Verbeck turned to Christine. “Why don’t we check on the status of rescue preparations?”
Christine glanced at Brackman and Berman, to see if they wanted to join her.
“I’ll come along,” Brackman said, as did Berman.
Verbeck led Christine and the two men from the command hut toward an assortment of metal objects, explaining they were components of the Submarine Rescue Diving and Recompression System. Verbeck headed toward two men standing near a twenty-five-foot-long cylindrical submersible that resembled a giant yellow medicine capsule. An umbilical cord and two metal cables led from the top of the submersible to an immense metal A-frame structure over the vehicle.
The two men turned toward them as they approached. Name tags identified the man on the right as Commander Ned Steel from the Undersea Rescue Command, and the other as Peter Tarbottom from Phoenix International. Verbeck led a round of introductions, and Christine noticed Tarbottom’s Australian accent. Verbeck then asked Steel to explain the SRDRS and provide an update on rescue preparations.
“No problem,” Steel replied. “We’ve got fifteen minutes before the first milestone.” He turned to Tarbottom. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
Tarbottom acknowledged, then headed toward men climbing over the A-frame, and Christine listened as Steel explained that the SRDRS, or Submarine Rescue Diving and Recompression System, was actually two systems. The first was the Assessment and Underwater Work System, which was a pilot in an Atmospheric Diving Suit, along with its launch and recovery system. The pilot would be the first in the water, descending to the disabled submarine, where he would inspect the hatch and clear any debris.
The other half of SRDRS was the Submarine Rescue System, which had three main components. The yellow submersible was the Pressurized Rescue Module, or PRM. The second component was the Launch and Recovery System, or LARS, a large hydraulically operated A-frame, which would lift the PRM from the deck cradle and outboard it over the ocean, then lower and retrieve it. The third main component consisted of two decompression chambers for the crew after they were rescued.
The Pressurized Rescue Module was named Falcon, in honor of ASR-2 USS Falcon, which participated in the first successful rescue of men trapped aboard an American submarine: USS Squalus in 1939. Falcon was a remotely operated vehicle guided by a pilot from topside, and could transport eighteen persons — two attendants and sixteen sailors — rescuing them from a depth of up to two thousand feet. The PRM could mate with a submarine resting on the ocean floor at up to a forty-five-degree angle or list due to a skirt on the bottom of Falcon, which could be adjusted to match the angle of the submarine while the PRM remained level.
Falcon could gain access to a submarine pressurized up to five atmospheres absolute due to flooding. Although five ATAs corresponded to a depth of only 132 feet, oxygen toxicity became a problem above five atmospheres, and the crew would die before the SRDRS could arrive on scene. The next component, the Launch and Recovery System, was being assembled, and they would test it momentarily.
The last major component was the Surface Decompression System, which included two hyperbaric chambers that could hold thirty-four persons each: thirty-two rescued sailors plus two attendants to assist personnel during the decompression process. The SRS was the first American system capable of rescuing an entire crew from a pressurized submarine.
Peter Tarbottom approached the group, stopping beside Steel. “We’re ready to outboard unmanned.”
Steel led everyone toward the LARS as he explained, “This is the first test of the system to see if it will operate in the Arctic.”
Before the giant A-frame could be extended over the ocean, or in this case over the hole in the ice yet to be created, they had to solve the problem of what to attach the LARS to so the contraption didn’t topple over when it tried to outboard the PRM. It was normally bolted to supports welded to a ship’s deck, but there was no ship here. So they bolted the LARS directly to the ice. Or rather, through the ice. Holes had been drilled in the ice underneath each LARS mount, and NAVSEA had manufactured long bolts with spring-loaded flanges on the end, essentially giant hollow-wall anchors, which had been inserted through the ice cap. They had just tightened the last bolt and finished connecting the LARS electrical and hydraulic systems.
Steel gave the order and the A-frame’s two lift winches began retracting their cables attached to the top of the PRM. The PRM rose slowly in the air, and when it reached the top of the A-frame, two bayonet spikes snapped into the A-frame, locking the PRM in place. Two massive pistons on each side of the LARS tilted the A-frame outboard until the PRM was extended over the ice. All eyes shifted between the PRM, swaying gently in the air at the top of the A-frame, to the base of the LARS. It remained firmly affixed to the ice.
The bayonet spikes were retracted, and the lift winches slowly lowered the PRM. When the PRM was only a few feet from the ice, Tarbottom’s men stopped the descent, and after a ten-minute hold time, the Australian joined Steel and the rest of the group.
“So far, so good,” he said. “We’re ready to inboard.”
Commander Steel issued a second order, and the winches lifted the twenty-ton submersible upward, then the pistons on each side of the LARS pivoted the PRM back to the inboard position. The evolution was completed flawlessly, and Christine could sense the tension ease as the men congratulated each other.
Steel continued his explanation of the Submarine Rescue System. With the PRM in the inboard position, the hatch on the end of the submersible mated with what looked like a man-sized hamster habitrail. A pressurized flexible manway connected the PRM to the two-story deck transfer lock, which had three exits, one to each of the decompression chambers through additional habitrail tunnels, and a deck access so the PRM could be provisioned between dives.
Tarbottom stopped beside Commander Steel. “The only thing left is the final assembly of the Transfer Under Pressure system”—Tarbottom pointed to the habitrail—“and everything should be squared away by nightfall.”
Steel and Tarbottom seemed pleased with their efforts, but Christine’s eyes went to the patch of ice the PRM had been suspended over. Being able to inboard and outboard was great, but what good would it do them without a hole in the ice?
“What’s the plan for the ice hole?”
Tarbottom and Steel looked to Verbeck, who answered, “That’s my department. We’ve got lots of experience cutting holes in the ice to retrieve torpedoes. Those holes are only three feet wide, while we need a thirty-foot-wide hole for Falcon, but the same process should work. We just need the right equipment, which will arrive soon.”
The radio in Verbeck’s pocket squawked, then called his name. It was the polar bear watch on the west side of the ice station. Something peculiar had appeared on the horizon.
Verbeck bid farewell to Commander Steel and Tarbottom, then led Christine, Brackman, and Berman to the west edge of the camp. The polar bear watch was examining something through his binoculars. He handed them to Verbeck, who scanned the horizon.
“That’s interesting,” he said, then handed the binoculars to Christine.
She surveyed the flat, white landscape, moving slowly to the right until an object appeared. She adjusted the optics and a black, rectangular shape came into focus. She had an idea of what it was, but handed the binoculars to Brackman for him to confirm. It took him a few seconds to locate the object and a few more to come to a conclusion.