by Larry Bond
“I’ve got a sample!” Umansky exclaimed. “Hah! It’s in the basket.”
“Good work, Captain.” Vidchenko was sparing with praise, but these two men deserved it. But was their hard work going to be worth anything in the end?
“Sir, I recommend taking photos, but we will have to wait for the water to clear.”
“Then let’s move down to the next obstruction.”
“Aye, sir.”
They managed to examine four masses of rock altogether. They had to use the waterjet once more to get a feel for the extent of the formation. Whatever material they were made of, it easily resisted the high-pressure water shot at them. Finally, as the low battery charge alarm rang, they headed back to the surface.
Vidchenko was not a demolitions expert, but he was an engineer. The AS-34 crew had planted charges before, although never under such circumstances. The three of them talked all the way up. How much explosive could AS-34 carry? Could they plant all of them in a single dive? What types of work could the mechanical arm perform? Even as they rose, Vidchenko was already thinking ahead to the next dive, the most important dive. Hopefully, the last dive.
USS Seawolf
* * *
The helicopter crew chief was attempting to give her important instructions. She tried to listen, but even over the interphone, she could only make out half of what he said.
Hovering over Seawolf, the rotor wash tugging at her clothes and chilling any exposed skin, Joanna Patterson focused on the crew chief’s face. Truth be told, she was terrified. Flying was fine, even in something as improbably aerodynamic as a helicopter. But the thought of dangling over empty space, hung by a thread . . .
The crew chief finished speaking, and Patterson nodded vigorously. He waited for a moment, and it looked like he expected her to do something, but when she didn’t move, he took her gently by the shoulders and turned her to face the open cabin door.
He hooked the sling to the attachment points in her exposure suit, disconnected the lead for the interphone, and motioned for her to sit on the cabin floor. It took a moment for her legs to obey, and then he motioned for her to swing her legs over the edge.
She was still watching his face, and he pointed to his eyes and then the hoist in front of her. He repeated the motion, and she nodded, this time understanding. Eyes on the hoist.
He nodded and saluted, then pressed a control. The line went taut, and the suit tugged in uncomfortable places, and she was off the cabin floor and hanging in space. She heard a new sound, in spite of the engines. It was the whine of the hoist motor, and she felt herself slowly descend.
The temptation to look down was overwhelming. She wanted to know how far she had to go, even though she’d seen it from the helicopter and the pilot had told them it would be about fifty feet. Rather than look down, she looked up, at the helicopter’s fuselage receding, and the dark disk of the rotor blades. The cold rotor wash buffeted her face, and she welcomed it.
She kept her head titled back until she could hear voices below her, and she looked down to see she was almost there, only fifteen, then ten feet off the deck. One sailor had a long pole that looked like a shepherd’s staff, reaching out for her.
Sailors in safety harnesses stood by to steady her, but she kept her feet. They quickly unbuckled her, then guided her toward a hatch behind the sail. Another sailor inside, at the foot of the ladder, greeted her and led her to the crew’s mess. As sailors helped her out of her exposure suit, her two companions, Ken Bover and Arne Lindstrom, were escorted in.
Lindstrom efficiently peeled off his suit with almost no help, but Bover seemed unable to work the fastenings. He bubbled with excitement as Seawolf’s crewmen helped. “I can’t believe we just did that! I wish someone had taken a photo! Why didn’t someone have a camera? My daughter will never believe me.”
A lieutenant commander appeared and introduced himself as “Marcus Shimko, Seawolf’s XO.” After introductions, he said, “Don’t worry, Mr. Bover, we’ll testify on your behalf. By the way, you’re all out of uniform.” Handing each of them a dark blue ball cap inscribed with Seawolf’s name and crest, he asked, “Please follow me. We’ve got breakfast waiting in the wardroom.”
Patterson followed the XO, with her two companions behind, up to the wardroom. It appeared that almost all of Seawolf’s officers were gathered to welcome them, and Shimko began the introductions. Captain Rudel, Lieutenant Commander Lavoie, and . . .
“Jerry!” she shouted, and found herself hugging him, surrounded by a crowd of attentive, very curious, but silent officers. Seeing her old shipmate sent emotions cascading through her. There was relief, but then concern, no, more than concern. “I was worried, and I’m so sorry, and it’s so good to see you after everything . . .”
She paused, and then let Shimko complete the introductions. When he finished, about half the officers turned to leave, to make room for the rest, but she spoke up.
“Please wait.” When they had all turned back to face her, Patterson said, “I have a message from the President. He is deeply sorry for Petty Officer Rountree’s death and the injuries to your crew. Captain Rudel, he wants you to know that he believes you and your crew have acted in the best interests of the United States and Russia since the collision. You have his full support.”
She hated to rush through what had obviously been planned as a formal meal. Fresh-baked cinnamon buns beckoned, but she settled for fruit. It was best to eat lightly. This would be a long day.
