Operation Arctic Sting, page 13
“Teuthis, this is Lyre.”
“Teuthis, aye.”
I explained our discovery and my belief that the Soviets had mapped out much of the Canadian archipelago and stored this info in the Sozh memories.
“Based on our findings, the Soviet charting in this region is much more accurate than what we received from the Canadians.”
“Roger that.” It was the skipper. “Use the Sozh but keep a parallel track on your paper charts. We don’t want any nasty surprises.
“We’re three nautical miles off your port bow. We’ll push through the ice for a sat fix, and then we’ll set up for the battery charge.”
It sounded routine. In subs, that’s what you want.
We were in the middle of Spook’s watch as we readied for charging ops. We hung out while Teuthis pushed her sail through the ice for a sat fix. Barry had the watch over there, and he was good at it. He took twenty minutes for the entire operation. When he finished, he submerged and moved Teuthis a hundred feet away from the broken ice.
“My head is due south,” Barry told us over the Secure Gertrude. “I’m three hundred feet off your starboard beam, up against the canopy. It’s a bit jumbled, but nothing extends down more than ten or twelve feet. You should have no problem coming alongside.”
And Spook didn’t. In less than a half-hour, we were ready to receive trons. It wasn’t like we hadn’t done it before. With our lights ablaze, on our monitors we watched the divers approach our starboard side with the shorepower cable, two dragging the cable, and one remaining aft and above as lookout. The Basketball surveyed the entire scene. Pure routine.
Because we were not connected to the diver talk network, we could not hear what happened next—only watch in horror.
Out of nowhere, a large, white body flashed from above behind the lookout, who we learned later was Ski. Ski must have sensed water movement behind him because he turned to confront the largest Polar Bear I ever saw: a male nearly ten feet long and massing just under 1,000 pounds. We determined these numbers later, but at that moment, it was just one damn big bear almost certainly mistaking Ski for a seal.
Ski propelled himself backward with furious fin strokes and fired a dart into the bear’s massive chest. The creature didn’t seem to notice it. An excellent swimmer, the bear caught up with Ski in moments and grabbed his right fin and foot in its mouth. Ski shot off another dart, this time directly into the bear’s left eye. The bear opened its jaw, releasing Ski’s foot. The fin was gone, and we could see blood oozing through Ski’s punctured hot water suit, spreading like a black cloud through the icy water.
The bear pulled back, swiped at its left eye several times with both enormous paws, and then lunged back at Ski, who was doing his best to open up space between himself and the giant creature. The other two divers, Harry and Whitey we learned later, approached the bear from either side, trying to distract it so Ski could swim to safety.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the bear lurched toward Harry, who launched a dart and dropped rapidly down under Lyre. Instead of heading for safety, Ski turned to confront the bear as it focused its attention on Whitey.
All of this took place in the eerie pantomime of total silence, except the divers could hear each other through their comms. From my point of view, there seemed little the divers could do except try to save themselves. Ski could have, and Harry was out of immediate danger, but both divers returned to Whitey’s predicament.
With the loss of its left eye and probably in a lot of pain, the Polar Bear—normally a remarkable hunter—seemed disoriented, unable to decide whom to attack first. That was the moment another player joined the fracas.
Out of the darkness, a black and white fury three times the bear’s length slammed into the hapless creature, ripping out its entire stomach with one massive swipe. The Orca dragged the carcass away from the divers and then returned, Polar Bear entrails trailing from its massive jaws. Ten thousand pounds of Orca gently nudged each diver with its snout and then darted off to check its prey.
Immediately, Harry and Whitey pulled Ski back to the Egress Lock, where Jimmy commenced treating his mangled foot. Jer replaced Ski, and the three wet divers returned to the task of connecting the shorepower cable. As they finished, the Orca returned, watching closely but maintaining its distance.
Not knowing what the Orca would do to the shorepower cable, Harry and Whitey remained near the shorepower connector on Lyre. The Orca stayed nearby for the full two hours except when it returned to the hole in the ice left by Teuthis to grab a lungful of air. About halfway through the charge, Jer spotted another Polar Bear approaching their activity. Before he could raise the alarm, however, the Orca charged, and the bear got the hell out of Dodge.
