Cold Choices

by Larry Bond

  Petrov translated Rudel’s explanation for the delay to his subordinates who listened with rapt attention. Some were nodding as the story unfolded.

  “Sounds plausible,” said Chief Engineer Lyachin. “It seems consistent with what we know.”

  “Plausible?” Kalinin exclaimed. “It’s more than plausible, Captain. It’s believable. This American didn’t have to come back. He could have passed on what he knew to his commander and kept on going to Norway or Great Britain. No one would have questioned such a decision if he has suffered even a fraction of the damage we have. But instead, he turned around and went looking for us; probably at some risk to themselves. I believe this captain is an honorable man, sir.”

  Coming from his starpom, a professional naval officer with unusually high standards, this was high praise indeed. Petrov, reluctantly, had to agree. With a weary grin on his face, Petrov raised the microphone once more and said, “Captain Rudel, I accept your explanation and your offer for assistance. Here is our current status.”

  USS Seawolf

  * * *

  “Do you hear that son of a bitch!?!” exclaimed Shimko with total disbelief. “That stupid asshole is blaming us for the collision!”

  Rudel rapidly drew his right hand across his throat with a slashing motion and ordered, “Quiet!” Then, in a more normal tone, “I don’t have time for posturing from Petrov or any of you. Let’s stay focused on the task at hand. He’s more than a bit pissed off and I can’t say I’d feel any differently if our roles were reversed.”

  Jerry had seen Rudel’s initial reaction, and it was clear he was upset with the Russian captain’s accusation. Being the navigator, Petrov’s words had a particular sting to them that once again raised the ugly specter of doubt in Jerry’s mind. I don’t have time for this, he said to himself, and proceeded to stuff his personal demons back into their box. Jerry then listened as his skipper calmly and carefully disarmed Petrov’s accusations and successfully convinced him that Seawolf was really here to help them.

  Suddenly, Rudel snapped his fingers at Jerry and motioned for him to start writing down the data that Petrov was providing. Nine dead, nine missing and presumed dead, seventeen crewmen with serious injuries. Three compartments completely flooded, reactor shut down, power provided by the reserve battery; Jerry winced as the list went on and on. Without a doubt, the Russians had drawn the short straw and had suffered accordingly. Even Shimko was shocked at the degree of damage that Severodvinsk had sustained. Whistling softly, he said, “It’s a miracle any of them are still alive.”

  Finally, Petrov started to report on their atmosphere. Sixteen point four percent oxygen, one point four percent carbon dioxide. That’s not too bad, Jerry thought hopefully. But the last part of Petrov’s report filled everyone in Seawolf’s control room with dread. “All chemical air-regeneration cassettes are depleted. Repeat, all chemical air-regeneration cassettes are depleted. Estimated time to lethal carbon dioxide concentrations is two and a half days. End of report.”

  Rudel groaned at the significance of Petrov’s last statement. Without aid of some sort, the survivors would be incapacitated in less than two days and dead soon after. And there was still no sign that the Russian Northern Fleet was anywhere near. As he slowly raised the mike to his face, Rudel took a number of deep breaths and tried to sound as “normal” as he could.

  “Captain Petrov, we have your data and we will relay it to our government along with your exact location. However, I must surface to transmit. We will be out of touch for a couple hours, but we will be back.”

  “Understood; and Captain, thank you. Severodvinsk out.”

  “Skipper, those guys are screwed!” exclaimed Lavoie, who looked just as stunned as everyone else.

  “Enough of that, Engineer, I won’t tolerate a defeatist attitude. We’ll just have to come up with something to help them,” replied Rudel with a fierce determination. He then quickly turned about and began shooting out orders.

  “Mr. Hayes, get us on the roof, ASAP! Nav, give your notes to Mister Chandler and have him prepare a report to be sent by the sat phone. I want this stuff out within ten minutes after we surface. The rest of you go with the XO to the wardroom and work this problem over. I want options, not excuses. We are not just going to let those men die. Understood?”

  A chorus of “Aye, aye, sir,” rang out as people turned to and began to execute their skipper’s instructions.

