Ice Station Nautilus

by Rick Campbell

  As she looked at his hand, she remembered the first time she met him; there had been a faint tan line on his left ring finger. Brackman had been a recent widow, his wife and daughter killed in an accident a few weeks before arriving at the White House. Brackman had never talked about it, and up to now, she had never asked.

  Christine peered around the corner, into the cockpit. Berman was chatting with the pilot, and she could see a GPS display in the console. They still had a ways to go; plenty of time to kill. She decided to broach the subject.

  “What happened to your wife and daughter?”

  Brackman’s head snapped toward her and she felt his body tense as he pulled away his hand.

  “You don’t have to talk about it,” Christine added quickly. “I was just wondering.”

  Brackman stared at her for a long moment, then leaned back against the bulkhead, but the tension in his body didn’t ease. He answered, “They were killed in a car accident. They got rear-ended at a traffic light and their car burst into flames. They were trapped inside.”

  It was Brackman’s turn to look away, staring out one of the windows on his side. Christine reached over and squeezed his hand. He gave no indication he noticed. They completed the rest of the flight in silence.

  * * *

  Her stomach dropping signaled the aircraft’s descent, and Christine peered out the window as the plane turned in preparation for landing. She spotted the ice camp in the distance, a hodgepodge of buildings and tents, with a depot of supplies to one side.

  They landed with a gentle bump and the aircraft coasted to a halt. The aircraft ramp lowered and Stu Berman and the pilot emerged from the cockpit. After collecting her duffle bag, Christine stepped onto the hard-packed snow and shielded her eyes from the bright sunlight reflecting off the white surface.

  A man approached and said, “Good morning, Ms. O’Connor. I’m Vance Verbeck, technical director of the Arctic Submarine Lab. Welcome to Ice Station Nautilus.”

  50

  ICE STATION NAUTILUS

  “I take it your trip was uneventful?” Verbeck asked as he escorted Christine, Brackman, and Berman from the airstrip toward the cloister of buildings.

  Christine answered, “No issues.”

  As they approached the camp, she noticed the clear blue sky and calm air; not what she had imagined atop the polar ice cap. “Do you get many storms?” she asked.

  “Very few,” Verbeck said. “The Arctic is actually classified a desert. The air is so cold that it doesn’t hold much water vapor, so it rarely snows. Clear days like this are the norm.” Verbeck continued, explaining the layout of the camp when they reached the outer buildings. “The camp contains three dozen berthing hooches, a command hut, galley, and generator tent. Plus there’s the rescue equipment that arrived last night. I’ll take you to your berthing hooch first, where you can drop off your stuff. You’ll be staying in Tahiti.”

  “Tahiti?”

  “Each ice camp has a theme for berthing hooch names,” Verbeck explained. “Submarines, naval battles, famous hotels. You could have been in the Ritz, but the theme for this camp is tropical islands. Your hooch is over there.”

  Verbeck pointed toward a plywood hut with TAHITI stenciled on the side in black spray paint. “It’s the most luxurious accommodation this side of eighty-north.” Verbeck grinned as he stopped by the hut and opened the door.

  The inside was no more elegant than the outside. The windowless box included six bunks built from two-by-fours and plywood. The only items not made of wood were the mattresses and bedding, two white plastic chairs and a small table, and a circular metal heater with a hose running through the wall to a fuel tank outside, plus a couple of metal hooks on the wall to hang their gear. Verbeck pointed to one of the bunks, which was neatly made up with the linen tucked in. “That’s yours.”

  Christine placed her duffel bag on the bed and Verbeck led them to the hooch Brackman and Berman were assigned to, letting them drop off their gear as well, then continued the tour. Next up was the command hut.

  It was the largest hut in the camp, the size of two berthing hooches mashed together. An assortment of antennas were mounted to the roof, so it was easy to spot from anywhere in the camp. Inside, two senior naval officers were reviewing a timeline posted on the wall. The older man was Vice Admiral Eric Dahlenburg, Fleet Forces Deputy Commander for Fleet and Joint Operations, and the other was Captain Mike Naughton, Commodore of Submarine Squadron ELEVEN.

