Cold Choices jm-2

by Larry Bond

  “This was where your crewman died.”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  “Is there anything else you wish me to see?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then let us go back to your wardroom.”

  They were gathering and packaging the documents, photos, and metal fragments when the party entered. Borisov sat down heavily at the table and asked, “Coffee, please.”

  Jerry poured for the admiral, who sipped the cup thoughtfully, then cradled it, as if warming his hands. “It is good coffee,” he finally remarked.

  The chief of the boat was waiting in the corner, and caught Rudel’s eye, who nodded. Walking over to the admiral, he said, “Sir, I am Master Chief Hess. I’m the chief of the boat, the senior enlisted man aboard. We’d like to thank you for coming aboard, and we’d like you to have these, to remember your visit.”

  He handed Borisov a ball cap and a framed photo of Seawolf. They were traditional gifts for visiting VIPs, but Jerry felt the strangeness of giving them to a Russian.

  But Borisov smiled broadly and thanked Hess. “These are excellent.” Then the smile went away. “You have been much better hosts than me.” Slowly, deliberately he stood, and turned to face the American crew. “I now believe that Seawolf did not ram Severodvinsk, deliberately or accidentally. For now, that is all we can say. We must wait for the investigation to tell all of the story of what happened.”

  After a short pause, he added, “I cannot speak for my government, or even for my Navy, but for myself, I am very sad that two fine crews have suffered injured and dead. We must work much harder to make sure this never happens again.”

  Patterson waited a moment, making sure Borisov was finished speaking. As he handed the gifts to the enlisted man to put in the package, she said, “There are a lot of press reports from your Navy. They accuse Seawolf of many things, and they’re simply not true. Can you speak to your Navy, ask them to stop making such accusations?”

  The Russian didn’t answer immediately, but finally said, “You are right. Those stories are not helpful, but now anyone in Russia can speak to the newspapers.”

  “Many of the stories are coming from sources in your Navy,” Patterson insisted.

  Borisov nodded. “I will stop any false stories.”

  Patterson smiled. “The newspapers need to print something. You could provide them with better stories — accurate ones.”

  “I will consider it.”

  National security adviser’s office, Old Executive Office Building, Washington, DC

  “She did what?” Wright’s exclamation echoed out of the office and down the hall.

  Admiral Forrester’s voice mixed anger and frustration. “It’s all in the message. She informed Admiral Sloan that she invited Vice Admiral Pavel Borisov, a Russian submarine officer, to visit Seawolf and inspect her damage for himself.”

  Wright skimmed the printout. “Operational precedence, but she must have sent it right before the meeting. By now Borisov has come and gone.” He set the paper down carefully on his desk, as if it would bite.

  “This is not good,” Admiral Forrester insisted. “She’s making her own deals. We are out of the loop.”

  “That doesn’t mean she’s made a bad decision.”

  “What? How could letting a Russian admiral aboard one of our best submarines be a good idea?”

  “He didn’t inspect the submarine. He was there to see the damage.”

  “So he got a good look at a modern attack boat, and her vulnerabilities.”

  Wright was calming down, but Forrester still seemed very upset. He’d never seen a chief of naval operations this emotional. “So you would have rejected her request?”

  “Absolutely,” Forrester replied forcefully.

  “Which is why she informed us, instead of asking our permission.”

  “You have to get her out of there. Better still, get everyone out of there.”

  “That’s not my call,” Wright replied. “I picked her, but the president approved her selection.”

  “Then we need to take this to him.”

  USS Churchill

  She’d had about fifteen minutes’ warning, barely enough time to leave her dinner and get up to Churchill’s CIC. Captain Baker and Lieutenant Commander Hampton had come as well, to make sure the video link was functioning properly, and Dwight Manning, her State Department liaison and de facto second-in-command, was there as well, off-camera but available.

  The command position in Churchill’s CIC was dominated by three large flat-panel computer displays. Normally they displayed maps or status boards, but the center one now held a widescreen image of several men seated, facing the camera. The background behind them was dark and functional-looking. She guessed they were in the White House situation room. It certainly wasn’t the Oval Office.

  Patterson had been seated and ready when the link was activated. President Huber was flanked by the secretaries of state and defense. She was relieved to see Jeffrey Wright present, and she had the impression that many others were in the room as well. She felt a little alone.

  Her image must have appeared there at the same time, because President Huber looked off to the right, then announced, “I’m taking fifteen minutes out of a very busy day, Joanna.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, Doctor. Tell me why you invited a Russian admiral aboard Seawolf without getting approval from the Navy or DoD.”

  “Vice Admiral Borisov has replaced Rear Admiral Vidchenko, the admiral who threw us off their flagship. I had to convince him beyond any reasonable doubt that Seawolf did not cause this incident, or that we had any motives beyond helping to rescue their trapped crewmen.”

  “And this was worth cutting the Navy out of the loop.” That statement came from Hicks, the Secretary of Defense. His calm tone didn’t match his expression. The benefit of video teleconferencing was seeing as well as hearing.

  “Time was short,” she answered. “The visit had to take place before rescue operations took up all his time.”

