by Larry Bond
Petrov finally called in after forty minutes. There had been no change in the sub’s list, he reported. “We are moving everyone out of the escape chamber.”
24. STRIKE ONE
10 October 2008
1835/6:35 PM
Skynews Report
“Although the Russians have made no official announcement, their attempt to rescue the crew of Severodvinsk appears to have failed.
“Approximately forty-five minutes ago, at 1448 Greenwich Mean Time, sonars near the scene of the rescue detected a series of small explosions. It is believed these were from charges intended to clear obstructions preventing the release of the submarine’s rescue capsule. According to submarine rescue experts, if the charges had worked, the crew would have been able to ascend to the surface in the capsule almost immediately.
“It is believed that the men aboard Severodvinsk are running short of the U.S.-supplied chemicals needed to remove the deadly carbon dioxide from their atmosphere. Medical experts are also concerned that they may be suffering from hypothermia, as the crew have been subjected to near-freezing temperatures for several days now. Hypothermia would cause the survivors’ bodies to increase their oxygen consumption, in an attempt to preserve body heat, thus complicating the carbon dioxide problem.
“While the Russian Navy has not provided any information on the condition of the men trapped inside, information on the status of the crew has appeared on the Wives and Mothers of Severodvinsk website, now one of the most popular websites in the world. Late yesterday, the ‘portrait pages’ were updated. Several crew-member photographs were modified to include a Russian Orthodox cross, while others had a red cross added.
“Having recently finished her last dive, the Priz minisub will now have to recharge its batteries. This will take at least six hours, which means it will be tomorrow morning before the Russians can even hope to make another attempt. What form this could take is not known.
“The Norwegian marine salvage vessel Halsfjord is also due to arrive this evening. Whether they will be able to act before the submariners run out of time is impossible to say.
“This is Britt Adams, for Skynews.”
Severodvinsk
“Be careful, watch out for the hatch coaming!” commanded Petrov. “Slowly, slowly. There, I have him.” Wrapping both arms around the injured man’s abdomen, Petrov held him steady while Zubov removed the rope suspending him from the escape chamber. Once free of the sling, the two laid their shipmate on to a stretcher. It was young Sadilenko.
“Nikolay, Nikolay,” he moaned deliriously.
“Yes, Yakov, I know,” replied Balanov gently. “Let’s get you back to bed. Careful now,” he said to the stretcher-bearers as they lifted him and proceeded back to the third compartment.
“That’s everyone, Captain,” reported Mitrov, still up in the chamber.
“Very well. Thank you, Vladimir. Make sure you turn off the emergency lights before you secure the hatch.”
“Pavel is doing that now, sir.”
“Good, good.”
The flickering of a light from the rear of the central post caught his attention and he walked over toward the source. Kalinin and Lyachin appeared slowly from the ladder well. Both were breathing heavily.
“There doesn’t appear to be any additional damage from the explosive charges, Captain,” reported Kalinin as he leaned against the bulkhead.
“I’m glad to hear that, Vasiliy. That was a most unpleasant experience.”
“It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if it had worked,” he replied as he wiggled a finger in his right ear. “Well, at least now we know what it’s like to be inside a kettledrum.”
Lyachin and Petrov chuckled at the starpom’s apt analogy. The doctor had said the ringing in their ears would take a little time to subside. The smile on Lyachin’s face, however, lasted for only an instant, and was replaced by the same forlorn, haunted expression he’d shown earlier. Straightening himself, he turned toward Petrov and asked, “Sir, if I may be excused, I would like to check on my men.”
“Certainly, Sergey.”
As the chief engineer walked away, Kalinin pointed in his direction and said, “He seems to be doing better.”
“Unlike some of us,” countered Petrov, remembering the dazed Sadilenko, his voice heavy with fatigue and dejection.
“You need some rest, sir.”
“No, Starpom. What I need is some fresh air.”
“As do we all,” said Kalinin, conceding the argument. For a moment the two leaders stood there in silence, both were tired, cold, and emotionally drained. After about a minute, Kalinin finally brought up the topic they had both been avoiding.
“That failed evolution was rather depressing.”
“Yes, it was. I could see it on the men’s faces. I should have been more guarded with my optimism.”
“What are we going to do now, Captain?”
“I wish to God I knew, Vasiliy. We’ve done everything we possibly can.”
“There’s still that option the doctor and I talked about,” suggested the starpom.
“What? Oh yes, I suppose we should give it more consideration. It may buy us a little more time,” Petrov replied. “I guess we should go find the good doctor.”
At that moment, Balanov entered the central post and walked up to them. He looked worn out, but his movements suggested he was agitated.
“Ah, Doctor, we were just about to come visit you,” said Kalinin jovially.
“Captain, Starpom,” Balanov greeted them formally. “Captain, I wish to report that there are complications developing with some of the injured.”
“Complications?” Petrov echoed with a mixture of confusion and worry. “What sort of complications?”
“Sir, a number of the injured have started showing symptoms of mild hypothermia. I’ve taken the temperature of several of them, and their core temperatures are at or just below thirty-five degrees Celsius. There are some indications that several of the other crew members are starting to show symptoms as well.”
