Cold Choices

by Larry Bond

  The plane began to shudder, and Monroe warned, “It’s going to be bumpy coming in. Ceiling and visibility are at minimums, but Bardufoss has excellent instrument-landing facilities.”

  As he reassured them, the staff sergeant carefully checked each passenger’s seat belt, snugging down Bover’s, and re-stowed several personal items. He almost lost his footing a few times, but finished, then hurried to his own jump seat and belted in.

  At first, Patterson tried to make notes, but in the end she put the pad away, gripped the handrests and closed her eyes. Imagining the plane was a bus on a bumpy road helped, if she imagined it was a very bumpy road.

  The shock of the landing was startling, but also a relief. A few minutes’ fast taxi put them near a hangar, and when Monroe opened the door, she could see Air Force vans waiting nearby. The wind pushed its way into the cabin with a sharp edge, and the clouds were so low Patterson wondered what the “minimums” were.

  She let the others deplane first while she organized her things. Her BlackBerry beeped, and a message from Lowell appeared. She’d texted him about Bover’s concerns, and her husband’s answer was brief. SUBMARINERS CAN FIX ANYTHING. STAY SAFE.

  Both pilots came out of the cockpit, and along with Monroe, shook her hand. The pilot, a tanned, stocky major, said, “Good luck, ma’am. Watch those Navy types. I don’t know if they’re trustworthy.” He didn’t smile for half a second, but finally did, and she grinned at the joke as well.

  Patterson made sure she was the last one of her party off the plane, with Monroe offering to take her things to the van. Hurrying ahead, he hustled everyone into one of the two vehicles, saving space for her in the front as she hurried through the swirling wind. She realized it was spitting rain, not enough to see, but she could feel the drops stinging her face.

  Monroe reached in to shake her hand again as she belted in. “Good luck, ma’am. I’ve got a brother in submarines.”

  The instant she closed the door, the van’s driver took off at speed. A base “follow me” car led the two vehicles around several hangars to another part of the flight line.

  A Marine Corps MV-22 Osprey sat parked at one end of a line of helicopters. It was the only one not secured against the weather. Chains ran from the fuselages of the others to the concrete and the blade tips were tied down by ropes as well.

  The gray-painted aircraft had a squarish, boxy fuselage and a rounded nose in front, and swept up at the rear for a cargo ramp that was down and open, waiting for them. The wings looked wrong, and she realized they were pointed straight up, as were the engines, like two helicopter rotors.

  As she spotted the aircraft, figures around it suddenly burst into action, as if waiting for their arrival. Even as the vans came to a stop, the huge blades began to turn. A thin whine quickly built up to a bass roar that fought the wind for control and filled the air with an almost visible vibration.

  As her group left the vehicles, they were led over to airmen standing by another van. They pulled olive one-piece coveralls out of the rear, and she realized they were lined and had hoods.

  A noncom looked her up and down and called, “Pass me a Large.” He helped her out of her own civilian parka, reassuring her. “This survival suit is just as warm and will protect you if there are problems enroute, or during the transfer to the destroyer.”

  Grateful she’d worn slacks for warmth, she let the enlisted man wrap the suit around her and efficiently zip her in. A part of her mind wanted to ask about what kind of “problems” he was referring to, but then decided she didn’t want to know.

  Her own gear was transferred to a duffel, and he instructed, “Stand right there, and don’t move until the loadmaster says so.” The intensity in his instruction made her reluctant to even shift her stance. He patted her on the shoulder and said “Good luck” in an unnervingly serious tone. Standing with the others, she fiddled with the suit’s zippers and wondered which one of the men near the plane was the loadmaster.

  Almost immediately, one of the figures, a staff sergeant, trotted over to the group and called, “Dr. Patterson!” She realized the caller, inside a hooded parka, was female. The name on the outside read “Dolan.”

  Shouting over the noise of the engines, Staff Sergeant Dolan read a list of names from a clipboard, and each of Patterson’s group signaled in turn. Satisfied that everyone was accounted for, she approached Patterson, then motioned for everyone to surround her.

