Ninety Degrees North

by Stephen Makk

  “Trim for the surface,” said Nikki.

  “Trim set, depth 60 feet. Increasing trim. Still 60, sir, still 60.”

  “Trim down to 70 feet four knots forward.”

  “Aye, sir, down 70 four knots forward.”

  Nikki counted one minute 30.

  “Planesman, trim for 50 feet, all stop.”

  “Fifty, all stop, aye sir.”

  “Trim for the surface,” said Nikki.

  “Trim for surface, aye sir. Sixty feet, increasing trim, 50 feet, 40 feet, 30 feet.”

  The crew heard the ice creaking and running past the sail. “We’re through, sir.”

  Nikki looked back down the main companionway to the sail. The companionway was full of men in Arctic whites; full face white woollen masks and snow goggles, with helmets and every weapon a man could carry.

  Nikki signalled to the Chief of the Boat, Seamus Cox.

  “Chief, open her up.”

  Seamus, wearing his parka and woolly hat, opened the hatch, and some water spilled on the floor. He climbed the ladder, spun the wheel and opened into a dark cold night. The breeze chilled him. He climbed down.

  “Up you go, Lieutenant. Give my favourite polar bear a kiss before you blow her fucking head off.”

  One by one, the bulky SEALs climbed the ladder. The Chief climbed up after them and saw them all safely onto the ice, then closed the hatch, spun the wheel, climbed down and closed the inner hatch in a similar way.

  The Chief shouted forward into the control room. “All grunts are out on the ice. Hatches sealed. Surface party deployed, sir.”

  “Get the Chief to run the diesels and charge the batteries,” said Nathan.

  Nikki called the Chief Engineer and asked him to power up the L-ions and pressurise the buoyancy vessels.

  Almost two hours later, the Chief told her the task was complete. It was time to leave the surface.

  “Vent for 100 feet, Planesman,” said Nikki.

  The boat slid down through the ice and became free. She reached 100 feet.

  “Forward six knots, trim for 100.” Nikki turned to Nathan.

  “Good work, Lieutenant Commander Kaminski. Let’s have that meeting we were talking about. Wardroom now, XO.”

  Nathan returned from the galley with two coffees. He sat at the Wardroom’s desk and passed Nikki a coffee.

  “Weaps has the conn. I’ve got him going north after the Yasen. That mother ran like hell after Ren and Scooby tricked him. They’re both back on board now, by the way.”

  Nikki smiled. “Great, can Pointers be given a battle honour?

  Nathan laughed.

  “So, what to do now?” said Nikki. She didn’t wait for Nathan. She narrowed her eyes. “We need to take the initiative here. Upstairs we have the Spetsnaz or VDV or whatever, and down here we’ve half the bastard Northern Fleet running around like they own the place. Let’s show ’em.”

  “I agree. How?”

  Nikki grinned. “To paraphrase General Jackson: The business of the US Navy is to fight. Navies are not called on to build ports, and live tied up to a pier. But to find the enemy, and strike him; to dominate his seas, and do him all possible damage in the shortest possible time… But such a war would of necessity, be of brief continuance, and so would be an economy of prosperity and life in the end. To move swiftly, strike vigorously, and secure all the fruits of victory, is the secret of successful war.” She gave him a narrow stare. “We take the fight to them. We hunt them under the ice, the Barents Sea, up the fucking Polyarny Inlet, Murmansk Fjord if needed. We give ’em the bayonet.” Nikki banged her fist on the table. “For generations, mothers will scare Ivan’s children with: Stonewall Jackson will be coming for you.”

  Nathan looked at her and smiled. “You know this stretches our orders, just a little bit?”

  “Well, Nathan, our orders can go and suck their own ass.”

  10

  On the Arctic icecap.

  The submarine’s black sail slid downwards and disappeared below the ice. Two SEALs crouched on the ice, watching. The biting cold breeze found its way into every gap in their clothing.

  Operator Melenko watched it slide away. “That’s it, Crocky, they’ve gone. The only pussy in hundreds of miles has sunk into the sea.”

  “Shut it with the pussy, they’ve gone now. You might get some Eskimo ass up here, but that’s it.”

