Cold Choices

by Larry Bond

  The closer the UUV got, the more the blip took on a recognizable shape. Jerry studied it, along with everyone else in the room. He was looking for something that would show it wasn’t the sub as much as something that said it was. They’d had several false alarms in the past twenty-four hours, and he’d been delayed in the control room checking the updated charts for wrecks. There were none recorded by any of the UUVs in the area—a good sign. But this was no false alarm. It was just too big.

  “It’s the right size,” Shimko observed cautiously.

  “Could be, XO, but shouldn’t we have seen it further out than eight hundred yards?” asked Lavoie.

  “We’re probably dealing with a new type of anechoic coating on Severodvinsk. Maybe its high frequency performance is better than we thought,” replied Shawn McClelland.

  “Two points for the sonar officer,” remarked Shimko without taking his eyes off the display screen.

  After another few minutes, Palmer reported, “Range is five hundred yards.” The range readout was shown on the computer screen, but not everyone in the room could see the whole display.

  The shape was definitely narrower at one end, which Jerry automatically labeled the stern. An irregular blob of canary yellow occupied a spot one-quarter of the way back from the other end. It was the proper location for Severodvinsk’s sail.

  Rudel studied the readouts, then turned to the intercom. “Sonar, torpedo room. Do you have anything on bearing two four seven?”

  “Torpedo room, sonar. We can hear LaVerne’s motor on the wide aperture array, bearing is two four six. Nothing else, sir.”

  “Sonar, torpedo room, very well. Keep a special watch for anything from the southwest. LaVerne may have found the Russian.”

  “Torpedo room, sonar, aye.”

  Jerry shrugged. It would have been nice to have heard some sign of life, but couldn’t imagine what machinery could still be running aboard the downed sub. The object was quiet, inert.

  “Hold at two hundred fifty yards and circle the contact.”

  Palmer acknowledged Rudel’s order and typed in the commands. The “contact” now filled a quarter of the screen, and Jerry started to think of it as a sub. The perspective shifted and the shape resolved even more.

  “It’s the Russian boat,” Shimko declared. “It’s Severodvinsk.” He turned to the torpedo room watchstander, wearing his sound-powered phones. “Tell control we’ve found the Russian. Log the time and location.”

  An excited buzz broke out in the torpedo room, but Rudel and the other officers ignored it. Jerry noticed money changing hands in the back of the room.

  “Tell me you’re recording this,” Shimko asked Palmer, and the junior officer nodded vigorously, his eyes still fixed on the display. “The instant we got a detection,” he answered, then pointed to a red “R” in one corner of the display.

  The image’s outlines continued to shift as the aspect changed. The sail took shape at the appropriate spot along the hull, but foreshortened.

  “She’s listing,” Palmer observed. “It’s bad.” Resting on the uneven bottom, the sub was tilted to port—a lot. The UUV continued its circle around toward the bow, looking down the length of the boat.

  “I’d guess . . . what? Thirty degrees?” Shimko sounded as if he hated to be right.

  “At least,” Rudel answered. “This is not good. With the deck at that angle, it’ll be really tough to dock a DSRV on an escape hatch. And they haven’t launched their rescue chamber, so if they’re alive, they’re trapped.”

  LaVerne finished her circuit. The imaging sonar had given them a clear picture of the Russian, resting on a rocky shelf, down a few degrees by the bow and tilted drunkenly to port, like a child’s discarded toy. The shape of the sub matched what they knew of Severodvinsk.

  “All right, let’s recall Maxine. She doesn’t have to search anymore. And get Patty ready for launch, just in case.” Shimko looked behind him. “And anyone who doesn’t have business in the torpedo room, back to your own spaces.”

  The room cleared out quickly, but was soon filled with activity as the torpedo gang prepared to recover one UUV and readied another one for launch.

  While they worked, at Rudel’s direction, Palmer steered LaVerne in a close pass down Severodvinsk’s length. This time, the sub’s bow filled the screen, and they could see dark patches, hollows in the curve of the bow. There were also several spots that had a ragged look to them. Dents where she’d struck? The bow planes looked small for such a large vessel, but stood out clearly.