  “We’ll approach the aircraft in single file. Please follow me, Doctor. All the baggage is aboard.”

  Patterson had to ask. “What about the repair parts?”

  Dolan nodded. “They are loaded, and I personally double-checked them. The rest of your party is already aboard, so as soon as you’re on we take off.”

  “What? What ‘rest of my party’?” Either Patterson’s question was lost in the wind or Dolan was in a hurry, because she turned and started walking toward the aircraft. Patterson hurried to keep up and fell in behind her. It seemed a simple enough task to just follow someone else, but the buffeting air and enveloping noise in the unfamiliar surroundings interfered.

  It took only a moment or two to reach the end of the ramp, and Dolan stepped to one side, urging Patterson and then the rest of the group up into the aircraft’s interior.

  Nobody would ever confuse the inside of an MV-22 with an executive transport. The large interior was littered with fittings and fixtures she couldn’t begin to recognize. Canvas-covered jump seats lined each side, and a Marine corporal in a flight suit and helmet motioned her to move forward and buckle in.

  There were about ten seats to a side, and three of the seats on one side were already occupied. A cargo net forward enclosed a pile of luggage, wooden crates, and boxes—the repair parts, the original reason for the trip.

  The marine was urgently motioning for her to sit down on the opposite side, in the forward seat. As she did so, one of the figures on the other side unbelted and quickly moved over to her, buckling into the seat next to her.

  As soon as he was secured, he turned and offered his hand. “Dr. Patterson, I’m Dwight Manning, your State Department liaison.”

  “But.” She paused. “We . . .”

  Her confusion showed, and Manning explained, “When State found out Art Lopez was sick, they called me and asked me to take his place. I’m from the Political Office in the embassy in Moscow. I’ve been traveling since late last night. We landed at Bardufoss an hour ago, and we’ve been aboard less than fifteen minutes, waiting for you to arrive.”

  By this time, the rest of Patterson’s group was aboard and belted in. Staff Sergeant Dolan spoke into a headset, then pressed a control. The ramp came up with a whine and closed with a solid latching sound, the sudden quiet and darkness startling.

  Dolan picked up a microphone. “The flight will take approximately an hour and fifteen minutes. Once we’re closer to our destination I’ll give you instructions for leaving the aircraft. Do not leave your seat or unbuckle without asking my permission. Just raise your hand and I’ll come over.”

  She spoke into her headset again and then belted in. Patterson heard an alarming series of whines and thumps, but outside her window she saw the wing and engines tilting, moving from vertical to horizontal. As soon as the wing was fully down, she felt the aircraft move, and they taxied for a short while, then picked up speed. The Osprey quickly became airborne. It was a bumpy takeoff, and for a while all Patterson could think about was a thrill ride that properly belonged in an amusement park.

  The light outside the window suddenly disappeared as they pushed into the angry overcast she’d seen from the ground. The bumps grew milder, and Patterson picked up the conversation with Manning.

  “State said Joyce Parker was taking Lopez’s place.”

  Manning looked surprised. “I know Joyce Parker. She’s in public affairs.”

  Patterson nodded. “That’s right.” She gestured to Parker, further back in the aircraft.

  Manning leaned forward
a little to look, then sat back shaking his head. “State would never send a press hack to liaise with the Russians. I’m the number two in the Moscow embassy’s political office. I’ve studied and dealt with the Russians for twenty-three years. I speak Russian, Ukrainian, and even a little Georgian.”

  Patterson made a promise to herself to deal with Parker once they reached the destroyer. She wondered if modern ships still had brigs. “What about the others?”

  “The person on the left came with me from the embassy. Ron Phillips is a communications specialist. State said you had a large party, and you’d be generating a lot of message traffic. The other one showed up at the embassy late last night. He’s the Skynews Moscow correspondent, Britt Adams.”

  Manning saw alarm in Patterson’s eyes and tried to reassure her. “I’ve worked with Adams many times. He’s good—experienced, and speaks Russian as well. He had a letter from State telling him about your mission and suggesting he join us. Get our side of the story out and counter some of this Russian trash they’re flinging around.”

