Cold Choices

by Larry Bond

  Jerry kept well clear, but wanted to gauge their progress, or at least that was a credible excuse for being there. Hudson saw him at the base of the first ladder. “We’re okay, sir,” he reported, and Jerry reluctantly climbed back up. They had some time. Rountree would go up last, after his three injured shipmates.

  The 1MC announced, “ATTENTION ALL HANDS, THE HELICOPTER IS OVERHEAD, ALL PERSONNEL GOING TOPSIDE CHECK YOUR SAFETY GEAR.”

  Jerry stopped briefly in the passageway outside the wardroom. The midships escape trunk hatch was open, and a fresh chill wind whistled down the ladder.

  Enlisted crewmen shivered as they waited to pass the supplies forward from the escape trunk to the wardroom. Two others aft of the trunk supported Brann, ready to help him up the ladder, while Chief Gallant watched from the messroom door. Everyone present had a job to do, and there just wasn’t any space left for Jerry in the passageway. They didn’t need him here, either.

  Jerry went to control, but only looked briefly at the chart. Seawolf was still steaming into the wind at five knots. They’d hardly moved since he’d checked it ten minutes ago. With the helicopter transfer planned to take no more than thirty minutes, the boat would move two and a half miles toward the northwest. The nearest land was Novaya Zemlya, ninety miles away. In the other direction.

  Shimko came down the ladder from the bridge, chilled from the cold air but gratefully dry. After checking with Al Constantino, the on duty contact coordinator, the XO turned to Jerry. “How are they doing below?”

  “Everyone’s on station. Brann, Heiser, and Kearney are ready to go. My guys are moving Rountree, and Hudson says they’re all right.”

  “Good, and thanks. The pilot’s lowering the first batch of supplies now.” Shimko dithered for a minute, then said, “I need to be back up on the bridge. Check everything below and report back to me.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The activity made it hard to get close to the midships escape trunk. Until the slingload of supplies was moved out of the way, Brann couldn’t go up the ladder. The working party finished quickly, then flattened against the passageway bulkhead to let Jerry pass. He saw Brann, a line passed through his safety harness, being hauled up through the open hatch.

  Gallant was at the bottom of the ladder supervising the operation, squinting as he looked up into the cold wind. The sound of the helicopter overhead poured down the hatch along with the wind. “Watkins and Kahanek are up on deck doing the hauling.”

  Jerry grinned. “Good choices.” MM1 Watkins lifted weights. MM3 Kahanek didn’t need to.

  Heiser was moved into position as soon as Brann had cleared the hatch.

  Looking down the passageway, Jerry saw that Hudson and the ETs had Rountree’s remains almost at the head of the ladder. Hudson and Lamberth were on top, pulling. Nobody said more than a single word as they worked, and that rarely. The chief saw Jerry and nodded, finally adding, “We’re okay.” His tone was a little off, as was his expression. Jerry watched them a moment longer, but could see no problems.

  Back in control, he used the intercom to report to Shimko. The captain’s voice answered. “Thank you, Mr. Mitchell. Please personally supervise the evolution at the midships escape trunk. They’re sending down the last of the supplies now.”

  Jerry answered “Aye, sir” and headed aft one more time. Threading his way past the working party, he managed to get to the crew’s mess. Chief Gallant was waiting with Kearney, last of the three injured, and Jerry joked, “Remember your toothbrush?”

  Kearney opened his mouth to speak, probably to protest, Jerry predicted, but the 1MC cut though the conversation. “MR. MITCHELL TO THE BRIDGE! ON THE DOUBLE!”

  In the half a heartbeat it took Jerry to understand the order and start moving, everyone near the door flattened against the bulkhead or got out of the way. It wasn’t until he was clear of the wardroom that he wondered what the problem was.

  A rating was waiting in control with a foul-weather jacket, and Jerry threw it on as he climbed up the ladder to the first deck and the access trunk to the bridge. As he exited the hatch, someone was climbing out of the cockpit to make room for him, and in two seconds he was blinking in the cold sunshine.

  It was crowded, with the skipper and the XO there, as well as Will Hayes, the OOD. Hayes faced forward, keeping watch ahead of the boat, but both senior officers had their binoculars up and were staring intently to port.

