by Larry Bond
Parker explained, “For the press releases, of course. Since this involves our relations with a foreign country, State will coordinate our media response.”
Gosport shook her head. “No. Involving State moves this to a higher level. For the moment, we will let the Navy deal with the media.” She deliberately looked over the assembled group, including everyone in her gaze. “It is my desire that this crisis be resolved with as little media attention as possible, and with that coverage favorable.”
“The last question regards who is best suited to coordinate the United States’ response. While I’m sure State is willing to take this on, I will again insist that this be handled at a lower level.” She looked to Admiral Sotera. “How about within the Navy?”
Richardson and the admiral conferred, the captain spoke. “Seawolf is part of Submarine Group Two in New London. Admiral Sloan is Commander SUBGRU Two and is en route here. So is Admiral Keller, COMSUBFORLANT, his immediate superior.”
“Then my recommendation will be that Admiral Sloan is designated the action officer for this incident.” She glanced at the clock. “I’ll be speaking with Dr. Wright immediately. Please inform your superiors that he may convene a full meeting this evening. Thank you.” She stood up and quickly left, while an aide gathered her notes.
That’s it? Patterson checked her watch. Twenty minutes of briefings and fifteen minutes of discussion? They’d barely mentioned Seawolf and her casualties, or the crew of the Russian sub. Both of them deserved, no, demanded more.
As the meeting broke up, Patterson approached Dr. Russo and asked for a copy of his brief — the full version.
Russo smiled at her interest. “I’m not usually called on to brief. I apologize for sharing my enthusiasm.” He handed her his hard copy of the slides. “You might as well take this one. It would just go into the shredder. At least someone will read it.”
“Don’t throw all that work away just yet, Doctor.” She smiled warmly. “And please, call me Joanna. We may need your expertise. I wish I’d heard more about actually helping those subs.”
“I wouldn’t like to be in Captain Rudel’s place right now. No nuclear sub has ever been as damaged as his and not headed straight for the barn. Once he finds the Russian, he’ll have to stay on station until the Northern Fleet shows up with a rescue force. And I don’t think this is going to be a simple handoff. Seawolf’s UUVs could be critical in saving the boat. The Russians have nothing like them, which means Seawolf could be there for the entire operation.”
Patterson frowned, imagining just how many ways things could go wrong. Then she wondered how many more ways there were that she couldn’t imagine.
CNN Report
“This is Jody Stevens in Moscow. A Russian Navy spokesman just released a report on the loss of the nuclear attack submarine Severodvinsk.
“The press release did not name the sub, but did describe the ‘loss of a new first-rank nuclear submarine to mysterious and hostile actions.’ The Russian naval officer would not elaborate on what might have caused the loss, but stated that ‘Russian submarines are well built and not subject to accidental loss. Only deliberate actions by another vessel could have put our submarine in danger.’
“When asked about Russian search-and-rescue plans, the Russian captain said the search was proceeding according to plans drawn up long before in accordance with fleet procedures. Weather in the area is very bad, but the captain insisted that the Northern Fleet was used to such severe conditions and would not be hampered.
“He refused to say whether the submarine has been located, or when rescue units could expect to arrive on the scene.”
Washington, DC
Patterson’s office was also in the Old Executive Office Building. She might have access to the president, with an appointment, of course, but that did not rate a desk in the West Wing.
Still, it was on the third floor, facing east, toward the White House, and she’d paid for the decorator herself. Antiques, warm colors and fresh flowers not only made it a pleasant place to work, but a place to visit. She also made sure that she had the best coffee on the floor, and comfortable chairs.
Her assistant, Jane Matsui, looked up as Patterson almost burst through the door. Patterson saw her reach for a stack of message slips and waved her off. “Call Ben Castle and tell him I need to speak with the adviser as soon as he finishes getting briefed by Gosport. It’s about Seawolf. Don’t let him put you off.” Matsui recognized her tone and dialed.
While her assistant spoke to the national security adviser’s office, Patterson quickly checked her emails. Only one answer, so far, but it was one of Lowell’s friends in the Pentagon. His only thoughts on the crisis were “Make sure Rudel’s got a friend in the room.”
Fifteen minutes later and one floor up, Patterson nodded to Wright’s staff. Adrienne Gosport was just leaving the adviser’s office, and she was more than a little surprised to see Patterson. She recovered quickly, though, and smiled thinly as she left for her own office next door.
Jeffrey Wright’s doctorate was in political economics. He tended to see conflicts in those terms, and he wasn’t an ideologue, which meant he tended toward the long view. Huber had appointed him as the national security adviser based on his raw intellect and the fact that without Wright he might not have carried the northeastern states.
Wright was a tall man, almost scrawny. Patterson often thought of a pile of sticks when she saw him in a chair with his legs crossed. His bushy hair was almost pure white, with only a few streaks of his original brown remaining. Although over seventy, he exercised frequently, de rigueur for anyone in the Huber administration.
“Jeffrey, the administration has to take a more active role in assisting Seawolf.”
“Nice to see you, too, Joanna.” Wright smiled and shook hands, then ushered her to a seat — not the one across his desk, but another, nearer and on the same side of the desk as his. He shrugged. “We’re letting Rudel continue with his search.”
