Cold Choices jm-2

by Larry Bond

  Before he could say anything, Chandler’s head whipped back up, a slight smile on his ashen face. “But I’ve finished my eval inputs for next month. They’re on your desk. Well, at least that’s where I put them.”

  Genuinely surprised, Jerry said, “That’s good work, Matt. Thank you,” and then added, “As you were.” If the SOB liked formality, he’d give it to him.

  Chandler disappeared back into the radio room, looking almost eager to get back to his task.

  Jerry left radio glad that Chandler couldn’t see his puzzled expression. He’d never seen anyone that eager to push paper. It wasn’t natural, but it did make sense given Chandler’s cover-your-ass philosophy. He actually thought collecting all those brownie points mattered, that somehow if he got enough paperwork done, it would protect him from whatever loomed around the corner. Something must be eating at him, Jerry thought. He sure seemed to be afraid. But of what? Failure? Or not being recognized as exceptional?

  Jerry got in and out of control as quickly as possible. The bridge watch was being rotated frequently, and the prebriefs and debriefs were held in control. Every watchstander came down dripping wet; some still had ice in their hair. The air was wet, a cold clammy humid feel, almost dripping, in spite of the nuclear-powered dehumidifiers. They didn’t bother putting the swab and bucket away, but two well-placed bungee cords made sure they didn’t move.

  He briefly stopped to look over the navigation plot. Dunn had the duty and was carefully updating the track as he approached, one hand writing and the other locked to the edge of the table to steady himself. Dunn looked good — tired, but evidently not suffering from the sub’s motion.

  Once he’d checked the chart, Jerry headed aft again. He’d meant to just pass through officer’s country on his way to the XO’s stateroom, but Palmer’s desk light was on and the curtain drawn back. Loose papers had slid from his desk and were scattered across the deck. Jerry stepped in to gather them up, but saw Palmer, lying in his bunk, one arm limp over the edge and dangling, moving like a pendulum with the ship’s motion.

  Jerry hurriedly stepped over the papers and bent down to check on the junior officer. He was awake, a little pale, but Jerry had seen far worse.

  “Jeff, are you OK?” Jerry was concerned but puzzled.

  With obvious effort, Palmer turned his head to look at Jerry. “I’m whipped. No, that’s what I’d feel like if I got better. I came down from the bridge an hour ago, and I meant to work on the search plan for the UUVs, but I was so tired I had to lie down.”

  Carefully lowering himself to one knee, Jerry gathered up the papers. “Try to get something to eat and drink, if you can keep it down.”

  “Oh, I grabbed a box lunch from the galley,” Palmer answered. “The doc’s pills are helping with the seasickness. I’m just fracking tired. It’s so easy to stop what I’m doing.”

  Jerry left without saying anything else. It would have been easy, almost reflexive, to either haul Palmer’s butt out of the rack, or blow sunshine at him until he was motivated to get up. Neither approach dealt with the real problem, and Palmer’s gas tank might actually be near “E.” But Jerry didn’t think so.

  Seawolf’s crew had suffered a major hit, both physical and mental, when they collided with the Russian. Everyone in the service knows submarining is dangerous. The potential for disaster is just one mistake away. But submariners compensate for that with detailed procedures for any imaginable situation. Near-obsessive training pushes the danger and the fear it brings into the back corners of one’s mind, where driving a boat seems no riskier than riding a commuter train every morning. Sure, something might happen. But you’re much more likely to read about it happening to the other guy.

  But now it had happened to them, and instead of having a chance to recover, Rudel had turned them around, back toward an uncertain and potentially threatening future. And regardless of how things would turn out in the end, nobody on Seawolf would ever think of submarines in the same way.

  There was little to do about it, except recognize that it was happening. Jerry had faith that Seawolf ‘s crew would react quickly and properly when the next crisis came. In the meantime, let them rest and heal.

  Jerry was just about to make his report to the XO when he realized he had skipped the electronics equipment space up on the first deck. “Well, that was pretty stupid,” thought Jerry out loud. Now he would have to trudge back up and check in on the guys doing repair work. He was briefly tempted to just report everything status quo, but that wasn’t how he operated. With a weary sigh, Jerry turned back around and made his way forward.