  Admiral Dahlenburg extended his hand to Christine. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Christine shook hands as she gave the Admiral an inquisitive look. “How’s that?”

  “Actually, I read about you. Captain Brackman provided your bio. Very impressive, especially your handiness with a pistol.”

  Christine cast a steely glance at Brackman, who seemed not to notice.

  She turned back to the Admiral. “My ex-husband taught me how to shoot.”

  “He did a good job.”

  Christine didn’t reply, so Dahlenburg continued. “Has Vance explained the command structure here?”

  “Not yet, Admiral.”

  “As far as the ice camp goes, Vance Verbeck is the Officer-in-Charge, and he’s responsible for day-to-day operations. For submarine rescue operations, there are three echelons of command. I’m the On-Scene Commander, Captain Naughton here is Coordinator, Rescue Forces, and Commander Ned Steel, who is out earning his paycheck, is the Rescue Element Commander.

  “In plain English,” Dahlenburg added, “Commander Steel is supervising the assembly of the submarine rescue equipment, Naughton is here to supervise Steel, and I’m doing a fine job supervising Naughton. Standard military operation.” The Admiral grinned, then added, “Our command structure is designed for an at-sea rescue, where several Navy and civilian ships and even other nations could be involved. It’s redundant on the polar ice cap, but we’ve had a number of challenges to work through, and as they say, three heads are better than one.”

  “I understand,” Christine said. “Speaking of challenges, where do we stand on the rescue attempt?”

  The Admiral deferred to Captain Naughton, who answered, “The submarine rescue system is being assembled, and we expect everything will be ready by nightfall. The biggest challenge is cutting an access hole large enough for the rescue vehicle. The Pressurized Rescue Module is twenty-five feet long, so we plan to create a thirty-foot-diameter hole. That’s an enormous amount of very hard ice to dig through. We’re taking an innovative approach, though, and the equipment will arrive this afternoon. Once we’re through the ice, we’ll commence rescue operations.”

  “How are we doing on time?” Christine asked.

  “We have until morning,” Dahlenburg replied. “At least for the men in Dolgoruky’s bow compartment. The men trapped aft have more air regeneration canisters and the air should last another day or two.”

  “Have you been briefed on the plan after we rescue Dolgoruky’s crew?” Christine asked.

  “I have,” the Admiral said. “Assuming we complete rescue efforts before the Russian submersible is in operation, we’ll send you, Captain Brackman, and the ONI team down for a look around, assuming the atmosphere in the submarine is suitable.” Dahlenburg added, “Do you mind if I join you? It’s hard to pass up an opportunity to explore Russia’s newest ballistic missile submarine.”

  “Not at all,” Christine said.

  Captain Naughton joined in. “We’re pretty much in a holding pattern while the Submarine Rescue System is being assembled. I’ll have Commander Steel walk you through the equipment this afternoon if he has a free moment.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Christine replied.

  “In the meantime,” Verbeck said, “we’re in communication with North Dakota via our RATS underwater communication system, and they’ve been relaying information about Dolgoruky. They’re communicating via Morse code, with North Dakota sending out sonar pulses and Dolgoruky’s crew ban
ging on metal surfaces.”

  Stu Berman, who’d been eyeing the communication and above-ice sonar equipment, asked, “Do you mind if I chat with the operators?”

  “I’m sure they’d enjoy your company,” Verbeck replied. He turned to Christine. “Ready to continue the tour?”

  “If it’s okay with you, ma’am,” Brackman said, “I’d like to talk with Admiral Dahlenburg and Captain Naughton for a while.”

  “That’s fine, Captain.”

  Verbeck led Christine from the command hut and continued the camp tour, pointing out the diesel generator hut before heading toward a large tent.

  “Most important,” Verbeck said, “is the galley. While we’re there, I’ll introduce you to one of your roommates, Sally Firebaugh.” He had a slight smirk as he added, “Don’t be concerned. Her bark is worse than her bite.”

