“It’s going to be hard to type lying down,” Patterson declared resignedly, then left, with Davis following her. As she left, Bair said, “It shouldn’t be too long—this time.”

 

The signal from the Bear faded completely a few minutes later without changing course. They waited thirty minutes, the tension gone but prudence still in charge, then secured from ultra-quiet. They resumed normal transit speed, but Jerry sensed a different mood in control: not grimmer, but quieter and more focused. From here on they could expect to encounter Russian units at any time.

 

* * * *

 

It was almost the end of his watch before anything else happened to break the quiet. Jerry looked up from his quals book as sonar announced, “Conn, sonar, new contact bearing one six zero degrees. Designated new contact sierra seven seven. Contact is a distant active warship pinging with a medium-frequency search sonar. Probably a patrol craft.”

 

Holtzmann told Jerry, “You make the report to the Captain this time. I’ll get us quiet.” As he gave the orders to reduce speed and rig the boat for ultra-quiet, Jerry picked up the phone, dialed the Captain, then repeated sonar’s report.

 

Hardy replied, “Thank you, Mr. Mitchell. What are your recommendations?”

 

Jerry replied, “Continue on base course, sir.”

 

“Because a medium-frequency sonar has a relatively short range?” Hardy prompted.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Wrong answer, mister!” Hardy’s voice was harsh. “Order a turn to the north right now, new course zero two zero. I’ll be there in a minute. See if you can figure out by then what your mistake was.”

 

Puzzled, Jerry put down the phone and told the OOD about the course change. Holtzmann let him issue the order and then asked about Jerry’s expression. “I recommended that we stay on course, but the Captain said that was wrong. I don’t understand why. Russian patrol craft all have short-range sonar, and he’s not even close to us.”

 

“All true,” Holtzmann replied. “But what time of year is it?” he asked.

 

“Summer,” Jerry answered, confused by the question.

 

“In the Barents,” Holtzmann continued. “It’s a short summer up here. The weather’s decent, and the Russians cram a lot of exercises into these few months. Now, we know there’s a patrol craft out there pinging, but he’s too far away to be pinging for us. So what’s he pinging for?”

 

“A Russian sub.” Jerry answered, beginning to understand.

 

“Exactly,” Holtzmann confirmed. “There’s a decent chance that a patrol ship is getting practice on a live sub or that a sub’s getting practice with a live pursuer, probably both. Now the patrol craft can’t pick us up this far away, but if there’s sub around, then we are in an entirely different ball game.”

 

Hardy arrived as Holtzmann finished his explanation. “Anything more from sonar, Mr. Holtzmann?” Hardy asked.

 

“Sonar reports a single pinger only. They evaluate it as a Bull Horn sonar, bearing correlates with a passive sonar contact, possibly a Grisha. But it’s not a single contact. They’re getting several similar passive contacts, all close together, all with a very slow right bearing drift.”

 

“A group of ASW patrol craft,” Hardy concluded, “with one conducting an active search.” He stepped over to the intercom and pressed the switch. “Sonar, conn. Sort out those passive contacts and make damn sure they are all surface ships. And keep a sharp eye to the south for anything that might not be a surface vessel.”

 

“Conn, sonar aye” came over the speaker from sonar.

 

Hardy turned back to face them, but his explanation was for Jerry. “Individually, a Grisha or a Parchim isn’t much of a problem. A couple of short-range sonars, ASW rocket launchers, and ASW torpedoes. We can outrun one or sink it with one torpedo. But they hunt subs in packs, usually in groups of three or four. They spread out in line abreast and march back and forth across a swath two dozen miles wide. They also like to work with ASW aircraft and helicopters. Right now, they’re practicing how to hunt us. We’re going to do our best to avoid giving them a real target to train on.”

 

Hardy went over to the chart table to check the new course, then the fire-control display. “Mr. Holtzmann, assume an exercise area fifteen miles on a side, centered on the pinger’s current position, then add the detection range of a first-line SSN’s sonars. How wide is the danger zone?” Hardy sounded like he already knew the answer.

 

“I’ll assume an Akula II with a Skat-3 sonar suite,” Holtzmann answered as he brought up a detection/counter-detection program on the HP computer. “We’re ultra-quiet, so that roughly quarters the noise we are putting into the water.”

 

He punched in the data, then moved to show the display to Hardy as his finger traced a graph. Hardy shook his head. “Remember, mister, he’s trying to avoid detection as well. Assume he’s ultra-quiet, too.”

 

Chagrined, Holtzmann punched in the corrections, then followed another line on the plotted graph. Hardy nodded and said, “Add that distance to the size of the box and plot a course around it.”

 

“Aye, aye, sir.”

 

“And then figure out the distance we have to be from the box before we can secure from ultra-quiet.”

 

“Aye, aye, sir.”

 

* * * *

 

Jerry and Holtzmann turned over the watch at noon, with the boat creeping north-northeast, away from the Russian exercise area. Lunch was cold cuts in the wardroom, eaten in almost total silence and with Jerry being careful not to scrape his chair across the deck. The two ladies were even more careful than the rest of the crew, speaking in whispers, setting down a glass slowly to prevent any sound.

 

They secured from ultra-quiet in mid-afternoon, and an almost tangible weight lifted from Jerry’s shoulders. Staying quiet wasn’t a hardship, or even difficult, but it meant being constantly aware and constantly careful. That awareness also included the presence of Russian forces, not really the enemy, but a dangerous and capable opponent.

 

* * * *

 

Jerry came back on watch at six, after eating an early dinner. Although most officers would stand one watch section out of every three or four, Jerry had doubled up to get in the experience he needed in this one patrol. Sleep would have to wait until they got back home.

 

Memphis was on course and at transit speed, but there was something new on sonar. Lieutenant Commander Ho was OOD this time, and he steered Jerry to the sonar display. “Here’s something new,” he announced.

 

The waterfall display was filled with bright speckles, like a thin fog. The “fog” lay in front of them, and as he watched it move down the display, it widened slightly. That meant it was filling more of the horizon. They were headed straight for it. Into it.

 

“It’s the Marginal Ice Zone,” Jerry announced. “We’re picking up the sound of the ice floes as they melt and hit each other.”

