Cold Choices

by Larry Bond

Rudel was understanding. “It goes against my grain, too, but the Navy’s got almost a day to bring the Russians up to speed. Knowing that we’re in the area will help prevent an incident.” Then Rudel corrected himself, “. . . another incident.”

  “He’s also endorsing my decision to return to the collision site. He agrees it’s the right thing to do, but he also feels that it will open up the biggest can of worms since Vincennes shot down that Iranian airliner in 1988.”

  Jerry tried to imagine the reaction back home. Crippled U.S. sub. Missing Russian sub. CNN. State Department. International relations. Media feeding frenzy. His sister Clarice in Minnesota. His uncle the senator. What would they think?

  The two ITs scrambled down the ladder, and one of Jerry’s quartermasters went up to disconnect the suitcase. They were submerging; thank Neptune and all the other gods of the sea.

  They’d found a way to report, to tell the Navy what was happening, and that was a good thing. But part of him was very sad, a strange feeling considering the circumstances. He thought about it for a while, and realized it was because of the special incident report. He remembered a half-formed thought pushed aside while he was writing the message, but now he had the time to consider it fully.

  It would take a little time to go through channels, but sometime tomorrow, Denny Rountree’s parents in Florida were going to get the terrible news that their son was dead.

  13

  HOME FRONT

  6 October 2008

  10:55 AM

  OPNAV N77 Director, Submarine Warfare Division Main Office,

  Fourth Floor, A Ring, the Pentagon

  * * *

  “Yes, sir. I’m watching the news as well. No, sir. I have no idea how they found out so quickly. My staff and I only got the word late last night from Norfolk.”

  Captain William Richardson, USN, spun in his chair at a knock and waved the yeoman into his office. Petty Officer Second Class Michaels walked in and held up a binder with a colorful title page and CD in a plastic case, smiling.

  Richardson smiled back and gave him a thumbs-up even as he continued the conversation. “Admiral Keller is due to land in about an hour and a half. We have a briefing scheduled for him at 1400. I understand, sir. I’m sure he would want you there as well. Yes, sir. Of course not, sir. Someone will meet your plane and bring you straight here. Thank you, sir.”

  Richardson slammed the phone down, stood and grabbed his service dress blue uniform blouse. “We’ll need another car at Andrews in half an hour. SUBGRU Two will be landing at 1125 from New London and he will join the admiral for the brief.”

  Michaels handed over the combined package with one hand and reached for Richardson’s phone with the other. “He didn’t give us a lot of warning.”

  “We’re lucky he called to complain about the television coverage. Someone in New London was supposed to phone ahead.”

  Michaels nodded as he punched the buttons.

  Richardson finished buttoning his coat and quickly flipped through the hard copy of the presentation. “And this has the stuff from BUPERS, the shots of Rudel and his service record?”

  “Third slide. This is OPNAV N77 at the Pentagon. The executive assistant needs a driver to meet Rear Admiral Jeffrey Sloan, Commander Submarine Group Two, at Andrews at 1125. No, I’m not kidding. Our extension is 4257, and it’s room 4A720. Thank you.”

  While Michaels ordered the car, Richardson hurriedly stuffed the binder, a stack of papers, and a laptop into his briefcase. He finished as the YN2 hung up. “Hernandez is at the Mall Entrance waiting for you. And Lieutenant Meeks has already left to meet Rear Admiral Keller.”

  “Good.” Richardson headed for the door. “And now we’ll need two flag-rank reservations for tonight instead of one.”

  “I’ll see to it, sir. Good luck at the White House.”

  Richardson stopped to check his uniform and reflexively glanced at the television mounted in the corner. It showed a black-and-white video image of a submarine plowing through the water. The legend below said “USS Thresher.” He shuddered, grabbed his uniform cover, and yanked on the doorknob.

  He hadn’t taken three steps down the hallway when a woman’s voice behind him called out, “Captain Bill! I just heard the news.”

