by Larry Bond
20. RESCUE FORCE
9 October 2008
0730/7:30 AM
USS Winston S. Churchill, 145nm bearing 078° from USS Seawolf
It had cleared overnight. A few high, thin clouds couldn’t interfere with the bright daylight. The light held no warmth, though, and with Churchill still racing east-northeast at twenty-five knots, the chilly air turned into a frigid blast.
Captain Baker had allowed Patterson and others from her party to watch the helicopter launch. They huddled in a safe spot just behind the after exhaust stack, escorted by Churchill’s XO.
It was a strange and exciting place, full of motion: the sea, the deck, the wind, and the whirling helicopter blades made her hold on to a fitting for some feeling of solidity.
She was also surrounded by reminders of Churchill’s true purpose. In front of them, between the helicopter pad and the exhaust stack, was the “after VLS magazine.” The size of a tennis court, it was covered with sixty-four two-foot-square hatches. Lieutenant Commander Hampton had explained that an antiaircraft missile was housed under each one. Two stories above on the superstructure behind her, she could see a pair of circular missile illuminators. They would guide those missiles to targets a hundred miles away.
Right beside her, a Phalanx gun mount partially blocked the wind as it whipped by. Hampton had described it as a “killer robot,” armed with a radar-directed 20mm gatling gun. She wondered if he wasn’t sensationalizing things a little, and reminded herself to look up the Phalanx on the Internet.
And then there was the helicopter, turbines spooling up. Patterson was grateful for the wind, because it carried part of the sound aft, away from them. What was left still made conversation impossible.
The Seahawk could carry missiles or torpedoes, but this time it carried tanks with extra fuel. She’d seen helicopters before, even ridden in them occasionally, but not like this one. They seemed small and vulnerable by comparison, like insects in their complexity and fragility. This beast was two or three times larger, vibrating with power as the pilot tested the engines, straining at the leash.
Lieutenant Commander Hampton proudly explained the evolution as the helicopter was brought out of the portside hangar and prepared for flight. It all happened quickly as the machine was moved out, the blades unfolded, and the engines started. An enlisted phone talker stood near the group and provided updates on the launch.
The talker tapped Hampton on the shoulder, and the XO leaned close and listened to the enlisted man’s report. Hampton turned and signaled to the group. Shouting over the wind and the engine noise, he said, “The Captain’s going to slow us down now. The helicopter’s ready, so we have to slow to reduce the air turbulence near the ship.”
Patterson and the others nodded, and within a minute the force of the wind lessened. The helicopter suddenly rose and turned to port, falling aft as the ship moved ahead. The Seahawk then banked and headed east-northeast, paralleling and preceding Churchill along that course.
Hampton nodded to the petty officer, who unscrewed his phone cord from a jack in the bulkhead. The XO ushered the group toward a watertight door, and they began filing inside. Patterson hung back, letting the others go first, and Hampton remarked, “They’ll be tracked by Russian radar soon. We’ve detected aircraft to the north, both a land-based patrol plane and a radar helicopter.”
He saw her look of alarm, and quickly reassured her. “Both types can’t harm a helicopter, and there is no indication that anyone will interfere with the helicopter’s mission.”
Then he paused. “But as long as the Russians are treating this as a tactical situation, we’re going to be on guard.” He looked to the northeast. The Seahawk helicopter was just visible. “None of us will relax until they’re back aboard.”
Rider 02, on course 078°
The Seahawk helicopter cruised at one hundred knots. He could go faster, up to a hundred and fifty, but he’d burn fuel too quickly. The pilot held the craft in a slow climb. Like all aviators, he liked distance from the unforgiving ocean, and it expanded his horizon. The increased altitude helped Churchill’s radar to keep tracking him, and his own sensors could see farther.
And his own radar was definitely on. They’d seen the Russian radars operating before he’d even taken off, so there was no point in trying to be electronically quiet. Besides, his APS-147 radar was an excellent sensor. As he rode over an empty sea, with home falling away behind, those sensors guided him, and gave him the knowledge he needed to get his job done and find his way home.
