Cold Choices jm-2

by Larry Bond

  “Then it’s a fair bet that the Russians don’t have clue as to where she is,” added Rudel, a grim tone in his voice. “Keep moving aft, Jeff.”

  LaVerne resumed her slow trek down Severodvinsk. A short time later it came across the emergency escape hatch; closed but apparently in good condition. Then the hull tapered sharply near the stern, and the rudder and stern planes came into view.

  “Migod.” Shimko’s reaction was automatic, unthinking. Jerry felt the same horror. The starboard side stern plane was crushed, a mass of tangled color on the display that didn’t reveal its exact shape, but confirmed its destruction. Had it struck the bottom? Or Seawolf?

  The lower rudder was also crushed, but it was impossible to tell if that was from being dragged on the bottom or from the collision. They were so focused on the condition of the stern planes and rudder that Palmer was the first to notice. “The screw’s gone!”

  “What? Have LaVerne get us a view from the starboard quarter,” Rudel instructed.

  According to intelligence, Severodvinsk was fitted with a seven-bladed “scimitar” screw. Instead of the older four or five broad leaf-shaped blades, seven thinner blades, sharply curved and skewed, sliced through the turbulent wake with less vibration, which meant less noise. Modern Western and Russian subs both used highly skewed seven-bladed screws, or even more exotic ducted propulsors.

  But the image showed no blades at all, just a flat round circle with an occasional ragged edge where the propeller should be.

  Palmer sounded like he was protesting. “We didn’t see it on the bottom. It’s some twenty-odd feet in diameter. We should have seen it when LaVerne circled the boat.”

  “If the screw is gone, it would mark the actual spot where we collided,” Shimko said confidently. “She must have struck us with her stern. Her screw would have chewed up our bow, but the shock would have broken the blades off the propeller hub.”

  “They hit us at a fairly high speed,” Lavoie remembered. “Without the water resistance from the blades on the propeller shaft, the propulsion plant would have run wild. We know he was running at high speed. Imagine it— fifty thousand horsepower with nowhere to go. The turbines would have torn themselves apart before the overspeed safeties tripped.”

  Jerry added, “The shaft seals would have failed, so you’ve got massive flooding. Even if…”

  Shimko impatiently ended the discussion. “Okay guys, enough. This speculation is pointless. They’re down, and without propulsion they’re helpless. There’s no sign of working machinery, but the hull appears to be intact. Based on what we’ve seen, there may be survivors on board.” He said the last with a note of formality, as if making an official statement.

  “I concur,” Rudel stated, and the other officers nodded their agreement as well. “One last thing before we phone home. We’ll try the Gertrude.” Rudel quickly headed for the ladder. Over his shoulder, he ordered the phone talker, “Tell the chief of the watch to have Petty Officer Sayers report to control immediately.” Sayers was one of the crypto techs assigned to provide intelligence support. He spoke fluent Russian.

  Jerry and the other officers followed their captain. “Gertrude” was a nickname for their underwater communications system. Jerry was suddenly reluctant to use it. No response might indicate there was nobody alive, or they might be alive, but without power.

  But what if they did answer?

  Severodvinsk

  Senior Seaman Fesak was cold, tired, and bored. He had been sitting for the last three hours listening on the MG-35 underwater communications station for any sign that someone was out there looking for him and his crew-mates. But all he had heard thus far was the same he had heard over the last several days — nothing but waves and ice. He stifled a yawn and wrapped himself more tightly with his blanket. In one more hour he would be relieved and then he could find someplace to take a nap. It was rather difficult to listen to wave noise for long periods of time without being lulled to sleep.

  Suddenly, the young sonar technician was jolted out of his half-dozing state. He thought he had heard something. Adjusting the gain on the receiver, he sat motionless, listening intently.

  “Severodvinsk, Severodvinsk. Do you hear me? Please respond.”

  Fesak couldn’t believe his ears. The voice spoke clear Russian. The fleet had found them! Excitedly, he called out, “Captain-Lieutenant Rodionov! Someone is out there! They are calling us!”

