by Larry Bond
The michman looked at Rodionov, then Petrov, and shrugged. Petrov nodded wordlessy, then added, “Go ahead.”
Using a wrench, the torpedoman tapped different parts of the nose. “There’s a sonar transducer here, but the metal below it might be part of the frame.” He picked up a drill and made several exploratory holes. Two seemed to mark a bar that supported the transducer. The michman widened the holes, then tapped them for a pair of lifting eyes.
Petrov watched the surgery with mixed feelings. It offended him to have to ruin this expensive device, but it would keep his men alive. For all their complexity and cost, all machines — his submarine, the American remote— served men’s purposes.
Rodionov had them pull gently at first, but it moved smoothly, and they took a strain, pulling uphill against the port list and bow-down pitch. With only a few more pulls it was almost halfway out.
Now a loading tray was jury-rigged under it, manually, and by the time that was done, some of the men were clearly winded and had to be replaced. Eager volunteers stepped in and picked up the lines, but when they pulled, it only moved a few inches.
They shrugged, then tried again. It would not move. At Rodionov’s direction, they pushed it back, then pulled again. It stuck at the same place.
There was no way to see where the thing was stuck. Ten feet of the vehicle was hidden, and the clearance was too narrow for flashlights to reveal the obstruction.
The inside of the tube was not completely smooth. Low rails held and guided a weapon, ports let water and air in or helped them escape. Others locked a weapon in place in case of sudden maneuvers by the boat.
“Rotate the thing,” Petrov ordered. “The obstruction is probably small, and the only things it can catch on are a centimeter across. Turn it and it might not get hung up.”
Rodionov nodded and they paid out the lines slightly, letting it fall back into the tube a few inches. Then, with three or four men on a side, they embraced the vehicle, twenty-one inches in diameter, and tried to roll it in place. It weighed hundreds of kilograms. It was wet, and cold, and didn’t want to turn.
“Try the other way,” Rodionov ordered, and the exhausted men shifted their stance. Coughing, trying to find strength in the stale air, they gripped and pulled. This time it moved, a little, and Rodionov urged them on until they’d turned the vehicle almost ninety degrees.
Rodionov stopped them, and exhausted, they dropped to their knees. Panting, gasping, they waited while the other team took a strain on the line and began pulling.
It moved, and they all cheered when it came out farther, almost three-quarters of the way. Then it stopped, hung up on another protrusion. “Switch the groups,” Petrov ordered, and the pullers changed places with the turners. Now they knew what was needed, and moved the vehicle back a fraction and began twisting it in the tube.
They repeated the process twice more before the American vehicle finally slid clear. More men had to be brought down to help with the work, and others had to take over the job of actually opening the thing up. What had started with just the torpedo crew turned into an all-hands evolution.
Rudel had told them how to quickly open the vehicle, and the men set to work. Petrov watched them, more than aware of the irony. he’d done his best to take this thing away from the Americans. Its later recovery would have been a minor win for the Russian Navy and personal triumph for his new command.
Now, at great effort, the Americans had deliberately given him one of the remotes, and it would mean a different kind of victory. It wasn’t lost on him, either, that the vehicle had no tether. He could have done loops around the damn thing for a week, and it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference.
His mistake, his false assumption, had been a factor in this tragedy— possibly the primary factor. Every commanding officer has to live with the consequences of his mistakes. What grieved Petrov was that others were paying for them as well.
The side panel opened, and like everyone else, Petrov crowded in to see. Unlike everyone else, the men gave him plenty of room. Rodionov turned as the captain approached. “It’s all here, sir. The air chemicals, medicines, even some food.” He held up a candy bar with a bite missing. The captain-lieutenant’s grin was infectious, and Petrov could hear the men talking excitedly, almost shouting. It was time to get organized.
Petrov’s voice cut through the hubbub. “All right, the vehicle has been recovered. Anyone who is not part of the torpedo crew, return to your posts.” He pointed to one of the michman. “You. Collect all the medicine and all the food. Turn it over to Dr. Balanov.” He took in the entire group with a stern look. “We’re going to give the food to the injured first.”
