Arctic Gambit

3 DRAGON’S LAIR

Vice Admiral Nikolai Vasil’evich Gorokhov steadied himself against the biting wind as he peered through his binoculars out into the Laptev Sea. He didn’t like what he was seeing. Theoretically it was summer, theoretically. But at the far end of Cape Baranova he was nearly thirteen degrees north of the Arctic Circle, and while the current temperature of minus one degree Celsius was balmy by comparison to the frigid cold of a typical Arctic winter, it still wasn’t all that cozy. The blustery northwest wind didn’t help matters, coming in from over the polar ice pack with gusts of up to twenty-five knots. The wind-chill factor wasn’t horrible; he’d experienced much worse while stationed in the Northern Fleet. No, his concern was the large ice floes the wind was pushing into his construction area.

From his perch on the small cliff, he could see the icebreaker Arktika and the floating workshop, PM-69, rocking at their moorings some thirteen kilometers away. The background was filled with large chunks of ice heaving in the swells, advancing slowly on the islands that made up Severnaya Zemlya. Sea spray and the ever-present overcast skies made it difficult to see any details; at times he could barely make out the vessels themselves. He felt bad for the men on the two ships as they struggled to get the last monstrous launch tube lowered over the icebreaker’s side and down to the divers 180 meters below. But the weather would be the least of their worries if they didn’t keep to the schedule.

A frustrated sigh escaped his lips; the warm air quickly formed a cloud that was instantly swept away by the wind. Turning, Gorokhov headed back to the command shack; there was nothing more he could do here. He had ventured out to see for himself if the bad news brought to him by the staff meteorologist was accurate — bad news confirmed. The walk back was short, only a few hundred meters, but it gave him time to organize his thoughts. He’d have to break the unpleasant news to the minister of defense carefully. Gorokhov knew from experience that General Trusov was a reasonable man; he would readily admit that weather-related delays were beyond human influence. Unfortunately, the man the defense minister worked for could be just as unreasonable.

The command shack was a large Quonset hut, just one of the two dozen structures that made up the Ice Base Cape Baranova Observatory, also known as the Prima Polar Station. Established in the late 1980s, the ice base was used for scientific investigation of the Arctic environment, glacier studies, and the research of Arctic fauna, especially birds. It also functioned as a base camp for floating ice stations, since it had a runway capable of handling medium-sized cargo aircraft. It was shut down in 1996 due to a lack of funding, yet another victim of Russia’s severe financial difficulties. The ice base was reopened in the summer of 2013 and focused on studying the effects of pollution at high latitudes. It also became a tourist attraction for those adventurers interested in taking a cruise on a Russian icebreaker up to the North Pole. Business seemed to be rather brisk, but the ice base was closed again after the 2020 season. The official reason given was that the facilities were old and outdated, in dire need of upkeep and improvements that would take about two years to complete. The official reason was partially true, but the “improvements” had nothing to do with scientific research.

Gorokhov braced himself as the wind gusted again; was it his imagination, or was it getting stronger? He placed each step with care; there was still plenty of snow and ice on the rocky surface and the windswept terrain hid the more slippery spots. He’d lost his footing on more than one occasion, and he had the bruises to prove it. As he approached the red-and-white hut, he noted the large number “14” painted near the entrance. During winter storms it was not unheard of for people to get lost walking from one building to another, sometimes with fatal results. Each structure had large numbers on its exterior to help guide those who had to go outside in poor visibility.

Once inside the entryway, the admiral removed his sheepskin mittens and ushanka and shook the snow off his heavy parka. Now that his “refreshing” stroll was over, he had to get back to real work. As soon as he opened the door to the inner workspaces he was met by his chief of staff, Captain First Rank Kalinin, with a steaming cup. Gorokhov handed his winter gear and binoculars to a waiting petty officer, then smiled as he reached for the hot liquid.

