by Larry Bond
From the deck of the hold, AS-34 didn’t feel like a “minisub.” It towered over Gradev, with its 13.5-meter-long white-and-orange-banded cylindrical hull taking up half of the storage bay. From afar she resembled a traditional submarine, but she seemed a bit odd, misshapen. The miniature sail that protected the main hatch from the sea was out of proportion to her hull, and her diminutive ducted propulsor aft could only make about three knots at full power.
But she wasn’t built for speed. Rudnitskiy was supposed to lower AS-34 into the water as close to a downed sub as possible. Priz would then use high-frequency sonar to find the victim, maneuver over it and lock on to one of the emergency escape hatches. The trapped submariners could then climb into AS-34 for a ride to the surface. She could hold twenty passengers on each trip.
When she was working. One of the engineers climbed out of the access hatch and threw a tool away in disgust. It clanged loudly on the deck.
Gradev looked at his starpom. “The batteries?”
Radimov nodded. “The batteries. Remember how they wouldn’t hold a charge, and we found those grounds and thought fixing them would solve the problem?” He nodded toward the cursing crewman. “Turov chased down the last of the shorts late last night, and the batteries still won’t hold a full charge. We’ve been running three different generators on them all night. They should glow in the dark.”
Priz’s main thruster motor was a power hog, even though she wasn’t supposed to leave the vicinity of the mother ship, they still had to maneuver to properly land and then mate with an escape hatch. Add to that power for the maneuvering thrusters, sonar, the interior lights, heat and atmosphere control; the energy requirements were far outstripping the batteries’ capacity. With a fresh charge before each trip, the batteries were theoretically supposed to be sufficient for almost six or seven hours.
“Of the thirty-two cells, less than half will hold a decent charge, about eighty percent. Of the rest, most are around fifty percent, and a few are as low as twenty-five percent—essentially useless.”
Gradev absorbed the report, calculated the implications. “Three hours?”
“At best, Captain,” Radimov answered. “We’ve still got those twelve new cells coming from storage, but there’s no guarantee they haven’t exceeded their service lives just sitting on the shelf. What will we tell Northern Fleet?”
He didn’t even have to think about it. “Nothing,” Gradev answered. His starpom’s expression was filled with surprise and concern. Gradev knew exactly what was going through Radimov’s mind and he attempted to reassure him. “We’re still working on the problem. We may yet find a solution. AS-34’s endurance should improve once the new cells are installed.”
Radimov was not convinced. “They don’t arrive until just before we sail. It takes hours to install a single cell, and we’ll be working in heavy weather.”
“The work can still be done well before we reach Severodvinsk’s location, if they find it at all. And three hours is more than enough for one trip. Priz will just have to have her batteries recharged more often. And let’s see what we can do about improving the individual cells’ capacities, get them back up to their old levels.”
The first officer looked confused. “They’re sealed units. We’re not supposed to tamper with their internal components.”
“Unseal one of the bad ones. They stopped making those batteries ten years ago. If we can’t find a way for them to hold more power, this will be AS-34’s last cruise.”
“And Northern Fleet doesn’t need to know this?”
“We’ve had one visit by Vidchenko. We don’t need another.”
8 October 2008
0530/5:30 AM
* * *
Petr Velikiy was the fourth and last unit of the Orlan-class, or Kirov-class, as they were known by NATO. A nuclear-powered guided-missile cruiser, she was flagship of the Northern Fleet and would lead the rescue force.
On the bridge, Rear Admiral Vidchenko sat in one of the flag chairs and fidgeted. Now that he’d given the order to sortie, there was little to do.
The bridge was huge, especially for a submariner. A full fifteen meters across, the long row of windows in the front made Vidchenko think of a greenhouse more than a warship. The electronic consoles that displayed the ship’s functions didn’t begin to fill it up. Thinking of a submarine’s cramped central command post, Vidchenko had a sudden urge to play racquetball.
There were several clusters of officers on the bridge. Captain First Rank Chicherin actually commanded “Petya.” It was a prestige appointment, and Chicherin was widely regarded as a climber. His competence as a commander would never really be an issue, not with two higher levels of command embarked.
Chicherin was moving around a lot, trying to look busy while Rudnitskiy got underway. He kept going out onto the bridge wings, and staring at the rescue ship, as if that could speed its progress. Petr Velikiy would be next to leave.
Rear Admiral Ivan Kurganov, Commander of the Forty-third Missile Ship Division, was in charge of the task group, and Vidchenko watched him quietly chat with several of his staff. There was little for Kurganov to do either, but he did nothing much better than Chicherin. He would let the captain run his ship, but as the center of the task group, it would only go where Kurganov ordered.
Kurganov’s staff monitored the task group’s operations in flag plot, located in a separate space behind the bridge. Although Petr Velikiy was still tied up at the pier, for the admirals, the battle had already started. Escort vessels were searching the harbor for unwelcome observers. Western subs had lurked outside Russian bases many times before. Officers and crewmen in flag plot tracked the searchers’ progress as they scoured the water with their active sonar.