There were several audible sighs as candy bars and other items were turned over. Petrov told the michman, “Pick men for a detail.”
Fonarin, in charge of life support, was already present to take charge of the air chemicals. With great curiosity, he examined the six-foot-by-three-foot plastic curtains littered with small pockets. He then picked up a can of lithium hydroxide granules and started to understand. Beneath the first curtain, he found an envelope with the Russian word “Instructions.”
“How considerate of them,” Fonarin remarked gratefully. “They’ve even provided instructions on their equipment in Russian. I will get these curtains distributed and hung immediately, sir.”
“Excellent, Igor.”
“Captain,” spoke the torpedomen michman. “This says it is for you.” He came over to Petrov with a plastic-wrapped package. Lettering on the front in Cyrillic and English said it was intended for the Captain of Severodvinsk.
That made him think of Rudel, and he turned to the intercom. “Central post, this is Petrov. Pass to Seawolf, ‘Thank you. We have the supplies.’”
The reply came back a minute later. “Captain, your message was passed. We heard cheering over their microphone.” Petrov felt almost like cheering himself as he cracked the seal. They had more time for the fleet to arrive, food, badly needed medicine, and now what had to be information. Curiosity filled him.
Then he saw the first photo. Although in false colors, the image showed his wonderful Severodvinsk, listing on the seabed, bow and aft sections scarred. Grief and anger brought tears to his eyes, and he quickly shoved the picture back into the envelope. He hurried out of the compartment, barely noticing the men that quickly jumped out of his way.
His cabin was in the first compartment, flooded and inaccessible. He wanted to examine the contents of the package alone, but that was impossible. Instead, he stood in the tilted passageway, out of the way of the men already bringing up vital supplies, and gathered himself.
In the central post, he called over Kalinin, Lyachin, and the other battle department commanders. They would share the first viewing with him. Several of the officers almost wept when he passed around the first image. The next was a detailed photo of the ragged bow, then worse, the bladeless stub of the propeller shaft. Those three images signed Severodvinsk’s death certificate.
“Oh my God,” rasped Kalinin as he picked up the next photo. Everyone present either gasped or groaned. The picture showed Severodvinsk’s V-600 emergency buoy lying on the ocean floor, a huge puncture in its tiny metal hull. It had never made it to the surface.
“No wonder we haven’t heard from the fleet,” Lyachin stated in awe. “They had no idea where to look!”
“Our debt to this Rudel fellow continues to grow,” responded Kalinin. There was no disagreement from those present.
After that came a detailed bow-to-stern series of photographs, both port and starboard, and annotated maps of the area, large and small-scale. One was marked with the location of debris from Severodvinsk and Seawolf, torn or broken off during the collision. Petrov was impressed with both the Americans’ thoroughness and the capabilities of their underwater vehicles. But it was a lot to take in. It was almost an hour later when he finally gave the package to Kalinin.
He tried to focus on the basics. Some of his crew
had been lost, but the rest were alive, and thanks to the Americans, he didn’t have to pretend they had a chance of survival. But it was time to accept the bitter fact that Severodvinsk was lost. Horribly crippled, in deep water, she would never leave this place. A great sadness came upon him. He didn’t think it would ever go away.
19. HEAVY TRAFFIC
8 October 2008
1300/1:00 PM
USS Winston S. Churchill
Patterson found Captain Baker on the bridge. “I just got a message from SUBGRU Two. They did it.” Patterson handed him the hard copy.
Baker smiled as he read the news. “Three days’ worth of breathable air, medical supplies — Rudel’s done it.” Churchill’s, captain sounded like a proud sibling. “The Russians ought to give him a medal for this.”
“I don’t know about the Russians, but we might,” Patterson agreed. “It gives them time.”