“Thank you, Boris. I definitely need this,” remarked Gorokhov as he raised the cup. But before he took a sip, he paused, eyed his aide and said, “It is properly ‘seasoned,’ yes?”

“Absolutely, Comrade Admiral.”

“Good,” Gorokhov grumbled.

“I take it then that it’s as bad as Captain Third Rank Chekhov reported?” Kalinin asked cautiously.

Gorokhov nodded, then added after a sip, “Perhaps worse. I don’t know if Apalkov’s men will be able to continue working under these conditions. The damn ice floes are coming right into the mouth of the strait from the Laptev Sea. That and the big swells will make it very dangerous for the men below.”

“Ahh, I see,” replied Kalinin. “Perhaps that is why Sergei called.”

The admiral stopped drinking his tea, sighed, and asked, “When?”

“About fifteen minutes ago, sir. He said it was urgent.”

“I’m sure it is.” There was a note of resignation in Gorokhov’s voice. “Very well, get him back on the secure radio. This isn’t going to get any better by waiting.”

“Yes, Comrade Admiral.”

Gorokhov could hear the wind howling in the background as Captain First Rank Sergei Ivanovich Apalkov gave his report. The captain was the lead construction engineer for Project Drakon — Project Dragon, a long-range, nuclear-propelled, nuclear-armed land attack torpedo system. In Russian terminology, the Dragon was a deep-sea torpedo-rocket strike complex, a strategic weapon that combined an incredibly large torpedo with a hypersonic land attack cruise missile.

A follow-on development to the huge submarine-carried Status-6 land-attack torpedo, the Project Dragon weapon was even larger and heavier. With a diameter of nearly two meters, a length of twenty-seven meters, and a displacement of fifty-six tons, it was larger than any of the Russian Navy’s current submarine-launched ballistic missiles. But unlike the Status-6, which had a multi-megaton nuclear warhead, Project Dragon had a very high-speed missile as its payload, able to reach targets well inland. The torpedo part of the new weapon had also undergone significant modifications and was a lot quieter than the Status-6.

Unfortunately, all these changes made the weapon so enormous that it couldn’t possibly be carried by any Russian submarine currently at sea, or on the drawing board. This left a ground-based launcher as the only near-term deployment option, and that led the Russians to the far north. The Bolshevik Island ice base was an ideal location. Its high northern latitude made it difficult for imagery satellites and spy aircraft to get a good look at it. And that assumed the weather was conducive for visual reconnaissance, which it often was not. In addition, Cape Baranova ran right up to the edge of the Nansen Basin in the Arctic Ocean. This enabled the launchers to be placed in relatively shallow water, but still have easy access to water depths greater than one thousand fathoms. The trick was getting the launchers built in an environment that was anything but cooperative.

“Comrade Admiral,” shouted Apalkov over the radio, “we need to temporarily cease the unloading evolution. The weather conditions have degraded and are causing the icebreaker to roll and pitch excessively. We cannot control the launch tube’s position and it’s getting very dangerous.”

Gorokhov rubbed his forehead as he listened; he had expected as much. Apalkov was a very good engineer and knew his business. If he said the situation was too dangerous, he had already exceeded normal safety protocols. Still, the admiral had to hear for himself that everything that could be done had been done to continue the construction work.

“I understand, Sergei. Is there any way to stabilize the tube? Isolate it from the ship’s motion?”

“I’ve used every trick I know, sir; the beast is wandering around like a drunken yak. It almost hit the launch complex; we only managed to just stop it.”

Gorokhov winced at the very idea of one of the twenty-eight-meter-long steel tubes smashing into the reinforced concrete structure and steel frames that were to hold the six launchers. That would have ended any hope of having the Dragon system online by the fall.

Apalkov kept on going, “And it’s not just the launch tube, it’s a diver-safety concern as well. We were pushing it when the winds gusted to eighteen knots. By regulations I should have pulled the divers then, but we managed to keep going. Now that we’re seeing sustained winds of twenty-plus knots, it’s getting very difficult for the men to keep their footing, let alone trying to do their job.

