Cold Choices

by Larry Bond

  Jeffrey Wright ran the meeting himself, this time. He didn’t have a choice anymore. The media had zeroed in on the incident as their next big newsmaker. It had mystery, high tech, and human tragedy—everything needed to keep viewers glued for the next breaking bulletin.

  And they were just as happy reporting Russian accusations as they were press releases from Admiral Sloan’s office. How long had that lasted? A few hours? Sloan had gladly turned the job over to the CNO, and now the Department of Defense had replaced the Navy.

  Wright waited for the CNO to sit, but just barely. “I apologize for the last-minute summons, but Commander Rudel’s latest phone report will be all over the media in less than an hour. Have you all seen it?”

  All three of the Navy admirals nodded. They’d shown up quickly. The traffic was light at two o’clock in the afternoon, and they’d all been at the watch center at the Pentagon. The State Department official, the same European Affairs rep that had been present at the first meeting, was the only one to speak. “I read it on the way over. The information is explosive. Isn’t there any way of containing it?” He sounded desperate, almost pleading.

  The CIA deputy director, a large, well-dressed man named Vincent, looked irritated with the question. “All of Rudel’s transmissions have been intercepted, reported, and posted on the web. News organizations, even some private individuals, have the ability to intercept satellite phone signals. It’s too easy, and the messages from Seawolf are the hottest news in the world.” He paused for a moment, and then stated flatly, “No, they can’t be contained.” He shook his head, as much in frustration as to accent his negative answer.

  Wright glanced at his notes. “We have two questions to answer. First, now that we know there are men alive aboard Severodvinsk, and that they may not survive until help arrives, is there any more help we can give?” He looked first at the three admirals, but then made sure to look directly at the other side of the table: State, CIA, even Jacob Hoffman, counsel to the president.

  After a moment’s pause, the State Department rep, Abrams, remarked, “We’re passing Seawolf’s information on to the Russians, of course. Beyond that, I don’t see what we can do but stand by. Given the possibility of misunderstandings with the Russians . . .”

  Wright cut in again. “Seawolf is going to attempt to pass emergency atmosphere supplies of some sort to the Russian sub, using one of the UUVs. Should we order Rudel to stop? The UUV contains classified technology, doesn’t it? What will be the effects of it falling into the Russians’ possession?”

  Rear Admiral Keller, the senior submariner, gave a small shrug. “It has high-frequency imaging sonars and a powerful microprocessor, but most of the hardware and software technology is available off the shelf. The battery technology is pretty exotic, but again, it’s commercially available. I’d have to talk to ONR or the manufacturer’s reps to see if there’s anything that is controlled or whether there’s anything the Russians couldn’t buy or make themselves. The only real classified information is the bathymetric data that the UUVs have collected. Rudel has said that information will be removed before they send the vehicle over.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Mr. Wright.” Hoffman’s tone was final. “Now that Rudel’s informed us of his plans to attempt the transfer, and if it has any chance of success, we are legally bound to follow through with it. And, as we’ve discussed, the whole world will know he’s trying it.”

  “I agree with Mr. Hoffman, although not because of any legal constraints. The political benefits from any constructive efforts to save the men on board Severodvinsk outweigh the potential of a minor loss of classified technology,” remarked Abrams.

  Wright looked frustrated. “So there are really no decisions to make? Which necessarily implies we have no control over events as they unfold.”

  “We’ve got Seawolf on station, and Churchill is en route,” the CNO replied.

  There was nothing more to say.

  18

  FIRST AIR

  8 October 2008

  0730/7:30 AM

  USS Seawolf

  * * *

  “No pressure,” Jerry kept muttering to himself. “We can do this.” He’d finally taken off his watch to keep from looking at it. It had been over eleven hours since they started, and they still had a lot of work yet to do.

  They’d opened up LaVerne, so Jerry could work out the loading arrangement while Palmer and his torpedomen modified Patty.

  Petty Officer Allen came clattering down the ladder holding a battle lantern. “Here’s the first one. The chief wanted to make sure this is what you wanted, sir.”

