Cold Choices jm-2

by Larry Bond

  AS-34

  Captain Bakhorin said, “Start,” as he hit the valves, and Umansky clicked his stopwatch. AS-34 began her descent, and as they dropped, Bakhorin fed his navigator depths and descent rates.

  Umansky divided his time between the nav display and his hand-drawn graph. Marking their downward speed on the graph, he reported, “Within tolerances.”

  AS-34 dropped faster and faster. They needed to reach the bottom quickly, to avoid wasting time and precious battery power. But they needed the motors to slow their descent. Using them too soon wasted time, using them too late would be disaster for them and Severodvinsk.

  “Time for the sonar,” Umansky announced. To save energy, he’d left even that vital sensor off. Turning it on now held some risk. A fault could only be corrected on the surface. If it didn’t work properly, their dive was wasted.

  But it did work, and showed their goal within easy reach. “Recommend course two three one to bring us to their starboard side, three hundred meters.

  Bakhorin nursed the horizontal thrusters while he watched depth gauge unwind. Normally, by now he’d be braking, but it was better to wait. One short, powerful burst from the motors took less time and less power than a slow descent. Still, Bakhorin wished he’d checked the figures one more time. They could only do this once.

  “Begin braking in five, four, three, two. now.” Umansky’s calm tone held no urgency, but Bakhorin was tense enough for both of them. They’d allowed for the uneven bottom in their calculations. He hoped it was enough.

  Bakhorin dumped ballast and hit the motors. He tried to forget about the several hundred kilos of fused explosives that hung in baskets just under his nose.

  Umansky had also calculated how long the motors would be needed to stop their descent. He called out the seconds while Bakhorin watched the depth gauge, his hand hovering over the controls.

  Umansky called out as the depth gauge nudged one hundred and ninety meters. AS-34 came to a stop with seven meters under the keel and Severodvinsk’s port bow thirteen meters dead ahead.

  “Let’s hope the rest of this mission goes as smoothly,” Bakhorin prayed. He then turned the minisub toward the first rock outcropping.

  Olga Sadilenko’s apartment

  Olga Sadilenko hardly knew what to think when she looked at the first image. The colors were all wrong, like a misadjusted television. The shapes were jagged at the edges, but the center shape could only be a submarine. It looked like the photographs she’d seen of Severodvinsk, although they were of a surfaced sub at a pier, with smiling sailors lining her deck. Some of the other images looked more reasonable, but they covered only small sections of the submarine. A number of the photos showed the true extent of the damage.

  “The Americans sent us these pictures?”

  “A Skynews reporter,” Irina replied. “He’s British, but he’s aboard Churchill. I’m sure he must have received them from the Americans. They gave him a lot of information. There are maps of the bottom where the sub is located and images taken from many different angles.

  “Some are sonar photographs taken by an underwater robot and printed out by a computer. The different colors on the maps show what the underlying substance is: rock, mud, or sand. The contour lines show the depth in three-meter increments. The others are high-definition digital photography.”

  Irina flipped a few pages over, moving further down the stack. “Look at these pictures. They show the damage to the hull.”

  Olga took one of the pictures from Irina. In spite of the small field of view, she could clearly see how the metal of Severodvinsk’s bow was ripped and dished in. She thought of her little Yakov and struggled not to cry.

  The Americans had finally responded to their pleas for information on casualties, and her son was listed as one of the injured. No specific details, just that his injuries weren’t considered life-threatening. Praise God! Unfortunately, eighteen families had received the worst possible news — their menfolk were dead. Many tears had been showered upon Olga’s floor. Many lives had been forever ruined, including several young girls with small children or a child not yet born. She felt powerless and frustrated that she could not relieve them of their sorrow and pain. She remembered her own grief when her husband fell overboard during a storm and was lost at sea. Yakov was only three then.

  And yet, there still had been no word from the Russian Navy. Nothing but silent indifference.

  She almost hugged the page, then wanted to hug the Americans; may God bless them. “But why did they do this?” she asked.

