With his tour of Operations Compartment Upper Level complete, Wilson dropped down one level to the officer staterooms. The XO’s door was closed, as were the doors to the three-man staterooms shared by the other twelve officers. Wilson continued to Operations Compartment Third Level, where the cooks were wrapping up breakfast, and after a quick tour through the Torpedo Room in Lower Level, Wilson felt the submarine tilt upward and the vibrations in the deck ease. Lieutenant DeCrispino was slowing and coming shallow to copy the broadcast.
Wilson continued his tour, heading aft toward the Missile Compartment. In Michigan’s previous life, he would have stopped in Missile Control Center, reviewing the status of the ship’s twenty-four nuclear warhead–tipped missiles. But MCC was now outfitted with the Attack Tomahawk Weapon System, and there would be no missile launches while under the ice. Wilson bypassed MCC and entered the Missile Compartment on the port side, by Missile Tube Two.
Tubes One and Two had been converted into access hatches to the Dry Deck Shelters attached to Michigan’s Missile Deck. In the other twenty-two tubes, Tomahawk seven-pack launchers had been installed, arming Michigan with 154 Tomahawk missiles. However, each of the Dry Deck Shelters covered two of the Tomahawk tubes, reducing Michigan’s available arsenal to eighteen tubes. The Tomahawk launchers took up only the top one-third of each tube, and the remaining space had been configured for various uses. Two of the missile tubes had been converted into magazines, which stored over sixty tons of ordnance—every type of weapon and explosive a SEAL team could require.
In the level beneath Wilson, the bulk of the crew slept in nine-man bunkrooms between the missile tubes, while the SEALs and Navy divers slept in berthing installed in second level during the submarine’s conversion to SSGN. Wilson headed down the port side of the submarine toward the Engine Room, spotting yellow light leaking from one of the SEAL bunkrooms. He stopped and rapped his knuckles on the side of tube Twelve, then pulled back the dark brown curtain covering the entryway. In the top of three bunks, Lieutenant Jake Harrison laid prone, the light above his bunk illuminating a book in his hands.
Harrison looked over. “Good morning, Captain.”
He swung his feet over the edge of his bunk and dropped onto the deck. The forty-two-year-old prior-enlisted SEAL was an imposing physical specimen; six feet, two hundred pounds, with deep blue eyes set within a chiseled face. Over the last few days, Wilson had met with Harrison and Commander John McNeil, who was in charge of Michigan’s SEAL detachment. They had discussed the capabilities of McNeil’s SEALs and Navy divers and how to rescue North Dakota’s crew, or at least transfer emergency supplies aboard, should the rescue from topside fail.
“Morning, Lieutenant,” Wilson replied. “You’re up early.”
“I just finished working out,” he replied, “then I decided to read a while before the day got started.”
Wilson was about to head aft when he spotted the photos taped to the top of Harrison’s rack; pictures of his wife and daughter, plus one of another woman. She had one arm in a sling and a crutch under the other.
“Is that Christine O’Connor?” Wilson asked.
Harrison followed Wilson’s gaze. “Yes, sir. That’s when we were in Guam, waiting for Michigan to pull in.”
Christine had accompanied the SEAL team into Beijing, and she and Harrison were the only two who survived, neither without injury. Wilson’s eyes went to Harrison’s shoulder. “How’s the arm?”
“Good as new.”
There was an awkward silence as Wilson debated whether to ask Harrison about his relationship with O’Connor. Having a photo of another woman taped to your rack, beside your wife’s, was unusual. Finally, he decided to ask.
“Rumor has it you and Christine were engaged.”
“We were,” Harrison replied. “But that was twenty-four years ago, and we’ve gone our separate ways. She’s a good friend now. Nothing more.”
There was another awkward silence, interrupted by the Messenger of the Watch, who pulled to a halt behind Wilson, almost passing by the Captain in his haste. He handed Wilson the message board. “New orders, sir.”
Wilson flipped through the OPORD, reading the pertinent details. They had located North Dakota, and Michigan had been directed to rendezvous at prescribed coordinates.
