Ice Station Nautilus

by Rick Campbell

  However, AS-34 Priz was ready. It had been easy to transport the submersible onto the polar ice cap, and Raila decided to forgo installing the handling equipment at Camp Barneo. Since Priz was an autonomous vehicle with no attachments to the surface, they would simply use an MI-26 heavy-lift helicopter to lower the submersible through the ice hole. A hole that was taking far too long to dig.

  Raila turned to the west, toward the American ice camp. He was confounded by the American approach. From the edge of Ice Camp Barneo, Spetsnaz soldiers kept watch on the American ice camp activity. The American rescue system was much more complex than Russia’s Priz class submersible, and while he understood the Americans’ focus on assembling the equipment, he didn’t understand their failure to tackle the most difficult challenge. They hadn’t started digging an ice hole, and there were no excavators standing by, either.

  As Raila wondered what their plan was, the faint sound of helicopter rotors greeted his ears and several gray specks appeared to the southwest. He watched as two U.S. Navy Super Stallion helicopters towed a large spiderlike contraption, while a third Super Stallion carried a giant metal ring. He scratched his beard, wondering what the Americans were up to.

  57

  ICE STATION NAUTILUS

  Christine was seated at a table in the galley with Brackman, Verbeck, and Berman savoring hot chicken noodle soup when she heard the beat of the heavy-lift helicopters. Verbeck stepped from the galley for a look, and Christine and the other two men followed. She spotted several specks in the clear blue sky, growing slowly into three CH-53E Super Stallions. Two of the helicopters carried an oval structure about forty feet wide and eighty feet long, with sixteen giant legs dangling from the perimeter, while the third helicopter transported a large metal ring about thirty feet in diameter.

  Verbeck led Christine and the others to the east side of the camp, where the first two Super Stallions slowed to a hover, gently landing the spiderlike object next to the submarine rescue equipment. The third helicopter deposited the large metal ring onto the ice next to the Launch and Recovery System. Men and equipment converged on the ring, which was six inches thick and had several threaded ports on top, evenly spaced along its circumference.

  A snowmobile towing a cart pulled up, and men extracted six-foot-tall metal poles, screwing one into each threaded port until there were ten poles evenly spaced around the ring, sticking straight up into the air. Four more snowmobiles approached, each one dragging a sled with a metal contraption on it, and after the snowmobiles pulled to a halt, men attached two hoses from each machine to additional ports in the metal ring. It took only ten minutes to hook everything up, then one of the men approached Verbeck.

  “We’re ready to go,” he said.

  Verbeck took a moment to introduce the man. “Ms. O’Connor, this is Paul Leone, the senior ice pilot at the Arctic Submarine Lab. He’s my right-hand man here at the camp.”

  Verbeck continued, explaining the plan. “As I mentioned earlier, we cut holes in the ice to recover exercise torpedoes after their run, but we don’t dig a hole, we melt one. Those contraptions are melters.” He pointed to the equipment pulled by the four snowmobiles. “They heat water and pump it through the metal ring. The water heats the metal, which melts the ice.”

  The ice pilot ordered the four melters fired up, and a moment later hot water started running through the metal ring. The ice beneath the ring began melting, and a man stationed at each of the ten poles pressed the ring downward. As the ice melted, the ring sank slowly into the ice. The poles became shorter as the ring descended, until only a foot of each pole extended above the ice.

  Leone shouted a command and the men stopped pushing the ring downward. Each man retrieved a second six-foot-long pole from the cart, then screwed it into the end of the first, extending the pole another six feet skyward. After another command from Leone, the men pushed down again. A few minutes later, with only two feet of pole remaining, the men lurched forward as the resistance eased, and the thirty-foot-diameter section of ice popped up half a foot. Christine finally realized what they were doing. They had created a giant ice cork, and all they had to do now was lift it out of the way.

  Verbeck explained that lifting the ice cork was the real challenge. For a three-foot-wide torpedo-sized hole, they drilled a hole in the center of the cork and dropped a hollow-wall anchor through the hole, then lifted it manually using a tripod and chain fall. However, a three-foot-wide ice cork weighed only a few thousand pounds. The thirty-foot-wide ice cork they had created weighed over two hundred tons. It would take a dozen Super Stallions to lift the ice cork, and connecting that many helicopters to the ice plug was asking for trouble.

