“I owe you at least this much, Lou.” They shook hands again, then turned back toward Carter.
Vasiliy Lavrov was a frustrated man. It had been over two weeks since the Jimmy Carter had first arrived in Groton… sixteen days, and half that time was spent in a dry dock. He threw the latest report from the embassy’s observer back on the desk. The man was nearly useless. He had no way of knowing what was going on, even though he spent many hours each day peering across the Thames River. Once the Americans put Carter in a covered graving dock, he no longer had an unobstructed line of sight, and yet he still reported there was evidence work was ongoing.
Rubbing his face to ward off the effects of fatigue, Lavrov struggled to figure out where his analysis may have been flawed. Could it be that he was still right, but mechanical difficulties prevented the spy submarine from heading toward Bolshevik Island? There were plenty of news reports of a problem with the submarine’s main propulsion train, and the Americans did move Carter into two different dry docks. The observer had taken plenty of photos of the submarine as it was moved first into the dock at the submarine base, and then to an Electric Boat graving dock.
Stretching, he tried to understand the Americans’ activities. Was the boat truly suffering from a significant mechanical failure? Or was this just part of a well-run disinformation campaign? Drugov and Komeyev were both convinced the submarine was broken and no longer a concern. Lavrov’s instincts couldn’t accept that; he had to know what was actually happening. Grumbling, he sent an e-mail to the embassy demanding their observer expand his efforts beyond staring at a covered dry dock from across the river. The captain suggested that the man frequent some of the local bars and listen to the workers’ conversation. Perhaps he might learn something that would shed some light on this vexing situation.
13
NEW AND OLD
Cavanaugh tried his best to keep out of the way as they prepared for leaving the dry dock. The excited tone he’d heard in the wardroom now infected the crew’s conversations, although he still heard a lot of speculation about where they were headed. Ensign Truitt brought him to the sub’s office, then disappeared, reappearing while the civilian was just finishing his paperwork. “Here’s your TLD… a portable dosimeter,” he explained, placing it in Cavanaugh’s hand. “Wear it at all times when you’re up and about the boat. Just loop it through your belt.” Truitt pointed to his own on his waist. “But I’d recommend having the case under your belt. You’re less likely to snag it on something. And trust me, there are a lot of somethings to snag on a submarine.”
“Yes, I’ve discovered that,” Cavanaugh replied, reminded by the aches in his shin and shoulder.
Truitt smiled. “So, ready for a quick tour? This won’t be very detailed; it’s just to show you how Jimmy’s laid out.”
“Do you have the time right now?” Cavanaugh wondered. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry.
“My guys are ready. Actually, it was going to be my turn to take her out, and normally I’d need some time to prepare for that, but the skipper decided that my boss, Lieutenant Commander Norris, will take her out of the dry dock.” Truitt scrunched up his face a little and intoned, “‘There will be ample training opportunities later.’”
Cavanaugh had to laugh at the ensign’s impersonation. It was very bad, but still clearly recognizable as CDR Weiss. “Has the Captain ever seen your impression?”
Truitt grinned. “Why do you think I’m still an ensign?” He gestured toward the office. “This is a good place to start. We’re about as far forward as you can get. The only things in front of us are the three main sonar arrays, basically one big ball that is passive, listens only, with a smaller active array under it. The third is a low frequency bow array, a series of hydrophones that wraps around the entire front end of the boat.” He pointed down. “The torpedo room is below us. Follow me.”
It was only a few steps to the control room. Cavanaugh had seen enough submarine movies to recognize it immediately, although it was not as spacious as he’d imagined. It wasn’t manned, of course, but crewmen — and women, he noted — were busy at different terminals. “We’re right under the sail,” Truitt explained, then pointed a single cylindrical pole in the middle of the room. “We only have one traditional periscope now. The other is a photonics mast that doesn’t penetrate the pressure hull. Both feed that console over there, but we can route the output to one of many video displays.” Cavanaugh wanted to ask questions, but Truitt kept moving.
The civilian did his best to listen as he followed the young officer, who moved easily through the passage, barely wide enough for two people to pass each other if they turned sideways. The “bulkheads” and “overhead” were cluttered with boxes and cabling, with faux wood paneling and green-painted metal underneath. Truitt smoothly dodged people and obstructions, while Cavanaugh seemed to mutter “Excuse me” to everyone he met. For their part, the crewmen often answered with, “Welcome aboard!”
Past the control room was the “hab” area, with berthing, the galley, and the wardroom, then the “Ocean Interface Hull Module,” the special one-hundred-foot section that was added during Carter’s construction. It could launch and recover remote vehicles or underwater swimmers, although Truitt said there were no SEALs embarked right now. “I wonder if any will show up before we leave tonight,” he mused aloud, with a sidelong look at Carter’s guest. Cavanaugh remained silent.
Next was a short section of passageway with comparatively empty sides, but strangely enough, a heavily framed glass port in the deck. Truitt invited him to look through it. “This is the tunnel. It connects the ocean interface module with the engine room. That’s the reactor under us. This space is heavily shielded, of course, but don’t lounge around in here if you can help it.” Cavanaugh looked through the yellow-tinted window and saw several large shapes surrounded by pipes. It wasn’t obvious which blob was the reactor. Truitt quickly pointed out the various components. The army engineer still wasn’t certain what he was looking at, but appreciated Truitt’s attempt to identify the bits and pieces. He led Cavanaugh toward the other end of the passage, which opened out into a space three stories high and just as wide. They stood on a grating on the upper level, looking down.
Truitt gestured, pointing aft toward the tangle of piping and machinery. “Everything from here back to the pumpjet belongs to engineering, and has something to do with making us move or keeping the lights on.” He pointed out different parts of the “steam cycle,” starting with two huge valves that sent steam from the reactor compartment, or RC, to the massive turbines, the condensers that converted the steam back into water, and dozens of pumps that tied it all together.
Cavanaugh asked, “Can I come back here when we’re at sea?” He found himself fascinated with seeing an actual nuclear reactor and the machinery that drove this steel monster.
“No problem, Doctor. I’m sure the Engineer will give you permission. And now that we’re back here, let’s visit the aft DC locker and get you acquainted with an EAB.” Responding to the civilian’s blank look, Truitt said, “It means ‘damage control,’ and EAB stands for the emergency air breathing system, a respirator mask that you put on if the atmosphere inside the boat becomes toxic.”