They had enough food for several months, but needed electricity to make water and keep the air breathable. Without power, they could last a week, no more. They had to snorkel or figure out how to make the battery last until they restored the condensate pumps and a turbine generator.
Tolbert decided to give it another try. “We’re going to try to break through the ice again. “Co-Pilot, vent all Main Ballast Tanks. Pilot, hover at three hundred feet.”
As the Pilot tapped in the ordered depth, the XO asked, “Why three hundred?”
“We’re going to come up faster than authorized and hit the ice with more force.”
“How fast?”
“Eighty feet per minute.”
The XO ran his hand through his wet hair. “If we don’t break through, we’ll damage the sail and most, if not all, of our masts and antennas.”
“If we don’t break through, we’ve got bigger problems.”
The Co-Pilot opened the Main Ballast Tank vents and North Dakota descended, steadying up at three hundred feet.
“Co-Pilot, increase up-angle to five degrees.” Tolbert hoped to spare the aft section of the sail, where the snorkel mast was located, from damage.
Tolbert ordered, “Line up Emergency Blow to all Main Ballast Tanks.” This time, they would create the maximum buoyancy to push the sail through the ice.
Shortly after the submarine’s angle increased to five up, the Co-Pilot reported, “Lined up Emergency Blow to all Main Ballast Tanks.”
Tolbert slipped the 1-MC microphone from its clip and informed the crew. He finished by directing all hands to brace for impact, then surveyed the faces of his XO and Engineer. They had nothing to add, so he turned toward the front of the Control Room.
“Co-Pilot, establish an eight-zero-feet-per-minute ascent rate.”
The Co-Pilot began pumping water from the variable ballast tanks, and North Dakota started rising.
The Pilot announced, “Two hundred feet,” then, “one hundred feet.”
After passing seven-zero feet, North Dakota hit the ice hard, the impact accompanied by a metallic crunching sound. There was no doubt the sail had been damaged, but hopefully they had cracked the ice this time.
“Co-Pilot, Emergency Blow,” Tolbert ordered.
As the high-pressure air flowed into the ballast tanks, Tolbert watched the depth gage. North Dakota bounced down again, this time ten feet. The submarine surged upward, hitting the ice again. As the Emergency Blow increased the submarine’s buoyancy, Tolbert heard metallic groans from above. North Dakota was straining, pushing against the ice canopy.
Air spilled out of the ballast tanks again and Tolbert secured the blow. The groans from above were louder now, no longer masked by the sound of the high-pressure air. The sail was deforming. Thankfully, North Dakota didn’t have hull-penetrating periscopes and Tolbert didn’t need to worry about flooding into the Forward Compartment from around periscope barrels.
He checked the depth gage. There was no change.
Tolbert waited a few minutes before concluding their second attempt had failed. The ice was too thick. His shoulders slumped in defeat as he ordered the Co-Pilot to vent all Main Ballast Tanks. The Co-Pilot opened the vents, and as air escaped, reducing North Dakota’s buoyancy, the metallic groans ceased.
“Co-Pilot. Maintain the submarine five-zero thousand pounds positively buoyant.”
Rather than pick a depth and float there, Tolbert decided to stay where they were, pressed against the polar ice cap. It was as good a place as any.
Having failed to break through the ice, Tolbert’s thoughts turned to Dolgoruky. “Sonar Supervisor, do you have any indication of what happened to the Russian submarine?”
Chief Bush replied, “We’ll pull up the broadband recording and see what we’ve got.”
Petty Officer Thurlow selected the point where the two submarines collided, then hit play. The sounds of scraping and twisting metal were soon replaced with silence. Tolbert listened as the recording played on, and about a minute later, there was a deep rumbling sound that lasted a few seconds. Bush looked toward Tolbert, the conclusion evident in his eyes.
The Russian submarine had plowed into the ocean floor.
It was quiet in Control again, and the Engineer broke the uncomfortable silence. “The reactor is still up, but it’s not doing us any good without the ability to steam the Engine Room. I recommend we shut down and secure as much equipment as possible.”
“I concur,” Tolbert said. “Shut down the reactor. As far as securing equipment, we’re turning off everything. And I mean everything. All tactical systems and even atmosphere control equipment. That’s the only way the battery will last long enough to repair a condensate pump. For atmosphere control, we’ll bleed oxygen from the banks and scrub carbon dioxide using emergency CO2 curtains.”
The Engineer acknowledged, and as he headed aft, Tolbert realized their predicament was grim, but the resolution simple. They had to repair a condensate pump before the battery ran out.
It was a race against time.
12
In the yellow emergency lighting, Captain Stepanov picked his way through the crowded compartment, checking on his men as he evaluated his submarine. Dolgoruky had settled on the bottom of the Barents Sea at a twenty-degree down-angle, its bow buried in the silt, with a fifteen-degree list to port. The compartment had shifted to emergency lighting, indicating the Engine Room was down. The good news was the battery was still functioning and hadn’t been shorted out by the flooding.
Stepanov stopped beside Senior Michman Andrei Popovich, the Torpedo Division Leading Petty Officer, who had donned a set of sound-powered phones, establishing communications with the rest of the submarine. Compartments Two and Three were flooded, but Compartments Four through Nine, in addition to Compartment One, were habitable.
The reactor had shut down upon impact with the bottom, and Reactor Department personnel were determining the extent of damage. However, it didn’t matter. The Engine Room condensers had fouled after Dolgoruky settled on the ocean bottom, after the Main Seawater pumps sucked in too much silt. They could not start up the reactor.
There was a modicum of good news, however. They had completed a muster of Dolgoruky’s crew. There were fifty-seven personnel in the aft compartments, and forty-five men in Compartment One, which meant Stepanov’s entire crew had evacuated to safety. There was only one serious injury — Stepanov’s First Officer. Pavlov was lying on a makeshift bed on the empty torpedo decoy stow, where Dolgoruky’s Medical Officer, Captain of the Medical Service Ivan Kovaleski, was tending to him. His head was wrapped in white gauze to stop the bleeding, but a red stain had already seeped through.
“How is he?” Stepanov asked.
“Stable, for now,” Kovaleski replied. “However, I cannot determine the extent of his injury. Hopefully it’s only a severe concussion and not a fractured skull with internal bleeding. Time will tell.”
As Stepanov nodded his understanding, his Chief Ship Starshina, Egor Lukin, joined Stepanov and Kovaleski. “The inventories are complete,” Lukin said. “Food is not an issue and we have enough water for one week.”