  “Pity,” said Melenko. “We learned about Eskimos in the Marines.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, it was a running cadence: ‘I don’t know, but I’ve been told. I don’t know but I’ve been told. Eskimo pussy is mighty cold. Eskimo pussy is mighty cold.’”

  “You’ll never know, you sick fuck.”

  “Crocky, did you see the ass on that Kaminski?”

  “She’s an officer.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet the skipper still has her laid over the torpedo tubes or whatever when they’re off duty.”

  “You need some medic…”

  “Ok, people,” said Lieutenant Rice. “Form a defensive ring, 100 yards radius. Keep a lookout, the Russians are up here too.”

  Crocky and Melenko donned their skis and set off to the northeast.

  After an hour’s ski, Rice pulled up. “Chief Konerko, let’s see if we can raise Platoon Chief Whitt and Op Ford.”

  “Sir.” He opened his pack and tried the radio set.

  “Soup two from soup one, over. Soup two from soup one, over. Come in soup two.”

  “Ok, we’ll try again. Let’s move east.”

  Konerko stood, blew his whistle and pointed east. The men skiied off into the dark snow-flecked whiteout, the breeze mercifully at their backs.

  They skiied across the white waste for an hour, stopping frequently to scan the horizon for the opposition.

  “Stop here, Konerko. Get the set out and try again.”

  “Sir.” The troop pulled up, men crouched and scanned the horizon.

  “Soup two from soup one, over. Soup two from soup one, over. Come in, soup two.”

  “Soup two from soup one, over. Soup two from soup one, ov…”

  The set spit static and then: “Soup one from soup two, receiving, over.”

  “Copy, soup two. Broadcast for direction.”

  “Will do. One two three four five. One two…”

  Konerko scanned the horizon with the set’s sensor.

  “There, sir. 105 degrees.”

  “Tell soup two we’re coming.”

  “Soup two, hold your position. We’re coming for you.”

  “Copy, soup one.” The troop skiied off on the bearing.

  Within 20 minutes they had sight of the two SEALs. They closed.

  “Platoon Chief Whitt, what’s your sit rep?” said Rice.

  “Ok, sir, we have the package safe.”

  A man and a woman stood looking on at the SEAL troop; their body language showed thanks and optimism.

  “Sir, we’ve had contact with the Russian VDV. We took a few out, but they know we’re here and close.”

  Rice wiped the snow from his ski mask. “We were landed by submarine. It’s gone now; there was a Russian sub down there and they had to go. An MQ-4C Triton drone will be making a patrol high over the area, so we’ll try to contact it.”

  “We were heading for Canadian Forces Base Alert, sir. It’s a long way, but better than sitting here. If the Triton’s coming over, then maybe not.”

  Rice looked at the four of them, the two SEALs and the two civilians.

  “How are they doing, Whitt?” he asked tipping his head towards the two civilians.

  “They’re not bad, sir. Marjan... the woman’s ex IDF, that’s why she’s got the H&K.”

  “Ok, we’ll head for CFB Alert, sir. You and Ford lead on with the package.”

  The whole group skiied off to the west.

  USS Stonewall Jackson.

  Time to make a stand. Ivan, there’s a new man in town, meet Stonewall Jackson.

  It was time; the USN h
ad to show the Northern Fleet they didn’t own the icecap.

  “Any trace, Benson? He’s down here. I can smell him,” said Nathan.

  Benson shook his head and looked down at his painted screen display. Nathan knew to let him get on with the job, there was no finer sonar geek in the US Navy. The boat was heading northeast, his best guess for a contact.

  “What do you think, XO? Put out a Pointer to widen the search?”

  “Could do, sir. There is the retrieval to think about. That may cause problems. But yes, do it.”

  “Weaps?”

  “Sir, we have Stimpy in tube five, he’s ready.”

  “Flood five and open outer doors. Deploy Stimpy to the east-northeast.”

  A rushing sound up front told him the Pointer had been pushed out of the tube and let loose.

  Nikki had said the retrieval may cause a problem, and Nathan knew why. The crew saw the Pointers as a kind of pet dog. Perhaps they shouldn’t have names. But they did, and the crew didn’t want to lose one; it hurt. Nathan knew they were expendable and if it came to it then one would be sacrificed, but he knew how the crew felt and it couldn’t be ignored.

