Cold Choices jm-2

by Larry Bond

  This trip, the biggest drain would be the motors. AS-34 was carrying a cable, one of six that would be attached to Severodvinsk. Topside, they would be connected to two salvage tugs that were enroute from Severomorsk. Pamir and Altay were due to arrive early tomorrow, but it took time to attach the cables to the sub’s hull. For the time being, the upper end of each cable was fastened to a lighted buoy, which also served to mark Severodvinsk’s position.

  AS-34 held the lower end in one of her handling arms, which had to be strengthened to accommodate the heavy wire cable. The wire rope was over an inch in diameter. A loop spliced onto the end would be attached to the hull where the sub’s mooring lines were usually placed.

  When the word was given, Severodvinsk would blow her port tanks, flood her starboard tanks, the charges lining her hull would be fired, and the two tugs would pull on the cables for all they were worth. At some point, the cable would snap, or the mooring points might be ripped from the casing, but by the ghost of Admiral Makaroff, they would right Severodvinsk.

  “Fifty meters.” Bakhorin’s depth report was routine, and Umansky checked the passive sonar display, as if his partner would stray off course. They were moving slowly, which seemed strange because the weight of the cable should make them descend more quickly. But three hundred meters of cable had considerable drag, and much of it was still on Rudnitskiy s deck. It wouldn’t be completely paid out and attached to the buoy until AS-34 did their part of the job,

  “Seventy-five meters.” Bakhorin was still on track, and Umansky took another set of battery readings.

  Discharge rate was more than doubled. He could almost watch the charge meter go down. “We’re down to eighty percent,” he warned.

  “What?” Bakhorin’s immediate response was to look for some errant piece of gear that was drawing power. There was none, of course. Umansky was busy with his tables and a calculator. Bakhorin wanted to let him finish his calculations, but the answer was obvious. “Are the batteries failing?”

  Umansky nodded, a look of frustration on his face. “The only question is how much power do we have left. I have to assume the discharge rate will increase, instead of staying constant.” Finally, he tossed the calculator into a corner with disgust. “Twenty minutes at most, maybe as little as ten. I’d like to plot the change in the discharge rate. It may be an exponential function.”

  “You don’t need mathematics like that to know we can’t make it back to the surface in time.”

  “We can still make it to Severodvinsk.”

  “With barely enough time to attach the cable,” Bakhorin confirmed. “But this is the second one. I know what needs to be done.”

  “Then we proceed,” Umansky answered.

  By the time they’d reached Severodvinsk, the battery charge was down to thirty-four percent. It should have read in the seventies, because it took more power to ascend than descend.

  The first cable had been attached forward, so they headed aft. In spite of his haste, Bakhorin was careful to steer clear of the bow. There was no telling exactly where the dark-colored cable was, and running into it could damage both AS-34 and the cable.

  Neither Russian was terribly worried about their minisub at this point. They knew it was her last dive. With the batteries shot, and no replacements or any way to fix them, she was finished.

  The mooring point was under a retractable plate. It was designed by Russians, to work when the deck was caked with ice and snow, and it worked underwater as well.

  Using one claw, Bakhorin uncovered the mooring point, and as carefully as a watchmaker, slipped the eye of the loop over the cleat. Once it was settled into place, he released the claw and announced, “I’m clear.”

  Umansky gave him a thumbs up and said, “Good. Move us away from the submarine.”

  “Understood. I’m heading to the northeast.”

  “Away from the buoy and the ships. I concur.”

  As Bakhorin guided them to their new location, Umansky checked the discharge rate again. It had increased slightly. Whatever was going on inside those batteries, it was only getting worse. They only had ten percent of a full charge now. It would be impossible to make the surface with the motors. In fact, Bakhorin hoped they would be able to get at least half a kilometer away from Severodvinsk.

  Twenty seconds later, the display panel lights began flickering and the motors started losing thrust. “That’s far enough. Releasing yellow flare.” Bakhorin pressed a lever, releasing a smoke float. They were not coming up where they were supposed to, so it was only polite to mark their current location.