“Not much,” Baker countered. “If the Russian ships arrive on scene tomorrow morning, they’ve got forty-eight hours to come up with and execute a rescue plan.”
“I asked them for their ETA,” Patterson said.
Baker was surprised. “The Russians?”
She nodded. “Through the State Department. I thought it was time to say hello, especially since we’re supposed to be supporting the on-scene search-and-rescue commander.” She shrugged. “Actually, I’ve been trying since we came on board. State says they’re passing the requests on to the Russian embassy, as well as our ambassador in Moscow, but so far there’s been no response.”
“We can try ship-to-ship when they get closer,” Baker suggested. “They haven’t come up on the search-and-rescue radio net. There’s a UN agency called the International Maritime Organization. They have established procedures and radio frequencies everyone’s supposed to use for rescue coordination, but so far Churchill is the only ship using them.” Baker shrugged. “Of course Seawolf can’t, but the Russians should be all over the net.”
Patterson frowned. “Please be careful about communicating with the Russians by radio. As long as it’s coordination, ship movements and such, that’s fine. Anything else is supposed to go through the State Department.”
“Don’t you have a State Department rep on board?”
“Yes, but State wants all our communications to go through the Washington-based staff.”
“Which sounds very clumsy and slow.”
“You’re right. It is,” conceded Patterson.
* * *
Baker walked over to the chart table. Both Churchill’s projected course and their best guess at the Russians’ path converged on the collision site. “I’ve scheduled a helicopter launch for 0715 hours tomorrow morning.” He saw her expression and the unasked question. He reassured her, “It is the earliest possible minute we can launch. Lieutenant Ross is a good pilot, but he’s never done a personnel transfer with a submarine before and I want him doing this in daylight. The helicopter will also be carrying a lot of cargo, and we’ll be bringing back several of Seawolf’s injured, which means Doc Spiegel has to ride as well.”
Picking up a pair of dividers, Baker measured the flight distance off the chart for Patterson.
“We’ll be approximately here, one hundred and fifty miles away, by 0700 tomorrow. Once airborne, we expect the helo to reach Seawolf about an hour later, and we’re allowing half an hour overhead to send the parts down and bring the injured aboard. The winds are subsiding, but they’ll still be a major factor. And this type of evolution is never easy. The XO is working on a message telling Seawolf when to surface. He’ll run it by you before we send it.”
Patterson was grateful for the courtesy. “At least we can talk to her.”
International News Network
“Reports of a successful attempt by USS Seawolf to transfer atmosphere control chemicals and other supplies to the crippled Severodvinsk have been confirmed by the U.S. Navy. Although in communication with the downed sub, Seawolf has not provided a list of the dead or injured Russian sailors. Inquiries by International News Network as to the reason for this have not been answered.
“Requests for comment by the Russian Federation government have been referred to the Russian ambassador to the United Nations, Madame Elisaveta Yansanov. A spokesman for the ambassador said that the report of the American submarine’s activities could not be verified. She also said that she has no data on the location or activities of Russian forces, but that the rescue of the sailors aboard Severodvinsk is proceeding according to plan.”
The White House
Jeffrey Wright went in first, followed by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the Chief of Naval Operations, and then Rear Admiral Sloan. As National Security Adviser, Wright had been in the Oval Office many times, but was always impressed, and thought carefully before speaking. This was the driver’s seat.
The current occupant, President Nathan Huber, looked up from his desk as Wright and his group were ushered in. An aide was collecting documents as Huber hurriedly signed them. “I’ll finish these later,” he told the aide, and came around from behind the desk.
He greeted Wright, General Hodge, and Admiral Forrester; then Forrester introduced Rear Admiral Sloan.
“This is Commander of Submarine Group Two, sir. Seawolf is one of his boats. We thought his expertise would be useful.” Sloan stood at near-attention.