It was a working breakfast, with different officers assisting each of Patterson’s group. Ken Bover would be working with Chandler on the repairs to the sub’s radios and other systems, Lindstrom would talk to Wolfe and Palmer about the UUVs and what they had seen, and she would brief Rudel.
But first, they all wanted to see the forward bulkhead. She’d already inspected the photos that Rudel had sent back on the helicopter, both of the external damage and the interior.
The reality was so different, she wondered if she’d looked at the right photographs. The charring and the scars from the welds to support the shoring were the last thing she’d wanted to see aboard a nuclear sub.
It was crowded with four people in the small compartment. Only Jerry, responsible for the electronics equipment space, had accompanied them inside. She turned to make sure Bover and Lindstrom could both see clearly. Evidently they could, Bover was pale, almost ashen, his eyes as wide as saucer plates. Lindstrom looked better, but was muttering softly in Norwegian. It could have been a prayer or a curse, but he wasn’t pleased by what he saw.
Jerry answered a few questions, but Patterson asked them more to break the quiet than anything else.
Jerry had been surprised and more than a little embarrassed by Patterson’s sudden affection, but he was glad to see her. She was not only an old friend, but represented the help they desperately needed, both for their own sake, as well as Petrov’s crew.
He was glad to leave the electronics equipment space. Chandler’s men needed to get back to work. Back in the wardroom, the group was supposed to split up. Lindstrom did leave with Wolfe, headed for the torpedo room, but Bover asked to speak with both Patterson and Captain Rudel immediately. Jerry, Chandler, Shimko, and the others all listened.
“Captain Rudel, Dr. Patterson, this sub has to head for the nearest port immediately. I do not understand how you’re still afloat, but Seawolf is not seaworthy. She should head south immediately, on the surface.” Bover was intense, agitated. Jerry thought he was frightened as well.
Chandler started to speak, and looked like he was going to agree with Bover, but Rudel answered first. “Seawolf is tougher than she looks, Mr. Bover. We’ve submerged, weathered a storm, and we’re not done with what we have to do here.” There was firmness in the last phrase, more than Jerry had heard from the captain since the collision.
“Captain, it may be your boat, but I repair ships and subs for a living. Your pressure hull has sustained significant damage. I don’t know of any boat tha
t has taken damage like this that wasn’t immediately put into a dry-dock. Seawolf needs emergency repairs at the nearest port.”
The tension in the wardroom grew as Rudel and Bover argued over Seawolf’s condition. Patterson looked at both men. Bover was shaking and upset, resolute in his professional assessment. Rudel seemed calm, confident, and just as determined. She was about to say something to defuse the situation, when out of the blue Shimko quipped, “It’s just a flesh wound.”
Jerry and the other officers struggled to not burst out laughing. A couple did cough to release the built-up pressure. Rudel and Patterson were dumb-founded, caught completely off guard by Shimko’s off-the-wall remark. Rudel shook his head and gave his XO an exasperated look. Patterson laughed.
“XO, that’s not helping,” Rudel scolded.
“Sorry, sir,” mumbled Shimko apologetically. The twinkle in his eye said he really wasn’t.
“Captain! This is no laughing matter! I implore you to get this boat to a safe port.” Bover’s voice was becoming shrill.
“No, Mr. Bover,” Rudel answered sternly. “Seawolf has capabilities the Russians will need before this is over. The only reason Petrov and his men are alive is because of us.”
“And the only reason they’re on the bottom is because of you.” Bover’s retort might have been meant to undermine Rudel, maybe deflate him, but the immediate result was to make Jerry want to throttle the man. Judging by the looks of some of the other officers present, he’d have lots of help.
Patterson intervened quickly and said, “That’s enough, Mr. Bover. You’ve got work to do with Lieutenant Chandler. I suggest you get to it.” She checked her watch. “And we have to leave in twenty minutes.”
Rudel waited until Bover and Chandler left, then asked, “Dr. Patterson, is that why you’re here, to order me home?” Patterson quickly shook her head, denying the accusation, but she also glanced at Jerry. He did his best to think positive thoughts.
After a moment, she answered, “If you were a different captain, perhaps, but remember President Huber’s message. He read your service record, and spoke with Rear Admiral Sloan before deciding to back your actions.”
“And I didn’t even vote for the guy,” said Rudel, visibly relieved.
“Lowell sends his best.”
Rudel smiled. “Thanks. I need all the friends I can get, right now. And he’s in Congress?”
Twenty minutes later, Churchill’s helicopter reappeared and quickly winched up Seawolf’s three visitors. Last off was Commander Rudel, and Jerry heard the 1MC signal the departure of the ship’s commanding officer. “SEAWOLF, DEPARTING.” It was commonplace enough in port, but more than rare at sea.