  The minisub drifted to a stop, and Umansky reached over to cut the switches to the motors, the passive sonar, and the exterior lights. The gauge read less than five percent charge. The batteries were essentially flat. Bakhorin laughed. “Well, that’s it for me. I’m just a passenger now.”

  “You always were the lazy one,” Umansky shot back. “I think it’s time to quickly shed some unnecessary weight.”

  “Make sure that panel still has some power,” Bakhorin joked.

  “We have a green board,” Umansky replied. “Dropping ballast.”

  A dull BANG reverberated through the hull and they felt a sudden jolt.

  Umansky pressed a second button, and another BANG sounded as explosive bolts detached the mechanical arms from the bottom of the minisub. Between the ballast and arms, nearly a thousand kilograms of dead metal landed on the seabed, just a few meters below them.

  They were rising, but there was no point in taking their time. “Initiating gas generators.” The last button fired four chemical containers located in the minisub’s ballast tanks. Each was fitted with a small hydrazine charge that would fill the tanks rapidly with gas; emptying them of water. The sound was smaller, but they could still feel the vibration, and better still, the depth meter started spiraling upward. They’d be on the surface in moments.

  “Now comes the hard part,” said Bakhorin ruefully, “breaking the news to the Admiral.”

  Skynews Network

  Russian Submariners Risk Lives to Continue Rescue Effort

  Preparations to rescue the crew of trapped submarine Severodvinsk received a setback today, when the overage batteries on the rescue submersible AS-34 failed during a dive.

  The Russian submersible, over fifteen years old, has suffered from battery problems since the rescue began, but until now they have only limited the number of dives the submersible could make, and their duration.

  On the last dive, the batteries suddenly began to lose their charge, and the operators, Captains Third Rank Bakhorin and Umansky, faced a difficult choice. If they aborted the dive, the rescue would be delayed, but if they continued and attached the cable, they would not have enough power to return to the surface.

  The two submariners took the dangerous course, and successfully attached the rescue cable. With barely enough electrical power remaining to move away from the downed submarine, they performed a risky emergency surfacing, which succeeded.

  AS-34 is one of three underwater vehicles working on the rescue. The other two are remote operating vehicles operated by the Norwegian salvage and rescue vessel Halsfjord, and according to Mr. Arne Lindstrom, are in “excellent mechanical condition.” He estimates that the loss of AS-34 will cost “about six hours.”

  In an interview with Skynews reporter Britt Adams, Vice Admiral Pavel Borisov, commanding the rescue operation, called Bakhorin and Umansky “heroes upholding the best traditions of the Russian naval service,” and said that such men were “common throughout the fleet.”

  Preparations are now expected to be complete at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon local time. If they are successful in righting the submarine, the survivors will be on the surface within minutes.

  Navy Wives and Mothers Organization, Gorshkov Prospekt, Severomorsk

  The walls were stained in one corner, the pattern had worn off the linoleum in many places, and Mariska and her husband had left in search of a proper lock for the front
door.

  But a sign painter was at work on the front window, and secondhand furniture was streaming in from half a dozen places. And most importantly, Irina had her Internet access.

  Olga had appropriated the small office in the back. She was supervising a couple of the new girls as they organized the furniture when Galina found her. “There’s another reporter here.” She smiled broadly.

  Olga was curious. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing’s funny, Olga. I’m pleased. He’s from the base newspaper.” The base newspaper was run by the Navy, and only printed articles approved by the headquarters.

  “I was expecting him. Thank you, Galina. Show him in.”

  He’d phoned ahead, which was polite, and Olga had insisted he come over straightaway. In all the bustle she’d forgotten to tell Galina, but no matter. She chased the other women out of her half-finished office, satisfied that there was a battered desk for her to sit behind, and a chair for her guest.

