Cold Choices jm-2

by Larry Bond

  Rudel managed to look concerned and relieved at the same time. Jerry felt the same. It was bad, but it could have been worse.

  The XO walked over to where Rudel and Lavoie stood together. “All the gear in there is soaked with salt water. A lot of it’s shorted out. There was a class-C electrical fire, but the casualty team made short work of it once the power was turned off.”

  Jerry tried to remember which systems were in the electronic equipment space. They’d lost radio, certainly, and also the radar and ESM.

  “There’s worse news,” Shimko added sadly. “Rountree was in there. They pulled him out of the space, but he’s unconscious. He took a couple of good whacks judging from the bruises, and he’s got electrical burns. He probably took a bad jolt when the equipment started arcing.”

  Jerry had stopped working as he overheard the XO’s report, but now he couldn’t remember what he’d been doing. He took two steps toward the forward control room door, intending to go up and help. Rountree was one of his guys. But then he checked himself. The boat was still at General Quarters; Chief Gallant would take care of him. On top of that, they were still recovering from a nasty collision and a fire. There was nothing Jerry could do to help Rountree, and he’d probably just get in the way. Duty demanded that he stay at his post, but he wanted to go nonetheless.

  Lavoie, the XO, and the captain turned back to the problem with the masts. None of them could be raised. Jerry wondered how many others of the crew had been hurt. Was Dennis Rountree the only serious one? Rudel only listened.

  The XO pulled Lavoie aside and softly told him to take over in control and get some eyes up on the bridge. Lavoie nodded silently and then turned to Chief McCord. “We need to set the surface bridge watch. Get some foul-weather gear up here.” McCord acknowledged the order and sent the messenger of the watch and the stern planesman off to fetch the necessary apparel.

  Jerry spoke up. “I’ll take the bridge. Peters can handle the nav plot.”

  Lavoie nodded. “Fine, Jerry. I’ll keep the deck here. You’ll have the conn.” Suddenly, Jerry could hardly wait to get topside.

  It took McCord a few minutes to break out the cold-weather clothing. When it arrived, Shimko grabbed a set as well. “As soon as you’re set up, I’ll join you.”

  Jerry automatically answered “Yessir,” half-expecting the captain to come up as well, but Rudel simply watched the preparations.

  When they opened the lower hatch to the bridge access trunk, the water pouring down the ladder was so cold that at first Jerry thought they had a leak up there as well. After a moment, the rush of water ended. He quickly climbed up the ladder, grabbed the hand wheel, and undogged the hatch. Ready for the next blast, with gloves on and every zipper the parka had closed and buttoned, Jerry pushed the hatch open and locked it. He then released the bolt on the clamshell and tried to lower it — it didn’t budge. After a second failed attempt, Jerry had the lookout grab hold of the handle and they pulled hard together. With a sharp pop the clamshell fell away, opening the cockpit to the elements. Making sure that his lookout was also ready, the two crawled out into the open.

  The hard-driven icy air tore at his hood. There was more than just a strong wind blowing. Looking windward, Jerry could see a dark, uneven line of clouds. Remembering where he was, Jerry used his binoculars to scan the area.

  For the first time since the collision, Jerry wondered about the other boat. Was it surfaced nearby? The uneven sea was almost completely covered with ice floes, but he saw no sign of it. Occasionally, one of the larger ice chunks would thud into Seawolf’s bow, but most were pushed away by her bow wave.

  “Horizon’s clear,” Seaman Boster reported.

  “I concur,” Jerry replied. “With this ice, there won’t be a lot of surface traffic, but there’s a good chance of aircraft — and watch out for the other submarine. Report anything that isn’t an ice floe.” Jerry had to shout to be heard over the wind. Boster nodded. “Permission to come up to the bridge,” came a voice from below.

  “Granted,” replied Jerry. “But I’d advise you to be properly dressed. It’s cold up here.”

  “No problem, sir,” said IT3 Fisher. “We ain’t stayin’ up here long! We’re just here to install the bridge suitcase.”