  Irina answered, “The reporter didn’t say why. In the email, he just said it was ‘useful information, describing Severodvinsk’s exact status.’ He said it’s not secret. The Americans want to give it to our Navy, to help in the rescue.”

  Olga Sadilenko smiled. “And that’s why they gave them to us. Our Navy hasn’t seen these images.”

  Irina shrugged. “Maybe they don’t need them.”

  “Maybe they don’t, maybe they do. I believe they haven’t seen them because they don’t want to. It would mean giving the Americans some credit for helping.”

  “Olga, do you believe our admirals would do that? That they would intentionally ignore foreign help just because it would make them look bad?” Irina’s shocked expression showed her naïveté.

  Chuckling cynically, Olga took hold of the young woman’s hand and said, “Oh yes, child, I do. Are you willing to wager our men’s lives on the judgment of those pompous toads in headquarters?” Olga paused, considering. “Can these pictures be added to your web page? Will they fit?”

  “Yes,” Irina smiled. “We have plenty of room.”

  “And can we make more copies of these?” She held up the photos.

  Irina nodded.

  “Then make many copies. Send them to everyone we know, including all those news organizations.”

  “I’ve already done that, electronically, and two of our women are working on the website right now. They’ll be done in less than an hour.”

  “Can you send email back to this reporter?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I have some questions for him — or his friends.”

  Vice Admiral Kokurin’s office, Northern Fleet Headquarters, Severomorsk

  “We can’t shut them down, Admiral. The server hosting their site is located in Germany. And we can’t cut the phone lines to a hundred families. and their friends. and every public telephone in Severomorsk.”

  Admiral Babyarin was trying to calm the Northern Fleet commander. Kokurin had exploded when the latest addition to the Wives and Mothers website had crossed his desk.

  Kokurin stared at the images. “Could these images be faked, a clever deception?”

  “Our experts are examining them right now. They are consistent with what Admiral Vidchenko has told us, and are consistent with what a good imaging sonar and underwater cameras can produce.”

  “So, how did those civilians obtain this data? From the Americans?”

  “According to the website, from a reporter connected to the Americans, but yes, it had to be leaked by them.”

  “Are they doing this to taunt us? It’s like looking at a corpse.” Kokurin’s heart turned to lead when he looked at the images. Their newest, their best atomic submarine was lost, now a tomb for eighteen sailors and a prison for sixty-seven more.

  Babyarin shrugged. “They may be trying to set up some sort of defense for their actions. With Vidchenko so close to rescuing the crew, they want to get these images into the media. They may not have been faked, but they could still have been altered.”

  Kokurin sat quietly. Babyarin didn’t like his expression, and finally asked, “What does Vidchenko say?”

  “I haven’t asked him. He’s too busy rescuing our men to distract him with this business.”

  “But has he seen the images?” Babyarin pressed.

  “It doesn’t matter. Petrov and his men could be on the surface in an hour.”

  Petr Vel
ikiy

  Vidchenko stood on the port bridge wing, binoculars fixed on an empty piece of water. It was pointless. A hundred other men watched that small spot of ocean as well, waiting for AS-34 to surface. In fact, it was redundant in the extreme, since the other watchers would all feel duty-bound to report a fact that the admiral had observed himself. Luckily, Kurganov received reports before he did, and filtered out the drivel.

  A small splash and a bobbing orange and white shape were all that marked AS-34’s return to the surface. A whaleboat standing by started its engine and hurried toward the craft, which had appeared several hundred meters off Rudnitskiy’s port side.

  While the boat approached, Vidchenko saw a hatch open and someone appeared in the opening, waves lapping less than a meter below the opening.

  The bridge-to-bridge radio crackled to life. “This is Bakhorin. The charges have been planted and tested. Everything is ready.”

  Petr Velikiy’s captain, Chicherin, picked up the microphone to acknowledge the transmission, but Vidchenko suddenly walked over and held out his hand. Chicherin gave up the microphone and stepped back.

  “This is Vidchenko. Well done, Captain Bakhorin. What is your battery charge?” Curiosity had overcome him, and he didn’t want to wait for their report.

