As she gingerly navigated the ROV into the hold, the camera picked up Reynolds and Harris over in one corner, well clear and dead ahead. They were studying one of the metal crates. It was almost as long as Reynolds was tall, and at least three feet square. Metal clips ran around one edge. Lifting hooks implied some weight, as did the strips that reinforced the corners and sides.
After shining a light on all exposed sides, Reynolds tried to shift the crate slightly. It budged, but gave the impression of being heavy. He motioned to Harris, pantomiming tools, and swam over to the tool bag. He handed Harris a pair of pliers while the COB took out a large screwdriver.
They started working on the clips, wasting time as they searched in the darkness for the quickest way to open them. Reynolds discovered a way to pop them with the screwdriver and began working his way along the edge. Along with that Christmas-present feeling, Jerry wondered if it was a Pandora’s box. He couldn’t escape a mental image of the lid opening and a cloud of liquid waste escaping, poisoning the two with toxic chemicals and radiation before they could close it again.
As Reynolds finished releasing the clips, Harris moved aside as Emily pointed Huey right at the case. “The radiation count is still very low,” announced Emily. “I’m sending the ‘all safe’ signal.” Reynolds and Harris saw the lights blink once, and Harris held up his free hand, making an exaggerated thumbs-up gesture. So far, so good.
As they’d discussed, Harris swam away, to hover near the ROV. The idea was that if the crate did contain something deadly, only one of the divers would be exposed. Jerry watched the seconds tick by as Harris reached what they hoped was a safe distance, but they’d all agreed it was worth the time.
Reynolds wedged the edge of the screwdriver into the joint between the lid and the rest of the crate. He pounded on one end, and a thin stream of silvery bubbles appeared. He stopped for a moment and made a sweeping motion with his right hand, asking for Emily to take another radiation reading. Again, everything was within limits and she flashed the lights once. Facing the ROV, Reynolds gave the thumbs-up sign and returned his attention to the lid.
Working the screwdriver in, alternately wiggling it, and pounding on the end resulted in successively larger and thicker streams of bubbles until they merged into a solid mass of air that half-lifted the lid off. Jerry could see Reynolds’ surprised reaction and he backed off to give Emily some room to move Huey in a little closer and make yet another pass with the radiation detector. Huey’s lights flashed once and Reynolds waved Harris over. Emily backed the ROV away from the case to give the divers room to work.
This was why Jerry had wanted to make the dive. The COB and Harris could look in the crate. They knew what was in it, but nobody else on Earth did. Except for whoever put it there, Jerry corrected himself.
The two divers knew this, and Reynolds bent down and started heaving on one side, the side away from the camera. Harris quickly realized what the COB was after and started lifting from his end. The two men quickly tilted the crate so that it toppled over onto its side, turning the top toward the camera.
A rush of air bubbles didn’t obscure the view for more than a second. Emily automatically adjusted the lights and zoomed the camera to maximum magnification.
Framed by the rectangular box, a cone-shaped object lay in a cradle. It was about five feet long and two feet wide at the base. The wide end was flat, and narrowed to an almost needle-like point. It was dull green or black and its polished surface was marked by a few patches of white lettering near the base. They were looking at a full-up nuclear warhead, almost certainly a reentry vehicle for a ballistic missile.
Chills ran laps around Jerry’s spine and the sailors in the torpedo room either blasphemed or made improbable sexual suggestions. After a few moments, the phone talker’s voice in Jerry headphones said, “Captain Hardy wants your recommendations.”
I’ll bet he does, thought Jerry. Their mission orders had just changed and the trick was to figure out what they should now be. Jerry’s instant reaction was to grab it and get it back to the boat, but then he forced himself to think, Why?
Nuclear warheads hidden on the sea floor. Who’d hidden them there? Why? He doubted any of the cases carried luggage tags, but if they could examine the warhead, they’d get a lot more information than they had right now.
And they’d have to have proof. Photos or samples could be dismissed or denied. Jerry had a visual flash of that thing being wheeled into a press conference.
“We’ve got to have it,” jerry decided out loud, and realized that he’d spoken into the microphone.
“I’m glad you concur,” said Hardy’s voice acidly as he came onto the circuit. “I meant about how do we get it back to the boat.”
“Oh. Yessir,” Jerry answered. That was a much harder question to answer. The thing must weigh hundreds of pounds. Not even Reynolds could tuck it under one arm for the ride back.
Dr. Patterson was also on the circuit. “What if they disassembled it and just brought back the physics package?”
“Out of the question,” declared Hardy quickly. “It would take way too long to figure out how to get the damn thing out. And the risk of radiation exposure is way too great. No, we grab the whole thing.”
“And they’re running short of time,” added Jerry as he checked his watch. “They can stretch it a little by running shallow on the trip back, but we have to get them out of there in ten or fifteen minutes, tops.”
Patterson asked, “Can you maneuver the Manta in close enough for them to attach it?”
“No, ma’am. I can’t maneuver the Manta in close quarters and it wouldn’t even fit. . .”
As Jerry started to explain, the ROV’s camera image shook, first briefly, and then for a full minute. Davis, flustered, almost shouted, “The ROV’s in trouble. Something’s hitting it! I’m taking it out!”
“But the only things in there that are moving are the divers,” Jerry argued. Then he yelled, “Wait!”
Emily nodded, but nervously fingered the controls.
After another moment, the image steadied. They could see one of the divers in the immediate foreground swimming away from the ROV. The other was bent over the warhead with the empty tool bag. As the first diver moved away from the camera, Jerry recognized it as Reynolds. He was trailing a rope behind him.
“Control, U-bay, I think they’ve solved our problem,” Jerry announced happily. “I think that line leads back to one of the brackets on the bottom of the ROV. They’re going to use the ROV to lift the warhead out of the barge.
“Dr. Davis,” Hardy asked. “Can you lift the warhead out?”
“Yes,” she answered cautiously, “but Huey will take forever to get it back here.”
“Then we’ll transfer it to the Manta,” Jerry said. “I’ll come in under you and you lower it down on the top. We can use the same attachment point that we used for the tool bag.” As he spoke, he began steering the Manta back toward the barge. He risked one active sonar pulse at long range before closing. That gave him a good enough picture of the area to approach quickly.
