Cold Choices jm-2

by Larry Bond

  He took a cautious first step, but nearly fell anyway. The deck was tilted, down by the bow and sharply to port. They must be resting on the bottom. He coughed again, and smelled what had to be smoke. Fear poured into him, and he searched for other signs of fire. By the time he’d scanned the entire central command post his head was clearing. Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be any flames. But he still had to figure out where that smoke was coming from.

  A number of the men were just getting up themselves, some with effort, a sure sign of injury. Others lay crumpled on the deck, unmoving. As Petrov started inching toward the nearest man, he asked himself two questions. How many of my crew are injured? What is the material condition of my boat? He needed answers, and he needed them now.

  Chief Engineer Lyachin was just getting up as Petrov climbed over to the ship’s systems-control station. Steadying the wobbly engineer, Petrov was relieved that he did not appear to be seriously hurt. “Sergey Vladimirovich, I need you to go back to the aft compartments and inspect them for damage. Can you walk?”

  “Yes, Captain. I think so.”

  “Good, Chief. Report on casualties and the status of the engineering plant. Use messengers. The internal communications aren’t working.”

  “I suspect that’s not the only system that isn’t functioning,” remarked Lyachin with a slight grin. The engineer coughed and then sniffed the air, a look of concern flashed on his face. “Smoke?”

  “Yes, Chief. I don’t know if it’s from some electrical equipment that shorted out or if we have an actual fire on board, so be careful.”

  “Understood, comrade Captain.” Lyachin then pointed at a still-groggy Shubin and ordered, “You. With me. Let’s see how badly we are hurt.”

  As the two men worked their way aft, Petrov’s eyes reflexively went back to the darkened status displays. Their blank features mocked his ignorance, but he remembered that the mechanical depth gauge didn’t need power. Grabbing the emergency flashlight attached to the commander’s console, he crawled over to the maneuvering-control station and shined the light on the depth gauge. It showed 197 meters. That was well above collapse depth, but too deep for a free ascent if they had to abandon the submarine. It was clear that they were on the bottom, and it hadn’t been a soft landing.

  He scanned the rest of the central post with the flashlight, its bright beam highlighting the smoke that hung in the air. It didn’t appear to be getting worse, but it was thick enough to sting any soft tissue exposed to it, including the lungs. Petrov saw that most of the watch section was on their feet, checking on each other and their equipment. He watched as they made their reports to Kalinin and cared for two men who had sustained more than just bruises.

  Kalinin waddled over, favoring his left ankle. He spoke softly. “Two serious injuries, Seaman Naletov and Warrant Officer Kotkov. Kotkov is hurt very badly. He gashed an artery in his leg. They’re putting a tourniquet on him now, but we really need Dr. Balanov. I’ve sent a runner to go look for him. As for the ship’s systems, everything’s nonoperational, even the backup power systems.” The starpom paused to cough, then added, “I felt us collide with the American boat, Captain. We hit and slid along its hull before something pitched us nose down and drove us into the mud.”

  “That’s more than I remember, Vasiliy.”

  “Yes, sir. You were thrown into the command console when we first collided. You were knocked out. ”

  “We’ll piece our memories together later, Vasiliy. Right now we need to figure out how bad off we are. I already sent the Chief Engineer aft to check on the propulsion plant. Send some more runners forward and aft. Pass the word for each compartment to report their status via messenger, since the comms systems aren’t functional.”

  “Already done, sir,” replied Kalinin.

  “Very good, Starpom.” Petrov took a little comfort in the fact that his first officer was already dealing with the situation. “I presume you fired the emergency gas generators after we struck the American, yes?” Petrov was referring to a set of chemical generators in the main ballast tanks. They could be triggered to send a one-time blast of high-pressure gas that would push the water out of the ballast tanks, hopefully causing the sub to ascend. The system was designed to get a submarine on the surface quickly during an emergency.

  “Yes, sir, but it didn’t seem to help very much. Something was driving us down. Given that we are still on the bottom, I’m sure several ballast tanks were crushed on impact.”

