Larry Bond - Dangerous Ground

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.