42
With his nuclear attack submarine at periscope depth just outside the Marginal Ice Zone, Captain Second Rank Josef Buffanov sat at his desk in his stateroom, reviewing the weekly reports. Since receipt of the Commanding Officer Only message three days ago, he had reflected on the mission he had been assigned. It was only a precautionary measure, he told himself, and hopefully the plan would not be executed. If the order was received, however, Severodvinsk was well armed for the task.
There was a knock on his stateroom door, and after Buffanov acknowledged, the door opened to reveal the Communication Post Messenger.
“Captain,” the young senior seaman began, “we have received another Commanding Officer Only message.”
Buffanov arrived in the Communication Post a moment later, stopping by the printers as the radioman looked up. Buffanov announced, “Ready,” and a single sheet of paper emerged. As he read it, his fear was confirmed. Severodvinsk was being called into service.
He left Communications and entered the Command Post at the same time his First Officer, Captain Third Rank Anton Novikoff, arrived. Novikoff had obviously been informed of the second Commanding Officer Only message. There were few things Buffanov kept from his First Officer. Buffanov eyed Novikoff as the younger man waited by the navigation table. At the proper time, he would seek his counsel. Until then, he would not reveal their mission.
Buffanov ripped off the bottom of the message and handed it to Novikoff. “Have the Navigating Officer plot a course to this position.”
Novikoff read the coordinates, no doubt realizing they were headed deep under the polar ice cap. He looked up at Buffanov, waiting for him to explain why. Buffanov did not amplify.
“Yes, Captain. I will have the Navigating Officer plot our new course. When will we head under the ice?”
Buffanov considered his First Officer’s question. The timeline for Severodvinsk was fluid and uncertain. However, the sooner they arrived, the better.
“Come down from periscope depth and station the Ice Detail. Inform me when we are ready to enter the Marginal Ice Zone.”
43
Captain Second Rank Matvey Baczewski sat in the Captain’s chair in the Officers’ Mess, with a half-dozen of his senior officers flanking each side of the table. Vepr’s Weapons Officer was at the front of the Mess, standing beside a flat panel monitor, reviewing the features of their 533-millimeter torpedoes and the optimum settings. Shooting torpedoes under the ice was challenging, and over the shallow Barents Shelf, even more so. The torpedo would receive many false returns. The surface reflections from the ice canopy would be strong, and there would also be bottom bounces. If the settings were improper, their torpedoes could follow the reflections and smash into the surface ice or ocean bottom.
Complicating matters were the random ice keels. Even if the settings were optimal, their torpedoes might interpret an ice keel as a valid target. Of course, they could instruct their torpedoes to ignore immobile objects, but then they would also ignore a submarine playing possum against the ice.
The communication panel on the bulkhead buzzed, and a glance at the red light told Baczewski it was from the Communication Post. Vepr was at periscope depth just outside the Marginal Ice Zone, monitoring communications as directed. An important message must have been received for officer training to be interrupted.
Baczewski picked up the handset. Another Commanding Officer Only message had been received; one he had been waiting for.
A moment later, Baczewski was in the Communication Post, standing by one of the printers. “Ready,” he said, and the message slid out. As he read it, he realized the basic plan hadn’t changed. Their target, however, was a surprise. And she was heavily armed. Baczewski thought for a moment on the potential reasons they would engage this target, then decided it didn’t matter. He had accepted the mission from Fleet Admiral Ivanov, and Vepr would not fail.
Baczewski pulled a blank sheet of paper from the printer and wrote down the coordinates, then headed into the Command Post.
“Station the Ice Detail,” he said to his Watch Officer as he handed him the sheet of paper. “Plot a course to this position.”
44
In the northwest corner of the Kola Peninsula, not far from the coast and only ten kilometers from the Norwegian border, Captain First Rank Josef Klokov took a break from reviewing paperwork, gazing out his window at the sprawling military base. For the sake of external appearances, Klokov’s unit was a component of the 200th Independent Motor Rifle Brigade, and his men wore the same uniform with no special designation. However, they were no ordinary soldiers. His unit was one of two highly trained Polar Spetsnaz brigades.
Klokov’s Executive Officer, Captain Second Rank Gleb Leonov, entered Klokov’s office with a message folder in hand. Klokov accepted the folder and read the directive. His unit was being deployed. The Russian ice camp setup had commenced and suitable habitats were being constructed for his men.
“Your orders, Captain?” Leonov asked.
The message was deliberately vague, but Admiral Ivanov had explained the details during his visit. If the Americans won the race to rescue the two submarine crews, Klokov’s unit would be employed to … rectify the situation.
The American ice camp would likely not be armed, aside from the polar bear watches. A single Spetsnaz platoon of twenty-four men would be sufficient for the task. However, they would also need to board the American submarine, so he decided two platoons would be required. As far as timing went, the Russian ice camp accommodations would be ready by nightfall.
“Prepare two platoons,” Klokov said. “We deploy tonight at dusk.”
45
“North Dakota is directly beneath us.”
Standing atop the ice floe with Paul Leone, Vance Verbeck acknowledged the report from his ice pilot. Earlier this morning, after detecting the sonar pulse from the American submarine, personnel had flown north to determine a more accurate position, drilling holes in the ice every five hundred yards, dropping hydrophones to listen for North Dakota’s sonar pulse. After cutting three holes, they triangulated the submarine’s position, and Verbeck was now standing directly over the disabled submarine.
He had already confirmed the ice flow was ten-feet-thick multiyear ice, capable of supporting an ice camp and even more important, the three-hundred-ton Submarine Rescue Diving and Recompression System. To differentiate between the two camps during the transition, Verbeck had decided to give the new ice camp a different name. He was partial to the name Nautilus, America’s first nuclear-powered submarine, and seeing how the new installation would be much larger than a typical camp, with over one hundred additional submarine rescue personnel, Verbeck decided to name the new location Ice Station Nautilus.
Verbeck shielded his eyes from the mid-afternoon sun as he examined the activity on the ice floe. Their bulldozer had been airlifted to the new camp and was busy plowing a landing strip, and a dozen helicopters hovered nearby, all but one carrying a plywood hut strapped in slings, with the last helicopter carrying a payload of electronic equipment they would need right away.