by Larry Bond
“That last charge was only a quarter mile in front of us, Captain. What if they halve it again? And again?”
“They have their rules of engagement, just like we do.”
“What if they make a mistake? Did they take into account our stressed pressure hull? One miscalculation by a Russian caused this whole situation. We can’t rule out another.”
“I have to push this, XO.” Rudel’s voice was determined, stoic, almost obstinate. “I want them to look us right in the eye, and then blink. Petrov and his men are depending on us.”
“With all due respect, sir, the men on this boat are also depending on you.” Shimko’s intensity matched Rudel’s. He was respectful, but Jerry would never dream of talking to the skipper like that. “They’re using live ammunition, Captain. And they’ve made it clear they don’t want to talk to us. You’ve done everything that you can. We have to leave, sir.”
Uncomfortably aware that he was eavesdropping, Jerry shouted, “Permission to come up to the bridge.”
“Granted,” responded Rudel crisply. “Where’s the satellite phone?”
“Here, sir.” Jerry handed it to his captain, who passed it on to Shimko.
“XO, time to call the boss and issue a formal complaint.”
Jerry thought phoning home sounded like an excellent idea. But Shimko was far from convinced. “Sir, we don’t have time for this. They’ll drop another charge any minute now!”
As if on cue, Jerry watched as the Helix released another cylindrical object into the water. The explosion was closer and louder than the last one. He could feel the shock wave as it hit Seawolf’s hull.
“Damn it, XO! Make the call! That’s an order!” shouted Rudel.
Shimko was fuming, but did as he was told and started punching the buttons vigorously. Rudel then looked at Jerry and seemed surprised that he was still there. “Get below, mister!” he commanded.
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Jerry.
As he dropped down into the hatch well, Jerry could hear the XO almost pleading with Rudel. “Captain, they are not going to stop this. We have to turn away and head west!”
“We’re responsible for Severodvinsk! I’m responsible for Severodvinsk!” shrieked Rudel. His voice trembled with pain, as if abandoning Petrov and his men was the same as betraying a close friend.
“And the Russians aren’t going to let you do anything about it. Sir, we have to change course to the west now, before they drop another charge.” The captain didn’t respond before Shimko added, “Group Two is on the line, sir.”
Jerry heard Rudel begin his report to SUBGRU Two; then the XO suddenly called down the trunk. “They’re dropping another charge close by. All hands brace!”
Rudel’s voice came over the intercom. “Hard left rudder! Course two seven zero.”
Jerry grabbed onto the ladder as he heard the chief of the watch pass the warning on the 1MC. The KA-BOOM and vibration that followed wasn’t as bad as he’d dreaded, but it filled his mind with images of the shoring giving way, of the forward compartment filling with seawater. Had the last-second turn-away helped to deflect the shock?
The slam of a hatch and an urgent “Down ladder!” caused Jerry to slide down the rest of the access trunk ladder, followed immediately by the XO and the captain. Shimko bolted for the ladder down to control and shouted, “Submerge the boat, take us to three hundred feet, steady on course two seven zero, speed seven knots.”
The watchstanders hesitated, confused as to who should be giving the orders, who they were supposed to listen to. The last they knew, the captain had the deck and the conn. Lieutenant Wolfe saw the confusion and jumped up to the conning station. “You heard the XO. Chief of the Watch, over the 1MC ‘Dive, Dive.’ Diving officer, make your depth three hundred feet. Helmsman, all ahead one third.”
Jolted out of their inaction by Wolfe’s forceful presence, the men acknowledged their orders and began to follow through on the procedure to take Seawolf down.
As Shimko entered control he quickly pointed to Wolfe and announced, “The XO has the conn, Mr. Wolfe has the deck.” Without waiting for the control room watchstanders to respond, he twirled around and pointed at the damage control assistant. “Mr. Williams, check the hull and the shoring for the slightest sign of new damage. Report back here as soon as you’ve completed the inspection.”
