Cold Choices jm-2

by Larry Bond

  Bakhorin hadn’t referred to himself as “Captain” because AS-34 was not a commissioned naval vessel. He wore a submariner’s insignia, as did Umansky, and Vidchenko wondered whether it was by choice or circumstance that two middle-grade officers had decided to crew this clumsy craft.

  “There’s a jump seat just aft of the conning station, sir. There’s very little room to shift positions with three of us in there, so you’ll have to board first.”

  “Will I be able to see out any of the ports?” That was the whole reason Vidchenko was going. The photos taken on the first dive had been so poor that it was hard to visualize Severodvinsk’s situation. He had to see for himself if that was the best they could do, and at the same time find out what he could of Severodvinsk’s plight.

  “Yes, comrade Admiral,” Bakhorin replied. “Although the viewports are not very big. Your field of view will be limited. Come, let’s get on board.”

  Bakhorin motioned to Vidchenko, pointing to a ladder. “This way, sir.” The three walked over to the ladder that provided access to the submersible’s deck, with crewmen along the way wishing them luck. Some saluted, others clapped them on the back, some even gave obscene encouragements. AS-34 Priz was the reason Rudnitskiy was there — the reason for the entire task force. There was a lot of hope riding on something that looked like a bath toy.

  Vidchenko turned to start climbing the boarding ladder, but Bakhorin stopped him. “Your coat, sir. I’m afraid there’s no room for it inside.”The admiral handed it to a petty officer, and then started up the ladder. Vidchenko struggled to keep his feet in the rungs as the ladder flexed and the ship rolled, but found himself quickly and was soon on top. “Just go straight in!” Bakhorin instructed, as he held the ladder extension so the admiral could step straight down into the interior of the minisub.

  Stepping onto the hatch rim, Vidchenko grabbed the extension and slowly descended into the opening. It was lit, thank goodness, and he gingerly picked his way into the cluttered interior.

  The access trunk was only a meter long, and led into a cylindrical compartment about two meters in length. It was an irregular cylinder, with equipment and consoles invading the space without regard for movement or human convenience. It was impossible to stand fully upright. Behind him, through a hatchway, was another larger cylinder with seating for twenty passengers.

  Vidchenko was still surveying the interior when there was a clatter on the hatch rim over his head and a pair of feet appeared in the opening. They were moving quickly, and the admiral shifted aft to give them space.

  Bakhorin came down next and took the chair in the bow. After closing and dogging the hatch, Umansky took his seat, just a little forward of the entrance. A loud clang signaled the closing of the hatch.

  An air horn sounded and the lines to AS-34 went taut. It sounded again and she came off the cradle, while crewmen with lines steadied her. Vidchenko felt a sudden jerk and then could see that they were being lifted clear of Rudnitskiy’s hull.

  Lights followed the white-and-orange-striped vehicle as the crane swung it out of the hold and lowered it into the water. Vidchenko was too busy holding on to notice that they were in the water. AS-34 was now afloat on Rudnitskiy’s lee side, with only a bow and stern line connecting it to the mother ship.

  Three measured raps echoed inside the sub. “They’ve released the mooring lines,” Bakhorin announced. “Flooding all tanks.”

  “Best course is two four seven, distance twelve hundred meters,” recommended Umansky.

  Bakhorin was his own helmsman as well as diving officer. “Course is two four seven.” He turned back to Vidchenko. “We won’t use the motors right now, to save battery charge — we’ll use a ‘gliding’ descent to cover a lot of that distance.”

  “Why do you not power your way down?” asked Vidchenko impatiently.

  “We do not have sufficient battery power, comrade Admiral,” responded Bakhorin frankly. “The batteries on this submersible are all beyond their service lives and we have only two hours or so of power. We can save energy by just sinking down naturally.”

  “How long will this take?” Vidchenko grumbled. It was all about time.

  “To one hundred ninety-seven meters? It took us thirty minutes yesterday, but we were proceeding cautiously. Now we are sure there are no obstructions, and know the exact location of the sub. We should be alongside Severodvinsk in twenty minutes.”