“One diver has already been injured when his tether went momentarily slack and then snapped back as the floating workshop rolled. Thank God he was in an atmospheric diving suit and we were able to haul him to the surface immediately.”

Gorokhov recalled how Apalkov had fought fervently during the planning meetings for the use of atmospheric diving suits, rather than the more traditional saturation diving approach. In the diving suits, the men didn’t have to worry about the pressure effects normally associated with deep diving as the suits were kept at atmospheric pressure. In addition, the dry, comfortable environment meant that they could work longer without having to rest and recuperate. The disadvantages were that men in diving suits didn’t have the same range of motion and control as a saturation diver, and the suits themselves were expensive. But in the end, Apalkov won the argument by showing how the project could be completed faster if the probability of diver injury, or death, were minimized.

“Very well, Captain,” conceded Gorokhov. “Cease unloading operations and recover the divers. What do you intend to do about the launch tube?”

Apalkov chuckled over the airwaves. “I’ll park it on the bottom, sir. The winds would have to reach hurricane force before they’ll be able to move this twenty-ton son of a sewer tube.”

The submarine approached the Severnaya Zemlya archipelago from the northwest, passing by Komsomolets Island first, then October Revolution Island, and finally Bolshevik Island. Weiss kept Jimmy Carter in deep water and well away from the conventional twelve-mile limit on this first pass. Paralleling the major islands’ coastlines from twenty nautical miles out enabled Weiss to get a good look at the Russian activity near the planned search areas. Using the edge of the pack ice as cover, Carter swept by at twelve knots, the sonar arrays scanning the area all around them. From the sound of things, it was really an ugly mess up on top. The background noise was deafening as massive chunks of polar ice violently smashed into each other. Weiss’s senior sonar operator described the acoustic environment as akin to being inside a cement mixer. Fortunately, the two towed arrays were largely immune to the higher-frequency ruckus and had no trouble picking up the two ships to the south.

Weiss looked down at the plot that Malkoff had started as soon as the Russians were detected. All the bearing lines crossed the same spot — the ships were stationary. Using a pair of dividers, Malkoff measured the distance from Bolshevik Island.

“Looks like they’re anchored about fifteen thousand yards northwest of Cape Baranova, Skipper. Right at the entrance to the Shokal’skogo Strait,” remarked Malkoff, tapping on the chart.

“Easy for you to say!” Weiss shot back with a smile. “That’s a bit of a tongue twister.”

“Not to worry, sir. I’ll have you pronouncing it perfectly by the time you give the mission brief.”

Weiss shook his head in feigned exasperation then, pointing at the crossed bearings, asked, “Is this location consistent with what you used to anchor the search pattern?”

“Yes, sir. This estimate matches reasonably well with Toledo’s reporting before she disappeared. I just need a couple of hours to refine the anchor point, revise the search plan, and get it to Thing 2 for downloading into the UUVs.” Malkoff pointed toward Lieutenant Junior Grade Steven Lawson sitting at the third fire control console. Lawson and Lieutenant Benjamin Ford were the two officers responsible for working with the “thingies,” a shortened form of “thingamajigs” the executive officer liked to use when describing the unmanned underwater vehicles. Naturally, Segerson referred to Ford and Lawson as Thing 1 and Thing 2.

“Okay, Nav, two hours,” Weiss insisted. “I want to get this search started ASAP.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Weiss walked back to the periscope stand, reached up, and depressed the intercom switch. “Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”

“Conn, Sonar,” squawked the speaker. “Hold two contacts. Sierra three, classified as a nuclear-powered icebreaker, bears one eight one degrees, and Sierra four, classified as an auxiliary, is at one eight three degrees.”

“Sonar, Conn, aye.” Satisfied, Weiss turned and motioned for Segerson to join him at the navigation plot. “Okay, XO, let’s continue our run to the northeast, to Cape Sandy, and then turn north and clear datum.”