  As Shimko and the other officers went to the wardroom, Jerry made a quick detour into the radio room. He found Chandler already putting together the initial draft of the phone message. “Here you go, Matt,” said Jerry as he tossed his notes on the worktable. “This is all the information we got from the Russian skipper. Have it ready for transmission in fifteen minutes.”

  “Right, I’ll have Chief Morrison put it together immediately.”

  Jerry looked around the room, there was no sign of the ITC. Confused, he turned back to find Chandler pushing the notes Jerry gave him to the opposite side of the table. He then started writing furiously in a standard navy-issue green logbook. “Excuse me, Matt. But what are you doing? The Skipper wants this message drafted ASAP.”

  “The chief will be here momentarily. I was going to finish up my report on the collision,” replied Chandler with an air of innocence.

  Red flashed before Jerry’s eyes; he had had enough of Chandler’s cover-your-ass antics. Struggling to control his anger, he approached Chandler with a deliberate, menacing stride. The commo’s expression became more fearful as he watched Jerry approach; it was as if he saw flames shooting from Jerry’s icy blue eyes.

  “Wrong answer, mister,” growled Jerry; his tone was almost guttural. Chandler gulped audibly. “You are going to draft that message as ordered, with or without Chief Morrison’s aid. In nine minutes, you will bring the draft to me. If you are one second late, I will personally put you on report the moment you walk through the wardroom door. DO I MAKE MYSELF ABSOLUTELY CRYSTAL CLEAR!?”

  The on-duty ITs cringed and looked about for a convenient place to hide. No one had ever seen the navigator this mad before. In fact, no one in the department had ever heard him yell before. For the patient, professional Mr. Mitchell to blow his relief valve, the offender would have to have screwed up really, really badly.

  Chandler started to shake visibily; beads of sweat lined his brow. “Please, Jerry, I have to write it all down.” He sounded fearful and desperate, almost pleading. And he’d used Jerry’s name.

  Completely surprised by Chandler’s pitiful-sounding response, Jerry was instantly snapped out of his rage. There was none of the usual bravado, and the smug arrogant attitude was also absent.

  Matt Chandler had manned one of the fire-control consoles during General Quarters, and he’d been there when they collided with Severodvinsk. It was as good a place as any to watch what was going on, but he hadn’t given any orders, made any decisions. Why the fanatical drive to write down his impressions?

  Confused as to what was happening, Jerry asked, “I don’t understand why you feel this is so urgent. Did you see something, Matt—something important?”

  “Important?! Migod, Jerry, we collided with another submarine. Rountree’s dead, and we almost lost the boat! We all nearly died!”

  Jerry looked carefully at his communications officer. Chandler was excited—wide-eyed, even a little breathless. This couldn’t be an act. He was actually terrified. Sensing that Chandler was on the verge of losing it, Jerry pushed a little. “How long have you been working on this write-up?”

  “I went straight to our stateroom right after we started for Scotland and just started writing. It was like I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I wrote down everything I could think of, before I forgot any of it, I didn’t want to miss anything. But I don’t know if I can ever forget any of it.”

  “You’ve been at it that long? What about your duties? Your men?”

  “They don’t matter. None of this matters. I just have to write it
all down. I have to do it now, if I’m going to finish in time.”

  Jerry was still confused. “In time for what?”

  “For us getting back to port. There’s so much to write down. I can remember every detail like it happened only a moment ago, and it takes so long to explain things clearly . . .”

  Jerry cut him off. “Matt, why do you have to write it all down right now?”

  “Because we could have all died. Not just Rountree, all of us. I really understand now how dangerous submarines are. I knew we had to be careful, follow procedures, but I always thought it was like crossing the street. You never think you’re going to be the one in an accident.”

  “Matt, you can’t focus on . . .”

  “On what? The danger?” Chandler held his hands out, encompassing the space. “We’re surrounded by it. We can’t escape it, it’s with us every minute of every day!” He paused for a moment, and then said flatly, “I . . . I shouldn’t be here. This is a mistake. Why in the world am I working my ass off for a promotion I’m never going to live to see?”

