by Larry Bond
He passed the news over the 1MC, and included Brann and the rest of Todd Williams’s gang in his public praise. “They’ve worked their tails off and given us all a dry boat. Now that our stomachs are recovering, the cooks have started on a feast in their honor.” Rudel paused to glance at the clock. “After that, we’ll begin our search.”
15. RUSH JOB
7 October 2008 5:30 AM
Georgetown, Washington, DC
The car picked her up just before dawn, with Lowell’s advice still filling her ears. Joanna Patterson’s husband had insisted on getting up with her and making breakfast while she finished packing. She appreciated the meal, but Lowell insisted on briefing her on Navy protocol — again.
“You know the ranks and organization aboard a ship, dear, but I can’t emphasize enough, make sure all your requests go through either the captain or XO. Don’t go bossing the crew.” Lowell, six foot two in his bare feet and flannel pajamas, still thought like a Navy captain. His congressional staff joked about the clock in his office that chimed “eight bells” rather than striking twelve.
“Lowell, I’ve dealt with Navy captains before.” She smiled smugly. “Quite recently, as a matter of fact.”
“And you’re very good at it,” he replied, kissing her warmly, “but that better not be how you plan on dealing with Churchill’s Skipper.”
“Whatever works,” she teased, but then she continued, “I made my choice. One port, one sailor.” She patted his temple. “Even with your thinning hair.”
The phone rang and Lowell jumped to answer it. “Hardy.” He listened for a moment, then turned to his wife. “The car’s outside. Did you pack your charger?”
“Yes. And my spare computer glasses. And don’t you forget about that meeting with Representative Acheson.”
“The man’s made of clay,” he complained.
“You need him, and he’s a lot smarter than he looks,” she cautioned. “Wish me luck.”
She hugged Lowell one last time and pecked him on the cheek as the doorbell rang. The government driver identified himself, then gathered her bags and took them to the car.
The chill lasted only until she was inside, where she allowed herself ten minutes with the newspapers before she pulled out her BlackBerry. There were emails to answer.
Traffic was light, and they made good time to the Old Executive Building, where they picked up Jane Matsui. Like Patterson, she looked like she’d overpacked, but Matsui explained that one suitcase contained nothing but warm clothing. Another bag, which she kept with her, was filled with work from Patterson’s office.
The instant they started moving, Matsui was ready to work. There were a lot of people who still thought Patterson would be in her office this morning, and the two women worked through the twenty-minute car ride to Andrews.
They were heading east, out of the city, so they made good time, and since it was a government car, they were waved through the front gate at Andrews Air Force Base with a minimum of delay.
An airman in dress blues met the car as it pulled up in front of the VIP waiting area. The nondescript door led into one of the buildings that made up the operations center. The Eighty-ninth Airlift Wing was tasked with ferrying all manner of government officials of any rank, in any numbers, wherever they needed to go, often at a moment’s notice.
“Welcome to Andrews Air Force Base, Dr. Patterson, Miss Matsui.” The young airman didn’t salute, but treated the ladies with deference appropriate for a general. While the driver dealt with the bags, he walked the two ladies inside. “Another member of your party is inside already. We’re waiting for two more.” He checked the clipboard. “You’ll be leaving at 0800 aboard a C-20B. It’s one of our smaller aircraft, but it has intercontinental range.”
The VIP waiting area looked like any airport terminal, except for the Air Force decor. The airman led them over to a Navy commander, the only other person in the room. He rose, almost coming to attention.
“I’m Commander John Silas, ma’am, your Navy liaison.” Silas was short, in his early forties, and already fighting a paunch. He was dressed in neatly pressed khakis.
After introductions, Patterson asked, “Where are you stationed? When you’re not TDY, that is.”
“I’m on Admiral Sloan’s staff, at SUBGRU Two. With your permission, I’ll file regular reports with him, so he’s kept up to date.”
The door opened again and the airman ushered Dr. Russo into the waiting area. He shook Patterson’s hand warmly. “Thank you for asking for me, Dr. Patterson. Frankly, I don’t get out a lot, and I miss it.”
“You’re welcome, Doctor, I think your expertise will be a great help.” There were more introductions, and Patterson discovered that Silas and Russo knew each other.
“Al Russo has come up to see us several times, and we send information to his office as well.” Since Russo was a CIA technical analyst, she presumed that Silas was talking about intelligence data gathered by SUBGRU Two boats.
Silas offered, “Doctor, I’ve got a few suggestions about how the investigation should proceed…”
Patterson cut him off. “This isn’t an investigation, Commander. I’m acting as on-scene coordinator for Commander Rudel and Seawolf. This is a search-and-rescue operation, not some fact-finding junket.”
“Given the success rate of Soviet and Russian submarine rescues, Doctor, it’s likely there will be little for us to do.” Silas looked over at Russo.
The analyst shrugged. “The Russians have never been able to pull a large portion of crew out of a bottomed sub. For that matter, neither have we, at least not since Squalus went down, and that was in 1939.”
“I won’t accept that, not with so many unknowns. We don’t know how badly the Russian boat is damaged. Nothing can be decided until we know that. And if there’s the slightest chance of the U.S. improving their chances of survival, I want us to find out what it is and then make it happen.”
