Cold Choices

by Larry Bond

  He was born in Severodvinsk on the Kola Peninsula, the son of a senior shipyard engineer, and submarines were in his blood. He remembered many visits to the shipyard with his father to watch those underwater behemoths as they were rolled out of the great construction halls.

  As a boy, he’d dreamed of commanding one, and that dream had never changed. And it was with great pride that he bid his parents farewell to join the Soviet Navy to pursue his dream. He graduated first in his class from the Lenin Komsomol Higher Naval Submarine School in Leningrad, and everything seemed to be going according to plan when disaster struck in December 1991.

  The fall of the Soviet Union brought nothing but chaos and poverty to the “new” Russian Navy, whose members lost the respect of their countrymen along with their paychecks. Petrov didn’t care about the fate of the Communist Party. They had brought this on themselves. He was deeply concerned, however, about the effects their sudden collapse had on the navy in general, and his career prospects in particular.

  Good fortune smiled on him, however, as he was assigned to a fairly new Project 671RTM attack submarine in the Northern Fleet. Known as an Improved Victor III class SSN in the West, they were some of the quietest and most capable boats in the Russian order of battle. Being relatively new, it was fully functional and not suffering from the neglect that was all too common with the older boats, brought on by the decaying Soviet maintenance infrastructure.

  Petrov also considered himself to be doubly blessed, as his commanding officer was the master tactician Captain First Rank Dmitriy Makeyev, a brilliant and cunning hunter who handed numerous NATO submarine skippers their heads on a silver platter. Even some of the vaunted American 688-class submarines fell victim to the “Dark Lord,” as he was called. According to the waterfront gossip, Makeyev had never been caught unawares. He always maintained tactical control, only revealing himself when he wished and usually by a vicious lashing with his main active sonar.

  “To be victorious in submarine combat,” he preached, “one has to be aggressive. If you are not aggressive, you lose. If you lose, then you die. It is that simple.”

  Aleksey Igorevich accepted, believed, and lived by this tactical philosophy, so eloquently coined by his first captain, throughout his career. And it had served him well; very well indeed, as it enabled him to chalk up an impressive history of success in whatever he did. Now Petrov was the commanding officer of the newest and most advanced attack submarine in the Russian Navy—Severodvinsk. The very thought of being in command of his home’s namesake filled him with immense pride. Now if only the damned bureaucrats would release their icy grip and allow him to command his boat, then the dream that he had worked so hard for would finally become a reality.

  Petrov’s half-musing, half-stewing daydreaming was brought to an abrupt end when the staff officer opened the large double doors to the conference room. Inside the spacious hall were over a dozen flag officers milling about, drinking tea or coffee and chatting in small groups. As soon as Petrov and his commanders entered, a large man at the far end quickly made his way over toward them. Although Petrov had met him only once before, it was hard to forget the commander of the Northern Fleet, Vice Admiral Sergey Mikhailovich Kokurin. Rounding the corner of the table, Kokurin grasped Petrov’s eskadra commander’s hand and shook it heartily. It was well known within the fleet that the fleet commander and Vice Admiral Pavel Borisov were close friends.

  “It is good to see you again, Pavel,” boomed Kokurin as he slapped Borisov’s shoulder. “How is Irina? Well, I trust?”

  “She is quite well, sir,” replied Borisov as a devilish grin appeared on his face. “But, I regret to inform you that she is most displeased with you. Twice now, you have been to Gadzhiyevo without stopping by to visit and she is very disappointed that . . .”

  Kokurin interrupted, waving his hands in mock surrender, a pained expression sweeping across his brow. “I know. I know. I . . . I am guilty as charged.” Sighing heavily, and placing his large hands on Borisov’s shoulders, he said, “Please tell Her Highness, the tzarina, that I will pay my respects the next time I must travel to the submarine base at Sayda Guba. You have my word!”

  “I will gladly inform her of your most wise decision,” jabbed Borisov. Both men burst into laughter.

  Composing himself, Borisov then gestured toward his two officers. “Sir, this is my new Commander of the Twenty-fourth Submarine Diviziya, Rear Admiral Vasiliy Vitalyevich Vidchenko.”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” replied Vidchenko stiffly.

