It wasn’t long before the ADS was suspended over the ice hole, then began its descent. Christine watched the pilot, his face visible through the bulbous glass vision dome of the ADS helmet, disappear into the cold Arctic waters.
58
Captain First Rank Josef Klokov had watched in curious fascination, finally deciphering the American plan. It had taken them two hours to accomplish what would take Julius Raila’s men over two days. He looked at the half-finished ice hole they’d been digging. Russia had lost the race, which meant Klokov’s men would intervene.
The Spetsnaz unit’s Executive Officer, Captain Second Rank Gleb Leonov, approached with Julius Raila in tow. The discussion was short. Raila was relieved Dolgoruky’s crew would be rescued in time, but Klokov sensed his pride was damaged. Russia would have to rely on another country to rescue their crew. Klokov didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was how long until the Americans commenced rescue operations. Raila explained they would be ready shortly after dark.
Klokov excused Raila, who left to inspect the ice hole. They would continue their efforts in case something went wrong with the American rescue. Klokov turned to his Executive Officer.
“Prepare both platoons. We depart one hour after sunset.”
Leonov acknowledged Klokov’s order, then addressed the most critical issue. “Once the mission is complete, what will we do with the witnesses?”
Klokov reflected on his discussion with Fleet Admiral Ivanov when the man had visited him in Pechenga. Ivanov had directed Klokov to keep the loss of life to a minimum. However, minimum was a subjective term. Klokov’s men were Spetsnaz, and they did not leave evidence behind, especially the talking kind.
Klokov answered his Executive Officer. “We will leave no witnesses.”
59
It was late afternoon aboard North Dakota when Commander Paul Tolbert stepped into the relatively quiet Engine Room. The submarine’s two electrical turbine generators were running, but the main engines were silent. Petty Officer Third Class Scott Turk looked up from his clipboard as the submarine’s Captain descended into Engine Room Forward, and his face brightened. He was three hours into his watch, and aside from the occasional pass-through by the Engine Room Supervisor and Engineering Watch Supervisor, there was no one to talk to in the bowels of the Engine Room. He stood as Commander Tolbert approached.
“How’s it going?” Tolbert asked, glancing at the condensate pump.
“Sounds a little funny, sir,” Turk replied, “but it runs okay.”
“Is it getting worse?”
“No, sir,” Turk replied. “It’s sounded funny since E-Div repaired it.”
“Got it,” Tolbert said. He wasn’t surprised their little Frankenstein sounded odd. But he figured it was a good sign as long as the sound remained the same. “Anything else unusual?”
Turk thought for a moment, then replied, “No, sir. With no propulsion orders and the turbines in a full-power line-up, there’s not much going on down here.”
Tolbert bid Petty Officer Turk good-bye, then ascended to Engine Room Upper Level and stopped in Maneuvering. The Engineering Officer of the Watch had nothing significant to report, and Tolbert headed forward. It was the same throughout the ship. North Dakota had resumed hovering at two hundred feet, and aside from the sonar techs who kept in communication with Dolgoruky, the watchstanders had settled into a routine one could best describe as boring.
Still, after a week of stress following the collision and flooding in the Engine Room, followed by a frantic race to restore power before the battery ran out, the calm aboard the submarine was welcome. However, Tolbert figured it was anything but calm aboard the Russian submarine. Their air was becoming toxic, and they had only a few hours left.
60
In the dark, frigid compartment, Nicholai Stepanov tilted his head back, lifting the water bottle to his parched lips. The few remaining drops of water dribbled into his mouth, then he placed the empty bottle on the deck beside him and prepared for another round through the compartment. The air regeneration unit, which had been a welcome source of warmth over the last week, was now a hunk of cold metal; they were out of air regeneration canisters.
The oxygen level was falling, while the concentration of carbon dioxide rose. As Dolgoruky’s Medical Officer predicted, oxygen was not the issue; it was still at fifteen percent. Carbon dioxide level, on the other hand, had reached four percent. Stepanov could feel the effects of the high CO2 level. He was tired despite plenty of sleep, his head pounded from a severe headache, and his respiration was shallow and rapid.
He looked around the dark compartment. There were no emergency lanterns on. There were only a half-dozen left with good batteries. He had one of them and turned it on, the faint yellow glow illuminating a radius of a few meters. He pulled himself to his feet, supporting himself on a nearby torpedo, then flexed his stiff hands inside his gloves. Reaching down, he retrieved the lantern and aimed it around the ice-coated compartment.
Stepanov moved slowly, checking first on the men in upper level, huddled in small groups between the torpedo stows. The men who were awake murmured greetings to their Captain as he stopped for a moment. At the aft end of the compartment, Stepanov stopped near the sealed watertight door to Compartment Two. Starshina First Class Oleg Devin, one of Stepanov’s Torpedomen, manned the sound-powered phones.
“How are the men aft?” Stepanov asked.
“They have one more day of air regeneration canisters,” was the reply.
In the faint illumination, Stepanov could see the despair in the young man’s eyes. Devin knew that he, along with the other men in Compartment One, had only a few hours left. Stepanov squeezed the man’s shoulder, conveying what support he could. Devin placed his hand over Stepanov’s, holding it in place. He could feel the tremors in Devin’s hand.
Devin released Stepanov’s hand and Nicholai squeezed the young man’s shoulder again. “Do not give up hope.”
The young man nodded, then replied, “Yes, Captain.”
Stepanov continued his round through upper level and spotted his Medical Officer, Captain Kovaleski, examining a patient in a makeshift bed on one of the torpedo stows with a small flashlight. Kovaleski turned toward Stepanov, and as the lantern illuminated his features, Stepanov noticed a smile on his doctor’s face.
Stepanov almost lurched to a halt, wondering if his Medical Officer had become delusional in the high-CO2 air, or if the bitter cold was impairing him.
“Captain,” Kovaleski said. “I was about to come get you.”
Stepanov approached his Medical Officer, who pointed toward the patient on the torpedo stow. It was Stepanov’s First Officer, who had been knocked out during the flooding and had remained unconscious for the last week. Pavlov’s eyes were open, and they were looking at Stepanov. Relief washed through him. For some reason, despite their impending doom, knowing his First Officer had survived buoyed his spirit.