  “Four percent, sir. We opened the hatch because we needed some light inside.”

  “Very well done. Join us in hoping now.”

  Vidchenko hung up the microphone and turned to the underwater communications set.

  Severodvinsk

  The underwater communications station suddenly came to life. “Severodvinsk, this is Rear Admiral Vidchenko. Please respond.”

  Kalinin reached the underwater telephone first. He acknowledged the transmission. “This is Captain Second Rank Kalinin, sir. Captain Petrov is with the injured men.” He waved frantically to a michman and gestured for him to hurry aft, toward the third compartment, where the casualties were being cared for. “He will be here soon.”

  “Tell your Captain that we are ready to detonate explosive charges that will bring your submarine to an even keel. You must move everyone to the escape capsule immediately.”

  “Sir, could you please repeat your last transmission?” Vidchenko patiently repeated his message almost verbatim. The admiral then added, a little impatiently, “Tell us the moment you are ready.”

  “We will begin evacuation procedures immediately, sir. But it will take some time. We have wounded that must be carefully moved. We’ve had no warning, no time to prepare for this.”

  Petrov came running into the central post in time to hear Vidchenko answer, “We did not want to give the Americans warning. We know they can monitor these communications. We will do our best to keep them from interfering with the rescue.”

  Kalinin reported to his captain, “They are ready to free us. The Admiral says we must move everyone to the escape chamber immediately.”

  Surprised, almost stunned, Petrov blinked at the news, paused a moment, then shrugged. He was puzzled by Vidchenko’s remark about the Americans, but that would keep. “Then let’s get moving, Starpom.” He turned to the rest of the men in the central post. “You heard the Admiral. Let’s go home.” He smiled, and it reflected off the faces of the men as they scrambled to their feet.

  Kalinin started shouting orders. “Get the wounded in here, but move them gently.” He turned to a michman. “Get some rope to rig slings for them.”

  Petrov picked up the microphone. “This is Captain Petrov, sir. We will move as quickly as possible. It will take some time, possibly over half an hour.” He hated to make that admission. The training standard was twenty minutes, but that was with a healthy crew.

  Behind him, he heard men laughing, joking. They were going home! It was a surprise, but what a wonderful surprise to get. Kalinin pulled out a checklist from alongside the command console. Being good submariners, they’d planned what to do if the opportunity came to use the escape chamber. He handed the crew roster to his starshini michman, Senior Warrant Officer Zubov, who started crossing off names as men climbed the ladder from the central post into the chamber.

  Petrov looked around the room, trying to run his own mental roster, when he realized that the chief engineer was missing. “Where’s Lyachin?” he asked, first to the starpom, then to the group. Nobody had an answer. The chief engineer was the next senior officer after Petrov and Kalinin. There were things he was responsible for and should already be here. It was impossible that he hadn’t heard the news. Where was he?

  Petrov grabbed the shoulder of the nearest enlisted man. “Find the chief engineer and tell him to come here immediately. I don’t care what he’s doing.” He saw the expression on the man’s face, and reassured him. “Don’t worry, we won’t leave without you — or Lyachin.” The man hurried off.

  Supervised by Dr. Balanov, the wounded started to arrive. A few were ambulatory, with broken arms or wrists, but many had leg injuries and had to be carefully carried through the narrow hatch between the third and second compartment. Their complaints and cries of pain were met with reassurances: “You’ll be in the hospital very soon.”

  Petrov tried to keep clear of the confusion, but found himself organizing the transfer of the injured to the escape chamber. He’d managed to get several aboard when the starpom pulled him aside. Kalinin’s expression showed concern, even alarm, and beyond him, Petrov could see the sailor he’d sent looking for the engineer. He had the same expression.

  “Sir, Captain Second Rank Lyachin is in the reactor compartment.” It was almost a formal report, and Petrov felt confused. There was nothing to do there. The reactor had been shut down immediately after the collision. It was as dead and safe as they could make it.