  He turned to see a tall woman walking quickly to catch up. Her expensive dark-colored suit made her ash-blond hair look all the brighter. Richardson waited the few moments it took for her to catch up. “Dr. Patterson, it’s good to see you.”

  Richardson turned back and resumed walking. If he hurried, he’d make the briefing on time.

  Patterson matched his stride easily. She was half an inch taller. “I just came from the CNO Intel Plot. They brought me up to speed on Seawolf’s mission and the incident.”

  “What? Oh, of course.” Richardson corrected his initial reaction. Seawolf’s mission was highly classified, but Dr. Patterson certainly had the necessary clearances.

  “Pardon me if I hurry, Doctor, but I have a briefing at the White House.”

  “Yes, the NSC meeting at 1130. I won’t slow you down.”

  “Thank you. I’ve got to get there early. I’ll be presenting . . .” Richardson actually stopped walking. “Are you going to be at the meeting?”

  “I think the Navy would want me to be there,” Patterson answered matter-of-factly.

  Richardson started walking again, maybe a little faster than before, and thinking faster still. He was due to brief the National Security Council in less than an hour about the Seawolf crisis. He’d been invited as the navy’s senior submarine representative, since the director and deputy director were both on travel. He’d reviewed Seawolf’s mission, what they knew of her damage, and what the Navy’s options were for dealing with the crisis.

  His audience would include the President’s National Security Adviser, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Chief of Naval Operations, the Director of National Intelligence, and half a dozen other luminaries. He would brief them on the situation and answer questions about submarines in general and Seawolf in particular.

  There were two other briefs after his, one about the Russians and one about the weather. When they were over, the assembled national-level decision-makers would list possible options and recommend one or more to the President of the United States. This was the real deal.

  His intention was to give a good brief, answer their questions to the best of his ability, and otherwise keep the hell out of the way. Richardson was a full Navy captain, a “four-striper.” He’d commanded two nuke subs, one a boomer, but these people operated at a much higher level.

  Dr. Joanna Patterson was angling for an invite. Could she bring anything useful to the party? She was President Huber’s science and technology advisor for intelligence, which meant she looked at intelligence from a scientific viewpoint and told President Huber what she thought. It said a lot about Huber’s opinion of her.

  Joanna Patterson watched Bill Richardson consider her request, and she knew that’s all it was, a request. One simply did not show up at an NSC meeting because one had something useful to say. One was invited.

  And she needed to be invited. Ever since her patrol aboard Memphis, she’d become friends with many submariners. She’d socialized with them, gone to special events, learned about submarine technology. She’d even married a submariner.

  Along with her husband, she’d gone to the change of command ceremony in New London when Tom Rudel had become Seawolf’s captain. Her husband Lowell and Tom had served together, and Jerry Mitchell was aboard Seawolf as well. Once one of her contacts had called to tell her about Seawolf, she’d dropped everything else.

  Everyone at the NSC meeting would want to resolve the crisis, but state, defense, intelligence, even the navy had their own goals. Her only agenda was the crew of USS Seawolf. She knew Washington, and what was politely called “politics.” She had helped President Huber and had his ear. And she would use every trick she knew to make sure the men in that room moved heaven a
nd earth to bring Seawolf home.

  Richardson also knew she’d been a powerful friend to the Navy, and submarines in particular. Word in the Pentagon was that she’d been involved in several technology programs, basically grading other agencies’ homework for the president. She also had a Bluenose certificate in her office, framed in a place of honor. She refused to say where or how she got it.

  He’d first met her at a Submarine League gathering, along with her husband, a retired submariner and now a congressman. She had a sharp mind and did not suffer fools at all. Both had political connections, but hers were wider and higher. Much, much, higher.

  Three steps after Patterson’s request, Richardson answered, “Doctor, I’d be delighted if you’d join me. I can add you to our list as a ‘submarine technology subject-matter expert.’ ”

  “That’s accurate enough for our purposes. They have all my information over there on file.”