  A Navy battle lantern was a large waterproof flashlight, a box about six inches on a side. They were placed throughout the ship and designed to turn on automatically if power failed. They could also be detached and used like a standard battery-powered lantern.

  The plan was to put three into the UUV, because the Russians’ own lanterns were just about shot. Jerry had asked Clausen, the chief auxiliaryman, to remove the mounting bracket on the back and the handle on top. That saved three inches in one direction and five in the other, important for packing them into a small space.

  “This is perfect, MM2,” Jerry replied. “Tell the chief I need the others the same way, and about six additional batteries. And he should double-check the seals, to make sure they’re still watertight.”

  “We’re on it,” Allen replied excitedly as he almost raced out of the space.

  Jerry handed the lantern to QM1 Peters, who weighed the device on a scale they’d borrowed from the galley.

  While Peters entered the data on a laptop, Jerry studied the accumulating pile. The Russians needed lots of help: medical supplies, battle lanterns and batteries, and especially the carbon dioxide absorption chemicals.

  Everything had to fit in the space normally occupied by some of the mission payload and most of Patty’s batteries. One piece of luck: The UUV’s lithium-thionyl-chloride batteries were removable. They had to be replaced after each sortie. Each energy module was made up of three batteries and occupied a space four feet in length and exactly nineteen and three-quarter inches in diameter. Altogether, Jerry had a little over seven feet of Patty’s twenty-foot, eight-inch length to work with.

  Chief Johnson worked with several of the nuke electricians to rig up a much smaller battery that would give Patty about an hour of juice; more than enough for her to make the short trip to Severodvinsk. They’d given Jerry the rough dimensions of the new battery, and it was Jerry’s task to fill the remaining space with as many supplies as could fit.

  He knew they couldn’t exceed the weight of the batteries they’d removed, or it would make Patty too heavy to swim. But weight wasn’t the issue. His problem was volume. The supplies he was planning to load didn’t come close to the density of the batteries, so he was trying to cram as much as he could to just get close to the original weight. And that weight had to be properly arranged, or Patty wouldn’t be able to maintain trim, and that would make her very difficult to steer.

  All he had to do was simultaneously solve several multiple-variable equations, and hope he’d get it right. And the only way to test their answer was to launch Patty and hope she didn’t drive herself into the bottom. And he kept thinking about the Russian sailors, who would die without these supplies. No pressure at all.

  The XO came down the ladder and glanced at Patty, lying gutted on the storage rack, but he barely stopped on his way to where Jerry and Peters were working.

  “The Skipper wants to know if there’s room for some food. He was just reviewing the list with Petrov and he mentioned that they are running out of food.”

  Jerry sighed. “Food isn’t as heavy as batteries, but it takes up about the same amount of space. Still, it weighs something. Where does it rank on the list? After the CO2 chemicals, but ahead of light? What about the medicine?”

  Shimko almost pleaded. “These guys are getting hungry and they’re wasting a lot of body energy just trying to s
tay warm. We need to be concerned about hypothermia, too.”

  Jerry threw up his hands, but tried to work it through. “So what are we talking about? Granola bars?”

  “I’ve got the Ferengi going through our stores. Yeah. Granola bars, candy bars, fruit, cheese. Anything prepackaged.”

  “We’ll have to throw in a knife if we send over cheese,” Jerry muttered sarcastically. He suddenly felt like he was planning a picnic. “Please have the chop bring me candy bars, preferably with nuts in them, and anything that is small, compact, and as dense as possible. Small hard candies would be good too. But XO, whatever I squeeze in won’t be enough for sixty-some-odd guys.”

  The XO looked relieved. “Great. It’s something. I’ll tell the Captain.”

  As Shimko turned to leave, Wolfe and Palmer came down the ladder. They didn’t look happy. “We’ve got a problem with one of the interlocks.”

  Shimko looked surprised. “I thought you’d bypassed all the interlocks.”