“Doctor, we’ve given you as many survival suits as you require and most of the bedding,” exclaimed Kalinin defensively.
“Starpom, you don’t understand! The suits and blankets only slow the rate at which heat is lost! It’s taken several days, but with such low ambient temperatures, hypothermia is inevitable.”
“All right, Doctor, what are the short-term implications?” Petrov asked. He was well aware that death was the ultimate result.
“At this stage, the patient will start to shiver uncontrollably It’s the body’s attempt to generate heat through muscle activity. This means that his blood pressure, heart rate, and breathing rate all increase. If enough members of the crew start suffering from hypothermia, our carbon dioxide problem will get considerably worse.”
Pained expressions showed on both their faces, as the impact of the doctor’s explanation struck them. Ravaged by the seemingly never-ending string of bad news, Petrov fell against the bulkhead for support and rubbed his face with both hands.
“Captain, we must find a way to generate some heat before things get worse,” implored Balanov.
“And just how do you suggest I do that!?!” snapped Petrov angrily. Immediately, he regretted lashing out at the doctor. He wasn’t the cause of this latest problem; he was just the messenger.
Sighing, Petrov reached out and placed his hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Viktor, you are merely doing your duty. Thank you, for your report. I will… I will try and think of something. In the meantime, I want you to prepare to issue sleeping drugs to as many of the crew as you can. I know, I know it buys us only a little time. But right now I’ll take every minute I can get.”
Balanov nodded and wearily withdrew.
“Now what?” asked Kalinin bluntly, as he watched Petrov push himself upright.
“I think it’s time I have a chat with Vidchenko and inform him of this new problem, then find out what they are going to do next
.”
USS Seawolf
Seawolf and Churchill were running parallel racetracks, long, slow patterns designed to let ships move without actually going anywhere. At five knots, it took over an hour and a half for them to cover one side of the eight-mile leg. They’d turn a full 180 degrees, then countermarch back along the same line.
The two ships were separated by three miles, more than enough distance between a surface ship and a submerged submarine. With two of her transmitters and one multimission mast repaired, Seawolf could now transmit and receive from periscope depth, letting her stay in her natural, and preferred, environment.
With both ships at creep speed, it also maximized their passive sonar detection. Even though they were about fifty miles away, Seawolf heard the rather noisy AS-34 on herTB-29 towed array, both ships heard the charges detonate. Then nothing.
Jerry had wanted the Russian plan to work. He’d prayed and waited, knowing that the Russians weren’t stupid. The minisub had made two earlier dives. They could see what needed to be done. They’d overengineered the job with charges that might actually cause more damage to the sub, but were surely big enough to clear whatever was holding Severodvinsk in that port list.
Seawolf and Patty had bought Severodvinsk some time. He was proud of that unorthodox resupply effort, but now it looked like it wouldn’t be enough. The Russians had wasted that chance, missed their best, and perhaps only, shot. They could have planted charges on their first dive, and done a better job of it, if they had used the information Rudel had tried to give them.
Jerry felt somehow responsible for the Russians’ mistrust. He knew it was stupid to think so, and ran though every action, every decision he’d made since the collision, and then since they’d entered the Barents. He could think of nothing that would have affected the Russians’ refusal, but the feeling wouldn’t go away. His stomach knotted, and with Seawolf riding smooth at two hundred feet, he knew it wasn’t seasickness.
Were Petrov and his men doomed? After hearing the Russian’s voice over the underwater telephone, Jerry thought of him as a person. He could imagine the man, like any good captain, doing his best to take care of his crew until help arrived. It was easy to imagine himself on that boat, in Petrov’s place, or more properly as one of his officers. Rudel could imagine himself in Petrov’s position. And he probably did, in his nightmares.
Jerry was touring the boat before visiting control. He didn’t need to, but it was constructive, and he didn’t have the heart for paperwork right now.
As he passed the crew’s mess, the Wolf’s Den, he saw a new email had been posted. It had been sent by Britt Adams, a reporter on Churchill but the original sender had been a Russian woman, Olga Sadilenko. She had sent questions to Adams, who passed them to Rudel. Rudel apparently answered them and then responded back through Adams. It probably violated several regulations, but Joanna Patterson knew about it and approved. That was enough for Jerry, and also Rudel. The woman deserved answers.
Dear Captain Rudel,
Thank you for the answers Mr. Adams has sent us. Although I thank him as well, I know that they came from you. It must have been hard to give us such bad news, but we have been waiting for any word for a very long time. Knowing who has died and who is hurt is very hard, but the knowing is better. My Yakov is hurt and still in danger, but he has his shipmates and captain to take care of him, and that is a comfort.
All of us are grateful for everything you have done to help our men. Our Navy said that the collision was your fault, but you should know that we do not always believe what our Navy says. Since the collision, you have saved their lives once, maybe twice. You and your men will be in our prayers, along with ours.
Jerry read it twice. He wondered how many times Rudel had read it.