  “Signal five by five. Exporting sonar,” said Weaps.

  “Acquisition channel and encryption?” asked Benson.

  “Channel nine frequency modulation. Encrypting on seven f76e3q71ta.”

  Benson set his screen up. “I have acquisition of Stimpy; sonar picture forming. Good image.” He raised his voice. “Sir, Stimpy is searching. No enemy contact on the board.”

  “Very good, Benson. Keep looking, we’ll get one soon,” replied Nathan. His gut told him they’d be northeast or east of his position. “Weaps, sitrep on our warload?”

  “We have tubes one to four Mk48, five being loaded with Deputy Dawg, tube six Scooby, sir.”

  “Sir,” said Benson, “I can’t believe it, shit. Another contact. He must have emerged from an ice ridge. He’s gone deep, range two miles, depth 700 feet. Bearing 050 degrees. It’s an Akula. Firm contact, heading south.”

  We can’t have three of the bastards down here. Nathan quickly thought through his options. That’s it, do it.

  “Weaps, get a firing solution on Tango 3, new contact. Flood a tube and open outer doors.”

  “Solution laid in, tube three flooded and ready in all respects.” It was hasty but it felt right, he knew it.

  “Launch tube three.” The rushing launch sound came from upfront.

  “Fish running, good launch, fish hungry.” The Mk48 raced off after the Akula.

  “Fish closing, pinging, cutting wire. Now terminal.”

  “No activity from the Akula,” said Benson. “Wait, no, he’s going deep.”

  It was too late, the Mk48 hit the enemy boat from above amidships. Her back broke and a massive volume of gas escaped. The boat sunk deep into the abyss. “Yes, yes. Hot datum,” called Benson.

  It was quick and abrupt, Nathan knew, but better to nip the situation off in the bud. It was him, but not him; it had showed itself, and it had been cut off.

  “Good shooting, sir,” said Nikki.

  “Yeah, we couldn’t have three of them playing with us.”

  She grinned at him. “You didn’t give him time to scratch his ass.”

  “Planesman, hold our course, speed seven knots.”

  It was up to his crew now.

  He got on with a report of the boat’s status. There were several personnel issues too. An hour later, Nathan sat back and rubbed his eyes. It was drudgery, but now it was done, thank God.

  He looked around the control room. All went about their jobs, there was some chatter into headsets, but it was work as normal. It was time for some planning.

  “Nikki, let’s go to the Wardroom for a meeting.”

  She stood and led the way aft, and Nathan followed, trying hard not to look at her swaying rear. She opened the Wardroom door, to find the Chief Engineer and several of his Petty Officers sat around the table.

  “Sorry, Chief, carry on,” said Nikki.

  “Ok, come on we’ll use my cabin.”

  They walked into Nathan’s cabin, and he unfolded the bunk and sat on it, while Nikki sat on the chair.

  “Right, Nik, we have two Yasen’s down here with us. They’re unlikely to be involved in a routine patrol. They must be connected to the search upstairs for the scientist. How do we cause them a big problem?”

  Nikki brushed her fair hair aside. “Sink them, they’re threatening our operation.”

  “Not that easy, Nik. In wartime, yes.”

  “Nathan, let’s say there were two of us and an enemy boat sank our partner. What would you do?”

  “You know what I’d do. It’d be gloves off and sink him.”

  “But what if he’s a cunning bastard? He knows his wingman’s been sunk and he figures it’s best to report to Northern fleet HQ in Murmansk. If so, he makes for the icecap edge or a Polynya to broadcast. Fleet HQ wouldn’t know they had a boat down by enemy fire, unless he told them. That’s what I’d do anyway; I’d call in the cavalry.”

  “Yeah, his recording would show that we’d fired first on his wingman.” Nathan frowned. “If that’s what we did, it would become a big political bun fight.” He looked up at her, his expression innocent. “All we have to do is get him to fire first; that should be easy.”

  Nikki laughed.

  “Yeah,” Nathan smiled, “and we need to track the other Yasen. Stop it reaching the icecap edge before it makes its broadcast.”

  “We’ve a big problem there,” said Nikki. “The Yasen’s faster than we are.”

  Nathan grinned. “I may have a solution for that.”

