by Larry Bond
Vidchenko was in command of the entire search and rescue effort. This included not only Kurganov’s task group, but aircraft from shore bases and eventually the Norwegians, when they arrived. During this mission, he reported directly to Admiral Kokurin, commander of the Northern Fleet. And Vidchenko didn’t give a fig who Kokurin talked to.
He’d first met Kurganov when each had been given their assignments as part of the rescue. They’d gotten little sleep, not only preparing the ships for sea, but designing a search plan.
Kurganov was a Muscovite, urban and a little too worldly for Vidchenko’s tastes. He’d been born in the north, to a Navy family, but preferred Saint Petersburg to the nation’s capital. In spite of their different backgrounds, they’d got on famously, because they shared an utter distrust of the Americans and harbored deep suspicions about the U.S. submarine’s true role in the incident.
The surface admiral had drawn heavily on Vidchenko’s submarine experience. Together they’d developed an airtight search plan. They were searching for two subs: one that could not move, another that could.
After much discussion, they’d decided to head straight for the location provided by the Americans. They felt like prize fools for having to act on it, but they’d be bigger fools if they didn’t look there first.
They’d polished the plan now for two days, and if the tactics were slanted more toward ASW than search-and-rescue, it was hard to imagine that anyone on Severodvinsk was still alive. Part of Vidchenko wanted to believe that they were still alive, but that meant they were trapped, probably in the dark, certainly cold, breathing foul air and praying for help that might not come in time. He was a submariner, and you accepted that possibility every time you submerged, but it was a nightmare nobody wanted to think about. Part of him believed a quick end might be better.
And most of him just wanted to find the American submarine. What would happen after that depended on Severodvinsk’s fate.
Chicherin walked over to Kurganov and saluted. Vidchenko couldn’t hear the words, but saw line handlers moving on the main deck. Kurganov returned the salute, then walked over to Vidchenko’s chair. “We’re underway,” he reported. “And good luck to us all.”
“I’ll give it all to Severodvinsk, if it would help,” Vidchenko answered. He felt a vibration in the deck. They were moving, and it felt good. He’d been eager to go, of course. The urgency had been overpowering. The storm had kept them bottled up, like a pressure cooker, tension and worry building up with no way to release it.
Let the American show himself. Vidchenko was ready for him.
17. CONTACT
7 October 2008
1830/6:30 PM
Severodvinsk
Petrov stretched his aching body as he climbed out of his command chair in the central post. While his engineers had rigged it so he could sit safely, the significant port list had the back of the chair carrying a lot of his weight. Of course, this wasn’t part of the design specifications, and while it could easily carry the load, it did so at the expense of human physiology. As he worked the kinks out, Petrov looked around at his watchstanders. Anatoliy Rodionov, the torpedo and mine commander, had the deck watch, while Maksim Tylik was over at the engineer’s post. Fonarin sat cross-legged against the BIUS console with his log sheets and a calculator. He punched away at the buttons with dogged determination, a pencil clenched between his teeth. Petrov smiled at his chief of chemical service’s dedication.
A sudden crunch announced the relief of stress in his spine, and even though this reduced the pain in his back, he still felt tired and sore. The lingering headache was also still there, more noticeable now that the back pain had subsided. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much he could do about that. Looking down at his watch, Petrov reminded himself that they had been on the bottom now for over three days. So far, the emergency measures they had taken were working. Besides being a little chilly, the crew was holding up very well. Morale was still quite good. But the “easy” part of this endeavor was about to end. The next three days would see things get steadily worse. And there was still no sign that the fleet had found them.
The sound of heavy footsteps drew Petrov’s attention to the passageway behind him. Kalinin emerged from the dim light carrying a steaming cup in his hand. “Your evening tea ration, sir,” he said as he offered the cup to his captain.