  “Ah, yes. Welcome to the Northern Fleet, Admiral. I hope your transfer has gone smoothly. You came to us from the Baltic Fleet, did you not?”

  “Yes sir. The trip north was uneventful, and I am getting acquainted with my new duties.”

  “Excellent. I look forward to working with you and the submarine commanders in your division,” responded Kokurin as he mentally took stock of the junior admiral.

  Vidchenko acknowledged the fleet commander’s comments with a slight bow and stepped out of the way as VADM Borisov brought Petrov forward. “And you know Captain Petrov, of course.”

  “Good day, sir,” Petrov said politely.

  Kokurin took a slow deliberate step toward Petrov and offered his hand. “Welcome to Northern Fleet Headquarters, Captain. And today is a very good day indeed. It has been far too long since we took acceptance of a new podvodnaya lodka atomnaya and I have been looking forward to this day with great anticipation.” Petrov was surprised by the old admiral’s sentimental tone and the intense emotion in his eyes. This man truly cares for the fleet, thought Petrov, and receiving a new atomic submarine after nearly eight years was, in this fleet commander’s mind, a cause for celebration.

  In the old days of the Soviet Union, shipyards turned out three or four nuclear submarines each year. New classes followed each other in quick succession, each improvement closing the quality gap with their Western adversaries. Now it was years between commissionings, and Kokurin’s celebratory mood was well justified. Petrov’s pride was all the greater. He’d had many rivals for Severodvinsk.

  “I have read every inspection and evaluation report with great interest,” continued Kokurin sincerely, “and I am very impressed with your crew’s performance. You have done well, Captain Petrov.”

  “Thank you . . . sir,” replied Petrov uneasily. “I will convey your compliments to the crew.” It had been a very long time since he had received a favorable comment from a flag officer. Petrov was far more accustomed to the lectures and stern criticism that had been the staple of his crew’s training diet throughout the long certification process.

  “I must also ask for your patience today, Captain.”

  “Sir? I, ah, I don’t understand.” Petrov was now completely confused and it showed.

  Amused by the young captain’s response, Kokurin’s face broke out into a broad smile. “You and your crew have gone through a lengthy, trying, and difficult certification process. One that I demanded to be more rigorous than usual. Now that the end is in sight, I know you just want to get this over with so you can take your boat to sea.” Petrov felt his face flush, like a schoolboy caught by the headmaster with his hand in the cookie jar. Can this man also read minds?

  The fleet commander chuckled loudly and said, “I was once a young new submarine commander itching to be set free from the fleet’s bureaucratic clutches. So I know exactly how you feel. But today, many of us old men, some with more ballast than we need,” Kokurin patted his protruding abdomen as he spoke, “are reliving those memories through you. So please, be patient with us today. I promise the proceedings will end this afternoon.”

  “Of course, sir,” responded Petrov confidently. And then with heartfelt sincerity, “It is an honor to be here today, Admiral.”

  “Excellent!” exclaimed Kokurin happily. But as the elderly submariner looked up, the smile quickly vanished from his face. For over at the head table was his chief of staff pointing in an exasperated fashion at h
is watch.

  “Bah,” sneered the fleet commander with a curt dismissing wave.

  “Is something wrong, sir?” inquired Borisov after seeing his friend’s abrupt mood change.

  “It’s just my personal nag, Pavel. He’s complaining that I haven’t started the conference on time.”

  “Pardon me, sir, but I do believe that is his job,” replied Borisov with a hint of sarcasm.

  With a deep sigh and resigned nod, Kokurin said, “You are correct, as always, Pavel Dmitriyevich. But I just wish he wouldn’t take such joy in exercising his duties. There are times when I wonder who really is the Commander of the Northern Fleet!” Turning back to his chief of staff, Kokurin politely gestured for him to call the conference attendants to order.

  “Comrades,” announced VADM Radetskiy, “please take your seats so we may begin.”

