Cold Choices

by Larry Bond

  Kurganov continued. “We could also request interceptors from the Air Force. They could be guided by the Ka-31 as well, although they wouldn’t have as much time on station as the Army helicopters, and their options would be limited, but . . .”

  He didn’t have to continue. A helicopter, any helicopter, would stand no chance at all against two jet fighters. If it came to that.

  “Good. Request the fighters, and make sure they are armed, but make it clear they will only make an overflight. They will not be interfering with the flight in any way. It will be good training for both the Kamov and the fighters. And it will let the Americans know what we could have done if we had wanted to.”

  “Why?” Kurganov asked.

  Vidchenko patted the map, right over Severodvinsk’s plotted position. “Because I believe them when they say they transferred air regeneration chemicals to Petrov’s boat. It’s too outrageous a lie to make up. It would have been so much easier for the Americans to just leave. So, since they helped our people, I will let them fix their radios and evacuate their wounded.”

  Kurganov looked surprised. Every plan they’d drawn up hinged on finding the American boat and driving her off. This was not a trivial task. Most tactics were designed to kill a sub once it had been detected and localized. Playing underwater keep-away was much harder.

  Vidchenko reassured him. “I don’t hate the Americans, but they have no business in the Barents. I know the strategic reasons why they send their boats into these waters, but they are intrusions nonetheless. If Seawolf had kept out, eighteen Russians and one American would still be alive.

  “We will make sure the Americans don’t create any more mischief.”

  Olga Sadilenko’s Apartment, Severomorsk, Russia

  * * *

  They’d settled on Olga’s apartment. It was closer to the train station, and only two floors up.

  Most of the activity was in the living room. Some of her furniture had been pushed aside, or moved into the bedroom. That was Olga’s headquarters, a constant stream of women entering with questions and leaving with wisdom.

  The bedroom was small, but like many Russians, she’d filled it with vivid color. She loved tropical fish, and visitors joked about her bedroom looking like the inside of a fishbowl.

  Now the bright tropical quilt on her bed was covered with boxes and papers. Someone had moved in the big comfortable chair from her living room. There was just enough space with the bed pushed hard against the far wall. It was a good chair, battered, but it fit her shape. She’d slept in it last night, too tired to move all the clutter off her bed.

  In fact, the days had blended together. Word of her meeting with Kokurin and her work afterward had spread. She hadn’t believed her tiny apartment could hold so many people.

  Irina Ivanova Rodionov had completely taken over one side of the living room, showing up early in the morning with her computer, scanner, and printer. Since she shared her apartment with her invalid mother, Irina had to move into Olga’s living room to work on updating the website. Once Yelena showed up with a fancy American laptop, the living room looked more like a computer center. Maria, whose son worked with Irina’s Anatoliy, hustled about organizing the flood of photos and papers that had been arriving since last night into neat files.

  After Irina scanned the photographs, Maria had started pinning them to the bedroom walls, covering the tropical fish prints and the seaweed wallpaper. Two walls were covered and a third was half filled with the photos of their loved ones. Women would walk in and touch one of the photos. Some prayed. Like a church, the room alternated between a place of hope and a memorial.

  Other women had taken over answering the phone, and one of them, somehow, had arranged for a second phone line to be installed. Someone else had brought chairs, and a long plank had turned two of them into a worktable.

  Two older women, less savvy with modern technology, took over the kitchen, and there was always something to eat: stew and bread, or pickles or smoked fish.

  Irina walked into Olga’s room, carrying a plate full of food. “Olga, you really should eat something. We had a nice lunch, but you were busy with that reporter.”

  “That idiot, you mean,” Olga grumbled, sitting up a little straighter. “He was a hack from Interfax, if he was a reporter at all.”

  Irina looked alarmed. “Do you think he was from the FSB?”

  The older woman shrugged and reached for the plate. “It’s possible. He seemed more interested in where we got our information than our men.”

  “There will be others. Yelena says our website is getting more hits by the minute.”