  They entered the galley, which was a double-insulated tent in the shape of a half moon, attached to a plywood hut in the back. There were a dozen white plastic tables in the tent, surrounded by matching plastic chairs. Verbeck headed to the back of the tent, approaching one of the cooks behind a counter in the plywood hut, a woman in her fifties preparing lunch.

  “Good morning, Sally,” Verbeck said.

  Sally looked up and when she spotted Verbeck, a scowl formed on her face. “What’s so good about it?”

  “I’d like you to meet your roommate, Christine O’Connor, the president’s national security advisor.”

  Sally turned to Christine and a smile replaced her scowl. “A pleasure to meet you.” To Verbeck, she said, “Can she cook?”

  Verbeck sighed. “Not again, Sally.”

  Sally gestured to the other cooks in the galley as she turned back to Christine. “We’re busier than one-legged men in an ass-kicking contest. There’s twice as many people here compared to a normal ice camp, but the same number of cooks. You’d think whoever was in charge of this operation could’ve done the math.” She glared at Verbeck.

  “We couldn’t find any cooks willing to freeze their butt off on such short notice,” Verbeck replied. “Besides, no one boils water like you do.”

  Sally smiled and placed her hand over her chest, “Aww, that just melts my heart.” She grabbed an ice pick on the counter, then thrust it toward Verbeck. “Speaking of water, why don’t you make yourself useful and dig up some?”

  Verbeck reached for the ice pick. “Not a bad idea,” he said as he put the ice pick in his pocket. He turned to Christine. “Want to dig up some water?”

  Christine wasn’t sure what that entailed, but it sounded interesting. “I’m game.”

  She followed Verbeck out of the galley and around back, where he climbed onto a snowmobile with a black bin attached behind it. “Hop on.”

  Christine slid behind him and Verbeck hit the accelerator. They headed out of camp, past one of the polar bear watches, a man with binoculars hanging from his neck and a 12-gauge shotgun cradled in one arm. Verbeck explained there were polar bear watches stationed on each side of the camp to protect everyone from the curious and sometimes hungry denizens of the Arctic.

  The snowmobile stopped a hundred feet away from the ice camp, well within sight of the polar bear watch, near a patch of ice where the snow had been cleared and a small pit dug. Lying beside the pit was a pick ax. Verbeck hopped off the snowmobile and grabbed the ax, using the blade to crease an outline in the ice that matched the size of the black bin. He started hacking at the ice, explaining things between each whack.

  “We don’t ship water to the camp. We melt ice cut from the ice cap. Which might sound strange,” he said, “since polar ice is frozen seawater.” Verbeck explained how the brine migrated downward over time, resulting in the surface of multiyear ice being drinkable.

  After a few minutes, Verbeck paused, stretching out his back. “Do you want to take a turn? It’s sort of a rite of passage around here.”

  “Sure,” Christine said.

  He handed her the pick ax and she began chopping where he left off, and it wasn’t long before a block of ice broke off. Verbeck picked it up and placed it in the bin. It didn’t quite fit, and he used the ice pick Sally gave him to chip away at the edges until the block fell into the bin. He put the ice pick into his pocket and they headed back to camp.

  Verbeck parked the snowmobile behind the galley, then opened a door at the back of the hut and yelled inside. “I’ve got your water. Come and get it!”

  As he closed the door, his radio squawked, and he pulled it from his parka.

  “Verbeck,” he answered.

  “We need you at the command hut,” a voice said. “There’s a third submarine beneath us.”

  51

  USS MICHIGAN

  “North Dakota, this is Michigan. Do you copy? Over.”

  Standing in the Control Room, Captain Wilson released the microphone switch and listened for a response over the submarine’s underwater telephone. Technically, he was supposed to use call signs for both submarines, which changed periodically and disguised which submarines were communicating in case a foreign ship was eavesdropping. However, the entire ISMERLO community knew Michigan had been sent under the ice to assist North Dakota. He figured he wasn’t giving anything away.