“Understood, Skipper. Do you still intend to send in a status report?”

“I’d like to, provided we can find a semi-quiet spot to raise a mast without it getting scrunched.”

Segerson looked skeptical, but said nothing. Weiss picked up on his executive officer’s reservations. “Yeah, I know, Commodore Mitchell said to treat this mission like any other, but we both know that’s not how it’s being viewed back at the head shed,” said Weiss quietly.

“Skipper, President Hardy was a submarine commanding officer. He’d understand, no, he’d expect that we’d stay silent. Especially this close to the bad guys’ backyard.” Segerson’s tone was respectful, but insistent.

“He’s the least of our worries, Josh, for the very reasons you gave.” Weiss paused as he considered his next move. “Look, if the situation isn’t conducive to sending a quick message, then we don’t and move on. But if we can do so safely, I think it would be a good idea.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Segerson. “I’ll have the Commo get started as soon as we stand down from general quarters.”

General Aleksandr Trusov listened carefully as Vice Admiral Gorokhov gave his report. The minister of defense had been briefed on the deteriorating weather situation in the far north earlier, but Gorokhov’s message put meaning behind the sterile maps with wind speed and barometric pressure. Unfortunately, the message’s content was unwelcome news.

“Comrade General, we nearly lost control of the last twenty-ton launch tube due to the high swells. Captain Apalkov only just prevented it from hitting the launcher complex. I don’t think I need to explain how disastrous that would have been.”

Trusov sat back in his chair with a mixture of alarm and relief; he chased out the mental picture of him having to tell Fedorin that Project Dragon would be delayed for several months. The very idea sent shivers up his spine.

“No, Nikolai Vasil’evich, you don’t have to explain it to me. I am well aware of how painful such an event would have been. And as unpleasant as it is for me to say this, you did the right thing by securing the launch tube unloading. I will have to find a way to break this unfortunate development to the president as gently as possible. He doesn’t take disappointing news very well. Especially in regard to Project Drakon — he asked, again, if there was anything that could be done to speed the construction along. He raised the possibility of sending more workers to you so that you could pick up the pace.”

Gorokhov took a deep breath, fighting the urge to howl in frustration; it would have been disrespectful and futile. The Russian Federation president hadn’t met a law of nature that he didn’t think could be cajoled into turning a blind eye to their activities. The admiral recalled an earlier meeting where Fedorin complained about the inconvenience of gravity.

“Comrade Defense Minister—” Gorokhov started to protest, but Trusov cut him off.

“Yes, Admiral, most of us are well aware that just adding bodies to a project doesn’t mean the rate of construction will increase markedly… if at all. Particularly when the project involves a rather small structure almost two hundred meters underwater.”

“My apologies, sir, I know you understand the situation. But I find it unnerving that the president doesn’t seem to comprehend that for this plan of his to work, we must maintain absolute security. Sending more ships up here would only draw attention to this place. It would be like turning on a giant neon sign.”

“Agreed, Nikolai. But rest assured, President Fedorin does understand the need for security, we’ve discussed it at length — he truly appreciates the necessity. The problem is that he has grown impatient; other aspects of his strategy have been incredibly successful. He wants to maintain the momentum, that’s all. I’m sure you can sympathize with that desire.” Trusov’s calming wisdom had the desired effect on the aggravated senior naval officer, his faded breathing indicating he had calmed down.

“Now, back to the issue at hand. How long before you can get your people back to work?” asked Trusov.

“My staff meteorologist estimates it will be two days before the winds subside enough for the ships to stop bouncing about like toys. Once we can get men in the water, it should only take us a day to get the last tube in place. Then we get Arktika out of the way and shift to laying the computer network cabling.”

Trusov nodded in agreement to himself. “I wish that I had better news for you, Nikolai, but my weather mystics have said the same thing. And I concur that we need to get the icebreaker out of the area soon; it looks like the cloud cover may desert us for a few days. I don’t want to show the Americans any more than is necessary.”

