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?”
16. Dangerous Ground
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
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.
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