 

“Correct,” replied Ho. “This time of year, you’ve got to go pretty far north to reach it. Implications?”

 

“Reduced passive detection ranges. And we have to be more careful when using the periscope, or any mast.”

 

Ho nodded. “And this is just small junk. They weigh less than a hundred pounds apiece. Later we’ll get into the bigger stuff.”

 

By the middle of the watch, they had entered the Marginal Ice Zone. The waterfall display was covered with tiny white specks, like slow-moving static. Above them, the ocean’s surface was littered with an ever-thickening cover of ice floes and a slushy mix of seawater and small ice chunks. To Jerry, everything felt the same, but now there was a roof on their world.

 

“The good news is,” Ho explained, “we don’t have to worry too much about Russian ASW aircraft and ships. The bad news is that Russian subs operate under this all the time. Their detection ranges are reduced as well, but they’re used to it.”

 

Ho continued to lecture Jerry as the watch continued. “We can surface in this stuff, if we had to.” His tone made it clear that they wouldn’t do it casually. “Later on, it’ll be solid pack ice. We can navigate well enough under it, but we can’t surface through that. Some subs can, but we are not, I repeat, not, ice-capable. Late-flight 688’s have bow planes they can retract, but we’d wreck our fairwater planes if we tried to go through solid ice.”

 

“So what happens if we have a problem?” Dr. Patterson entered the control room from the forward passageway. She’d overheard the conversation.

 

Ho asked, “You mean the kind of problem where we might need to surface?” His tone was light, but when he saw her expression, his changed as well. “We’ve got air as long as the reactor is working, and even if the reactor failed, the battery will last long enough to get us out of trouble.”

 

Patterson waved her hands in the air, as if warding off biting insects. “Please, don’t tell me all the precautions because that means you have to tell me what might go wrong. I’m sure you’ve thought it all through, just like NASA. But things don’t always go well for them, either.”

 

“That must be why they pay us the big bucks,” one of the enlisted men muttered sarcastically.

 

Ho shot him a hard look, but said, “We do our best and try to be ready.” He shrugged. He turned back to Jerry “I need you to stay alert, Mr. Mitchell. Our charts of the area are less than complete.”

 

Patterson rolled her eyes, but Ho saw the gesture and motioned toward the chart. “The path we’re taking, especially as we get closer to Russia, hasn’t been traveled all that often by U.S. boats, and we weren’t able to get current charts from the Russian Hydrographic service or AAA. Look at the numbers that show depth, Doctor. See how they run in lines. You can almost see where every U.S. submarine has passed in these waters by following the soundings they took.”

 

He pointed to their own track, drawn on the chart. “See where we’ve crossed these blank areas? The mapmakers will use our fathometer logs to fill in some of the empty spots and also check to see if there have been any changes. Because the seafloor up here never stays the same.”

 

Ho looked over at Jerry, standing by the chart table and listening to the conversation. “Mind the gauges, mister.” Mitchell quickly turned back to his watch station.

 

Dr. Patterson said, “Thanks for the explanation, although I’m no less nervous for knowing why the charts are incomplete. What are the chances of hitting an underwater mountain or something?”

 

“We watch the fathometer closely,” Ho assured her, “and if the bottom starts sloping, either up or down, we find out why—and quickly. We have a high-frequency mine-avoidance sonar mounted in the sail and on the lower part of the bow that we can use to look for obstacles ahead of or over us, but it’s an active sonar, so we won’t use it unless we have to.”

 

“And if we do hit something?” she asked.

 

Ho shrugged. “Depends on what it is. If we strike something head-on, at speed, it would damage the hull and cause injuries inside, since we’re not wearing seat belts. When USS Ray, an old Sturgeon-class attack boat, hit a sea mountain in the Med at flank speed, her bow looked like a stubbed-out cigar. But she managed to limp home.”

 

Patterson gave Ho a dirty look that told him that she was tired of constantly hearing about the worst-case scenario. Clearing his throat, he quickly moved on to a more likely possibility. “Our biggest fear is that we could scrape our bottom on a shallow spot that isn’t on our charts. Most likely it would only cause minor damage. There’s almost no chance of rupturing the pressure hull. That’s a couple of inches of HY80 steel. It might limit our speed or make us noisier, which would be a real pain. Of course, if the screw or rudder is damaged, then we’d be in a world of. . .” Ho stopped talking, suddenly conscious of Patterson’s exasperated expression.

 

After a small pause, she changed the subject. “How long until we reach the area?” Patterson asked.

 

“You mean the dump sites?” Ho asked and she nodded.

 

Ho rummaged through several rolled-up charts and pulled out the same one she’d shown at the briefing after they’d gotten underway. He noted the location of the first dump site and made a pencil mark on the larger navigational chart. He measured the distance from Memphis’ current position and said, “About fifty-five hours at this speed. We should be in position early on the 26th, the day after tomorrow.”

 

Patterson nodded again, as she followed along with Ho’s explanation. Then hesitantly, she asked, “What will the Russians do if they find us? I mean specifically.”

 

Ho thought for a moment and spoke carefully. “Pretty much what we’d do, under similar circumstances. They’ll try to track us, filling the area with as many units as they can. The first to arrive will be aircraft, because they’re faster, but they’ll send surface ships out as well. They probably won’t use subs to chase us, because they don’t want to confuse us with one of their own. If they can pin us down long enough, they’ll talk to us over sonar, ordering us to surface and identify ourselves.”

 

“Not that we’d do that,” Patterson replied. Her tone didn’t match the certainty of her words.

 

“No, ma’am, we wouldn’t. We’d just keep evading and eventually break away. We couldn’t continue the mission after that, obviously.”

 

“They wouldn’t try to shoot at us? To keep us from getting away?”

 

“Outside territorial waters, firing at us would be an act of war. Of course, they view this whole area as their territory, and if we’re skirting the border, they won’t take an exact navigational fix before they shoot. Ships and planes have been lost before doing what we’re doing.”