When Lyre’s battery bank was fully charged, Harry and Whitey disconnected the cable and returned it to the Egress Lock, closely monitored by the Orca. Once the three divers were safely inside the Egress Lock, the Orca swam to the hatch and placed its left eye against the opening, rolling back and forth to take in the entire interior. As the Orca departed, the divers noted a bite-size piece missing from the trailing edge of his dorsal fin, probably the remnants of a long-forgotten encounter with a shark.
Ski was unable to say goodbye to his rescuer because he was sedated, while Dr. Janus Everest, Teuthis surgeon, carefully reconstructed his mangled foot.
Oh, by-the-way…that was when I suddenly realized that it was December 25—Christmas! I reached into my pocket and fingered Kate’s cylinder. What is she doing? I thought. Who’s she with? Is she safe? Kate’s cylinder was distracting me. I couldn’t allow that. Too much rested on my shoulders. I let the cylinder go and pushed it deep into my pocket.
I pulled myself together and announced throughout Lyre, “Merry Christmas! Bet you never dreamed you would spend Christmas like this!”
THE LYRE—CORONATION GULF
As soon as Ski was able to talk coherently, I arranged to speak with him over the Secure Gertrude.
“What happened, you crazy Polock?” I asked.
“I dunno,” Ski answered. “I guess I got into a fight with a Polar Bear, and the bear won.”
“Seriously, Ski, how are you doing?”
“Doc Everest done good, Sir. Says I’ll be good as new by the time we get to EB.”
“You in a cast?”
“My lower leg and foot, yeah.”
“How’s your chess?” I asked.
“Shit, Sir, Sergyi’s with you, and the other guys don’ play.”
“What about Jake? I’m pretty sure he plays.” To me, it seemed unlikely that our electronics genius didn’t play chess.
“I didn’ think about that. I’ll check with him.” Then Ski’s voice cracked into a grin I could hear over the circuit. “That fuckin’ Orca sure saved my ass, you know. He the same one we saw back at Point Barrow?”
“Not likely,” I said. “I don’t think there are sufficient polynyas between there and here for him to get air. I think this guy lives around here.”
“Yeah…yer probably right. Thanks for calling, Commander. I really appreciate it. Ham’s doing great, you know, but we all miss you. You guys be careful over there. There’s a lot of shit going on!”
We moved through the strait at seven knots, faster than steerageway but not by much. In the best of times, with well-charted waters, we would not have moved much faster. There simply were too many objects in our way. As the skipper suggested—ordered, really—we kept a running track on our paper charts. Every rock, every islet was precisely located on Sozh, while they were just far enough off on the paper charts to make precise navigation impossible. One had to wonder just how long the Soviets had been at this charting task right under the Canadian noses.
I kept the skipper appraised of our Sozh findings, and while we agreed that Sozh’s accuracy was astonishing, we were unwilling to rely on the system without full paper backup. Whoever had the Lyre watch dutifully plotted the proper position of each obstacle we encountered so that our paper charts became increasingly valuable as we continued our journey. One of the things a ship’s captain always takes with him when he abandons ship is the ship’s log. It occurred to me that I now had something else equally valuable. I made sure our completed charts were readily available should the worst happen before we reached our destination.
We had a total of eleven hours on this leg, eleven hours of slow-walking at seven knots through the second half of Dolphin and Union Strait. Having to pay such close attention to everything out there, however, kept this leg from falling into the boring camp. Bert, Sam, and Potts kept busy identifying and charting all the obstacles the strait threw at us. As we departed the strait in Potts’ third hour, he called me to Control.
“What do you make of this, Mac?” he asked, pointing to a contact in Coronation Gulf several nautical miles ahead of us.
I called Teuthis. Waverly had the watch and picked up.
“What do you know about that contact out ahead of us in Coronation Gulf?” I asked.
“It’s USS Drum,” Waverly told me. “She’s been guarding our front door, so we could concentrate on transiting the strait safely.”