  He heard the tail end of a transmission on the bridge-to-bridge radio. “. . . not locked on. Repeat, no lock-on.” It was the helicopter pilot. He sounded concerned, even scared, but he was maintaining.

  By now Jerry was all the way up, and Shimko turned, handing him his binoculars. Shouting over the noise of the hovering helicopter, he pointed to the port quarter. “There, low. About twenty degrees above the horizon. Company.”

  Hayes made room along the coaming, and Jerry leaned against it and turned to the port side. He followed the captain’s line of sight. He scanned left to right just above the horizon. Nothing.

  Shimko nudged him farther to the left, pointing. “There, and up a bit.”

  Jerry moved the glasses and two arrowhead shapes appeared in his field of view, passing quickly to the left. Old reflexes flashed through his body, but he wasn’t sitting in a fighter cockpit.

  “Fighters,” Jerry said automatically. “Su-27 Flankers.” Excitement filled him. In spite of two years of flight training, he’d never seen a real Russian combat aircraft anywhere, much less in flight; and especially not this close to Mother Russia.

  “The helicopter reported detecting their radars about a minute ago. We didn’t see anything at first, then these two made a high-speed pass a few miles away.”

  As Shimko explained, the planes’ aspect changed, becoming narrower. They were turning toward Seawolf.

  Rudel asked Jerry, “Could the Russians have started running interceptor patrols out here?”

  “No sir, these guys weren’t patrolling or their radars would have been on much earlier.” The two arrowheads expanded and became more recognizable as the twin-tailed Sukhoi interceptor. The planes passed down their starboard side. Jerry estimated the distance as a mile. They were keeping well clear of the hovering helicopter. “They were vectored—directed to our location.”

  “They’re armed,” Shimko remarked tensely.

  The binoculars let Jerry see drop tanks and both versions of AA-10 air-to-air missiles under their wings. “They’re loaded for bear. I can see heat-seekers and radar-guided antiair missiles. But no bombs or rockets.”

  “So they’re no threat to us,” declared Rudel. The fighters were well ahead of them now.

  “They could strafe us, sir, but that’s about it. The helicopter’s their meat.” Jerry checked the Seahawk. Kearney was safely aboard, and they were sending down the sling again; empty this time. All the spare parts were safely aboard. Watkins and Kahanek reached down to bring up Rountree.

  Rudel added, “And if they wanted it dead, they could have done it from twenty miles out. Not subtle, but we get the message.”

  The Flankers, dots several miles ahead, made a tight turn and split up. It looked like they were going to make a pass down each side of the sub this time.

  Rudel noticed them attaching Rountree to the hoist. His attention had been focused completely on the fighters. Jerry saw emotions cross the captain’s face as he fought for control. The radio announced “Hoisting” and the cable became taut.

  Rudel told Hayes, “Pass the word that Electronics Technician Third Class Dennis Rountree is leaving the ship.” Rudel saluted, and everyone else on the bridge did as well, holding it for the twenty seconds or so that it took to bring Rountree’s body up to the aircraft.

  Once the body was aboard, the skipper dropped his hand. Everyone else on the bridge followed and immediately started looking for the Flankers again, but Rudel continued to stare at the helicopter. “Twenty-three years in the Navy and I’ve never lost a man. Not until now.” Tears streamed d
own his face. “I’d rather it was me in the body bag.”

  Jerry looked at Rudel. There were times when he felt exactly the same way. He didn’t dare speak. Jerry, Rudel, Shimko, and most the division had written letters to Rountree’s folks. At the time, it had helped, a little. But now Jerry felt powerless, sorrowful, and guilty.

  The Seahawk’s cabin door closed, and the bridge-to-bridge radio carried the pilot’s voice. “We’re done here, Seawolf. Godspeed.” The helicopter was already applying power and moving forward, leaving hover.

  Shimko picked up the mike. “Understood, Rider Zero Two. Have a safe trip back. Please take care of our people.”

  “We will, Seawolf. If those fighters follow us, please notify our next of kin.”