The divers were already rigging the line to the tool bag, and Jerry noted how it angled up off the deck, confirming that it was attached to the ROV.
As Jerry brought the Manta in, he slowed it to a creep, loath to have it arrive too early. He tried to guess how long it would take Reynolds and Harris, tired and half-frozen to finish rigging the bag, then for Davis to carefully lift the load out and away from the barge. Then remembered to check the time. They were cutting it close.
They finished getting the bag around the warhead case, which entailed half-lifting each end to get the material around it. As they finished, Jerry expected the Master Chief to take up the slack and start the lift, but instead he saw Reynolds gesture to Harris. When the other turned to face the COB, he motioned to another nearby crate, and then to the line.
“They’re taking two of them!” Emily exclaimed as the divers passed the line through the lifting hooks.
“The first one will now likely have water damage,” Patterson guessed.
Davis worried out loud. “I’m not sure Huey can lift that much weight.”
“The divers can help with the lift,” Jerry reassured. “And if Huey can’t hack it, we’ll jettison one of the warheads. We can always come back...”
“We’re not doing this twice.” Hardy declared. “Make it work, Dr. Davis.”
“Conn, sonar. Two new contacts bearing two zero zero and two one zero. I’m detecting two medium-frequency active sonars, classified as probable Bull Horn.”
* * * *
Retrieval
Bull Horn, the NATO code name for a MGK-335 Platina sonar, meant Russian surface combatants. It could be a patrol craft, like a Parchim or Grisha, or a big destroyer like a Sovremennyy. Whatever it was, it was bad news. They hadn’t seen a single Russian warship since they entered the Kara Sea, and now two had chosen this moment to show up? Jerry wondered if the Bear Foxtrot that went by the other day had actually gotten a whiff of them.
“Dr. Davis,” Hardy ordered, “send the recall signal.”
“Yessir.” She cycled a switch on the ROV console, flashing Huey’s external lights twice. They had only one way of communicating with the divers, the ROV’s external lights, and two flashes meant it was time to come back.
On the video screen, they saw Reynolds still bent over the second case. When the lights flashed, he turned to look at the ROV and its camera. He waved, made an “okay” sign with his hand and then returned to the case. His movements, slower than normal underwater, now seemed almost glacial.
Davis looked at Jerry, her expression filled with concern. “How far away are they?” Jerry knew she meant the approaching warships.
“We can hear them pinging a long way off. I don’t have a proploss display in front of me, but call it fifteen to twenty miles.”
She relaxed a little, but asked. “Can they find us?”
“Not until they get to about four miles away. And we don’t even know if they’re headed toward us,” he added. Although that was the way to bet, he thought.
They watched as Reynolds and Harris finished knotting the line. The camera image jiggled again as the divers took up the slack, and Emily began feeding power to Huey’s motors. She kept the camera trained on Reynolds and Harris, but they disappeared in the foreground, and they had to assume that the two men were helping with the lift.
“Conn, sonar. Contacts have a very slight left drift. Screw noises indicate twelve knots. Classify contacts as Grisha-type corvettes.” Slight drift meant a near steady bearing, and a closing course. But it would still take them a while to get here, Jerry thought. They should have enough time. Should.
Jerry concentrated on getting as close to the barge as the Manta’s limited navigation allowed.
“Conn, U-bay. Request permission to transmit one ping with the Manta’s sonar. It will help me close quicker.”
“What’s your distance?” Hardy asked.
“Nav system estimates several hundred yards, sir. The divers are still inside the barge, and if I can get a better fix, then . ..”
“Is there any risk of the Grishas detecting the ping?”
“No, sir, not at this range and I’m pointed the wrong way.”
“Permission granted. We need all the speed we can get.”
Jerry sent the command for a single ping, waited for the image to return, and found himself about three hundred yards away. Imagining how long it would take to swim that distance, he adjusted his course and speed, then ran for a carefully calculated forty seconds.
By this time, Davis had Huey’s motors running at half-speed with hardly any movement. Thinking of the divers’ fatigue as much as the approaching patrol craft, Jerry told her, “Just pin it to the right, Emily.”
“I can’t risk damaging Huey,” she answered.
“Yes, you can. It’s only a risk, not a certainty. We’re running out of time and so are the COB and Harris.”
Taking a deep breath, she increased the power and a cloud of sediment totally obscured the camera. Jerry’s heart sank. How could she navigate safely in that debris cloud?
He saw her hands hover over the controls. She could reduce the power, but how much? And would the ROV hold position or start to sink? And where were the divers? He knew they would try to keep clear, but they had to be nearly blind as well.
“I can see the needle on the battery gauge moving,” she warned. “It’s slow, but I can actually see it going down.”
“Just a few more moments and we’ll know.” Jerry tried to be positive.
The cloud cleared and the view suddenly expanded to show open water. They were already out of the cargo hold, about ten feet above the barge deck and rising.
“Head for the Manta,” Jerry said needlessly. Davis was already pivoting Huey as she cut back slightly on the lifting power. Sweeping with the camera, she searched for the Manta’s rounded arrowhead shape.
The phone talker’s voice intruded as he studied the video screen. “U-bay, conn. We’re building a track on the contacts. They are approaching from the south. Course is roughly north at twelve knots.”
“What’s the range?” Jerry asked.
“Ah, they don’t have a lot of range data yet,” the phone talker responded. “Sonar says there’s not enough bearing drift.”
Jerry sighed, but understood the problem. A passive track doesn’t provide range by itself. The bearings can be plotted over time as they change, and the target’s location estimated fairly accurately, but it needed a series of bearings that did change, the faster the better. Normally, if the contact was coming straight on, the sub would maneuver to create an adequate bearing rate, but Memphis was pinned, forced to loiter until her men were back aboard.
“I can see you,” Emily reported. The Manta had just come into view of the camera, illuminated by Huey’s lights but still as dark as the water surrounding it.
Jerry quickly sized up the relative position of the two vehicles. He had to remember where Huey’s camera was aimed relative to the ROV’s body, where each vehicle was pointing, what their relative depth was, and where the barge was. The ROV was encumbered, and he was blind.