  She was still sitting down when she heard Galina say, “Go right in.” The tone of Galina’s voice was the first warning. The young man that entered looked like he was still in university, younger even than her son Yakov. She felt like fixing him lunch.

  But he was here for an interview, and his age really didn’t matter. They all seemed so young to Olga.

  “Mrs. Sadilenko, thank you for seeing me.” The young man fiddled with a notepad and tape recorder.

  “I’m flattered that the paper is interested in our new organization, Mr. Borzin.”

  “I’m hoping that the story will run on the front page, Mrs. Sadilenko.”

  “Please, call me Olga.” She fought the maternal urge to straighten his tie.

  “Thank you, Olga, and I am Ivan Pavelovich.” He referred to his notepad for a moment, then asked, “What is the goal of your new organization?”

  Borzin spent about fifteen minutes quizzing Olga about the Navy Wives and Mothers group. How many members did it have, what were the requirements for membership, how did they operate?

  “With much confusion,” Olga joked. “We are still sorting ourselves out into some sort of structure. Irina talked about a ‘wiring diagram’ and I thought she meant the insides of her computer.”

  “But your organization is doing much work.” He referred to his notepad. “I asked for this story because I heard about the phone call you arranged between Captains Bakhorin and Umansky and their families.”

  Olga smiled. “That was Galina’s idea, but it was a good one. The Navy praised these men, but they had to risk death to become heroes. Their loved ones are proud, of course, but even after the fact, they were worried about the risks their men were taking. Hearing each other’s voices for just a few minutes gave heart and strength to both the naval officers and their families back home.”

  “Has the Navy ever allowed that before — letting men aboard a ship speak to their families ashore?”

  “Oh, no.” Olga smiled. “They were quite surprised when we suggested it.”

  “But wouldn’t it be a distraction to the men?”

  “Their experiences are the distraction,” Olga countered. “Hearing from their loved ones helps them get back on an even keel.”

  “And what did the Navy say when you suggested this?”

  Olga waved her hands about. “They worried about the precedent it would set. They worried that it would reveal state secrets. But Vice Admiral Kokurin graciously allowed it this time as a trial. We want to show the Navy we can be an asset, that the fleet will be stronger with us.”

  “What other activities have you performed?”

  “Of course, we are helping those families who lost loved ones aboard Severodvinsk. This includes helping them obtain all the survivor’s benefits the Navy is supposed to provide. In the past, some people have had problems with this. From now on we will be there for them.”

  Borzin closed his notepad. “I’m going to ask for an interview with Vice Admiral Kokurin. I understand you’ve met with him a few times.”

  “That’s true.” Olga didn’t smile, and fought the urge to say something unwise. She finally said, “I’m sure you will find it worthwhile.”

  USS Churchill

  The messenger found her in wardroom. “Doctor, Captain Baker sends his compliments, and asks if you would join him in CIC.”

  They really did talk like that, she marveled. Contacts abaft the beam, marlinspikes, and piping people on and off the ship. Secretly, she loved it.

  Baker was smiling when she saw him sitting in his command chair, an unusual smile in the middle of a life-and-death submarine rescue. “The Russians have reported a surface contact to the southwest. It’s entered the maritime exclusion zone.”

  He gestured to the contact display in the center screen. The six-by-six display showed not only the ships in the rescue force, but a large circle marking the fifty-mile exclusion zone. Baker had shown her how to read the symbols. The symbology was easy to interpret once you knew the system, and she could see a surface ship just across the arc marking the exclusion zone. It was headed straight toward their position.

  “This is why you’re smiling?”

  “The Russians sent a helicopter and visually identified it as a Norwegian-flagged fishing vessel. The aircraft challenged it by radio but the boat won’t answer.”

  “What would they like us to do?”

  “Their helicopter will be out of fuel in about half an hour. They’d like one of our birds to relieve it. They also want Churchill to back it up, in case they refuse to change course.”

  “Intercept them?” she asked.

