Innes pulled out wraps from his left leg drysuit pocket. He looked at the bad blades and attached the wraps to good blades opposite. Finally, he filmed the prop roots.
“That’s it, Innes, good. Now get your gas and cut off the good blades first.”
“Sir.” He swam back towards the sail along the hull, and the sail came into view, towering upwards. He swam up and dropped into the sail, then attached the lift bag to the gas set. Putting some gas into it, to bring it up and away from the sail, he adjusted the amount of gas so it carried the cylinders.
He set off back to the rear, pulling the bag after him. It took him several minutes to add and vent the gas to bring the cylinders into place.
Innes unfastened the torch, turned on the gas, and it bubbled away upwards. When he set the cutting gas off, it would bubble upwards into the lifting bag and add to the buoyancy. It would be a continuous effort to vent the bag to stop it pulling the torch away.
The torch had a self-ignite system, so he switched it on. The flame spouted out and blew bubbles at its end. Innes found a tie wrap and started cutting through one of the good blades. He knew it would be a battle and it was. Cut blade, vent bag, cut blade. It went on and on.
Finally, he’d cut through the first blade, and he moved back and pulled the blade clear. It fell away into the darkness. Now for the next one.
Innes played the flame on the next blade. It took time, but he got most of the way through. Soon it would be ready to pull away.
“Innes, Chief here.”
He stopped cutting. “Sir?”
“I have the XO here. She wants to speak to you.”
What? That’s odd. What does Boat’s Thong want with me?
Some of the crew called Nikki that after Seaman Vasqez said he’d seen her leave the mid head, the one with a shower installed, in a thong and bra. Then she’d headed forward to her bunk room. Nobody believed him; it was 40 yards and the next bulkhead to her bunk room. Quizzing her female roommates got people nowhere as there was a brick wall of female solidarity. They knew if one of them had her secrets revealed, then all would be next.
“Innes?”
“Yes, sir, what’s wrong?”
“We’ve got an unwelcome visitor,” Nikki said. “Upstairs we have a Kamov Helix, dipping his sonar in. He’s a mile away, but we want to play safe. So, it’s no noise until we call you. Sit there until he goes.”
“Ok, sir, will do.”
He turned the gas off, held onto a blade and hung there. Minutes went by, and the cold started telling on him. He hung in the black, 200 feet down. He knew the cutting wouldn’t be loud, but the bubbles would be an odd sound, and a blade could clank on another while freeing it. He had to wait.
He got to thinking about the mission. What if they needed to get away? They’d use the prop. There’d be no time to warn him. It would spin up and rip him half to death before moving away. He’d be injured, arms or legs wholly or partly cut off. He’d be bleeding to death, the suit ripped open, buoyancy gone.
He remembered the lifting bag. It’d be hard to control, but it would get him to the surface. Then again, bleeding as he would be, limbs partly missing, he’d die up there. Stop it, you damn fool. He told himself not to dwell on it.
Time dragged on. He started to think about the prop starting… Shut up, you idiot.
“Innes?” It was the XO.
“Yes, sir.”
“The Helix is dipping closer. Keep quiet.” He knew it was inevitable this goddamn disk would soon spin up. He thought about standing off, but he knew there was a cross current and it would take him faster than thousands of tons of submarine. He’d never swim back.
Hugging the prop, he willed the Russian helicopter away. Please go. His life depended on it. In the deep cold blackness under the Barents Sea, Innes wrestled with his demons.
“Innes, it’s the Chief.” Thank God. It had been 23 minutes; he’d just checked for what must be the twentieth time.
“Here, sir.”
“The Helix has gone off miles to the west. Start your cutting again.”
“Yes, sir. Thanks, sir.” He started the gas and ignited it again.
He was soon through the good blade, and he pulled it away. He turned and started on the damaged blades.
Finally, he got through the last damaged blade, and when he pulled it away, it fell into the deeps.
He shut the torch off and brought the camera up. He started filming. “Jackson, Innes here. I got them. Filming the prop.”
A minutes later, his earphones sounded. “Chief here. That’s it; good work, Innes. Get yourself back inside.”
“Yes, sir.” Great.
He made his way back to the sail, pulling the lifting bag and gas cylinders behind him. All were loaded into the sail chamber.
He took a final look around outside and closed the hatch after himself, spinning the wheel closed. The water drained away, the hatch was opened, and he handed down his gear and was then bundled onto the companionway floor.
The XO stood there smiling. She looked as beautiful as ever.
“Well done, Innes. Get yourself to the galley and then to your bunk. Your duties are covered for now.”
The boat headed for the Russian Fleet, then turned north and increased revs.
“Sitrep on the prop, Benson?” asked Nathan.
“Sir, we’re noisier now and the acceleration is down, but we’re not in bad shape. She’ll need to go back to Groton for a new prop soon. I think she’s still in the fight.”
Nathan nodded. “Lemineux, ask COMSUBPAC for Operation Second Coming.”
“Sir.”
The boat came to periscope depth and a satellite message was sent. The mast was withdrawn for 15 minutes, then the Communications Officer raised it again.
“Sir, we have confirmation: Operation Second Coming at 10.08 hours.”
Above the icecap, B52s circled, topped up by Pegasus tankers. They turned for Russia with the remaining JASSM, LASSRM and Tomahawks aboard. There’d now be a second, smaller attack on the Northern Fleet.
Nathan looked at Nikki, and she gave him a faint smile and a shrug. They both knew this was it. This was the endgame. They’d win or lose, do or die that day.
General Thomas J ‘Stonewall’ Jackson didn’t fight at the fateful battle of Gettysburg. But for the crew of his namesake, USS Stonewall Jackson, Operation Ninety Degrees North would be their Gettysburg.
21
USS Stonewall Jackson advanced on the Russian Fleet from the west at 8 knots; she was 300 feet deep.
Nathan looked at his wristwatch. The long, thin second hand with its small white disk moved up to the top. It was 09.08 and Operation Second Coming was on.
In the sky, to the north of the Northern Fleet, flew angels of vengeance. The Second Coming had arrived. JASSM and LRASM missiles flew into their targets. Ships were hit and balls of fire and black smoke reached for the sky. Tomahawk cruise missiles flew in from east and west in an attempt to saturate the defences.
Several missiles were taken out by AK-630 CWIS; AA guns blazed away. Battlecruiser Peter the Great spit forth SA-N-9 Gauntlet surface-to-air missiles. But damage and shock were heavy.
It was the distraction Nathan wanted; it was his way in amongst them.
“Sir, approx two miles away from the nearest escort Destroyer, a Udaloy class ship,” reported Benson.
“How much further beyond that is the man?”
“Peter — sorry, Tango one — is six miles east of the escort.”
“Weaps, confirm warload.”
“Tubes one to four Mk48, sir. Tube five, Scooby; tube six, Ren. We had a faulty Tomahawk in VPM tube two, but 49ers is now serviceable.”
He was happy with the weapons mix. “If we deploy a Pointer, Weaps, get a Mk48 in the tube El Rapido.”