Ice Station Nautilus

by Rick Campbell

  Moran passed the order to Brandon, who donned a pair of plastic goggles. He was entering the Battery Well with 126 lead-acid cells filled with sulfuric acid, potent enough to eat through flesh. Skin would heal, but eyes were a different matter. Brandon pulled the hatch open, then lowered himself into the cramped compartment, his feet hitting wooden support plates on top of the cells three feet down.

  Brandon grabbed his tool bag, several cables, and a flashlight, then crouched down and crawled through the dark well toward cell eighty-nine. Upon reaching it, he retrieved a pair of insulated pliers from his tool bag and loosened the nuts attaching the cables on both sides of the cell. He had to be careful, jumpering out the cell in the correct sequence so as not to open circuit the battery in the process, which would interrupt power to every piece of equipment, spelling disaster for the reactor start-up.

  It took only a few minutes to jumper out the cell, then Brandon moved to the next one.

  * * *

  “Maneuvering, Forward Compartment Lower Level. All seven cells have been jumpered and Petty Officer Brandon has exited the Battery Well.”

  Tolbert’s eyes went to the battery voltage and current meters. Three of the other six cells had reversed while Brandon was in the Battery Well, with the remaining three on the verge. They had gained valuable time for the Engine Room start-up.

  The reactor plant heat-up was continuing, with the rate pegged at the maximum permissible. At the current heat-up rate, it would take another two hours before they could commence Engine Room start-up.

  * * *

  It was only an hour later when the Electrical Operator reported, “Engineering Officer of the Watch, multiple battery cell reversals.”

  Tolbert checked the Electric Plant Control Panel again; he had never seen battery voltage so low. They were running out of time. He glanced at reactor temperature on the Propulsion Plant Control Plant. They were still a ways from normal operating temperature, but at three hundred degrees, it was hot enough to generate steam. It was against procedure, but he had no choice.

  “Engineer, open the port Main Steam Stop and start up the port side of the Engine Room.”

  They would bring steam into the Engine Room, but start up only one side to minimize the drain on the battery as additional Engine Room systems were brought on-line.

  Lieutenant Commander Swenson gave the order to the Engineering Officer of the Watch, and orders went out to the Engine Room watchstanders, who raced to bring the systems on-line. Tolbert concentrated on battery voltage while he waited. The battery was almost depleted, and voltage began dropping like a rock when the report came over the Maneuvering Room speakers.

  “Maneuvering, Engine Room Upper Level. The port turbine generator is ready for electrical loading.”

  Thompson didn’t wait for the order. The Electrical Operator shut the port turbine generator breaker and unloaded the port converter, which had been pulling energy from the battery to supply the Vital bus. A few more clicks and the turbine generator was supplying both sides of the electric plant.

  Tolbert turned to Swenson. “Bring up the starboard side of the Engine Room, then commence an equalizer battery charge.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Tolbert looked around the brightly lit and crowded Control Room. The Engine Room had been fully restored aside from the main engines, and the electric plant was in a Normal Full Power Line-Up with both turbine generators operating. Their repaired condensate pump was chugging along, giving no indication it was worse for the wear, but Tolbert had no idea how long it would hold out. They had commenced an equalizer battery charge—a heavy-duty version done after a deep discharge—and the atmosphere control equipment was running, making oxygen and purifying the air.

  The rest of the submarine systems were slowly returning to life, but the Control Room was still dead. The watchstanders had wiped down the equipment as the sheen of ice melted, preventing moisture from seeping inside. However, moisture had frozen on the inside of the consoles as well, and the tactical systems could not be brought up until they were confident nothing would short out.

  The electrical cabinets and consoles in the Control Room had been opened, and the sonar techs were using heat guns to dry out the internals of the sonar consoles and computer servers. Tolbert had focused on Sonar first, expediting its recovery. Although North Dakota’s crew was no longer in extremis, the last thing they had heard on sonar was Yury Dolgoruky plowing into the ocean bottom. Due to sitting on the silted ocean floor, Tolbert doubted their engine room was operational, and if not, Dolgoruky’s crew had no power and was running out of time.