  Abruptly, the high-pitched shrieking of a panic-stricken man interrupted their discussion. “Captain! Captain! Seawater is entering compartment one! There is water coming into compartment one!” A young seaman scrambled into the dim light. He was visibly shaking; his eyes were wide with fear. It was the junior rating the starpom had sent forward.

  “Calm yourself, Seaman Kessler,” Kalinin said reassuringly as he grabbed the young man’s shoulders, steadying him. “Now, give us your report.”

  Kessler settled down a little. His shaking had subsided but he continued to gasp for air. Facing his captain, he struggled to speak clearly.

  “Captain, the forward bulkhead in compartment one has been breached. There are numerous geysers pouring seawater into the compartment. The hull is… is starting to groan, sir!”

  Petrov took the devastating report with a stoic expression, as if it were just part of a routine drill. He had to maintain control even though his own sense of fear was rising. If he panicked, the crew would soon follow suit and they all would perish. He was the rock on which they clung and he had to stand firm.

  “Seaman, listen to me. Tell your compartment commander to. ”

  Kessler shook his head violently and cut his captain off in midsentence: “Senior-Lieutenant Geletin is dead, sir! And most of the remaining crew members are badly injured!”

  With his frustration growing, Petrov pulled on the seaman’s coveralls and looked at the billet number on the left breast pocket. The five-digit number told him what battle department the seaman belonged to, as well as his duty location and watch section. The first number was a “1,” indicating that he belonged to the navigation battle department. Scanning the room with his flashlight, Petrov spotted his commander of navigation, Captain-Lieutenant Ivanov, tending Seaman Naletov.

  “Dimitry, take command of compartment one. Assess the situation and report back immediately. Take Starshini Michman Zubov with you.”

  Senior Warrant Officer Vitaly Zubov was the senior and most experienced enlisted man on board Severodvinsk. His position starshini michman was roughly analogous to the American chief of the boat.

  “Aye, Captain,” replied Ivanov as he and Zubov dashed for the ladder well.

  Stepping out of the way, Petrov moved closer to Kalinin, who leaned over and whispered, “Sir, that bulkhead took the brunt of two impacts. Should it fail.. ”

  “Yes, Starpom,” replied Petrov testily. “I am well aware of the implications. But I need an accurate report before I consign those injured crewmen to their deaths.”

  Kalinin nodded as Petrov shouted, “Captain Mitrov!”

  “Yes sir,” came the reply from the entrance to the sonar post.

  Turning toward the voice, he ordered, “Get as many men as you can and evacuate the injured from compartment one. Then gather as many air-regeneration cassettes and emergency rations as possible. Post an able-bodied, clear-minded man at the watertight hatch. Seaman Kessler will take you to the injured men.”

  “Yes, comrade Captain.” As Mitrov walked past Petrov, the captain grasped his arm, stopping him. Quietly, he said, “Move quickly, Vladimir Vasil’evich. If that bulkhead starts to go, I’ll have to order the hatch closed, regardless of who is in compartment one.”

  “I understand, sir,” responded Mitrov. Then turning to Kessler, he said, “Come, seaman, we need to go rescue our comrades.”

  For a brief moment, the room was still. Only slight murmurs could be heard as the remaining men tended to the wounded. But then a moving shadow at
the rear of the central post caught Petrov’s attention. It was Shubin. He was pale and sweaty, his breathing labored. An IDA-59M emergency respirator hung around his neck.

  “Captain, Chief Engineer Lyachin reports that there is extensive damage aft. Compartment eight is flooding from the stern tube. The compartment is over half full of water and. and the level is rising quickly.” The junior officer stopped as he tried to catch his breath. He was obviously fatigued and frightened.

  “Please continue your report, Mikhail,” coached Petrov calmly. He didn’t need to rattle the young senior-lieutenant any more than he already was. Petrov and Kalinin needed an accurate account of the situation in the engineering spaces, not the incoherent babblings of an overly stressed and terrified man.

  “Yes, sir. The shaft bearings are badly distorted and Chief Engineer Lyachin says we cannot use the main propulsion turbines. He also regrets to report that the bulkhead between compartments seven and eight has been compromised. He doesn’t exactly know how bad, but water is welling up in the bilges in compartment seven. It’s already up to the deck plates in the below decks. He doesn’t think we can isolate it.”