  “Hits? It’s being attacked?” Olga asked alarmed.

  Irina smiled. “No, darling. Each ‘hit’ is a different person looking at our web page, visiting it in cyberspace. Counting the hits measures how many people have seen our web page.” She patted Olga’s hand. “It’s a good thing, and Yelena says it’s been doubling about every two hours. Lots of people are reading our message.”

  “I’m grateful to you and Yelena. All of us are. Without you to help, we’d just be a mob of angry women. Easy for the government to ignore.”

  As they talked, Olga ate. “This is a feast, but I can’t eat it all right now. We have to talk.”

  She set the plate aside and reached for a stack of papers. “I was reading these American accounts of the collision. Did you know that an American sailor was killed? That they have wounded aboard their submarine?”

  Irina nodded. “Yes, but I’ve been looking at the computer screen for hours and hours updating our story. I haven’t been keeping up with the news.”

  “I’ve been so worried about my Yakov, and the rest of our men on Severodvinsk. The American government has said, officially, that Seawolf suffered one dead and several injured. And the families were all told within hours!”

  “But the American captain could talk to them, with that satellite phone.”

  “And that same American captain can talk to Severodvinsk, too!” Olga stormed. “What do they know? Who’s hurt? Who’s dead?”

  Irina sighed. “Our Navy doesn’t trust the Americans.”

  Olga quickly retorted, “I don’t care. I’d talk to the devil himself if he could tell me how Yakov is. Are those bloated toads afraid of lies from the Americans? They’re so full of lies themselves, a few more shouldn’t bother them.”

  Irina leafed through the printouts. “There is another American ship in the area. They are sending a helicopter to their submarine to get the injured sailors.”

  “Which means they can talk to Seawolf,” Olga concluded. “I wish we could give the submarine captain our phone number. He could just call me with that satellite phone of his. Or the ship. It’s probably against the law, but I wish we had a radio. I want to talk to that ship.”

  Irina smiled. “We have something better than radio, Olga—email.”

  Twenty-fourth Independent Long Range ASW Regiment, Severomorsk-1 Air Base, Russia

  * * *

  Four Il-38s made up the first wave. With the weather finally clearing, it was time for the Russian Navy to show they were making an all-out effort. Interfax news crews invited by the Navy filmed the big four-engine patrol planes as they thundered down the runway.

  Positioned at the end of the runway, the film crews got dramatic footage of the planes climbing against a backdrop of ragged overcast.

  The Navy spokesman, a pilot himself, gave the interviewer a detailed description of the plane’s antisubmarine sensors and its weapons load. He made a point of mentioning that because the search area was relatively close, the planes would be carrying their maximum load of antisubmarine sensors and ordnance. They would be over the collision site in less than an hour.

  20

  RESCUE FORCE

  9 October 2008

  0730/7:30 AM

  USS Winston S. Churchill, 145 nm bearing 078° from USS Seawolf

  * * *

  It had cleared overnight. A few high, thin clouds co
uldn’t interfere with the bright daylight. The light held no warmth, though, and with Churchill still racing east-northeast at twenty-five knots, the chilly air turned into a frigid blast.

  Captain Baker had allowed Patterson and others from her party to watch the helicopter launch. They huddled in a safe spot just behind the after exhaust stack, escorted by Churchill’s XO.

  It was a strange and exciting place, full of motion: the sea, the deck, the wind, and the whirling helicopter blades made her hold on to a fitting for some feeling of solidity.

  She was also surrounded by reminders of Churchill’s true purpose. In front of them, between the helicopter pad and the exhaust stack, was the “after VLS magazine.” The size of a tennis court, it was covered with sixty-four two-foot-square hatches. Lieutenant Commander Hampton had explained that an antiaircraft missile was housed under each one. Two stories above on the superstructure behind her, she could see a pair of circular missile illuminators. They would guide those missiles to targets a hundred miles away.