 

Ho stopped for a moment, then repeated himself. “Yes, ma’am. If we’re found near their territorial waters, especially within twelve miles of land, they’ll do their best to sink us, and it’s their backyard. They know these waters better than we do, and they’ll have numbers on their side, we can’t even call for help. We certainly won’t shoot back. They’ve got all the angles. We’ve got stealth and surprise. As long as they don’t detect us, we’ll be just fine.”

 

“So we really are risking our lives on this mission.” Patterson looked thoughtful.

 

“Yep. Days of boredom punctuated by brief moments of mind-numbing terror.” He smiled. “But it’s going to be a milk run, right?”

 

* * * *

 

 Dangerous Ground

 

May 26,2005

Oga Guba, Novaya Zemlya

 

 

Memphis continued on a northerly course, slipping farther and farther under the marginal ice zone. Here the ice floes got larger and icebergs became more of a navigation hazard. On more than one occasion, Memphis had to dodge a lumbering giant as it moved slowly southward. As they neared the northern tip of Novaya Zemlya, the polar ice pack appeared as a solid wall on the mine-avoidance sonar. With the exception of a few polynyas, large open cracks in the pack ice, the surface became an impenetrable barrier. Tension grew as the crew took their non-ice-capable boat farther under the polar ice cap.

 

Within hours of passing under the polar cap, the ambient noise went from a cacophony of cracking ice to almost complete silence. Only the occasional stuttering of a forming ice ridge or the low singing of a distant whale broke the near perfect absence of sound. And while the significantly reduced background noise improved Memphis’ passive sonar capability, it also worked against them, as it would enhance any Russian submarine’s sensors as well. Turning eastward, they rounded the northernmost portion of Novaya Zemlya. Within two watch sections, they were heading south into the Kara Sea, approaching their destination.

 

A long narrow island that curved out to the north from Russia’s northern coast, Novaya Zemlya separates the Barents Sea on the west from the Kara Sea on the east. A northern extension of the Ural Mountains, it was little more than a rocky ridge that protruded above the surface of the water. Before the Soviets, the few inhabitants that lived there had supported themselves by fishing, trapping, and seal hunting. Nothing green grew on the rocky island, but ice prospered.

 

Oga Guba, the first of four bays they would explore, was almost halfway down the eastern coast. Their general plan was to work northward along the coast, so that by the end of the mission they’d be at the northern end and ready to go home.

 

* * * *

 

“Man manta and ROV LAUNCH STATIONS.” Jerry was already in the torpedo room when the word was passed over the IMC. In fact, he’d been there since three-thirty that morning. He’d gotten off watch at midnight, but found it impossible to sleep. Instead, he’d worked on his quals, and then came down to the torpedo room.

 

He’d sat at the Manta station, going over the controls and flipping through the manual again and again. Jerry kept looking for something he might have missed, special commands or limitations or pages with big yellow warning labels that read: don’t ever do this!

 

It took three months of ground school before the Navy would let him even touch an airplane, and two years before they considered him fit to fly in a line squadron. That training served a purpose. It made you so familiar with the aircraft that it was an extension of your own body. You even knew when it might fail.

 

And yet, he’d been surprised by that blowout. At least the Manta didn’t have landing gear. But a three-week course and a few practice runs hadn’t bonded him with the UUV. He still felt like he was playing an unfamiliar video game.

 

They’d finally passed the word at 0500 to man the Manta and ROV stations, and the torpedo division started pouring into the room, followed by a sleepy Emily Davis. The torpedomen moved around as quietly as they could, more out of habit than anything else, but there was still a lot of bustle as they checked their gear, positioned Huey for loading and donned the sound-powered phones. Emily now wore her own set so she could communicate with control about the ROVs without using the noisier intercom or going through an overloaded phone talker. Greer and Davidson settled into their positions and reported they were ready. Jerry began the Manta’s system checks and warm up sequence.

 

This had all been worked out the day before. Who would be where, who would do what, who would do the talking, and especially who would give the orders.

 

That last issue had taken up a good part of yesterday. First Patterson had to be convinced that only one person should be giving orders to the ROV. A few sea stories about confused orders and their effects had settled that issue. But both Hardy and Patterson had good reasons to be in charge of the ROV—his operational, hers scientific.

 

Doctors Patterson and Davis were both civilians and unfamiliar with submarines, much less the tactical situation. They didn’t know the risks, or all the possibilities. Hardy was adamant that someone with a uniform approve any orders to the ROV as a reality check before they were executed. Patterson was loath to have anything interfere or challenge her control of what she termed a “delicate scientific operation.” She didn’t help matters by likening naval control to “pushing a crystal vase through a knothole.”

 

The XO had finally suggested an acceptable compromise. As mission commander, Patterson would direct the ROV’s operations. Hardy would pass her orders to Davis through a phone talker and she would actually control its actions. Meanwhile, Jerry would run interference with the Manta— also under Hardy’s direction.

 

This meant that Hardy and Patterson both had to be in the control room. This was good for Jerry and Emily. Otherwise, Hardy or Patterson or both would probably be in the torpedo room, closely—perhaps too closely— monitoring the ROV operations.

 

Hardy needed to be in control. Navigating a submarine in shallow water at bare steerageway using sketchy charts and watching for Russian patrollers required his fulltime attention. Repeater displays in control would let him and Patterson see what the Manta and the ROV were seeing and doing.

 

Last night they’d practiced the arrangement, actually slowing and pretending to deploy both vehicles and then passing information back and forth until they were satisfied that all the circuits worked properly and everyone knew their duties.

 

Now, they were approaching the first dump site in Oga Guba. Memphis was about fifteen miles from the coast. The water had gradually shallowed until they had approached the sixty-fathom line. Three hundred and sixty feet of water isn’t very deep when a submarine stands about sixty feet from the bottom of the keel to the top of the sail. It also happened to be exactly the length of the boat.

 

Submariners hate shallow water. There’s nowhere to hide. Even submerged, if the boat went too fast, it would leave a visible wake on the surface, and if their depth control wasn’t perfect, they could strike the bottom or broach the surface.

 

In special circumstances, a boat could go as shallow as forty fathoms, but Hardy insisted the charts weren’t good enough for that. And if you’re caught in forty fathoms, there’s really nowhere to go, except to head for deeper water.