“And doing not a single thing more,” Patterson countered. “He’s on a crippled sub in the middle of the Barents Sea and the only help he’s getting from us are some new radio parts.”
“That’s all he’s asked for.”
She smiled. “And you can’t think of another thing we can do to help him.” When Wright didn’t respond immediately, she stood and paced quickly, trying to walk off her frustration. “I wish you had run that meeting. This wouldn’t be happening. They were worried about everything except getting those men home safely.
“Their plan is for Jeff Sloan to manage the ‘incident’ from New London,” she argued. “He can barely communicate with Seawolf, even when her radios are working, which they’re not!”
Wright sighed. “I agree. He’s working at arm’s length.”
“And he’ll be working at arm’s length with the Russians, too,” she added.
“You sound like that’s a bad idea.”
Patterson shook her head. “I’m not going to say anything bad about Jeff Sloan to the President’s National Security Adviser. He’s a fine officer and very charismatic.”
“But,” Wright prompted.
“He’s like ninety-five percent of the military men I know. He’s not political. He doesn’t think in those terms. In fact, he avoids thinking in those terms.”
“While you live for it.” Wright smiled.
“I’m a people person, Jeffrey.” She smiled back.
“All right. You’ve convinced me that we need better communications, both with Seawolf and the Russians. Adrienne really didn’t look very hard for an action officer. I’m certainly not obligated to follow her recommendation. I think it should be you. We’ll send you to USS Churchill along with those radio parts.”
Patterson stared at him.
Wright started ticking off items on an imaginary checklist. “You understand the technical and political issues. You know many of the people involved personally. President Huber trusts your judgment, and you’ve delivered fo
r him in the past. You’ve even been on a submarine patrol up there.”
“The Russians probably shouldn’t know about that last bit,” Patterson mused. Pausing, she half-smiled. “I didn’t know I was so annoying. You know, I might find my way back “
Wright laughed out loud, but before he could say anything in reply, Patterson argued, “It won’t work. I’m not in the chain of command. I’m an adviser to the President.”
“President Huber will appoint you an ‘on-scene coordinator’ for the search-and-rescue operation. Under international law, Rudel is the on-scene commander, since he was or is the first unit there. Given his limited communications, supporting him with a surface ship makes sense.”
Wright made some notes. “Now, once the Russians arrive, they will quite properly take over the rescue effort, but you will stay there until Seawolf comes home.”
“Who do I report to?” Patterson asked. She wasn’t going to say yes until she knew where the wires led.
Wright grinned. “That depends. SUBGRU Two on matters relating to Seawolf, the Russians for the rescue, me for everything else. I’ll stay out of your hair as long as I feel informed, and I’ll get you whatever you need.”
“Can I take along someone? Dr. Russo. I met him at the brief. He’s an expert on Russian submarine rescue.”
“I’ll arrange it. I’ll also include a State Department rep, in case things with the Russians get intense, and a naval officer as your aide.” Wright saw her expression and reassured her. “They will work for you, I promise.”
“All right.”
“Splendid.” Wright’s smile lit the room. “Ben will arrange the travel details, but expect to leave tomorrow — early.”
* * *
Two hours later, she skipped dinner to hit an outfitter’s store on Seventh Street. They expressed interest in her destination when she told them she needed arctic gear, but Patterson put them off with a story about an environmental survey in Alaska, which she’d actually done, years ago.
She’d barely started when her phone beeped. It was a text from Lowell. check cnn. She hit a key and checked a list of articles on the screen. It was obvious which one he was referring to.
The audio with such a small speaker was awful, and she had to keep the volume down in the store, but the anchor’s voice was understandable.
“The Russian Interfax news agency has announced that the Americans have admitted their role in the loss of their submarine, now identified as Severodvinsk. A Russian naval ministry spokesman says that the U.S. government has provided both the location and time of the submarine’s loss through a collision with an American nuclear attack submarine.
“The Russian statement did not name the U.S. submarine, and questioned its ‘oceanographic survey’ mission. The submarine will evidently remain in the area conducting its own search for the downed Russian vessel.
“The ministry claims that because the location is in international waters, the only way the Russian submarine could have been crippled is through ‘hostile actions’ by the American vessel. They are discounting the American claim of an accidental collision, on the grounds that there is no reason for two submarines to be operating in such close proximity, and also the need to conduct a search, since it and the American had collided. He hinted the U.S. actually knows the precise location of their missing submarine, and is withholding it.
“The ministry says it is continuing its rescue plans, but that the search vessels will be escorted by Northern Fleet warships to prevent any interference.”
14. UPHILL
In the Barents Sea
It was a series of regular, violent motions. First the deck would pitch down and to starboard as Seawolf crested a wave. Then the entire boat would actually slide to the right, finally rolling back to port as she came down into the trough. As the wave’s crest moved toward her stern, it sometimes lifted her propulsor partway out of the water. The vanes would thrash for just a moment, and then as the water covered them, ice chunks would strike the vanes and then the cowling. The shuddering vibration, like ice cubes in a disposal, ran though the hull and everything attached to it.
