by Larry Bond
“Jerry, what’s the endurance of a Ka-27 Helix?”
Pulling out an ONI reference sheet, Jerry ran his finger down a table. “Two, maybe two and a half hours, at cruise speed, fully loaded.”
“If the Russian ships are now about seventy miles away. When will they have to turn for home?”
Jerry checked his watch and did the math. “Half an hour, forty-five minutes tops, XO.”
“Good. Then we’ll turn in forty-five minutes to rendezvous with Churchill. Give me your recommendation for an intercept course.”
Severodvinsk, K-329
Petrov, Kalinin, and the other senior officers made their way to the central post after they heard the active sonar transmissions. It took a little longer than usual, as they had to dodge all those plastic curtains that seemed to be hanging everywhere. The first explosion caught them all off guard. By the second, they were standing around the underwater communications station wondering what the hell was going on.”Seawolf, this is Petrov. Do you hear me? What is happening?”
There was no response, only the reverberating echo from the explosions crackled over the loud speaker.
“Those aren’t signaling charges,” Kalinin stated. “The explosions are far too loud for that.”
Petrov shook his head wearily, a look of disappointment on his face. “I fear one of our helicopters is trying to persuade Commander Rudel to leave.”
“With live ordnance!?! What kind of moron would authorize dropping depth bombs on a badly damaged submarine!?!” Kalinin’s outraged expression was shared by several of the others. “Don’t they realize what Rudel and his crew has done for us?”
“Calm yourself, Vasiliy. I agree with you that it is an unwise action, but I’m sure the pilot is not dropping the depth bombs too close.”
A third explosion was heard. This one was not as loud, farther away.
“Comrade Captain, I do not share your confidence in the abilities of our airmen. Those are the same idiots that displayed horrible tactical proficiency during our acceptance trials. They couldn’t find their ass with either hand! They are just incompetent enough to misjudge the distance and actually lay a depth bomb alongside Seawolf’s hull!”
Petrov had to struggle not to laugh. Kalinin’s backhanded compliment was as damning as it was accurate. He appreciated his starpom’s strong concern for the crew of Seawolf. Indeed, he shared it. But this was to be expected.
“Vasiliy, we knew this would happen. It’s standard procedure to establish an exclusion zone around a rescue site, and then drive off any foreign vessels. I had hoped that our superiors would see the logic of allowing Seawolf to remain. But the fact is they are doing what they think is best.”
A fourth louder explosion, even farther away, caused Petrov to wince. “All we can do is hope and pray that our overzealous countrymen didn’t inflict any more damage on Seawolf.”
Skynews editorial office, London, England
Befuddled by sleep, Ed Fellowes answered his stapler and his electric shaver before finally locating his cell phone. He hurriedly flipped it open. “This is Fellowes.”
“This is Nicholas Hertz, Mr. Fellowes.”
“Nicholas, I’ve asked you call me ‘Ed.’”
“Thanks, Mr. Fellowes. Ed. I forgot. I’m still so excited with the new equipment you ordered for me, it’s so expensive, but it works great! No more analog displays, and the direct link to my laptop. ”
Nicholas Hertz bubbled with excitement, like any teen with a new toy. In Nick’s case, the “toy” was a signal analyzer that could dismantle a radio transmission almost to its component electrons. And he knew how to use it.
“What have you got for me, Nick?” Shaking off fatigue, Fellowes sat up straighter and woke up his laptop. He’d just sent off a piece on the last intercept to his bosses, and that followed a very long night covering the Seawolf collision. Sleeping at his desk wasn’t a choice, it was inevitable.
“Another satellite phone call, transmitted 0844 our time, and lasting three and a half minutes. It was Rudel, like always. I’m sending you the sound file now. Ed, I think he was under attack. He said the Russians were dropping depth charges on Seawolf!”
“What?” Fellowes had heard Hertz clearly, but he had trouble comprehending his words. Had the Russians actually fired on the American submarine?
