Cold Choices jm-2

by Larry Bond

  All he had to do was simultaneously solve several multiple-variable equations, and hope he’d get it right. And the only way to test their answer was to launch Patty and hope she didn’t drive herself into the bottom. And he kept thinking about the Russian sailors, who would die without these supplies. No pressure at all.

  The XO came down the ladder and glanced at Patty, lying gutted on the storage rack, but he barely stopped on his way to where Jerry and Peters were working.

  “The Skipper wants to know if there’s room for some food. He was just reviewing the list with Petrov and he mentioned that they are running out of food.”

  Jerry sighed. “Food isn’t as heavy as batteries, but it takes up about the same amount of space. Still, it weighs something. Where does it rank on the list? After the CO, chemicals, but ahead of light? What about the medicine?”

  Shimko almost pleaded. “These guys are getting hungry and they’re wasting a lot of body energy just trying to stay warm. We need to be concerned about hypothermia, too.”

  Jerry threw up his hands, but tried to work it through. “So what are we talking about? Granola bars?”

  “I’ve got the Ferengi going through our stores. Yeah. Granola bars, candy bars, fruit, cheese. Anything prepackaged.”

  “We’ll have to throw in a knife if we send over cheese,” Jerry muttered sarcastically. He suddenly felt like he was planning a picnic. “Please have the chop bring me candy bars, preferably with nuts in them, and anything that is small, compact, and as dense as possible. Small hard candies would be good too. But XO, whatever I squeeze in won’t be enough for sixty-some-odd guys.”

  The XO looked relieved. “Great. It’s something. I’ll tell the Captain.”

  As Shimko turned to leave, Wolfe and Palmer came down the ladder. They didn’t look happy. “We’ve got a problem with one of the interlocks.”

  Shimko looked surprised. “I thought you’d bypassed all the interlocks.”

  “Only on the batteries, XO,” Palmer answered. “We’ve managed to fool the computer into thinking that six charged batteries will be in place when we launch Patty. That was easy. We found the sensors and wired them to a single feed that will. ”

  “What’s the new problem?” Shimko demanded impatiently.

  “It’s the collision-avoidance turn-away circuit, sir,” Wolfe responded.

  “We disabled that,” Jerry said. “It’s just a software switch on the control panel.” He sounded surprised, almost incredulous.

  “There’s more than one,” Palmer explained.

  “Damn.”

  Palmer explained. “The one on the console commands a turn-away from any object at a preset distance. Drive toward a solid wall, get too close, and it automatically makes a one-eighty. We got rid of that one by setting the turn-away distance to zero.

  “But this other one’s hard-coded into the navigation processor. It’s a simple test. If the range to an object is less than four yards, and it’s not getting a homing signal, it executes a turn to avoid a collision. It’s a safety check, really.”

  Jerry replied, “And the Russian can’t send out the homing signal.”

  Patty and the other UUVs were designed to home in on a very-high-frequency sonar signal sent out from a transponder mounted on the recovery arm. The plan, however, was to have the vehicle swim into one of the Russians’ tubes without the aid of an arm or a homing signal. Of course, Patty would have to be guided in manually, which explained Palmer’s worried expression.

  Shimko processed the implications. “So, just before it reaches the Russian sub, she’ll turn away and head in the opposite direction.”

  “Exactly.” Palmer looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I should have found this much earlier.”

  Wolfe added, “I missed it, too. The only place it’s mentioned is in a safety checklist. In the back of the manual, I might add.”

  “What’s the fix?” asked Jerry.

  “We can’t reprogram the nav computer. We’re just not set up for that. The only solution is to feed a false signal to the ranging logic, so it thinks it’s still a safe distance away from Severodvinsk.”

  “But that means we won’t have range data as we approach the Russian,” Shimko protested.

  “We’ve spent the last half hour looking for another solution,” Wolfe argued. “We can’t fiddle with the pumpjet’s directional controls. We need those to function normally. If we try to feed in a fake homing signal, the seeker will drive Patty into a spin trying to follow it.”

