weapons,” Hendricks directed, adding orders for torpedo speed and seeker-head mode.

  “Torpedoes warm, sir,” Fire Control responded seconds later.

  Mesmerized and nearly trembling with adrenaline, Carlton watched the drivers sweat. The crew had faced such exercises in training countless times. But unlike their captain, they had never been so close to the real thing. A screw-up now wouldn’t end in a black mark on their records that would ruin their careers. It would end in a watery grave.

  The planesman and helmsman squeezed their airplane-like controls hard to prevent themselves from shaking.

  Hendricks balanced himself against the seat behind the weapons control panel with both arms, staring at the display in front of him. “Your theory was right on the money, Carlton. Congratulations.”

  “I had facts you didn’t, sir.” Carlton reflected on whether it was appropriate to ask questions at such a time, decided to ask. “What do we do now?” The words came out of his parched throat as a series of croaks. He held on tight to his mug and realized that his hand was bone-white.