  “We going to survey the starboard side this time, yes?”

  Watching the gauges, Bakhorin sighed. “Correct, sir. We did one complete pass around Severodvinsk, but we only had sufficient time to do a thorough examination of the port side on the last dive.”

  “And you’ll have just enough time to examine the other side on this one,” Vidchenko concluded. “Plus any time you save on the dive.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “We have to make enough time to go back to the port side.” He tapped a sheaf of papers he’d brought. “These photos are fuzzy, at best. They hardly show the shape of the bottom, much less its composition. If we are going to plant charges to right Severodvinsk, it will have to be on the next dive.”

  “I wish we had more time, sir. I’d skip surveying this side, but if. ”

  Vidchenko waved him off impatiently. The steps they had to take were obvious and mandatory. Even when you cut corners, there were things that couldn’t be skipped.

  “Sonar contact.” Umansky’s report came only twelve minutes into the dive. “Four hundred meters, ten degrees to port.”

  Vidchenko automatically bent over to look out through one of the ports, it was pitch black; he could see nothing. Umansky saw him look and said, “Our lights aren’t on yet, sir, to conserve power. But even with them on, we will only have a visual range of five to ten meters, and that’s only when the water is clear. The longer we stay in one place, the more silt we will stir up.”

  He pointed to the photos Vidchenko held. “These are all the first shots, the best images, of each feature. The second ones were worse, and we didn’t bother with a third.”

  Vidchenko asked, “Where are the cameras mounted?”

  Umansky smiled sheepishly and held up an old Canon digital camera. “This is it, sir. We take pictures through the front port, which is optically flat, but we have to maneuver the sub to properly face the subject.”

  Vidchenko was beginning to write off the chance of getting any decent images. The only worthwhile examination would be his personal observations. He wished he’d brought a demolitions expert on this dive, and chided himself for not being more aware of AS-34’s capabilities and limitations.

  “Don’t bother with the photographs,” ordered Vidchenko. “Make one pro forma pass down the port side. Then proceed over to the starboard side.”

  “Understood, sir. We’ll be approaching from the bow.”

  Bakhorin started the motors, both to slow their downward descent and start them toward the bottomed sub. Umansky reported, “Course is good, two hundred meters. Bottom is in sight, thirty meters.”

  “We’ll go down to seven meters off the bottom,” Bakhorin explained. “Any closer and we stir up too much silt, any farther away and the lights won’t illuminate properly.”

  “One hundred fifty meters. Recommend we slow.”

  “Slowing to two knots, Mother,” Bakhorin teased.

  Umansky coached them into position, and they made room for Vidchenko to crouch near one of the forward-facing viewports. They’d closed inside fifty meters, and Bakhorin had slowed to a bare crawl, with nothing but inky blackness in front of them. Vidchenko fought the urge to check his watch. Time could be measured in air or battery charge, and there was precious little of either.

  Suddenly, a dull greenish black wall rushed at them, but Bakhorin was ready and backed sharply. He cut the motors after one short astern burst, and AS-34 drifted to a stop surrounded by a cloud of yellow and gray silt.

  There was almost no curvature to the hull, and Vidchenko realized they could see only a
few square meters of it through the port. It would take at least a dozen dives to thoroughly inspect the submarine and the surrounding area.

  Bakhorin was already turning AS-34 to pass close alongside the sub’s hull. Even at a fast walk, it took a while to cover the one hundred and twenty meters. Severodvinsk listed in their direction, so the massive hull crowded over them. All three officers studied the bottom, looking for anything that would interfere with the boat righting itself if the obstructions were removed. Luckily, there was little to see, just an uneven layer of mud with the underlying rock sometimes showing through.

  “We’re coming up on the stern, Admiral,” announced Umansky.

  Vidchenko continued to watch, although Bakhorin had pulled the minisub up and away from the bottom. He hadn’t stopped moving aft, and one of the stern planes appeared and then passed aft, only a meter from the viewports. As large as the side of a house, Vidchenko remembered seeing them not that long ago, standing on the floor of a drydock before she was launched. Now she’d never leave this place.

