Russia's new ballistic missile submarine, Yuriy Dolgorukiy, is being deployed on its first patrol while America's newest fast attack submarine, North Dakota, is assigned to trail it and collect intel. As the Russian submarine heads under the polar ice cap, its sonar readings reveal the trailing American sub and cause the Russians to begin a radical, evasive maneuver. This, however, fails and the submarines collide, resulting in damage that sends both to the bottom.
The Americans immediately set up a rescue mission, sending a new submarine and a SEAL team to establish an ice camp—Ice Station Nautilus—and stage a rescue. The Russians also send men and material, ostensibly to rescue their own men, but the Russian Special Forces team is also there to take the American base camp and the American sub, leaving no survivors or traces of their actions. As the men in North Dakota struggle to survive, the SEAL team battles for possession of the submarine.
Rick Campbell's Ice Station Nautilus is an epic battle above and below the ice, Special Forces against SEALs, submarine against submarine, with survival on the line.
A Macmillan Audio production.
Release date:
June 28, 2016
Publisher:
St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages:
432
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Andy Wheeler, seated at his desk inside the Atlantic Submarine Fleet’s headquarters, worked his way down the inbox on his computer display. He took a sip of his morning coffee as he clicked through the emails, stopping to review the daily Naval intelligence report. In addition to the standard information, it contained something unexpected. Russia’s new Borei class ballistic missile submarine was preparing for its first patrol.
He placed the coffee mug on his desk and opened the attachment of time-lapsed satellite photographs. A moment later, he called Commander Joe Ruscigno, seated at his desk at the back of the room.
“Look at these photos,” Wheeler said as Ruscigno stopped behind him.
He cycled through the satellite images. Russia’s first Borei class ballistic missile submarine, Yury Dolgoruky, had conducted a torpedo and supply loadout, then entered the missile handling facility.
“It’s about time,” Ruscigno said. “She’s been delayed for years.”
“We’ll need to assign someone to shadow Dolgoruky during her patrol,” Wheeler said. “Is Annapolis still on the northern run?”
“No, she just got relieved by North Dakota.”
“Perfect. I’ll draft a message while you brief the Admiral.”
Wheeler pulled up the message template and entered the pertinent data. Yury Dolgoruky was about to embark on her maiden patrol.
North Dakota would be there to greet her.
2
GADZHIYEVO, RUSSIA
Along the snow-covered shore of Yagelnaya Bay, a cold Arctic wind blew in from the Barents Sea as Captain First Rank Nicholai Stepanov emerged from the back of his black sedan. The icy wind bit into his exposed face, and he pressed the flaps of his ushanka fox-fur hat tighter against his ears. The month-and-a-half-long polar night had finally ended, and Stepanov welcomed the faint warmth of the early-morning sun, hovering in a clear-blue sky just above the snow-covered hills to the east.
Stepanov stood beside his car, taking in the scene. Tied up along the center pier of Gadzhiyevo Naval Base, its curving shoreline forming a semicircular bay, was the pride of the Russian fleet—K-535 Yury Dolgoruky, the Navy’s first new ballistic missile submarine in seventeen years. The sun glinted off the sides of the 170-meter-long submarine, the ship’s black hull trapped in a thin layer of coastal ice. Nearby, the nuclear-powered icebreaker Taymyr waited patiently for orders to clear a path to sea.
A second sedan pulled up and two Russian Admirals emerged. Stepanov saluted his superiors—Rear Admiral Shimko, commander of the 12th Submarine Squadron, and Admiral Lipovsky, commander of the Northern Fleet. The two Admirals returned Stepanov’s salute, but no words were exchanged. Stepanov already knew Admiral Lipovsky desired to speak with him, in private, following this morning’s ceremony.
Stepanov turned and strode onto the pier toward his submarine. The two Admirals joined him, their feet crunching through a fresh layer of snow deposited by the weekend storm. As the three men headed down the long pier, Stepanov’s eyes went to a podium on the pier across from his submarine. The sides of the temporary ceremonial stand were draped in red, white, and blue striped bunting that matched the colors of the Russian Federation flag.