Huber warmly shook Sloan’s hand. “Welcome, Admiral.” He turned a little to the left, smiling, and automatically, Sloan turned in the same direction. A bright flash filled his eyes, and he heard Huber say, “Thanks, Ray. We’ll take some more a little later.” Huber introduced a young man standing to the right of his desk. “You all know Ed Rain, my press secretary.”
Wright and the other three took seats across from the president, while aides arranged themselves inconspicuously behind the principals. Rain took a seat nearby and began scribbling furiously.
Forrester began his report. “Mr. President, Seawolf’s resupply was successful. Captain Rudel reports Severodvinsk has an additional three days of breathable air. They also gave the Russians medical supplies, lanterns, batteries, and a little food. Our best intelligence on the Russian task group says they will arrive on the scene by tomorrow morning, local time.”
Wright added, “And we’ve forwarded Rudel’s report on to the State Department. They’ve passed it to Moscow and to the Russian ambassador. No official response.”
Rain looked up from his notepad, frowning. “The Russians probably got Rudel’s report the same time that we did. It’s a commercial satellite phone. Every national intelligence service and even some media organizations can listen in whenever he calls us.”
Wright responded, “There’s no need for secrecy. The more open our actions, the less the Russians can accuse us of. Look at what Rudel’s done. That’s great press. He’s bought time for Severodvinsk’s crew, and brilliantly at that.”
“What about this underwater vehicle they used to carry the supplies?” Huber asked. “I won’t quibble about cost in the middle of a rescue operation, but didn’t we just hand them classified technology?”
Wright and Forrester both looked at Sloan, who shrugged. “They may be able to remove some of the components. The computer and sonar are first-rate technology, but none of the hardware is classified and all of it is commercially available. Of course, the pieces would have to be portable enough to take with them when they are rescued.”
General Hodges concluded, “The most they can get are parts of a state-of-the-art UUV. Possibly of some use for their own designers.”
“An unintended consequence of Commander Rudel’s ingenuity,” Rain commented.
“An unavoidable consequence,” corrected Sloan.
Rain made a note. “I like that. ‘Unavoidable’ is good. He simply had no choice.”
“That’s good, Jeffrey.” Huber seemed distracted. “When do we expect the Norwegians to reach the area?”
“The day after tomorrow, the tenth, and Mystic two days after that,�
� Forrester answered. “If the Russians can’t get their men out, the Norwegians should arrive before their air gets too foul.”
“Barely,” Sloan added, and Hodges nodded agreement.
“And when the Russians arrive, Rudel can pass control to them and leave, correct?” Huber sounded hopeful.
“Unless the Russians ask Seawolf to stay and assist,” Sloan answered. “She still has two UUVs. They would be very useful.”
Huber looked over at his press secretary. Rain observed, “That could be good and bad. Their asking makes us one of the good guys, part of the rescue effort. But if it fails, we’re to blame as well, especially since the collision was our fault to begin with.”
Wright, Hodges, Forrester, and Sloan all looked as if they were going to speak, but Huber quickly beat them to it. “According to the reports, Ed, Rudel did his best to avoid a collision.”
Rain shook his head. “Understood, sir. And that’s the line we’ve taken, but the Russians say it’s our fault, and until an investigation clears Rudel, a lot of people will believe it’s our fault. Our best course of action is whatever gets Seawolf out of the area and out of the news before anything else bad happens.”
“We don’t have a lot of options,” Huber mused. “At least until the Russians take over.”
“Which is why we have to limit our actions, so as to limit our risks.” Rain turned to the officers. “For instance, this something-or-other sulfur chloride they dumped overboard to make room for supplies, this action has already cost us some political capital. I’ve had calls from several environmental organizations complaining about this flagrant violation of international accords. Do you know how toxic that stuff is? We’re talking about alienating some of the President’s core supporters!”
Sloan argued, “It had to be done. If. ”
“Yes, I understand the necessity, but it won’t stop some people with an agenda from second-guessing, and that can do more damage than actual events. There’s no leverage for us in this crisis. We gain nothing, even if Severodvinsk’s crew is rescued.”