The Spetsnaz dropped down out of the way, and Harrison descended the ladder, with Stone following closely behind.
USS NORTH DAKOTA
Standing in the Command Post of the American submarine with six other Spetsnaz, Captain Second Rank Leonov heard the metal clank of the PRM mating with the submarine. That was Leonov’s signal to wrap things up. They would board the PRM, with each man carrying whatever additional equipment he could fit in his lap.
But first, Leonov descended to the Torpedo Room, then headed to the forward end of the compartment, where a block of C-4 was pressed to the top of each torpedo warhead. Twenty-three of the detonators had been slaved to a master, and Leonov stopped to examine it. After verifying the timer delay was set to one hour, he reached into the duffel bag and retrieved the remote initiator, which he would activate before boarding the American submersible. He slid it into his pocket, then turned and headed toward the Torpedo Room exit.
PRM-1 FALCON
Harrison descended the ladder into North Dakota, looking down to identify the number and location of the men below. There was a single Spetsnaz, who was standing on the left side of the ladder. As Harrison landed on the deck, he turned to the right, presenting his back to the Russian so he couldn’t see his face. He unzipped his parka and retrieved his MP7, and when he heard Chief Stone’s feet hit the deck, he turned toward the Spetsnaz, as did Stone. The man’s eyes widened, but before he could react, Harrison put three bullets into him.
After donning his headset from his pocket, he called into the PRM, and the other fourteen SEALs descended. Harrison dispersed a two-man team to each level of the Forward Compartment, joining the seventh SEAL in his squad to form a second team in middle level, while Chief Stone led his squad aft.
It wasn’t long before they encountered a Spetsnaz, disassembling a rack of equipment in upper level. Three whispers from an MP7 dropped the Spetsnaz, and the lead team continued on while Harrison dropped down to middle level behind another team. The SEALs emerged into the submarine’s Control Room, filled with a half-dozen Spetsnaz, plus what looked like one crew member seated at the Ship Control Station. The two SEALs in front of Harrison opened fire, taking down four Spetsnaz while the other two Russians dove behind equipment.
Harrison moved to the starboard side of the Control Room while the first pair of SEALs moved quickly down the port side, killing the two remaining Spetsnaz before they could retrieve their weapons. The first two SEALs continued through the forward opening of the Control Room, while Harrison stopped beside the man seated at the Ship Control Station. A quick interrogation determined he was Chief Larry Johnson, placed on watch by the Russians to ensure the submarine remained stable while it was being stripped.
Lieutenant Harrison remained in Control to assess the situation, listening to headset comms. Everything was going well. There were no SEAL casualties so far and ten dead Spetsnaz. Only five more to go.
* * *
Leonov had just reached the staircase leading from the Torpedo Room when a man in a black wet suit began his descent. It took Leonov only a second to realize he wasn’t a Spetsnaz and a split second more to realize what he was. Leonov reached for his pistol as he ducked out of the way, but was too slow. The advancing SEAL had his weapon raised, and fired three rounds.
Two bullets tore into Leonov’s chest and a third hit him in the forehead, snapping his head back. He collapsed to the deck as pain tore through his body. The SEAL stepped over him and a second man removed the pistol from his grip, tossing it aside. A second later and both men were gone. Leonov lay on his stomach at the base of the ladder in agony, wondering how he was still alive. He’d been shot in the head. Slowly, he moved his hand up and located a long wound on the left side of his head. The bullet had impacted at an angle, and must have ricocheted to the outside instead of piercing his skull. Not that it mattered. He was already having difficulty breathing; his lungs were filling with blood.
The two Americans returned from where they had headed, this time at a more leisurely pace. One of them spoke into his headset, reporting the Forward Compartment, Lower Level, was secure. He asked if assistance was required elsewhere, and after a short pause, the man replied, “Understand. North Dakota is secure.”
One of the two SEALs reached down, and Leonov closed his eyes as the man lifted him roughly to the side to examine him. He released Leonov and he fell onto the deck again. The two Americans left him behind, climbing the ladder to middle level.