10 October 2008
1855/6:55 PM
Severomorsk
The Seaman’s Memorial Church had never closed its doors, even at the height of Communist power. Built when the town was still called Vayenga, it had seen many tragedies. Whatever its name, Severomorsk had always been a port, and sailors didn’t always return.
Right now the church was filled with the families and friends of the men of Severodvinsk. The mayor and most of the city government had come. It was both a memorial for those known to have died, and a prayer service for those injured and still in peril. With definite news, the wives and mothers had decided not to wait for the crew’s rescue.
Olga Sadilenko, along with the other family members, was near the front, so the messenger had to search for a few minutes, whispering questions, before he could find her. Olga recognized him. Sasha was the teenage brother of Irina’s Anatoliy. He would have been at the service, but had been drafted to look after the younger children. Was there a problem with one of them?
He didn’t speak, but pressed a slip of paper into her hand. It read simply, “There is important news. Please come outside.”
Curious, she left as quietly as she could. Outside, Sasha pointed toward an older man she didn’t recognize, waiting at the bottom of the steps. He was stooped over, with a face so worn it was almost battered, and he held one arm at an angle. “My name is Dyalov. I used to work at the naval base. I’m a friend of Galina Gudkov’s family. She sent me to tell you they tried to raise the sub with explosives late this afternoon. If it had worked, the crew would be out and on the surface by now.”
“If it had worked. ” Olga had repeated the words automatically, attempting to understand. She found she had understood, but her mind didn’t want to accept the idea.
“Why did they need explosives? What happened? Did the explosives cause more damage? Why didn’t they work?”
Dyalov shook his head. “I’m sorry. I do not know these things. Galina says the article appeared just a short time ago. It comes from the Americans.”
Olga’s world spun. She took one step to lean against the church’s stone wall. “Will they try again?”
“I do not know,” Dyalov apologized. “I live down the hall. Galina called me and asked me to deliver the news. She read the article to me. They heard explosions on their hydroacoustic system, but after that nothing more. Here is a translation she gave me.” He pressed a folded paper into her hand.
Her shoulder was cold where she leaned against the church. The stone under her was hard, unmoving. She stood for a moment, shaking, as the carefully restrained fear for her son escaped, draining her strength, her reason. She’d used purpose and hope to keep it locked up, but now it was loose, and she had no way to fight it. She was crying, almost silently, the tears pouring down her face.
Dyalov stood uncomfortably, silent. She realized he was waiting for her answer, but she had none. Finally, she said “Thank you for your kindness.” She turned and impulsively hugged him, pecking him on the cheek. Dyalov smiled and limped off.
She had never met Dyalov before, but the old man had taken pity and helped, simply because he knew one of the families. Severomorsk, like most of the towns in the Kola Region, was a navy town. Because of this, the church was filled to capacity and then some. Family and friends had converged here because it was centrally located, and because it was the home of the Northern Fleet Headquarters. Some of the Severodvinsk families had come from Gadzhiyevo, near the Sayda Guba submarine base; some lived in Murmansk, a short distance to the south; many lived in Severomorsk itself. But wherever they lived, they were here now, in the church, praying for a miracle and supporting each other.
That human contact had helped her regain her reason, but not her strength. Suddenly frail, she leaned back against the wall of the church again. Olga would never admit it to anyone, but she needed its strength, and the strength of those inside.
She unfolded the paper and read the article, just a few paragraphs, and much of it addressed what the author didn’t know. Crumbs for the starving.
Reentering the church, she saw that the service was almost over. She stood quietly in the back rather than disturb anyone, but those in the rear had seen her come b
ack in, just as they had seen the messenger enter. Now they saw her blotting her eyes, her face red and puffy. There’d been more than a few tears in the church that afternoon, but a murmur ran through the back of the church, then moved its way forward.
A woman she didn’t recognize, her young son on her hip, came back and whispered, “Are you all right? Is there news?” Her eyes, her face pleaded for answers, but the last part of her question held more dread than curiosity. After all, Olga had been crying.
“Yes,” Olga answered, but when she saw the woman’s face fall, she quickly added, “They’re still alive.”
The young mother stifled her gasp and smiled, a little forced but genuine. She went back to her place as the priest finished the service, but many eyes were on her and Olga.
After the last prayer ended, everyone remained in their places. A low buzz of conversation built, then faded away. The priest spoke softly with someone in front, then took his place again. “Mrs. Sadilenko. Please, if there is news, tell us all.”
Olga walked down the center aisle, embarrassed in spite of the priest’s polite request. Reaching the front, she turned and faced families and friends of the families. It made sense. Severodvinsk’s heart was in that church.
She unfolded the paper and read the news article. The first line announcing the failed rescue attempt brought gasps and cries. She skipped the paragraph about their website, although Olga was sure everyone would hear about it later. The last two paragraphs spoke of the Priz minisub and the Norwegians without giving the slightest clue about the Navy’s plans.
Finishing, she folded the paper and pushed it back into the pocket of her dress. She was still facing the crowd, full of concern for her Yakov, and anger and frustration at the Navy. She found those emotions becoming words.