  Two enlisted ratings hurried up, bringing the “suitcase” with the compass and other instruments. The navaids needed to conn the boat on the surface would never survive extended submergence, so they were designed as a removable package that could be quickly plugged in whenever Seawolf operated on the surface. It only took a few minutes for them to install and test the instruments.

  “That looks a little different,” remarked Jerry sarcastically as he gazed at their handiwork.

  “Well sir, it’s what we call an unauthorized shipalt. Since the network is still down, we can’t use the flat-panel displays. At least this way the older mechanical dials can tell you which direction the bow is pointing.”

  “I’ll take whatever I can get. But what about comms?”

  “Here you go, sir,” answered Fisher while handing Jerry a headphone set. “Your own sound-powered phone line. Now, sir, with your permission, we’re out of here.”

  Jerry chuckled as his two guys bolted for the warm interior of the submarine. With the suitcase installed and the surface clear, Jerry used his improvised comms circuit to report his status below. “This is Lieutenant Mitchell, I have the conn. XO, sir, all clear.”

  Shimko must have been waiting on the ladder, because Jerry had hardly started speaking when the XO appeared from the access trunk below. He was holding a digital camera.

  Together, they studied Seawolf Her bow was half hidden by the waves, but the way the water flowed told the ugly story. Normally, Seawolf’s round nose pushed a bow wave up onto her forward casing in a smooth, clear sheet, which fell off to the sides and turned into white foam. Now, the bow itself was covered in uneven froth, making whitewater rapids as the bow pitched in the sea. It was clear that a large chunk of the sonar dome was missing.

  Shimko took photos, then said, “Slow to three knots.”

  Jerry passed the order down. Three knots was bare steerageway, enough to give the rudder control so Seawolf could stay on a straight course. The speed change did reduce the turbulence a little, and Jerry spotted an angular shape poking up from the foam. Steel or fiberglass, it had been torn and bent several feet out of its proper position. There were also huge gashes in the hull around main ballast tank 1A. But as bad as it looked, there was clearly much more damage still out of view.

  “I don’t think the sonar techs will be able to get any of the bow arrays working again,” Jerry observed.

  “If we still have them at all,” Shimko remarked darkly. Jerry wondered if the XO was being pessimistic, but the bow wave made sense if you imagined Seawolf’s nose as a twisted and raggedly torn beer can.

  They could also see damage on the sail, a large grooved dent running up the starboard side all the way to the top. Shimko took more photos, cursing the damage but praising their luck. “At that speed, if he’d hit us dead-on, we’d be on the bottom right now.”

  It was harder to see the aft part of the casing from the sail, but Shimko managed to spot damage back there as well, an angled scar in the boat’s anechoic tiles. The pressure hull underneath was made of HY100 steel two inches thick. It didn’t appear to be dented, so if the Russian had hit them there, the two boats must have bounced, hard.

  Jerry occasionally checked the gyrocompass and scanned the horizon. There were no navigational hazards, except for the ice, for miles in any direction, but they were under way, and he had the conn. The roll of the deck reminded him of unfinished business.

  “XO, I recommend two eight zero to smooth out the ride.” That would take them into the wind, and also toward where the UUV was waiting for them.

  Shimko, still taking photos, agreed, and Jerry ordered them onto the westerly course. Toward the line of clouds.

  He felt the wind swing around as they
slowly turned, and found what shelter he could from the wind. Almost unwillingly, Jerry focused on the pitch and roll of the hull. It was a little better. And so far, his stomach was behaving itself. Too much other stuff to think about.

  “We’ll stay surfaced until they’ve finished plugging the leaks around the masts. Stay at three knots.” Shimko finished taking pictures, but continued to stare at the bow. “I’ll move it along as quickly as I can, but figure on being surfaced for at least a couple of hours.”

  “Yessir. If you get any information on the casualties, sir, could you please pass it up?”

  Shimko nodded. “It’s first on my list.”

  The XO left and Jerry began his regular bridge watch routine. Scan all the dials, sweep the horizon with binoculars, check on the lookout. Poor Boster was just as exposed to the elements as he was; there was really nowhere to hide from the wind. Seeing no reason to freeze lookouts, Jerry recommended that they be relieved every hour. Lavoie agreed, and said he’d arrange it.