Leonov could barely move, but was able to reach inside his pocket and retrieve the remote detonator. As his vision faded to darkness, he slid the protective cover out of the way and pressed the button, sending the signal to the master detonator.
85
USS NORTH DAKOTA
Gathered around the navigation plot in Control, Lieutenant Harrison received updates from Chief Stone and his two squad leaders. All fifteen Spetsnaz were accounted for, which translated to fifteen dead Russians, while Harrison’s men had suffered no casualties. They had taken the Russians by surprise. They had also located the crew, bound in berthing, and after dispatching the Spetsnaz guarding them, they were now being freed, the plastic ties around their wrists and ankles cut. Crew members were straggling into Control, each man stopping in his tracks upon entering the gutted Control Room.
The submarine’s commanding officer arrived, staring in disbelief as his eyes swept across the stripped consoles. He spotted the four Navy SEALs in the center of Control and headed over, introducing himself.
“Paul Tolbert, Commanding Officer of North Dakota.” He wasn’t sure who the senior SEAL was—no rank was displayed on their wet suits or Spetsnaz parkas, so his eyes wandered across the four men until Harrison responded.
“Lieutenant Jake Harrison.” He extended his hand.
“Thanks, Jake,” Tolbert said as they shook. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done.”
“Just doing our job,” Harrison replied. “But it looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you.” Tolbert followed Harrison’s gaze as he surveyed the gutted consoles.
“Do you know where everything is?” Tolbert asked.
“There are two shipments topside,” Harrison answered. “I’ll send the PRM to the surface to retrieve your equipment.”
“Thanks,” Tolbert said.
The submarine’s Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander Sites, plus the Chief of the Boat, Master Chief Murgo, arrived in Control, joining Tolbert and the SEALs. They were discussing how to quickly and safely reinstall the equipment when an excited report came over the speakers.
“Captain to the Torpedo Room!”
Tolbert and Harrison headed to lower level, followed by the XO and COB, stepping over a dead Spetsnaz at the base of the ladder.
The Torpedo Division Chief was there to greet them. “We got a problem,” he said as he led them to the forward end of the room and pointed to the nearest torpedo. A glance across the Torpedo Room revealed all twenty-four torpedoes were wired with explosives.
Harrison examined the explosive material, which was C-4, connected to a detonator. There was probably a master detonator, with the others slaved to it, which was either on a timer or awaiting a remote signal. He glanced around the Torpedo Room, his eyes settling on the dead Spetsnaz. There was something in his grip. Harrison hustled over and opened his hand, revealing a remote detonator, the red light blinking. It’d been activated, but there was no indication of how much time was left.
Harrison sprinted back to the first torpedo, examining the detonator again. A thin wire connected the detonator to an initiating tube, inserted into the C-4.
“We need to disarm the explosives,” he said to Tolbert. “This is what you need to do.”
Harrison grabbed the end of the initiating tube and pulled it from the C-4, then broke the wiring to the detonator. He moved to the next torpedo while the other men assisted, each man choosing a different torpedo. They moved from one torpedo to the next, until there was only one we
apon remaining. Harrison was the first to come free, and as he approached the torpedo, he noticed its detonator was different. It displayed the time, which was counting down.
Additionally, it was placed atop the C-4, with its initiator apparently protruding from the bottom. Harrison had to remove the detonator, but worried about its design. Advanced detonators included motion sensors, which would send a signal if someone tried to remove them. The other four men gathered around Harrison as he evaluated his options, eliminating all but one.
He reached for the detonator.
86
ICE STATION NAUTILUS
Inside the command hut, Brackman conferred with McNeil and Verbeck, receiving updates on repairs and on McNeil’s SEALs. McNeil had lost six men during the Spetsnaz attack on Harrison’s squad and the counterassault. With sixteen men aboard North Dakota, that left ten able-bodied SEALs, plus McNeil at Ice Station Nautilus. The ten SEALs had donned the white outer layer of Arctic gear stripped from dead Spetsnaz, as had McNeil, and were standing guard along the perimeter of Ice Station Nautilus, in case the Russians got another bright idea in the middle of the Arctic night.