  “How would he have gotten that letter? Who would have sent it to him?” Even as Patterson asked Manning the question, she knew the answer, and looked at Parker again. This time Parker met her gaze, then quickly looked down, lest she be burned to a crisp. A brig was too good for her.

  Manning raised his hands, as if to ward off Patterson’s anger. “We need a reporter, and we can use Joyce Parker. She’s aggressive . . .”

  Patterson snorted.

  “. . . but the good ones always are. I’m here to help you. Let me deal with her.” He gestured around the inside of the aircraft. “It’s a little late to send her back.”

  Patterson sat back, fuming at her helplessness and Parker’s duplicity at weaseling her way into the group, and then getting around her to get a reporter on board. But she forced herself to set it aside. Instead, she concentrated on learning all she could about Manning and his skills, and telling him what they’d determined so far.

  Manning shared one piece of interesting information. Moscow was full of rumors, fueled by the families’ demands for information and the complete lack of anything useful from the Navy Ministry. The only official release from the ministry had stated that search operations were under way, and more information “would be released when it was available.” So far, none was available.

  Very quickly, it seemed, the loadmaster stood again and used the public address system. “We’re twenty-five minutes out. Churchill’s doing her best to steer a smooth course, but she says there are ten-foot waves and twenty-five-knot winds. The pilot’s going to use a fast straight-in approach, and not go vertical until the last minute.”

  “It’s going to get pretty bumpy,” she warned, “and I’ll come around and make sure your straps are snug. When we land, you’ll feel the thump. Do not unbuckle! After the pilot lands, he’ll reverse the prop’s pitch to hold us on the deck. When he’s satisfied, he’ll tell me, and then, while I drop the ramp, you all unbuckle and move quickly off the plane. Sailors will guide you from that point.”

  After her instructions, they all sat waiting. It was still bumpy, worse than any commercial flight she’d ever had, and Patterson wondered how bumpy it was going to get. It got worse, and she kicked herself for asking. She found herself checking her watch every few minutes, but didn’t fight the urge. It was something to do.

  It happened in less time than Dolan’s instruction had taken. The plane banked sharply left, leveled, and then suddenly slowed. Patterson saw the wing and engine out her window tilt toward the vertical, and the plane mixed a front-and-back movement into its uneven flight path. It was hard to tell, but she hoped they were descending. The WHAM startled her, and they were down.

  Dolan, still strapped in her own seat, motioned with her arms and shouted, “Stay put!” She looked up toward the ceiling, and Patterson saw a pair of lights. One, a bright red, was lit. A moment later the engines’ vibration changed, then intensified again, and the airframe shuddered.

  The other light came on, a brilliant green, and Dolan shouted, “Unbuckle! Go! Go!” The ramp was opening, and Patterson was near the back of the group. The overcast daylight nearly blinded her, and a freezing wind pulled at her clothes. Behind her, Dolan and another marine were working with the cargo net. Patterson concentrated on standing right behind Manning and the others. Once again, she would be the last one off the aircraft, and she looked over her enlarged flock almost protectively.

  Dolan was urging her forward, even though there was nowhere to go. Patterson shuffled uselessly, then took two steps and felt a rough-surfaced deck beneath her. The wind grew stronger, but a sailor grabbed her by the shoulders and steered away from the aircraft, toward a ladder.

  She took three steps and then turned back to look, but the Osprey was already lifting off, the ramp closing as it climbed away from the deck. She stood still for a moment, silently wishing them luck and realizing she’d never said a word to anyone aboard the plane.

  A voice behind her said, “Welcome aboard Winston S. Churchill.”

  16

  SORTIE

  7 October 2008

  9:45 AM

  Severomorsk Naval Base

  * * *

  Sleet streaked the air with pale gray lines and added a glittering white to the freshly fallen snow. The winds had subsided a little, but the force on the car was quite noticeable once it left the lee of a nearby building. Vidchenko’s driver took extra care on the pier’s icy concrete.