  “With your permission, ma’am.”

  “Borisov is the SAR commander, after all. Did this boat ask them for permission before entering the exclusion zone?”

  “I asked the Russians that question and they said it did not.”

  “Then there’s no guarantee they’ll behave themselves. Yes, Captain, permission granted.”

  Baker’s hand was already resting on the phone. “Bridge, launch the alert bird, bring the other helo up to plus thirty readiness. After it’s gone, change course to intercept Track zero three four seven, speed twenty-five knots.”

  Baker listened for a moment to the reply, then hung up. “They were ready for my word. We’ll launch our helicopter in about five minutes. We should intercept in about an hour, a little after sunset. Our helicopter will be there in twenty minutes.”

  Motor Vessel Stavanger

  Captain Jonson didn’t look happy even when the Russian helicopter left. Brewer had persuaded Jonson to not answer the helicopter’s radio calls, even when they switched from Russian to passable English.

  Truth be told, Brewer had been a little nervous himself, at least until he satisfied himself that the helicopter was unarmed. He smiled as it flew off to the northeast. It couldn’t do a thing to stop them.

  Jonson didn’t smile when the helicopter left, but he hadn’t turned his boat around, either. At the time, promising him triple the normal charter rate had seemed a little excessive. Now Brewer thought it was money well spent.

  Jonson had been willing enough to take them out. The fishing season was over. He’d been slow putting his boat up for the winter because of needed repairs. Brewer’s fee had not only paid for the repairs, it more than made up for the fishing Jonson had missed.

  Brewer was willing to spend. The Severodvinsk story was big news, but almost every piece was secondhand, from either Norwegian or Russian or U.S. official sources. The media couldn’t even interview families of Severodvinsk’s crew. Severomorsk was a closed city, barred to foreigners, much less Western reporters.

  So Harry Brewer, INN news producer, had flown from the U.S. to Norway. Heading north from Oslo in a chartered plane, he and his crew had found Jonson and his men on the northern coast, in the fishing town of Alesund.

  Stavanger was a sturdy-looking craft, not big, but big enough for Brewer, his assistant, a cameraman and a soundman. Jonson’s crew of five spoke at least passable Engl
ish, and the cook had proven to be very good, although Brewer was getting a little tired of fish.

  There was no question about where to go. The Internet was full of maps and diagrams showing the location of the rescue site. And as for the exclusion zone, Brewer dismissed the prohibition. The only good stories were on the far side of the police tape. Working as a journalist, he’d climbed dozens of fences. Sometimes they shooed him away, sometimes he got the goods. On something like this, with worldwide play, he was ready to do whatever it took. To tell the truth, he’d enjoyed the adrenaline rush when the Russian helicopter had appeared, and watching it disappear had been even sweeter. His cameraman had gotten plenty of footage.

  Brewer checked their progress on the chart, although he already knew what it would show. They were on course, on schedule, chugging away at Stavanger’s best speed of twelve knots. Most of Jonson’s repairs had been to her two diesel engines, and now he was running them almost flat out.

  It was vital that Stavanger reach the rescue site by dawn tomorrow. Most of the activity would take place in the morning, and he needed daylight to position himself properly. Footage of the Russian rescue capsule would be flashed around the world within minutes of it breaking the surface, and it would be his crew that got it. Definitely Pulitzer Prize material.

  A shout in Norwegian pulled him back to the bridge windows. Jonson quickly raised his glasses, and searched to the north. The first mate, manning the helm, translated for Brewer. “The lookout says he can see a helicopter.”

  “The same one?” Brewer asked.

  The mate shrugged. “It’s coming from the same direction.”

  Brewer wanted to borrow the captain’s binoculars, but he wouldn’t know what he was looking at. It only took a few minutes to confirm that the aircraft was approaching them again, but from dead on, they could tell nothing about it.

  Finally, it grew from a speck to a shape, and Jonson announced, “It’s not the same kind. I think it’s American.”