Raila’s cell phone vibrated. He answered and received the news he’d been awaiting. They had located the American submarine. Camp Barneo would be established one kilometer away from the new American base camp, and the AN-74s would be taking off within the hour, followed by the AN-124s once Raila’s equipment was loaded. The AN-124s would land at Svalbard Airport in Norway, where his equipment would be ferried to the camp.
He hung up the phone, and as he surveyed his men completing final maintenance checks on AS-34, he realized they were fortunate to have developed new batteries. Unlike the American deep-submergence rescue vehicle, Russia’s Priz class submersibles had a range of thirty-eight kilometers. They didn’t need to establish an ice camp directly over the disabled submarine. Anywhere close would suffice.
41
Depth: 600 feet.
Speed: Ahead Flank.
Captain Murray Wilson leaned over the navigation plot in Control, examining their transit across the Arctic Ocean. In the deep-water basins, Michigan could proceed at maximum speed without fear of hitting the ocean bottom or ice keels descending from above.
In front of Wilson stood Petty Officer Second Class Pat Leenstra, on watch as Quartermaster. The electronics technician was analyzing the ship’s two inertial navigators for error. Once Michigan passed eighty-four degrees north latitude, both had been shifted to Polar Mode to compensate for the reduced effect of the Earth’s rotation. Traveling across the top of the world was always touchy when relying on inertial navigators. For example, when at the North Pole, no matter which direction you turned, you were headed south.
“How are we doing, Leenstra?”
“Good, sir. Both inertial navigators are tracking together.”
Wilson nodded at the good news, then glanced around the quiet Control Room. It was 6 a.m. and watch turnover was in progress. The enlisted watchstanders had already relieved, and the oncoming Officer of the Deck was reviewing the ship’s status with the off-going OOD. Per custom, the on-coming officer was the last member of his watch section to relieve, the turnover occurring as close to the hour as possible.
The two men completed their turnover and Lieutenant DeCrispino announced that he had the Deck and the Conn. As Petty Officer Leenstra entered the event into the ship’s log, Wilson began his tour through the submarine, swinging first through Radio and Sonar.
The tour through Radio was uneventful, aside from the Radioman of the Watch noting they were approaching the end of their broadcast window. Wilson had accounted for that in his Night Orders, which laid out the schedule for the next day. Lieutenant DeCrispino would slow and come shallow, allowing their floating wire antenna to rise close enough to the ice to receive VLF transmissions. A quick stop in Sonar confirmed what Wilson already knew. They held no contacts, and hadn’t since they’d entered the Bering Strait.
With his tour of Operations Compartment Upper Level complete, Wilson dropped down one level to the officer staterooms. The XO’s door was closed, as were the doors to the three-man staterooms shared by the other twelve officers. Wilson continued to Operations Compartment Third Level, where the cooks were wrapping up breakfast, and after a quick tour through the Torpedo Room in Lower Level, Wilson felt the submarine tilt upward and the vibrations in the deck ease. Lieutenant DeCrispino was slowing and coming shallow to copy the broadcast.
Wilson continued his tour, heading aft toward the Missile Compartment. In Michigan’s previous life, he would have stopped in Missile Control Center, reviewing the status of the ship’s twenty-four nuclear warhead — tipped missiles. But MCC was now outfitted with the Attack Tomahawk Weapon System, and there would be no missile launches while under the ice. Wilson bypassed MCC and entered the Missile Compartment on the port side, by Missile Tube Two.
Tubes One and Two had been converted into access hatches to the Dry Deck Shelters attached to Michigan’s Missile Deck. In the other twenty-two tubes, Tomahawk seven-pack launchers had been installed, arming Michigan with 154 Tomahawk missiles. However, each of the Dry Deck Shelters covered two of the Tomahawk tubes, reducing Michigan’s available arsenal to eighteen tubes. The Tomahawk launchers took up only the top one-third of each tube, and the remaining space had been configured for various uses. Two of the missile tubes had been converted into magazines, which stored over sixty tons of ordnance — every type of weapon and explosive a SEAL team could require.
In the level beneath Wilson, the bulk of the crew slept in nine-man bunkrooms between the missile tubes, while the SEALs and Navy divers slept in berthing installed in second level during the submarine’s conversion to SSGN. Wilson headed down the port side of the submarine toward the Engine Room, spotting yellow light leaking from one of the SEAL bunkrooms. He stopped and rapped his knuckles on the side of tube Twelve, then pulled back the dark brown curtain covering the entryway. In the top of three bunks, Lieutenant Jake Harrison laid prone, the light above his bunk illuminating a book in his hands.
Harrison looked over. “Good morning, Captain.”
He swung his feet over the edge of his bunk and dropped onto the deck. The forty-two-year-old prior-enlisted SEAL was an imposing physical specimen; six feet, two hundred pounds, with deep blue eyes set within a chiseled face. Over the last few days, Wilson had met with Harrison and Commander John McNeil, who was in charge of Michigan’s SEAL detachment. They had discussed the capabilities of McNeil’s SEALs and Navy divers and how to rescue North Dakota’s crew, or at least transfer emergency supplies aboard, should the rescue from topside fail.
“Morning, Lieutenant,” Wilson replied. “You’re up early.”
“I just finished working out,” he replied, “then I decided to read a while before the day got started.”
Wilson was about to head aft when he spotted the photos taped to the top of Harrison’s rack; pictures of his wife and daughter, plus one of another woman. She had one arm in a sling and a crutch under the other.
“Is that Christine O’Connor?” Wilson asked.
Harrison followed Wilson’s gaze. “Yes, sir. That’s when we were in Guam, waiting for Michigan to pull in.”
Christine had accompanied the SEAL team into Beijing, and she and Harrison were the only two who survived, neither without injury. Wilson’s eyes went to Harrison’s shoulder. “How’s the arm?”
“Good as new.”
There was an awkward silence as Wilson debated whether to ask Harrison about his relationship with O’Connor. Having a photo of another woman taped to your rack, beside your wife’s, was unusual. Finally, he decided to ask.
“Rumor has it you and Christine were engaged.”
“We were,” Harrison replied. “But that was twenty-four years ago, and we’ve gone our separate ways. She’s a good friend now. Nothing more.”
There was another awkward silence, interrupted by the Messenger of the Watch, who pulled to a halt behind Wilson, almost passing by the Captain in his haste. He handed Wilson the message board. “New orders, sir.”
Wilson flipped through the OPORD, reading the pertinent details. They had located North Dakota, and Michigan had been directed to rendezvous at prescribed coordinates.
As he handed the board back to the Messenger, Michigan tilted downward and Wilson felt the vibration in the deck return. Lieutenant DeCrispino had ordered the submarine deep again, and back to ahead flank.