  “I’ll turn to port, sir.” Bakhorin turned AS-34 tightly. Vidchenko knew what to expect, but was still shocked when he saw the stern. There at the end of the shaft, distorted and bent upward, was the plus-sign-shaped end cap, but not a single propeller blade was on the hub. Only torn, jagged ridges where the scimitar-shaped blades once were. Vidchenko tried to imagine the shaft bending, flexing with the impact of each blade as it struck the American’s hull, the turbines instantly freed from their massive load, water pouring in from the shaft seals.

  “Have you found the collision debris field?”

  Umansky answered. “It wasn’t on any of our sonar sweeps. Severodvinsk had some way on at the time of the collision. She would have gone some distance, especially since she appeared to be descending when she struck this hillside. There’s a scar in the bottom on the other side. With a little time…”

  “Which we don’t have,” Vidchenko interrupted. “We’ll leave the investigation of the bottom to a proper survey vessel, and hopefully Petrov and his men will be able to personally assist in reconstructing the collision.”

  “This is where we’d have to plant the first charge, Admiral.”

  Bukharin had move the mini-sub around to the starboard side and maneuvered it to an irregular rocky mound next to Severodvinsk’s hull. It had to be removed so that the sub could roll to starboard and right itself. The lights from AS-34 actually cast shadows, showing an empty space on at least one side of the obstruction.

  Mud covered most of the underlying rock. But what kind of rock were they dealing with? Solid bedrock or just a small outcropping? How big a charge would they need to break it up?

  “Can you use the motors to clear some of the silt? We need to get a sample of that rock.”

  Umansky answered again. “We can do better than that, sir, we’ve got a water jet forward, like a fire hose. If Captain Bakhorin can position us. ”

  “Already in progress,” Bakhorin answered. The pilot gently maneuvered them closer, and Umansky busied himself with the controls. Vidchenko couldn’t see the results, and impatiently asked, “How’s the battery charge?”

  “Over fifty percent, sir, although with all this work you can almost see the indicator needle move.”

  “I’ve got a sample!” Umansky exclaimed. “Hah! It’s in the basket.”

  “Good work, Captain.” Vidchenko was sparing with praise, but these two men deserved it. But was their hard work going to be worth anything in the end?

  “Sir, I recommend taking photos, but we will have to wait for the water to clear.”

  “Then let’s move down to the next obstruction.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  They managed to examine four masses of rock altogether. They had to use the waterjet once more to get a feel for the extent of the formation. Whatever material they were made of, it easily resisted the high-pressure water shot at them. Finally, as the low battery charge alarm rang, they headed back to the surface.

  Vidchenko was not a demolitions expert, but he was an engineer. The AS-34 crew had planted charges before, although never under such circumstances. The three of them talked all the way up. How much explosive could AS-34 carry? Could they plant all of them in a single dive? What types of work could the mechanical arm perform? Even as they rose, Vidchenko was already thinking ahead to the next dive, the most important dive. Hopefully, the last dive.

  USS Seawolf

  The helicopter crew chief was attempting to give her important instructions. She tried to listen, but even over the interphone, she could only make out half of what he said.

  Hovering over Seawolf, the rotor wash tugging at her clothes and chilling any exposed skin, Joanna Patterson focused on the crew chief’s face. Truth be told, she was terrified. Flying was fine, even in something as improbably aerodynamic as a helicopter. But the thought of dangling over empty space, hung by a thread…

  The crew chief finished speaking, and Patterson nodded vigorously. He waited for a moment, and it looked like he expected her to do something, but when she didn’t move, he took her gently by the shoulders and turned her to face the open cabin door.

  He hooked the sling to the attachment points in her exposure suit, disconnected the lead for the interphone, and motioned for her to sit on the cabin floor. It took a moment for her legs to obey, and then he motioned for her to swing her legs over the edge.

  She was still watching his face, and he pointed to his eyes and then the hoist in front of her. He repeated the motion, and she nodded, this time understanding. Eyes on the hoist.

