Ice Station Nautilus by Rick Campbell Page A

performing an important task. Moisture was condensing on the metal surfaces, including the sonar and combat control consoles, navigation plot, Radio Room equipment—everything. It was one thing for water to drip from piping and machinery in the Engine Room, another to allow it to seep inside the tactical consoles. Each watchstander was armed with Kimwipes, the Navy version of lint-free paper towels, and the men were wiping down the consoles.
    Tolbert stopped beside Lieutenant Molitor, who was stationed as the Officer of the Deck, and explained the plan. Molitor passed the word to all spaces, and a few minutes later, he retrieved an emergency battle lantern mounted in the overhead, then gave the order.
    “LAN Technician, open the battery breaker.”
    The Petty Officer repeated back the order, then headed to lower level, where the battery was located. Shortly thereafter, the Control Room went dark. There was no electronic life aboard the submarine, not even a solitary indicating light. Molitor flicked on his battle lantern, and a bright shaft of light pierced the darkness.
    Tolbert reached up and retrieved a second lantern. As he debated where to head next, he realized he had lost track of time. He turned on his lantern and checked his watch. It was 0855 Greenwich Mean Time. North Dakota ’s next report was due in five minutes.

 
    16
    NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
    In the U.S. Navy compound off Terminal Road, Petty Officer Second Class Vince Harms sat at his console in the Communication Center. It was approaching 4 a.m., but as usual, the message traffic was brisk this time of day. With submarines synchronizing their day to Greenwich Mean Time, it was almost 0900 on every American submarine on deployment. The workday had begun, and those authorized to transmit had uploaded their radio messages.
    Harms checked the printout listing the submarines due to report in during his watch. It was only a few minutes before North Dakota ’s deadline, but Harms wasn’t worried. She was on a northern run, and submarine crews in trail often pushed it to the limit as they waited for an opportune time to come to periscope depth and transmit, without losing contact of their adversary.
    He busied himself with additional message traffic, then checked the message queue again at exactly 0900. No message from North Dakota . He waited another minute to be sure, then looked around the Communication Center, spotting Chief Marc Arsenault, the supervisor during tonight’s mid-watch, standing behind another radioman on duty.
    “Chief,” Harms called out. Chief Arsenault looked over as the junior radioman added, “We’ve got an issue. North Dakota is overdue.”
    The Chief stopped behind Harms and examined the printout by his console, then glanced at the time displayed on the Communication Center wall.
    “Yep,” Arsenault replied, “we got a problem. Draft a message to North Dakota, directing her to report in ASAP, and a SUBLOOK message for all commands. I’ll brief the Watch Officer and get authority to release.”
    *   *   *
    Later that afternoon, sitting at his desk in COMSUBLANT’s headquarters, Vice Admiral Bob Tayman waited impatiently for word from North Dakota . She was now twelve hours overdue. It wasn’t the first time a submarine had failed to report in, the crew engrossed with the tactical situation, unaware the clock had struck midnight and they had turned into a pumpkin. However, the probability that something had happened to North Dakota was increasing with each passing hour.
    A SUBLOOK had been issued, but the timeline to implement SUBMISS procedures wasn’t written in stone. It was a judgment call, depending on the situation. Twelve additional hours would normally be enough time to convince him something had gone wrong. But North Dakota had gone under the ice, and her ability to transmit would be affected by the availability of open leads or polynyas, or ice thin enough to surface through. Still, North Dakota ’s commanding