  Crowded as the bridge was, none of the officers moved. They watched the helicopter climb and head westward. After ten minutes it was just a dot on the horizon. The two Russian fighters had carefully made their passes on the port side of the boat, to the east, until the helicopter was out of sight.

  Now, well to the north, the Flankers joined up again. Jerry watched the two planes descend until they were skimming the surface. They were speeding up, too, and he could imagine the grins on the two pilots’ faces. He knew what was coming.

  Jerry shouted “Brace yourselves and cover your ears!” and pointed aft. As he raised his own hands, the two fighters suddenly changed from dots to toy planes to aircraft fifty feet across, seventy feet long and at arms’ length overhead.

  A shattering BOOM almost knocked Jerry to the deck. Half a moment later, a shock wave strong enough to rock the boat did make the bridge crew stumble. One man on the hull was literally pushed off his feet and tumbled toward the water. Saved by his lifeline, he hung dangling along Seawolf’s flank. The other members of the crew scrambled to his aid. Jerry had been expecting it, but everyone else, especially Rudel, looked alarmed. “They broke the sound barrier right above us!” Jerry shouted.

  Clear of the sub, both fighters pulled up until they were vertical. They zoomed upward, spinning slowly, drilling through the air until they were only specks. Along with the rest of the bridge crew, Jerry tracked them with his glasses until they leveled out at high altitude. He noted their direction—to the southwest and back to base. “Show-offs,” he muttered enviously.

  “I’m glad we didn’t have any masts up,” Shimko remarked.

  “They almost got a sample of our paint,” Hayes answered.

  “Mr. Mitchell, before our rude guests showed up, Rider Zero Two told us they’d spotted a group of Russian surface ships headed this way.” Shimko glanced at his watch. “As of twenty-three minutes ago, they bore two two five degrees at ninety miles. They also said they’ve got radar intercepts from other aircraft. We passed the information on to Mr. Constantino below.”

  Jerry checked his own watch and nodded. “I’ll give you a visual ETA as soon as I’m down in control.”

  Rudel, who had been listening, said, “Since the Russians are close, I intend to remain on the surface.” He paused for a moment, looking to the southeast. “I’ve got another data package made up, this time for the Russian surface ships. We may spot a helicopter from the task force anytime now. They seem to know where we are.”

  “Understood, sir. And as soon as I’m done with that ETA, I’ll check on the techs’ progress.” Suddenly Jerry felt good—even happy. That SH-60 had been their first physical contact with the outside world since the collision. They finally had the parts to get the comm gear working, and within hours the Russians could begin rescue operations, thanks to Seawolf’s prep work.

  Down in control, QM2 Dunn had the watch, and had already plotted the Russian ships’ course and speed, and projected the time to intercept. Even with the storm cleared, the Russian ships wouldn’t be visible until they were about fifteen miles away from Seawolf. According to Rider 02, they’d had a speed of twelve knots, which meant another six hours before they came over the horizon.

  He passed the times up to the bridge, and Rudel’s voice acknowledged over the intercom. A moment later, the XO came into control, smiling broadly. Giving his foul-weather coat to a rating, he said, “I’ll go up with you to electronics equipment space. I don’t think I could wait for your report.”

  As they left control, Shimko was still smiling, and actually clapped Jerry on the back. “It’s almost over. We pass the data on Severodvinsk to the Russians, let them mark our location, and then it’s done. If the Russians are aggressive with the helicopters, we could have one overhead by lunch. They grab the hard copy, and we head for Faslane.”

  They’d climbed the ladder to the electronics spaces, with Shimko, of course, going first. As Jerry got to the top of the ladder, he turned to go forward, but the XO stopped him, and spoke softly. “I want you to know that I’m grateful for all your hard work since the collision. You’ve done a lot for both us and the Russians over there. They don’t know it, and the Skipper isn’t really aware, but I am, and . . .” He paused for a moment, then added, “It’s been very hard, with the Captain unengaged. He could almost qualify as one of the injured, after the collision.”

  Jerry was a little surprised by the XO’s outburst. He’d never heard him talk about the captain like this. Under normal circumstances, it just wasn’t done. At a loss, he finally answered, “I’m glad I was able to help, sir.” It sounded weak, but Shimko didn’t seem to notice.