  Jerry hardly knew what to do, or what to say. Chandler was obviously on the edge, maybe over it. He’d stared his own mortality in the face, and didn’t like what he’d seen. Jerry was not a priest or a psychologist, and he felt completely at a loss. Part of him had always wanted to slap Chandler around, but that only worked in the movies.

  “Matt, I need you to get past this.” Jerry grabbed Chandler by the shoulders and spoke calmly but firmly. “It’s been a shock, but we’re still here. And you’ve got an important job to do. You managed to get the radioes working earlier, so you know you can fulfill your duties even with this monkey on your back. Forget the report for now. There will be a time and place when it will be needed, but right now I need you to get that message drafted.”

  Chandler looked exhausted, but he listened quietly, passively. Jerry wondered if he’d already given up, but the comms officer nodded slowly. “I’ll take care of it right away.”

  Jerry felt relieved by Chandler’s answer. “Good. I’ll be in the wardroom when you’re ready, Matt.”

  Still confused and a bit drained, Jerry literally stumbled through the wardroom door ten feet down the passageway. Whatever conversation had been going on had stopped the moment he threw open the door.

  “Personnel issues, Mr. Mitchell?” asked Shimko with his trademarked pixieish grin.

  Embarrassed and uncertain if he should say anything about Chandler, Jerry dropped forcefully into his chair and replied, “You heard?”

  “Nav, I think the Russians heard you!” joked the XO. Everyone else in the wardroom laughed, and even Jerry had to crack a smile.

  “Look, I know Chandler is a pain in the ass, but he is a very efficient pain in the ass. So please, try not to kill him.” The XO winked as he spoke; letting Jerry know he was on solid ground as far as he was concerned.

  “Yes, sir. I will try,” Jerry replied wearily, relieved that the XO had been referring to his lost temper and not Chandler’s meltdown.

  “Okay gents, back to our leetle problem. How the hell do we help the Russians with their CO2 levels?”

  Silence and blank stares greeted Shimko’s question. “Well, don’t all talk at once now.”

  Still nothing.

  Sighing, Shimko stood up, grabbed a black marker and threw a piece of butcher-block paper on the wardroom table. “Let’s start listing all the options and their feasibility.”

  “Rescuing the Russians ourselves,” offered Lavoie. “Not an option. We have no way to transfer the crew.”

  “What about using our high-pressure air to blow their remaining ballast tanks,” suggested Ensign Miller.

  “It’s a nice idea, Tim,” remarked Todd Williams, Seawolf’s damage-control assistant. “But not feasible. We have no way to hook up our main ballast tank blow system to theirs. Besides, with three compartments flooded and a number of their ballast tanks violated, we couldn’t generate enough buoyancy to get them off the bottom.”

  “All right then. Direct rescue is not a practical option. Agreed?” Shimko asked. All present nodded their heads yes. “So, removing carbon dioxide is the next option. Suggestions?”

  “Well, we probably don’t have any equipment that’s compatible with their systems,” said Constantino.

  “But we do have CO2 curtains with the lithium hydroxide canisters,” Williams replied.

  “Yeah, but how do we get our gear to the Russians?” asked Lavoie pointedly.

  “Won’t the Russian fleet have the ability to resupply them?” asked Wolfe.

  “Maybe,” answered Williams. “The problem is that when CO2 gets over three percent, people get a bit loopy and judgment goes to hell; not to mention a person gets fatigued by merely moving. If the Russians aren’t here by tomorrow evening, those guys in Severodvinsk will be in the hurt locker.”

  “Besides, how do we know if the Russian fleet is enroute,” injected Constantino. “If you remember, the weather has been pretty shitty as of late and they may not even have left port.”

  All the qualified deck officers present silently glared at the supply officer with significant annoyance. He had never stood a watch on the bridge during the storm; they had, and they were all well aware of just how bad the weather had been.

  Constantino quickly realized that he had “opened mouth and inserted foot” and tried to backpedal. “Hey, it’s not my fault I’m not allowed to stand bridge watches.”