Yury Dolgoruky’s crew was already assembled on the submarine’s missile deck; 107 men—55 officers and 52 enlisted—were standing in formation with the seven battle department commanders in front of their respective men. Stepanov’s First Officer, Captain Second Rank Dmitri Pavlov, stood at the head of the formation. On the pier, in front of the podium and facing Yury Dolgoruky, were assembled the three submarine staffs under the purview of Rear Admiral Shimko—his own 12th Squadron staff, plus those of the 24th and 31st Submarine Divisions.
Stepanov and the two Admirals climbed the wooden stairs onto the platform, and Rear Admiral Shimko approached a lectern while Stepanov and Lipovsky settled into chairs behind him. Shimko greeted his staff and Stepanov’s crew, and, after a short introduction, relinquished the lectern to Lipovsky. The Commander of the Northern Fleet stepped forward, studying Dolgoruky’s crew before beginning his speech. As Lipovsky spoke, Stepanov’s mind drifted. He had heard it all before. Yury Dolgoruky was a symbol of the Russian Navy’s bright future, not unlike the sun climbing into the sky after the long polar night.
Like Gadzhiyevo, the Russian Navy had emerged from dark times. In the years that followed the collapse of the Soviet Union, the once proud Soviet Submarine Fleet had decayed, submarines rusting alongside their piers due to inadequate funding for even the most basic repairs. But the economy finally gained traction and the government had begun the task of rebuilding the Navy, committing to two new nuclear attack submarines per year, plus eight Borei class submarines to replace the aging Akyna, Kal’mar, and Delfin class submarines—called Typhoon, Delta III, and Delta IV by the West.
The rusting hulks had been towed to nearby Guba Sayda, a holding pen for submarines awaiting dismantling, or had already been scrapped at nearby shipyards. The submarines that remained at Gadzhiyevo Naval Base in addition to Yury Dolgoruky—six ballistic missile and a half-dozen nuclear attack submarines—were fully operational.
Yury Dolgoruky was also operational. Finally. It had slipped from its floating dock at the Sevmash shipyard into the White Sea six years ago, and the submarine and its new nuclear warhead–tipped ballistic missile, the Bulava, had been plagued with countless design and material issues. After a seemingly endless series of sea trials, shipyard repairs, and test missile firings, Yury Dolgoruky was finally ready to commence her first patrol.
After almost forty minutes, Admiral Lipovsky finished his speech and retreated from the lectern. It was Captain Stepanov’s turn to inspire his crew. He approached the lectern, resting his hands along the edges as he surveyed his men. They had been standing in formation in the bitter cold for almost an hour, assembling topside twenty minutes before the two Admirals and their Captain arrived. Stepanov decided to keep his speech short.
“Station the underway watch.”
He could see the faint smile on his First Officer’s face as his second-in-command saluted crisply. Stepanov returned the salute, and Captain Second Rank Pavlov turned to address the battle department commanders. A moment later, the formation dissolved into a mass of men moving toward the submarine’s three hatches. One by one, the men disappeared down the holes.
Rear Admiral Shimko wished Stepanov good luck, then headed down the pier with the three squadron staffs, leaving Admiral Lipovsky and Stepanov behind.
“Your stateroom,” the Admiral said.
* * *
A few minutes later, the two men entered Stepanov’s stateroom, a three-by-three-meter room containing only a narrow bed and a table seating two persons. Lipovsky closed the door, then settled into one of the chairs, motioning Stepanov into the other with a wave of his hand. The Admiral kept his coat and gloves on; their discussion would not take long.
“You are a man of few words,” the Admiral said as Stepanov took his seat. “I should learn from you. I sometimes like to hear myself speak.”
“The men appreciate your visit,” Stepanov replied.
“And I appreciate your dedication,” Lipovsky said. The Admiral fell silent, his eyes probing Stepanov until he finally spoke again.
“How many men know what Yury Dolgoruky carries?”
It was Stepanov’s turn for silence, reviewing in his mind the images of the loadout three days ago in the missile handling facility.
“The entire crew knows,” Stepanov replied. “Missile Division assisted with the loadout, and you cannot keep something like this a secret.”
Lipovsky leaned forward. “You must keep it a secret. No one besides your crew and the personnel in the missile handling facility can know.”
Stepanov nodded. “I have already spoken to my men. They know not to speak about this to others. Not even family members.”
“Good,” Lipovsky replied. “We cannot underestimate our peril if others learn of our deception. The Rodina itself would be at risk.” Lipovsky paused before continuing, expressing his fear more distinctly. “The Americans cannot discover what you carry.”
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