Cold Choices

by Larry Bond

  “Too many. And their output always tasted the same—hideous.” He grimaced at the very thought of the foul-tasting, clear liquid common to all illegal distilleries. “But Lyachin and company have enough coffee and tea for every man to have two cups a day! Of course, the doctor is an enthusiastic supporter of the idea.”

  “Have you checked their figures?”

  “Yes, sir. I went over everything with the Chief Engineer. With the six devices drawing approximately the same amount of power, we should have sufficient battery capacity for seven, or even eight days if we are lucky.”

  “So, once again it gets back to the carbon dioxide issue,” Petrov asserted. “We have enough food, water, oxygen, and power for about a week, a little more if we are very thrifty. But within five days we’ll be at lethal concentrations for carbon dioxide.”

  “Fonarin’s estimate gives us five and a half days,” Kalinin replied soberly.

  Both men fell silent, a little uncomfortable with the cold, callous direction their conversation had taken. While they both cared deeply about the crew, their training drove them to deal with the stark facts in an objective, if mechanical, manner. Acknowledging the reality of a particular situation, even if the process seems uncaring, is the foundation for sound decision-making. And given their circumstances, they couldn’t afford to make any poor decisions. The uneasy quiet lasted for only a few moments before Petrov broke it with a question.

  “How’s the crew’s morale?”

  “All things considered, sir, surprisingly good. The men are convinced that we will be rescued.”

  Petrov looked closely at Kalinin as he spoke. His face didn’t mirror the confidence of his statement. Something was bothering him. Petrov could sense it.

  “But?” he asked.

  Warily, Kalinin eyed the doorway, making sure that no one was close by. Once he was sure their conversation would stay private, he leaned forward and whispered.

  “Captain, I have listened to the underwater communications system several times while you were sleeping. There is a bitch of a storm up there. Ice floes are being tossed about like children’s toys. I don’t believe the distress buoy can survive in that kind of environment. In fact, we don’t know if it even reached the surface intact. How can we be certain that the Northern Fleet Headquarters knows we’re missing? Or even if they do, where to look for us?”

  It was Petrov’s turn to chuckle, much to his starpom’s surprise.

  “Am I certain they know we are missing right now? No. Am I confident that they will know in about six hours? Yes.”

  Kalinin looked at his watch, it read 0918, and understood what his captain was referring to. Still unconvinced, he began to argue with Petrov.

  “How can you be so sure? Even though we’ve missed two regular communications periods, any one of our senior commanders could easily rationalize that given our last known heading, and the weather conditions, that we simply couldn’t check in. They’d wait until after the storm abated before they would recognize that we are really missing!”

  “Vasiliy, Vasiliy, you don’t understand our diviziya commander very well, do you?” replied Petrov patiently. “Rear Admiral Vidchenko’s very existence is defined by procedures, protocols, and schedules. He is one of those, oh, how do you put it, one of those loathsome bureaucratic assholes.”

  Kalinin looked down, a sheepish grin on his face, and admitted his guilt. “Yes, I uh . . . I seem to recall saying something like that once or twice.”

  “Well, it’s true! If the instructions required Vidchenko to swim to each pier in the performance of his duties, he would stoically dive in headfirst, dress uniform and all, and execute a flawless breaststroke. That is just how the man works.

  “No, Vasiliy, I have already been reprimanded in absentia for my flagrant violation of fleet procedures. By 1505 this afternoon, he will call Vice Admiral Borisov and report us missing. After that, those very same procedures will start things in motion automatically. The fleet will come for us.”

  Petrov shifted his weight around, getting a solid footing on the canted deck, as he prepared to leave the sonar post, but before he started walking, he turned once more to Kalinin and said, “You are right about one thing, Vasiliy. That is a devil of a storm and it won’t be easy for the fleet to find us in the middle of this mess. And even if they do, they certainly wouldn’t be able to deploy a rescue submersible in those seas. Those huge chunks of ice would crush it in an instant. But all we can do about that, Vasiliy, is pray. Pray that the storm will pass soon and that the fleet will find us quickly. Before it’s too late.”

