Arctic Gold (33 page)

Grenville nodded. We’ll be listening for our cue through our sonar system. When we get it, we’ll surface alongside the Lebedev,

about a hundred yards off her port side. That should keep them looking at us and not at you, and should also mask any noise you make going aboard.

After that, Taylor added, it all up to us. Your boss said you have some gadgets that will help. Whatcha got?

Dean was kneeling at the pack he’d brought on board, uncasing a bulky weapon with an oversized muzzle and a rotary cylinder. Reaching into an ammo case, he pulled out a blunt projectile.

Forty mike- mike grenades? one of the SEALs said with a dark chuckle. Ain’t nothing new about those.

There is about this one, Dean said. It a tiny UAV. Has a camera in it that will send live- feed video, both

visible light and infrared. It’ll help us keep track of where the bad guys are, and where our people might be.

I was told the hostages are on the main deck, in the aft superstructure, Taylor said.

And they might get moved as soon as the Russians know we’re on deck.

Taylor nodded. Okay, Dean. Maybe you’re a keeper after all. Just stay the fuck out of our way, right?

Ooh- rah, Dean replied, the battle cry of the Marines.

Shit, man, Taylor said, grinning. This is the Navy SEALs. It hoo- yah

!

The SEALs began filing into the airlock and up the waiting ladder.

Deep Black 7 - Arctic Gold

19

ASDS-1

Arctic Ice Cap

82a! 34’ N, 177a! 26’ E

1010 hours, GMT12

IT WAS, DEAN THOUGHT, LIKE being locked in a steel closet.

And fifteen Navy SEALs were locked inside with him.

The Advanced SEAL Delivery System was the latest evolution in using miniature submersibles to handle covert insertions of special operations teams. For decades, there’d been fierce turf battles between Navy SpecOps and the submarine force over the design of such craft.

The original SDVs, or SEAL Delivery Vehicles, had been wet subs, meaning that the SEALs on board rode in a water- filled compartment. After hours inside their cramped conveyance, they arrived at the Area of Operations cold, wet, and tireda no- good way to begin a critical covert op. Requests for dry

delivery vehicles had repeatedly been scotched by the submarine service, which insisted that all such vessels be under its control.

Eventually, though, the ASDS had surfaced as a compromise. In the forward compartment, Dean knew, were two men, a pilot/commander who was a Navy submariner

and a SEAL copilot who handled navigation and sonar. It was an awkward division of responsibility, at times, but the two officers had cross- trained in each other jobs in case one or the other was incapacitated.

The aft compartment was large enoughjustfor sixteen men and their weapons and equipment, and it had the added capability of becoming a hyperbaric chamber if there was a diving medical emergency. Between the two compartments was a spherical lock- out chamber with watertight doors above and below, and fore and aft. The design, drawn from the earlier DRSV deep- rescue submersibles, allowed the ASDS to dock with a variety of submarines, or for swimmers to exit or enter the minisub while it was underwater.

Dean sat on the narrow bench, his knees touching the knees of the SEAL sitting opposite him, his shoulders pressed against those of the men to either side. His weapon, ammo, and the UAV controller were inside a watertight pouch resting on the deck beneath his feet. Each man wore a DrI?ger rebreather unit on his chest, and held in gloved hands a full- face mask that included built- in short- range radio transceivers. Short flippers were strapped on over their boots and would be discarded as soon as they reached the Lebedev.

Bathed in the sullen red light illuminating the narrow chamber, Taylor was standing at the forward end of the compartment, his hand pressed against the side of his head, listening to a small receiver plugged into his ear. Okay, men, Taylor said after listening intently. We’re passing under the Lebedev.

Remember the op plan. Teams two and four, deck security. Team three, secure the hostages. Team one, water security and tactical reserve, once we’re on deck. Dean, you’re team one, with me. Everyone with me?

He was answered in a subdued chorus of affirmatives. The Lebedev

almost certainly had hydrophones in the water that would pick up loud noises, at least, so conversation was kept low and to a minimum.

Okay, Taylor continued. Masks on!

Dean pulled the diving mask on over his head, making sure the straps were tight at the back. The faceplate was triangular, covering his mouth as well as his nose and eyes. He checked the controls on his rebreather pack; air was flowing, though it had a faintly bitter chemical taste to it.