  LaVerne continued down the port side. The resolution was good enough to make out the limber holes in the hull, designed to let air escape from the ballast tanks when it submerged. Rudel had chosen the port side so that the deck would be tilted toward them. The sail loomed three stories above the hull, and Palmer started to back the UUV out to get a distance.

  “No, stay in close,” ordered Rudel. “Look. There it is. The escape chamber is still in place. No masts extended, either.”

  “They either didn’t have time to use the chamber or couldn’t use it,” Shimko answered.

  “Hopefully, it’s ‘couldn’t use it,’ ” Rudel observed.

  Stan Lavoie watched the image. “I’m not seeing any obvious breaks in the hull. Their sonar dome is crushed, but that’s made of GRP.”

  “I agree,” said Rudel. “But the sonar image isn’t good enough to make an accurate call. Mr. Palmer, I want you to make another three-sixty pass once we’re done, and this time take digital pictures as you go. We can use them to get a better idea as to the damage.”

  “Yessir,” responded Palmer.

  Another minute passed as LaVerne moved further aft. Behind the sail, Severodvinsk’s hull was essentially a smooth cylinder. Except for the limber holes and small deck fittings that passed beneath them, it was hard to see the UUV’s motion. As the vehicle moved along the hull, a bright circular section appeared on the display.

  “Look at that cavity!” exclaimed Lavoie. “Is that a hole in the hull?”

  “Don’t think so, Eng,” Jerry replied. “It’s in the right location for their emergency distress buoy.”

  “Well, it doesn’t look like it went too far,” commented Shimko sarcastically. “Look at that line on the starboard sonar display. It comes out of the hull and then snakes off towards the southwest on the ocean floor. The buoy probably never made it to the surface.”

  “Then it’s a fair bet that the Russians don’t have clue as to where she is,” added Rudel, a grim tone in his voice. “Keep moving aft, Jeff.”

  LaVerne resumed her slow trek down Severodvinsk. A short time later it came across the emergency escape hatch; closed but apparently in good condition. Then the hull tapered sharply near the stern, and the rudder and stern planes came into view.

  “Migod.” Shimko’s reaction was automatic, unthinking. Jerry felt the same horror. The starboard side stern plane was crushed, a mass of tangled color on the display that didn’t reveal its exact shape, but confirmed its destruction. Had it struck the bottom? Or Seawolf?

  The lower rudder was also crushed, but it was impossible to tell if that was from being dragged on the bottom or from the collision. They were so focused on the condition of the stern planes and rudder that Palmer was the first to notice. “The screw’s gone!”

  “What? Have LaVerne get us a view from the starboard quarter,” Rudel instructed.

  According to intelligence, Severodvinsk was fitted with a seven-bladed “scimitar” screw. Instead of the older four or five broad leaf-shaped blades, seven thinner blades, sharply curved and skewed, sliced through the turbulent wake with less vibration, which meant less noise. Modern Western and Russian subs both used highly skewed seven-bladed screws, or even more exotic ducted propulsors.

  But the image showed no blades at all, just a flat round circle with an occasional ragged edge where the propeller should be.

  Palmer sounded like he was protesting. “We didn’t see it on the bottom. It’s some t
wenty-odd feet in diameter. We should have seen it when LaVerne circled the boat.”

  “If the screw is gone, it would mark the actual spot where we collided,” Shimko said confidently. “She must have struck us with her stern. Her screw would have chewed up our bow, but the shock would have broken the blades off the propeller hub.”

  “They hit us at a fairly high speed,” Lavoie remembered. “Without the water resistance from the blades on the propeller shaft, the propulsion plant would have run wild. We know he was running at high speed. Imagine it—fifty thousand horsepower with nowhere to go. The turbines would have torn themselves apart before the overspeed safeties tripped.”

  Jerry added, “The shaft seals would have failed, so you’ve got massive flooding. Even if . . .”