The storm would make acoustic searches almost futile, but Vidchenko and Kurganov agreed that it was worth the time and effort. The storm would also prevent Western satellites from watching the group’s departure. The formation also departed under total emission control; no military radars or communications systems were transmitting. They would not give the Americans a free ride. Delaying news of their departure meant the Americans couldn’t predict when the task group would arrive in the search area. Vidchenko thought that was good.
Vidchenko was in command of the entire search and rescue effort. This included not only Kurganov’s task group, but aircraft from shore bases and eventually the Norwegians, when they arrived. During this mission, he reported directly to Admiral Kokurin, commander of the Northern Fleet. And Vidchenko didn’t give a fig who Kokurin talked to.
He’d first met Kurganov when each had been given their assignments as part of the rescue. They’d gotten little sleep, not only preparing the ships for sea, but designing a search plan.
Kurganov was a Muscovite, urban and a little too worldly for Vidchenko’s tastes. He’d been born in the north, to a Navy family, but preferred Saint Petersburg to the nation’s capital. In spite of their different backgrounds, they’d got on famously, because they shared an utter distrust of the Americans and harbored deep suspicions about the U.S. submarine’s true role in the incident.
The surface admiral had drawn heavily on Vidchenko’s submarine experience. Together they’d developed an airtight search plan. They were searching for two subs: one that could not move, another that could.
After much discussion, they’d decided to head straight for the location provided by the Americans. They felt like prize fools for having to act on it, but they’d be bigger fools if they didn’t look there first.
They’d polished the plan now for two days, and if the tactics were slanted more toward ASW than search-and-rescue, it was hard to imagine that anyone on Severodvinsk was still alive. Part of Vidchenko wanted to believe that they were still alive, but that meant they were trapped, probably in the dark, certainly cold, breathing foul air and praying for help that might not come in time. He was a submariner, and you accepted that possibility every time you submerged, but it was a nightmare nobody wanted to think abo
ut. Part of him believed a quick end might be better.
And most of him just wanted to find the American submarine. What would happen after that depended on Severodvinsk’s fate.
Chicherin walked over to Kurganov and saluted. Vidchenko couldn’t hear the words, but saw line handlers moving on the main deck. Kurganov returned the salute, then walked over to Vidchenko’s chair. “We’re underway,” he reported. “And good luck to us all.”
“I’ll give it all to Severodvinsk, if it would help,” Vidchenko answered. He felt a vibration in the deck. They were moving, and it felt good. He’d been eager to go, of course. The urgency had been overpowering. The storm had kept them bottled up, like a pressure cooker, tension and worry building up with no way to release it.
Let the American show himself. Vidchenko was ready for him.
17
CONTACT
7 October 2008
1830/6:30 PM
Severodvinsk
* * *
Petrov stretched his aching body as he climbed out of his command chair in the central post. While his engineers had rigged it so he could sit safely, the significant port list had the back of the chair carrying a lot of his weight. Of course, this wasn’t part of the design specifications, and while it could easily carry the load, it did so at the expense of human physiology. As he worked the kinks out, Petrov looked around at his watchstanders. Anatoliy Rodionov, the torpedo and mine commander, had the deck watch, while Maksim Tylik was over at the engineer’s post. Fonarin sat cross-legged against the BIUS console with his log sheets and a calculator. He punched away at the buttons with dogged determination, a pencil clenched between his teeth. Petrov smiled at his chief of chemical service’s dedication.
A sudden crunch announced the relief of stress in his spine, and even though this reduced the pain in his back, he still felt tired and sore. The lingering headache was also still there, more noticeable now that the back pain had subsided. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much he could do about that. Looking down at his watch, Petrov reminded himself that they had been on the bottom now for over three days. So far, the emergency measures they had taken were working. Besides being a little chilly, the crew was holding up very well. Morale was still quite good. But the “easy” part of this endeavor was about to end. The next three days would see things get steadily worse. And there was still no sign that the fleet had found them.
The sound of heavy footsteps drew Petrov’s attention to the passageway behind him. Kalinin emerged from the dim light carrying a steaming cup in his hand. “Your evening tea ration, sir,” he said as he offered the cup to his captain.
“Bless you, Vasiliy,” Petrov replied gratefully. Slowly, he sipped the hot liquid and felt its warmth penetrate his body. Despite wearing the insulated green survival suit, he still felt chilled and the hot tea seemed to melt away the cold. “Hmmm, good tea. Thank you.”
Kalinin smiled and said, “You’d probably say the same thing about hot piss right now, but I accept your compliment.”
Petrov grimaced at his first officer’s crudity and gestured for him to sit down. “I see that even in these adverse circumstances you’ve retained your belowdecks sense of humor, Vasiliy.”
“You know what they say, sir. You can take the sailor out of the bilge, but you can’t take the bilge out of the sailor,” Kalinin quipped as he plopped down on the deck.
Shaking his head in mock despair, Petrov sat back down in his chair. Then in a more serious tone asked, “What’s our status, Starpom?”
Pulling out his notes from his breast pocket, Kalinin started going through the now all-too-familiar list. “The reserve battery is at fifty-eight percent, but a number of the emergency battle lanterns have depleted their batteries. Per your orders, I’ve secured all nonessential lights to preserve them for use in critical locations and for when we abandon ship. We are okay on food and water, although we are down to the less tasty bits. We have plenty of stale hardtack and a couple more days of canned meat paste, at least that is what the label says.”