  He nodded and saluted, then pressed a control. The line went taut, and the suit tugged in uncomfortable places, and she was off the cabin floor and hanging in space. She heard a new sound, in spite of the engines. It was the whine of the hoist motor, and she felt herself slowly descend.

  The temptation to look down was overwhelming. She wanted to know how far she had to go, even though she’d seen it from the helicopter and the pilot had told them it would be about fifty feet. Rather than look down, she looked up, at the helicopter’s fuselage receding, and the dark disk of the rotor blades. The cold rotor wash buffeted her face, and she welcomed it.

  She kept her head titled back until she could hear voices below her, and she looked down to see she was almost there, only fifteen, then ten feet off the deck. One sailor had a long pole that looked like a shepherd’s staff, reaching out for her.

  Sailors in safety harnesses stood by to steady her, but she kept her feet. They quickly unbuckled her, then guided her toward a hatch behind the sail. Another sailor inside, at the foot of the ladder, greeted her and led her to the crew’s mess. As sailors helped her out of her exposure suit, her two companions, Ken Bover and Arne Lindstrom, were escorted in.

  Lindstrom efficiently peeled off his suit with almost no help, but Bover seemed unable to work the fastenings. He bubbled with excitement as Seawolf’s crewmen helped. “I can’t believe we just did that! I wish someone had taken a photo! Why didn’t someone have a camera? My daughter will never believe me.”

  A lieutenant commander appeared and introduced himself as “Marcus Shimko, Seawolf’s XO.” After introductions, he said, “Don’t worry, Mr. Bover, we’ll testify on your behalf. By the way, you’re all out of uniform.” Handing each of them a dark blue ball cap inscribed with Seawolf’s name and crest, he asked, “Please follow me. We’ve got breakfast waiting in the wardroom.”

  Patterson followed the XO, with her two companions behind, up to the wardroom. It appeared that almost all of Seawolf’s officers were gathered to welcome them, and Shimko began the introductions. Captain Rudel, Lieutenant Commander Lavoie, and.

  “Jerry!” she shouted, and found herself hugging him, surrounded by a crowd of attentive, very curious, but silent officers. Seeing her old shipmate sent emotions cascading through her. There was relief, but then concern, no, more than concern. “I was worried, and I’m so sorry, and it’s so good to see you after everything.. ”<
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  She paused, and then let Shimko complete the introductions. When he finished, about half the officers turned to leave, to make room for the rest, but she spoke up.

  “Please wait.” When they had all turned back to face her, Patterson said, “I have a message from the President. He is deeply sorry for Petty Officer Rountree’s death and the injuries to your crew. Captain Rudel, he wants you to know that he believes you and your crew have acted in the best interests of the United States and Russia since the collision. You have his full support.”

  She hated to rush through what had obviously been planned as a formal meal. Fresh-baked cinnamon buns beckoned, but she settled for fruit. It was best to eat lightly. This would be a long day.

  It was a working breakfast, with different officers assisting each of Patterson’s group. Ken Bover would be working with Chandler on the repairs to the sub’s radios and other systems, Lindstrom would talk to Wolfe and Palmer about the UUVs and what they had seen, and she would brief Rudel.

  But first, they all wanted to see the forward bulkhead. She’d already inspected the photos that Rudel had sent back on the helicopter, both of the external damage and the interior.

  The reality was so different, she wondered if she’d looked at the right photographs. The charring and the scars from the welds to support the shoring were the last thing she’d wanted to see aboard a nuclear sub.

  It was crowded with four people in the small compartment. Only Jerry, responsible for the electronics equipment space, had accompanied them inside. She turned to make sure Bover and Lindstrom could both see clearly. Evidently they could, Bover was pale, almost ashen, his eyes as wide as saucer plates. Lindstrom looked better, but was muttering softly in Norwegian. It could have been a prayer or a curse, but he wasn’t pleased by what he saw.

  Jerry answered a few questions, but Patterson asked them more to break the quiet than anything else.

  * * *