The flight proved to be smoother than they had originally thought, and they had a great tailwind. After only forty-three minutes in the air, they got their first glimpse of the injured submarine. “Contact at five eight miles, bearing zero seven niner,” the sensor operator reported.
The pilot acknowledged the message, then ordered, “Tell Seawolf we have them on radar.”
USS Seawolf
The XO poked his head into the crew’s mess. “They’re about thirty minutes out,” he said hurriedly, and disappeared. Just aft of the midships escape trunk, Chief Gallant had staged the three crewmen who were to be evacuated. EN2 Brann had been heavily dosed with painkillers, and his broken leg had been padded with blankets. Along with MM1 Heiser, he sat quietly. ET1 Troy Kearney fidgeted, and occasionally looked at the chief like he wanted to speak, but Gallant glared him down.
Several other crewmen were there as well, either to help or say good-bye. Gallant reminded them, “Remember, everyone has an escort up the ladder to the escape trunk. Escorts, don’t hurry them, but we need to move quickly.”
The captain came into the mess. Everyone except Brann and Heiser started to stand, but Rudel quickly waved everyone back into their seats. “It looks like we’re ready here, Doc. Any problems?”
Chief Gallant shook his head, smiling. “Just Kearney’s constant complaining.”
As if prompted, ET1 Kearney stood and held out his splinted wrist. “It feels great, sir,” he said while trying to suppress his wincing. “The doc took care of it and I’m good, sir. You can’t send me off the boat with those parts coming aboard. You’ll need me, Skipper!”
Rudel shook his head. “You need to get a cast on that break, ET1. A splint isn’t good enough. Without one, you could cause permanent damage to that hand. You don’t want to end up like Mr. Mitchell. You might never fly jet fighters again.” Everyone smiled. “Besides, Petty Officer Kearney, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything, sir.”
Rudel handed the petty officer a brightly wrapped package, the size of a large book. “This is the information on the Russian sub’s condition, on our latest situation report, letters to Rountree’s folks, and some other stuff that’s none of your business.”
The XO appeared again, and announced, “Sir, the helicopter’s in sight. Four, maybe five minutes.”
Rudel acknowledged the report, and Shimko added, “I’m on my way to the freezer. They’ll start bringing Rountree up.”
Somber, Rudel replied, “I’ll be on the bridge.”
“Yessir.” After a short pause, Shimko added, “Chief Hudson is down there, and Mr. Mitchell has everyone organized.”
“Understood, XO. Thanks.”
Rudel seemed to remember the package in his hand. Turning back to Kearney, he said, “I’m entrusting you with this package. Give it only to Churchill’s captain or XO.”
Kearney looked at the package carefully, as if it might explode. He asked, “What about Heiser, sir? He’s got two good hands.”
Chief Gallant said, “Not with his concussion. I’ve got him full of painkillers. And Brann’s got enough to worry about with his leg.”
Kearny nodded and took the package with his good hand. “I’ll take good care of it, sir.”
“If it falls in the water, it will float. Dive in after it.”
Kearney grinned. “Yessir, I understand.”
Rudel patted Kearny on the shoulder. “We’ll be thinking of you while you�
��re gone.” He stepped back and looked at all three men, silent for a moment, reluctant to leave. Finally, he said, “Take care of yourselves, and good luck.”
Rudel left and Gallant walked over to Kearney. As the chief opened the immersion suit and helped Kearney secure the package inside, the young petty officer remarked, “Sometimes I can’t tell when the Skipper is joking or not.”
“This goes in the water and nobody’s laughing,” Gallant answered. “Keep a good hold of it and you won’t have to find out.”
* * *
Jerry Mitchell wanted to be in several places at once. He was in charge of organizing the men that would pass the repair parts for the radios from the escape trunk to the wardroom, just forward of the opening. He wanted to be with Troy Kearney, one of his men who was about to leave the ship, and most of all, he wanted to be down in stores, with Rountree.
He really didn’t need to be in any of those places. Chief Gallant had everything under control in the crew’s mess, Master Chief Hess had a working party organized to handle the radio parts, and Chief Hudson and all the off-duty ETs were ready to move Denny Rountree.