  Tolbert figured the U.S. Navy was looking for North Dakota by now, but they had an almost insurmountable challenge, locating a submarine under the ice. Tolbert planned to help.

  The Sonar Division Chief made another round, inspecting the Sonar equipment, then directed the cabinet and console panels shut. He approached Commander Tolbert.

  “All Sonar gear is dried out,” Chief Bush said. “Request permission to restore Sonar.”

  “Start up Sonar.”

  Chief Bush ordered a cold start-up, and had a sonar tech standing by with a CO2 fire extinguisher in case a short-circuit started an electrical fire. The servers and consoles energized and the sonar screens flickered to life. There was no indication of anything abnormal.

  It took a few minutes for the system to complete its start-up and diagnostics, then Bush called out, “Conn, Sonar. Cold start-up of Sonar is complete. Hold no contacts.”

  Tolbert ordered his Officer of the Deck, “Transmit MFA OMNI, maximum range scale.”

  A moment later, North Dakota sent a powerful sonar ping into the water.

  36

  K-535 YURY DOLGORUKY

  Without the ship’s routine to remind him, Nicholai Stepanov lost all sense of time and day. He continued his rounds through the submarine, doing his best not to stumble. He was numb from the cold, and his movements were uncoordinated. He probably should have told the Medical Officer, but decided it didn’t matter. They had inserted their last cartridge into the air regeneration unit, and it wouldn’t be long before the air could no longer support human life. He figured the toxic air would claim him before the low temperature.

  There was only one emergency lantern on in middle level, and the single source of light drew him toward the air regeneration unit. A dozen men were gathered around, sharing a package of the submarine’s emergency rations. The men opened a spot, and Stepanov joined them. As he settled onto one of the makeshift chairs they had created from toolboxes and other equipment, the man beside him handed him an open package of food.

  Stepanov took a bite of the galeta, a hardtack cracker made from flour and water, a common ration in navies around the world. The Russian version was softer than most, not that he could tell. At minus two degrees Celsius, the crackers were rock hard, and he had to let the wafer warm up in his mouth before it became soft enough to chew. He was about to take another bite when he heard the distinctive sound penetrate the submarine’s hull.

  All eyes turned toward him. He hadn’t imagined it.

  He stood abruptly, the open package of crackers falling to the deck. Someone was out there, looking for Dolgoruky or the American submarine. It might even be the American submarine itself, returning to the location of the collision.

  Stepanov shouted, “Grab tools and bang on the hull and piping!”

  The men scrambled in the darkness, additional lanterns flicking on as the men searched for suitable items. First one, then another man, banged on the hull and piping, the vigorous pounding knocking off chunks of ice that had frozen on the metal surfaces.

  37

  USS NORTH DAKOTA

  “Conn, Sonar. Hold a new broadband contact on the spherical array, designated Sierra one, bearing one-seven-zero.”

  Tolbert listened as Lieutenant Livingston replied, “Sonar, Conn. Aye. Do you have a classification?”

  “Conn, Sonar. No. It doesn’t sound like a ship.”
>
  “What does it sound like?” Tolbert asked.

  Chief Bush directed the Broadband operator, “Put Sierra one on audio.”

  Petty Officer Reggie Thurlow put the contact on the speakers, and Tolbert listened to the unusual cacophony of metallic tings. After a moment, the sound died down.

  “Transmit MFA OMNI,” Tolbert ordered. “Maximum range scale.”

  Bush complied, and a few seconds later, another powerful sonar ping was transmitted.

  The metallic tings commenced again.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Tolbert asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Bush said. “It’s Dolgoruky.”

  A moment later, the metallic tings died down again, and Tolbert ordered, “Send three consecutive pings, one second apart.”

  The three pings were sent, met again by the unusual noise.

  “Line up the WQC for underwater comms,” Tolbert ordered.

  A moment later, Tolbert placed the WQC microphone to his mouth. “Dolgoruky. This is United States submarine. If you can hear me, bang on your hull.”