  Northern Fleet Headquarters, Severomorsk

  * * *

  Vice Admiral Kokurin growled at the growing pile of messages from his eskadra and base commanders. All of them spoke of minor damage inflicted by the storm to the Northern Fleet’s elderly infrastructure. Individually the damage was annoying, but collectively it was becoming more than just a nuisance. Finding the funds necessary to pay for the repairs was going to be difficult, particularly since the budget year was coming to a close and the fleet’s operating accounts had been sorely depleted by the aggressive training schedule.

  “Why are you being so inhospitable, Grandfather Winter?” whined Kokurin to himself. A storm of this magnitude, so early in the season, did not bode well for the rest of the winter. The fleet commander wrote down a reminder to speak with the chief of rear services about ensuring an adequate fuel oil supply for the bases. He finished and was about to pick up his cup of tea when the intercom buzzer rang.

  “Yes,” answered Kokurin.

  “Sir, Vice Admiral Borisov is on line one. He says he needs to speak to you about an urgent matter.”

  “Thank you.” Reaching over, he picked up the phone and hit the blinking line.

  “Greetings, Pavel Dmitriyevich, how are things at Sayda Guba?”

  There was only silence on the line, and Kokurin thought that he had lost his connection with Borisov. “Pavel, are you there?”

  “Yes, sir, I am still here,” Borisov replied with some hesitation. Kokurin could hear him taking a deep breath. Something terrible must have happened.

  “Steady yourself, Pavel. Tell me, what is wrong?”

  “Admiral, I regret to inform you that Severodvinsk hasn’t been heard from for thirty hours. Since Petrov has uncharacteristically missed two fleet communications periods, I am requesting you declare an emergency alert.”

  Kokurin sat up straight in his chair; he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Thirty hours?” he repeated. “Did you send out messages ordering him to make contact?”

  “Yes, sir. We have sent out three messages within the last six hours telling Petrov to break off pursuit and respond. There has been no reply.”

  “Do you think he is still under the sea ice? That would limit his ability to communicate.”

  “We looked into that possibility, sir,” Borisov admitted. “Unfortunately, we don’t have a good position for Severodvinsk. His last reported location was just on the edge of the ice zone, and the Amga buoy he was heading toward is only eight miles inside the zone. Even at a standard bell, Petrov could have cleared the sea ice within an hour or two, raised an antenna, and reported in. This kind of behavior is totally unlike Petrov, sir. We are very concerned that something dreadful has happened. Sir, I repeat my request for you to issue Signal Number Six.”

  “Very well, Pavel, I concur. I will issue the alert,” said Kokurin. “Make sure my staff has all your data and analysis.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. You can see what the weather outside is like just as well as I can. Rescue missions under the best of circumstances are a difficult undertaking. With this storm, it may be impossible. But, I will do what I can.”

  “I know, sir,” replied a solemn Borisov.

  “Keep me apprised of any new developments,” ordered Kokurin.

  “Understood, Admiral. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, Pavel.
”

  As the old admiral hung up the phone, his mind started racing. A hundred questions sprung up, and he had answers for none of them. Rubbing his thinly covered head with his hands, he wondered if they had lost yet another submarine and a brave crew. Slamming the desk with his fist, he cursed the fear that was gripping him. There was no time for self-pity. Hitting the intercom button, Kokurin summoned his deputy.

  “Boris, get in here immediately. Bring Georgy with you.”

  Within seconds, both men hurried through the door. They knew their boss well enough to know that something was wrong. As they approached the fleet commander’s desk, he began firing off orders at them.

  “Boris, I am declaring an emergency alert. Have the communications officer issue Signal Number Six. Severodvinsk is thirty hours overdue and is considered missing. I want the readiness status of every vessel in the Atlantic Squadron within the hour, and I want them to prepare to sail at a moment’s notice. And get me the latest weather forecasts for the next week.”

  Vice Admiral Baybarin furiously wrote down his instructions. He was full of curiosity, but there would be time for questions later. He bolted from the room as soon as Kokurin barked, “Now go!”