  Huber answered again. “You had enough time for a phone call to clear this with Rear Admiral Sloan. You know that the submarine community is sensitive to such visits. No Russian has ever been aboard a Seawolf-class sub.”

  She hadn’t expected them to buy it. “True enough. All right. I set up the visit on my own because it’s vital that we build some trust — not just for the sake of international relations, but for those trapped crewmen.

  “I was there. Captain Rudel implemented his visit ship procedures. Displays were covered, sensitive material was stowed, and the Russian admiral showed absolutely no interest in Seawolf’s hardware. It was clear from his words that he was convinced, even moved, by what he saw.”

  “The Russians will say anything,” Hicks answered sharply. “Doctor, I think you’ve been set up.”

  “And I think you’re about twenty years out of date,” Patterson fired back. “Mistrust has already cost lives. We either learn to work with the Russians or we could lose more. And I don’t need to tell you how bad we’ll look in the eyes of the world if we walk away now because of a cold war mindset.”

  “At any cost?” Summers asked.

  “At almost no cost. except maybe to the Navy’s pride.” Patterson immediately regretted the retort, and quickly added, “To save their crew, the Russians are being forced to reveal information about their newest, most advanced submarine. We’d think they’d be foolish to withhold it. Our situation is no different.”

  Both secretaries started to speak, but Huber stopped them. “All right, Doctor. I’m endorsing your decision — after the fact.” He paused for a moment, and then added, “I can’t remove you. That wouldn’t look good to the Russians or the media. But be very careful, Doctor. We need the situation simplified, not complicated.”

  11 October 2008

  1600/4:00 PM

  Severodvinsk

  Captain Third Rank Fonarin swept the light from the battle lantern aroun
d the central post, looking for his captain and starpom. Although he was tired and cold, he moved about quickly, his breathing labored, a notebook clutched in his left hand. As chief of the chemical services, Fonarin had just completed his latest test on the atmosphere’s quality; the news wasn’t good. It was times like this that he wished he had a different job on board Severodvinsk. After a quick look by the engineer’s post, he found Petrov and Kalinin huddled up on the deck aft, by the underwater communications station.

  “Captain, sir, the latest report on the atmosphere,” panted Fonarin as he handed the notebook to Petrov.

  “Just give me the bad news, Igor,” he said, as he accepted the pad.

  “Yes, sir. Unfortunately, my suspicions have been confirmed. The American chemicals are fully depleted. Carbon dioxide has increased to two point seven percent.”

  Petrov nodded wearily. He was physically unable to get upset any longer. “How long do we have?”

  “Even with many of the men asleep, the carbon dioxide levels will rise to three percent within six hours. After that, things will get worse quickly. I estimate that no more than twenty hours later we’ll be at lethal concentrations; over five percent.”

  “So, essentially we have one more day,” Petrov summarized.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

  Petrov looked up at the junior officer and gave him a slight smile. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Igor. It is I who must apologize, to you, to the whole crew. Now go and get some rest.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Kalinin watched as Fonarin shuffled slowly away, his shoulders hunched over in defeat. “He’s a good lad. But he shouldn’t take his responsibilities quite so personally.”

  Petrov chuckled a little. “I think the pot just called the kettle black.”

  “Perhaps,” admitted Kalinin with a shrug. “So what do you think our good squadron commander is up to?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Petrov with some irritation. “You heard what he said a few hours ago. Help was coming but it would take a little time.”

  “Hmmm, you’d think he’d realize that we don’t have much time to spare.”

  “One would think.”

  Petrov leaned back against the bulkhead, physically exhausted and emotionally spent. He was out of ideas, and almost out of time. A part of him wished that death would stop toying with them and just get it over with.

  Without warning, the loudspeaker on the underwater communications system crackled to life, and a familiar voice filled the central post.

  “Severodvinsk, this is Seawolf. Captain Petrov, please respond.”

  Petrov snapped out from his brooding and looked over at Kalinin, who was equally surprised. They both struggled to their feet and Petrov grabbed the microphone.

  “Seawolf, this is Petrov. Captain Rudel, it is good to hear your voice.”

  “Likewise, my friend. Please have your crew prepare to receive more supplies.”

  “Thank you, Captain. Give us some time to open the tube’s outer door.”

  “Understood. Seawolf is standing by.”

  “A remarkable fellow, this Rudel,” Kalinin observed nonchalantly, although his face radiated relief.

  Petrov didn’t answer. He couldn’t. It required all his strength to simply hold back the tears brought on by this latest emotional roller coaster. But, for the first time since the failed rescue attempt, Petrov dared to hope.

  26. TEAM EFFORT

  11 October 2008

  1645/4:45 PM

  Severodvinsk

  The recovery of the second supply vehicle from Seawolf was welcomed, but Petrov had forbidden any spectators. Unnecessary movement consumed more oxygen, producing even more carbon dioxide. There was enough poison in the air already; they didn’t need to make more simply to satisfy someone’s curiosity.