  “Only on the batteries, XO,” Palmer answered. “We’ve managed to fool the computer into thinking that six charged batteries will be in place when we launch Patty. That was easy. We found the sensors and wired them to a single feed that will . . .”

  “What’s the new problem?” Shimko demanded impatiently.

  “It’s the collision-avoidance turn-away circuit, sir,” Wolfe responded.

  “We disabled that,” Jerry said. “It’s just a software switch on the control panel.” He sounded surprised, almost incredulous.

  “There’s more than one,” Palmer explained.

  “Damn.”

  Palmer explained. “The one on the console commands a turn-away from any object at a preset distance. Drive toward a solid wall, get too close, and it automatically makes a one-eighty. We got rid of that one by setting the turn-away distance to zero.

  “But this other one’s hard-coded into the navigation processor. It’s a simple test. If the range to an object is less than four yards, and it’s not getting a homing signal, it executes a turn to avoid a collision. It’s a safety check, really.”

  Jerry replied, “And the Russian can’t send out the homing signal.”

  Patty and the other UUVs were designed to home in on a very-high-frequency sonar signal sent out from a transponder mounted on the recovery arm. The plan, however, was to have the vehicle swim into one of the Russians’ tubes without the aid of an arm or a homing signal. Of course, Patty would have to be guided in manually, which explained Palmer’s worried expression.

  Shimko processed the implications. “So, just before it reaches the Russian sub, she’ll turn away and head in the opposite direction.”

  “Exactly.” Palmer looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I should have found this much earlier.”

  Wolfe added, “I missed it, too. The only place it’s mentioned is in a safety checklist. In the back of the manual, I might add.”

  “What’s the fix?” asked Jerry.

  “We can’t reprogram the nav computer. We’re just not set up for that. The only solution is to feed a false signal to the ranging logic, so it thinks it’s still a safe distance away from Severodvinsk.”

  “But that means we won’t have range data as we approach the Russian,” Shimko protested.

  “We’ve spent the last half hour looking for another solution,” Wolfe argued. “We can’t fiddle with the pumpjet’s directional controls. We need those to function normally. If we try to feed in a fake homing signal, the seeker will drive Patty into a spin trying to follow it.”

  “How long will it take to rig?”

  “Half an hour or so. Chief Morrison and some of the sonar techs are working on it now.”

  “The forward looking sonar will still give us a clear picture,” Palmer said hopefully. “There’s just no depth perception, but if we take it slow, we should be all right.”

  “Not too slow,” Shimko cautioned. “I saw Johnson’s endurance estimates on the substitute battery, but I’m still a little skeptical. We’re making a lot of changes to this beast, and we can’t make a dry run; once we start, we are committed. I don’t want us putting a lot of stock into our assumption of how much time we’ll have. I’ll brief the Captain on our status. He wants us to be ready in two hours.”

  Jerry looked at the jumble of supplies next to LaVerne. “Sir, Captain Petrov said their carbon dioxide levels shouldn’t reach three percent until this evening. More time to prep would be good.”

  “The skipper wants to try and keep their CO2 below three percent, if at all possible. Once the carbon dioxide gets that high the Russian crew’s breathing rate will double and things will get worse fast. It’s a slippery slope that the Captain wants to stay away from. So he’s pushing us a little.”

  Jerry gave off a weary sigh. Like many of the crew, he hadn’t slept since they had conceived of the plan to resupply the Russians. They were all driven by the urgency of the rescue mission and their intense loyalty to Captain Rudel, who seemed particularly determined. “Okay, XO, I sure as hell don’t want to disappoint the Skipper. If he wants to launch in two hours, we launch in two hours.”

  USS Winston S. Churchill, 150 miles northwest of Vardø, Norway

  * * *

  “Dr. Patterson?” The male voice startled her out of a fitful, unhappy sleep. An enlisted man stood a foot away, calling her name. The unfamiliar surroundings, including a moving deck and bed, combined with the fragments of her dream, made for a less than restful slumber.