  Vice Admiral Radetskiy was next, and he anxiously awaited his orders.

  “Georgy, contact the Chief of the Search and Rescue Services and have him prepare Mikhail Rudnitskiy for departure within six hours. Tell him to bring as many functional rescue and salvage submersibles as he can. Coordinate with the Commander, Twelfth Nuclear Submarine Eskadra for specific information on Severodvinsk’s last known position and their analysis of the sub’s possible location. Move!”

  As the chief of staff left, Kokurin looked at the clock on his desk. It read 1529. He should see the emergency message in about ten minutes. Turning to face the window, he watched as the snow was whipped about by the gale-force winds. The dreariness of the afternoon matched his mood. The real question now was whether or not a rescue force could actually leave in the middle of this accursed storm. God willing, the ships should be ready to get underway by the early evening hours. Now, if Grandfather Winter would only cooperate.

  National Security Agency, Fort Meade, Maryland

  * * *

  Jack Ferguson was already bored. It was less than two hours into his shift, and there wasn’t much going on in the Russian Northern Fleet AOR. The winter storm had really shut things down. It’s going to be a very long day, he thought.

  “Hey, Jack,” called Paul Anderson, Ferguson’s supervisor, “anything good on the Russia Northern Fleet channel?”

  “Nope, they’re getting the snot beaten out of them by that storm. Overall traffic volume is way down, and most of the stuff is administrative shit. I did have one message, though, about ten minutes ago that had an urgent precedence. Nothing much since.”

  “Well, it certainly makes sense to just hunker down in that kind of weather,” responded Anderson. “You know what this place is like if we get even an inch of snow. Say, I’m going down to the cafeteria for some coffee. You want anything?”

  Ferguson didn’t respond; he seemed to be mesmerized by his computer screen. “Jack, I said do you want anything?”

  “Holy shit! Paul, you’d better get over here. I’m seeing over two dozen urgent messages from just about every major ship in the Northern Fleet.”

  “What!? This couldn’t possibly be an exercise. Not in that weather,” stated Anderson incredulously.

  “Look at these ships that are answering. That is Petr Velikiy. And that is Marshal Ustinov. There is the Admiral Kuznetsov. Everybody and their brother is rogering up for something. And whatever it is, it’s big.”

  “All right Jack, start writing this up. I want a FLASH precedence message reporting this activity in ten minutes. Do you have any theories as to what is going on?”

  “I do now,” Ferguson replied smugly. “I just saw the Mikhail Rudnitskiy, the submarine rescue ship, send its reply. I think we have a submarine emergency.”

  12

  COLD CHOICE

  Lieutenant Chandler knocked on the captain’s doorframe, just as a formality. The captain, the XO, and Jerry had all stopped their conversation and waited expectantly.

  “One LF and one HF receiver are up,” Chandler reported. “I just came from radio and they’re copying the broadcast off the floating wire.”

  Captain Rudel smiled. It was a tired smile, but it was one of the few Jerry had seen from him since the collision. “Good news. Well done, Chiefs, Mr. Chandler.” Then, turning to Jerry, “And you too, Mr. Mitchell.”

  Rudel asked the chiefs, “Are your people still up there?”

  Hudson nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, let’s go see them.” Rudel headed out of his cabin and up the ladder to the next deck. The officers and chiefs crowding the passageway melted against the bulkheads to make room, then Chandler and the chiefs followed. Jerry and the XO remained behind. Let Chandler get his face time with the captain, Jerry thought. He’s earned it this time.

  Shimko smiled, broader than the captain’s. “That’s good. Once he talks with some of the crew, he’ll start to pull out of it. He loves his guys, and when he sees they’re okay, he’ll be okay.”

  Rudel did appear at dinner that evening, subdued, but he was there. Chief Morrison also appeared shortly after the meal started and handed out message traffic to a mixture of applause and a few boos.

  “Couldn’t you have left the receivers down for a few more days?” joked Al Constantino. The supply officer, as usual, had one of the thicker piles of message traffic.