Picking a point that headed him away from the barge but still closed the distance to Huey, he turned the Manta to port and concentrated on the video image. Davis kept the camera trained on him, which gave him a rough idea of the Manta’s relative position, but he still had to remember the control lag. He had to think a few seconds ahead to send a command, then wait a few seconds more to see if he’d done it correctly. He ended up in an acceptable position, but farther in front of the ROV than he had wanted.
Even before he stopped, Emily began moving the ROV toward him, trying to minimize the time and the drain on her batteries. She positioned Huey over the larger vehicle.
“The camera can look down, but not under me,” Davis worried.
“Reynolds knows that.” Jerry answered. “He’s got a plan.”
“Like what?” she asked desperately.
Jerry tried to imagine the divers, clumsily shifting a heavy load in the dark and cold. “He’ll pass a second line from the load to that lift point on the Manta where he wants to rig it. As soon as that’s threaded, he’ll send Harris out front. . .”
“I’ve got a diver,” she said. Jerry saw a figure swim into the camera’s field of view. It looked like Harris. Whoever it was, he waved at the camera, then pointed down. Emily reduced the power to the thruster, trying to maintain position over the Manta. The diver made another downward motion, this time more urgently, so she made a more drastic reduction and Harris gestured approval by clasping his hands together.
He guided her forward and then left, with smaller hand movements. Jerry tried to think of something he could do to speed up the process, but he couldn’t even tell Reynolds and Harris about the Grishas. As far as he knew, the Russian ships were still well off, but they couldn’t be sure.
They’d agreed in the wardroom on an “emergency recall” signal, which was Davis flashing Huey’s external lights four or more times. At that point, the two men would drop whatever they were doing, clip onto the Manta, and they’d head back at the ROV’s top speed of twelve knots. It would mean abandoning the warheads, though, and so far, Hardy hadn’t given that order.
The camera suddenly jerked, and Emily let out a startled yelp, although she immediately followed it with, “It’s loose!” The Manta and diver seemed to fall away from the camera, and she had to quickly reduce power to avoid having the ROV come to the surface.
Jerry concentrated on maintaining a steady course and speed while Emily brought the ROV back and positioned its eyes on the Manta and its load. This took a few nervous minutes, and Jerry promised himself that if anyone ever asked him about his ideas for a future UUV, the first, second, and third suggestions would all be for a camera.
“Make a pass over the Manta,” Hardy ordered. “I want to see how the load is rigged.”
“I don’t know if we’ve got the time for that,” Patterson’s voice cautioned.
“I’ll decide that, Doctor,” Hardy answered sharply. “Mr. Mitchell has to know to properly handle the Manta. If we lose the warheads on the way back, this will all be for nothing.”
Jerry agreed, but admired Hardy’s nerve. He hadn’t thought of the Captain as a risk-taker, but he’d taken Memphis to the very ragged edge of Russian waters and sent divers in to recover a nuclear warhead. He’d put his career and the safety of the two divers and the boat on the line. Now that he’d bet the farm, Jerry guessed he was doing everything he could to make the bet pay off.
Davis answered, “Yes, sir,” and brought her vehicle around in a tight circle. A speed of three knots seemed almost blindingly fast, and she had to slow down as she trained the camera on the top of the Manta.
Both crates were attached to the lift point by one end. The other ends were unsecured, but at least the cases were laid in a fore-and-aft manner. The COB and Harris should be able to hold the back ends in place so the crates wouldn’t wobble. Jerry could only guess what the weight and drag would do to the “flight characteristics” of the Manta. He remembered one of the training videos at Newport that showed a one-third-scale prototype carrying two dummy Mk 48 torpedoes. The ballast system on this larger prototype should be able to handle the extra weight.
Davis maneuvered Huey again to take up station behind Jerry’s vehicle, so they could watch the divers. Harris and Reynolds reconnected themselves again and grabbed the back ends of the warhead cases; Jerry heard two taps on the Manta’s hull.
Informing Davis about the turn, he headed for Memphis, steadily increasing speed to ten knots. He also decreased his depth, rising to forty feet. That would reduce the divers’ nitrogen saturation a little, although Jerry couldn’t do anything about the cold or their fatigue. He couldn’t imagine that they could rest at all, either, clipped onto the Manta’s deck, struggling to keep the cases from moving around.
“The battery’s low. I don’t know if Huey can make it back at ten knots.”
“Do not reduce speed,” Hardy ordered. “We need that camera to watch the divers, and we’re short on time. I’m bringing Memphis in to you.
“Mr. Mitchell, I’m making my depth seventy feet. I want you to alter course to one six five. I can cut at least half a mile off the distance.”
Amazed that the Captain was taking Memphis inside Russian territorial waters, Jerry answered, “Alter course to one six five, aye, sir,” and ordered the Manta to the new heading. How shallow was Hardy going to take her? If Memphis touched the bottom, she’d do more than dent a fender. The rudder projected down below the keel, and if that was damaged, they’d be unable to maneuver. The pit log, a small sensor that read Memphis’ speed, was also located on the underside of the boat. If that even brushed the bottom, they’d have only the roughest idea of their speed.
And Memphis’ nuclear power plant depended on seawater for cooling. The main seawater inlets were near the keel, and they weren’t small. If Hardy got too close, Memphis would vacuum up junk and silt from the bottom and clog the condensers. That would cripple the plant, and the only way they’d get home was on Aeroflot.
Both Jerry and Davis had been carefully watching the video screen. His nightmare was one of the divers suddenly coming loose and being lost behind them before they could slow down. Alone, exhausted, with no way to find his way back, he’d depend on the ROV to find him, but Huey’s battery was officially critical. Emily had the manual open, studying the graphs and furiously calculating discharge rates.
“U-bay, conn. Sonar holds you passively at three four zero. No range.”
“How about the Grishas?” Jerry asked.
“Sonar has only a poor fix,” the talker reported. “Their best guess is nine miles and closing.”
Which meant they could be even closer. He wished they could do something to hurry the process.
“I’m stopping Memphis here,” Hardy told Mitchell. My depth is six five feet. Come right a little, to one six eight.”
“Come right to one six eight, aye,” Jerry answered and told the Manta to change course.
“What’s your battery charge?” Hardy asked.
“Sixty percent,” Jerry reported.
“The instant the divers and the warheads are off, send the Manta southeast. I want your recommendations on how to distract those patrol craft.”