  The two of them stood and Nathan headed for the door, but Nikki stood in his way. She moved forward and kissed him.

  “Go easy, Nik.”

  She smiled. “I’m a Georgia girl. We only do easy for the right man.”

  Nathan smiled and opened the door.

  Nikki returned to her station in the control room; Nathan took the conn.

  “Benson, what’s the layering situation here?”

  “Sir, I have a suspected cold layer at 800 feet.”

  “Let’s get below it. Planesman, down bubble 15, make your depth 1,100 feet.”

  “Aye, sir, down 15 for 1,100.”

  The deck tilted forward, and the boat slid deeper in the sub ice blackness, then levelled out. “Eleven hundred feet, sir, 020 degrees, seven knots.”

  The two of them – Stimpy shallower and USS Stonewall Jackson deeper – hunted the two Yasen class SSNs.

  Nathan looked to Nikki, and she returned his gaze. They’d taken on a fearsome nuclear foe.

  Just 20 minutes later, Benson looked up at Nathan. “Sir, Stimpy has contact, bearing 345 degrees, possible Yasen class.”

  This was it.

  “Koss, if you were heading from here to the icecap edge, what would be your heading?”

  The Navigation Officer checked his chart. “Eighty six degrees, sir, that’s the shortest route.”

  “Thanks, Koss. Planesman, make for 045 degrees, speed ten knots.”

  “Aye, sir, 045 degrees at ten.”

  Nikki knew what Nathan was up to, and she gave him a faint smile.

  Fifteen minutes later, Benson spoke up, his hands still on his headset.

  “Sir, I have had Stimpy’s contact for several minutes now. I’m picking up a possible contact to his north. Stimpy confirms this. Sir, it’s very faint but I’m thinking both are Yasen class boats. The computer says it’s 80% probable, but Stella’s guessing again. I can tell her work.”

  Nathan grinned; Benson’s would-be girlfriend in the programming team was at it again.

  “And what does the lovely Stella think?”

  “She says it’s the Krasnoyarsk and the Novosibirsk.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think she’s showing off, sir. She’s a woman; she can be a bullshitter.”

  Nathan grinned. “But a very good bullshitter?”<
br />
  Benson reluctantly nodded.

  “Ok, Stella, here we go. Planesman, come left 25 degrees, sprint 20 knots for ten minutes, then all stop.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The boat accelerated in the deep blackness and headed to the east of the two contacts. Minutes later, her Kawasaki motors turned off, and the boat coasted quietly.

  “Benson, sitrep on contacts?”

  “We have them, sir. Stimpy is two miles behind the southern contact. Northern contact is four miles to our north.”

  “Weaps. Designate southernmost contact as Tango 1, set up a firing solution. Northern contact is Tango 2, set up a firing solution. Flood tubes one and two, open outer doors. Give our fish a sniff of the quarry.”

  “Sir, will do.”

  “Weaps, get Stimpy to turn towards Tango 1. Set his speed 15 knots, simulate flooding tube and opening outer doors.”

  Weaps set up the actions on his control panel.

  “Sir,” said Benson, “Tango 1’s coming about, flooding a tube and opening outer doors.”

  Nathan knew it was time to make the play.

  “One ping from Stimpy on Tango one, wait 50 seconds then get him to simulate a Mk48 launch.”

  Stimpy pinged the Russian boat.

  “Sir,” said Benson excitedly, “Tango one’s launched a Type 53 Fizik, homing on Stimpy.”

  “Weaps, use Stimpy’s ping to update Tango 1’s position. Launch tube one, get a fish on him.”

  “Sir.” A rushing sound was audible from the forward end. “Sir, Mk48 running, fish is hungry.”

  “When the 53 is three hundred yards away from him, cut the wire and dive, Stimpy.”

  Long seconds ticked by. “Sir, Tango 1’s diving; he must have detected our fish running in. Stimpy’s wire is cut; he’s diving.”

  “Range to Tango 1 from our fish, Benson?”

  “Point eight miles, sir.”

  Nathan looked at the watch on his wrist and counted down the seconds. Point eight miles at 50 knots, that was 50 seconds. The seconds counted down.

  “He’s launched countermeasures, sir,” said Benson. “Fish closing, closing.”

  Nathan watched the second hand ticking down: four, three, two, one.