  Rodionov bolted from his chair and quickly made his way to the underwater communications station. “Let me hear,” he ordered.

  Grabbing the headset, he put it on and listened. A moment later, a smile appeared on his face. Turning to Fesak, he said, “Find the Captain. Hurry, lad!” The seaman moved off as fast as he could, adrenaline temporarily relieving his fatigue.

  Rodionov grabbed the microphone and set the system to transmit. Pushing down on the mike, he said, “Hello. This is Severodvinsk. It is good to hear you. Please identify yourself.”

  The smile on his face melted away as fast as it appeared when he received the reply. “Severodvinsk, this is the United States submarine Seawolf. You have been reported as missing and we are here to render assistance. We wish to speak with your Captain.”

  Rodionov sat there stunned. An American, not the Northern Fleet, had found them. What was he supposed to do now? Where was the captain?

  “Severodvinsk, this is Seawolf. Did you receive my last?”

  Shocked out of his stupor, Rodionov reluctantly responded, “Yes, yes. I received your last transmission. I am waiting for my Captain. Please stand by.”

  “Severodvinsk, Seawolf. Understood. Standing by.”

  In less than a minute, Petrov, Kalinin, and most of the battle department commanders were in the central post, surrounding the underwater communications station. All were smiling, hope beaming from their faces.

  “Have you responded to their hail, Anatoliy?” asked Petrov.

  “Yes comrade Captain,” Rodionov replied nervously.

  Puzzled by his junior officer’s answer, Petrov looked at him curiously and said, “Then what’s wrong?”

  “Captain, it’s not the fleet. We have been found by an American submarine!”

  “What!?!” exclaimed Petrov, alarmed. “You mean the one we collided with?”

  “I don’t know, sir. They said they were the Seawolf, that we have been reported missing, and that they are here to render assistance.”

  An unexplainable anger arose within Petrov as he wondered if this was the same boat that had had a hand in their disaster? If so, where had they been for the last three days? If they were truly here to help them, then why had it taken so long? And where the hell was the Northern Fleet? These questions only served to intensify his fury as he remembered the eighteen men he had lost.

  Petrov struggled silently to maintain a professional demeanor, but his clenched jaw betrayed his true emotions. It didn’t matter if this was the same sub that had collided with them. Despite their circumstances, he could not bring himself to speak with an American, any American, right now.

  “Captain,” Kalinin asserted softly. “We need to respond.”

  Petrov rebelled at his first officer’s gentle admonition. “I am well aware of that, Starpom!” The sheer venom in his response surprised even Petrov.

  He saw the reaction of his men, and some of the rage left him. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to calm down and then added, “My apologies, Vasiliy. You are quite correct. I just find the irony of the situation to be highly. aggravating.”

  Kalinin’s slight smile told Petrov that all was forgiven without a single word being spoken. After another deep breath, Petrov unplugged the headset, selected the loudspeaker, and picked up the microphone.

  “United States submarine, this is Captain First Rank Aleksey Petrov, commanding officer of the Russian Federation submarine Severodvinsk. Do you read me?”

  “Severodvinsk, this is Seawolf. We read you loud and clear. Your Navy has reported you as missing,
we are here to render assistance.” The reply sounded a little wobbly and tinny over the loudspeaker, typical of acoustic communications through seawater.

  “To whom am I speaking?” asked Petrov. After a brief pause, the American replied.

  “Sir, my name is Petty Officer Wayne Sayers.”

  “I must compliment you on your Russian, Petty Officer Sayers,” responded Petrov with a tinge of sarcasm. “Who is Seawolf’s commanding officer?”

  “Commander Thomas Rudel is in command of USS Seawolf.”

  “May I please speak with him directly?”

  “Sir, Captain Rudel regrets that he does not speak Russian. Do you speak English?”

  “Yes, I do,” Petrov answered clearly, with only a hint of an accent. “I was once an assistant naval attaché in your country. May I please speak to Captain Rudel?”

  “Severodvinsk, this is Captain Rudel speaking. What is your situation?”

  The man doesn’t waste time getting down to business, thought Petrov. The mark of a professional. Still, there was one thing that he had to know before they could get started.