“Bravo, Dr. Patterson, I wish I’d had a microphone.” It was a woman’s voice, behind her, and Patterson turned to see the public affairs official from yesterday’s meeting.
“Joyce Parker, Doctor. It’s good to see you again.” She offered her hand, and Patterson automatically shook it as she absorbed Parker’s presence. “I’m delighted to be part of this adventure.”
Silas pulled out a sheet of paper and consulted it, confusion growing in his expression. “I’m confused, Ms. Parker. I was given a list of people who were accompanying Dr. Patterson. You’re not on it.”
“I’m taking Art Lopez’s place,” she explained almost casually. “It was a last-minute change. He has a bad case of the flu, and State didn’t find out until early this morning, which is when I got the call.” She grinned. “I’ve been scrounging cold-weather gear everywhere I could. I had to wake some of my girlfriends. Am I late? Are we ready to go?”
Patterson eyed Parker with suspicion. “State was supposed to send a Russian specialist from the European desk.”
“Undersecretary Abrams said I could take Art’s place with the group. And you need a media specialist,” Parker countered. “Have you looked at the television coverage?” She offered a digital player with a news story about the collision. “The Russians are now claiming that they can’t find their sub, which they still refuse to identify, because a ‘mysterious’ U.S. sub is interfering with their operations.”
Silas snorted. “Their stuff is either still stuck at the pier or grounded.”
“The Russians say the search is progressing in spite of the weather,” she countered. “Of course, it helps when you’re not handicapped by the truth.”
An Air Force officer approached the group. “Dr. Patterson, we’re ready for your party to board.”
The C-20, engines idling, waited with a roll-up stairs at the fuselage door. Patterson, glad to be moving, set a fast pace and hurried aboard. It was supposed to be a rescue mission, after all.
An Air Force first lieutenant in olive coveralls greeted her. “I’m Li
eutenant Neal, ma’am, the copilot. We’ll taxi and take off as soon as your party’s seated and the luggage is aboard. It’s a seven-hour flight to Orland, Norway. We’ll refuel there, then fly to Bardufoss, where you’ll transfer to an MV-22 Osprey for the trip out to Winston Churchill.”
Patterson was all business. “I’m assuming you’re flying as fast as possible.”
“Yes, ma’am. We have priority clearance, and we’ll do everything we can to get you there quickly.”
Patterson thanked him and he left for the cockpit. As the rest of her group quickly settled in for the flight, she looked over the plane. The C-20B was the military version of a Gulfstream III and was configured for VIP transport, with three rows of first-class-sized seats, four across. Behind them, a bulkhead and door led to a conference area, including a communications center and a galley. It was not lavish, but looked more like an executive boardroom than a passenger aircraft.
Once she was buckled, an Air Force staff sergeant gave them a familiar-sounding speech about oxygen masks and aircraft exits, then belted in himself for takeoff.
As they taxied, Patterson found her mind racing. She’d turned off her BlackBerry, cell phone, and laptop for the takeoff, but begrudged even those few minutes of enforced idleness. She was eager to attack the problem.
She pulled the hard copy of Russo’s brief that Matsui had brought with her and looked through it again. Patterson had given up thirty minutes of sleep the night before to read everything she could find online about Russian submarine rescue equipment, but the classified brief had considerably more detail and she needed time to absorb the information.
Russo was sitting across the aisle from her and noticed what she was reading. He grinned. “That’s the canned one-hour briefing I usually give. I really should have edited it down for the NSC meeting.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” Patterson replied. “I’d only heard about a fraction of the ones listed here.” She paused, thinking. “I’m having trouble understanding why the Russians allowed so many accidents to happen.”
“Well, it’s not like they choose to have accidents, but their submarine production and maintenance philosophy makes them more prone to them. Remember, they’ve always played catch-up with our nuclear technology. They were desperate to field and operate their own nuclear boats. The losses were bad, but the alternative was American naval dominance. The guy in second place always has to take more risks to level the playing field. We’d do the same if our positions were reversed. In fact, we’ve done it, in other areas.”
Russo insisted, “They are not casual about their crew’s lives.” He gestured to the printout. “Turn to slide thirty. Look at the escape capsule.”
Patterson examined a cutaway drawing of a Russian sub, with a cylinder inside the sail circled in red.
“The capsule looks small in that drawing, but consider the size of the sub. The thing is bigger than a Greyhound bus. It can hold the entire crew— that’s over a hundred men, and has survival supplies, and an emergency radio to use when they reach the surface. The Russians put a lot of thought and effort into those things.”
“And it just floats to the surface?” asked Patterson.
“Yep, simple buoyancy. They close the hatch in the bottom, release the locking clamps, and up it comes.”
“Has it ever been used?”
“Once, when the lone Mike-class SSN, Komsomolets, was lost to a fire in April 1989. Most of the crew abandoned the boat while she was still on the surface, but the captain and four others weren’t able to get off in time as the boat suddenly foundered and sank. They managed to get into the capsule, but the sub’s trim was too great and the capsule wouldn’t release until it hit the bottom and she leveled out. Unfortunately, toxic gases from the fire leaked into the capsule and four of the five died.”