“And the conversation just stopped, in midsentence, while he was reporting to the admiral’s staff. There may even be the sound of an explosion in the file.”
Hertz had been listening in on Seawolf’s satellite phone calls from the beginning, using his home-built electronic listening setup. He’d mentioned it to a neighbor, who’d mentioned it to a relative, who knew Ed Fellowes was covering the incident. Skynews had immediately put the young electronics hobbyist on retainer.
The teen hadn’t slept much in the past two days, although it was easier on him than Fellowes. Now Hertz sounded genuinely worried. “What if they’ve sprung a leak in that damaged pressure hull? If they’re submerged, they can’t call for help, and Churchill’s still a couple of hours away to the southwest.”
Fellowes checked his watch. It was 0901, less than twenty minutes since the call was made. “Let me listen to the file, Nick. Maybe they weren’t actually under attack. Can you do something to the file and confirm whether or not there was an explosion?”
Hertz didn’t say anything for a moment. Fellowes fought to suppress his impatience. Let the lad think, he reminded himself. “I’ve got some software that might be able to isolate the sound. I can sample. ”
“That’s great, Nick, please get on that, as fast as you can. Call me back in fifteen minutes, will you? Good lad. Cheers.”
Hertz was still talking when Fellowes hung up. Checking his email, he found the message with the file attached, and opened it. He forced himself to listen to the entire file. Rudel’s words were clear, although there was a desperate tone to his voice.
Fellowes didn’t understand everything Rudel said. They had a retired Royal Navy officer on retainer who could translate; he’d be listening to the file, along with several other people. He didn’t have to be a naval officer, though, to know what “using warshots” meant.
As the file finished, suddenly and in midsentence, he punched a number on his cell, simultaneously forwarding the sound file to a select list of people within Skynews. One of them was the editor-in-chief. The subject line for the email was “Skyrocket,” the internal code word for a hot story.
Fellowes waited eagerly, running his fingers through his hair, as the phone rang four times before being answered. A dispassionate voice announced, “Mr. Heath’s office.”
“Mary, it’s Ed Fellowes. I just sent the boss a skyrocket. Tell him the Russians have attacked Seawolf.”
Mikhail Rudnitskiy
Captain Gradev had lived on the bridge since they’d left port, eating, getting what little sleep he could, and haranguing the engineers. Between his ship’s worn-out engines and the cranky minisubmarine, he’d had plenty to deal with.
Alex Radimov, Gradev’s starpom, appeared, shaking his head. “The engines are at maximum, Captain. Unless we can scrape the barnacles off her hull, fourteen and a half knots is the best they can do. Still, this is a minor miracle and we should buy the chief engineer an entire case of spirits when we get back.”
“Very well, Alex. I’m convinced the engineers are giving us their best.”
“I toured the sub hangar as well. Everything is proceeding well. AS-34 will be ready to launch the instant we reach the site.”
“I’ll send Rear Admiral Vidchenko another message, reconfirming our readiness.”
Radinov looked excited, and Gradev shared it. AS-34 would launch in a few hours. By dinnertime, they would finally know for themselves what had happened to Severodvinsk.
USS Churchill
The first sign of trouble was when Patterson’s laptop died, or rather, her connection to the Internet died. She’d been proud of keeping up on her email, and monitoring Parker s
progress with their publicity campaign. Their correspondence with the Russian Wives and Mothers website had proved useful and educational.
Now the site she’d been reading froze. She was still trying to solve the problem when the General Quarters klaxon rang.
Patterson’s heart leapt in her throat. General Quarters was only sounded for battle or a dire emergency, like a fire aboard the ship. As she hurried to CIC, she didn’t know which one to hope for.
Baker saw her come in CIC. In fact, he must have been watching for her, letting his XO supervise the ship’s preparations. Churchill’s CIC had chairs for the captain and an embarked admiral, and Baker invited her to sit in the admiral’s place. Three large screens faced them. The center one showed a map of the area overlaid with what she assumed were tactical symbols.