  At that moment the wardroom door opened and mercifully diverted attention from the chop’s faux pas. Chandler and Palmer walked in; Palmer squeezed by the engineer and the weapons officer and sat down at the end of the table. Chandler remained standing; he looked pale and exhausted. He slowly approached Jerry, offered him a folder and said, “Sir, the draft message for your review.”

  Shimko said nothing, and with a raised eyebrow, watched as Jerry took the folder. Jerry ignored the XO’s questioning look, quickly read the draft, made some minor changes, initialed it, and handed it back to the communications officer. Chandler then silently offered the folder to the XO. Shimko took the folder, read the message, initialed it, and returned it to Chandler. “Take this to the Skipper for his approval, Matt.”

  “Yes, sir,” responded Chandler barely audibly, and then left.

  “All right now, where were we?” remarked Shimko thoughtfully. “Oh yes, we were about to lynch the supply officer.” This time Jerry laughed along with the rest.

  “Ahh, excuse me, sir,” stammered Palmer. Not quite sure what he had just walked into.

  “Yes, Jeff. What is it?”

  “Sir, LaVerne has completed her photographic survey of Severodvinsk and is in the process of being recovered. I should have copies of the sonar images and the pictures within two, maybe three hours.”

  “Excellent, Jeff,” praised Shimko as he gave the young officer the thumbs-up. “Please, join us. The Chop here was just about to tell us his plan to save the Russians.”

  “Ah come on, XO,” pleaded Constantino. “I don’t have a frickin’ clue, honest.”

  “But you’re ‘the Ferengi,’ aren’t you?” taunted the XO. “You always seem to be able to get us what we need, anytime, anywhere.” Shimko’s reference to Constantino’s nickname on the waterfront went beyond the supply officer’s drastically receding hairline and large ears. He had an uncanny knack of getting anything Seawolf’s crew needed. He had never failed to fill a requisition.

  “XO, you know damn well that I have a good network that enables me to find stuff we need. But I can’t get a FedEx or DHL delivery truck to drop the stuff off at our doorstep out here,” Constantino protested.

  At the mention of the words “delivery truck,” Jerry eyes flew wide open and he looked at Palmer, who was staring right back at him with the same eyes. Almost in unison they both cried, “The UUVs!”

  Shimko’s gaze bounced back and forth between Jerry and Palmer. “What?” he exclaimed.

  “We can use the UUVs as a delivery truck,”
stated Jerry.

  “Yes! We can strip them of most of their recon gear, and probably gut an expended energy module to make space and weight available for emergency supplies,” Palmer added enthusiastically.

  “Absolutely. We could easily get several hundred pounds’ worth of atmosphere control chemicals, medical supplies, battle lanterns, whatever, just as long as it physically fits in the vehicle,” continued Jerry.

  “WHOA, WHOA, WHOA,” shouted Shimko. “Let me get this straight. We gut one of our UUVs, fill it with emergency supplies, launch it, and then drive it . . .”

  “Into one of Severodvinsk’s exposed torpedo tubes,” said Jerry as he finished the sentence.

  “The idea is feasible,” concluded Wolfe. Lavoie also agreed.

  “How long would it take you to prepare a UUV, Jeff?” Shimko queried intently.

  “I . . . I don’t know, XO; maybe ten or twelve hours. We have to remove a lot of stuff then plug the holes so that the cargo space is watertight. And then there are half a dozen interlocks we’ll have bypass so we can fly the vehicle into the Severodvinsk’s tube. I can get you a better estimate after I talk to Chief Johnson.”

  “Not to be a pessimist here, but this plan depends on Severodvinsk’s torpedo tubes being functional,” Wolfe pointed out.

  “True enough, Greg,” replied Jerry. “We’ll have to ask Captain Petrov if his starboard tube doors still work.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” beamed Shimko. “Well done, gentlemen.” He then reached over for the sound powered phone handset, selected the CO’s stateroom, and cranked on the growler.

  “Captain, XO here. Skipper, we have a plan.”

  Old Executive Office Building, Washington, DC

  * * *