“We have been fortunate, Comrade Minister, but the sun does occasionally shine up here. It is summer, after all,” chuckled Gorokhov.

“So I’ve been told,” Trusov replied, amused. “Oh, before I forget, the Project 1274 cable laying ship, Inguri, will be leaving port by the end of the month. We’ve received word that the last of the seabed hydroacoustic modules you requested have left the factory and should be at Severodvinsk by the twenty-eighth. Inguri only needs a day to load, and then four days to sail to your location. With any luck your acoustic fence should be in place and operational by the end of the first week in July.”

“That is very good news indeed, Comrade Minister,” Gorokhov remarked, but there was a hint of irritation in his voice. “It certainly took Atoll long enough to produce the Sever modules. While the minefield provides a good deal of protection, I’d like to see the holes in the defensive perimeter filled.”

“Don’t be too hard on the people at Atoll, Nikolai Vasil’evich. Your last-minute requirement for MGK-608M Sever modules unexpectedly doubled their defense order for the year. The company has been scrambling to ramp up production as quickly as they could,” scolded Trusov.

“I suppose you’re right,” grunted the admiral wearily.

“Of course I am! I’m a Russian general, don’t you know!” Both men laughed, but Gorokhov suddenly ceased when a deep yawn forced itself upon him.

“Why don’t you get some rest, Nikolai?” suggested Trusov. “You can’t do any real work for a couple of days, so catch up on some sleep.”

“That sounds like excellent advice, sir. I think I’ll do just that. I’ll inform you the moment the divers get back to work.”

President Hardy was an early riser, much to the distress of his staff. It wasn’t uncommon for him to swing by the Oval Office on his way to, or back from, his workout. Today, Hardy was on his way back. Garbed in his navy sweats and a towel around his neck, he only paused to see the pressing items on his desk; e-mail and other such electronic nagging would come later.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” greeted Sellers as he entered the office with more paper in his arms. “How are you feeling today?”

“Old and rusty, Dwight, old and rusty,” Hardy replied as he sorted through the growing pile. “Today’s exercises were a little more annoying than usual.” He rolled his right shoulder as he spoke. The slight grimace on his face betrayed the joint’s tenderness.

“Perhaps you should see the physical therapist? He might be able to loosen that shoulder for you, that or WD-40.”

Hardy laughed. “My shoulder doesn’t want to speak to Chuck right now, thank you. His range of motion physical terrorism is why I ache so much. But I like the WD-40 idea. Too bad it doesn’t work on humans.” After pushing all the files around on the desk, he looked up at Sellers and asked, “So, what’s on our docket for today?”

Sellers’s eyes rolled slightly, a bad sign. “Where would you like to start, Mr. President?”

Hardy raised his hand, ending the discussion. “Belay my last! Let’s resume after my shower.”

“A wise decision, sir.” Sellers walked by Hardy and started to rearrange the now unkempt stack. The president almost made it to the door when Sellers called out to him.

“Mr. President, I think you’ll want to look at this now. It’s a note from Admiral Hughes. Jimmy Carter is in area and will commence searching for Toledo shortly.”

Hardy reached slowly for the single piece of paper. It took him only a moment to read the note; his somber expression hid the mixed emotions. He handed the paper back to Sellers. “Thank you, Dwight. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

Without another word, Hardy left his chief of staff to his duties.

Major Ivar Talts gloried in flying his F-16AM fighter. It was one of twenty-seven aircraft purchased from the Netherlands by the three Baltic States. The price was quite favorable for the small NATO countries, and the United States provided funding and material support to overhaul the old aircraft. And for the first time in many decades, Estonia now had the ability to police its own airspace. A minor capability to be sure, but it was a huge step forward. A necessary step to counter Russia’s increasingly belligerent behavior since Fedorin became the Russian Federation president in 2018. Major Talts didn’t really care about the strategic implications right now; he was focusing on the moment as he and his wingman raced toward the Russian border at full military power.