“Yessir,” replied Jerry, but before he thought about anti-Grisha tactics, he started working the math. How much range did the battery give him? How much margin did he have to leave? It wasn’t simple, especially with one eye on the video screen and the other on the navigation display.
Knowing Memphis’ keel depth, he brought the Manta shallower as it approached the sub. That way he could risk approaching closely, knowing he was too high to hit he hull. He’d take his chances with the sail by angling a smidge aft.
“Conn, U-bay. Is there any more on the Grishas’ ETA?”
“Negative,” said the talker. “Mr. Bair thinks they’re roughly paralleling the coastline because the bearing drift changes back and forth.”
Well, if they’re hugging the coast, they’ll run aground on us, Jerry thought.
“We should be getting close.” Emily’s statement was half hope.
Jerry knew they were, but had no way of knowing exactly how close. He waited until the Manta’s and Memphis’ locations had merged on the nav display before sending the command to stop. The one piece of good news was that this close to home, the command lag to the Manta was nonexistent.
With the Manta stationary, Emily turned away and switched on Huey’s sonar. “Bingo.” Memphis was right in front of the ROV and quickly came into view. She skillfully maneuvered Huey and its camera to include the Manta.
Jerry instantly corrected the Manta’s course so it was heading directly for Memphis’ after deck. Again, with no way to communicate with the divers, he had to guess what they would do next. How would they want to transfer the warheads from the Manta and the sub?
And where the hell were they going to put them? Jerry suddenly realized that he had no idea of where they were going to stow the damn things. They were too heavy to manhandle through the forward escape trunk, and too big to bring in through the torpedo tubes. The tubes were twenty-one inches in diameter, and the warheads were at least two feet across.
The second question was much more important, and he needed to know the answer to it before he could figure out how to transfer the warheads off the Manta. Memphis did have storage lockers built into the external hull, but they were all way too small. He thought about the bridge recess, but the external cover was dogged from the inside. Besides, even if they could open the cover and fit both warheads in, there wouldn’t be enough room to get up onto the bridge and pass them down into the sub.
As he struggled to solve the problem, he imagined Master Chief Reynolds trying to answer the same question. Would they both come up with the same answer? And was there one?
Emily kept maneuvering the ROV so that the camera would show both the Manta and the after deck of Memphis. As Huey hovered overhead, the light turned the Manta’s hangar into a jumble of angular shadows. Looking at those dark shapes gave Jerry the answer he needed.
The Manta hangar had been attached to Memphis over her original external hull. It was streamlined, so that water would flow smoothly over the Manta when it was stowed, and those fairings had created several large voids—voids that were large enough to hold two good-sized crates.
Hoping the Master Chief hadn’t come up with a different and better solution, Jerry corrected the Manta’s course slightly to port. He carefully checked the Manta’s ballast system, making sure the vehicle’s buoyancy was exactly neutral.
“Emily, please bring the ROV down and move it closer to the Manta hangar. I’m gong to put the Manta right over the hangar opening so the COB and Harris can put the warheads inside.” Although Davis was standing nearby, Jerry used the sound-powered phone so that the Captain and Patterson would know what his plan was. “I need to be able to see how high the Manta is above the deck.”
Davis nodded, concentrating on both the vehicles’ positions and the nearly flat battery gauge. Jerry had to remind her to use the phones.
“Understood,” she answered, angling Huey down more and away from Memphis.
Minimum steerageway for the Manta was somewhere around one or two knots, but Jerry had done precious little work with the vehicle at low speeds. He needed to stop in exactly the right spot.
Still a hundred yards off, with the two divers and the warheads strapped to the hull, he gradually decreased speed. Thoughts of the Grishas urged him to hurry, but instead he concentrated on the physics of the situation. At some point the control surfaces wouldn’t have any effect, and then . . .
There. The Manta’s course indicator started to fall off to port, and he increased speed by the smallest increment the controls would allow. He didn’t bother trying to correct his heading until the speed increased, and when it did, the vehicle responded, although slowly.
Luckily the correction was small, and the target was stationary. Aiming the Manta at the opening in the center of the hangar was simple, compared to accurately judging its height above Memphis. How close could he come to the deck without striking it?
Emily’s ROV and its camera was ahead of him and off Memphis’ starboard side, while he approached from port. He saw the Manta almost head-on, a little above and to the right of the camera. He would have liked a closer view, but she already had Huey’s camera at maximum zoom, and she had the ROV as close to the Manta as she dared.
Thankfully, at this distance, there was no control lag. He made a small downward correction and watched for the results on the video screen. He made another, inching downward as he approached the aft deck.
And suddenly it was time to stop. Remembering how quickly the Manta had slowed when he had tested the steering earlier, he held her at creep speed until she was almost on top of the sub, then cut it to zero. There was no tail hook, of course, but he couldn’t even back down.
Jerry checked the buoyancy again as the Manta coasted to a stop directly over the hangar opening. It rested, perfectly stationary, less than three feet over the deck. He let out a lungful of air and realized he’d stopped breathing some time ago. Then the sound of clapping startled him and he turned quickly to see the entire torpedo division and several of the ship’s officers behind him.
The applause stopped quickly as he hushed them, but they all congratulated him on his piloting skills.
“That was really smooth, Mr. Mitchell.”
“Makes a jet look easy, huh?”
Lieutenant Richards, the Weapons officer, had the final word. “It looks like you paid attention in Manta school, Mr. Mitchell.” He smiled and said, “Bravo Zulu.”
“Thank you, sir.” The praise was more than welcome and Jerry felt it wash over him, but his eyes were drawn back to the video screen. Emily had remained focused, thank goodness, but there was nothing for anyone to do now but watch as Reynolds and Harris manhandled the warheads off the back of the Manta.
The Manta’s passive sonar display spiked and jiggled as it picked up the sounds of the two warheads being untied, then pulled across the upper hull. The surface was smooth and curved downward, so the divers could let gravity do at least some of the work. Of course, the Manta had a sonar array running along each flank, but he’d just have to take his chances on it being damaged.
Through the camera they could see Reynolds and Harris take the first warhead crate and half-slid it off the Manta’s hull. They managed to work it over to a recess in the hangar, but Jerry couldn’t see exactly where they put it. He trusted the COB’s ability to keep it clear of the latches and the other equipment inside, but he couldn’t really relax until the Manta had been stowed and launched again.
