Larry Bond - Dangerous Ground

“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.