“Bless you, Vasiliy,” Petrov replied gratefully. Slowly, he sipped the hot liquid and felt its warmth penetrate his body. Despite wearing the insulated green survival suit, he still felt chilled and the hot tea seemed to melt away the cold. “Hmmm, good tea. Thank you.”
Kalinin smiled and said, “You’d probably say the same thing about hot piss right now, but I accept your compliment.”
Petrov grimaced at his first officer’s crudity and gestured for him to sit down. “I see that even in these adverse circumstances you’ve retained your belowdecks sense of humor, Vasiliy.”
“You know what they say, sir. You can take the sailor out of the bilge, but you can’t take the bilge out of the sailor,” Kalinin quipped as he plopped down on the deck.
Shaking his head in mock despair, Petrov sat back down in his chair. Then in a more serious tone asked, “What’s our status, Starpom?”
Pulling out his notes from his breast pocket, Kalinin started going through the now all-too-familiar list. “The reserve battery is at fifty-eight percent, but a number of the emergency battle lanterns have depleted their batteries. Per your orders, I’ve secured all nonessential lights to preserve them for use in critical locations and for when we abandon ship. We are okay on food and water, although we are down to the less tasty bits. We have plenty of stale hardtack and a couple more days of canned meat paste, at least that is what the label says.”
Petrov grinned as he recalled the popular debate of the last two days as to whether or not the contents of the cans were indeed a meat product, and then as to what parts of what animal it came from. All concerned had decided in the end that, in this case, ignorance was not necessarily a bad thing.
“What about the tea and coffee?” inquired Petrov as he raised his cup. Under normal conditions, such a question would be considered trivial in the extreme. But given the powerful effect it had on his crew’s morale, being the only real creature comfort they could offer, it was of considerable importance to Petrov.
“We have both in abundance,” Kalinin replied. “We’ll run out of power long before the engineer’s cache is consumed.”
“Very good. It’s important to the men. It gives them something to look forward too. Please continue your report.”
“There has been no change, good or bad, in the condition of the injured, although Captain-Lieutenant Sadilenko had to be sedated again. The doctor says there is little that he can do for Yakov, and that it is best to keep him unconscious until we can get him to a proper mental health specialist.”
“Ever the optimist, our good Dr. Balanov,” remarked Petrov.
Kalinin nodded his agreement as he turned the page in his pocket notebook. “The quality of the atmosphere has declined slightly; oxygen has dropped to sixteen point five percent and carbon dioxide is up to one point two percent. The increase is due to the fact that there are now only four air regeneration units online, using the last of the V-64 cassettes, I might add.”
“How long before this last set’s chemicals are depleted?”
“We have less than an hour. After that, the air will slowly get worse and worse.”
“Has Fonarin revised his estimate on the amount of time we have?” Petrov asked as he jerked his thumb in chemical service chief’s direction.
“Igor has triple-checked — no, correction, quadruple-checked his figures. Taking into account the number of survivors and our rate of breathing, which will increase as the carbon dioxide levels climb, he believes we have until around midday on the tenth before we reach a lethal concentration. By the evening of the eleventh, we’ll all be dead, unless we’re rescued, of course.”
“Anything else, sir?”
“Yes, Vasiliy. Have Lyachin start recycling the used V-64 cassettes in the air-regeneration units. I know they’re probably next to useless, but at this point I’ll take every molecule of carbon dioxide that they can remove from our atmosphere. After that, I want you to get some sleep.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Kalinin wearily. “I will see to both requirements immediately.”
As Kalinin started to hobble toward the ladder well, Petrov called out to him, “Vasiliy, just one more item. Please confer with Dr. Balanov on the possibility of administering sleeping drugs to the majority of the crew.”
The starpom was both surprised and shocked by Petrov’s order and his expression showed it.
“Think about it, Vasiliy,” explained Petrov has he stood and walked over to Kalinin. “If we can’t remove carbon dioxide from the air, then we have to reduce the rate at which it is produced. The only way I know how to do that is to get a large number of the crew to sleep more.”