  Jane Mastui snapped on the reading lamp over her bunk. In the artificial twilight, Patterson could see a young man in dungarees. He was offering her a folder with a handful of messages. “The Captain thought you should see these, ma’am.”

  As she became coherent she looked at the clock, it read 0746. Matsui’s head popped into view from the top bunk. “Should I take them?”

  Finally awake, Patterson answered, “No, Jane, I’ve got them.” She took the messages, thanking the petty officer, and sat up.

  “Breakfast is available in the wardroom, ma’am. Captain Baker invited you to join him in half an hour.”

  Her stomach debated the pro and cons of breakfast as the enlisted man left and she reviewed the message traffic. Jane Matsui hopped down from the upper bunk and used the washstand. Across the berthing space, just a few feet away, Joyce Parker stirred and mumbled in the lower bunk; the upper bunk belonged to a Lieutenant Sandy Miller, who was the ship’s gunnery officer and apparently up already.

  The first message was from SUBGRU Two to her. It repeated the information about Severodvinsk’s status and Seawolf’s improvised resupply plan, which she’d received late last night. It asked for frequent updates. A message from Wright’s office also repeated the information on the Russian boat. It added a doctor’s evaluation of how long the submariners could last in those conditions, with no surprises, and ended by asking for frequent updates.

  President Huber’s office had also sent a message. It included his personal best wishes and his confidence in her abilities. He was interested in her expert opinion on the environmental effects if the submarine couldn’t be raised. Then he asked for frequent updates.

  Other messages gave her information on weather and the status of Mystic’s loading in New London. The last message was the important one. The Russian Northern Fleet had sailed, most of the larger combatants, anyway, with Mikhail Rudnitskiy as the guest of honor. Intelligence didn’t say how they knew, but it listed several of the ships known to have left. They’d sailed, and in strength.

  Churchill’s wardroom was roomier than a submarine’s. It would have accommodated a sub’s entire wardroom at once, but Burke-class destroyers had twice as many officers as a nuclear submarine, twenty-three, and three times as many enlisted men, over three hundred. Patterson’s eleven visitors had added to those numbers.

  Surface ships also had doors that opened out onto fresh air. Patterson took a moment on her way to the wardroom to get a personal look at the weather. Glossy gray waves looked un
friendly, almost dangerous, but at least there weren’t any huge swells this morning. They raced by. Patterson couldn’t guess their exact speed, but Churchill was moving fast. A slate-gray overcast matched the water’s color, but the air was definitely clearer. Cold air curled into the open passageway, and after a moment, she closed the door and latched it.

  Captain Baker and the other officers were all standing when Patterson entered the wardroom. Others from her team were also there. They’d waited for her, and as she entered the wardroom, everyone stood behind their seats. They’d left a spot open at the head of the long table, on Baker’s right, and she gratefully took it. The moment she reached her place, the captain said “Seats” softly and fifteen chairs were pulled back as one.

  Baker was solidly built, with thinning sandy hair and a round face that seemed stern, even when he smiled. “We’re not normally this formal at breakfast, but I wanted to officially welcome you aboard and introduce you to all my senior officers.”

  Only Churchill’s department heads and the XO were present. Even with only some of Patterson’s group eating, there was no room for the rest. Not all of her team had made it to breakfast. The word was that Manning and Bover were suffering severe motion sickness. Tech Sergeant Hayes would eat with the crew in the galley, and Parker and the reporter Adams were gratefully absent.

  As sailors in crackerjacks served breakfast, starting with Patterson, introductions ran around the table, down one side and up the other, ending with Churchill’s XO, a wiry-looking man with a crew cut named Hampton.

  “Everyone on Churchill understands that this is a rescue mission. They’ll help you with anything you ask, Doctor.”

  “Your crew’s already been very generous, Captain. I’m still amazed that you found places for us all to sleep last night.”

  Baker smiled, but he didn’t look happy. “The XO will refine the sleeping arrangements today. We were fine with four extra riders. Eight was a stretch, but we were ready—we thought. But eleven! Doctor, we simply don’t have that many spare bunks.”