  “It’s part of why we have executive officers, Jerry, to back up a captain. I’ve always thought I was, but trying to fill Captain Rudel’s shoes is hard work.” There was strain in Shimko’s voice. “And it’s been hard seeing the Skipper so shattered by this.”

  Jerry shrugged. “He cares about his crew—maybe too much.” It was judgmental, and Jerry felt uncomfortable saying it, but it was true.

  “He’s a good officer, and somehow he’s got to get through this, with our help.” Shimko said it firmly. He wanted it to be true. Jerry did, too, because he could not imagine the alternative.

  The XO smiled, just a little. “Remember this when you’re a captain, and be kind to your executive officer.” He turned and walked the few steps to the electronics equipment space door. Shimko carefully peered in.

  Chief Hudson, Lamberth, and Blocker were all in the space, quietly, even happily working. Jerry looked for Kearney, then sadly remembered he was on his way to the Churchill. Hudson was now short two men.

  The chief spotted Shimko, then Jerry. “Progressing well here, sirs. No surprises so far. We’ll have one HF transmitter up tonight.”

  The 1MC called them both this time. “XO AND MR. MITCHELL TO THE BRIDGE.”

  “What now?” Shimko wondered aloud.

  They both hurried back to the bridge, climbing back into the cold wind a few minutes after the call.

  Rudel pointed to the southwest. “I thought it was the jets coming back, but it’s only one plane, and it’s larger.”

  Jerry took a pair of binoculars and inspected the plane, little more than an irregular speck. “Slow mover, and a big one. ASW patrol plane, but not a Bear. Probably an Il-38 May.”

  “I concur,” Rudel answered. “Mr. Mitchell, will those fighters escort him?”

  “No, sir. They don’t need to, since we don’t have anything up here to threaten the patrol plane.”

  “Can he hear our bridge-to-bridge radio?”

  “Yessir, he should be able to. He has the UHF gear aboard. The Russians know our radios are down, and they just heard us use the bridge-to-bridge set to communicate with our helicopter. He’ll be listening on our frequency.”

  The aircraft was closer now. Jerry could see the long, straight wing, four turboprop engines, and that wart of a radar dome below the cockpit. Definitely an Il-38 May. The Russians used them for ASW patrol. It carried radar, sonobuoys, magnetic detection gear, and a bomb bay full of torpedoes and depth charges.

  Subs like Seawolf were this plane’s natural prey, and Jerry felt totally exposed. They were surfaced, crawling at slow speed, in a damaged bo
at. He forced himself to remember that it was peacetime, that there was no reason for the Russians to attack.

  Rudel asked the XO, “Marcus, do you want to try?”

  “I’d rather use one of the CTs, sir. My Russian’s a little weak for this.”

  “All right, get one up here,” Rudel agreed.

  Shimko ordered Hayes, “Have CT1 Sayers report to the bridge.”

  In the few minutes it took for the CT to arrive, the patrol plane approached, and passed down their starboard side at low altitude and at a respectful distance. It began circling them.

  After one circuit, the bridge-to-bridge radio came to life. “American submarine. You are in restricted place. Leave at once.” The words were heavily accented, with pauses between every few words.

  “Well, that’s handy. He speaks English, sort of.” Shimko added with a touch of sarcasm, “That’s probably what my Russian would sound like to them.” He looked at the captain. “With your permission, sir.”

  Rudel nodded, and Shimko keyed the mike. “Russian aircraft, this is USS Seawolf. We have Severodvinsk’s location. We have information on her condition.” Shimko spoke slowly, watching Rudel the entire time, who nodded approvingly at the end of each sentence. When he released the mike switch, they all listened, straining to hear the Russian’s reply.

  “American submarine. You are in restricted place. Leave at once.”

  “Well, this is not promising,” Shimko observed.

  CT1 Sayers appeared from the hatchway, and somehow they made room for the petty officer. Shimko was trying again. “Russian aircraft, we have important information for you. Please respond.”

  “American submarine. You are in restricted place. Leave at once.”

  “He’s getting better with practice.” The absurdity of the situation almost made Jerry laugh. “We finally contact the Russians, and all they can do is repeat a message to leave. I’ll bet it’s written down for him.”