“Yes, sir. You are correct, we do need to consider what options we have in case… in case the fleet takes longer than we would like to find us.”
“Let’s pray that it is as drastic as we need to get, Starpom. But on the good side, it appears that the storm is finally waning. Within twenty-four hours we’ll know if Kokurin has sent anyone out to look for us.”
USS Seawolf
Jerry was one of the last ones to arrive in the torpedo room, trailing down the ladder behind a couple of sonar techs from control. The captain, the XO, and even the chief engineer clustered around the UUV console. Behind them, edging around the officers for their own peek, were the off-watch torpedomen and other stragglers. The crewmen saw Jerry and quickly made a hole, and the officers edged over just a little. It was enough to see.
The color display was designed to show detailed bathymetric sonar data, not a high-resolution photographic image. Palmer had selected a false-color mode that showed a strong sonar return as a brighter color than a softer echo. Thus, rocks on the seabed showed as yellow against a mottled brown and purple bottom, probably sand and mud. The false colors only threw off an observer for a moment. The UUVs primary sensors used high frequency sonars along with a precision underwater mapping algorithm, which gave the image the sharpness of a television camera. The observers could see patterns on the seabed where currents had scoured the bottom, a few clusters of rocks, but nothing more.
Rudel ordered, “Shift back to the long-range search.”
Palmer hit a key and a few seconds later the image shrank into the foreground as the sonar shifted range scales. Ahead and slightly to the left, near the top of the screen, a yellow-green shape appeared. “Range is six hundred fifty yards,” Palmer reported.
“Take your time,” Shimko cautioned, needlessly. The display showed LaVerne at a speed of three knots. She couldn’t go any slower and still be steered reliably.
It had to be Severodvinsk. It was in the right place, and after a day and a half of searching they were running out of places to look. The system had reported an anomalous contact at a range of over eight hundred yards, about half of maximum range for the vehicle’s sonar. An indistinct echo at that range, and in multiple sonar beams had to be something big, maybe a sunken submarine or a large outcropping of rocks.
The closer the UUV got, the more the blip took on a recognizable shape. Jerry studied it, along with everyone else in the room. He was looking for something that would show it wasn’t the sub as much as something that said it was. They’d had several false alarms in the past twenty-four hours, and he’d been delayed in the control room checking the updated charts for wrecks. There were none recorded by any of the UUVs in the area — a good sign. But this was no false alarm. It was just too big.
“It’s the right size,” Shimko observed cautiously.
“Could be, XO, but shouldn’t we have seen it further out than eight hundred yards?” asked Lavoie.
“We’re probably dealing with a new type of anechoic coating on Severodvinsk. Maybe its high frequency performance is better than we thought,” replied Shawn McClelland.
“Two points for the sonar officer,” remarked Shimko without taking his eyes off the display screen.
After another few minutes, Palmer reported, “Range is five hundred yards.” The range readout was shown on the computer screen, but not everyone in the room could see the whole display.
The shape was definitely narrower at one end, which Jerry automatically labeled the stern. An irregular blob of canary yellow occupied a spot one-quarter of the way back from the other end. It was the proper location for Severodvinsk’s sail.
Rudel studied the readouts, then turned to the intercom. “Sonar, torpedo room. Do you have anything on bearing two four seven?”
“Torpedo room, sonar. We can hear LaVerne’s motor on the wide aperture array, bearing is two four six. Nothing else, sir.”
“Sonar, torpedo room, very well. Keep a special watch for anything from the southwest. LaVerne may have found the Russian.”
“Torpedo room, sonar, aye.”
Jerry shrugged. It would have been nice to have heard some sign of life, but couldn’t imagine what machinery could still be running aboard the downed sub. The object was quiet, inert.
“Hold at two hundred fifty yards and circle the contact.”