As soon as she sat, Baker quietly, almost too calmly, reported, “Seawolf reports that she’s being driven from the area by ASW helicopters. They’re dropping live depth charges.”
Patterson tried to match Baker’s calm demeanor, and said nothing for some time while her mind fiashbacked to her own depth-charging experience. Shivering, she forced herself to focus on the current situation. At once, a number of questions bubbled up. She answered several of her most obvious ones herself, then asked, “Was Seawolf damaged?”
“Not as far as we know.” He handed her a message slip. “But SUBGRU Two reports the conversation was cut off, and according to them Rudel says some of the charges were getting close.”
Baker gestured to the activity in CIC. “As soon as GQ is set, I’ll place the ship in Condition Two. Condition One is General Quarters, but you can’t do that for very long before the crew gets tired. In Condition Two, all our weapons and sensors are manned, but some of the crew is allowed to rest or do essential work. We’ll stay at Condition Two, extended General Quarters, until this ship and Seawolf are both out of the Russian exclusion zone.”
Patterson absorbed Baker’s explanation, and tried to imagine how it changed the situation. “I’m uncomfortable with how this will look to the Russians, Captain.”
“I don’t care how it looks, Doctor. The Russians have dropped weapons near an American submarine, a damaged American submarine. It was a very deliberate act, not an accident.”
“They didn’t attack her directly. They were trying to drive her from the area.
“With live ordnance! This is unheard of, and unacceptable. They know she’s damaged, and that she is responding to maritime emergency. I don’t know how many international accords they have just violated. Until I know which side of the line they’re staying on, I’m not taking any chances.”
He was right, of course. Patterson studied the message, trying to glean clues to the Russians’ behavior from the transcript of Rudel’s last phone call.
“Your orders, ma’am?”
Patterson shook her head. “No change. We find Seawolf and make sure she’s all right. Then we figure out how to make these sons of Russia talk to us.”
“Understood,” Baker replied. A phone buzzed near him, and he diverted his attention to ship’s business.
Patterson sat there and stewed; the whole situation was spiraling completely out of control. The Russians’ belligerent behavior and outright refusal to communicate irritated her to no end. They seemed hell-bent on a crusade to embarrass and humiliate the United States over this incident. What did her loving husband call it? Ah yes, “chest thumping.”
She also saw that this spiral could become a vicious circle unless she somehow penetrated the communications barrier. But how? You can’t make someone pick up the phone when you call them. Or can you?
Baker hung up the phone. “Sorry, Doctor Patterson, I had to confer with my XO. We’ll be setting Condition Two momentarily.”
Patterson didn’t respond; she seemed lost in thought. A slight grin on her face.
“Doctor Patterson?”
“Yes? Oh, excuse me, Captain. You were saying?”
“I said that we’ll be setting Condition Two momentarily.”
“Excellent, Captain. Thank you. Will you please have Ms. Parker and Mr. Adams meet me in the wardroom? We have another press announcement to make.”
“Certainly. May I ask what you have in mind?” inquired Baker.
“There is an old proverb that says if you can’t bring Muhammad to the mountain, then you bring the mountain to Muhammad. Well, I intend to try that with the Russians.”
Baker looked on as she left CIC, more confused by her answer than before.
Olga Sadilenko’s apartment, Severomorsk, Russia
Olga heard the commotion in the other room before Irina burst in. “They dropped depth bombs on the American submarine!”
The older woman was puzzled. “But isn’t it near Severodvinsk? The Americans said they were going to guide our ships to the right spot.”
“Not anymore. It’s all over the Internet that Seawolf was attacked by our Navy’s helicopters. She may have been damaged.”
Others had crowded into Olga’s bedroom now to hear the conversation. They all nodded as Irina read several articles from the news sites. She saw several women pull out tissues. With the strain they were all under, tears came quickly.
“So they dropped depth bombs on the American submarine, with our men trapped underneath.” Olga’s expression mixed anger with disbelief.