Russo shuddered. “It’s not foolproof, and they haven’t used it this time, for whatever reason. Submarining is a dangerous business.”
Patterson automatically agreed, maybe a little too strongly, remembering her own experience during the fire aboard Memphis. Russo’s expression of curiosity made her think of a new question before he started asking ones of his own.
“How long can they live, if they are alive?”
He shrugged again. “That all depends on how badly damaged the sub is, and how many of the crew survived. Ideally, they’ve got stored oxygen and power from their emergency batteries for some warmth. The problem is carbon dioxide poisoning. If the survivors aren’t able to keep C02 down below five percent, the clock starts ticking.
“Assuming most of the crew made it through the collision, and their emergency air-regeneration system still works, I estimate that they may be able to last for up to a week. Given Rudel’s initial report, the Russians have already been down for three days. Unfortunately, the weather isn’t cooperating and this makes things really sticky.”
“But Seawolf can ignore the weather,” Patterson stated, “and use her UUVs to find the sub quickly.”
“Exactly. But finding Severodvinsk won’t be the hard part.” His unspoken question went unanswered.
Their conversation had taken them through the takeoff and climb to altitude. The copilot’s voice over the announcing system announced, “Dr. Patterson, your group can unbuckle now and move around, and safely use electronic devices. Staff Sergeant Monroe can organize some breakfast as well, if you’d like.”
The moment Patterson stood, Joyce Parker, seated two rows behind her, stood as well. “Dr. Patterson, I must speak to you about the media response.”
“Ms. Parker, my only concern is supporting Seawolf and helping rescue Severodvinsk’s crew.” Patterson used a coldly formal tone that usually made others wilt.
Parker stood her ground. “I thought it was representing U.S. interests in an international crisis. Did you know that the Russians are claiming that the U.S. State Department deliberately fed them a bad location?”
“I’m not interested in fighting Russian propaganda.”
Parker showed Patterson her laptop. “Look at these headlines. The rest of the world is already calling this ‘the Seawolf attack.’ Our international reputation is being ruined, and we’re not doing anything about it.” Parker sounded deeply concerned.
The rest of the group had listened silently, but Russo now spoke up. “After Kursk went down, the Russians claimed that their boat had collided with a foreign submarine in the area. Early in the incident, they also claimed that they were in communication with the crew, and were sending air and power to them. Both statements were wildly false. Later they accused us directly of attacking Kursk, again a false statement.”
“What’s your point?” Parker was impatient with Russo’s observation, almost hostile.
“Nobody in the Russian Navy ever has gotten in trouble for lying to the media. It’s like the weather. We can’t control it.”
“Which means we have to get the truth out there.” Parker’s intensity was unnerving. Patterson could see that she cared deeply about the image of the United States, but her concern didn’t make it Patterson’s problem. Parker wasn’t even supposed to be here.
“Ms. Parker, we are going to have some breakfast, then I’d like Dr. Russo to run us all through his briefing.” Parker looked like she was going to say something, but Patterson just ran out of patience. “We’re done for now. Who else wants to eat?”
* * *
Staff Sergeant Monroe served fruit and pastries and excellent coffee, thank goodness. Patterson studied her team as they ate. No, they’re not a team, she thought. So far, it’s just a bunch of people together on an airplane. Like one of those disaster movies, she thought, but quickly squelched the comparison.
She had an empire builder, an intel analyst, and a naval officer who thought the whole endeavor is a waste of time. She had to make them work together.
During Russo’s brief, she listened and learned a little more, but also made up a list of action items, and watched her people. Silas and Russo had a running d
iscussion during the brief. They were comfortable with each other, and seemed to respect each other’s expertise. Parker appeared interested, and took notes, but that could have been her journalist’s instincts.
Silas continued to be pessimistic about Severodvinsk’s chances. “Even with a good location, they’ve got very few rescue submersibles that can go down and save them.”
“They’ve asked for help from the British and the Norwegians,” Russo offered.
“But it will be days before they can get there,” Silas argued.
“The Russians don’t even want us there,” Parker commented, and turned her laptop around so they could see the screen. The Internet headline read, “Russians demand U.S. submarine to leave.”
“This article says they have proof that the U.S. is interfering with their rescue operations, and may be trying to destroy evidence of a U.S. attack.”
Silas laughed. “They haven’t even left port.”
Patterson had enough. They could sit here and argue their way across the Atlantic. “Let’s make sure of that. Commander Silas, please contact the Office of Naval Intelligence and ask them for an update on the Russian rescue operations.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll add a request for any Northern Fleet movements, if that’s all right.” She nodded, and Silas headed aft for the communications gear. Good. At least he could take orders.
“Dr. Russo, figure a timeline for a Russian rescue attempt, assuming that Seawolf is able to guide them to the spot, and a second one assuming they can’t. I want to know what they must do, where they have choices, and where they might run into problems.”
She turned to Joyce Parker, who volunteered, “I’d suggest a press release. We have to show everyone that we are taking action.”