  They’d reached the car, and as soon they were moving Richardson called and made the arrangements. It was a twenty-minute ride to the White House, and risking rudeness, Richardson took the time to review the hard copy of what he hoped were error-free slides.

  Patterson busied herself with her BlackBerry. Her first email was to Lowell, of course, and then a general call to several submariner friends. There was no way she’d get answers in time for the meeting, but she needed input, ideas, wisdom.

  Lowell, bless his heart, did answer her note with a two-word text reply: BE GENTLE.

  The meeting was actually being held in the basement of the Old Executive Office Building, across the street from the White House. Richardson and Patterson passed through the security screenings at the main entrance, again on the basement level when they came off the elevator, and one last time when they reached the secure area. Richardson gave up his cell phone and laptop, while Patterson gave up her BlackBerry, a second cell phone, iPod, and digital camera.

  Patterson knew the names and faces of all the cabinet-level officials. She was a little surprised when she didn’t see any of them here. While Richardson set up his presentation, she worked the room.

  The secretary of state was missing. Instead, a stocky forty-something introduced himself as the Assistant Secretary of State for European affairs. “The Secretary hopes this can be dealt with quickly, without involving the cabinet.” His name was Abrams.

  He’d brought along another assistant secretary, a carefully groomed woman named Parker, in charge of public affairs. She looked ready to step in front of a TV camera, but Patterson thought she had too much makeup on for a meeting. “Getting our message out properly is key to resolving this crisis,” she declared.

  “I would think successfully rescuing the Russian submariners and getting our people home would be a better goal,” Patterson observed.

  The Joint Chiefs had sent the vice chairman, a four-star Air Force general, with a Navy four-star admiral at his elbow. Patterson actually knew the admiral, the vice chief of naval operations, named Sotera. He was an aviator, not that she had anything against pilots.

  Intelligence had sent a senior executive service-level political-military expert along with a junior Russian Navy specialist, while Defense was represented by their senior counsel, a silver-haired man in an untidy suit. She hadn’t expected the Vice President, the official head of the NSC, to be here, but even the National Security Adviser, who chaired in the VP’s absence, was also missing.

  Instead, a middle-aged woman, looking tired and a little impatient, called the meeting to order at precisely eleven thirty. “My name is Adrienne Gosport, I’m the deputy to National Security Adviser Wright.” Gosport looked over at a secretary to make sure she was recording the proceedings. “We are convening to discuss the incident involving USS Seawolf, to assess the situation and determine if any action needs to be taken at the national level.” She glanced at her notes. “Captain Richardson has prepared a brief of the situation.”

  The captain walked them through the background: Russian exercises, Seawolf’s mission, then what Rudel had reported of the encounter, Seawolf’s material condition, and Rudel’s intentions. Richardson was good. He kept it short, stuck to the slides, and then sat down.

  Gosport saw members start to ask questions, but cut them off. “Let’s hold our questions until the other briefs are finished. Let’s have the weather next.”

  An Air Force staff sergeant, remarkably at ease in the presence of such high rank, didn’t mince words. “This area has some of the worst weather in the world. Vicious storms like the one near Svalbard are not uncommon this time of year, but it is not the norm. Units on the surface will experience heavy seas, winds of gale force, and visibility of less than a quarter mile. I’ve passed around printouts with the exact details, but the simple answer is that in the area of interest, conditions have worsened since yesterday and are expected to peak tomorrow.

  “Even large surface ships will be affected by these conditions. Nothing’s flying. Search-and-rescue operations are out of the question until the winds and sea states moderate in two, possibly three more days. And then there is the sea ice, which is getting thicker in the area near the reported position.”

  Joanna Patterson shuddered, remembering the water temperature on her own trip north. The interior of the sub was comfortable enough, but brushing up against any metal in contact with the hull had reminded her of the frigid wilderness inches away.