“But there’s more news,” Irina announced. I just got an email from Joyce Parker aboard Churchill. It’s a press release. They are going into the exclusion zone, and she says Rear Admiral Vidchenko has agreed to meet with them aboard Petr Velikiy. The Americans have vital information they wish to give our Navy, and they will also deliver that Norwegian to our ships.”
One of the women behind Irina snorted. “Right. Use a warship to deliver one person. If he’s even on board at all.”
“He is on board,” another young woman insisted. “The Norwegian company says he is aboard an American destroyer, and they sent him ahead to prepare for their rescue ship.”
Olga absorbed it all as quickly as Irina could tell her. “And our Navy has said nothing, of course,” she predicted.
Everyone nodded knowingly.
Irina answered, “Well, if the Navy will talk to the Americans, then perhaps we should talk to the Americans as well. Do they have that list of our men?”
“Yes, I sent it to them earlier today.”
“And our list of questions for Commander Rudel?”
“Assembled and ready for your final review.”
“Whatever they say, post their response to our questions on the website as soon as you get them.”
Northern Fleet Headquarters
The phone call was from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. They weren’t in his chain of command, but reminding them of that hadn’t stopped their incessant questioning.
Vice Admiral Kokurin listened politely, but finally said, “Deputy Minister, I can only accept instructions from the Main Naval Staff. They’re in Moscow, the same as you. ”
He paused to listen, but his body language made it clear he didn’t like what he was hearing. “I’m sure the ministry’s expertise will benefit us in this situation, but you have to speak to Admiral Pucharin. His office can answer all your questions, as well.”
After another pause, he said politely, “I’m not authorized to discuss the rescue operation over an open line.”
Kokurin listened for a moment, then hung up. His deputy, Vice Admiral Baybarin, had sat patiently, if curiously, while his superior deflected the Foreign Ministry’s questions and suggestions.
“Boris, this is going to get messier. The deputy minister said the Americans have formally protested the ‘attack’ on their submarine, and at the same time they’re meeting with Vidchenko aboard Petr Velikiy.” He held up his hands, pleading. “Does this make sense to you?”
Baybarin laughed. “No. There was no attack. Did the Foreign Ministry agree to the meeting?”
Kokurin shook his head. “No, nobody will admit to it.”<
br />
“They do have Lindstrom,” his deputy pointed out.
“He could be transferred by helicopter while they stayed outside the exclusion zone. Instead, Churchill will rendezvous with our ships at the collision site, and there will be a meeting — aboard one of our ships!”
“What does Vidchenko say?”
Kokurin made a sour face. “I haven’t asked him. He has his orders. He will follow them.”
Baybarin waited for Kokurin to say something more, but when he didn’t, he asked, “What will you tell him to do about the American destroyer and the meeting?”
The fleet commander thought for a moment, pacing, then asked, “So you think I should instruct him?”
“We have information he doesn’t — about the American’s reaction to the depth bombs.”
“A distraction. I won’t let a rescue operation be influenced by diplomatic maneuvers.”
Babyarin offered, “They say they have vital information for us.”
“Whatever they have, AS-34 is there now, and their data is moot. With any luck, we will know all there is to know about Severodvinsk after his first sortie.”
“So you don’t think Vidchenko should meet with the Americans?”
Kokurin shrugged. “Only if it suits his purpose, and that’s his decision to make. I’ve given him the only order he’ll get from me: Find and rescue the crew of Severodvinsk.”
The White House, Washington, DC
The Oval Office was almost bursting, with the Secretaries of State and Defense, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Chief of Naval Operations, the Director of National Intelligence, Vice President Clemson, and Dr. Wright, the National Security Adviser. Most of their staffs had to wait outside.
Patterson would have been pleased with the attention Seawolf was getting now. The entire National Security Council was present. By rights, they should have met in the secure conference room. Huber had decided to have it in the White House to avoid making it an official NSC meeting, and perhaps because the Oval Office symbolized the authority of the president. That authority had been challenged, at least indirectly.