  “How long will it take to rig?”

  “Half an hour or so. Chief Morrison and some of the sonar techs are working on it now.”

  “The forward looking sonar will still give us a clear picture,” Palmer said hopefully. “There’s just no depth perception, but if we take it slow, we should be all right.”

  “Not too slow,” Shimko cautioned. “I saw Johnson’s endurance estimates on the substitute battery, but I’m still a little skeptical. We’re making a lot of changes to this beast, and we can’t make a dry run; once we start, we are committed. I don’t want us putting a lot of stock into our assumption of how much time we’ll have. I’ll brief the Captain on our status. He wants us to be ready in two hours.”

  Jerry looked at the jumble of supplies next to LaVerne. “Sir, Captain Petrov said their carbon dioxide levels shouldn’t reach three percent until this evening. More time to prep would be good.”

  “The skipper wants to try and keep their C02 below three percent, if at all possible. Once the carbon dioxide gets that high the Russian crew’s breathing rate will double and things will get worse fast. It’s a slippery slope that the Captain wants to stay away from. So he’s pushing us a little.”

  Jerry gave off a weary sigh. Like many of the crew, he hadn’t slept since they had conceived of the plan to resupply the Russians. They were all driven by the urgency of the rescue mission and their intense loyalty to Captain Rudel, who seemed particularly determined. “Okay, XO, I sure as hell don’t want to disappoint the Skipper. If he wants to launch in two hours, we launch in two hours.”

  USS Winston S. Churchill, 150 miles northwest of Vardø, Norway

  “Dr. Patterson?” The male voice startled her out of a fitful, unhappy sleep. An enlisted man stood a foot away, calling her name. The unfamiliar surroundings, including a moving deck and bed, combined with the fragments of her dream, made for a less than restful slumber.

  Jane Mastui snapped on the reading lamp over her bunk. In the artificial twilight, Patterson could see a young man in dungarees. He was offering her a folder with a handful of messages. “The Captain thought you should see these, ma’am.”

  As she became coherent she looked at the clock, it read 0746. Matsui’s head popped into view from the top bunk. “Should I take them?”

  Finally awake, Patterson answered, “No, Jane, I’ve got them.” She took the messages, thanking the petty officer, and sat up.

  “Breakfast is available in the wardroom, ma’am. Captain Baker invited you to join him in half an hour.”

  Her stomach debated the pro and cons of breakfast as the enlisted man left and she reviewed the message traffic. Jane Matsui hopped down from the upper bunk and used the washstand. Across the berthing space, just a few feet away, Joyce Parker stirred and mumbled in the lower bunk; the upper bunk belonged to a Lieutenant Sandy Miller, who was the ship’s gunnery officer and apparently up already

  The first message was from SUBGRU Two to her. It repeated the information about Severodvinsk’s status and Seawolf’s improvised resupply plan, which she’d received late last night. It asked for frequent updates. A message from Wright’s office also repeated the information on the Russian boat. It added a doctor’s evaluation of how long the submariners could last in those conditions, with no surprises, and ended by asking for frequent updates.

  President Huber’s office had also sent a message. It included his personal best wishes and his confidence in her abilities. He was interested in her expert opinion on
the environmental effects if the submarine couldn’t be raised. Then he asked for frequent updates.

  Other messages gave her information on weather and the status of Mystic’s loading in New London. The last message was the important one. The Russian Northern Fleet had sailed, most of the larger combatants, anyway, with Mikhail Rudnitskiy as the guest of honor. Intelligence didn’t say how they knew, but it listed several of the ships known to have left. They’d sailed, and in strength.

  Churchill’s wardroom was roomier than a submarine’s. It would have accommodated a sub’s entire wardroom at once, but Burke-class destroyers had twice as many officers as a nuclear submarine, twenty-three, and three times as many enlisted men, over three hundred. Patterson’s eleven visitors had added to those numbers.