 

By international law, Russian territorial waters extended twelve miles out from the island, and by presidential order, they had to stay outside that limit. Luckily, both the Manta and the ROVs had sufficient range to work in the shallow water while Memphis stood outside the twelve-mile limit.

 

Jerry was also wearing phones, and he heard Lieutenant Richards’ voice say, “Control online.” Making the Weapons Officer the control room phone talker was another one of Hardy’s insurance policies. Richards wouldn’t do anything unless Hardy told him to do it.

 

The next command had already been planned, but Jerry waited for Richards to relay Hardy’s order. “U-bay, control. Deploy the Manta and take station.”

 

“Deploy the Manta and take station, U-bay aye.” Jerry responded, then: “Control, U-bay. Verify speed is four knots.”

 

Richards replied, “Speed is four knots.”

 

“Roger, launching Manta.” Jerry checked the procedure book before he did anything, not only because he genuinely didn’t want to forget anything, but because it was standard Navy policy to follow procedures exactly. Retracting the umbilical and the other steps all went smoothly.

 

Once the Manta lifted off, Jerry relaxed a little. His first task was to sweep out toward the first dumpsite. According to the 1993 Yablokov Commission Report, a small barge loaded with solid radioactive waste had been scuttled here in 1968. The Manta would find the barge, looking for navigational hazards along the way and keeping a passive sonar watch in the area. The ROV, with its shorter endurance, would not be launched until the Manta had found the barge’s precise location.

 

Jerry focused on the Manta’s imaging sonar. It was a broadband high-frequency set that would be hard for the Russians to detect, but it would show him what the bottom was like, and hopefully spot anything artificial.

 

The seabed shelved gradually here, rising from just over sixty fathoms where they were, to forty-four at the dumpsite, labeled DELTA ONE on their charts. It lay eight miles away to the west, an hour’s trip for the Manta at cruise speed.

 

As Jerry carefully flew the Manta to the west, he gradually descended until he was only twenty feet above the bottom. The imaging sonar started to give him a picture. The color display was clear enough to reveal an uneven bottom. Denser material sent back a stronger echo, which looked brighter on the screen, so rock showed as a lighter image than the silt that filled in the crevices and low spots. Metal would provide an even sharper echo, and a correspondingly lighter spot on the display.

 

Jerry worked on getting the feel of the vehicle, comparing the readouts on speed and depth with the images he was getting. His earlier maneuvers with Memphis had been in open ocean, and with the Manta relatively close. Now he was working at a distance in shallow water and he wanted to find out how much control he really had.

 

He didn’t have to worry about flying the Manta into the bottom. It was smart enough to automatically avoid the seabed, but he didn’t want to have to depend on the Manta to keep him out of trouble.

 

It took fifteen minutes before he could predict the interval between sending a command to the Manta and it reacting. Beyond the normal lag between the control surfaces moving and the UUV responding, the acoustic signal, moving at the speed of sound, took longer and longer to reach the Manta as it swam farther and farther away.

 

It already took several seconds for a signal from Memphis to reach the Manta and several more for the signal from the Manta to return, confirming that it had reacted. The math told Jerry that at maximum range, fifteen thousand yards, it would take about ten seconds for an order from him to reach the Manta—or for information from the Manta to show up on his display.

 

With his personal time-delay calibration finished, Jerry had little to do but sit back and watch the display screen. According to the digital timer, the Manta was still about thirty minutes away from their first target and he’d just have to wait. Jerry let loose with a wide yawn as fatigue overcame his earlier excitement.

 

“You look exhausted, Jerry,” remarked Emily. He looked over and saw that semi-frown she always had when things weren’t quite right.

 

“Yeah, I guess I’m a little tired. I’ve been really busy working on my qualifications.”

 

“So I’ve noticed. Don’t you ever take some time off? You know, get a good night’s sleep or just goof off. Its not healthy to work so hard.”

 

Jerry snickered sarcastically and said, “Emily, I would love to take some time off. Unfortunately, I don’t have the time for such luxury. If I’m not working on my division’s stuff or standing watch, I’m expected to be fully engaged with my quals. Besides, I’m way behind my peer group and I have to catch up. I’ll make up for the lack of sleep when we get back.”

 

“Assuming you don’t hurt yourself in the process,” replied Emily tersely. Her tone caught Jerry off guard and he thought it better to let the conversation die.

 

After a few minutes of awkward silence, Emily’s angry expression eased. She bit her lip slightly and squirmed about in her seat, as if she were trying to get her nerve up to say something. Finally she leaned against the display, rested her head in her left hand, and asked, “So, Mr. Mitchell, what is involved with this qualifications process that has so thoroughly consumed your life?”

 

Jerry just sat there, surprised this time by the sarcasm behind her question. At first, he found himself simply staring at her, momentarily unable to say anything. She then raised an eyebrow and gave him a coy look that clearly said, “Well, are you going to answer the question or not?”

 

Shaking his head slightly, Jerry replied, “Sorry, I guess I’m a little more tired than I thought. But, um, to answer your question, it frankly involves everything.”

 

Emily’s expression changed to a scowl. “That’s not very helpful, Jerry.”

 

“No, seriously,” he said earnestly as he tried to defend his statement. “I have to know essentially everything about every system on board this submarine. Where every component is located, its power supply, its normal operating parameters, and what other systems will be affected, and how, should it fail. I have to memorize all the immediate actions for every casualty procedure and know most of the supplementary actions by heart as well. I have to be able to safely balance, push, and drive this boat through vastly different ocean environments, on the surface as well as submerged. And I have to know how to fight this boat should we be called upon to do so. By my own admittedly biased perspective, I need to know how everything works, and how to work everything.”

 

“That’s absurd, Jerry! How can anyone be expected to know everything about this sub?” protested Emily.

 

Jerry laughed, “Well, the guys who have been giving my systems checkouts sure seem to expect it. Particularly with all the oolies I’ve had to dig around to answer.”

 

“Oolies?”

 

“Yup. Consider them to be the submarine force’s equivalent of Trivial Pursuit—little known factoids about different parts of the boat. And they are, without exception, a major pain in the butt.”

