Tolbert wasn’t looking forward to the decision. Running a scrubber would drain the battery, leaving insufficient power for start-up, which was their only hope of long-term survival. It was a Catch-22 situation. Start a scrubber to save their lives, but seal their fate in the process.
They needed to restore power, which was held up by the Condensate System repairs.
“How much longer, Eng?”
Swenson replied, “My best guess is … twenty-four hours.”
32
In the upper level of Compartment One, Captain Nicholai Stepanov pulled himself to his feet, leaving behind his Chief Ship Starshina, asleep on the deck beside him with his back against a torpedo. He retrieved a water bottle from inside his survival suit and took a small sip. Now that temperature in the compartment had dropped below zero degrees Centigrade, he kept the bottle inside his suit to keep the water from freezing. He took a small sip for good reason; they had enough water bottles for each man to receive one more.
Stepanov surveyed the dimly lit compartment. Aside from the faint glow from Captain Kovaleski’s flashlight, tending to Stepanov’s still unconscious First Officer, it was dark in upper level. Had he checked his watch, it would have told him it was 7 a.m., time to begin a new day. But only a few men were stirring. He figured that was best, minimizing the production of carbon dioxide. They had enough air regeneration cartridges to last another day.
Stepanov reached for his lantern and began his round. He dropped down to middle level, where the men huddled around the air regeneration unit. He checked each man, talking for a moment with those awake. He did his best to project a positive outlook, but had few encouraging words. He could not hide the obvious facts from his men; Russia would not notice Dolgoruky was missing for another two months, and so far, there was no sign anyone was looking for the American submarine or that it had even sunk nearby.
He finished his round, then returned to upper level and checked on his First Officer, still in his makeshift bed on an empty torpedo stow. Kovaleski was tending to him, and as the Medical Officer turned to greet the approaching light, Stepanov could see the dark circles under his eyes. Unlike the rest of Dolgoruky’s crew, Kovaleski was exhausted. He made constant rounds through the compartment, checking on the men and deciding who needed more time around the air regeneration unit based on their symptoms.
“How is he doing?” Stepanov asked.
Kovaleski glanced at Pavlov before answering, “There is no change.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Without knowing the extent of his injuries, I cannot tell.”
Stepanov sensed the helplessness in his Medical Officer’s voice. He and Kovaleski were in similar situations; both were responsible for the crew, and each knew the almost certain outcome.
“You are doing an excellent job,” Stepanov said. “We are fortunate to have you as our Medical Officer.”
Kovaleski simply nodded.
Stepanov returned to his spot beside his Chief Ship Starshina and slid down to the deck, placing his back against the cold metal skin of the torpedo again, and his emergency lantern beside him. He zipped his exposure suit tight around his face, then turned off the light.
33
The bright afternoon sun reflected off the white landscape, but Vance Verbeck didn’t notice inside the windowless plywood command hut. He was leaning over Alyssa Martin’s shoulder, examining the display for the above-ice sonar array, spread atop the polar ice cap a few miles to the north. Sitting beside Alyssa, Scott Walworth spoke into his microphone, transmitting again over RATS, their Remote Acoustic Transmission System, lowered through the hole in the command hut floor, then listened for a response.
They had been transmitting on the command hut RATS throughout the night and into the morning, as well as on a second RATS deployed with the above-ice array, its hydrophone lowered through a hole drilled in the ice each time the array was moved. After transmitting on RATS, they would listen for a response on the array.
The size of their above-ice array had been quadrupled for this trip to the polar ice cap, cobbling together their primary and backup arrays and adding in the spare hydrophones, expanding their search area from four to sixteen square miles. Still, they had 120,000 miles to cover, which would take a mere 7,500 searches. At their current pace, they could conduct six searches a day, which meant it would take three and a half years to search the entire area. Quite an improvement from their original eighty-year estimate, but a sobering fact nonetheless.
Verbeck checked the map taped to the command hut wall. Their plan was to advance the array straight north from North Dakota’s last known position until they reached the edge of the Barents Shelf, then head back toward Camp Nautilus on either the east or west side.
Alyssa looked up at Verbeck. “There’s no response. I’m ready to move the array.”
34
Paul Tolbert stepped into the Reactor Compartment Tunnel, picking his way through the mattresses jammed on the passageway deck. After temperature stabilized at three degrees below zero, hypothermia had become an issue, and the Doc recommended the most affected personnel sleep in the warmest compartment. Tolbert examined his men as he passed through; they were bundled in SEIE suits and green foul-weather jackets, then layered beneath as many blankets the rest of the crew could spare. So far so good, though. No one had suffered permanent injuries.
Tolbert entered the Engine Room, then climbed down into Engine Room Forward. He stopped beside the Engineer and Chief Moran as Petty Officers Brandon and Thompson completed the final assembly of the controller and condensate pump. The repairs had been completed none too soon; they had just expended their last carbon dioxide absorber.
Thompson stepped back from the controller. He didn’t bother trying to close the cabinet cover. With the number of jumpers installed, bypassing bad circuit cards and cutting in crude replacements, the cover wouldn’t close. Brandon finished assembling the condensate pump, then stood, stretching out his back. All eyes turned to Chief Moran, who had inspected the work as it progressed.
“We’re ready to give it a whirl, Captain.”
They couldn’t run the pump for long, because the condensate system was still frozen and there was no water to pump, but they could determine if it worked.
Tolbert turned to the Engineer. “Shut the battery and port condensate breakers.”
The Engineer gave the order to Petty Officer Brandon, who donned a sound-powered phone headset and relayed the orders to Engine Room Upper Level and the Forward Compartment, where electricians were standing by to shut the breakers.
A moment later, Brandon reported, “The battery and port condensate breakers are shut.”
The three electricians turned to examine the controller, hoping for a lack of smoke. There was no visible problem, so Brandon approached the condensate pump switch, turning to his Chief for direction.
Tolbert felt the tension in the air.
“Put it in slow speed,” Moran ordered.
Brandon reached out and rested his hand on the switch for a moment, as if saying a silent prayer, then twisted it to SLOW.
The pump lurched to life with a squeal that quickly faded, replaced by a steady whirr. After thirty seconds, Moran said, “Secure the pump.”