Dangerous Ground

16. DANGEROUS GROUND

May 26, 2005

Oga Guba, Novaya Zemlya

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Richards replied, “Speed is four knots.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oolies?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Circle it, aye,” Mitchell acknowledged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jerry couldn’t argue. “Yes, ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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