A flurry of “Aye, aye, sir” echoed throughout control. Williams disappeared up the ladder, nearly running over a passive, despondent Rudel, who appeared to be muttering to himself.
With a pained and frustrated expression, Shimko looked over to Master Chief Hess, the battle stations diving officer. “COB, get the Skipper to his stateroom.” Then, pointing toward Constantino by the command displays, “Al, you’re my diving officer.”
“Yes, sir,” replied both men simultaneously as they exchanged places. Hess then gently grabbed Rudel and threw his arm over his shoulders. The captain seemed confused, dejected, weak. “C’mon, Skipper,” coaxed the COB. “You need a little rest.”
Once Hess had escorted Rudel out of control, Shimko turn to the chief of the watch and ordered, “Have Chief Gallant report to the CO’s stateroom on the double.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Chief McCord, as he picked up the phone and dialed sickbay.
Shimko paused a moment and took stock of the situation in control, allowing himself a deep breath or two. Satisfied that things were well in hand, he pressed the intercom switch. “Sonar, conn. Hear anything from our friends?”
“Conn, sonar. No, sir. If they’re dipping, they’re doing it passively.”
“I’m sure they are. They’ll have no trouble following us.” Shimko sounded resigned, but not discouraged.
“Jerry, what’s the endurance of a Ka-27 Helix?”
Pulling out an ONI reference sheet, Jerry ran his finger down a table. “Two, maybe two and a half hours, at cruise speed, fully loaded.”
“If the Russian ships are now about seventy miles away. When will they have to turn for home?”
Jerry checked his watch and did the math. “Half an hour, forty-five minutes tops, XO.”
“Good. Then we’ll turn in forty-five minutes to rendezvous with Churchill. Give me your recommendation for an intercept course.”
Severodvinsk, K-329
* * *
Petrov, Kalinin, and the other senior officers made their way to the central post after they heard the active sonar transmissions. It took a little longer than usual, as they had to dodge all those plastic curtains that seemed to be hanging everywhere. The first explosion caught them all off guard. By the second, they were standing around the underwater communications station wondering what the hell was going on. “Seawolf, this is Petrov. Do you hear me? What is happening?”
There was no response, only the reverberating echo from the explosions crackled over the loud speaker.
“Those aren’t signaling charges,” Kalinin stated. “The explosions are far too loud for that.”
Petrov shook his head wearily, a look of disappointment on his face. “I fear one of our helicopters is trying to persuade Commander Rudel to leave.”
“With live ordnance!?! What kind of moron would authorize dropping depth bombs on a badly damaged submarine!?!” Kalinin’s outraged expression was shared by several of the others. “Don’t they realize what Rudel and his crew has done for us?”
“Calm yourself, Vasiliy. I agree with you that it is an unwise action, but I’m sure the pilot is not dropping the depth bombs too close.”
A third explosion was heard. This one was not as loud, farther away.
“Comrade Captain, I do not share your confidence in the abilities of our airmen. Those are the same idiots that displayed horrible tactical proficiency during our acceptance trials. They couldn’t find their ass with either hand! They are just incompetent enough to misjudge the distance and actually lay a depth bomb alongside Seawolf’s hull!”
Petrov had to struggle not to laugh. Kalinin’s backhanded compliment
was as damning as it was accurate. He appreciated his starpom’s strong concern for the crew of Seawolf. Indeed, he shared it. But this was to be expected.
“Vasiliy, we knew this would happen. It’s standard procedure to establish an exclusion zone around a rescue site, and then drive off any foreign vessels. I had hoped that our superiors would see the logic of allowing Seawolf to remain. But the fact is they are doing what they think is best.”
A fourth louder explosion, even farther away, caused Petrov to wince. “All we can do is hope and pray that our overzealous countrymen didn’t inflict any more damage on Seawolf.”
Skynews editorial office, London, England
* * *
Befuddled by sleep, Ed Fellowes answered his stapler and his electric shaver before finally locating his cell phone. He hurriedly flipped it open. “This is Fellowes.”