Petrov grinned as he recalled the popular debate of the last two days as to whether or not the contents of the cans were indeed a meat product, and then as to what parts of what animal it came from. All concerned had decided in the end that, in this case, ignorance was not necessarily a bad thing.
“What about the tea and coffee?” inquired Petrov as he raised his cup. Under normal conditions, such a question would be considered trivial in the extreme. But given the powerful effect it had on his crew’s morale, being the only real creature comfort they could offer, it was of considerable importance to Petrov.
“We have both in abundance,” Kalinin replied. “We’ll run out of power long before the engineer’s cache is consumed.”
“Very good. It’s important to the men. It gives them something to look forward too. Please continue your report.”
“There has been no change, good or bad, in the condition of the injured, although Captain-Lieutenant Sadilenko had to be sedated again. The doctor says there is little that he can do for Yakov, and that it is best to keep him unconscious until we can get him to a proper mental health specialist.”
“Ever the optimist, our good Dr. Balanov,” remarked Petrov.
Kalinin nodded his agreement as he turned the page in his pocket notebook. “The quality of the atmosphere has declined slightly; oxygen has dropped to sixteen point five percent and carbon dioxide is up to one point two percent. The increase is due to the fact that there are now only four air regeneration units online, using the last of the V-64 cassettes, I might add.”
“How long before this last set’s chemicals are depleted?”
“We have less than an hour. After that, the air will slowly get worse and worse.”
“Has Fonarin revised his estimate on the amount of time we have?” Petrov asked as he jerked his thumb in chemical service chief’s direction.
“Igor has triple-checked—no, correction, quadruple-checked his figures. Taking into account the number of survivors and our rate of breathing, which will increase as the carbon dioxide levels climb, he believes we have until around midday on the tenth before we reach a lethal concentration. By the evening of the eleventh, we’ll all be dead, unless we’re rescued, of course.”
Both men fell silent as Kalinin concluded his report, put his notebook away, and pulled himself up. Petrov could tell his starpom was exhausted; he had slept very little since the incident.
“Anything else, sir?”
“Yes, Vasiliy. Have Lyachin start recycling the used V-64 cassettes in the air-regeneration units. I know they’re probably next to useless, but at this point I’ll take every molecule of carbon dioxide that they can remove from our atmosphere. After that, I want you to get some sleep.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Kalinin wearily. “I will see to both requirements immediately.”
As Kalinin started to hobble toward the ladder well, Petrov called out to him, “Vasiliy, just one more item. Please confer with Dr. Balanov on the possibility of administering sleeping drugs to the majority of the crew.”
The starpom was both surprised and shocked by Petrov’s order and his expression showed it.
“Think about it, Vasiliy,” explained Petrov has he stood and walked over to Kalinin. “If we can’t remove carbon dioxide from the air, then we have to reduce the rate at which it is produced. The only way I know how to do that is to get a large number of the crew to sleep more.”
“Yes, sir. You are correct, we do need to consider what options we have in case . . . in case the fleet takes longer than we would like to find us.”
“Let’s pray that it is as drastic as we need to get, Starpom. But on the good side, it appears that the storm is finally waning. Within twenty-four hours we’ll know if Kokurin has sent anyone out to look for us.”
USS Seawolf
* * *
Jerry was one of the last ones to arrive in the torpedo room, trailing down the ladder behind a couple of sonar techs from c
ontrol. The captain, the XO, and even the chief engineer clustered around the UUV console. Behind them, edging around the officers for their own peek, were the off-watch torpedomen and other stragglers. The crewmen saw Jerry and quickly made a hole, and the officers edged over just a little. It was enough to see.
The color display was designed to show detailed bathymetric sonar data, not a high-resolution photographic image. Palmer had selected a false-color mode that showed a strong sonar return as a brighter color than a softer echo. Thus, rocks on the seabed showed as yellow against a mottled brown and purple bottom, probably sand and mud. The false colors only threw off an observer for a moment. The UUV’s primary sensors used high frequency sonars along with a precision underwater mapping algorithm, which gave the image the sharpness of a television camera. The observers could see patterns on the seabed where currents had scoured the bottom, a few clusters of rocks, but nothing more.
Rudel ordered, “Shift back to the long-range search.”
Palmer hit a key and a few seconds later the image shrank into the foreground as the sonar shifted range scales. Ahead and slightly to the left, near the top of the screen, a yellow-green shape appeared. “Range is six hundred fifty yards,” Palmer reported.
“Take your time,” Shimko cautioned, needlessly. The display showed LaVerne at a speed of three knots. She couldn’t go any slower and still be steered reliably.
It had to be Severodvinsk. It was in the right place, and after a day and a half of searching they were running out of places to look. The system had reported an anomalous contact at a range of over eight hundred yards, about half of maximum range for the vehicle’s sonar. An indistinct echo at that range, and in multiple sonar beams had to be something big, maybe a sunken submarine or a large outcropping of rocks.