As he handed the board back to the Messenger, Michigan tilted downward and Wilson felt the vibration in the deck return. Lieutenant DeCrispino had ordered the submarine deep again, and back to ahead flank.
42
K-329 SEVERODVINSK
With his nuclear attack submarine at periscope depth just outside the Marginal Ice Zone, Captain Second Rank Josef Buffanov sat at his desk in his stateroom, reviewing the weekly reports. Since receipt of the Commanding Officer Only message three days ago, he had reflected on the mission he had been assigned. It was only a precautionary measure, he told himself, and hopefully the plan would not be executed. If the order was received, however, Severodvinsk was well armed for the task.
There was a knock on his stateroom door, and after Buffanov acknowledged, the door opened to reveal the Communication Post Messenger.
“Captain,” the young senior seaman began, “we have received another Commanding Officer Only message.”
Buffanov arrived in the Communication Post a moment later, stopping by the printers as the radioman looked up. Buffanov announced, “Ready,” and a single sheet of paper emerged. As he read it, his fear was confirmed. Severodvinsk was being called into service.
He left Communications and entered the Command Post at the same time his First Officer, Captain Third Rank Anton Novikoff, arrived. Novikoff had obviously been informed of the second Commanding Officer Only message. There were few things Buffanov kept from his First Officer. Buffanov eyed Novikoff as the younger man waited by the navigation table. At the proper time, he would seek his counsel. Until then, he would not reveal their mission.
Buffanov ripped off the bottom of the message and handed it to Novikoff. “Have the Navigating Officer plot a course to this position.”
Novikoff read the coordinates, no doubt realizing they were headed deep under the polar ice cap. He looked up at Buffanov, waiting for him to explain why. Buffanov did not amplify.
“Yes, Captain. I will have the Navigating Officer plot our new course. When will we head under the ice?”
Buffanov considered his First Officer’s question. The timeline for Severodvinsk was fluid and uncertain. However, the sooner they arrived, the better.
“Come down from periscope depth and station the Ice Detail. Inform me when we are ready to enter the Marginal Ice Zone.”
43
K-157 VEPR
Captain Second Rank Matvey Baczewski sat in the Captain’s chair in the Officers’ Mess, with a half-dozen of his senior officers flanking each side of the table. Vepr’s Weapons Officer was at the front of the Mess, standing beside a flat panel monitor, reviewing the features of their 533-millimeter torpedoes and the optimum settings. Shooting torpedoes under the ice was challenging, and over the shallow Barents Shelf, even more so. The torpedo would receive many false returns. The surface reflections from the ice canopy would be strong, and there would also be bottom bounces. If the settings were improper, their torpedoes could follow the reflections and smash into the surface ice or ocean bottom.
Complicating matters were the random ice keels. Even if the settings were optimal, their torpedoes might interpret an ice keel as a valid target. Of course, they could instruct their torpedoes to ignore immobile objects, but then they would also ignore a submarine playing possum against the ice.
The communication panel on the bulkhead buzzed, and a glance at the red light told Baczewski it was from the Communication Post. Vepr was at periscope depth just outside the Marginal Ice Zone, monitoring communications as directed. An important message must have been received for officer training to be interrupted.
Baczewski picked up the handset. Another Commanding Officer Only message had been received; on
e he had been waiting for.
A moment later, Baczewski was in the Communication Post, standing by one of the printers. “Ready,” he said, and the message slid out. As he read it, he realized the basic plan hadn’t changed. Their target, however, was a surprise. And she was heavily armed. Baczewski thought for a moment on the potential reasons they would engage this target, then decided it didn’t matter. He had accepted the mission from Fleet Admiral Ivanov, and Vepr would not fail.
Baczewski pulled a blank sheet of paper from the printer and wrote down the coordinates, then headed into the Command Post.
“Station the Ice Detail,” he said to his Watch Officer as he handed him the sheet of paper. “Plot a course to this position.”