  Climbing up to the electronics equipment space was a circus act. Wait for the bow to begin pitching forward and the first step would take you halfway up the ladder. Watch for the roll to starboard, then step up at the bottom of the trough, but hang on as the boat swings back to port.

  Here, once again as high inside the sub as Jerry could get, the motion was constant and violent enough to bruise him on any of a dozen angles. Like a climber, he made sure of the next handhold before releasing the one he had as he worked his way from the top of the ladder to the door of electronics space.

  The noise was constant and unnerving. Instead of the quiet hum of electronics, Jerry heard wind-driven ice floes slammed and ground against the hull. It unnerved him, forcing him to remember that nothing was being crushed or mangled in runaway machinery.

  This is where the action was. The periscope and other retractable masts passed through the electronics equipment space on their way down. Packing glands in the overhead sealed them against the outside water pressure where they entered the pressure hull, and those joints had been strained and even opened by the impact of the Russian’s hull.

  EN2 Gaynor, one of Lieutenant (j.g.) Williams’s men, had wedged himself into a small gap between the periscope assembly and the bulkhead. It was uncomfortable, but it freed both hands to work on the seal overhead. Another petty officer, MM3 Day, alternately handed Gaynor tools and mopped up seawater around the gland so the second class could see to work.

  Day’s efforts hadn’t kept Gaynor from getting repeatedly splashed in the face with icy water. His shirt and even his pants were spattered, and he occasionally stopped long enough to wipe his glasses. It was crude, rough work, pounding material into the gland to plug the gap. It wasn’t the kind of thing one associated with nuclear submarines, but in some ways, a sailor’s work never changed.

  Todd Williams was there, looking miserable. Braced in a corner, he greeted Jerry tiredly. “Gaynor’s making progress.” A muttered imprecation from the petty officer made him pause, but only for a moment. “This is the third try. The first two leaked, but the stuff seems to be working, now that Gaynor’s got the proper tools.”

  Two more engineers maneuvered their way into the space, laden with tools and more packing material. Their clothing was wet enough to show they’d been working on the leak as well.

  There was only one question, and Williams didn’t wait for Jerry to ask. “Give it another two hours and we’ll be ready for a test.”

  “That’s good news, Todd. Thanks.”

  His tour of the operations compartment now finally complete, Jerry headed for the XO’s stateroom and reported. Shimko, pale but still seated and working at his desk, said, “Good. That matches what he told me earlier. I’m glad he’s still on schedule.”

  The deck shuddered, an unusual motion. Both Jerry and Shimko grabbed for support and waited until it had passed.

  “The storm’s getting worse,” Shimko announced. It wasn’t news, but it started him talking about what was obviously an uncomfortable request. “I want you to go topside and look at the weather.”

  Jerry smiled, almost involuntarily, and laughed, but only for a moment. “It’s hard not to look at the weather when you’re up there.”

  “We’re starting to get more injuries,” the XO explained. “It’s mostly scrapes and bruises, but Garcia was actually thrown from his rack when he was asleep. The d
oc just put seven stitches in his forehead.”

  Shimko spoke carefully, as if he’d rehearsed what he had to ask. “As long as we’re forced to remain on the surface, the Captain’s concerned about the boat’s ability to weather the storm. It’s bad enough that the storm’s moving slowly to southeast, but we’re heading northeasterly, almost perpendicular to its path. Read the latest weather reports, go up and look things over, then report back to me. Should we keep going, or slow and try to find a more comfortable course?”

  The confusion must have shown in Jerry’s expression. Shimko explained, “Yes, this is the Captain’s decision to make. And yes, he and I both went up a little while ago. He used the sat phone to call Rountree’s parents. We both looked at the weather, but now he wants to hear your opinion as well.”

  There was only one answer. “Aye, aye, sir. I’ll report back as soon as I can.”

  Jerry went back to his stateroom, trying to work it through. The captain might be testing him, seeing what Jerry’s answer would be, but Shimko hadn’t acted like this was a training evolution. The XO also hadn’t hinted at his own opinion.

