by Larry Bond
The radiation count was low, barely above background — just a faint gamma count. “So whatever’s in there is either well contained or there is very little in terms of radioactive material,” Jerry surmised. More disappointment for Dr. Patterson.
But what was in there? Patterson’s voice joined them on the circuit, impatient with passing questions through a phone talker. As they speculated, Emily Davis continued to search the exterior of the barge with the ROV’s camera. It was a lot like looking at an elephant through a keyhole. If she moved far enough back to get a larger view, the water completely obscured her view, so she was limited to examining one small patch of the hull at a time.
The barge carried no markings, which was not unusual. The almost complete absence of marine growth and corrosion indicated that it had been there for only about ten years or so. “So the late ‘80s or early ‘90s, right?” Davis asked on the circuit. Patterson concurred.
It had settled neatly on the bottom, scuttled by what appeared to be ballast-tank-like sections along the fore and aft ends. The top of the barge also appeared to have what looked like valve connections, possibly for compressed air lines or to attach a pump of some sort. Whatever this barge was, it looked like it was made to be recovered.
“But what is it?” Patterson asked over the circuit. “The Soviets built specialized barges to hold spent fuel containers. This isn’t the same design.”
The deck of the barge was covered with three hatches, presumably leading down to the cargo hold. One of the hatches lay partially open, leaving a small opening that managed to look both inviting and menacing at the same time.
“Probably popped open by a buildup of air pressure as the barge sank,” speculated Davis on the circuit.
“We’ve got to take a look in there,” Patterson declared.
Howard, the enlisted phone talker, added, “Captain Hardy says ‘Do not go into the hatchway.’”
Patterson’s voice was just as insistent. “I’m sure we can maneuver the ROV inside.”
Davis tried to speak. “Dr. Patterson, the ROV. ”
Howard’s voice came on again. “Captain Hardy wants to see Dr. Davis in control right now.”
Davis replied, “Tell the Captain I can’t leave my station while the ROV is operating.”
There was a pause on the circuit, and then Howard said, “Captain Hardy and Dr. Patterson are on their way down.” His tone carried the message, “Look out.”
Although Memphis was at patrol quiet, with all normal machinery operating, Jerry heard them coming before they even got to the torpedo room. Hardy’s voice carried through the door forward. “…will not risk losing…”
Dr. Patterson cut him off. “If we don’t take a few risks, we won’t accomplish our mission.”
“Madam,” answered Hardy sharply, “we’re submerged in poorly charted shoal waters, sending remotely operated vehicles into Russian territory so we can survey radioactive waste. That’s quite enough risk for me.”
Patterson burst through the door first and immediately started grilling Emily. “Dr. Davis, how hard would it be to send the ROV through that opening to see what’s in the cargo hold? I told the Captain that there would be little or no risk, because of your skill with the vehicles.”
Flustered by the question, Davis delayed. “There are many risks we have to consider. Beyond the obvious one of snagging the cable or breaking it, we don’t know how well Huey will be able to maneuver if we go inside. And how stable is the cargo? Will he be trapped by debris? It might be dislodged by the wash from the thruster. And the silt in there could make it so murky we’d be blind in any case.”
Hardy pounced on her statement. “So you think the risks are too great.” He sounded satisfied. Patterson managed to scowl at both Davis and Hardy at the same time.
Seeing Patterson’s expression, Davis answered truthfully, “I am curious, too, sir.”
“Curiosity is not a good enough reason for risking a multimillion-dollar ROV and the covertness of this mission. Imagine the Russians’ surprise if they discovered a ROV entangled in the cargo hold of a barge inside their territorial waters.”
“Oh, and do you think they come here and check often?” Patterson’s tone was acidic.
Davis raised a hand. “Captain, Doctor, we’re using up Huey’s batteries while we argue. Why don’t I maneuver over the open hatch, point the camera down, and see what we can see?”
Hardy couldn’t argue with that — and didn’t. Patterson just smiled broadly. Jerry had to force himself to watch the Manta’s display, stealing only occasional glances at the ROV’s video screen.
Emily approached the barge slowly, careful to use a path as clear of obstructions as possible. With a delicate touch, she lowered the ROV to deck level, with the camera and light overhanging the open hatch. She panned the lens back and forth.
The inside of the hold revealed only dark, angular shadows. It was an unsatisfying image and Patterson clearly wanted more. “Shift the ROV a little,” she ordered. “Maybe if the light comes in at a different angle. ”
“Yes,” Davis answered softly. Skillfully, she backed Huey away and then approached again, so that the light came in from another direction, almost ninety degrees off the earlier view. It was no more revealing, although combining the two views suggested rectangular boxes or crates — a lot of them.