  “Captain Rudel, I must know. Was it your submarine that collided with us?”

  There was an uncomfortable pause while Petrov waited for Rudel’s reply. It was a straightforward enough question, and he wondered why the American was taking this long to answer it. Finally, Rudel’s voice came over the loudspeaker.

  “Yes, Captain, our boats collided a little over three days ago.”

  “Why did you hit us?” demanded Petrov angrily.

  There was another short pause, but when Rudel did answer his voice sounded tense and angry as well. “It was not my intention to collide with you, Captain. In fact, I was doing everything I thought necessary to avoid just such a situation. My intention was to disengage and evade, as I was concerned with your rather aggressive behavior.”

  “THESE ARE OUR WATERS,” yelled Petrov. His face a bright crimson, his body shaking with fury. At that moment, Kalinin placed his hand on Petrov’s shoulder and squeezed tightly. Turning to face his starpom, Petrov saw him shaking his head no. Quietly Kalinin whispered, “Sir, this is not the time to argue with the American.”

  Almost as if on cue, Rudel’s response to Petrov’s accusation rang out from the speaker, “Captain Petrov, I will not debate issues of territory or policy right now. I hope there will be time for that later. Right now, my only concern is to assist in the rescue of you and your men.”

  Between his starpom’s comment and the American captain’s measured words, a torrent of emotions completely engulfed Petrov. Anger, frustration, guilt, and even shame washed over him. He almost wished the American had been more belligerent. With his ego bruised and his feelings crushed, Petrov let loose a heavy sigh.

  Lifting the microphone, he spoke calmly and deliberately. “Agreed, Captain. We will deal with how the collision occurred later. But if you are here to help, why did it take you so long to find us?” The last sentence sounded more like a plea for an explanation, rather than a demand.

  “Honestly, we thought you had returned home. I believed that my boat had suffered more damage than you, and we were limping to a friendly port to effect repairs. Given your country’s reputation for building sturdy submarines, we never dreamed you had had the worst of the encounter,” answered Rudel frankly. “It wasn’t until we heard that you were reported as missing that we knew otherwise. After that, it took time for us to get back here and begin searching. My bow is badly torn up and we can’t move very fast.”

  Petrov translated Rudel’s explanation for the delay to his subordinates who listened with rapt attention. Some were nodding as the story unfolded.

  “Sounds plausible,” said Chief Engineer Lyachin. “It seems consistent with what we know.”

  “Plausible?” Kalinin exclaimed. “It’s more than plausible, Captain. It’s believable. This American didn’t have to come back. He could have passed on what he knew to his commander and kept on going to Norway or Great Britain. No one would have questioned such a decision if he has suffered even a fraction of the damage we have. But instead, he turned around and went looking for us; probably at some risk to themselves. I believe this captain is an honorable man, sir.”

  Coming from his starpom, a professional naval officer with unusually high standards, this was high praise indeed. Petrov, reluctantly, had to agree. With a weary grin on his face, Petrov raised the microphone once more and said, “Captain Rudel, I accept your explanation and your offer for assistance. Here is our current status.”

  USS Seawolf

  “Do you hear that son of a bitch!?!” exclaimed Shimko with total disbelief. “That stupid asshole is blaming us for the collision!”

  Rudel rapidly drew his right hand across his throat with a slashing motion and ordered, “Quiet!” Then, in a more normal tone, “I don’t have time for posturing from Petrov or any of you. Let’s stay focused on the task at hand. He’s more than a bit pissed off and I can’t say I’d feel any differently if our roles were reversed.”

  Jerry had seen Rudel’s initial reaction, and it was clear he was upset with the Russian captain’s accusation. Being the navigator, Petrov’s words had a particular sting to them that once again raised the ugly specter of doubt in Jerry’s mind. I don’t have time for this, he said to himself, and proceeded to stuff his personal demons back into their box. Jerry then listened as his skipper calmly and carefully disarmed Petrov’s accusations and successfully convinced him that Seawolf was really here to help them.