The USS Drum (SSN 677) was a Sturgeon class fast-attack sub commissioned in 1972. This boat and crew had a lot of under-ice experience. It was gratifying to know she was out there looking out for us.
Coronation Gulf is a continuation of Dolphin and Union Strait, sort of. This entire part of our passage lay between Victoria Island to the north and mainland Canada to the south. Coronation Gulf differed in that it was much wider and shallower than the straits at both ends. We planned to hug the northern edge of the gulf, keeping to the deepest water available. As with Dolphin and Union Strait, we had to keep a careful watch for rocky and islet obstacles that very well might be incorrectly placed on our official charts. I was hoping that Sozh would continue its valuable assist.
Potts drove us into Coronation Gulf and, on my order, increased our speed to 8.5 knots. Sozh continued to be more accurate than our charts, so we relied on it more and more while continuing to keep the paper track. My watch was uneventful, as was Spook’s. Toward the end of his watch, however, Spook had to transit a four-nautical-mile-long gap between Edinburgh and Murray Islands that narrowed to just one-nautical mile at its midpoint. Fortunately, both islands were accurately placed on our charts as well as on Sozh. With bated breath, we passed through safely. Then Bert took over to bring us past Richardson Islands to Wilbank Bay.
We were protected out front by Drum and to our rear by Frisco. Right here, at the entrance to Wilbank Bay, we had the opportunity to catch our breath, so to speak. I wanted to flush Lyre with fresh air. Onboard, we were nose blind, but I was sure we stank like hell. We had a pretty good idea of our exact location since both Sozh and our charts placed Edinburgh and Murray Islands at the same place. But, we were about to enter Dease Strait between Victoria Island and Kent Peninsula. The strait itself was wide enough, but halfway through lay the Finlayson Islands with shoals, rocks, and islets all over the place. If we were going to negotiate this treacherous water safely under the ice, we needed to know exactly where we were.
“Lyre, this is Teuthis.” It was Franklin. “We are two nautical miles off your starboard bow. Stand by while I get a sat fix.”
“Teuthis, this is Lyre. While you get your fix, I will flush my atmosphere. Give me your exact position and heading after your fix, and I will cross your bow and come alongside starboard to starboard.”
“Teuthis, aye.”
This would be another first.
“Okay, Bert, set us up for flushing our air, and then bring us up against the underside of the canopy,” I said, watching the monitor view of the water above us. Bert threw a couple of switches on Ritm, lining up the snorkel system for sucking in air with the blower, and in less than a minute, I could clearly see the smooth ice surface above us. Bert stopped our slow ascent as we came up against the ice.
“Okay…drop down five feet and pop it up,” I ordered.
The ice was about a foot thick, so Lyre broke through easily. I raised the scope and swung around. Other than the surprisingly large phosphorescence-illuminated open polynya we had just created, I saw nothing. I scanned the ice off our starboard bow but did not see Teuthis’ antenna in the darkness. In the pale phosphorescent light, I watched the snorkel rise.
“Start the blow,” I ordered.
The air we sucked in was cold, ten or fifteen degrees below zero—that’s Fahrenheit. Sergyi brought parkas to Bert and me. After fifteen minutes, the temperature in Control was near freezing. I decided we had had enough fresh air and secured the blow.
Bert dropped the snorkel, and I swept around with the scope one final time—nothing but phosphorescence. Bert eased down to a hundred feet while I contacted Teuthis.
“Teuthis, this is Lyre. Transmit your updated coordinates, and I will swing around to your starboard side.”
Franklin got back to me a few minutes later. I guess he first had to get to a stable position up against the ice cover. He had moved a bit closer to our position—just over a nautical mile off our port bow. I reset Sozh and verified that Akkord had synched properly.
“Let’s do it, Bert,” I said, hunching into my parka.
Bert blew on his fingertips to warm them and set the coordinates into Akkord. Twenty-three minutes later, we rested against the canopy, our starboard side twenty feet from Teuthis’ starboard side, external lights ablaze.
Three divers appeared in what I now considered standard configuration, two carrying the cable and one watching over them from above. I was frustrated by not knowing each diver’s identity and made a mental note to solve that problem. When I realized that the lookout was excited by something, I added a second note: Tap into the divers’ comms.