  Rudel was an expert sailor. Certainly nobody aboard Seawolf would question his decision, whatever he chose. So why was the skipper taking a poll? Was he second-guessing his own judgment?

  After changing into his thermals and several layers of warm clothes, Jerry worked his way to control and told the chief of the watch he needed to go up. He hadn’t been topside since he’d inspected the damage with Shimko after the collision. Since then, qualified conning officers had taken one-hour watches topside, while the deck was manned in control.

  An auxiliaryman met him on the first deck with the foul-weather gear, boots, pants, and a heavy coat, and helped Jerry climb into them. Standing on one leg was impossible with the motion of the boat, and Jerry sat on the deck to get the pants on. Getting up was strangely easy, a matter of waiting, then simply pushing up as the deck fell away beneath you.

  A parachute harness went over everything, and the chief of the boat, EMCM Hess, double-checked the clips, as if Jerry was planning to jump from a plane. Then he helped Jerry into a bright orange life vest. “Sir, use the first clip, right at the top of the ladder.” Master Chief Hess’s tone was earnest, dead serious. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but we almost lost someone because he didn’t clip up quickly enough. He wanted to close the hatch first.” As he talked, the master chief checked the emergency flasher and waterproof radio attached to the vest.

  “Who?” Jerry question’s was automatic.

  The COB shook his head. “I promised I wouldn’t say if he promised not to be a knucklehead again.” He grinned. “Besides, I could get in trouble speaking that way to an officer.”

  Jerry suppressed his own smile and answered solemnly, “Just like you said, COB. Right away, first one at the top of the ladder.”

  As he stated to climb, carefully moving with the motion of the ship, the master chief said, “Wait until we’re at the top of a wave. Most of the water’s drained out the cockpit by then.”

  Jerry nodded and climbed the few rungs. He grabbed the hatch, then waited, feeling the bow pitch down once, then twice. On the third wave he quickly worked the mechanism, then, helped by the downward motion, threw the hatch up.

  He spotted the clip at the top of the ladder and hurriedly secured his harness. Jerry was out of the ladder and closing the hatch when the first wave hit. Some of the water went down the access trunk, but Jerry slammed it as quickly as he could.

  Tom Norris, the reactor officer, had the watch, along with Fireman Inglis as lookout. To their credit, both had their glasses up and were searching the ragged horizon. The sound of the wind and ice masked his arrival until the hatch clanged shut and Jerry yelled, “Permission to come up.”

  Norris turned, one hand braced on the bridge coaming, and shouted back, “Granted. Watch your footing!” He pointed to the deck, and Jerry could see patches of ice on the wet surface.

  Remembering the COB’s instructions, Jerry waited for a break in the waves before quickly switching his harness clip to an attachment point nearer the front of the bridge. He had to carefully pick his footing on the slippery surface while he braced against the ship’s motion and the wind tearing at him.

  The wind came from the port side, trying to roll Seawolf over while it pulled them out of the cockpit, but the sail didn’t have enough area for the wind to work on. It drove the snow and ice ahead of it, making Jerry pull his hood around to shield his face.

  A wave broke over the coaming. Jerry tried to dodge it, but the other two didn’t bother. After it passed, leaving half an inch of water splashing in the cockpit, Norris leaned over as far as his harness allowed and said, “It’s too early for my relief, but if you insist. ” He had to speak up to be heard over the wind.

  “How is she handling the weather?”

  Norris turned his back to the wind, and the two huddled side by side as they talked. “The wind’s come a little to the right since I got up here. The bow is starting to pound, and I’m worried about what happens if we strike a large ice floe. I’ve steered us around some really big ones, but I don’t know how big is too big.”

  Jerry deliberately reassured him. “We’re okay since they welded the reinforcements in place. That’s still HY-100 steel. We’d have to ram something bigger and harder than an ice floe to be in trouble.”

  Norris shrugged, a gesture barely visible under the heavy clothing. “I hope you’re right, but once in a while we go deeper in the trough, or are slower coming up. That’s when these harnesses pay off. I’d recommend finding a smoother course, maybe we can turn more toward the southeast so we’re taking the waves from the stern quarter.”