  Instead, Verbeck asked NAVSEA to construct the spiderlike contraption, a sixteen-leg monstrosity rising twenty feet into the air. The thick metal legs bent ninety degrees at the top, in toward the middle of the oval, where they connected to a central section with tracks running its length. A flanged anchor, its edges folded up, hung from one end of the central section.

  The two Super Stallions placed one end of the oval structure around the ice plug, with the metal legs positioned around its perimeter and the flanged anchor over the center of the ice cork. The tow cables were released and the Super Stallions landed in the distance while men climbed onto the ice plug and began drilling a two-foot-wide hole in the center. When they finished, the flanged anchor at the top of the contraption, which was connected to a thick metal cable, was lowered through the hole and the flanges were released.

  “Cross your fingers,” Verbeck said, “and pray we don’t end up with a pile of metal parts.”

  Slowly, the cable retracted, lifting the ice plug until it cleared the surface, then the ice plug moved along the center track to the other end of the contraption, where it was lowered onto the polar ice cap. The effort had taken only two hours, and Christine was staring at a thirty-foot-diameter Arctic swimming pool, through which the PRM could be lowered.

  The two Super Stallions moved in again, moving the contraption aside, clearing the way to outboard the PRM over the ice hole. On the other side of the hole, personnel from the Undersea Rescue Command were hooking up a pilot in an Atmospheric Diving Suit to its launch and recovery system. The ADS would be sent down first, to inspect Dolgoruky’s hatches.

  It wasn’t long before the ADS was suspended over the ice hole, then began its descent. Christine watched the pilot, his face visible through the bulbous glass vision dome of the ADS helmet, disappear into the cold Arctic waters.

  58

  ICE CAMP BARNEO

  Captain First Rank Josef Klokov had watched in curious fascination, finally deciphering the American plan. It had taken them two hours to accomplish what would take Julius Raila’s men over two days. He looked at the half-finished ice hole they’d been digging. Russia had lost the race, which meant Klokov’s men would intervene.

  The Spetsnaz unit’s Executive Officer, Captain Second Rank Gleb Leonov, approached with Julius Raila in tow. The discussion was short. Raila was relieved Dolgoruky’s crew would be rescued in time, but Klokov sensed his pride was damaged. Russia would have to rely on another country to rescue their crew. Klokov didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was how long until the Americans commenced rescue operations. Raila explained they would be ready shortly after dark.

  Klokov excused Raila, who left to inspect the ice hole. They would continue their efforts in case something went wrong with the American rescue. Klokov turned to his Executive Officer.

  “Prepare both platoons. We depart one hour after sunset.”

  Leonov acknowledged Klokov’s order, then addressed the most critical issue. “Once the mission is complete, what will we do with the witnesses?”

  Klokov reflected on his discussion with Fleet Admiral Ivanov when the man had visited him in Pechenga. Ivanov had directed Klokov to keep the loss of life to a minimum. However, minimum was a subjective term. Klokov’s men were Spetsnaz, and they did not leave evidence behind, especially
the talking kind.

  Klokov answered his Executive Officer. “We will leave no witnesses.”

  59

  USS NORTH DAKOTA

  It was late afternoon aboard North Dakota when Commander Paul Tolbert stepped into the relatively quiet Engine Room. The submarine’s two electrical turbine generators were running, but the main engines were silent. Petty Officer Third Class Scott Turk looked up from his clipboard as the submarine’s Captain descended into Engine Room Forward, and his face brightened. He was three hours into his watch, and aside from the occasional pass-through by the Engine Room Supervisor and Engineering Watch Supervisor, there was no one to talk to in the bowels of the Engine Room. He stood as Commander Tolbert approached.

  “How’s it going?” Tolbert asked, glancing at the condensate pump.

  “Sounds a little funny, sir,” Turk replied, “but it runs okay.”

  “Is it getting worse?”