“This is Nicholas Hertz, Mr. Fellowes.”
“Nicholas, I’ve asked you call me ‘Ed.’”
“Thanks, Mr. Fellowes . . . Ed. I forgot. I’m still so excited with the new equipment you ordered for me, it’s so expensive, but it works great! No more analog displays, and the direct link to my laptop . . .”
Nicholas Hertz bubbled with excitement, like any teen with a new toy. In Nick’s case, the “toy” was a signal analyzer that could dismantle a radio transmission almost to its component electrons. And he knew how to use it.
“What have you got for me, Nick?” Shaking off fatigue, Fellowes sat up straighter and woke up his laptop. He’d just sent off a piece on the last intercept to his bosses, and that followed a very long night covering the Seawolf collision. Sleeping at his desk wasn’t a choice, it was inevitable.
“Another satellite phone call, transmitted 0844 our time, and lasting three and a half minutes. It was Rudel, like always. I’m sending you the sound file now. Ed, I think he was under attack. He said the Russians were dropping depth charges on Seawolf!”
“What?” Fellowes had heard Hertz clearly, but he had trouble comprehending his words. Had the Russians actually fired on the American submarine?
“And the conversation just stopped, in midsentence, while he was reporting to the admiral’s staff. There may even be the sound of an explosion in the file.”
Hertz had been listening in on Seawolf’s satellite phone calls from the beginning, using his home-built electronic listening setup. He’d mentioned it to a neighbor, who’d mentioned it to a relative, who knew Ed Fellowes was covering the incident. Skynews had immediately put the young electronics hobbyist on retainer.
The teen hadn’t slept much in the past two days, although it was easier on him than Fellowes. Now Hertz sounded genuinely worried. “What if they’ve sprung a leak in that damaged pressure hull? If they’re submerged, they can’t call for help, and Churchill’s still a couple of hours away to the southwest.”
Fellowes checked his watch. It was 0901, less than twenty minutes since the call was made. “Let me listen to the file, Nick. Maybe they weren’t actually under attack. Can you do something to the file and confirm whether or not there was an explosion?”
Hertz didn’t say anything for a moment. Fellowes fought to suppress his impatience. Let the lad think, he reminded himself. “I’ve got some software that might be able to isolate the sound. I can sample . . .”
“That’s great, Nick, please get on that, as fast as you can. Call me back in fifteen minutes, will you? Good lad. Cheers.”
Hertz was still talking when Fellowes hung up. Checking his email, he found the message with the file attached, and opened it. He forced himself to listen to the entire file. Rudel’s words were clear, although there was a desperate tone to his voice.
Fellowes didn’t understand everything Rudel said. They had a retired Royal Navy officer on retainer who could translate; he’d be listening to the file, along with several other people. He didn’t have to be a naval officer, though, to know what “using warshots” meant.
As the file finished, suddenly and in midsentence, he punched a number on his cell, simultaneously forwarding the sound file to a select list of people within Skynews. One of them was the editor-in-chief. The subject line for the email was “Skyrocket,” the internal code word for a hot story.
Fellowes waited eagerly, running his fingers through his hair, as the phone rang four times before being answered. A dispassionate voice announced, “Mr. Heath’s office.”
“Mary, it’s Ed Fellowes. I just sent the boss a skyrocket. Tell him the Russians have attacked Seawolf.”
Mikhail Rudnitskiy
* * *
Captain Gradev had lived on the bridge since they’d left port, eating, getting what little sleep he could, and haranguing the engineers. Between his ship’s worn-out engines and the cranky minisubmarine, he’d had plenty to deal with.
Alex Radimov, Gradev’s starpom, appeared, shaking his head. “The engines are at maximum, Captain. Unless we can scrape the barnacles off her hull, fourteen and a half knots is the best they can do. Still, this is a minor miracle and we should buy the chief engineer an entire case of spirits when we get back.”