  The dark radar repeater reminded Jerry of their damage, as well as their location. Normally, when Seawolf ran on the surface, she extended a radar mast, but none of their masts would function. Even if the mast had worked, the transmitter module in the electronics equipment space was fried. And even if everything did work, broadcasting a U.S. military radar here, practically on the Russians’ doorstep, was a great way to attract unwelcome attention.

  They’d lost their bow sonars, their periscopes and all their other masts, the radar, and their radios. Most of that gear, except the sonar, was his responsibility, maintained by his electronics techs and ITs. It was too soon to think about all the repairs, not while they were still at General Quarters, but the instant they secured, he’d have to find Chandler and Hudson and put them to work.

  Jerry shivered as the wind gusted. But it wasn’t only the cold chilling his bones. They were virtually blind, close to the Russian coast, with a leaky boat and no way to call for help. And that storm was coming right at them and it didn’t look friendly.

  Shimko was good as his word. He’d been gone only a few minutes when his voice came over the sound-powered phones. “Jerry, you asked about the casualties. We’ve got nine total, besides the bumps and bruises on just about everyone. Most are minor injuries, but they also include two fractures — and Rountree. The doc’s working on him, but that’s all I can say.”

  Jerry thanked the XO, and returned his attention to his bridge watch duties. The boat’s slow speed and the bleak horizon belied the urgency of the situation. A Russian aircraft could appear at any time, and without their sensors, they’d have no warning until it basically flew overhead. He wasn’t afraid of being attacked, but it would be best for everyone if they could leave the Barents undetected.

  Shuffling about in an attempt to keep warm, Jerry found his mind constantly going back to the events that led to the collision. He knew he’d have to write a report, possibly testify at a board of inquiry, so he tried to fix details while they were clear in his mind. It would be important later.

  He wasn’t worried about the outcome of any investigation. American and Russian subs had collided before on operations like this, although it wasn’t common. The entire incident would be reviewed, but as far as he could see, Rudel’s actions had been correct and the Russian had acted with incredible aggressiveness.

  The cold wind swirled around him in the sub’s cockpit, and Jerry busied himself to pass the time. With Lavoie’s concurrence, he tried several different courses to smooth out the boat’s ride. Jerry wasn’t the only submariner vulnerable to seasickness.

  An hour after he’d started his bridge watch, they secured from General Quarters. A moment later, a relief lookout appeared, ET2 Lamberth. Bundled up as the enlisted man was, Jerry didn’t recognize one of his own petty officers until Lamberth spoke, relieving Boster, who gratefully hurried below.

  “I don’t remember you being on the watch bill as a lookout,” Jerry remarked.

  “I’m taking Stone’s place. He banged up his knee, and can’t climb a ladder too well. Besides, I wanted to tell you about Rountree.”

  Jerry’s heart sank when he heard Lamberth’s foreboding tone. “Are his injuries that bad?” Jerry prompted.

  “Yeah.” Lamberth paused, swallowed hard, and then just spat it out. “He’s gone, Mr. Mitchell. He died.”

  The news hit Jerry like a freight train. Stunned, silent, he turned away from Lamberth, desperately trying to maintain his composure. A young sailor entrusted to his care had died. Rountree was his responsibility, and now he was gone.

  Helpless, angry, Jerry slammed his fist on the coaming. “Shit!” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Yeah, sir. You got that right. It was his heart, sir. Chief Gallant said it was probably the electrical shock. It damaged the muscles in his heart, and they kept on wanting to stop. It did stop, twice, and the chief zapped him and brought him back. Everybody was rooting for him, even Brann with his broken leg, half drugged up.

  “But it stopped again, and the chief ran out of things to do. They’ve got him bundled up in a blanket off to one side in the wardroom. Guys keep coming over to it and patting it, saying good-bye. Robinson’s sitting with him right now. He and Blocker are taking it pretty hard. I mean, we all are, it’s just bugging them more… I guess.”

  They aren’t the only ones, thought Jerry as he wiped the stinging salt water from his face. “Thanks for coming up to tell me.”