  Right beside her, a Phalanx gun mount partially blocked the wind as it whipped by. Hampton had described it as a “killer robot,” armed with a radar-directed 20mm gatling gun. She wondered if he wasn’t sensationalizing things a little, and reminded herself to look up the Phalanx on the Internet.

  And then there was the helicopter, turbines spooling up. Patterson was grateful for the wind, because it carried part of the sound aft, away from them. What was left still made conversation impossible.

  The Seahawk could carry missiles or torpedoes, but this time it carried tanks with extra fuel. She’d seen helicopters before, even ridden in them occasionally, but not like this one. They seemed small and vulnerable by comparison, like insects in their complexity and fragility. This beast was two or three times larger, vibrating with power as the pilot tested the engines, straining at the leash.

  Lieutenant Commander Hampton proudly explained the evolution as the helicopter was brought out of the portside hangar and prepared for flight. It all happened quickly as the machine was moved out, the blades unfolded, and the engines started. An enlisted phone talker stood near the group and provided updates on the launch.

  The talker tapped Hampton on the shoulder, and the XO leaned close and listened to the enlisted man’s report. Hampton turned and signaled to the group. Shouting over the wind and the engine noise, he said, “The Captain’s going to slow us down now. The helicopter’s ready, so we have to slow to reduce the air turbulence near the ship.”

  Patterson and the others nodded, and within a minute the force of the wind lessened. The helicopter suddenly rose and turned to port, falling aft as the ship moved ahead. The Seahawk then banked and headed east-northeast, paralleling and preceding Churchill along that course.

  Hampton nodded to the petty officer, who unscrewed his phone cord from a jack in the bulkhead. The XO ushered the group toward a watertight door, and they began filing inside. Patterson hung back, letting the others go first, and Hampton remarked, “They’ll be tracked by Russian radar soon. We’ve detected aircraft to the north, both a land-based patrol plane and a radar helicopter.”

  He saw her look of alarm, and quickly reassured her. “Both types can’t harm a helicopter, and there is no indication that anyone will interfere with the helicopter’s mission.”

  Then he paused. “But as long as the Russians are treating this as a tactical situation, we’re going to be on guard.” He looked to the northeast. The Seahawk helicopter was just visible. “None of us will relax until they’re back aboard.”

  Rider 02, on course 078°

  * * *

  The Seahawk helicopter cruised at one hundred knots. He could go faster, up to a hundred and fifty, but he’d burn fuel too quickly. The pilot held the craft in a slow climb. Like all aviators, he liked distance from the unforgiving ocean, and it expanded his horizon. The increased altitude helped Churchill’s radar to keep tracking him, and his own sensors could see farther.

  And his own radar was definitely on. They’d seen the Russian radars operating before he’d even taken off, so there was no point in trying to be electronically quiet. Besides, his APS–147 radar was an excellent sensor. As he rode over an empty sea, with home falling away behind, those sensors guided him, and gave him the knowledge he needed to get his job done and find his way home.

  The flight proved to be smoother than they had originally thought, and they had a great tailwind. After only forty-three minutes in the air, they got their first glimpse of the injured submarine. “Contact at five eight miles, bearing zero seven niner,” the sensor operator reported.

  The pilot acknowledged the message, then ordered, “Tell Seawolf we have them on radar.”

  USS Seawolf

  * * *

  The XO poked his head into the crew’s mess. “They’re about thirty minutes out,” he said hurriedly, and disappeared. Just aft of the midships escape trunk, Chief Gallant had staged the three crewmen who were to be evacuated. EN2 Brann had been heavily dosed with painkillers, and his broken leg had been padded with blankets. Along with MM1 Heiser, he sat quietly. ET1 Troy Kearney fidgeted, and occasionally looked at the chief like he wanted to speak, but Gallant glared him down.

  Several other crewmen were there as well, either to help or say good-bye. Gallant reminded them, “Remember, everyone has an escort up the ladder to the escape trunk. Escorts, don’t hurry them, but we need to move quickly.”