  Surface ships also had doors that opened out onto fresh air. Patterson took a moment on her way to the wardroom to get a personal look at the weather. Glossy gray waves looked unfriendly, almost dangerous, but at least there weren’t any huge swells this morning. They raced by. Patterson couldn’t guess their exact speed, but Churchill was moving fast. A slate-gray overcast matched the water’s color, but the air was definitely clearer. Cold air curled into the open passageway, and after a moment, she closed the door and latched it.

  Captain Baker and the other officers were all standing when Patterson entered the wardroom. Others from her team were also there. They’d waited for her, and as she entered the wardroom, everyone stood behind their seats. They’d left a spot open at the head of the long table, on Baker’s right, and she gratefully took it. The moment she reached her place, the captain said “Seats” softly and fifteen chairs were pulled back as one.

  Baker was solidly built, with thinning sandy hair and a round face that seemed stern, even when he smiled. “We’re not normally this formal at breakfast, but I wanted to officially welcome you aboard and introduce you to all my senior officers.”

  Only Churchill’s department heads and the XO were present. Even with only some of Patterson’s group eating, there was no room for the rest. Not all of her team had made it to breakfast. The word was that Manning and Bover were suffering severe motion sickness. Tech Sergeant Hayes would eat with the crew in the galley, and Parker and the reporter Adams were gratefully absent.

  As sailors in crackerjacks served breakfast, starting with Patterson, introductions ran around the table, down one side and up the other, ending with Churchill’s XO, a wiry-looking man with a crew cut named Hampton.

  “Everyone on Churchill understands that this is a rescue mission. They’ll help you with anything you ask, Doctor.”

  “Your crew’s already been very generous, Captain. I’m still amazed that you found places for us all to sleep last night.”

  Baker smiled, but he didn’t look happy. “The XO will refine the sleeping arrangements today. We were fine with four extra riders. Eight was a stretch, but we were ready — we thought. But eleven! Doctor, we simply don’t have that many spare bunks.”

  Lieutenant Commander Hampton added, “We’ll be rigging hammocks later this morning.”

  Patterson waited for him to smile, and realized he was serious.

  Hampton saw her expression. “Really. They’re good for your back. We’ve got some volunteers already.”

  “The XO has also added your people to our watch, quarter and station bill.” Baker explained, “It says where each of you should go for different situations or emergencies. For example, when we’re at General Quarters, I assume you and Commander Silas will want to be with me in the combat information center.”

  Patterson nodded silently, and Baker continued, “And for Abandon Ship stations, you and Miss Matsui and Miss Parker will be with me and the command team in the whaleboat.”

  “God forbid,” Patterson answered.

  “And you’re welcome to hear eight o’clock reports with me every morning and evening while you’re aboard. It will keep you apprised of our material condition and planned evolutions. For instance, we will practice abandon-ship drill along with several others this afternoon. And we will be running surface tracking and antimissile problems in CIC from now until we get closer to the Russians.”

  “We aren’t going into battle, Captain.” Patterson said it automatically, and then realized he could see it as a criticism. She quickly added, “Can you tell me why you think that’s necessary?”

  “I’m uncomfortable, Doctor. I can be honest about it. We’re one ship, not a formation. We’re going further north than most Navy surface ships ever get, and I don’t know anyone on this ship who’s been north of the Norwegian Sea, including me. There’s the weather.” He leaned forward a little. “And a Russian battle group reportedly just left port, heading for the same spot we’re going.”

  Patterson remembered something in the message she’d read. “Why is it important that the Russians aren’t emitting any electronic signals?”

  Baker was eating, and motioned to Hampton. “Because if they’re transmitting, we can locate them. The type of signal they’re radiating can help us identify the exact type of vessel as well,” the XO explained.

  The captain added, “And if I was leaving port in formation in heavy-weather, I’d sure as hell have my navigation radar on. He’s using something we call EMCON — emission control. The Russian commander is deliberately taking a serious risk to deny us information about his movements and composition. He’s on a wartime footing.”

  Baker sat back in his chair. “I know what my rules of engagement are, but until I see his, we’ll run drills.”

  “When will we see them?” Patterson asked. “Will we reach the collision site before they do?”