  The enlisted man took a step forward. “Sir, I think you should go see him.”

  “What? Now? He needs to get his ass up here!”

  “Captain, please, I’ll take you to him.” The rating’s pleading only deepened Petrov’s concern, but carrying one of the American lanterns, he let himself be led past the confusion in the emptying third compartment, back through the fourth, the missile compartment, then through another hatch into the reactor spaces.

  “He’s aft, sir, at the hatch into the auxiliary machinery spaces.” The man pointed down the dark passageway.

  “What’s he doing there?” Petrov asked, half to himself, but the enlisted man left without saying another word.

  The captain of Severodvinsk hurried down the dark passage, searching for his chief engineer. Walking quickly down the empty passageway, he finally found Lyachin right next to the watertight bulkhead, sitting on the deck, leaning against the hatch that led into compartment six. That compartment was now almost completely flooded, and automatically Petrov looked for signs of a leak. Is that what had drawn the engineer here, right now? There. In the lantern’s beam, he did see a few droplets of water glistening on the deck.

  Lyachin didn’t acknowledge his commanding officer’s presence, and for a moment Petrov wondered if he was concentrating, absorbed in some task. But time was pressing. If there was a leak, it would be moot the moment they left the boat. “Sergey Vladimirovich, we are leaving. You are needed forward.”

  “I’m needed here, too, sir. Captain, there are nine of my men back there. Four more in the port torpedo bay. I can’t abandon them.”

  Petrov, astonished, was almost overcome by the depth of Lyachin’s grief. Out of courtesy, he hadn’t shone the lantern on the engineer’s face, but he could see now that Lyachin was freely weeping, tears falling onto the deck.

  Suddenly weary, Petrov sat down next to Lyachin as loss and shame washed over him. He’d controlled his own feelings, more or less, but those dead men were in his charge as well. The question leapt up from a dark place in his mind. If Lyachin felt like this, why didn’t he as well?

  But the grief passed without disappearing. Duty to those still alive took pride of place. “Not all your men are gone, Sergey. There are others who still need you.” As
do I, he added, to himself.

  “Sir, I won’t leave them all alone.”

  “You can’t do anything more for them,” Petrov responded. He didn’t even think of just ordering Lyachin forward. He was beyond simple discipline.

  “I can share their fate,” Lyachin responded, almost eagerly.

  “Which will accomplish nothing but add more tragedy.” Petrov shook his head and stood, holding out his hand to the engineer. “And we are not free yet. I am responsible, and guilty for every casualty on this boat. Please, help me save the rest of my crew.”

  Patting the hard metal of the hatch one last time, Lyachin stood and wiped his face.

  Petr Velikiy

  Vidchenko had become more impatient as time passed well beyond half an hour. After an hour and twelve minutes, and many updates, Petrov’s voice on the underwater communications system finally reported, “Give me three minutes, then trigger the charges, sir.”

  “Three minutes. Starting now.” The admiral watched the second hand crawl around the dial three times.

  Vidchenko nodded to Kurganov, who stood by the bridge-to-bridge radio. “Rudnitskiy, this is Kurganov. Trigger the charges.” As he hung up the microphone, he pressed a button on the intercom. “Central post, bridge. Make sure sonar is alert.”

  Rudnitskiy would detonate the charges with a high-frequency sonar pulse. It was coded, so ordinary sonar transmissions would not affect the detonators. Petya’s passive sonar might or might not hear the trigger signal, but it would definitely hear the explosions.

  If they ever happened. Vidchenko waited, and then counted to ten. Assuming there was some difficulty, he was reaching for the radio microphone when the intercom finally barked, “Multiple explosions.” After a short pause, the operator reported, “Nothing else.”

  Sonar would probably hear the escape capsule leave the hull. It would take less than three minutes for it to break the surface. After ten minutes, he called sonar. They’d heard nothing from the sub. After twenty, he called on the underwater telephone. He received no answer, but they might still be in the escape chamber, out of touch. After half an hour, he asked how soon AS-34 could launch to examine the sub. They answered that it would be several hours.