  “You could just ignore your traffic,” Morrison suggested playfully. “Maybe nobody would notice.”

  “Oh, they’d notice,” Constantino sighed.

  Jerry’s own message traffic was trivial, but he looked through them as if they were the first naval messages he’d ever read. A weather report, some All-Navy notices, school availabilities. It was all routine, but they were back in touch with the rest of the world.

  Shimko gave everyone ten minutes with their message traffic before he started working through his own list. They were going to show up, unannounced, at Faslane in a little less than two weeks and there were literally dozens of things that had to be done, arrangements to be made. Jerry’s task list grew rapidly, but his mood improved as his workload rose. They were moving forward; getting back into the swing of things. Navy business could deal with almost any circumstance—just wrap it in paper. As the XO so quaintly put it, “There is no greater cure for misery than hard work.”

  As the first seating finished up, Jerry saw one of the cryptological technicians in the passageway, waiting. He caught the XO’s eye, and the two of them headed forward. Jerry followed. He usually checked the nav plot after dinner, and besides, he was curious.

  Entering control, he saw Shimko disappear through the aft door, the CT behind him, heading for officers’ country. He’d barely had time to look at the chart before the XO came back and told the chief of the watch, “Pass the word, department heads to the Captain’s cabin.” His tone was routine, but Shimko’s expression said he’d heard bad news.

  Lieutenant Commander Lavoie, the engineering officer, had the deck watch, and the XO added quickly, “And get a relief. You need to be there, too.” Lavoie nodded and picked up the phone.

  Jerry hurried forward to find Rudel seated, head resting on one hand, staring at a single sheet of paper. The XO and the CT stood in the cabin, taking up what little floor space there was. Jerry knocked quietly on the doorframe, and Shimko looked over. All he said was “Stand by.” Jerry waited silently.

  Constantino showed up a moment later, with Wolfe right behind him. Even with the operations, supply, and weapons department heads present, the XO still kept everyone waiting. Finally Stan Lavoie, temporarily relieved as the OOD, appeared.

  Rudel saw Lavoie in the doorway and stood, his department heads clustered at the door, the XO and the CT standing behind him. He spoke softly, as was his habit.
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  “CT1 Sayers brought the XO this intercept a few minutes ago.” The CTs, or cryptological technicians, were intelligence specialists who recorded and analyzed Russian radio transmissions. As soon as the HF receiver had been repaired, they’d been able to resume their jobs. Their first priority had been listening for any reaction by the Northern Fleet to the collision, for example, looking for a sortie of an ASW vessel or aircraft to look for the offending U.S. boat.

  Sayers was a big man, a blond crew cut already starting to thin as he entered his thirties. He seemed to shrink, uncomfortable among so many listeners. His work was rarely this public, or this immediate. At Rudel’s prompting, he explained.

  “Most of the stuff we just tape for later analysis. It’s almost always encoded, and even the voice stuff usually uses code words or phrases.” He pointed to the paper. “But this was broadcast in the clear. Someone on the submarine rescue ship Mikhail Rudnitskiy asked the Northern Fleet Headquarters to confirm the emergency alert and to verify the coordinates. The duty officer at fleet headquarters was none too happy about it too. Chewed the guy’s ass off.”

  “An emergency alert?” asked Lavoie. “What kind of emergency?”

  “The message that the guy on Rudnitskiy referred to was Signal Number Six, a coded alert the Russians send out for a submarine in distress. The location given was supposedly where the missing sub was last heard from. It was near where we had the collision.”

  “I don’t understand.” Stan Lavoie’s reaction was automatic, uncomprehending. “They lost a submarine? That can’t be the one we collided with. We lost that encounter. It left and went home.”

  “We assumed it went home,” the XO corrected him.

  Jerry tried to process the information. If the Russian Northern Fleet had declared an alert, then the boat had failed to communicate with its base. Had the other sub lost its radio, too? But they were close enough to be home by now, even if they had to crawl at five knots. And if they were adrift on the surface, they had rescue gear and emergency transmitters, short-range equipment that they could use to call for help.