  “I don’t know, Doctor. We don’t know their precise location. The site of the collision is about three hundred and thirty nautical miles to the northeast from their base. The slowest ship in the formation is Mikhail Rudnitskiy. She can make what, fifteen knots?” Baker looked at Hampton.

  The XO shrugged. “Downhill, maybe.”

  “All right, we’ll assume a fourteen-knot base speed. Under normal conditions, they’d reach the spot in about twenty-four hours. Since the storm is still clearing along the northern Russian coast, that will slow them down a little. So add another hour, maybe two until they’re out from under it.”

  He paused for a moment, then answered Patterson’s unspoken question. “We’re twenty-four to twenty-six hours away at our present speed of twenty knots. I’ll speed up when the weather’s clear, but in these seas, twenty-five knots is the best I can do, and we’ve got five hundred miles to cover.”

  Patterson felt like she’d already lost the first move. “What will they do?”

  Russo spoke from further down the table. “Declare an exclusion zone. It’s SOP for any rescue operation. Unfortunately, they can use it to keep us out, and Seawolf, too, if they find her.”

  Hampton followed Russo’s logic. “Chase away Seawolf and they’re screwing themselves.”

  Silas added, “Seawolf has already found Severodvinsk and is attempting to provide them with supplies. I’d say they’ve done their bit. If the Russians want her to leave, that’s their problem.”

  Russo shook his head. “It’s never that easy. Having that sub and her UUVs on the scene would be very useful. The data they can provide the rescue force may be the main thing that saves Severodvinsk’s crew.”

  Silas wasn’t convinced. “Ma’am, Rudel will surface and report after he’s re-supplied Severodvinsk. I recommend that if he’s successful, you order him out of there. His boat is badly damaged, and the Russians already blame him, and us, for the accident in the first place. Limit our involvement and our risk.”

  “I can’t talk to him, not yet. He’ll report to SUBGRU Two,” Patterson replied.

  “Then have Admiral Sloan give the order. He’ll follow your lead.”

  “Rudel is the on-scene search-and-rescue commander,” Russo argued. “He can’t leave until he hands over control to the Russians.”

  “He’ll have to surface to
do that,” Silas pointed out. “They’ll be able to see the damage to Seawolf.”

  “That’s not a bad thing,” Patterson said.”Seawolf’s damage supports her side of the story.” She turned to Baker. “And this is a rescue operation, during peacetime. Run your drills, Captain, but the Russians aren’t fools. They won’t shoot at anyone. There’s no reason to.”

  “I can’t make that assumption.”

  “Agreed, but we can take steps to make it less likely. We are going to broadcast our position, in the clear, every half hour, explicitly state our actions, and Rudel’s as well. In fact, we are going to generate a constant stream of messages to the Russians, to the Norwegians, to everyone who will listen.”

  “My intention was to use EMCON ourselves, Doctor.” Baker didn’t look happy. “I’d like to keep the Russians in the dark as long as we possibly can.” He paused. “It gives us more freedom of action, and limits theirs — it creates uncertainty in their plans.”

  “Which in this particular instance is bad,” Patterson replied. “We don’t want any uncertainties in a rescue mission.”

  Russo supported her argument. “If we tell the world exactly what we’re doing, we can actually limit the Russians’ political options. We also reduce the chance that they will blame us for anything by being totally open about our actions.”

  At this time, they’d nearly finished breakfast, and others were waiting to eat, including Parker and Britt Adams from Skynews. As Patterson got up, she headed over to Joyce Parker, who at first tried to avoid her until she realized that Patterson intended to speak to her. The doctor even had a pleasant expression. “Miss Parker, after you and Mr. Adams have finished your breakfast, please see me in our cabin. There’s some important work you can do for me.”

  USS Seawolf

  With the supply loadout finalized, allocated, and triple-checked for total weight and trim, the torpedomen transferred the payload from the deck next to La Verne into Patty. It would be the UUVs last mission. The Russians would pull her inside to unload her, but there was no way for them to launch her again.