If that ever happened. He risked another call to control. They could see and hear everything that was going on, but he couldn’t see the plot or the fire-control display. “Conn, U-bay, what’s the status of the Grishas?”
After a pause, the talker said, “It’s still hard to say, but close.”
Hardy came on the line. “Mr. Mitchell, do you have a plan for the Grishas?”
“Sir, I’d like to use the Manta’s simulator mode. I can lead them off to the west, toward the coastline, so Memphis can head northeast. The problem is that I can’t do it for very long. I’ll need high speed to evade them, but I’m only good for about half an hour at twenty knots.”
“I don’t think that’s going to work,” Hardy countered. “They’re relying on active sonar, and sounding like a 688 won’t really distract them until you’re very close, possibly too close to evade if your battery’s that low.”
Two spikes on the Manta’s passive sonar display meant “All clear” from Reynolds. Jerry looked at the video display to see the two divers wrestling the crated warhead into a cavity in the hangar. They looked to be clear of the Manta by several feet, and he carefully applied just enough speed to get the vehicle moving.
At a walk, he saw the Manta slide across the video screen and away from Memphis’ hull and the two men working on it. Once he was clear, he headed south-southeast, directly toward the two Russian patrol ships.
“Conn, U-bay. Divers have unloaded the last warhead crate, and I’m free to maneuver. Coming to course two three zero.”
As he maneuvered the Manta, he continued his discussion with Hardy. “Sir, what if I drop a decoy in their path? It will get their attention and draw them away from us.”
The Manta carried three ADC Mark 3 torpedo countermeasures and three larger ADC Mark 4s. The Mark 4 was designed to jam both active and passive sonars by generating a lot of noise and by providing a hard echo for a searcher’s ping. They weren’t the most sophisticated devices. For instance, they didn’t move, and they didn’t sound like a submarine, but it would take the searching ships a little time to figure that out.
Hardy paused only a moment before answering. “All right, but not directly in front. I’ll steer you to a spot along their path—and within their sonar range—but I want you to pull them closer inshore. We’ll head away to the east and then north. You can break to the north at quiet speed and rendezvous with us on the other side of the Grishas.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Steer two five zero at ten knots. How long can you maintain that speed?”
“Steer two five zero at ten knots, aye sir. I can keep this speed for four hours.”
“Good. Keep your active sonar off. We’ll use Manta’s passive set with our sonar bearings to cross-fix their location.”
“Understood,” Jerry replied and sent the course and speed commands to the Manta.
While Jerry planned how to use the Manta with the Captain, he continued to watch the divers finish their task. They had to not only stow the warheads, they had to make sure that they wouldn’t rattle around or come loose. Reynolds and Harris had only the tools they carried, limited space, poor light, and their time was almost gone. Davis had brought Huey in closer, so that the divers could almost touch the vehicle, but it was impossible to see exactly what they were doing, or how much longer it would take.
When they finally straightened and swam toward the forward escape trunk, it caught Davis by surprise. She quickly panned the camera right, then gave the ROV just enough speed to follow the divers toward the escape trunk.
They both fit in the escape trunk this time, or rather, they made themselves fit. Everyone in control and the torpedo room watched Reynolds and Harris close the hatch, as Hardy gave orders for others to help them inside.
“Dr. Davis, I need you to do one more thing before you stow the ROV. Make a pass along Memphis’ underside. I especially want to make sure the rudder and propeller haven’t been fouled by anything.”
“Do we really have the time?” Davis asked. She was obviously thinking about the approaching Russian ships.
“Mr. Mitchell will buy us time. I need to know if Memphis is free to maneuver.”
“Huey’s battery gauge is in the red, sir.”
“The ROV can move another six hundred feet,” Hardy stated sharply. “Do it,” he ordered.
“Aye, aye, sir.” Davis answered reflexively and dove Huey downward. The ROV was near the stern, so she steered toward that end.
Jerry grinned. “ ‘Aye, aye?’ Next thing you’ll be sporting a patch on one eye and a peg leg.”
“I’ve been on this sub too long,” she countered. She smiled, but kept her eye on the battery gauge.
The Manta’s sonar autodetect warning suddenly flashed on, and Jerry saw a broadband contact show up on the display screen. “Conn, U-bay. I’ve got a strong passive sonar contact bearing one eight zero. Looks like the Grishas.”
The phone talker replied. “The XO says to keep passing up bearings and change course to due south. He wants to get a good cross-fix.”
That pleased Jerry. Finding out exactly how far away those Russian patrol craft were would lower his stress level. They also needed that information to build a track, and that would tell them where he needed to release the decoy. Meanwhile, Huey had reached Memphis’ keel and the seabed just below her.
From the ROV’s point of view, Memphis loomed overhead like a metal storm cloud. Her curved hull vanished away from the camera in all directions. Hardy talked her down the length of the hull, telling her where to point the camera and when to slow down.
The bottom lay only ten to fifteen feet below the sub, rock with silt filling in the hollows. As little experience as he’d had in subs, Jerry knew that Memphis was dangerously close to the seabed, especially considering the poor charts.
The starboard side of the propeller and control surfaces appeared unobstructed, and the seawater suctions were all clear. Hardy then had her steer Huey past the bow so she could come down the starboard side.
“I’ve got something on the active sonar,” Davis reported. “It’s about a hundred yards away, off to the southwest.
“Back toward the barge,” Hardy observed. “We don’t need to worry about any more dump sites.”
“It’s too small to be a dump site,” Emily answered, “and the object is small, more the size of an oil drum. And I can see lines or cables running from it.”
“On the sonar?” Hardy questioned.
“This is a high-resolution sonar, sir. It’s designed to see obstructions like cables or wires.”
“Mr. Mitchell, have you reached the Grishas yet?”
“No sir, I estimate ten to fifteen minutes more before I can place the decoy.”
“All right, Doctor Davis,” Hardy conceded. “Go see what it is.” His tone made it clear that she’d better be quick.
Davis brought the ROV around to the left, angling away from the sub. She didn’t increase speed because of both the low battery charge and the short distance. In about a minute, an object appeared, centered in the video screen.