Palmer acknowledged Rudel’s order and typed in the commands. The “contact” now filled a quarter of the screen, and Jerry started to think of it as a sub. The perspective shifted and the shape resolved even more.
“It’s the Russian boat,” Shimko declared. “It’s Severodvinsk.” He turned to the torpedo room watchstander, wearing his sound-powered phones. “Tell control we’ve found the Russian. Log the time and location.”
An excited buzz broke out in the torpedo room, but Rudel and the other officers ignored it. Jerry noticed money changing hands in the back of the room.
“Tell me you’re recording this,” Shimko asked Palmer, and the junior officer nodded vigorously, his eyes still fixed on the display. “The instant we got a detection,” he answered, then pointed to a red “R” in one corner of the display.
The image’s outlines continued to shift as the aspect changed. The sail took shape at the appropriate spot along the hull, but foreshortened.
“She’s listing,” Palmer observed. “It’s bad.” Resting on the uneven bottom, the sub was tilted to port — a lot. The UUV continued its circle around toward the bow, looking down the length of the boat.
“I’d guess. what? Thirty degrees?” Shimko sounded as if he hated to be right.
“At least,” Rudel answered. “This is not good. With the deck at that angle, it’ll be really tough to dock a DSRV on an escape hatch. And they haven’t launched their rescue chamber, so if they’re alive, they’re trapped.”
LaVerne finished her circuit. The imaging sonar had given them a clear picture of the Russian, resting on a rocky shelf, down a few degrees by the bow and tilted drunkenly to port, like a child’s discarded toy. The shape of the sub matched what they knew of Severodvinsk.
“All right, let’s recall Maxine. She doesn’t have to search anymore. And get Patty ready for launch, just in case.” Shimko looked behind him. “And anyone who doesn’t have business in the torpedo room, back to your own spaces.”
The room cleared out quickly, but was soon filled with activity as the torpedo gang prepared to recover one UUV and readied another one for launch.
While they worked, at Rudel’s direction, Palmer steered LaVerne in a close pass down Severodvinsk’s length. This time, the sub’s bow filled the screen, and they could see dark patches, hollows in the curve of the bow. There were also several spots that had a ragged look to them. Dents where she’d struck? The bow planes looked small for such a large vessel,
but stood out clearly.
LaVerne continued down the port side. The resolution was good enough to make out the limber holes in the hull, designed to let air escape from the ballast tanks when it submerged. Rudel had chosen the port side so that the deck would be tilted toward them. The sail loomed three stories above the hull, and Palmer started to back the UUV out to get a distance.
“No, stay in close,” ordered Rudel. “Look. There it is. The escape chamber is still in place. No masts extended, either.”
“They either didn’t have time to use the chamber or couldn’t use it,” Shimko answered.
“Hopefully, it’s ‘couldn’t use it,’” Rudel observed.
Stan Lavoie watched the image. “I’m not seeing any obvious breaks in the hull. Their sonar dome is crushed, but that’s made of GRP.”
“I agree,” said Rudel. “But the sonar image isn’t good enough to make an accurate call. Mr. Palmer, I want you to make another three-sixty pass once we’re done, and this time take digital pictures as you go. We can use them to get a better idea as to the damage.”
“Yessir,” responded Palmer.
Another minute passed as LaVerne moved further aft. Behind the sail, Severodvinsk’s hull was essentially a smooth cylinder. Except for the limber holes and small deck fittings that passed beneath them, it was hard to see the UUV’s motion. As the vehicle moved along the hull, a bright circular section appeared on the display.
“Look at that cavity!” exclaimed Lavoie. “Is that a hole in the hull?”
“Don’t think so, Eng,” Jerry replied. “It’s in the right location for their emergency distress buoy.”
“Well, it doesn’t look like it went too far,” commented Shimko sarcastically. “Look at that line on the starboard sonar display. It comes out of the hull and then snakes off towards the southwest on the ocean floor. The buoy probably never made it to the surface.”