  Captain-Lieutenant Rodionov checked the sight glass to make sure the torpedo tube had drained. Once satisfied that most of the water was in the tanks, he ordered his men to manually open the breech door. It still seemed very wrong to open a tube’s inner door and see the front of something that looked a lot like a torpedo staring back at you. After a quick inspection, Rodionov moved aside to make room for his torpedo specialists to prepare the vehicle for extraction. And this time they were ready. Hauling the first UUV, “Patty,” out of the tube had been a nightmare.

  This time the tube had been prepared. Duct tape covered every obstruction, and having studied the vehicle’s construction, they knew which tools would be most effective for drawing it from the tube. Some would damage the exterior casing, but it was the last trip for it anyway, just as they would never bother removing the duct tape lining the tube. Severodvinsk would never move from her resting place, either.

  As with all things in submarines, preparation made all the difference. Beaded with water, the dark green cylinder rolled smoothly onto the tray. The torpedomen moved it to an empty rack and began working on it like they’d done it their whole lives.

  This time, the load was mostly V-64 air regeneration cassettes. “I count eighteen, Captain,” Rodionov reported. “They’ve also sent several batteries for our own lanterns and some boxes wrapped in plastic. There are also some more candy bars stuffed around the cassettes, but ours fit much better than those American curtains,” he said proudly.

  “So Russian cassettes fit better in a jury-rigged American vehicle than the American equivalents.”

  Rodionov shrugged. “Well, if you put it that way. ”

  “Look at this!” One of the torpedomen held up a fat envelope, labeled “For the crew of Severodvinsk” in crisp Russian. He started to tear open the flap, but stopped himself, then handed it sheepishly to Petrov.

  The captain didn’t wait to satisfy his curiosity. Inside was a thick sheaf of papers. The top sheet was a handwritten note from Admiral Borisov. He had taken command of the rescue operation, and was using every available resource to save them, etc., etc.

  He’d read it later. The second sheet was from his father, in the city of Severodvinsk. Automatically, he started to read it, then stopped himself and turned to the next page. It was also for him, from his sister Nadya in Moscow. The next one was addressed to Kalinin, and then to Lyachin, and one to Mitrov, and so on. There was at least one letter for every surviving member of the crew!

  “What are these?” interrupted one of the torpedomen holding two bags with numerous wrapped objects. “Is this food?”

  Petrov took one of the bags, punched a hole in it, and pulled out one of the objects. Raising it up into the light, he read the label and chuckled. “No, I don’t think you’d want to eat this. I believe it’s poisonous.” He then opened the wrapper and removed a plastic tube about ten centimeters in length. Grasping the tube with both hands, he bent it until it made a crunching sound. He shook the tube vigorously, and it began to glow brightly. “Those clever Americans knew we would need some light to read our letters from home.”

  Taking the top three pages, he thrust the rest of the papers and the glow sticks toward Rodionov. “Take these to the Starpom, and have him pass them out to the crew.”

  “At once, Captain,” responded Rodionov eagerly.

  Petrov only half-watched as the torpedomen collected the cassettes, batteries and food. There were two other unidentified wrapped boxes for Dr. Balanov. Medicines, thought Petrov as he shifted his position slightly. There were only two lanterns left in the torpedo bay, Rodionov having just taken the third one when he left. One was placed over the torpedomen as they worked on the American vehicle. The other provided general illumination, and Petrov positioned himself so the paper could catch as much of the light as possible.

  Dear Aleksey,

  The Navy says they will give this to you, but what should I say to a son who is trapped at the bottom of the sea? It is hard knowing you are in danger, but I try to remember that you are an officer in the Navy. This is part of your service.

  The television is full of news about you and your crew. All of Russia, and many
people around the world know about Severodvinsk. Everyone I know has asked me to tell you how sorry they are about the men you have lost, and that they are praying for your safe return.

  Nadya says she will write to you as well. You know how she worries, but she is being very brave. The Navy should give her a medal.

  All of your sub’s families have formed a “Wives and Mothers” group. They are taking care of the families of those who died, and pressing the Navy for information about your rescue. Olga Sadilenko is in charge, and the group is so successful that other navy families are joining, from other submarines and ships. They are thinking of making it a permanent organization.

  In all my years of building submarines I never had to face what you are facing now. No matter what happens, I know you will always act for the good of your crew, the Navy and your country. I am proud of you, and I love you, my son.

  Petrov finished the letter, then the one from Nadya, then his father’s letter again. It was still cold, and the air was still foul, but for the moment, it didn’t matter so much.

  AS-34

  Umansky nervously tapped the gauge that measured the battery discharge rate. It never helped, but he did it anyway. Just in case. This was the eighth dive for AS-34 on Severodvinsk, and the discharge rate increased almost every time. They weren’t drawing any more power, but the batteries were losing their charge more quickly. He’d tried to troubleshoot the problem back on Rudnitskiy, during charging cycles, but the increased loss was probably internal, inside each battery.

  He checked his watch, then noted the rate, time, and remaining charge on the neatly columned pad. Detailed records might lead to understanding, and like every good submariner, Bakhorin wasn’t happy until he knew exactly how much trouble he was headed for.

  Luckily, the trip down was short now, almost familiar. One of Halsfjord’s remotes had planted a sonar beacon near Severodvinsk’s bow. It was simple to home in on it, and they also didn’t need to use their active sonar. That meant more power saved.