 

“Can you give me an example?” asked Emily with genuine curiosity.

 

“No problem,” answered Jerry confidently. “Let’s see, which one would you understand and appreciate?” He thought for a moment and then his face brightened. “Yeah, that one will do nicely. During my damage control checkout, I had to list all the watertight doors and hatches on the boat. Seemed simple enough, so I started to rattle off the access hatches, the torpedo muzzle and breach doors, and everything else that was part of a watertight boundary. After I was done, the chief giving me the checkout said I had missed one. Well, I went back over all the doors and hatches again and I couldn’t figure out which one I had missed. He told me to look it up and get back to him before he would sign me off.”

 

Jerry shifted around in his chair so that he faced Emily directly. “Okay, for two days I walked, crawled, and squeezed behind some pretty tight places searching for this missing door. No matter what I did, I could not find the stupid thing. Finally I was in here poring over the ship’s data book looking for the damn door, and I must have been muttering some obscenities in total frustration, when Seaman Jobin came over with a huge grin on his face and gave me the beckoning index finger. He led me to the ship’s laundry, right past the berthing area back there, and pointed toward the washing machine. And there on the front of this washing machine was a watertight door. I was so pissed, I didn’t know whether I was going to maim the chief for asking the question or Jobin, who was thoroughly enjoying my gross stupidity.”

 

Emily laughed, imagining Jerry’s face when the most junior guy in his division showed him the answer to the question that had vexed him for days. But in a more serious tone, she questioned him. “While it’s a funny story, Jerry, what is the point of the question? Other than to drive you crazy, of course.”

 

“The point, Emily, was that I had studied the drain system and the potable water system without realizing that the washing machine was even there. It’s a little thing, but it is connected to two very important systems in the boat, which means it can have an effect on them.”

 

The sonar’s auto detect light suddenly came on, drawing Jerry’s attention to a bright spot in the upper left corner of the sonar display. He started to report it to control, but they must have seen the same thing. Richards directed, “We see it. Steer left.” They were still several miles short of Delta One’s plotted position.

 

“Steer left, U-bay aye,” Jerry responded almost automatically and commanded a thirty-degree left turn.

 

“More,” Richards ordered. “Do you see that object at about two-nine-zero relative?”

 

Jerry saw something on the sonar display. It was hard to gauge size, but it was definitely of different material from the seabed it sat on. The Manta’s sonar had a reliable range of three thousand yards, so to see it at that distance meant it had to be sizable.

 

“Should I head directly for it?” he asked Richards.

 

There was a pause and Jerry imagined Richards relaying the question to Hardy, who would pass it to Patterson. Then they’d have to discuss the effects of the detour on the endurance of the Manta, whether it would be able to identify it, what would they do if. . .

 

“Yes. Steer toward it, but keep about a ten-degree offset.”

 

“Steer toward with a ten-degree offset, U-bay aye.”

 

“Slow down now,” Richards directed. “Make your speed four knots.”

 

“Four knots, aye.” They were still five hundred yards off. All he could see on the sonar was a jumble of shapes.

 

“Circle it. Maybe it’ll be clearer from another angle.”

 

“Circle it, aye,” Mitchell acknowledged.

 

With a certain amount of grace, Jerry turned the Manta to starboard and made a quarter circle, with the object at the center. He didn’t bother keeping it in the sonar’s detection cone, since the location was marked on his nav display.

 

When he turned back toward the object, it was longer, and the jumble had resolved into separate objects lying near and on the large object. It was more than large. Figuring the range and the angle it covered, it had to be almost a hundred feet long.

 

“Continue to circle,” Richards ordered and Jerry turned the Manta to the right again. The Manta had no camera, in fact, no other sensors besides the sonar. Jerry imagined the discussion in control. What was it? Was it worth finding out? Could this be part of Delta One? Jerry didn’t think so. Large as it was, it didn’t look like a barge, and it was too big to be one of the containers.

 

“U-bay, control. Launch ROV and investigate this object. We’re designating it Delta One-Alpha.”

 

Davis got busy, but forgot to respond until Richards prompted her again. “U-bay, control. Did you receive my last?”

 

Davis quickly pressed the button on the mouthpiece. “Yes, sorry. I’m launching Huey now.”

 

“It’ll take an hour for the ROV to get there at six knots,” Jerry reported over the phones. “Should I set up a perimeter patrol?” The procedure they’d decided on yesterday was that when the ROV investigated a site, the Manta would keep watch.

 

“Wait one,” Richards replied, but almost immediately continued, “Negative. If we’ve got an hour, we want you to continue on to Delta One. It’s close by. That way, when the ROV is finished with Delta One-Alpha, it can continue on to Delta One.”

 

“Understood. Changing course to two nine zero, heading for Delta One, ETA at eight knots eighteen minutes.”

 

Jerry flew the Manta carefully over the smoothly rolling bottom. It was less rocky here, with more sand and dirt. He’d only been on his new course for ten minutes when he saw the barge on his sonar display. It showed as another hard return on the sonar display and was a little larger than Delta One-Alpha.

 

Without a camera, he couldn’t be sure, but the location matched the Russian report, and there was nothing else that large visible on the display. Jerry started the Manta in a slow spiraling circle, centered on the object.

 

Emily had the ROV about halfway to the mysterious Delta One-Alpha and was refusing Patterson’s demands to increase Huey’s speed. Although the ROV had a top speed of twelve knots, its battery charge only lasted a quarter of the six hours it had at its cruise speed of six knots.

 

“She should know better,” Davis muttered to Jerry.

 

Patterson, content to relay orders through Hardy and Richards before, now came on the circuit. “Dr. Davis,” she said sharply, “you have to go faster. We’ve got two sites to investigate now instead of one.”

 

“Which means we’ll be out longer and need to conserve our battery power,” replied Emily firmly. Jerry was surprised by Emily’s sudden defiance. She’d never stood up to Patterson before.

 

“We don’t have to go to full speed,” Patterson wheedled. “Just increase to eight or nine knots.”

 

“Which saves us what? A few minutes? Why are we in such a hurry?”

 

“This is the very first site. We’ve got a lot to do and I don’t want us falling behind.”