  The intelligence analyst was the most interesting, a fiftyish academic named Russo, with thinning hair and a limp. A former submariner, he knew his topic. The problem was that he loved his topic. His opening slide told them that his three-part briefing would review past and present Soviet and Russian submarine rescue platforms, then Russian submarine incidents and their successes or failures in rescuing downed crews, and he planned to wind up with a review of Russian-Western cooperative agreements.

  Gosport interrupted him. “Which of your slides covers their current capabilities?”

  Disappointed, the analyst flipped forward to a slide titled “Northern Fleet Rescue Assets.” It was brutally short. One slide showed a photo of the Mikhail Rudnitskiy salvage and rescue ship, and the second a picture of an AS-34 Priz-class rescue submersible, built in 1991, and in “doubtful” mechanical condition.

  “That’s it?” Gosport asked, incredulous.

  “Russian submarines themselves are very survivable. They use a double hull design with internal compartmentation, which gives them very large reserve buoyancy. All of the attack submarines also have an internal escape chamber big enough to hold the entire crew.” He flipped to a cutaway of a Russian nuclear attack sub, then pointed to a cylinder embedded in the sail. “There it is, equipped with medical supplies, food and water, and emergency radio equipment.”

  “But they haven’t used it,” General Winters, the vice chairman, observed.

  “We don’t know for sure, sir. But it’s likely they haven’t.” The analyst was on familiar ground, and confidence buttressed his arguments. “For the Russians to declare a missing submarine alert means that it has failed to report in during a routine communications window, that it has not signaled in some other way, and repeated attempts to contact it have all been unsuccessful.”

  Gosport took over again. “Thank you, Dr. Russo. Does anyone have other information to contribute?”

  Sotera, the navy representative, volunteered, “We ordered Mystic to prep for movement two hours ago. She’s on twenty-four-hour notice, so she can be flown from San Diego early tomorrow, if we want to use her. The two Super Scorpio ROVs are already loaded on C-17s and are on strip alert. We’ve also detached USS Churchill from Standing Naval Force Atlantic. They’re near Norway. She’ll steam north, and we’ll fly the repair parts Seawolf requested out to her. When she delivers the parts to Seawolf she’ll also take off her casualties.”

  “Was that wise?” Abrams, the State Department official, asked. “What if Churchill encounters Russian naval vessels while searching for the sub?”

  “It’
s international waters,” the admiral replied, “and we’ve ‘encountered’ Russian units before.” He wanted to say more, but Gosport kept things moving.

  “We have several questions to be answered. I’ll address them in order of their urgency. First, do we pass Seawolf’s information on to the Russians?”

  “We haven’t?” exclaimed Sotera. Several at the table were more than surprised. “It’s all over CNN.”

  “The news reports are vague,” Abrams countered. “They confirm a Russian submarine emergency, but only hint that a U.S. sub may have been involved. To my knowledge, nobody at the State Department has had any official or unofficial communication with any Russian national in any capacity.”

  “Mr. Abrams is correct,” Gosport added. “The United States has not officially provided the time and location of the collision to Russia. Until we do, the news reports can be dismissed as speculation. Once we do give Russia the data, we confirm our presence in the area and more importantly, our part in the collision.”

  “They’ll blame us,” Abrams stated.

  “Of course. Nothing new there,” Winters replied. “But from Rudel’s report, it sounds like he was doing his level best to avoid a collision.”

  “Didn’t do a very good job,” muttered Bronson, the DoD counsel. “I’m assuming we don’t put incompetents in command of nuclear submarines, but couldn’t Rudel have simply moved away from the other submarine?”

  Gosport looked to Richardson for an answer. The captain explained, “The Russian was trying to drive Seawolf out of the area by making passes very close to her. Both navies have used the tactic in different times and places to make the other side feel ‘unwelcome.’ It’s a risky business. There have been collisions between U.S. and Russian boats before, although never one this severe. In none of those cases was the U.S. captain held culpable.” The last sentence was directed straight at the counsel.