  The last sentence struck both Petrov and Kalinin like a knife through the heart. Kalinin groaned audibly as he leaned up against the command console for support. Stunned by the additional dark news, Petrov stood speechless. Severodvinsk was crippled and slowly dying, and there was virtually no chance of them getting off the bottom. They’d have to abandon ship, if they could.

  “I see,” replied Petrov woodenly. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, sir. Damage Control Chief Kolesnikov reports that there was a small electric fire in compartment three. It was put out with a portable chemical extinguisher. There was a far more serious fire in compartment six that required the application of the LOKh to extinguish.” The LOKh was a compartment-level fire-fighting system that used Freon gas to smother a fire by depriving it of oxygen. Unfortunately, it would also kill anyone trapped in the compartment.

  “Casualties?” asked Kalinin quietly.

  “There are numerous casualties, Starpom. We haven’t been able to compile a list just yet. Dr. Balanov is treating the wounded in compartment four.”

  “Where is Captain Kolesnikov now?” Petrov’s voice was deadpan, but his face reflected the pain he felt.

  “Captain Kolesnikov is on the line of defense established at the aft bulkhead of compartment five. He is assisting the Chief Engineer in evacuating compartments six and seven.”

  “Very well, tell the Chief Engineer. ”

  Suddenly the central post reverberated with the sound of mechanical popping and a low creaking groan that seemed to come from the hull itself. The unnatural noise grated on their already frayed nerves.

  A puzzled Petrov looked toward Kalinin. His face was ashen; he understood. “My God! The forward bulkhead!”

  Petrov took off running, while Kalinin hopped as best he could toward the ladder. The captain grabbed the handrails and sailed down the ladder well, the pain in his shoulder deadened by the adrenaline in his blood. It took him no more than ten seconds to reach the watertight door, despite having to jump over injured men lying on the deck. Mitrov was shoving Kessler through the hatch as Petrov arrived; both men were carrying two air-regeneration cassettes each.

  “The bulkhead is failing, Captain!” shouted Mitrov as he stumbled through the door.

  At the far end of the passageway, Petrov saw three men in orange rubber damage-control suits attempting to put up mechanical braces against the bulkhead. Heavy streams of water shot out of numerous small cracks in the steel hull.

  “Are they the last ones in the compartment?” yelled Petrov.

  “Yes, sir! All the injured are out and the belowdecks hatch is shut and dogged!”

  As Kalinin hobbled up to the door, his face ablaze with pain, he found Petrov shouting and waving at the men to get away from the forward bulkhead. The hull groaned again, and new streams of high-pressure water shot out from the metal. A jet of water hit one of the men in the shoulder, spinning him violently into the wall; he bounced and fell into the pooling water on the deck. At this depth, the water had the force of a bullet, and it left its victim unconscious.

  The larger man, seeing his unmoving comrade in the water, scooped him up and started retreating toward the watertight door. With the water level up to his knees, he waded at an agonizingly slow pace. He kept looking over his shoulder, motioning for the third man to follow, but the man remaining behind waved them on as he struggled to tighten up a brace.

  Petrov watched in horror as the bulkhead visibly distorted even more— the low groaning became a high-pitched screech. Reaching through the doorway, he grabbed the injured man, pulled him through, and dumped his limp body on the deck. The larger man leapt through the door just as the forward bulkhead started to fail catastrophically. Petrov slammed the door shut and braced it with his body while Kalinin lunged on the locking mechanism handle, dogging the hatch. Less than a second later, the hull finally collapsed, and the resulting water hammer blasted the bulkhead between the two compartments. The transmitted force sent both Petrov and Kalinin flying, but the bulkhead held.

  After a few seconds, the din of rushing water was replaced by the moaning and cries of injured men. Struggling to his feet, wet and in shock, Petrov stared at the watertight door. He’d just lost another man. How many was it now?

  “Captain,” Zubov’s voice came from behind him. It was unsteady, broken, but grateful. “Thank you, sir.”