 

“And I don’t want us losing Huey because he has a flat battery. Delta One-Alpha is on the way to Delta One. We’ll hardly lose any time at all.”

 

Patterson finally gave up, at least in part because the ROV was close to the object’s position. The ring-laser gyros in both vehicles allowed for precise navigation, and there was no need to search again for Delta One-Alpha.

 

At three hundred yards, Emily slowed Huey and turned on the lights. The camera showed a clear picture, but even with the lights on there was only a dark green image filled with bright swirling specs flowing by the camera. It looked exactly like a light snowfall in a car’s headlights. As the ROV slowed, the snowflakes slowed as well.

 

The ROV’s sonar, much weaker than the Manta’s, only had a range of two hundred and fifty yards, intended for close-in navigation. It picked up the object right on schedule, but there was still nothing on the TV camera.

 

At a hundred yards, she slowed Huey again, creeping forward. Jerry’s eyes were glued to the TV screen, although he forced himself to check the Manta, still circling and searching near Delta One.

 

At fifty yards, a bright green-gray wall suddenly materialized out of the dark water. Davis stopped the ROV without being told to, and then slowly panned the camera left to right, then up and down.

 

It was a curved wall, then a cylinder, but an uneven one, with lumps— and a couple of portholes?

 

Davis said, “I’m moving left. I’m a little closer to that end.”

 

Richards acknowledged her message and after a short pause, replied, “Go ahead.”

 

Davis hadn’t waited, though, and the image slid sideways as the ROV passed across it. Almost immediately the cylinder’s shape changed, narrowing, and they could see the familiar outline of a cockpit. “It’s an airplane? Did it crash here?” somebody in the torpedo gang asked.

 

Emily continued past what they now knew was the nose, and then pivoted Huey so they were looking at the craft head-on. “It’s an An-12 Cub,” Jerry reported over the phones. “It’s a cargo plane, a lot like our C-130 Hercules.”

 

Now that he knew what it was, Jerry could interpret the image, recognizing many details. The plane was partially covered with marine growth, but on an object of that size a little green fuzz couldn’t hide its identity. The underside of the nose was crumpled and several long cracks in the skin showed that the plane had landed on the seabed with some force.

 

“Did it crash?” Richards’ question echoed the one in Jerry’s mind.

 

The ROV was now on the other side, the port side of the aircraft, and she passed it down the plane’s length.

 

Halfway, Jerry said, “Wait. Stop, please. Can you have the camera point up, toward the top of the fuselage?” Although Emily was nearby, he asked over the circuit so that up in control they’d know what was happening.

 

Davis moved the ROV up. The image slid down until they were looking at the upper midsection of the fuselage. It bulged and an exposed metal framework marred the smooth surface. “Look, that’s where the wings were removed. It didn’t crash. It was dumped here.”

 

Jerry’s conclusion was confirmed when the ROV continued aft. One of the plane’s horizontal stabilizers lay next to the fuselage. Its base was a neat line, not jagged. The airfoils had been detached and discarded along with the fuselage.

 

As she moved aft, the ROV’s gamma detector came off the peg. “I’m getting a reading,” reported Davis. “Just higher than background.”

 

“Understood,” was Richards’ reply. “Continue aft.”

 

As Huey slowly approached the tail, the counter continued to rise. “Whoa, it’s coming up fast. Now reading 0.7 rem per hour,” Davis reported.

 

“That sounds real bad,” Davidson said from his seat at the Manta controls.

 

“Any radiation is bad,” answered Davis offhandedly “But this wouldn’t cause significant damage if you limited your exposure to a few hours. I wouldn’t go inside the plane, though. Accounting for distance and the shielding properties of water, I’d guess the dose rate would be about fifty times that inside.”

 

“Holy shit! That’s hot,” exclaimed Davidson. Then apologetically, “Sorry, ma’am. I just wasn’t expecting the radiation to be so high.”

 

Jerry grinned at Davidson’s reaction, although his surprise was understandable. The typical yearly radiation dose for most human beings is between 0.15 and 0.20 rem, it’s often less for nuclear submariners because they are protected by a steel hull and the sea from cosmic rays, which makes up a third of the yearly dose. And even though they lived and worked in close proximity to a nuclear reactor, the extensive shielding and strict safety procedures significantly reduced their radiation exposure. Davis’ estimated dose rate inside the An-12 would give a typical human being their annual dose in less than a minute. Exposure over a period of three hours would make a man very sick, although he would probably live. An exposure of eight hours would likely lead to death.

 

Finally, the ROV reached the back. The broad cargo door was closed on the underside of the upturned tail, and the meter spiked at 2.0 rem per hour.

 

Emily slowed the ROV and maneuvered it as close to aircraft as she dared. As Huey gentle approached the ocean floor, she triggered the automatic sequence that would drop one of the sampling tubes, collect a sample of the silt, and then winch it back up to the container in the ROV’s underbelly.

 

“I’ve taken a soil sample for analysis,” reported Emily.

 

Richards paused after passing the message to control. “Dr. Patterson thinks they had a spill while transporting solid waste in this aircraft. Rather than decontaminate the plane, they just got rid of it,” he said.

 

Over the phones, Emily replied, “I agree. Too bad all that contamination is exposed to the open ocean,” she added sharply.

 

“Unless you can think of anything more to do here, Dr. Patterson wants to move on to Delta One.”

 

Davis turned Huey west-northwest. Jerry’s Manta had been slowly circling for half an hour now and had built up a map of the seabed for several miles to either side. There was nothing else near the first contact.

 

As the Huey approached Delta One at a stately six knots, Jerry programmed the Manta to patrol the area. It would circle at slow speed, listening passively with its sonar while the ROV made its survey.

 

Huey was still half a mile away from the barge when the radiation detector showed a measurable reading. “It’s at 0.5 rem per hour here,” Davis reported. “Should I take a sample?” she asked over the phones.

 

Richards’ reply was almost immediate. “Yes, go ahead.”

 

Davis was already slowing the ROV and gently descending to the seabed. In the TV camera, it was a nearly featureless surface of silt and sand, with the rocky underbed showing through here and there. A partially exposed, corroded container could just be made out under the silt.