Radio check, Taylor voice said in Dean ear. Sound off. One- one, okay.

One- two, right.

One- three, check.

The SEALs ran down the line, identifying themselves by fire- team number. Each of them wore a tightly fitting hood over his head, with a short- range radio receiver next to the ear, a microphone pressed up against the throat. They would be able to talk while underwater.

One- four, okay, Dean said.

Two- one, ready to rock.

There were no portholes, of course, or TV monitors. Dean was aware of the faint vibration through the deck and the curved bulkhead at his back as the craft powerful electric motor drove it forward. Moments later, the deck tilted up sharply, and he felt the vibrations lessen.

We’re at ten to twenty feet, Taylor told them. Twenty yards off the Lebedev

starboard side. Commander Hartwell says we’re sending the signal now.

Lieutenant Commander Hartwell was the SEAL officer forward, acting as copilot, navigator, and sonar operator for the ASDS. A coded sonar chirp would be easily picked up through the Ohio

new Lockheed Martin AN/BQQ-10(V4) sonar- processing system, alerting the sub that it was time to surface and commence the diversion.

Minutes dragged by as the deck rocked gently beneath Dean feet. The minisub commander must be juggling his trim and ballast tanks, trying to keep the ASDS at a motionless hover beneath the surface.

Right, Taylor said, still listening to his earpiece. The Ohio

is surfacing.

And Dean could hear it now, a kind of heavy, crackling thunder filtering through the thick steel hull of the ASDS, sounding both muffled and very close.

That our cue, Taylor said, removing the headset. Let get wet! Hoskins!

Sir!

You make sure our ah guest makes it to the roof.

Aye, aye, sir!

The SEALs stood in the cramped compartment, gathering up their gear in tightly secured satchels, checking straps and buckles on one another, making sure everything was cinched tight and that there was no loose equipment to tangle, trip over, or fall. The SEAL behind Charlie Dean turned him around and tugged at several straps, then checked the settings on the DrI?ger unit secured to his chest before clapping him on the shoulder and motioning him forward.

Dean waited in line, then, as the SEALs, two by two, entered the lock- out chamber. Since the ASDS was hovering just a few feet beneath the surface, they didn’t have to lock the doors and pump water in and out of the chamber each time. Instead, the air pressure inside the submarine kept the seawater from entering the lock- out chamber; when it was Dean turn to go, he ducked his head to step through into the spherical compartment and saw black water lapping in the open, circular hatch in the deck. Hoskins, the SEAL assigned to get him to the surface, pointed and gave him a gentle shove. Careful not to snag

his baggy suit on the hatch combing, and with his waterproof gear bundle clasped tight in one hand, Dean stepped into the water, sliding down a pole extended from the side of the hatch for the purpose, letting himself sink.

Deep, blue- green water closed over his head, and he felt the sharp bite of the cold at exposed portions of skin at wrists and ankles. The dry suit kept the rest of his body dry, however, and the temperature overall seemed cool but not cold. For a scary instant, claustrophobia threatened to close him in and paralyze his breathing, but he forced himself to stay calm and to continue to pull in each breath at a slow, steady pace. His Marine training kicked in, and he began to move to one side, getting out from under the open hatchway above him.

Air rasped through his face mask, dry and cold. Unlike a standard SCUBA rig, the DrI?ger unit received his exhalations without releasing a telltale column of bubbles.

The red lighting inside the ASDS had allowed the men dark adaptation to kick in during the hour- long cruise after releasing from the Ohio. Dean found himself adrift in a surreal blue- green cosmos with crystal- clear visibility, but where it was almost impossible to judge scale or distance. The ASDS loomed directly overhead; to his left was a curving steel cliff extending for some distance into the depthsthe underwater portion of the Lebedev

side. Beyond the ASDS, there appeared to be a ceiling of tortured, convoluted ice, the surfaces smooth and rounded but piled and folded into fantastic geometries that teased and tricked the eye.

The surface of the water around the ship appeared clear of ice, however. Sunlight blazed and danced with the movement of the water, with shafts of light entering from above almost parallel to the surface. Below, the blue- green emptiness deepened into midnight black, a yawning gulf far beneath Dean gently stroking swim fins.