  Shimko impatiently ended the discussion. “Okay guys, enough. This speculation is pointless. They’re down, and without propulsion they’re helpless. There’s no sign of working machinery, but the hull appears to be intact. Based on what we’ve seen, there may be survivors on board.” He said the last with a note of formality, as if making an official statement.

  “I concur,” Rudel stated, and the other officers nodded their agreement as well. “One last thing before we phone home. We’ll try the Gertrude.” Rudel quickly headed for the ladder. Over his shoulder, he ordered the phone talker, “Tell the chief of the watch to have Petty Officer Sayers report to control immediately.” Sayers was one of the crypto techs assigned to provide intelligence support. He spoke fluent Russian.

  Jerry and the other officers followed their captain. “Gertrude” was a nickname for their underwater communications system. Jerry was suddenly reluctant to use it. No response might indicate there was nobody alive, or they might be alive, but without power.

  But what if they did answer?

  Severodvinsk

  * * *

  Senior Seaman Fesak was cold, tired, and bored. He had been sitting for the last three hours listening on the MG-35 underwater communications station for any sign that someone was out there looking for him and his crewmates. But all he had heard thus far was the same he had heard over the last several days—nothing but waves and ice. He stifled a yawn and wrapped himself more tightly with his blanket. In one more hour he would be relieved and then he could find someplace to take a nap. It was rather difficult to listen to wave noise for long periods of time without being lulled to sleep.

  Suddenly, the young sonar technician was jolted out of his half-dozing state. He thought he had heard something. Adjusting the gain on the receiver, he sat motionless, listening intently.

  “Severodvinsk, Severodvinsk. Do you hear me? Please respond.”

  Fesak couldn’t believe his ears. The voice spoke clear Russian. The fleet had found them! Excitedly, he called out, “Captain-Lieutenant Rodionov! Someone is out there! They are calling us!”

  Rodionov bolted from his chair and quickly made his way to the underwater communications station. “Let me hear,” he ordered.

  Grabbing the headset, he put it on and listened. A moment later, a smile appeared on his face. Turning to Fesak, he said, “Find the Captain. Hurry, lad!” The seaman moved off as fast as he could, adrenaline temporarily relieving his fatigue.

  Rodionov grabbed the microphone and set the system to transmit. Pushing down on the mike, he said, “Hello. This is Severodvinsk. It is good to hear you. Please identify yourself.”

  The smile on his face melted away as fast as it appeared when he received the reply. “Severodvinsk, this is the United States submarine Seawolf. You have been reported as missing and we are here to render assistance. We wish to speak with your Captain.”

  Rodionov sat there stunned. An American, not the Northern Fleet, had found them. What was he supposed to do now? Where was the captain?

  “Severodvinsk, this is Seawolf. Did you receive my last?”

  Shocked out of his stupor, Rodionov reluctantly responded, “Yes, yes. I received your last transmission. I am waiting for my Captain. Please stand by.”

  “Severodvinsk, Seawolf. Understood. Standing by.”

  In less than a minute, Petrov, Kalinin, and most of the battle department commanders were in the central post, surrounding the underwater communications station. All were smiling, hope beaming from their faces.

  “Have you responded to their hail, Anatoliy?” asked Petrov.

  “Yes comrade Captain,” Rodionov replied nervously.

  Puzzled by his junior officer’s answer, Petrov looked at him curiously and said, “Then what’s wrong?”

  “Captain, it’s not the fleet. We have been found by an American submarine!”

  “What!?!” exclaimed Petrov, alarmed. “You mean the one we collided with?”

  “I don’t know, sir. They said they were the Seawolf, that we have been reported missing, and that they are here to render assistance.”

  An unexplainable anger arose within Petrov as he wondered if this was the same boat that had had a hand in their disaster? If so, where had they been for the last three days? If they were truly here to help them, then why had it taken so long? And where the hell was the Northern Fleet? These questions only served to intensify his fury as he remembered the eighteen men he had lost.

  Petrov struggled silently to maintain a professional demeanor, but his clenched jaw betrayed his true emotions. It didn’t matter if this was the same sub that had collided with them. Despite their circumstances, he could not bring himself to speak with an American, any American, right now.