  There was no response, so Tolbert tried again. Still no response.

  As he slid the microphone into the holder, he said, “They either don’t have access to their underwater comm system or don’t have power. Either way, we need to establish communications with them somehow.”

  “How about Morse code?” Thurlow asked. “We can send long and short pulses.”

  “Don’t tell me you know Morse code,” Tolbert said.

  “Nah,” Thurlow said with a grin. “Only the CO of Dallas in The Hunt for Red October does. I guess he got trained up when they installed the flashing light on his periscope.”

  The sonar technician was referring to the movie version of The Hunt for Red October. Submarine periscopes didn’t have flashing lights, and no one besides a radioman on a ballistic missile submarine would know Morse code.

  Thurlow added, “But I’m sure it’s in Radio’s publications somewhere.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Tolbert said. He turned to Lieutenant Livingston. “Get a few sonar techs schooled up on Morse code and devise a plan to communicate with Dolgoruky. In the meantime, continue pinging at one-minute intervals.”

  Livingston acknowledged, and as he conferred with Chief Bush, Tolbert’s thoughts went to Dolgoruky’s crew, wondering how much time they had left. The Russian crew had heard North Dakota’s pings. The critical question was—had anyone else?

  38

  ICE CAMP NAUTILUS

  Inside the command hut, Alyssa Martin energized the above-ice sonar display after completing its latest move sixteen miles to the north. Shortly after the monitor flickered to life, a small white blip appeared on the screen. She studied the unusual artifact, wondering if a glitch in the system had been created during the array’s move. The white blip faded from the screen, then reappeared again.

  Alyssa turned to Scott Walworth, operating the RATS. “You hear anything unusual? I’m picking up something to the north.”

  Walworth pressed the earphones against his ears.

  A third blip appeared on Alyssa’s screen. “Now,” she said.

  Walworth squinted, as if that would help him hear, then shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Alyssa picked up the handheld radio and summoned Verbeck and Leone, who arrived a moment later. As the two men studied the display, the white blip appeared again.

  “There,” Alyssa said.

  Verbeck turned to Leone, who was a former submarine commanding officer. “What do you think?”

  “What’s the frequency?” Leone asked.

  Alyssa pulled up another display and analyzed the blip, reporting the frequency.

  “That’s her,” Leone replied. “That’s a Mid-Frequency Active transmission.”

  “Locate the source,” Verbeck directed.

  Alyssa selected the farthest row of hydrophones to the north, aligned on an east-west axis, then used the bearings from each hydrophone to determine the blip’s location.

  “Fifty-seven miles away on a bearing of three-five-seven.”

  “Convert that to a LAT and LONG,” Verbeck said, “then get packing.”

  Verbeck checked his watch. It was 8 a.m. It would be tight, but they should be able to break down the camp and get the essential sections up and running at the new location by nightfall. He glanced at Alyssa and Walworth, who were wrapping things up with no sense of urgency.

  “Hop to, fellas. Daylight’s burning.”

  39

  ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

  It was mid-morning in the Russian Navy’s headquarters when Fleet Admiral Ivanov’s phone rang. As he answered, a glance at the number told him it was the Operations Center.

  The Watch Officer introduced himself, then made his report. “The Americans have reported on ISMERLO that they found their submarine. They detected an active sonar transmission this morning.”

  “Where is it located?”

  As Ivanov wrote down the latitude and longitude, the Watch Officer asked, “Do you want to vector one of our submarines to the area?”

  “Have the Americans sent other submarines under the ice?”

  “Yes, Admiral. One of their guided missile submarines is on its way from the Pacific. If their rescue efforts from the ice camp fail, they will assist using their SEALs and Navy divers.”

  Ivanov replied, “Pull all submarines from under the ice.”

  The Watch Officer repeated back Ivanov’s directive. “Do you have any other orders, sir?”

  “Inform Admiral Lipovsky at Northern Fleet to move our rescue equipment onto the ice. Set up camp as close to the Americans as possible.”

  Ivanov hung up the phone, then studied the coordinates. The Americans had found their submarine. It was time to put Chernov’s plan in motion.