  “Understood,” Jerry answered, and backed up a little, ending the conversation. He stayed on the bridge for another twenty minutes, until the watch changed, watching the storm and how Seawolf rode it.

  The pitch-down, the slide to the right, the shudder as the ice hit were all there, but more pronounced, the difference between a football game on a big-screen TV and seeing it live. Jerry saw the boat take a big wave. Instead of smashing over the bow it rolled up the hull, a gray-green wall that broke against the sail. All three ducked as the spray engulfed them. Some froze in midair, pelting them with wet ice.

  Strangely, Jerry wasn’t seasick. The cold and the work of staying on his feet occupied most of his attention. The rest was focused on how Seawolf behaved in the wind-driven sea. For the most part, the beat-up boat was holding her own.

  Finally the watch changed, two new victims climbing up while Jerry and the two watchstanders almost slid down the ladder. Their eagerness to get below was matched by the watch’s desire to get the hatch closed.

  As Jerry took off his dripping gear, the smell hit him. Twenty minutes of fresh air had rebooted his nose, and the odors of one hundred men, ozone, oil, and vomit were thick enough to chew. His stomach flashed a warning, but was too tired and empty to react. By the time he’d climbed into dry coveralls, his sense of smell was numb again.

  Jerry headed straight to the XO’s cabin. “Seawolf can handle the storm. We can stay on this course.”

  “Good, let’s tell the Skipper.”

  Rudel’s door was closed, but he answered quickly and was working at his desk. “Trying to get it all down before my memory fades,” he explained. Which he didn’t need to do, of course.

  Jerry reported, “Seawolf should handle the weather until we finish the repairs and can submerge.”

  Rudel nodded silently, acknowledging the report and considering. “It’s pretty rough on the watchstanders up there.”

  Was Rudel playing devil’s advocate? “Norris seemed okay when he came down, sir. We can always shorten the interval, especially since they should finish the repairs in a few hours.”

  “I’m concerned about additional injuries.”

  “They’ve been minor so far, sir, and the crew is learning how to deal with the rolls,” Shimko observed.

&nb
sp; Rudel sighed. “This crew has been through so much. I think I’m just reluctant to put them through anything they don’t absolutely need to.”

  Jerry’s mind raced. Rudel could ask this crew to swim through acid and they’d do it. He should know that. Finally, Jerry answered, “Whatever direction we sail, Captain, we’re stuck on the surface. I believe it’s best to push ahead.”

  The captain stood. “You’re right.” He looked at both of them. “Thank you both. We’ll continue on course.”

  Shimko and Jerry left, with Jerry working his way toward control, habit driving him to check the chart. His mind was still circling around the captain’s state of mind. Rudel had always been close to his troops, but he’d crossed a line somewhere, feeling their pain, and nobody can bear the suffering of a hundred men, especially if you’re responsible for it. A captain needs to be detached, removed emotionally because of the orders he might, almost certainly will, have to give.

  Jerry tried to, or pretended to study the chart. It was the captain’s problem, but if the captain had a problem then they all had a problem. It was also Rudel’s problem to solve, just as Jerry faced his own demons. In the meantime, Jerry was more than willing to back up the skipper and keep Seawolf on task.

  He finally focused on their course. They were closing on the collision site, and once they submerged they’d be able to increase speed. He ran a calculation to see how much time they had until they could begin the search.

  Then Jerry headed forward, to boot Palmer out of his rack. They would need a search plan soon.

  * * *

  Seawolf finally submerged an hour and fifteen minutes later, with the crew at battle stations and the COB’s hands hovering over the chicken switches. Rudel seemed more his old self as he carefully managed the boat’s submergence.

  Once submerged and still dry, he took the boat deeper and deeper, in steady increments. No matter how excited the report, Rudel smiled and took it all aboard as the seals stayed dry down to four hundred feet. “There’s no need to go deeper than that, not in the Barents.” Rudel’s tone was so casual he could have been talking about the menu for dinner. He settled on a depth of two hundred feet and a speed of ten knots.