  As the various admirals and captains shuffled about getting to their assigned chairs, Kokurin turned one last time toward Borisov and said, “Admiral Borisov, I want you, Admiral Vidchenko, and Captain Petrov to remain once the conference is completed. I have another issue, of a more operational nature, to discuss with you afterward.”

  Sensing the shift from friend to superior, and recognizing when an order had just been given, Borisov drew himself to attention and answered with a militarily appropriate “Yes, sir.”

  As Kokurin walked back toward the head of the table, Vidchenko and Petrov both looked at Borisov with bewilderment. With a mild shaking of his head, and a puzzled expression, Borisov signaled to his subordinates that he didn’t know what the fleet commander meant either, and motioned for them to take their seats.

  Petrov moved quickly to his chair and looked around the conference room as the flag officers slowly sat down. He recognized many of them, since they headed numerous inspection teams during the various stages of the certification process.

  The chiefs of navigation, armaments, communications, and the technical directorate had been tough judges of his boat’s capabilities. Petrov respected their findings and accepted their recommendations, even though it hurt his pride a little. But the chief of combat training, VADM Vlasov, was the devil incarnate. Nothing Petrov or his crew did seemed to ever satisfy this man and he was particularly acidic in delivering his critiques during the combat training exercises. If there was one member of the certification board who could hold up Severodvinsk’s acceptance into the fleet, it was him. Realizing that he was staring intently at Vlasov and that his resentment was growing, Petrov shifted his gaze back to Kokurin, who had taken his place at the head table.

  “Greetings, comrades,” boomed Kokurin as he rose, “and welcome to the fleet acceptance board for PLA K-329 Severodvinsk. I do not believe it would be inappropriate for me to remind everyone that this is the first new atomic submarine in nearly a decade to join the ranks of the Russian Navy. Because of this unfortunate hiatus, I have been doubly hard on the inspection teams, as well as the commanding officer and crew of the Severodvinsk. To this I make no apologies. I had to be certain that with all the problems the shipyard encountered during this submarine’s construction that we are accepting delivery of a fully functional combatant, and not a floating Potemkin village. Therefore, I must stress that these proceedings are no mere formality. And I expect everyone to be truthful with his findings, opinions, and recommendations. Our goal is, and must remain focused on, ensuring the proper certification of the crew of the Severodvinsk for independent operations.”

  Petrov heard earnestness in the admiral’s voice, and understood its source. Kursk, their newest and best guided-missile submarine, the pride of the Northern Fleet, had been lost in 2000 with all hands during an exercise. The investigation that followed had found many instances of training requirements ignored, certifications lapsed, procedures not followed. Sloppy maintenance by poorly trained personnel didn’t mix well with explosive torpedoes and volatile oxidizers. In the wake of the disaster, the entire Northern Fleet command structure had been relieved. There were rumors that similar problems were behind the loss of Gepard in 2005, although there were an equal number of rumors that claimed she had been sunk by an American submarine. Regardless, the results were the same and most of the senior officers in the Northern Fleet were relieved for cause. Kokurin was the “new broom.” He meant every word he said.

  The fleet commander paused momentarily, which gave Petrov the opportunity to glance over at VADM Vlasov. The chief of combat training was slowly nodding his head, a fully developed frown on his face. Not a good omen, Petrov thought. But at least now he knew why the inspections and training exercises had been so intense, and so difficult. He had always suspected it was due to the ridiculous length of time it took to build Severodvinsk, fifteen years instead of the normal four under the Soviet Union, but no one would ever tell him this outright. All he was told was that his crew displayed deficiencies that were noted in the crews of the Kursk and Gepard. In his heart Petrov didn’t believe this line of reasoning; it seemed too convenient and didn’t square with what he saw on a daily basis. Admittedly he was biased toward his crew, but he knew without a doubt that they were better than what they were being given credit for. And as much as it pained Petrov to sit and listen to the unceasing criticism, arguing with a flag-level inspection team is at best an unwise tactic—even if you’re convinced that their findings are full of shit. As Kokurin continued with his opening remarks, Petrov’s attention was yanked back to the head table.