44
PECHENGA, RUSSIA
In the northwest corner of the Kola Peninsula, not far from the coast and only ten kilometers from the Norwegian border, Captain First Rank Josef Klokov took a break from reviewing paperwork, gazing out his window at the sprawling military base. For the sake of external appearances, Klokov’s unit was a component of the 200th Independent Motor Rifle Brigade, and his men wore the same uniform with no special designation. However, they were no ordinary soldiers. His unit was one of two highly trained Polar Spetsnaz brigades.
Klokov’s Executive Officer, Captain Second Rank Gleb Leonov, entered Klokov’s office with a message folder in hand. Klokov accepted the folder and read the directive. His unit was being deployed. The Russian ice camp setup had commenced and suitable habitats were being constructed for his men.
“Your orders, Captain?” Leonov asked.
The message was deliberately vague, but Admiral Ivanov had explained the details during his visit. If the Americans won the race to rescue the two submarine crews, Klokov’s unit would be employed to … rectify the situation.
The American ice camp would likely not be armed, aside from the polar bear watches. A single Spetsnaz platoon of twenty-four men would be sufficient for the task. However, they would also need to board the American submarine, so he decided two platoons would be required. As far as timing went, the Russian ice camp accommodations would be ready by nightfall.
“Prepare two platoons,” Klokov said. “We deploy tonight at dusk.”
45
ICE STATION NAUTILUS
“North Dakota is directly beneath us.”
Standing atop the ice floe with Paul Leone, Vance Verbeck acknowledged the report from his ice pilot. Earlier this morning, after detecting the sonar pulse from the American submarine, personnel had flown north to determine a more accurate position, drilling holes in the ice every five hundred yards, dropping hydrophones to listen for North Dakota’s sonar pulse. After cutting three holes, they triangulated the submarine’s position, and Verbeck was now standing directly over the disabled submarine.
He had already confirmed the ice flow was ten-feet-thick multiyear ice, capable of supporting an ice camp and even more important, the three-hundred-ton Submarine Rescue Diving and Recompression System. To differentiate between the two camps during the transition, Verbeck had decided to give the new ice camp a different name. He was partial to the name Nautilus, America’s first nuclear-powered submarine, and seeing how the new installation would be much larger than a typical camp, with over one hundred additional submarine rescue personnel, Verbeck decided to name the new location Ice Station Nautilus.
Verbeck shielded his eyes from the mid-afternoon sun as he examined the activity on the ice floe. Their bulldozer had been airlifted to the new camp and was busy plowing a landing strip, and a dozen helicopters hovered nearby, all but one carrying a plywood hut strapped in slings, with the last helicopter carrying a payload of electronic equipment they would need right away.
“Put the command hut there,” Verbeck said, pointing to the nearest ice hole they had drilled, a few hundred feet to the west. The command hut needed access through the ice to lower the RATS hydrophone, plus the ice above North Dakota had to be left free for the submarine rescue equipment.
Leone relayed the order over his radio, and the command hut descended from the sky. A layer of light snow billowed toward them, driven by the helicopter’s rotor wash. After lining up the command hut floor with the ice hole, the hut landed and men scrambled atop the plywood building and disconnected one end of each sling. After extracting the slings from under the hut, the helicopter tilted and headed south for another round of ferrying equipment from the old camp, as did the other helicopters after they deposited their berthing huts.
Verbeck inspected the outside of the command hut, then stepped inside. He nodded with satisfaction. His assessment that the huts would survive the short trip in good weather had not been wrong. The smaller berthing huts would be no problem, although the galley and generator tents would have to be dissembled and reassembled, but that was not a difficult task. The rest of the equipment and supplies would be brought north once the landing strip for the C-130s was ready.
For now, Verbeck focused on establishing communications with North Dakota. If time was running out, he needed to know what that timeline was. He stepped outside the command hut to check on the electronic equipment. It was carried by the last helicopter, and Leone directed it to land nearby. The RATS gear was the first equipment to arrive at the hut, and the hydrophone was lowered through the ice hole and the equipment connected to a portable generator outside.