  “No, sir,” Turk replied. “It’s sounded funny since E-Div repaired it.”

  “Got it,” Tolbert said. He wasn’t surprised their little Frankenstein sounded odd. But he figured it was a good sign as long as the sound remained the same. “Anything else unusual?”

  Turk thought for a moment, then replied, “No, sir. With no propulsion orders and the turbines in a full-power line-up, there’s not much going on down here.”

  Tolbert bid Petty Officer Turk good-bye, then ascended to Engine Room Upper Level and stopped in Maneuvering. The Engineering Officer of the Watch had nothing significant to report, and Tolbert headed forward. It was the same throughout the ship. North Dakota had resumed hovering at two hundred feet, and aside from the sonar techs who kept in communication with Dolgoruky, the watchstanders had settled into a routine one could best describe as boring.

  Still, after a week of stress following the collision and flooding in the Engine Room, followed by a frantic race to restore power before the battery ran out, the calm aboard the submarine was welcome. However, Tolbert figured it was anything but calm aboard the Russian submarine. Their air was becoming toxic, and they had only a few hours left.

  60

  K-535 YURY DOLGORUKY

  In the dark, frigid compartment, Nicholai Stepanov tilted his head back, lifting the water bottle to his parched lips. The few remaining drops of water dribbled into his mouth, then he placed the empty bottle on the deck beside him and prepared for another round through the compartment. The air regeneration unit, which had been a welcome source of warmth over the last week, was now a hunk of cold metal; they were out of air regeneration canisters.

  The oxygen level was falling, while the concentration of carbon dioxide rose. As Dolgoruky’s Medical Officer predicted, oxygen was not the issue; it was still at fifteen percent. Carbon dioxide level, on the other hand, had reached four percent. Stepanov could feel the effects of the high CO2 level. He was tired despite plenty of sleep, his head pounded from a severe headache, and his respiration was shallow and rapid.

  He looked around the dark compartment. There were no emergency lanterns on. There were only a half-dozen left with good batteries. He had one of them and turned it on, the faint yellow glow illuminating a radius of a few meters. He pulled himself to his feet, supporting himself on a nearby torpedo, then flexed his stiff hands inside his gloves. Reaching down, he retrieved the lantern and aimed it around the ice-coated compartment.

  Stepanov moved slowly, checking first on the men in upper level, huddled in small groups between the torpedo stows. The men who were awake murmured greetings to their Captain as he stopped for a moment. At the aft end of the compartment, Stepanov stopped near the sealed watertight door to Compartment Two. Starshina First Class Oleg Devin, one of Stepanov’s Torpedomen, manned the sound-powered phones.

  “How are the men aft?” Stepanov asked.

  “They have one more day of air regeneration canisters,” was the reply.

  In the faint illumination, Stepanov could see the despair in the young man’s eyes. Devin knew that he, along with the other men in Compartment One, had only a few hours left. Stepanov squeezed the man’s shoulder, conveying what support he could. Devin placed his hand over Stepanov’s, holding it in place. He could feel the tremors in Devin’s hand.

  Devin released Stepanov’s hand and Nicholai squeezed the young man’s shoulder again. “Do not give up hope.”

  The young man nodded, then replied, “Yes, Captain.”

  Stepanov continued his round through upper level and spotted his Medical Officer, Captain Kovaleski, examining a patient in a makeshift bed on one of the torpedo stows with a small flashlight. Kovaleski turned toward Stepanov, and as the lantern illuminated his features, Stepanov noticed a smile on his doctor’s face.

  Stepanov almost lurched to a halt, wondering if his Medical Officer had become delusional in the high-CO2 air, or if the bitter cold was impairing him.

  “Captain,” Kovaleski said. “I was about to come get you.”

  Stepanov approached his Medical Officer, who pointed toward the patient on the torpedo stow. It was Stepanov’s First Officer, who had been knocked out during the flooding and had remained unconscious for the last week. Pavlov’s eyes were open, and they were looking at Stepanov. Relief washed through him. For some reason, despite their impending doom, knowing his First Officer had survived buoyed his spirit.