  The captain came into the mess. Everyone except Brann and Heiser started to stand, but Rudel quickly waved everyone back into their seats. “It looks like we’re ready here, Doc. Any problems?”

  Chief Gallant shook his head, smiling. “Just Kearney’s constant complaining.”

  As if prompted, ET1 Kearney stood and held out his splinted wrist. “It feels great, sir,” he said while trying to suppress his wincing. “The doc took care of it and I’m good, sir. You can’t send me off the boat with those parts coming aboard. You’ll need me, Skipper!”

  Rudel shook his head. “You need to get a cast on that break, ET1. A splint isn’t good enough. Without one, you could cause permanent damage to that hand. You don’t want to end up like Mr. Mitchell. You might never fly jet fighters again.” Everyone smiled. “Besides, Petty Officer Kearney, I need you to do something for me.”

  “Anything, sir.”

  Rudel handed the petty officer a brightly wrapped package, the size of a large book. “This is the information on the Russian sub’s condition, on our latest situation report, letters to Rountree’s folks, and some other stuff that’s none of your business.”

  The XO appeared again, and announced, “Sir, the helicopter’s in sight. Four, maybe five minutes.”

  Rudel acknowledged the report, and Shimko added, “I’m on my way to the freezer. They’ll start bringing Rountree up.”

  Somber, Rudel replied, “I’ll be on the bridge.”

  “Yessir.” After a short pause, Shimko added, “Chief Hudson is down there, and Mr. Mitchell has everyone organized.”

  “Understood, XO. Thanks.”

  Rudel seemed to remember the package in his hand. Turning back to Kearney, he said, “I’m entrusting you with this package. Give it only to Churchill’s captain or XO.”

  Kearney looked at the package carefully, as if it might explode. He asked, “What about Heiser, sir? He’s got two good hands.”

  Chief Gallant said, “Not with his concussion. I’ve got him full of painkillers. And Brann’s got enough to worry about with his leg.”

  Kearny nodded and took the package with his good hand. “I’ll take good care of it, sir.”

  “If it falls in the water, it will float. Dive in after it.”

  Kearney grinned. “Yessir, I understand.”

  Rudel patted Kearny on the shoulder. “We’ll be thinking of you while you’re gone.” He stepped back and looked at all three men, silent for a moment, reluctant to leave. Finally, he said, “Take care of yourselves, and good luck.”

  Rudel left and Gallan
t walked over to Kearney. As the chief opened the immersion suit and helped Kearney secure the package inside, the young petty officer remarked, “Sometimes I can’t tell when the Skipper is joking or not.”

  “This goes in the water and nobody’s laughing,” Gallant answered. “Keep a good hold of it and you won’t have to find out.”

  Jerry Mitchell wanted to be in several places at once. He was in charge of organizing the men that would pass the repair parts for the radios from the escape trunk to the wardroom, just forward of the opening. He wanted to be with Troy Kearney, one of his men who was about to leave the ship, and most of all, he wanted to be down in stores, with Rountree.

  He really didn’t need to be in any of those places. Chief Gallant had everything under control in the crew’s mess, Master Chief Hess had a working party organized to handle the radio parts, and Chief Hudson and all the off-duty ETs were ready to move Denny Rountree.

  Captain Rudel had agreed to let Rountree’s division bring him out of the freezer. Once the helicopter was in sight, Rountree’s remains had to be moved as quickly as dignity allowed down one passageway, up a ladder, down another short passageway, and then up the vertical escape trunk. It would be rough treatment, and it would be best if it was done by his own people.

  But Jerry knew he had to be there when they brought Rountree out, for himself if for no other reason. Quickly, he made his way to the freezer on the third deck. There was little room in the cold storage area, and the ETs struggled with Rountree’s frozen form, wrapped in a plastic body bag. “Wish we could have thawed him,” Robinson muttered softly. “Idiot,” Hudson replied, slightly annoyed. “The whole idea was to keep him cold as long as possible.” As they shifted their grip on the slippery plastic, Lamberth and the others apologized to the body.