  “Now, there is much material to cover today during our deliberations. And I did promise the young captain that we would get through all of it by the end of the afternoon. However, before I turn this board over to my Chief of Staff, I wish to issue a special welcome to Vice Admiral Borisov, Commander of the Twelfth Submarine Eskadra, Rear Admiral Vidchenko, Commander of the Twenty-fourth Atomic Submarine Diviziya, and Captain First Rank Petrov, Commanding Officer of submarine K-329 Severodvinsk. Gentlemen, I am very pleased that you are here with us today. Over the past year you have worked hard; all of you have worked very hard,” stated Kokurin as he gestured toward everyone present, “to bring us to this point. You have my thanks, and that of the Russian people. Today is truly a great day for the Russian Navy and the Northern Fleet. Rear Admiral Radetskiy, if you please.”

  As the fleet commander lowered his bulky figure into his chair, still beaming with pride, Petrov suddenly realized that the board was in reality a formality, despite what the admiral had just said. And while there would probably be some unpleasant moments, ultimately the decision had already been made—his crew would get their certification and Severodvinsk would be accepted into the fleet’s combat-ready force. He would finally be able to take his boat to sea without a division babysitter. Confident that his lifelong dream was about to be fulfilled, Petrov felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. It took all his discipline to maintain a proper military composure. He’d celebrate later with his crew.

  “Gentlemen,” announced the chief of staff, “the binders before you contain all the final inspection reports and training exercise evaluations. They are state secrets and you are to handle them accordingly. We will now commence with the formal boarding process. Each directorate is to read a brief summary of the technical or tactical readiness of K-329 Severodvinsk, along with your final evaluation and certification recommendation. I would ask Rear Admiral Smelkov, Chief of the Technical Directorate, to get us started.”

  “Good morning, comrade Admiral,” began Smelkov, looking over at Kokurin. “Over the last year, my directorate has conducted numerous inspections during the state acceptance trials to evaluate the technical readiness of Project 885 PLA Severodvinsk, hull number 160, pennant number K-329. Our findings are as follows.”

  What followed was anything but brief as the chief of the technical directorate went through the whole boat, compartment by compartment and system by system, describing how each system met the design specifications established by the Russian Navy and the Ministry of Shipbuilding. He then went on to p
rovide detailed results of the propulsion plant tests, deep diving trials, sonar calibration trials, hydroacoustic and magnetic field measurements, and on and on. Most of the discrepancies noted in technical directorate’s report were minor and had, in fact, already been taken care of. This annoyed Petrov a little, but he understood that it was all part of the game. After a little over an hour, Smelkov finally managed to get around to announcing his directorate’s verdict.

  “In conclusion, it is our professional judgment that PLA K-329 Severodvinsk is in compliance with all tactical technical requirements, as well as all submarine design specifications as promulgated by state organs. We therefore recommend that the submarine and crew be certified for independent operations and accepted into the fleet.”

  “Thank you, Rear Admiral Smelkov. Your recommendation is noted,” replied Radetskiy nonchalantly. “Next we will hear from the Chief of the Navigation Directorate.”

  If there were any hope that the other directorates would heed the “brief summary” instruction, it was soon dashed upon the rocky shoals of administration and self-promotion. Each of the directorate chiefs for navigation, armaments, communications, medical services, and chemical services took their requisite hour or so to deliver a recommendation that could have been done in fifteen minutes or less. Petrov knew that this kind of posturing was common among junior admirals, particularly in front of a fleet commander. He also understood that even admirals had to “wave his flag,” as it were, to gain the kind of senior attention that would benefit their promotion potential. Still, Petrov held this practice of self-centered showmanship in contempt.

  By the time the chief of the armaments directorate had finished his report, Petrov’s mind was numb with boredom. He had heard all of this before, many times before. Nothing new was presented in the final reports, and the overwhelming majority of the adverse comments were on nitpicky items that had already been dealt with by his crew or the shipyard. Of course, there was no mention of that fact. To keep up with the schedule, lunch was shortened and hurried. Breaks were few and far between. More than once Petrov cursed his excessive coffee-drinking habit. Just when Petrov thought he would either go mad or fall asleep, he would remember the fleet commander’s specific request for patience. Quietly, he sat and endured one monologue after another.