  “Captain,” Pavlov said groggily. “How bad is it?”

  Stepanov looked to Kovaleski, wondering what the two men had discussed.

  “He just awoke,” Kovaleski said. “I have not told him anything.”

  Pavlov had clearly deduced, from the dark, frigid surroundings, that Dolgoruky was in dire straits. Stepanov decided not to withhold anything.

  “Compartments Two and Three are flooded, and we have sunk to the bottom.” Stepanov paused, then forced the bitter words from his mouth. “Dolgoruky is lost.”

  “How long do we have?” Pavlov asked.

  Stepanov pulled the end of his glove back, exposing his watch. The sun had set an hour ago atop the ice cap.

  “A few hours.”

  61

  ICE CAMP BARNEO • ICE STATION NAUTILUS

  ICE CAMP BARNEO

  Captain Klokov stood beside the helicopter fuselage in the darkness, beneath the downdraft of the rotor wash, as the first squad of men boarded the transport. Fifty feet to his left, Klokov’s XO did the same as another squad boarded, and not far away, the second platoon boarded their transports. After the twelfth and final man in Klokov’s squad climbed into the Ka-60 Kasatka, painted white to match the Arctic landscape, he grabbed a handrail inside the fuselage and swung himself aboard. The helicopter lifted off immediately.

  The four Russian helicopters skirted the edge of Camp Barneo, then turned west, skimming fast and low, fifty feet above the ice, toward the lights in the distance.

  ICE STATION NAUTILUS

  They were almost ready. Christine stood in the cold under the bright ice camp lights, watching final preparations for the PRM launch. Standing beside her was Captain Brackman, his eyes likewise locked on the submersible about to be lowered into the ocean. All that remained was a final checkout by the pilot, who operated the PRM from the control van—a metal Conex container on top of the starboard Surface Decompression Chamber—and a briefing by Commander Steel. He stood not far from Christine, in front of a small team of personnel who would journey to the ocean bottom.

  Although the eighteen-person-capacity PRM was normally manned by only two attendants, they would be joined on the first trip by the Disabled Submarine (DISSUB) Entry Team, who would remain aboard Dolgoruky to assist until the last survivor was evacuated. The DISSUB Entry Team included a submarine independent duty corpsman to assess the crew’s health, an Auxiliary Division chief to assist with entering the submarine and monitoring atmospheres, and a Russian translator.

  While Christine waited for Steel to complete his brief, she admired the aurora borealis—the Northern Lights, illuminating the night sky in a diffuse green glow. As sh
e wondered about the atmospheric conditions that created the phenomenon, she heard the sound of helicopters approaching the camp. Choppers had been coming and going all day, but why would helicopters arrive in the dark?

  The sound faded, returning the camp to relative silence. Not long thereafter, a dozen armed men, wearing white Arctic uniforms and with their weapons drawn, emerged from the darkness at the ice camp perimeter, advancing toward them. One of the men shouted, “Lie down on the ground!”

  Shocked expressions worked their way across everyone’s faces as three more groups of soldiers appeared, each from a different direction, searching the huts they passed by as they approached. The polar bear watches were at the front of each formation, with soldiers carrying their shotguns.

  The first man shouted again, “Down on the ground. Now!”

  One by one, everyone complied. Christine lay down and watched the soldiers inspect each person as they were pulled to their feet. Two men approached her, pulling her upright, then checked her pockets and unzipped her parka to check for weapons. Satisfied she was unarmed, they moved on, leaving her standing beside Brackman, who had also been pulled to his feet and searched. As Christine zipped her parka back up, she noted the soldiers spoke Russian. They were Spetsnaz. But why would they assault Ice Station Nautilus?

  The Spetsnaz finished inspecting the ice station personnel, then forced everyone into a line, with Brackman on one side of her and Peter Tarbottom on the other. The Spetsnaz walked down the line, examining name tags. Senior Navy personnel were pulled forward, forming a second line in front of another Spetsnaz soldier, whom Christine concluded was the unit commander. The four Americans in line were Vice Admiral Dahlenburg, Captain Naughton, Captain Brackman, and Commander Steel.