  Hours earlier, Wilson had slowed from ahead flank as they approached the Barents Shelf, where the bottom rose rapidly from a depth of fourteen thousand feet to less than seven hundred. Michigan was now at all stop, hovering at three hundred feet a thousand yards away from North Dakota, well within range of the WQC in the quiet waters beneath the polar ice cap. This was Wilson’s second transmission over the WQC, and this time there was a response.

  “Michigan, this is North Dakota actual. Read you Lima Charlie, over.”

  Wilson’s transmission had been heard Lima Charlie—Loud and Clear, and the actual commanding officer of North Dakota was speaking. Joining Wilson in Control was Commander John McNeil, commanding officer of Michigan’s SEAL detachment. Michigan had been tabbed as “Plan B” in case the topside submarine rescue mission failed, and that plan would involve McNeil’s unit. In the meantime, Michigan’s SEALs could inspect North Dakota to see if there was an easy fix for her propulsion problem. Wilson relayed his thoughts to North Dakota’s commanding officer, who concurred with the plan. As their conversation wound to a close, another voice broke into the conversation.

  “Michigan, this is Ice Station Nautilus. Welcome to the Arctic.”

  Whoever was on the other end had been listening to the conversation, because Wilson was given further instructions. If North Dakota’s inspection revealed anything useful, he was directed to find a lead or polynya where Michigan could surface and transmit photographs of the issue. After the conversation wrapped up, Wilson turned to McNeil.

  “How long before you’re ready to deploy?”

  “Any time now. I already ordered a team to suit up.”

  * * *

  Lieutenant Jake Harrison stepped through the circular hatch in the side of Missile Tube One, joined by a second SEAL, Special Warfare Operator First Class Tim Oliver. The two men stood on a metal grate in the second level of the missile tube, containing a steel ladder leading up two levels to another hatch. Harrison climbed the ladder, passing through the hatch into the relative darkness of the Dry Deck Shelter, bathed in diffuse red light.

  The Dry Deck Shelter was a conglomeration of three chambers: a spherical hyperbaric chamber at the forward end, a spherical transfer trunk in the middle, which he had just entered, and a cylindrical hangar containing the SEAL Delivery Vehicle, a black mini-sub twenty-two feet long by six feet wide. The hangar was divided into two sections by a Plexiglas shield dropping halfway down, with the SDV on one side and hangar controls on the other.

  There were five Navy divers inside the hangar; one on the forward side of the Plexiglas shield to operate the controls, and four divers in scuba gear on the other side. Oliver followed Harrison as he ducked under the Plexiglas shield, stopping beside the SDV, which was loaded nose first
into the Dry Deck Shelter. The SDV had two seating areas, one in front of the other, each capable of carrying two persons.

  Oliver, who was a sniper and the SEAL team’s unofficial photographer, placed his waterproof camera and a wide-angle dive light into the SDV. Harrison lifted a rebreather from a rack and helped Oliver into it, then Oliver returned the favor. The two men climbed into the front seat of the SDV and Harrison manipulated the controls. The displays energized and Harrison entered North Dakota’s location into the navigation console. The two men put their face masks on, then Harrison rendered a thumbs-up to the diver on the other side of the Plexiglas shield.

  Water surged into the hangar from vents beneath them, and the chamber was soon flooded. The door behind them opened with a faint rumbling sound, and the two divers on each side of the SDV glided out with a kick of their fins. The divers pulled rails out from the hangar onto the submarine’s Missile Deck, and the SDV moved backward out of the Dry Deck Shelter. Harrison manipulated the controls, and the SDV lifted off its rails and moved forward, passing along the side of Michigan’s sail, then over the submarine’s bow into the dark water ahead.

  At this depth beneath the polar ice cap, it was pitch dark. Harrison turned the SDV toward North Dakota’s position, while Oliver activated the dive light, illuminating the water ahead. A few minutes later, a large object materialized, slowly taking the shape of a submarine. They were approaching the bow, and Harrison angled the SDV for a pass down the port side. The beam of Oliver’s dive light scanned back and forth across the side of the submarine, and there was no detectable damage. When they reached the stern, however, it was clear North Dakota had collided with something.

  The bottom of the propulsor shroud was mangled, with the leading edge bent backward.