It rested on the seabed, two sets of short wheels barely visible in the silt. The body was cylindrical, about a foot in diameter and perhaps five or six feet long. It was painted dark green and there was virtually no marine growth. A thick black cable led away from the object to the west, in the direction of the shore. Two other cables with small bumps on them were laid out, parallel to the coastline. A white-painted “2” was visible as she steered Huey in a circle around it.
Jerry was still staring at the video image, trying to fathom its purpose, when Hardy ordered, “Dr. Davis, get your ROV back aboard as quickly as you can. Report the instant we can safely get under way.”
“Yes, sir,” Davis answered. Her expression matched Jerry’s puzzlement.
“Mr. Mitchell, report.”
“The Manta’s course is due south, speed ten. The XO’s computing the drop point for the decoy right now.”
“Do you understand what that object was?”
“No, sir,” he confessed reluctantly. It didn’t pay to admit ignorance to the Captain, but he really didn’t have a clue.
“It’s a fixed acoustic sensor, mister. Someone’s keeping a watch on that barge.”
“Like the Russian Navy?” asked Davis.
“It explains the Bear and the Grishas. We didn’t see any naval activity in this area until we found that damn barge.” Hardy was angry, although Jerry wasn’t quite sure at who.
“Why would you put sensors around something you dumped?” Jerry asked.
“You wouldn’t,” Davis answered. “It wasn’t dumped. It was hidden here.”
“U-Bay, conn,” This time Bair’s voice came on the line. “Steer right to course three five zero. You should release the decoy in two minutes.”
“Steer right to course three five zero, U-bay aye. How far away are the Grishas?”
“Just less than five miles from you. You’ll drop the decoy at the edge of their detection range. They’ll see it, but not the Manta because it’s smaller. After release, change course to due north at ten knots, max depth.”
“Change course to due north at ten knots, max depth, aye,” Jerry answered. “Should I wait for your call to drop?”
“Yes. We’re continuing to track the Grishas passively. If they change course, we may have to alter the decoy’s location.”
Davis came on the line. “Control, I’ve started Huey’s recovery sequence. We should be able to move in a five minutes.”
“Thanks, Doctor,” Bair answered.
“Doc Noonan’s checked the divers,” someone on the circuit reported. “He says they’re okay, but he’s put them both on bed rest with borderline hypothermia and exhaustion.”
“One minute to decoy drop,” Bair announced. “Course is good.”
Jerry double-checked the console. He made sure he was set to release a Mark 4, and not one of the smaller Mark 3s. They might confuse a torpedo’s sonar, but never a medium-frequency search set. The Mark 3’s noise was too high-pitched for them to hear it. He could see two sonar contacts on his passive display. The signal was strong, which meant they were close. Jerry continued to report the bearings to control.
“Huey’s aboard,” Emily announced triumphantly. “Control, we’re secure.”
“Speak for yourself,” Jerry muttered as he felt the deck shift. Hopefully Hardy had left enough room in front to allow Memphis to turn. With their single screw and rudder configuration, Hardy couldn’t back and turn a submarine like a sports car. In fact, it wouldn’t even back and turn like a bus. He wondered how long they had been so close to the sensor—and what its owners would hear. He called out another set of bearings to control.
“Wait for it... Drop!” Bair ordered and Jerry pressed the release. Without waiting, he changed course to due north, keeping his speed at ten knots. He wanted to go faster, but too much noise would attract unwelcome attention. At that speed, it would take half an hour for him to get completely clear of the Russian patrol ships. On the other hand, the Russians would take at least that long to detect, localize, and classify the contact as false. He hoped.
Jerry desperately wanted to be in control, to see the Russian ships’ position as well as his own. He also wanted to go to sickbay and see how the COB and Harris were. And most of all, he really wanted to know what the story was with those missile warheads.
* * * *
Pursuit
Severomorsk, Russia
Admiral Yuri Kirichenko strode into the briefing like he owned the place, which, in effect, he did. He was the Commander of the Northern Fleet, which, even after the collapse of Russian naval power, still meant something.
Kirichenko’s legend had grown with his rank. A competent junior officer under the Soviet regime, he’d been promoted just in time to become another impoverished senior officer. He’d remained in the military, ruthlessly fighting corruption and pushing efficiency as a necessary substitute for proper funding. By force of will, he’d kept the Northern Fleet from imploding.
So when he walked into the room with his characteristic high-speed stride, everyone in the room snapped to attention and everything was ready for his arrival, from the briefing materials to the tea and fresh fruit by his seat. Kirichenko was also well known for expecting the perks and privileges of his rank.
“Good evening, Admiral.” Captain First Rank Orlov was the Intelligence Officer on the staff. Normally he had one of his deputies conduct the actual briefing, but this material was too important.
“Since the last brief at 0800, we’ve confirmed that there’s no surface traffic in the area. Two patrol craft have reached the scene and reported detecting a submarine contact within our territorial waters. They attempted to localize it for prosecution, but it disappeared before they could make an attack.
“The seabed sensor grid hasn’t reported any activity since 1715. Total elapsed time of the most recent detection was one hour and thirty-seven minutes. We’ve had experts examining the data but the sensors were never designed for narrowband...”
“I’m aware of the sensor’s capabilities, Captain,” growled Kirichenko.
Orlov nodded quickly “Of course, sir. My apologies. They have determined that the sound signals came from more than one source, and there were a large number of transients during the period.”
The intelligence officer frowned. “Combined with the length of time they were near the array, we conclude they were working at that location and that they were unaware of the array’s presence. They may have been landing agents or planting surveillance equipment.. .”
“When we catch them, we’ll ask them,” declared the Admiral, standing and walking around to the head of the table. Orlov hurriedly gathered up his notes and returned to his seat. Kirichenko’s entire staff had assembled for this meeting, and they all listened intently.
“Whatever their purpose, they are not here to help the Russian Federation. I’m declaring a fleet-wide alert. I want aircraft covering the Kara Sea from the location of the incident all the way north, to the edge of the polar ice pack. Every operational unit is to get underway and head for the area. Admiral Sergetev,” he pointed to his deputy, “will be in charge of the search.”
“Ivan, form a barrier running east from the northern tip of Novaya Zemlya and then move it south. You should find the submarine as he attempts to escape.”