  Suddenly, Rudel snapped his fingers at Jerry and motioned for him to start writing down the data that Petrov was providing. Nine dead, nine missing and presumed dead, seventeen crewmen with serious injuries. Three compartments completely flooded, reactor shut down, power provided by the reserve battery; Jerry winced as the list went on and on. Without a doubt, the Russians had drawn the short straw and had suffered accordingly. Even Shimko was shocked at the degree of damage that Severodvinsk had sustained. Whistling softly, he said, “It’s a miracle any of them are still alive.”

  Finally, Petrov started to report on their atmosphere. Sixteen point four percent oxygen, one point four percent carbon dioxide. That’s not too bad, Jerry thought hopefully. But the last part of Petrov’s report filled everyone in Seawolf’s control room with dread. “All chemical air-regeneration cassettes are depleted. Repeat, all chemical air-regeneration cassettes are depleted. Estimated time to lethal carbon dioxide concentrations is two and a half days. End of report.”

  Rudel groaned at the significance of Petrov’s last statement. Without aid of some sort, the survivors would be incapacitated in less than two days and dead soon after. And there was still no sign that the Russian Northern Fleet was anywhere near. As he slowly raised the mike to his face, Rudel took a number of deep breaths and tried to sound as “normal” as he could.

  “Captain Petrov, we have your data and we will relay it to our government along with your exact location. However, I must surface to transmit. We will be out of touch for a couple hours, but we will be, back.”

  “Understood; and Captain, thank you. Severodvinsk out.”

  “Skipper, those guys are screwed!” exclaimed Lavoie, who looked just as stunned as everyone else.

  “Enough of that, Engineer, I won’t tolerate a defeatist attitude. We’ll just have to come up with something to help them,” replied Rudel with a fierce determination. He then quickly turned about and began shooting out orders.

  “Mr. Hayes, get us on the roof, ASAP! Nav, give your notes to Mister Chandler and have him prepare a report to be sent by the sat phone. I want this stuff out within ten minutes after we surface. The rest of you go with the XO to the wardroom and work this problem over. I want options, not excuses. We are not just going to let those men die. Understood?”

  A chorus of “Aye, aye, sir,” rang out as people turned to and began to execute their skipper’s instructions.

  As Shimko and the other officers went to the wardroom, Jerry made
a quick detour into the radio room. He found Chandler already putting together the initial draft of the phone message. “Here you go, Matt,” said Jerry as he tossed his notes on the worktable. “This is all the information we got from the Russian skipper. Have it ready for transmission in fifteen minutes.”

  “Right, I’ll have Chief Morrison put it together immediately.”

  Jerry looked around the room, there was no sign of the ITC. Confused, he turned back to find Chandler pushing the notes Jerry gave him to the opposite side of the table. He then started writing furiously in a standard navy-issue green logbook. “Excuse me, Matt. But what are you doing? The Skipper wants this message drafted ASAP.”

  “The chief will be here momentarily. I was going to finish up my report on the collision,” replied Chandler with an air of innocence.

  Red flashed before Jerry’s eyes; he had had enough of Chandler’s cover-your-ass antics. Struggling to control his anger, he approached Chandler with a deliberate, menacing stride. The commo’s expression became more fearful as he watched Jerry approach; it was as if he saw flames shooting from Jerry’s icy blue eyes.

  “Wrong answer, mister,” growled Jerry; his tone was almost guttural. Chandler gulped audibly. “You are going to draft that message as ordered, with or without Chief Morrison’s aid. In nine minutes, you will bring the draft to me. If you are one second late, I will personally put you on report the moment you walk through the wardroom door. DO I MAKE MYSELF ABSOLUTELY CRYSTAL CLEAR!?”

  The on-duty ITs cringed and looked about for a convenient place to hide. No one had ever seen the navigator this mad before. In fact, no one in the department had ever heard him yell before. For the patient, professional Mr. Mitchell to blow his relief valve, the offender would have to have screwed up really, really badly.

  Chandler started to shake visibly; beads of sweat lined his brow. “Please, Jerry, I have to write it all down.” He sounded fearful and desperate, almost pleading. And he’d used Jerry’s name.