“Very well, Alex. I’m convinced the engineers are giving us their best.”
“I toured the sub hangar as well. Everything is proceeding well. AS-34 will be ready to launch the instant we reach the site.”
“I’ll send Rear Admiral Vidchenko another message, reconfirming our readiness.”
Radinov looked excited, and Gradev shared it. AS-34 would launch in a few hours. By dinnertime, they would finally know for themselves what had happened to Severodvinsk.
USS Churchill
* * *
The first sign of trouble was when Patterson’s laptop died, or rather, her connection to the Internet died. She’d been proud of keeping up on her email, and monitoring Parker’s progress with their publicity campaign. Their correspondence with the Russian Wives and Mothers website had proved useful and educational.
Now the site she’d been reading froze. She was still trying to solve the problem when the General Quarters klaxon rang.
Patterson’s heart leapt in her throat. General Quarters was only sounded for battle or a dire emergency, like a fire aboard the ship. As she hurried to CIC, she didn’t know which one to hope for.
Baker saw her come in CIC. In fact, he must have been watching for her, letting his XO supervise the ship’s preparations. Churchill’s CIC had chairs for the captain and an embarked admiral, and Baker invited her to sit in the admiral’s place. Three large screens faced them. The center one showed a map of the area overlaid with what she assumed were tactical symbols.
As soon as she sat, Baker quietly, almost too calmly, reported, “Seawolf reports that she’s being driven from the area by ASW helicopters. They’re dropping live depth charges.”
Patterson tried to match Baker’s calm demeanor, and said nothing for some time while her mind flashbacked to her own depth-charging experience. Shivering, she forced herself to focus on the current situation. At once, a number of questions bubbled up. She answered several of her most obvious ones herself, then asked, “Was Seawolf damaged?”
“Not as far as we know.” He handed her a message slip. “But SUBGRU Two reports the conversation was cut off, and according to them Rudel says some of the charges were getting close.”
Baker gestured to the activity in CIC. “As soon as GQ is set, I’ll place the ship in Condition Two. Condition One is General Quarters, but you can’t do that for very long before the crew gets tired. In Condition Two, all our weapons and sensors are manned, but some of the crew is allowed to rest or do essential work. We’ll stay at Condition Two, extended General Quarters, until this ship and Seawolf are both out of the Russian exclusion zone.”
Patterson absorbed Baker’s explanation, and tried to imagine how it changed the situation. “I’m uncomfortable with how this will look to the Russians, Captain.”
“I don’t care how it looks, Doctor. The Russians have dropped weapons near an American submarine, a dam
aged American submarine. It was a very deliberate act, not an accident.”
“They didn’t attack her directly. They were trying to drive her from the area.”
“With live ordnance! This is unheard of, and unacceptable. They know she’s damaged, and that she is responding to maritime emergency. I don’t know how many international accords they have just violated. Until I know which side of the line they’re staying on, I’m not taking any chances.”
He was right, of course. Patterson studied the message, trying to glean clues to the Russians’ behavior from the transcript of Rudel’s last phone call.
“Your orders, ma’am?”
Patterson shook her head. “No change. We find Seawolf and make sure she’s all right. Then we figure out how to make these sons of Russia talk to us.”
“Understood,” Baker replied. A phone buzzed near him, and he diverted his attention to ship’s business.
Patterson sat there and stewed; the whole situation was spiraling completely out of control. The Russians’ belligerent behavior and outright refusal to communicate irritated her to no end. They seemed hell-bent on a crusade to embarrass and humiliate the United States over this incident. What did her loving husband call it? Ah yes, “chest thumping.”
She also saw that this spiral could become a vicious circle unless she somehow penetrated the communications barrier. But how? You can’t make someone pick up the phone when you call them. Or can you?
Baker hung up the phone. “Sorry, Doctor Patterson, I had to confer with my XO. We’ll be setting Condition Two momentarily.”
Patterson didn’t respond; she seemed lost in thought. A slight grin on her face.