Toward the aft end of the Lebedev, Dean could see the vast and shadowy shapes of the ship massive screws, along with several cables that appeared to descend straight down into blackness. In the opposite direction, toward the bow, he could just make out a shadowy something snug against the Lebedev

side, but details were lost in the blue- green haze of ice- roofed water and scattering sun dance from above.

Dean was having some trouble. Though skilled with re- breathers as well as standard SCUBA gear, thanks to Marine training decades before, he’d never used a full- face mask, and each time he breathed out, he tended to loosen the mask seal with his face slightly. Icy water had already seeped in between the mask and his face and was collecting now at the bottom of the faceplate, salty at his lips. Awkwardly, one- handed because he was still holding his gear, he tried to clear it, pushing down on one side, turning his head, and exhaling hard to force the water out.

Team one! Taylor voice said over the underwater radio. Deploy.

Dean felt a sharp tug at his elbow; Hoskins hovered at his side, jerking his thumb up toward the surface. Dean mask still wasn’t clear, but he nodded and followed the SEAL toward the gleaming, shifting light, knowing he could remove the mask once he broke the surface. Several gentle kicks were sufficient to propel Dean toward the rust- streaked steel cliff ahead, then straight up along the Lebedev

side. In another moment, his head broke the surface.

He and three other SEALs had surfaced directly alongside the ship, which towered over them now, the side black against an intensely blue sky. They were so close that the chop of the water bumped them up against the metal; anyone on deck wouldn’t have been able to see them without leaning out over the starboard rail.

Hoskins and another SEAL had taken up positions in the water several yards out from the ship, kicking gently to stay on the surface while holding submachine guns to their shoulders, the weapons trained at the railing above. They were the fire team one water security element, carrying special CAR-15s modified for use in seawater, with sound suppressors on their muzzles and with laser- sight targeting modules attached to their rails. Water security, in this instance, meant staying in the water to provide cover for the rest of the SEALs as they went up the side. They’d already pulled out the tight- fitting plastic plugs in muzzles and receivers that kept the salt water out of the weapons and were training them now on the ship main deck.

A black rubber boat had been inflated and secured to the ship side with a length of white line and a powerful ceramic magnet with a mooring eye. Some of the SEALs had already removed fins, face masks, and Draeger units and tossed them into the boat, freeing them for the ascent. It was amazing how swiftly the evolution was proceeding. These men, Dean realized, had practiced this sort of maneuver time after time after time, until they had the closely choreographed movements down perfectly.

Ladders up, a voice said.

Deck clear, said another.

Dean turned in the water and saw that two more SEALs had used long, telescoping poles taken from racks on the outside hull of the ASDS to raise a pair of boarding ladders up the side, hooking the upper ends of the ladders over the Lebedev

gunwale. As soon as the narrow chain ladders were in place, the SEALs of teams two and four were on their way up, moving swiftly and with an elegant and death- silent economy of motion.

Fire team two, on deck! a voice called over the radio. Target! Engaging!

Team four, on deck! Moving aft!

The assault on the Lebedev

had begun.

The Art Room

NSA Headquarters

Fort Meade, Maryland

1825 hours EDT

There they go, Rockman said. Right at the waterline, about three- quarters of the way aft from the bow. See them?

Rubens placed his hands on Rockman workstation desk and leaned forward, staring into the big screen as if by sheer force of will he could influence the events unfolding there. Yes, he could see them, tiny antlike shapes moving up the huge ship rounded side.

The scene being transmitted to the Art Room was real- time, images picked up by the NIKOS-4 reconnaissance satellite launched into a polar orbit from Vandenberg just two days earlier. The scene showed an oblique view of the Lebedev, looking down on her starboard side from about forty- five degrees above the horizon. Beyond the Lebedev, the Ohio

had just surfaced, her conning tower showing as a narrow, black square protruding above the ice. The other two Russian ships were farther off, almost half a mile distant.

From the wall speaker, bits of radio transmission, captured by the NIKOS satellite and transmitted back to Fort Meade, sounded against the crackle and hiss of background static.