Captain Rudel had agreed to let Rountree’s division bring him out of the freezer. Once the helicopter was in sight, Rountree’s remains had to be moved as quickly as dignity allowed down one passageway, up a ladder, down another short passageway, and then up the vertical escape trunk. It would be rough treatment, and it would be best if it was done by his own people.
But Jerry knew he had to be there when they brought Rountree out, for himself if for no other reason. Quickly, he made his way to the freezer on the third deck. There was little room in the cold storage area, and the ETs struggled with Rountree’s frozen form, wrapped in a plastic body bag. “Wish we could have thawed him,” Robinson muttered softly. “Idiot,” Hudson replied, slightly annoyed. “The whole idea was to keep him cold as long as possible.” As they shifted their grip on the slippery plastic, Lamberth and the others apologized to the body.
Jerry kept well clear, but wanted to gauge their progress, or at least that was a credible excuse for being there. Hudson saw him at the base of the first ladder. “We’re okay, sir,” he reported, and Jerry reluctantly climbed back up. They had some time. Rountree would go up last, after his three injured shipmates.
The 1MC announced, “ATTENTION ALL HANDS, THE HELICOPTER IS OVERHEAD, ALL PERSONNEL GOING TOPSIDE CHECK YOUR SAFETY GEAR.”
Jerry stopped briefly in the passageway outside the wardroom. The midships escape trunk hatch was open, and a fresh chill wind whistled down the ladder.
Enlisted crewmen shivered as they waited to pass the supplies forward from the escape trunk to the wardroom. Two others aft of the trunk supported Brann, ready to help him up the ladder, while Chief Gallant watched from the messroom door. Everyone present had a job to do, and there just wasn’t any space left for Jerry in the passageway. They didn’t need him here, either.
Jerry went to control, but only looked briefly at the chart. Seawolf was still steaming into the wind at five knots. They’d hardly moved since he’d checked it ten minutes ago. With the helicopter transfer planned to take no more than thirty minutes, the boat would move two and a half miles toward the northwest. The nearest land was Novaya Zemlya, ninety miles away. In the other direction.
Shimko came down the ladder from the bridge, chilled from the cold air but gratefully dry. After checking with Al Constantino, the on duty contact coordinator, the XO turned to Jerry. “How are they doing below?”
“Everyone’s on station. Brann, Heiser, and Kearney are ready to go. My guys are moving Rountree, and Hudson says they’re all right.”
“Good, and thanks. The pilot’s lowering the first batch of supplies now.” Shimko dithered for a minute, then said, “I need to be back up on the bridge. Check everything below and report back to me.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The activity made it hard to get close to the midships escape trunk. Until the slingload of supplies was moved out of the way, Brann couldn’t go up the ladder. The working party finished quickly, then flattened against the passageway bulkhead to let Jerry pass. He saw Brann, a line passed through his safety harness, being hauled up through the open hatch.
Gallant was at the bottom of the ladder supervising the operation, squinting as he looked up into the cold wind. The sound of the helicopter overhead poured down the hatch along with the wind. “Watkins and Kahanek are up on deck doing the hauling.”
Jerry grinned. “Good choices.” MM1 Watkins lifted weights. MM3 Kahanek didn’t need to.
Heiser was moved into position as soon as Brann had cleared the hatch.
Looking down the passageway, Jerry saw that Hudson and the ETs had Rountree’s remains almost at the head of the ladder. Hudson and Lamberth were on top, pulling. Nobody said more than a single word as they worked, and that rarely. The chief saw Jerry and nodded, finally adding, “We’re okay.” His tone was a little off, as was his expression. Jerry watched them a moment longer, but could see no problems.
Back in control, he used the intercom to report to Shimko. The captain’s voice answered. “Thank you, Mr. Mitchell. Please personally supervise the evolution at the midships escape trunk. They’re sending down the last of the supplies now.”
Jerry answered “Aye, sir” and headed aft one more time. Threading his way past the working party, he managed to get to the crew’s mess. Chief Gallant was waiting with Kearney, last of the three injured, and Jerry joked, “Remember your toothbrush?”