“We have to send the ROV in,” Patterson insisted.
“What’s the radiation reading?” Hardy temporized.
“Very slight, only 10 millirem per hour,” Davis reported. “The cargo is radioactive, but what it is I can’t imagine. It certainly doesn’t look like spent fuel.”
“Those are not spent fuel containers,” Patterson declared. “At least they’re no shape I’ve ever seen or read of.” She looked at Hardy and put her hand on his arm. “Please, Captain.”
Almost startled by her polite intensity, Hardy nodded silently to Davis, who settled herself and took a deep breath.
“First. I’m going to inspect the edge of the hatchway. I want to make sure that there are no sharp edges or hidden snags.” She panned the camera over all four sides of the opening at maximum magnification. The edges were smooth and regular and were covered with a layer of fine silt. “I’m going to reposition,” she announced and backed the ROV off.
The new path brought Huey in at a forty-five-degree angle, so that its length lay across the corners of the hatch, not its edges. She came up to the opening, paused, then scanned the camera in all directions before moving forward. After a few yards, she paused and looked again. It took two more pauses before Davis was satisfied with the Huey’s position in the hatchway.
She gently lowered the ROV, angling the thruster to move it vertically. While everyone was curious about the cargo, Emily kept the cameras pointed at the edge of the hatch so she could gauge Huey’s movements.
She let Huey settle until the ROV was well clear of the hatchway, at least four feet overhead. The camera’s view was being obscured by silt, but not too badly. “I’m killing the motors,” she suddenly announced. “There won’t be a current here.” Hopefully the neutrally buoyant ROV would hover, motionless, as the sediment settled.
When she pointed the camera down, the image was reasonably clear. They could see the cargo hold, perhaps thirty or forty feet long, running across the width of the barge. It was filled by rectangular boxes, about half the length of the ROV. They had obviously been stacked in two layers in the hold, but had been jostled around somewhat by the sinking.
Risking a short puff of the thruster, Davis pivoted Huey in place, but the rest of the hold simply held more boxes.
“I’m going to approach one,” she announced and lightly touched the controls. The ROV drifted forward, and within a few moments, she was just two yards away from the stacked objects.
“That is not a waste container,” Patterson repeated. “Look at it. It’s a case or a crate. See the latches and the lid? That isn’t how you seal a container of radioactive waste.”
“Except that it’s radioactive, but not all that much.” Emily added, looking at the meter.
“How about unspent fuel rods?” Hardy suggested.
Patterson shrugged. “That’s a funny way to store them, and it’s a lot of them to store. See if you can find any markings.”
Emily slowly maneuvered Huey in the hold, bringing the camera to bear on the tops and sides of several boxes. While they may have had markings, they had been sloppily but thoroughly sprayed over with black paint. Only a Cyrillic R, in black, was visible on one of the box ends.
Watching the battery level, Davis finally announced. “I’m bringing Huey out. We need to come home.”
“Wait!” ordered Patterson. “Can we take a sample in here?”
“Of what?” asked Hardy.
“At least get a water sample,” Patterson insisted and Emily complied. First, she stirred up the silt with Huey’s thruster, so that some of the sediment would be included in the sample.
Even as the sample was being collected, Davis carefully positioned the ROV, then ascended through the hatch. This time, with experience and the open water ahead of her, she maneuvered it more surely. She still had to be careful of the thin fiber-optic cable, making sure it did not loop around an obstruction or snag on a jagged surface.
“Take another sample here, right next to the hull,” Patterson directed, although as Davis positioned Huey and started the sequence, Jerry thought she looked unsatisfied.
Davis had barely started the ROV toward Memphis when Patterson said, “Captain, I need to open one of those cases. We have to see what’s inside them.”
Astounded, Hardy firmly replied. “Out of the question, Doctor. We’ve talked about this before. I won’t bring anything radioactive that doesn’t fit in the sample tubes aboard Memphis. And just how did you intend to examine it?”
“With the divers. And they wouldn’t have to bring it aboard if they opened it there, in the hold.”
That suggestion froze Jerry’s blood solid. Send them into there, to open one of those cases?
Hardy was gentler with her idea than Jerry would have expected. “Dr. Patterson, you don’t know what you’re asking.”
“It’s shallow enough. And they wouldn’t have to do anything complicated. Just swim in and open a case.”
