Harrison handed the radio back to Steel, then stepped outside to let off some steam in the cold air. In the distance, the PRM Launch and Recovery System was inactive. The large A-frame was still in the outboard position, with the sheared umbilical cable swaying in the light Arctic breeze, a stark reminder of the PRM’s fate.
104
Mikhail Grushenko leaned forward in the Priz class deep submergence rescue vehicle, watching the sonar display over the pilot’s shoulder as the submersible descended toward the ocean floor. Seated beside Grushenko and behind the co-pilot, their medic, Pavel Danilov, kept himself busy, checking for the fourth time the atmosphere monitoring equipment they would use at the end of their long journey. As they approached the bottom of the Barents Sea, a white blip appeared on the sonar display, just ahead and a few degrees to starboard. The pilot activated the forward port thruster, and AS-34 turned slowly toward the object.
The angle of the submersible finally leveled off, and AS-34 cruised thirty meters above the ocean floor. Grushenko shifted his eyes from the sonar screen to the video display as the co-pilot brought the camera and external lighting systems on-line. In the distance, Yury Dolgoruky slowly materialized, its bow buried in the silt and the stern rising from the bottom.
AS-34 passed slowly over Dolgoruky from astern, the bright lights from the submersible aimed downward, illuminating the stricken submarine. As they glided above, Grushenko spotted a large hole in Dolgoruky’s stern, the jagged and twisted edges of the hull bent inward. AS-34 continued forward, slowing to a hover over the Fifth Compartment hatch, where the co-pilot adjusted the angle and list of the submersible until it matched that of the submarine. The pilot lowered AS-34 onto the submarine’s deck, then the co-pilot pumped the water out from the cavity between the submersible and submarine hatches.
It was not long before the hatch beneath AS-34 was opened, and Grushenko dropped down onto Dolgoruky’s hull. Danilov handed him a hammer, and Grushenko banged on the submarine’s hatch, transmitting the prescribed tap codes.
There was no response.
Danilov passed the hatch-opening tool to Grushenko, who inserted it into the center divot of the hatch fairing. He twisted the tool firmly, and the hatch mechanism broke free. Grushenko turned the tool slowly until the hatch popped open a fraction of an inch.
There was a whistling sound as stale, cold air flowed into AS-34.
Grushenko monitored the inflow of air with concern. The submarine compartment had been pressurized, which meant it was at least partially flooded. If the compartment pressure had equalized with the ocean depth, they would not be able to gain access; Grushenko and the other men in AS-34 could not be pressurized to twenty atmospheres.
The pressure inside the submersible increased, approaching the limit where they would have to abandon their effort and shut AS-34’s lower hatch. But then the rate slowed and pressure steadied at five atmospheres absolute. The compartment below was only partially flooded.
Grushenko resumed twisting the T-bar until the hatch popped open a few inches. He reached down and lifted it to the open-latched position, then aimed his flashlight into the darkness.
There was no one.
He lowered the sampling tube into the submarine and Danilov activated the atmosphere monitoring equipment. The oxygen and carbon dioxide levels were marginal, but sufficient to allow access. Grushenko felt his way down the ladder into the dark, frigid compartment.
Grushenko landed on the sloping deck, and he panned his flashlight slowly around the compartment, the beam of light reflecting off ice-coated surfaces. At the forward end of the compartment was an open watertight door; another one aft. While he waited for Danilov, he called out, then listened for a response. Only a low, metallic groan greeted him. The submarine was above crush depth, but its hull had been compromised by the explosion. They had to move fast.
Danilov descended, then headed forward while Grushenko checked each level of the compartment they had entered. There was no one present. He headed aft, into the Reactor Compartment Tunnel. The bulkheads were cold — there was no residual heat from the reactor. He traveled farther aft, straining to detect signs of life. As he entered the next compartment, his flashlight illuminated a human figure at the end of a long walkway, sitting on the deck beside a closed watertight door. The person was leaning against the bulkhead, knees drawn to their chest and head resting on their knees.
Grushenko hurried down the walkway and knelt beside the figure. He lifted the person’s head up — a woman. Her eyes were closed and her face was pasty white; her lips blue. In the minus-two-degree air, her skin felt warm. He checked for a pulse on her wrist. There was none.
He placed the woman’s head on her knees again, then pulled the radio from its holster and called Danilov.
“I found someone,” Grushenko said.
As he waited for the medic, he shined his light over the edge of the walkway. The compartment was partially flooded, water almost reaching the deck plates. He brought his light back to the upper level and examined the closed watertight door beside the woman. Water was seeping past the door seal. The compartments aft were completely flooded.
A shaft of light approached, cutting through the darkness. Danilov stopped beside Grushenko.
“Did you find any survivors?” Grushenko asked.
“There is no one else,” Danilov replied.
His light examined the human figure on the deck. “Is it the woman?”
“Yes.”
“Is she alive?”
“I could not find a pulse, but she is still warm.”
Danilov knelt beside the woman, checking for signs of respiration as he placed two fingers against her carotid artery. After a moment, he said, “She has a pulse. Very faint, only thirty beats per minute.”
Grushenko slid his flashlight into his pocket, then lifted the woman from the deck, cradling her in his arms. The two men headed toward the escape hatch, with Danilov illuminating the way.
105
An hour after receiving the American president’s phone call, Yuri Kalinin stared across his desk at Fleet Admiral Georgiy Ivanov, Commander-in-Chief of the Russian Navy, and Admiral Oleg Lipovsky, Commander of Russia’s Northern Fleet. Along the side of his office sat Boris Chernov, Russia’s minister of defense. One of these men was responsible for deploying the Spetsnaz unit and Vepr’s attack on Michigan.
It was Lipovsky who professed his innocence first. “I assure you, Mr. President, that I was not responsible for issuing these orders. These units attacked without my direction.”
“You expect me to believe,” Kalinin replied, “that a Polar Spetsnaz unit deployed to the ice cap, and a Northern Fleet submarine was operating in the vicinity of the ice camps without your knowledge?”
“That is a different question,” Lipovsky replied. “Of course I was aware of their movements, but I was not aware of their assignments.”
Kalinin leaned forward. “Then who gave the orders?”
Lipovsky ran his finger along the inside of his shirt collar while he searched for an appropriate answer. Finally, he replied. “I do not know.”
Kalinin leaned back in his chair. Lipovsky was lying. He had either given the orders or knew who did, and was crafting his answers to avoid implicating the guilty party.
“Let me rephrase the question,” Kalinin said. “Besides you, who else could have given those orders?”
Kalinin watched Lipovsky carefully. The obvious answer was one of the two other men in the room. But Lipovsky did not glance in Ivanov’s direction, nor did he look at Defense Minister Chernov. There was another possibility, however. Rear Admiral Leonid Shimko, Commander of 12th Squadron, could have given the order to Vepr. The submarine was under his command. But that scenario was more alarming. The Polar Spetsnaz unit was not under his purview, which meant there was at least one other person involved; a conspiracy willing to use military force without the president’s authorization.