  Petrov looked up at the large man clad in the damage-control suit, his face now exposed, and nodded. Turning back toward the secured watertight door, he asked, “Who did we lose?”

  Zubov swallowed hard, there were tears welling in his eyes. Fighting his emotions, it took him a few seconds to answer his captain. “Captain-Lieutenant Ivanov, sir.”

  Just then, several men came pouring down the ladder, their flashlight beams twitching wildly about as they descended. Chief Engineer Lyachin was in the lead.

  “Dear God,” he said as he maneuvered his way to Petrov. “We felt the hull collapse. I was afraid we were all doomed. We were fortunate this time.”

  “Some of us were, Chief,” responded Petrov as he helped Kalinin to his feet. His words were heavy with weariness and remorse. “Some of us were spared. At least for the moment.”

  With one arm supporting Kalinin, he gestured to the injured men on the deck with the other. “Chief, get these men to compartment three. Set up the engineers’ living quarters as a hospital and alert Dr. Balanov that he has more patients waiting. Then meet me and the Starpom in the central command post; we have much to discuss.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Petrov and Kalinin met with the surviving battle department commanders and the service chiefs. Petrov needed to hear their reports so that he could understand the full extent of the damage, and to determine what options they had. Chief Engineer Lyachin started off with an assessment of the ship’s overall status. As expected, the news was not good.

  “Based on my direct observations, compartments one, seven, and eight are completely flooded. Compartment six is probably flooding slowly, since I heard water flowing as I left. The atmosphere in compartment six is toxic, as is compartment five, from the byproducts of the fire as well as the LOKh suppression system. The watertight bulkheads in compartments two and five appear to be holding. For now, our situation has stabilized.”

  Kalinin shook his head and chuckled, “You have an unusual definition of stable, Sergey Vladimirovich.”

  “I suppose so, Starpom, but we are in a rather unusual situation,” quipped Lyachin with a weary smile.

  “Please continue, Chief,” commanded Petrov tersely.

  “Yes, sir. The reactor is secure. The shutdown rods have been inserted and I initiated the emergency cooling system. This means we only have the reserve storage battery for electrical power. Used judiciously, it can last for several days.”<
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  “Thank you, Chief. Captain Fonarin, what is the status of our atmosphere?”

  “It is breathable, Captain. Oxygen is at nineteen percent and carbon dioxide is at half a percent. That’s a little high, but tolerable. The existing smoke particulates are annoying but not life-threatening. Pressure in the boat is a little over a standard atmosphere.”

  Petrov nodded as he scribbled down the facts in his notepad. “Now for the crucial question, Igor. How long before the air will no longer sustain life?”

  “I believe we have several days before carbon dioxide becomes a critical concern. We have plenty of oxygen in the storage tanks, but without the air-purification system, we have limited means of removing the carbon dioxide. I will have a better estimate once I know how many air-regeneration cassettes we recovered and how many. how many of the crew are still alive.” Fonarin’s last sentence trailed off suddenly. Embarrassed at the implication that the deaths they’d suffered thus far were of benefit to the rest.

  “Thank you, Igor. Gather your data and make your calculations quickly.”

  “Captain,” interrupted Dr. Balanov. “Forgive my ignorance, but why are we even discussing this? Shouldn’t we move the surviving crew members into the rescue chamber and abandon ship?”

  An eerie silence filled the central post, as most of the senior officers looked down or away from the doctor and declined to speak. Sensing that he was missing an important point, he asked, “Why are you looking that way? What is it I do not understand?”

  It was Kalinin who finally took pity on poor Balanov. “The reason why we haven’t used the VSK, Doctor, is that our port list is too great. The locking mechanism that secures the chamber to the boat is friction-bound. There is no way for us to detach.”

  “I see,” said Balanov nervously. “Thank you for the explanation, Starpom.”

  “Your report, Doctor,” ordered Petrov.

  “We have suffered at least six dead and we have over a dozen moderate to serious injuries. At least eight men are missing and are presumed dead. We are compiling a comprehensive list of the deceased, missing, and injured and you will have it within thirty minutes. We also have one psychological casualty.”