The lookout’s excitement became apparent immediately thereafter as two diving Polar Bears appeared from Lyre’s port side, making a beeline for the other two divers. They were much smaller than the bear that had attacked Ski—my guess, litter twins still under mama’s care. Before anyone could react, however, an Orca appeared, quite literally eating one bear whole and scaring the second off. Then the Orca approached the divers who had clumped together to ward off the bears.
“Look!” Sergyi said, pointing to the monitor that displayed the Orca’s dorsal fin. “That exactly the same bite that the other Orca had.”
“I’ll be damned,” I said. “I think that big guy followed us here. There are plenty of polynyas along our route. It’s possible.”
Briefly, we observed a much larger Polar Bear nose around the edges of our lighted area—probably mama looking for her cub—but our Orca chased her away. I suspect that when she saw the Orca, she knew what had happened to her cub.
“You think the Orca really swallow little bear whole?” Sergyi asked. “I think little bear scratching and biting in stomach not good for Orca.”
“I’ve watched Orcas eat seals from close-up,” I answered. “It sure looks like they swallow them whole, but logic dictates that somehow the Orcas crush the critters before swallowing.”
“So, we got us an Orca for a mascot,” Bert said. “That does beat all.”
We finished the battery charge as we completed our sixth day underway on Lyre. Bert, Sergyi, and I watched the divers complete their task and disappear beneath Teuthis. Our Orca—Sergyi had named him Borysko, a Ukrainian name that means fighter and warrior—watched them and even followed them to the Egress hatch.
“I wish to be diving,” Sergyi said wistfully.
“I know,” I answered, “but we need you here for your Russian expertise.”
“Da…but I like dive better!”
THE LYRE—DEASE STRAIT
Ahead lay more of the same, except for the Finlayson Islands. For nearly seven hours, we cruised along happily on course 082 degrees at nine knots until we neared those treacherous obstacles. As I had come to expect by then, Sozh placed them accurately, whereas, on our chart, they were misplaced by nearly a nautical mile. The skipper and I decided to let Lyre lead both of us through the Finlaysons. Teuthis kept abaft our starboard beam for the entire passage.
We took nearly an hour to pass the islands. Then we “sprinted” at ten knots on course 098 degrees into Queen Maud Gulf.
As we left the strait behind us, Potts had the watch. He called me to Control.
“Look at this, Mac.” Potts pointed to his Okean display and its counterpart on Akkord. Ahead of us, a contact faded in and out as Okean attempted to isolate the incoming signal supplied by our damaged sonar dome.
I got on the Secure Gertrude. “Teuthis, this is Lyre. We hold an intermittent contact ten nautical miles on bearing zero-nine-six.”
“Roger, Lyre,” it was Waverly, “that’s Ohio. While we transited Dease Strait, she sprinted around us to protect our front door. Ohio commented on the tight squeeze at the Finlaysons. Says she could have used your Sozh.”
“They know about Sozh?” I asked.
“We told them when we gave them the corrected positions for the islands. That’s how they were able to get out ahead of us so quickly.”
THE LYRE—QUEEN MAUD GULF
“Queen Maud Gulf…Where the hell did that name come from?” Potts asked as I assumed the watch from him and commenced the seven-hour run along the gulf’s northwestern edge toward Ice Breaker Channel.
“Actually, that’s an interesting story,” I answered, digging into my accumulated store of absolutely useless historical trivia. “Before 1905, Norway and Sweden were one country with one king, although they still carried their separate names. In England, Princess Maud Charlotte Mary Victoria of Wales was the third daughter of Albert Edward, Prince of Wales. In 1896, she married Prince Carl of Denmark, becoming Maud, Queen of Denmark. Then, in 1905, on a nearly one-hundred-percent-vote, the Norwegians decided to separate from Sweden to form their own independent country. Against some opposition by Socialist partisans, the Norwegians decided on a monarchy. They asked Prince Carl of Denmark to be their king, and he accepted, naming himself Haakon VII. Thus, in 1905, Maud Charlotte Mary Victoria of Wales became Queen Maud of Norway.