Kearney opened his mouth to speak, probably to protest, Jerry predicted, but the 1MC cut though the conversation. “MR. MITCHELL TO THE BRIDGE! ON THE DOUBLE!”
In the half a heartbeat it took Jerry to understand the order and start moving, everyone near the door flattened against the bulkhead or got out of the way. It wasn’t until he was clear of the wardroom that he wondered what the problem was.
A rating was waiting in control with a foul-weather jacket, and Jerry threw it on as he climbed up the ladder to the first deck and the access trunk to the bridge. As he exited the hatch, someone was climbing out of the cockpit to make room for him, and in two seconds he was blinking in the cold sunshine.
It was crowded, with the skipper and the XO there, as well as Will Hayes, the OOD. Hayes faced forward, keeping watch ahead of the boat, but both senior officers had their binoculars up and were staring intently to port.
He heard the tail end of a transmission on the bridge-to-bridge radio. “.. not locked on. Repeat, no lock-on.” It was the helicopter pilot. He sounded concerned, even scared, but he was maintaining.
By now Jerry was all the way up, and Shimko turned, handing him his binoculars. Shouting over the noise of the hovering helicopter, he pointed to the port quarter. “There, low. About twenty degrees above the horizon. Company.”
Hayes made room along the coaming, and Jerry leaned against it and turned to the port side. He followed the captain’s line of sight. He scanned left to right just above the horizon. Nothing.
Shimko nudged him farther to the left, pointing. “There, and up a bit.”
Jerry moved the glasses and two arrowhead shapes appeared in his field of view, passing quickly to the left. Old reflexes flashed through his body, but he wasn’t sitting in a fighter cockpit.
“Fighters,” Jerry said automatically. “Su-27 Flankers.” Excitement filled him. In spite of two years of flight training, he’d never seen a real Russian combat aircraft anywhere, much less in flight; and especially not this close to Mother Russia.
“The helicopter reported detecting their radars about a minute ago. We didn’t see anything at first, then these two made a high-speed pass a few miles away.”
As Shimko explained, the planes’ aspect changed, becoming narrower. They were turning toward Seawolf.
Rudel asked Jerry, “Could the Russians have started running interceptor patrols out here?”
“No sir, these guys weren’t patrolling or their radars would have been on much e
arlier.” The two arrowheads expanded and became more recognizable as the twin-tailed Sukhoi interceptor. The planes passed down their starboard side. Jerry estimated the distance as a mile. They were keeping well clear of the hovering helicopter. “They were vectored — directed to our location.
“They’re armed,” Shimko remarked tensely.
The binoculars let Jerry see drop tanks and both versions of AA-10 air-to-air missiles under their wings. “They’re loaded for bear. I can see heat-seekers and radar-guided antiair missiles. But no bombs or rockets.”
“So they’re no threat to us,” declared Rudel. The fighters were well ahead of them now.
“They could strafe us, sir, but that’s about it. The helicopter’s their meat.” Jerry checked the Seahawk. Kearney was safely aboard, and they were sending down the sling again; empty this time. All the spare parts were safely aboard. Watkins and Kahanek reached down to bring up Rountree.
Rudel added, “And if they wanted it dead, they could have done it from twenty miles out. Not subtle, but we get the message.”
The Flankers, dots several miles ahead, made a tight turn and split up. It looked like they were going to make a pass down each side of the sub this time.
Rudel noticed them attaching Rountree to the hoist. His attention had been focused completely on the fighters. Jerry saw emotions cross the captain’s face as he fought for control. The radio announced “Hoisting” and the cable became taut.
Rudel told Hayes, “Pass the word that Electronics Technician Third Class Dennis Rountree is leaving the ship.” Rudel saluted, and everyone else on the bridge did as well, holding it for the twenty seconds or so that it took to bring Rountree’s body up to the aircraft.
Once the body was aboard, the skipper dropped his hand. Everyone else on the bridge followed and immediately started looking for the Flankers again, but Rudel continued to stare at the helicopter. “Twenty-three years in the Navy and I’ve never lost a man. Not until now.” Tears streamed down his face. “I’d rather it was me in the body bag.”