As Scott Walworth energized the RATS, the rhythmic beat of helicopter rotors greeted Verbeck’s ears. Their helicopters could not have returned with another load so soon. Verbeck opened the command hut door and peered outside. The sky was filled with a hoard of helicopters headed toward them from the southwest, carrying loads suspended from slings. The rotor tempo was deeper than the helicopters the United States used, and as they grew larger in the sky, Verbeck realized they were Russian MI-26 helicopters, the most powerful cargo helicopters in existence.
The swarm of helicopters skirted Ice Station Nautilus, then continued northeast a half-mile before they slowed to a hover and deposited their loads onto an adjacent ice floe. The Russians had apparently decided to help, or perhaps someone in the administration had requested their assistance. Still, it was unusual for another country to appear on scene without prior coordination. Once he sorted out the details with North Dakota, he would include the information about the new Russian ice camp in his next report to COMSUBFOR.
“I’m ready,” Walworth yelled from inside the command hut.
Verbeck stepped inside and gave the go-ahead, and Walworth spoke into the microphone. A hundred feet below the ice, his voice was transmitted by the RATS hydrophone.
“USS North Dakota, this is Ice Station Nautilus. Do you read me?”
46
USS NORTH DAKOTA
Sonar Technician Second Class Reggie Thurlow propped his elbows on his console as he pressed the headphones against his ears. North Dakota had resumed its underway watch rotation, and normalcy had returned to the submarine. The lights were on and all tactical systems had been restored. Temperature had returned to normal, and he had shed the SEIE suit and green foul-weather jacket; he was back to wearing just the standard blue coveralls. There was no indication that less than a day ago North Dakota had almost become a dark, icy tomb.
North Dakota had just transmitted another sonar pulse, and Thurlow listened intently for a sign someone had heard them. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was listening for, though. But at least it was quiet under the ice cap, devoid of shipping noise and the chatter of biologics—the especially noisy shrimp were absent.
Although it was quiet under the ice cap, there were all sorts of weird noises, and more than one sonar tech had reported a contact with diesel lines. Further analysis determined the sound was low-frequency tonals produced by the edges of the ice floes as they ground against each other. Thurlow was nearing the end of his watch, and his mind was playing tricks on him. A few minutes ago, he thought he heard the faint beat of helicopter rotors, but then it disappeared. The next sound Thurlow heard
, however, left no doubt—it wasn’t his imagination. It was a man’s voice, clear as day.
USS North Dakota, this is Ice Station Nautilus. Do you read me?
“Officer of the Deck!” Thurlow shouted, bypassing the Sonar Supervisor in his excitement. “I’ve got something!”
Lieutenant Molitor, seated at the command workstation, turned toward Thurlow as the Sonarman put the audio on speaker.
USS North Dakota, this is Ice Station Nautilus. Do you read me?
“Energize the WQC,” Molitor ordered as he grabbed the 1-MC microphone at his workstation. “Captain to Control.”
Tolbert arrived as another transmission emanated from the speakers.
USS North Dakota, this is Ice Station Nautilus. Do you read me?
He stopped by the forward port console, and a quick glance told him the WQC was lined up to transmit. He pulled the microphone from the holder and replied, trying to conceal his excitement.
“Ice Station Nautilus, this is North Dakota. Read you loud and clear, over.”
“North Dakota, we are establishing an ice camp above you. What is your condition?”
Tolbert spent the next few minutes explaining North Dakota’s status. As their conversation wound down, Tolbert informed the ice station that the Russian submarine had sunk after the collision, and North Dakota’s crew had determined through Morse code communications that Dolgoruky’s crew had less than thirty-six hours of viable air remaining.
A rescue would indeed be required, but not for North Dakota.
47
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Christine O’Connor was seated in the Oval Office across from the president, along with Chief of Staff Kevin Hardison and Captain Brackman. The president was on the phone with SecDef Don Richardson, and Christine watched several emotions play across the president’s face. It was clear from the one-sided conversation that they had located USS North Dakota and the crew was okay. However, Christine was unable to discern the reason for the president’s surprised, then concerned, expression toward the end of the call.
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