“One diver has already been injured when his tether went momentarily slack and then snapped back as the floating workshop rolled. Thank God he was in an atmospheric diving suit and we were able to haul him to the surface immediately.”
Gorokhov recalled how Apalkov had fought fervently during the planning meetings for the use of atmospheric diving suits, rather than the more traditional saturation diving approach. In the diving suits, the men didn’t have to worry about the pressure effects normally associated with deep diving as the suits were kept at atmospheric pressure. In addition, the dry, comfortable environment meant that they could work longer without having to rest and recuperate. The disadvantages were that men in diving suits didn’t have the same range of motion and control as a saturation diver, and the suits themselves were expensive. But in the end, Apalkov won the argument by showing how the project could be completed faster if the probability of diver injury, or death, were minimized.
“Very well, Captain,” conceded Gorokhov. “Cease unloading operations and recover the divers. What do you intend to do about the launch tube?”
Apalkov chuckled over the airwaves. “I’ll park it on the bottom, sir. The winds would have to reach hurricane force before they’ll be able to move this twenty-ton son of a sewer tube.”
The submarine approached the Severnaya Zemlya archipelago from the northwest, passing by Komsomolets Island first, then October Revolution Island, and finally Bolshevik Island. Weiss kept Jimmy Carter in deep water and well away from the conventional twelve-mile limit on this first pass. Paralleling the major islands’ coastlines from twenty nautical miles out enabled Weiss to get a good look at the Russian activity near the planned search areas. Using the edge of the pack ice as cover, Carter swept by at twelve knots, the sonar arrays scanning the area all around them. From the sound of things, it was really an ugly mess up on top. The background noise was deafening as massive chunks of polar ice violently smashed into each other. Weiss’s senior sonar operator described the acoustic environment as akin to being inside a cement mixer. Fortunately, the two towed arrays were largely immune to the higher-frequency ruckus and had no trouble picking up the two ships to the south.
Weiss looked down at the plot that Malkoff had started as soon as the Russians were detected. All the bearing lines crossed the same spot — the ships were stationary. Using a pair of dividers, Malkoff measured the distance from Bolshevik Island.
“Looks like they’re anchored about fifteen thousand yards northwest of Cape Baranova, Skipper. Right at the entrance to the Shokal’skogo Strait,” remarked Malkoff, tapping on the chart.
“Easy for you to say!” Weiss shot back with a smile. “That’s a bit of a tongue twister.”
“Not to worry, sir. I’ll have you pronouncing it perfectly by the time you give the mission brief.”
Weiss shook his head in feigned exasperation then, pointing at the crossed bearings, asked, “Is this location consistent with what you used to anchor the search pattern?”
“Yes, sir. This estimate matches reasonably well with Toledo’s reporting before she disappeared. I just need a couple of hours to refine the anchor point, revise the search plan, and get it to Thing 2 for downloading into the UUVs.” Malkoff pointed toward Lieutenant Junior Grade Steven Lawson sitting at the third fire control console. Lawson and Lieutenant Benjamin Ford were the two officers responsible for working with the “thingies,” a shortened form of “thingamajigs” the executive officer liked to use when describing the unmanned underwater vehicles. Naturally, Segerson referred to Ford and Lawson as Thing 1 and Thing 2.
“Okay, Nav, two hours,” Weiss insisted. “I want to get this search started ASAP.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Weiss walked back to the periscope stand, reached up, and depressed the intercom switch. “Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”
“Conn, Sonar,” squawked the speaker. “Hold two contacts. Sierra three, classified as a nuclear-powered icebreaker, bears one eight one degrees, and Sierra four, classified as an auxiliary, is at one eight three degrees.”
“Sonar, Conn, aye.” Satisfied, Weiss turned and motioned for Segerson to join him at the navigation plot. “Okay, XO, let’s continue our run to the northeast, to Cape Sandy, and then turn north and clear datum.”
“Understood, Skipper. Do you still intend to send in a status report?”
“I’d like to, provided we can find a semi-quiet spot to raise a mast without it getting scrunched.”
Segerson looked skeptical, but said nothing. Weiss picked up on his executive officer’s reservations. “Yeah, I know, Commodore Mitchell said to treat this mission like any other, but we both know that’s not how it’s being viewed back at the head shed,” said Weiss quietly.
“Skipper, President Hardy was a submarine commanding officer. He’d understand, no, he’d expect that we’d stay silent. Especially this close to the bad guys’ backyard.” Segerson’s tone was respectful, but insistent.
“He’s the least of our worries, Josh, for the very reasons you gave.” Weiss paused as he considered his next move. “Look, if the situation isn’t conducive to sending a quick message, then we don’t and move on. But if we can do so safely, I think it would be a good idea.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Segerson. “I’ll have the Commo get started as soon as we stand down from general quarters.”
General Aleksandr Trusov listened carefully as Vice Admiral Gorokhov gave his report. The minister of defense had been briefed on the deteriorating weather situation in the far north earlier, but Gorokhov’s message put meaning behind the sterile maps with wind speed and barometric pressure. Unfortunately, the message’s content was unwelcome news.
“Comrade General, we nearly lost control of the last twenty-ton launch tube due to the high swells. Captain Apalkov only just prevented it from hitting the launcher complex. I don’t think I need to explain how disastrous that would have been.”
Trusov sat back in his chair with a mixture of alarm and relief; he chased out the mental picture of him having to tell Fedorin that Project Dragon would be delayed for several months. The very idea sent shivers up his spine.
“No, Nikolai Vasil’evich, you don’t have to explain it to me. I am well aware of how painful such an event would have been. And as unpleasant as it is for me to say this, you did the right thing by securing the launch tube unloading. I will have to find a way to break this unfortunate development to the president as gently as possible. He doesn’t take disappointing news very well. Especially in regard to Project Drakon — he asked, again, if there was anything that could be done to speed the construction along. He raised the possibility of sending more workers to you so that you could pick up the pace.”
Gorokhov took a deep breath, fighting the urge to howl in frustration; it would have been disrespectful and futile. The Russian Federation president hadn’t met a law of nature that he didn’t think could be cajoled into turning a blind eye to their activities. The admiral recalled an earlier meeting where Fedorin complained about the inconvenience of gravity.
“Comrade Defense Minister—” Gorokhov started to protest, but Trusov cut him off.
“Yes, Admiral, most of us are well aware that just adding bodies to a project doesn’t mean the rate of construction will increase markedly… if at all. Particularly when the project involves a rather small structure almost two hundred meters underwater.”