Verbeck had contacted the appropriate commands, relaying what had occurred at the ice station. Commander Steel was supervising his men as they pored over the rescue equipment, repairing the leaks in the manway and damage to the port decompression chamber. To rescue Dolgoruky’s entire crew, they would likely need both chambers operational.
It was a few hours before sunrise, but the cooks were already busy. One of the cooks, Sally Firebaugh, stopped by the command hut, letting everyone know food would be ready soon. She noticed the blood on Christine’s face, then after being assured she was okay, returned with a wet towel. It was then that Brackman noticed the tension in Christine’s shoulders and the look on her face.
Christine had uncharacteristically declined to participate in the conversation with Verbeck and McNeil, and had moved to the far corner of the command hut. She was leaning against the edge of a table, her arms folded across her chest and her eyes fixed on the floor. It didn’t take Brackman long to realize what she was worried about. There had been no word since the platoon of SEALs descended toward North Dakota.
Brackman broke away from McNeil and Verbeck and went to her.
When Christine looked up, he said, “He’ll be okay.”
“Is it that obvious?’ she asked.
“No,” Brackman replied. “But I know you well enough to pick up a cue or two.”
“Good.” Christine said. “Don’t tell anyone. Especially Jake.”
“I’m pretty sure he already knows.”
His assurance didn’t ease the pain on her face, and she tightened her arms across her chest. He was only trying to help, but had somehow made the situation worse. Christine’s relationship with Harrison was complicated. After they ran into each other on Michigan last year, Brackman could tell her feelings for him had resurfaced. The problem was—Harrison was married now.
Brackman stepped close to Christine and lowered his voice so no one overheard. “You’re a smart, beautiful woman, Christine, with a personality a hell of a lot more pleasant than Hardison’s.”
Christine laughed at Brackman’s jab at the president’s chief of staff, her White House nemesis. “That’s not saying much,” she replied.
“My point,” Brackman added, “is that you can have almost any man you want. Don’t dwell on Harrison. You need to move on.”
“I know,” Christine said. She forced a weak smile. “Thanks.”
A squawk on Verbeck’s radio interrupted their conversation. They listened as Commander Steel informed Verbeck that North Dakota had been secured with no casualties, and the PRM was on its way up with Harrison and fifteen dead Spetsnaz. Steel added that the Spetsnaz had wired North Dakota’s torpedoes with explosives, but the detonators had been disarmed in time. Brackman watched the relief wash over Christine.
* * *
The PRM returned to the surface, and after an update from Harrison on North Dakota and its crew, Brackman sent the PRM down with the first load of North Dakota’s equipment while Commander Steel’s men continued their repairs. On the next trip up, the PRM would bring the platoon of SEALs, then return with the final load of North Dakota’s electronics. By then, the flexible manway repairs should be complete, so the PRM could descend to Dolgoruky and return while pressurized.
* * *
The fifteen SEALs returned to the surface, and not long thereafter, Commander Steel arrived at the command hut, approaching McNeil and Brackman.
“The manway has been repaired, but we’re still working on the port decompression chamber. Some of the electrical interconnects were damaged in the firefight and we don’t have enough spares. We’re splicing the damaged cables together, which will take a while. However, we don’t need the port chamber right away. The first two groups from Dolgoruky can go into the starboard chamber.”
Steel finished his update with, “We’re ready to commence rescue ops.”
Christine zipped up her parka and stepped outside. There was an orange glow on the horizon. Dolgoruky’s last report stated the air in Compartment One would become toxic just before sunrise.
87
K-535 YURY DOLGORUKY
In the dark, bitterly cold compartment, Stepanov’s head was pounding and his breathing was shallow and rapid, indications that the CO2 concentration was approaching a toxic level. Stepanov’s mind was becoming sluggish and he had difficulty concentrating. He even imagined he heard the faint rumble of underwater explosions.