  “Captain,” Kalinin asserted softly. “We need to respond.”

  Petrov rebelled at his first officer’s gentle admonition. “I am well aware of that, Starpom!” The sheer venom in his response surprised even Petrov.

  He saw the reaction of his men, and some of the rage left him. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to calm down and then added, “My apologies, Vasiliy. You are quite correct. I just find the irony of the situation to be highly . . . aggravating.”

  Kalinin’s slight smile told Petrov that all was forgiven without a single word being spoken. After another deep breath, Petrov unplugged the headset, selected the loudspeaker, and picked up the microphone.

  “United States submarine, this is Captain First Rank Aleksey Petrov, commanding officer of the Russian Federation submarine Severodvinsk. Do you read me?”

  “Severodvinsk, this is Seawolf. We read you loud and clear. Your Navy has reported you as missing, we are here to render assistance.” The reply sounded a little wobbly and tinny over the loudspeaker, typical of acoustic communications through seawater.

  “To whom am I speaking?” asked Petrov. After a brief pause, the American replied.

  “Sir, my name is Petty Officer Wayne Sayers.”

  “I must compliment you on your Russian, Petty Officer Sayers,” responded Petrov with a tinge of sarcasm. “Who is Seawolf’s commanding officer?”

  “Commander Thomas Rudel is in command of USS Seawolf.”

  “May I please speak with him directly?”

  “Sir, Captain Rudel regrets that he does not speak Russian. Do you speak English?”

  “Yes, I do,” Petrov answered clearly, with only a hint of an accent. “I was once an assistant naval attaché in your country. May I please speak to Captain Rudel?”

  “Severodvinsk, this is Captain Rudel speaking. What is your situation?”

  The man doesn’t waste time getting down to business, thought Petrov. The mark of a professional. Still, there was one thing that he had to know before they could get started.

  “Captain Rudel, I must know. Was it your submarine that collided with us?”

  There was an uncomfortable pause while Petrov waited for Rudel’s reply. It was a straightforward enough question, and he wondered why the American was taking this long to answer it. Finally, Rudel’s voice came over the loudspeaker.

  “Yes, Captain, our boats collided a little over three days ago.”

  “Why did you hit us?” demanded Petrov angrily.

  T
here was another short pause, but when Rudel did answer his voice sounded tense and angry as well. “It was not my intention to collide with you, Captain. In fact, I was doing everything I thought necessary to avoid just such a situation. My intention was to disengage and evade, as I was concerned with your rather aggressive behavior.”

  “THESE ARE OUR WATERS,” yelled Petrov. His face a bright crimson, his body shaking with fury. At that moment, Kalinin placed his hand on Petrov’s shoulder and squeezed tightly. Turning to face his starpom, Petrov saw him shaking his head no. Quietly Kalinin whispered, “Sir, this is not the time to argue with the American.”

  Almost as if on cue, Rudel’s response to Petrov’s accusation rang out from the speaker, “Captain Petrov, I will not debate issues of territory or policy right now. I hope there will be time for that later. Right now, my only concern is to assist in the rescue of you and your men.”

  Between his starpom’s comment and the American captain’s measured words, a torrent of emotions completely engulfed Petrov. Anger, frustration, guilt, and even shame washed over him. He almost wished the American had been more belligerent. With his ego bruised and his feelings crushed, Petrov let loose a heavy sigh.

  Lifting the microphone, he spoke calmly and deliberately. “Agreed, Captain. We will deal with how the collision occurred later. But if you are here to help, why did it take you so long to find us?” The last sentence sounded more like a plea for an explanation, rather than a demand.

  “Honestly, we thought you had returned home. I believed that my boat had suffered more damage than you, and we were limping to a friendly port to effect repairs. Given your country’s reputation for building sturdy submarines, we never dreamed you had had the worst of the encounter,” answered Rudel frankly. “It wasn’t until we heard that you were reported as missing that we knew otherwise. After that, it took time for us to get back here and begin searching. My bow is badly torn up and we can’t move very fast.”