 

Each of the ROVs could take up to six soil samples on a sortie, thus they had to be used carefully. The container had obviously been here quite a while and would make an excellent test to see how far the leaked contamination had spread. As it hovered near the bottom, a cloud of sediment started to obscure the camera’s view.

 

It only took a minute, and as soon as the sample was stored, Davis started the ROV off again. Jerry noted that Davis was now running Huey a little over six knots, but it wasn’t far to go.

 

Finally, almost two hours after launching the Manta, they saw what the Yablokov report described as “Barge SB-5, with containers of unspecified solid radioactive waste.”

 

“Detector shows only 0.1 rem per hour. That’s not all that much, even after I correct for distance and water shielding,” Emily reported.

 

Richards passed on her observations, and then replied, “Dr. Patterson says not to worry about it. The radiation reading is consistent with the small amount of radioactive material that the barge is listed to contain in the report. But go ahead and collect a soil sample anyway.”

 

“Collecting soil sample.” While Huey took another sample, Davis noted the location.

 

As she circled the barge, they could see that it had capsized as it sank, landing on its side and spilling part of its cargo. The cylindrical steel containers, each about twelve feet long, lay scattered to one side. The containers on the seabed were half-buried in silt, and their surfaces were covered with patches of marine growth. On a few places, they were dented and cracked from landing on the seabed, and rust had taken hold.

 

“Get a sample from that one just to your right.” Richards instructed. “Dr. Patterson says that it is likely to be as high a reading as we’ll get at this site.”

 

“Understood. I’m maneuvering Huey into position now.”

 

“Can you find any markings?” Richards asked over the phones.

 

“No, nothing that I can make out. Collecting soil sample.”

 

As Emily deployed the sampling tube, TM1 Bearden asked, “Dr. Davis, where does the radioactive material from these containers go?”

 

“Not very far, at least not yet,” answered Davis. “You can see the cracked and corroding containers. If this one dumpsite were found off the coast of Alaska or Nova Scotia, it would trigger a national scandal. There are reportedly hundreds of these containers in this bay.”

 

“Aren’t there people living there? Eskimos or something?”

 

“There were, but most of the indigenous Nenet population were forcibly moved out by the Soviets in the mid-1950s. The ones that are left probably wish they were somewhere else. The whole island’s been used as a nuclear test site and waste dump. The Soviets exploded thermonuclear bombs as big as fifty-eight megatons here. Dr. Patterson’s the expert, though.”

 

Once Huey had taken the sample, Patterson guided Davis and the ROV to two more sampling points, spaced at intervals from the barge. After the last sample, she turned Huey toward Memphis. It had just enough battery for the return trip.

 

Dr. Patterson entered the torpedo room, almost breathless, holding a plot of Delta One. “So far, the data matches the survey exactly.” She sounded almost triumphant.

 

Jerry asked, “What’s the point in surveying something if we’ve already got all the information on it?”

 

“Because it’s a check on our ability to do a survey. When we find something new, then we won’t have to work as hard to prove our data is correct.”

 

Looking at the two ROVs and thinking about the hours of effort that they’d just spent and the work they had left, Jerry couldn’t be that detached. “Let’s just search where the charts are empty, then, or at least at an area that hasn’t been surveyed already.”

 

“We need a baseline, Lieutenant,” said Patterson, a little sharply. “If we don’t do things by the numbers, the rest of our work will be meaningless.”

 

Jerry couldn’t argue. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

An hour and a half later, Huey reached Memphis and was safely recovered. He needed servicing, but the torpedo gang was more than willing to wait while both Doctors Davis and Patterson and the nuke ELTs carefully removed the samples, then thoroughly and publicly checked the entire vehicle for traces of radioactivity.

 

While they examined Huey, Jerry recovered the Manta. The instant he reported it was aboard and the latches in place, he felt the deck vibrate. Hardy was repositioning Memphis away at something higher than creep speed. Jerry heard the IMC announce, “Secure from ROV and Manta stations.”

 

For a few hours, anyway, Jerry thought to himself.

 

“It’s clean,” Patterson announced. “You can get more radiation standing next to a smoke detector. It’s safe to work on.”

 

“All right,” barked Foster. “You heard the lady. Let’s get it turned around.”

 

Recharging Huey’s batteries would take the longest—twelve hours. In the meantime, they would wash down the hull with fresh water, drain and flush the trim tank, check every system on the ROV, and replace the fiberoptic control cable cassette. The extensive post-operation maintenance requirements were the main reason why they carried two ROVs. While one was out collecting data, the other would be undergoing preparations for the next mission.

 

That afternoon during lunch Dr. Patterson presented the wardroom with the results of the samples’ analysis. Several of the chiefs also attended, including Reynolds and Foster.

 

“The contents of the aircraft and the single container was spent nuclear fuel,” announced Patterson excitedly. “The analysis of the soil samples from those locations showed cesium-137, cobalt-60, and various uranium and plutonium isotopes, all of which are consistent with spent fuel. The barge’s contents were a mix of solid waste, consisting mostly of cobalt-60 and strontium-90. Surprisingly, there seems to be very little migration of the contamination from the dumpsites.”

 

Patterson then went and described the potential effects these radioactive elements could have on the local environment once the containers had corroded sufficiently. She further alluded to the fact that as shocking as the results were from this initial sortie, that it was only the tip of a very large iceberg and that even more egregious sites were sure to be discovered.

 

Patterson concluded her briefing by saying that, with the exception of the An-12, everything was largely in agreement with the Yablokov Commission Report and that they were now ready to begin looking for new dump-sites in the morning.

 

When she finished, Master Chief Reynolds asked, “Ma’am, with yours and the Captain’s permission, I think the whole crew might like to hear about this. Can we put that map up on the mess decks? I think it’s important that they know what this is all about.”

 

Hardy looked at Patterson, almost expecting her to say no, but the doctor smiled. “Do you think so?” she asked. “If they’re interested, I could give a little presentation. It wouldn’t be too technical, of course . . .”

 

“Doctor,” Reynolds interrupted. “Almost all of the men have at least a passing knowledge of nuclear physics. And their specialties demand knowledge of electronics or engineering. I think you should, if you’ll pardon the pun, give them a full dose.”