In Stepanov’s hand was the last functioning emergency lantern, capable of emitting only a weak yellow light. He had not turned it on for several hours, conserving the remaining energy for one more trip through the compartment, checking on his men one final time. They had abandoned the air regeneration unit, and were huddled together in small groups. Stepanov’s First Officer, who had regained consciousness, was still weak, confined to his makeshift bed on one of the torpedo stows.
Stepanov’s mind was playing tricks on him. He heard a faint clank against the hull. Maybe a metallic fish had bounced into the submarine. He imagined what it looked like; shiny metal scales, a tail that swiveled back and forth like a rudder, and robotic eyes looking in two separate directions. He heard another metallic sound. The fish was persistent, bouncing into the hull again. It should go around. Surely it was smart enough to figure that out.
There was another metal clank, this one louder, and Stepanov’s mind cleared. He pulled himself to his feet and turned his lantern on, aiming its weak yellow beam toward the ladder leading to the access hatch. Other men stirred as Stepanov made his way through the compartment, stopping at the base of the ladder.
There were no more clanks, but he thought he heard a faint humming sound. As he wondered what it was, he was joined by his Chief Ship Starshina, Egor Lukin. Several minutes passed, then loud metal clanks from above echoed through the compartment.
Tap codes.
Someone was on the other side of the hatch, requesting they open it.
There was no cheer from his weakened men, but Stepanov knew they were relieved. He handed the lantern to Lukin, then climbed the ladder, stopping when he was within reach of the hatch handwheel. He reached up carefully and twisted it with both hands, but it wouldn’t budge, and he almost lost his footing on the ice-coated ladder. Stepanov locked his feet inside the ladder rails, gripped the handwheel tightly, then twisted it with all his strength until finally the handwheel broke free, chunks of ice falling from the hatch lugs.
Stepanov twisted the handwheel, fully retracting the lugs. He was exhausted from the effort, but he climbed one rung higher and shoved upward on the hatch. It lifted slowly, and he could see a man’s hands on the edge, pulling the hatch fully open onto the latch. He shielded his eyes from the bright light above as he inhaled fresh air.
He greeted his rescuers, but the response was in English.
Stepanov froze. The fresh air helped clear
his mind as he worked through the implications. Another man greeted him in Russian, explaining an American submersible had attached to Dolgoruky, and a Disabled Submarine Entry Team would assist in evacuating Stepanov’s crew. He also explained that they had food and water for his crew, as well as atmosphere support stores to help absorb CO2 and replenish the oxygen in the air. He then requested permission to board the Russian ballistic missile submarine.
Stepanov concurred and climbed down the ladder. Three men followed, each carrying a bag of equipment and an emergency lantern. It didn’t take long for Stepanov’s crew to realize the men weren’t Russian. The American flag was sewn onto the right shoulder of their black parkas.
One American extracted atmosphere monitoring equipment from his bag and began taking air readings, while the other two men approached Stepanov and Lukin. Captain Kovaleski joined them as the American on the right explained he was a translator, the man to his left was a medical corpsman who could assist if there were injuries, and that the submersible would take Stepanov’s men to the surface in batches of sixteen.
Stepanov informed him there were forty-five men in Compartment One and another fifty-seven men aft, and the air situation aft was slightly better. The translator replied the plan was to evacuate everyone from the forward compartment, then rescue the crew members trapped aft.
Kovaleski coordinated with the American corpsman, selecting sixteen sailors for the first journey to the surface. Dolgoruky’s hatch was sealed again, this time with three Americans aboard Dolgoruky and sixteen fewer Russians. As Stepanov waited for the rescue vehicle to complete its round trip, he retreated to the torpedo stow where his First Officer lay, motioning for his Chief Ship Starshina to join him.
Stepanov and Lukin gathered beside Pavlov, and Stepanov briefed his First Officer. Pavlov was as concerned as Stepanov, not wanting Dolgoruky to fall into American hands.
Lukin suggested, “Perhaps we should contact the Engineering Officer and direct him to leave armed volunteers behind, hidden in the aft compartments to prevent access.”
Ice Station Nautilus Page 24