  Lamberth nodded sadly and moved over to the lookout position. Jerry turned back to check the bridge instruments, but then the petty officer spoke again.

  “He’s got family in Florida, I think.” He had to raise his voice to be heard.

  Jerry searched his memory of Rountree’s service record. “Parents and a younger sister,” Jerry answered. He’d never met them. Rountree hadn’t been aboard long enough for his family to visit.

  Lamberth nodded and raised the binoculars again. Conscious of their exposed position, Jerry kept searching the sky, hoping he wouldn’t see anything. If something did appear, they couldn’t escape quickly. Nuclear subs couldn’t crash-dive the way the old fleet boats did in WWII. Come to think of it, he didn’t want to dive at all. Not with all those leaks, and the depleted air banks…

  “Will we bury him at sea?” Lamberth asked. It took a moment for Jerry to realize he’d asked a question, and the petty officer had to repeat it.

  Jerry paused before answering. Finally, he shook his head.

  “I don’t think so.” Then more definitely, “No. We should bring him back to his family.”

  “But where will we keep him?”

  It surprised Jerry that they would have to think of such things, but there was hardly a spare inch of space on Seawolf, in spite of her size.

  “They’ll have to put him in the freezer.”

  Lamberth considered Jerry’s answer for a moment, then shrugged. It made sense. What else could they do?

  There’d be a death investigation, Jerry realized. And how would they explain this to Rountree’s parents? The navy couldn’t tell them what really happened. They’d have to make up a cover story about something. Shoot, the navy would need a cover story for everyone on the boat. They couldn’t pull into port with this kind of damage without some plausible explanation.

  A voice from the sound-powered phones broke Jerry’s train of thought. “Bridge, control. Lieutenant Wolfe wants to come up and take a look at the bow.”

  “Control, bridge. Send him up.”

  Greg Wolfe came through the access hatch as quickly as possible. He didn’t even greet Jerry, his attention fully taken up by Seawolf’s damaged bow. “Oh, migod. I was hoping the XO was wrong. It’s trashed!”

  “He thinks the sphere, the low-frequency bow array, and the medium-frequency active array are all gone,” Jerry suggested.

  “I think he’s right,” Wolfe answered in awe. Then more apologetically, “Oh. Sorry to hear about Denny Rountree.”

  “Yeah. Tha
nks, I guess.” His division was the closest thing to family Rountree had aboard, and that made Jerry the head of the family.

  “The whole boat’s taking it pretty hard. Everybody liked the kid.”

  Jerry felt something sting his cheek and automatically turned in that direction, into the wind. He was rewarded with particles of wind-driven snow pelting his face. Or ice. Whatever it was, he turned to avoid the stuff, then half-turned back to study the advancing front more closely

  He’d been an aviator in an earlier life, and had developed a good sense for weather. This oncoming storm was going to be a bad one. The front had advanced in the past hour, and Jerry could see a dark gray haze living under the cloud line.

  “Greg, are you done?”

  Wolfe had been looking at the storm front as well. “I’m gone,” and he was through the hatch.

  Jerry pressed the intercom. “Control, bridge. What the status of the repairs?”

  Lieutenant Constantino, the ship’s supply officer, was in control as the contact coordinator after Seawolf had secured from General Quarters. His answer was not helpful. “Feeling the cold, Jerry?”

  “Everyone’s going to feel it when this storm reaches us.” Jerry then described the advancing weather.

  “Those ice floes will beat us to death,” Constatino agreed. Some of Seawolf’s sonar arrays were mounted on her sides. They weren’t designed to be hammered by multi-ton hunks of ice.

  “And the ride’s going to get a lot worse,” Jerry added from the bridge.

  “Understood, Mr. Mitchell.” The XO’s voice surprised Jerry. “There are new issues. The collision may have cracked the pressure hull forward. We were stripping some wet insulation from the bulkhead and found out that one of the frames is bent.”

  Jerry took a moment to take that in. The frames were steel ribs that reinforced the pressure hull. The force involved when the two subs came together must have been massive..