Admiral Ivan Sergetev nodded in acknowledgment, but not agreement. “If we can get the barrier formed before he slips through. If he moves at high speed . . .”
“Sonobuoys will pick him up,” Kirichenko interrupted. “And there will be stragglers and units that are too far out of position to reach the initial barrier line. Have them form a second line running northeast. If he’s able to evade the first barrier, he may relax and we’ll trap him with the second.”
The deputies for aviation, surface ships, and submarines were all writing furiously, but so was Kirichenko’s supply officer. He raised his hand politely and waited for the Admiral’s permission to speak. Supply officers in the Russian Navy these days usually brought bad news—and this time was no different.
He spoke cautiously. “Admiral, our operating funds do not allow this type of deployment. We could use up our entire year’s training budget in a few days’ operations. And stores are critical. We’ll have to dip into war reserves for enough sonobuoys, and I’m not even sure we have enough fuel on hand to fill everyone’s tanks.”
“Then send them out half-full.” Kirichenko let him finish, but just barely. “And then get more fuel, and we’ll send out tankers if we have to.”
Kirichenko paused after answering the supply officer’s objections, then spoke to the entire staff. “I don’t care if we spend every ruble in the Fleet, including the stash under your mattress, Andrei.” Everyone smiled at the joke, but they also looked worried and puzzled.
Kirichenko was a commanding figure, tall with a long, angular face that had been weathered not only by the elements but the weight of command. That contrasted with his blond hair. So far it was hard to see how much of it had gone gray.
“We’ve had penetrations of our waters before, and the West thinks that with us facing hard times they can enter our territory at will. Captain Orlov says there are ‘multiple sources.’ It sounds like there is more than one submarine, possibly several. Why would they need so many if they weren’t making some sort of major effort against us?
“They’re not expecting a massive response, and a massive response is the only way to deal with this type of attack. Our training budget just became our operating budget, and Andrei, this sounds like exactly the time to dip into war reserves.”
The admiral leaned forward a little, driving home his point to the staff. “And think of what happens when we catch him! We will make the Americans and the others respect our waters and prevent who knows how many future incursions.”
He turned to the supply officer. “And consider this, Andrei. What better way to get more funding for our Fleet than showing what we can do? With a success like this, I guarantee that I’ll be in Moscow the next day, demanding that they give us enough support to operate the Northern Fleet properly.”
Then he dropped his bombshell. “And Andrei, also use war reserves to make sure that every ship has a full load of ordnance, not just antisubmarine, but gun and missile ammunition as well. I want these intruders caught, and if they don’t respond to our challenges, then they will be sunk.”
Everyone looked surprised, but his deputy, Admiral Sergetev, was the only one who spoke up. “Sir, the chance of catching them in territorial waters is . . .”
“I don’t care if they’re in our waters when you find them. They were in our waters, and we have the array data as proof.” He spoke more formally. “If the intruding submarines do not answer your challenge or comply with your instructions, you will attack with all your weapons and sink them. The Kara Sea is shallow. The hulk of a Western sub is just as convincing as a live one and will make our point about the sovereignty of Russian territorial waters even more effectively.”
Sergetev, maybe because he was the one who would actually control the operation, risked another question. “Sir, are you formally changing the Fleet’s Rules of Engagement?”
Those rules had been drafted by the Naval Staff and approved by the highest levels of the Russian government. They described in excruciating detail when and under what conditions a Russian naval unit could fire at a foreign one. Every naval officer in the Fleet was expected to be able to quote them verbatim. In the past, only intruders actually encountered in territorial waters could be engaged, and then only after several challenges and if there was evidence of hostile intent.
“I’ve already spoken to Moscow and they’ve approved the change for this specific incident. They are not happy with the idea of several Western submarines in our territory. Of course, if this doesn’t work out well, I’ll be the one explaining to Moscow.”
That had the effect he’d expected, and the staff looked more willing to carry out the order, almost excited. Moscow’s approval of the Admiral’s orders removed any misgivings they might have had.
“I want reports on the status of all units and expected sailing times in an hour. Ivan, I want your search plan an hour after that. As of this moment, gentlemen, the Northern Fleet is at war. Dismissed.”
* * * *
Kirichenko watched his staff leave the room, almost at a run. Good, they were motivated, and the lie about Moscow’s approval had effectively dealt with any reservations.
He remained in the briefing room, sipping his tea and studying the charts that covered the walls. Calculating distances and times, he tried to visualize how the prosecution would develop, where the detection might take place. How could he organize the hurriedly assembled units to best effect? He’d spoken in positive terms to his staff, because they needed him to be positive, but he’d been too long in the Fleet to know what the odds were of finding a submarine that did not want to be found.
And this one had to not only be found, but sunk. He had no idea why the sub was there, but if they were, he knew what they’d found.
Right before the breakup of the Soviet Union, as a new Captain First Rank, he’d supervised the disposal of hazardous materials under the aegis of Soviet Military Intelligence, the GRU. He’d directed the dumping of spent fuel, old reactors, and all manner of dangerous items. Being a good officer, he’d made it his business to learn the details of each load.
One load, a barge full of canisters, had attracted his attention. While disposals were handled by the GRU, the material to be disposed of always came from other agencies: the armed forces, medical organizations, or the Ministry of Atomic Energy, Minatom. They all handled or produced radioactive material as a part of their functions, and thus had to dispose of radioactive waste.
But this barge didn’t make sense. According to the paperwork, it carried canisters full of radioactive waste from Minatom, but the authorizing signatures were by GRU officers, not Minatom officials. And the barge had not come from any of the Minatom facilities. Oh, the paperwork said it had, but then he’d checked with the tug that had brought the barge to Arkhangel’sk. It had come up the Dvina River from well inside Mother Russia. Minatom’s waste always came by rail in special cars and was then loaded onto barges for disposal.
At first, he suspected smuggling or possibly espionage. Perhaps someone had cached sensitive equipment or precious metals on the barge, presuming that nobody would want to closely inspect radioactive material. Classified equipment could be sold to the West. Corruption and graft were nothing new in Russia, and the cracks appearing in the Soviet Empire just multiplied the opportunities for enterprising individuals.
To avoid tipping off the criminals, he made several quiet checks, always making sure the enquiry would appear to come from a different part of the government.