 

Her smile tilted a little bit, but Patterson replied, “All right, COB, whatever you think. Half an hour? When?”

 

They arranged a series of three half-hour lectures, one for each watch section, tentatively titled, “The effects of radioactive waste on the environment.”

 

While they worked out the details, Jerry thought he saw Captain Hardy smile.

 

* * * *

 

 Disappointment

 

 

The first excursion into Oga Cuba had been a long one and the Manta’s batteries were sorely depleted. It took almost eight hours for them to recharge, during which Jerry tried working on the division’s paperwork and the next item in his qual book. Unfortunately, he got hauled into the planning sessions for the next series of sorties and had to spend a lot of time with Patterson and the Captain instead. So, while the batteries were recharging, Jerry worked with the two of them and Emily to develop a search plan for the rest of Oga Guba. Since Emily’s ROV’s didn’t have the speed or endurance to conduct extensive searching, the task fell entirely on the Manta—and by default, Jerry.

 

Russian territorial waters extended twelve miles from the coast, but the Manta’s acoustic modem only had a maximum range of seven and a half miles. That made it possible to search much of the littoral. And while Patterson made it clear that she would have preferred searching all the way to the shoreline, it was just for the sake of thoroughness. From the Yablokov and Bellona reports on the Kara Sea dumping grounds, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the Soviet’s disposal methods.

 

“The Soviets didn’t appear to have any organized system for where they dumped their radioactive waste,” complained Patterson. “They scuttled a nuclear submarine in twenty meters of water, dumped defueled reactors in seventy-five meters, and ordinary solid waste in the deep trench to the east of the island. Any bottom type, any depth, inside or out of territorial waters, it didn’t matter. And Soviet records are so poor they can only say the number of waste containers is somewhere between six and eleven thousand.”

 

Jerry had heard the statistic before, and waited patiently for Dr. Patterson to refocus on the search plan. She was demanding, arrogant, and impatient, but she knew her stuff and she obviously cared.

 

“All we have to do is find evidence of new containers being dumped, that the Russian government is no better than their predecessors. We can then alert the world to the threat and also cement the President’s position as an environmental leader!”

 

“And to find those containers, we need to decide where we are going to look.” Hardy’s reminder snapped Patterson out her reverie. “Doctor, you’re the expert here. Where should we search?”

 

She sighed heavily. Annoyed that Hardy didn’t just get the political ramifications of the mission. “It doesn’t really matter. One spot is as good as another.”

 

They picked five search areas, all roughly of the same size and slightly overlapping each other. By the time they were done, it was a little after 1600. Patterson headed aft to finish working on the results from the samples, and Hardy disappeared into his stateroom.

 

The Manta’s batteries would be fully charged by 1930 that evening, so that gave him just over three hours to do all the things that he was supposed to have done since breakfast that morning. And he was supposed to have the six to midnight in control. And the noon to six tomorrow. He’d miss both of them while he flew the Manta.

 

Jerry had to talk to the XO. He found Bair in his stateroom. “Sir, regarding my watch in control this evening ...”

 

“Already taken care of,” Bair interrupted. “Patterson talked to Hardy this morning, and as of now you’re off the watch list.”

 

Jerry felt a few of the bricks from the ton on his back disappear, but he was still concerned. “What about my qualifications?”

 

Bair smiled. “Not a problem. We’ll just have you stand double watches on the way home.”

 

“I was afraid of that, sir.” Jerry replied.

 

“I’ll give you all the help I can,” Bair assured him, “but for now your only task is the Manta and supporting Dr. Davis’ ROV operations. Without that, there’s no mission. Let Foster run the division. Besides, you’ll be almost living in the torpedo room anyway.”

 

“Yessir,” Jerry acknowledged reluctantly and headed down to his spaces. He had to find Foster and fill him in and for a moment reveled in not having to look over his shoulder while he tried to run the division.

 

* * * *

 

That evening and for the next two days, Jerry flew five sorties in Oga Cuba. Before each flight, Jerry would program the search pattern into the Manta, which was smart enough to fly on autopilot once it was launched. While that would help reduce pilot fatigue and the chance of missing anything, it didn’t help with the actual survey. Somebody had to watch the screen and interpret the sonar image. Captain Hardy made it clear that while the enlisted men could help with the watch, the Manta operator was the “primary sensor operator.” If the Manta flew, Jerry had to be there to see what it saw.

 

The pace was hard. Fully charged, the Manta’s battery would last for twenty hours at five knots or eight hours at ten. There was no such thing as a short sortie. Patterson and Hardy both insisted that unless the Manta was actually charging, it would be searching.

 

It took ten hours to charge the battery when it was flat. Jerry could bet on sleeping about half that time, but even after Bair excused him from standing watches, there was still some work he couldn’t get out of.

 

While the Manta was charging, Hardy kept Memphis in motion. The sub would head away from the coast as soon as the Manta was recovered, never lurking in the same place for more than a few hours. They would head for the deepest water nearby, then loop back to take up position in time for the next sortie.

 

For the most part, the Russians left them alone. There were two settlements on Novaya Zemlya, both military bases. Supplies came into them by ship, but from the western side. If the Barents was the Russian Navy’s front step, the Kara was more like the side yard the kids never played in.

 

The watches, keyed up after their distant encounters with Russian units, started to get careless as monotony set in, and with Hardy’s concurrence, the XO started inserting synthetic contacts into the sonar and fire-control system. Hardy was merciless when the first contact was missed by the sonarmen for a full five minutes.

 

Once a day, Memphis carefully came to periscope depth to receive the Fleet broadcast. They would always extend the periscope with its ESM intercept antenna first, before raising one of the communication antennas, but it only picked up the fixed surveillance radars that lined the coast. Both the periscope and comms antenna were very small and were further treated with radar-absorbing material, so there was no chance of them being detected by the coastal stations.

 

They did find things. On Friday, the first full day of searching, on the second sortie of the day, the Manta’s sonar picked up a jumble of shapes on a smooth seabed, and Davis quickly launched one of the ROVs to investigate.