“Golden Eagle flight, Ämari Air Base, the two bogeys bear one zero five degrees, range sixty-two kilometers, altitude five one double oh meters. Radar emissions identify the aircraft as Sierra uniform two seven Flankers.”

Talts took a deep breath under his mask. Here we go again, he thought. “Understood, Ämari. I have radar contact on the bogeys. We’re crossing over Lake Peipus now.” The Russians had been getting more and more aggressive with aircraft skimming along the border over Lake Peipus. Sometimes they went a little too far and had to be herded back across. At least Talts didn’t have to do this with the Aero L-39 anymore. An armed high performance F-16 made a far stronger impression than a lowly jet trainer.

Looking over his left shoulder at Captain Erik Lepp’s aircraft, Talts toggled his mike. “Golden Eagle Two, follow my lead and keep it professional. No aggressive maneuvers. We just want to make sure our Russian neighbors stay on their side of the line. Understood?”

“Roger, Golden Eagle One.”

It didn’t take long to reach the middle of the big lake; a metallic flash to the southeast confirmed the Russian fighters’ location. “Golden Eagle Two, visual contact to my right. Bearing one one zero.” The two Estonian aircraft banked over and slowed down to cruise speed as the distance between them and the Russian Flankers evaporated.

“Golden Eagle flight, Ämari Air Base, the two bogeys have entered Estonian airspace. Repeat, they have crossed the border. A challenge is being made.”

Talts swore then hit his mike again. “Golden Eagle Two, let’s go. Keep close.”

The Flankers were coming in fast. Talts watched his HUD as the tiny specs grew larger. He adjusted his course to close, but intentionally lagged behind their line of sight. Soon he could easily make out the twin rudders of the Su-27. Suddenly, the Flankers broke hard to the right and accelerated, hitting their afterburners. “Break left!” he shouted to Lepp as the Russian fighters screamed by a range well inside fifty meters.

“What kind of shit is that?” yelled Lepp. His voice was labored as the two F-16s pulled a hard five-G turn, coming around to follow the interlopers. Talts was angry. The Russian pilots were acting in an unsafe, unprofessional manner… on the Estonian side of the border. Just what the hell did these fools think they were doing?

Talts switched his radio to the emergency channel and issued a challenge. “Russian aircraft, you are in violation of Estonian airspace. You are ordered to withdraw immediately. Respond.” There was nothing but silence. Either they didn’t receive his warning, or they were blatantly ignoring it — more than likely the latter.

“Golden Eagle One, the bogeys have turned around. Closing at high speed,” reported Lepp.

“Roger, Golden Eagle Two. Let’s try this again.”

The four aircraft hurled toward each other. Talts tried to keep his nose pointed behind the Flankers, but the Russians countered by angling toward him. When the range had closed to a few kilometers, the Flankers broke hard left with the intent of making another dangerous close pass. “Erik, pull up and bank left!” ordered the major.

The sudden maneuver caught the Russians off guard and they pulled a hard turn to the right to get back in position. Lepp’s fighter swung out of the tight formation, unintentionally moving closer to the incoming Russians. The lead Flanker reacted quickly and pitched down hard, but the trailing aircraft hesitated and then over-compensated — the Su-27’s left wing smashed into Lepp’s aircraft.

Talts continued his climb and then swung around. The other Flanker had pulled out of the dive and was screaming back toward the border on afterburner. Looking down, he could see both fighters were in flames, trailing dirty brown smoke as they plunged toward the lake. A sudden flash from the Flanker told him the pilot had ejected. A moment later a parachute blossomed, but there was nothing from Lepp’s F-16.

Hitting his mike Talts shouted, “Erik! Eject! Eject!” There was no response and the plane continued to spin wildly downward.

“Eject, Erik!” he yelled again. Nothing happened. Talts could only watch in horror as the battered fighter crashed into the lake and exploded.