“Exposing them to whatever’s inside,” Hardy added. “What if it’s toxic or highly radioactive? We don’t know what those cases are made of, so we certainly can’t estimate their shielding qualities. You know that even a small amount of material would constitute a dangerous dose to anyone in close proximity. I won’t risk anyone just to satisfy your curiosity.”
“But this is what we’ve been looking for! We can’t go back with the site unidentified.”
“Doctor, even if I were to agree with you, the barge is miles inside Russian waters. I’d have to bring Memphis in close just so that they could make the swim, and I’m not allowed to enter Russian territory. They’d be unhappy enough about ROVs and the samples if they knew.”
“But we’ve hardly seen any Russian ships or planes. Can’t you just look at the chart?” she wheedled. “If we can get close enough, it’s just a short swim…”
Hardy’s voice showed more irritation. “I will not look at the chart because to do so might imply that there was a chance we’d actually do this. My orders are absolute, and I will remind you that you helped write those orders, and they are orders not just from the Chief of Naval Operations but the President himself.”
Dr. Patterson looked at Davis, as if for support, but Emily’s expression was carefully neutral. The silence in the torpedo room stretched on until, with nothing to say and thunderclouds on her brow, Patterson quickly walked out, almost running, to escape her frustration.
Hardy looked more than concerned, and Jerry wondered how this would read in her mission report — and Hardy’s. Finally the Captain’s features softened. He ordered, “Inform control as soon as you’ve recovered both the vehicles” and then he left.
18. IN EARNEST
June 11, 2005
Techeniye Guba, Novaya Zemlya
Late that afternoon, Jerry programmed the Manta for the fourth and last sortie. He still wondered about the barge they’d found earlier, but he wasn’t curious enough to go back and take a closer look.
He’d done enough diving to know that going inside a wreck was always hazardous. He’d never done it himself, but had heard plenty of horror stories about wreck divers who had come to grief. It was interesting, and exciting, and he’d try it someday, but not on an unknown vessel in foreign territory. Add the likely risk of radiation poisoning and it became a Very Bad Idea.
As they took stations for launch, Jerry didn’t know what to hope for. If they found nothing, Patterson would become even more frustrated. But he couldn’t feel sorry for someone who was hoping for bad news — especially someone who needed it for political gain. And the practical part of him, a very large part of him, actually, reminded himself that hoping wouldn’t change what was actually there.
Still, as the Manta ran its pattern, he found himself watching the screen as closely as he could. Nothing turned up for over two hours. When they finally detected something, though, it wasn’t the Manta.
“All stations, control, we have a Bear Foxtrot close aboard,” said the control room phone talker with urgency. With Memphis in shallow water, an ASW plane in the neighborhood could become a nightmare.
“Rig ship for ultra-quiet,” announced the IMC. Jerry could hear the ventilation fans being secured as Memphis stove to reduce her acoustic signature.
Hardy’s voice soon came on the sound-powered phone circuit. “Mr. Mitchell, I’m moving Memphis to deeper water immediately. How quickly can you follow with the Manta?” Even as Hardy asked the question, Jerry felt the sub begin a gentle turn to port.
Jerry still had over half the battery on the Manta. “I’ve got about four hours at ten knots. That’s my best quiet speed,” he added, anticipating Hardy’s next question.
“Then do it, mister. My speed will be five knots, course zero seven five.”
“Course zero seven five, U-bay aye.” Jerry killed the search program and sent a command to the Manta to head east. He also sent it as deep as the bottom allowed. Like Hardy with a smaller version of Memphis, he felt exposed and vulnerable in shallow water. At the same time, also like Memphis, he couldn’t use higher speed to escape to deeper water because the wake from the Manta’s passage might be visible on the surface.
“Sonar, U-bay. Where is the Bear now?”
“U-bay, sonar. He’s passing down our starboard side. To the south, passing west to east.”
Hence Hardy’s angling Memphis slightly north. Jerry mimicked the larger sub’s movements and ordered the Manta to the same course. He was more interested in avoiding detection than rejoining Memphis at this point. He had the range and speed to get it home.
The most immediate threat was a MAD detection. The Bear Foxtrot carried a magnetic anomaly detector in a short stinger on its tail. Memphis’ seven thousand tons of steel created a significant bend in the local magnetic field. With her so shallow, if the plane passed within half a mile, it would probably get a MAD hit.
The next biggest threat was sonobuoys. Would the Bear drop a field? Why would it choose this spot to do so? Was it looking for Memphis because someone had detected them? They hadn’t encountered any ASW planes in the nearly two weeks they’d been in the Kara Sea. Was this just a random patroller? Was it on a training flight?
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 de
pth 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.”