There was some yaw in the motion, too, a slight turn to starboard and then back to port as the rudder lost its bite. And because the bow wasn’t a smooth, round, symmetrical shape anymore, all manner of vibrations and clunks found their way into the pattern.
Jerry had long ago ceased being seasick, if that meant losing the contents of one’s stomach. His stomach muscles were exhausted and sore, thankfully fatigued to the point where they were unable to spasm. He still felt weak and almost dizzy from the boat’s motion, but he could function— barely. He was still keeping death as a fallback option.
On Seawolf, all normal functions had been stripped down to bare bones, and then the extra bones had been discarded. Sea state six meant near gale-force winds and ten to twelve-foot seas, streaked with large tails of ice-laden spray. Submarines just weren’t built for this weather. Movement had to be carefully planned, not only through the passageways, but even simply crossing to the opposite side of a compartment. Handholds here and there, wait for the right moment to step, or risk banging your head on that cabinet, pipe, panel, or whatever as you’re thrown forward.
Shimko had passed the word as soon as they turned east. Rig the boat for heavy weather. Anything that could move, would. Anything that could be shaken loose, would move. Two thankfully minor injuries in the first six hours had shown the strength of the storm, and that the crew needed to use their imagination when securing for rough seas.
Jerry moved carefully, shuffling in concert with the deck’s gyrations in a nautical zen that came from hours of practice and a deep need to conserve energy. He, Shimko, and the captain were taking turns touring the boat, visiting each deck in every compartment, checking up on the tormented occupants. It was tiring, but necessary.
His first stop was enlisted berthing, aft and high up in the hull. The motion of the ship was, unfortunately, quite pronounced and the men literally had to wedge themselves in their bunks to prevent from being thrown out. With everyone not on watch confined to their rack, it was crowded, and noisier than usual from the motion of the ship and the sound of water and ice pounding the rubber-coated hull. Jerry was reminded of the old-style Pullman sleeper cars; assuming the train was riding a roller coaster in a hailstorm.
Many of the men were surprisingly asleep, but a few saw him, and waved or greeted him weakly. Jerry wasn’t the only one suffering the mal de mer. While only a few were as sensitive as he was, in seas like this, more than two-thirds of the crew were affected.
He noted two men in berthing that had sick chits taped to their bunks and IV bags hung over them. Dehydration was a real risk with severe seasickness. He asked to make sure the doc was looking in on them regularly.
Down lower, closer to the bottom of the boat, the torpedo room offered a smoother ride. With the boat moving so violently, all regular maintenance had been suspended, so it was quiet. The single watchstander, a pale olive hue, was seated, braced against the weapon launch console and one of the stowage racks. He was wearing his sound-powered phones and was alert enough to notice Jerry’s arrival and carefully stood.
Several other enlisted members had sought refuge there against the motion. A few were even trying to eat — cold boxed meals had been prepared by the galley. The smell of food stirred Jerry’s stomach, but he quickly left before it could wake up and remember how unhappy it was.
Aft of the torpedo room were the auxiliary machinery spaces, and then the forward reactor bulkhead. Like the torpedo room, these spaces were sparsely populated. He then climbed back up to the next deck, passing by the wardroom to radio. Actual work was being done in the radio room, as the ITs printed out message traffic and sorted it by department. With the floating wire stowed, they couldn’t monitor the fleet broadcast while on the surface; the two multipurpose antennas were still down. They’d bolted several fans, blowing as hard as they could, to cabinets and shelves to hel
p keep the air moving. Stray bits of paper flew through the small space, but the two men on watch looked almost comfortable.
Chandler was in there as well, hunched over one corner of a table, struggling to return a binder to a storage rack filled with hefty-looking manuals. He looked pale, but focused on his task. He saw Jerry and stood, made sure the binders and manuals were secure, then stepped out into the passageway. “No change in equipment status, sir,” Chandler reported.
“I’m sure you would have told me if there was,” Jerry said coolly.
“With your permission, I’m helping the XO with a crew training summary. It’s a required report, and with most of the radio gear down I’ve got some free time, so I offered to help him with it.”
“Since you’re already doing it, I suppose you can have my permission,” replied Jerry with a touch of irritation. He was in no mood for Chandler’s brown-nosing. “I’m sure you won’t let this interfere with your regular duties, and you’ll of course keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” He was almost standing at attention, and Jerry noted an intensity in his manner. “The XO said he might have some other things for me to do as well.”
“What about that write-up you were working on? Your account of the collision?” Jerry asked.
“I’m, I’m still working on it,” Chandler replied nervously. “The fire-control plot narratives are taking a little longer to do than I expected. There is just so much information that I need to cram into a clear, succinct report.” The commo’s cheery expression vanished as he spoke, replaced by the haunted look Jerry had seen earlier.
“I thought if I took a little break to help out the XO — you know, clear my mind a bit — it would get a little easier.” His gaze drifted downward, toward the deck, as he finished. Jerry wasn’t sure if Chandler was ashamed at getting caught jumping the chain of command again, or if he was still wrestling with the effects of the collision.