And the answer had come quickly. The GRU had indeed falsified the paperwork, but it was not the act of an individual or group of criminals, but the GRU itself. They’d been in too much of a hurry to build a foundation for its “legend,” which helped Kirichenko penetrate the cover quickly. In fact, they’d been rushed—and more than a little scared. Specifically, Soviet Military Intelligence had been handed a hot potato, with orders to fix the problem as quickly, and quietly, as possible.
The Soviet leadership had been cheating on the arms controls accords, producing more warheads than allowed under the treaties. The military had stockpiled them as the ultimate insurance policy, just in case of a surprise attack by the West. Secret even from the armed forces and known only to a few officials, the stockpile would give a devastated Russia a “hole card,” even if all of its other strategic weapons were discovered and destroyed.
Now, with the Soviet Union crumbling around the GRU’s collective heads, the stockpile was a dangerous liability that needed to be disposed of—and swiftly. The warheads could not be easily destroyed. The removed weapons-grade plutonium would raise far too many questions about its origins, and frankly, the money for their disposal would have to be accounted for, if it could be found at all. A simpler and cheaper solution was to just label them as radioactive waste and dump them in the sea.
Kirichenko agreed with their solution, but also saw opportunity in the situation. He did several things. First, he made sure that the special barge was properly scuttled, but not at the location that appeared in the report he sent to GRU headquarters. Then he compiled a list of the people who knew about the operation, and places where there might be records of the shipment or the stockpile.
Finally, using the GRU’s authority, he ordered the deployment of acoustic sensors around the barge. Through some legal trickery—and a few veiled threats—he was able to make the sensors’ deployment look like part of the disposal operation. Nobody questioned their need or purpose.
For fifteen years, Yuri Kirichenko had kept track of all the people and all the documents associated with the secret dumping. He’d been able to surreptitiously remove all of the documents, and he’d kept a close track of those who knew. Everyone, except him, had left the armed services; some had even left Russia. Many had died.
But Kirichenko had steadily risen in rank and power. He became a staunch opponent of graft within the Russian Navy and had jailed several officers for stealing precious metals from decommissioned submarines. He was also instrumental in making the Northern Fleet more efficient with its meager funds, much more so than the Baltic, Black Sea, and Pacific fleets. This had earned Kirichenko an unusual reputation for honesty. He was considered by the Russian government to be above suspicion, completely trustworthy.
And he’d begun to plan for his retirement. It had taken years to build up his contacts within the arms black market, and more time to learn the market. Now fifteen years of hard work and a rich reward were in jeopardy.
He studied the map as it showed not just the coast, but the interloping submarine as well. It had to be a Western sub, and probably an American. Or possibly more than one, according to Orlov. That worried him. They would not send more than one sub to such a remote location unless they knew what was there. Had someone learned of the cache? If they had proof, they would have already trumpeted the news to the world. So there was still time to keep the secret, and make a few sales. He had contacted a number of countries who would pay handsomely for a fully functional one hundred fifty kiloton nuclear warhead. He had plenty to sell.
* * * *
Memphis had successfully evaded the searching Grishas, but Hardy had been forced to dodge farther east to keep clear of the corvettes. They were now heading north-northwest, toward home. Once clear of the northbound ships, Jerry kept the Manta on a northeasterly course at a charge-conserving five knots. The rendezvous with Memphis and the recovery of the Manta went off very smoothly, almost as if it were a training exercise. After hours of stress and strain, Jerry felt a load fall off his shoulders when the Manta finally nestled into its docking skirt.
The instant the Manta was secure, Jerry headed for sickbay, anxious to see the COB and Harris. He had to use his rank to open a hole in the large crowd that filled the passageway. It seemed that almost everyone not on watch was there, asking after the two divers. He was just starting to make progress when resistance suddenly ceased, and he realized the enlisted men around him had snapped to attention. Instinctively, he joined them, stepping to one side and making himself as thin as he could.
Moving into the space Jerry had just made, the XO, followed by Hardy and Patterson, headed into sickbay. Hardy nodded to Jerry as they passed and said, “Come with us if you like, Mr. Mitchell.”
Jerry ended up standing in the doorway, with Hardy, Bair and Patterson barely able to move as the corpsman made his report. “They’ll both be fine, but I recommend bed rest and fluids for the rest of the day. That water is above freezing, but not by much, and it put a tremendous strain on their bodies. Luckily, they were both in good health.”
“Fine, Chief,” Bair answered. “Can we speak to them?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Noonan as he fiddled with Reynolds’ oxygen mask. He stepped to one side as much as the crowded space allowed.
Reynolds and Harris sat reclined on the single bunk. Both were under several blankets with their faces obscured by oxygen masks. A heated IV bag hung over each of them, with the tube leading under the blankets.
Reynolds’ face was strained, but he managed to prop himself up as the Captain stepped up to the bunk.
“That was excellent work, COB. You and Harris both did a five-oh job.”
“Thank you, sir,” Reynolds beamed. Any praise from Hardy was rare, but then Jerry knew they’d both earned it. “We didn’t stop to count, but there were dozens of those cases in there, sir, all the same. It’s a warhead, isn’t it? A nuke?”
Hardy and Patterson both nodded. “It can’t be anything else,” he answered. “Although you were closer to it than we were. What can you tell us about it?”
“The sumbitch was heavy, I’ll say that. It had a smooth finish, but there were markings on the case and on the warhead inside.” He motioned to a slate lying on a counter nearby. “I copied them as best I could.”
Bair, closest, picked up the slate and held it so that Hardy and Patterson could see it as well. Jerry could see that there was something written on the slate, but not what it said.
Patterson shook her head. “I can’t read Russian, and the numbers don’t tell me anything.”
Bair said, “With your permission, sir, I’ll take this and start working on it.” Hardy nodded and Bair stepped out into the passageway and hurried forward.
Jerry resisted the urge to follow him; he was just as curious as the next guy to find out what they had stashed in the Manta skirt, but he wanted to see the COB first.
They’d managed to obtain two Russian nuclear warheads. The thought still boggled his mind. He’d love to have a closer look at one, but they were out of reach at the moment.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what else I can tell you,” Reynolds apologized, but Hardy shook his head. “You’ve done more than enough, Master Chief,” the Captain reminded him.