  40

  MURMANSK, RUSSIA

  Julius Raila stared through the window of the second-floor office at Murmansk Airport. Near the runway were a dozen Antonov AN-74s, loaded with equipment for Ice Camp Barneo. In addition to the AN-74s, three AN-124s were parked nearby, their ramps lowered to the concrete, waiting to be loaded with equipment stripped from Raila’s deep-sea rescue ship Mikhail Rudnitsky. The heavy AS-34 Priz submersible and its handling gear required the larger AN-124s.

  Once a landing strip was prepared, the AN-74s would land on the polar ice cap and off-load the men, equipment, and supplies for Camp Barneo. Since the AN-124s were too heavy to land on the ice, Raila’s equipment would be flown to the nearest airport, then ferried to the camp using Russia’s MI-26 heavy-lift helicopters, which could lift twenty metric tons at a time.

  The Priz class submersible was still loaded on a flatbed truck, undergoing last-minute maintenance. Personnel were checking the status of the submersible’s new batteries, developed after the disastrous Kursk sinking. The two Priz submersibles employed in the Kursk rescue attempts had barely enough power to complete a round trip to the disabled submarine, leaving insufficient time to overcome the challenges of docking with a submarine resting on the ocean bottom with a heavy list and down angle. If they’d had more time that first day, before the heavy storm moved in, they might have successfully mated with the stricken submarine and saved the twenty-three men in Compartment Nine.

  Raila’s cell phone vibrated. He answered and received the news he’d been awaiting. They had located the American submarine. Camp Barneo would be established one kilometer away from the new American base camp, and the AN-74s would be taking off within the hour, followed by the AN-124s once Raila’s equipment was loaded. The AN-124s would land at Svalbard Airport in Norway, where his equipment would be ferried to the camp.

  He hung up the phone, and as he surveyed his men completing final maintenance checks on AS-34, he realized they were fortunate to have developed new batteries. Unlike the American deep-submergence rescue vehicle, Russia’s Priz class submersibles had a range of thirty-eight kilometers. They didn’t need to establish an ice camp directly over the disabled sub
marine. Anywhere close would suffice.

  41

  USS MICHIGAN

  Depth: 600 feet.

  Speed: Ahead Flank.

  Captain Murray Wilson leaned over the navigation plot in Control, examining their transit across the Arctic Ocean. In the deep-water basins, Michigan could proceed at maximum speed without fear of hitting the ocean bottom or ice keels descending from above.

  In front of Wilson stood Petty Officer Second Class Pat Leenstra, on watch as Quartermaster. The electronics technician was analyzing the ship’s two inertial navigators for error. Once Michigan passed eighty-four degrees north latitude, both had been shifted to Polar Mode to compensate for the reduced effect of the Earth’s rotation. Traveling across the top of the world was always touchy when relying on inertial navigators. For example, when at the North Pole, no matter which direction you turned, you were headed south.

  “How are we doing, Leenstra?”

  “Good, sir. Both inertial navigators are tracking together.”

  Wilson nodded at the good news, then glanced around the quiet Control Room. It was 6 a.m. and watch turnover was in progress. The enlisted watchstanders had already relieved, and the oncoming Officer of the Deck was reviewing the ship’s status with the off-going OOD. Per custom, the on-coming officer was the last member of his watch section to relieve, the turnover occurring as close to the hour as possible.

  The two men completed their turnover and Lieutenant DeCrispino announced that he had the Deck and the Conn. As Petty Officer Leenstra entered the event into the ship’s log, Wilson began his tour through the submarine, swinging first through Radio and Sonar.

  The tour through Radio was uneventful, aside from the Radioman of the Watch noting they were approaching the end of their broadcast window. Wilson had accounted for that in his Night Orders, which laid out the schedule for the next day. Lieutenant DeCrispino would slow and come shallow, allowing their floating wire antenna to rise close enough to the ice to receive VLF transmissions. A quick stop in Sonar confirmed what Wilson already knew. They held no contacts, and hadn’t since they’d entered the Bering Strait.