  The small antisubmarine ship Legkiy lay alongside to the right, her angles and edges softened by the weather. Crates and drums with ice collecting on their tops were piled everywhere, with busy sailors rigging slings and passing boxes hand to hand.

  At least, until they spotted the approaching staff car. A sailor pointed and called out, and suddenly every man headed for the ship, piling aboard with petty officers shouting.

  As they pulled up to the pier, Vidchenko saw more men boiling out of the ship. They formed ranks along the lifelines on the main deck, and on each level above the main deck running the length of the ship. Twenty-plus officers, in their best uniforms, stood in two ranks on either side of the aft gangplank.

  Vidchenko almost rubbed his eyes in disbelief. They were manning the rails! Ships usually did this to honor a high-ranking officer, but this was a working visit, not some ceremonial occasion.

  As the car half-slid to a stop by the after gangplank, Vidchenko fought the urge to shout at the idiot captain. Instead, he calmly stepped out of the car, saluted the sentries at the foot of the gangplank, and then the Russian naval ensign when he reached the top.

  Legkiy’s captain was tall, with short blond hair under his oversized white uniform cap. Particles of ice were collecting on his cap and greatcoat. He stood stiffly, nervously at attention. What was his age? Mid-thirties? Obviously he was capable. Vidchenko knew that with so few ships in commission, the Navy had its pick of men for each commanding officer’s position. Unfortunately, imagination didn’t seem to be one of the selection board’s priorities.

  As Vidchenko stepped onto the deck, the captain called his crew to attention and he saluted, along with the other officers arranged behind him. Vidchenko went through the motions as quickly as he could, suppressing his irritation.

  “Captain Second Rank Yuri Alexandrovich Smirnov reports Legkiy is ready! Will you inspect the ship, sir?”

  “No, Captain, you may dismiss the crew.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Firing a crisp salute, the captain spun in place and called “Dismiss by battle departments! Continue ship’s routine!”

  The junior officers disappeared, but the senior ones remained, and the captain invited Vidchenko below. “We have some refreshments in the wardroom, sir. The . . .”

  “No thank you, Captain, this is not a social visit.” Vidchenko glanced back at the other officers, waiting and listening. “Let’s speak in your cabin.”

  “Yes, sir, of course.” Smirnov seemed puzzled, and a little
disappointed. “This way.” Dismissing the waiting officers, he led the admiral forward along the main deck port side, then into an interior passageway and up one set of stairs.

  As they walked along the port side, Vidchenko looked at everything. Legkiy was an escort frigate, designed to fight submarines with her medium frequency sonar and 85RU Metel missiles. She also carried short-range antiaircraft missiles and guns for self-defense. While one of the older ships in the fleet, commissioned in 1977, she had undergone an overhaul and modernization in the late 1980s and was still rated as a capable, combat-ready unit.

  She looked a little shabby. Rust showed through the paint on corners, and he could see improvised repairs in several places, work that should have been done during a refit. But funds were scarce and the Project 1135 class ships that Legkiy belonged to were being retired. There were only three left in the Northern Fleet and the other two were hors de combat. There was barely enough money for fuel and pay, so spare parts got less and paint was an afterthought. The lines and gear, the admiral saw, were properly stowed. Legkiy was a neat ship, if a little worn.

  Inside, in Smirnov’s stateroom, Vidchenko could still hear the wind-driven sleet striking the ship’s sides. A family portrait on his desk and several scribbled drawings taped to the bulkhead were the only personal touches.

  Vidchenko spoke as soon as the door closed. “Captain, that ceremonial welcome was a waste of my time and your crew’s.” While he spoke softly, the admiral’s tone and expression matched his words.

  Smirnov protested, “Protocol demands we render proper honors, Admiral, we . . .”

  “We are preparing for a search and rescue mission, Captain. I don’t want anything as trivial as manning the rails to delay your preparations.” Vidchenko reached into his briefcase. “Which is why I’m here.”

  He showed Legkiy’s captain a stack of messages. “This first one was received at 0700 October sixth, yesterday, reporting that you were ready for sea.” He handed it to Smirnov, who read it and nodded.