Shimko would be in command while Rudel was off the boat. That was the XO’s job, and he was more than capable of doing it. But Jerry could sense that Seawolf knew that something was missing. QM3 Gosnell, standing watch at the navigation plot, said it clearly, “It doesn’t feel right for the Skipper to be gone.”
Jerry thought that was a good thing.
Petr Velikiy
* * *
Rear Admiral Vidchenko waited in the flag mess with Rear Admiral Kurganov and Captain Chicherin. There had been some debate as to who should meet the Americans. Kurganov had offered to meet with the visitors. Technically, Chicherin didn’t need to be there either.
This was their idea, Kurganov had argued. They had bullied their way aboard. They were obviously here to gather information. He could meet them briefly, listen to what they had to say, and then get them off the ship before they’d warmed their chairs.
But Vidchenko could not pass up the chance to see them for himself. They’d sent over a list of names this morning. It included Rudel, Seawolf’s captain, and Vidchenko wanted to be there. What was Rudel’s purpose? To apologize? Did he think that would help? Would he try to blame Petrov? The man couldn’t be that stupid.
Vidchenko had brought the photos from the second dive to look at while they waited for the visitors to arrive. The new batch was no better than the first. Vidchenko had expected as much, and his personal observations, along with the AS-34’s crew, had been far more useful to the demolitions experts. While the batteries in AS-34 charged, the technicians were rigging the explosive charges. They would make the dive, plant the charges, and clear the area. With careful planning and a little luck, Petrov’s crew would be eating lunch aboard Petya.
So Vidchenko regarded this visit as a useless, but potentially informative, distraction. The Americans couldn’t know the progress of their efforts, and Vidchenko was more than willing to lead them along. He’d have the meeting, and then get back to work.
They were almost on time, the Seahawk helicopter landing only three minutes late. A video image of the flight deck let Vidchenko and the others watch the five visitors arrive. Two naval officers, two government officials, and the Norwegian. He wondered which was Rudel, and realized that was his main reason for allowing them aboard. He wanted to meet an American submariner, on ground of his choosing. Seawolf was one of their most capable submarines. Rudel should be one of their best.
It took them a few minutes to reach the flag mess after disappearing off the video screen. The woman came in first, followed by two commanders. Deciphering their nametags, the first one was Rudel. He was the right age for a submarine commander, but nothing remarkable. Vidchenko was a little disappointed, although he hadn’t known what he expected.
Petr Velikiy had been built as a flagship, and had separate places for the admiral and his staff to work and eat. The flag mess was appropriately furnished, since admirals’ behinds needed more padding than the lower ranks. Paintings of Peter the Great as tzar and at the Battle of Poltava were matched on opposite bulkheads by photo portraits of the Russian Federation President, the Commander in Chief of the Russian Federation Navy, and Vice Admiral Kokurin, Commander of the Northern Fleet. To enhance the effect, Chicherin had moved in flags and a plaque that normally graced the bridge.
Vidchenko spoke only a little English, Kurganov was fluent, and Chicherin not at all. Introductions were conducted by the U.S. State Department official, Mr. Manning, and monitored by a senior-lieutenant from the weapons battle department who’d studied in Chicago.
“Dr. Patterson, on behalf of President Huber, wishes to convey her personal gratitude for allowing this meeting to take place. She hopes it will be constructive, and that the rescue of the crew of the Russian Federation submarine Severodvinsk can be quickly brought to a successful conclusion.” Manning’s Russian was flawless, and his greeting appropriately dressed with diplomatic overtones.
Vidchenko was impressed, and a little concerned. The Americans were really pushing this. But why? How guilty was this Rudel?
“Tell the lady we are here to listen to what she has to say.”
Manning’s translation was more polite, but it did relay the gist of Vidchenko’s remark. The senior-lieutenant smiled at how Manning phrased the message, but nodded his agreement to his superiors.
Rudel began to speak, looking directly at the Russian admirals. Manning indicated that the senior-lieutenant was to interpret the American captain’s comments. “He speaks about the collision. He is sorry for the dead and injured aboard Severodvinsk. He wishes to do everything he can to help.”
Kurganov muttered, “So he’s apologizing. Fine. He’s done enough,” but Vidchenko was genuinely curious. “How does he think he can help?”
In response to the interpreter’s question, Rudel placed a colored image of a torpedo-shaped device on the table. “He says they have two of these unmanned robotic vehicles on board his submarine. They used one like it to send emergency supplies over to Severodvinsk.”
Rudel spoke again, and the interpreter translated, “The vehicle is equipped with high-precision sonar and photographic systems, which they have used to survey Severodvinsk and the surrounding area. He has a copy of the material for you.”
Vidchenko saw a fat envelope in Rudel’s hand, extended toward him. He looked a
t Kurganov. His face was hard, made of the same steel as the ship.
“Tell them thank you, but that information has been overtaken by events. I personally surveyed Severodvinsk early this morning, and we are now preparing to free Petrov and his crew.”
Manning looked surprised and provided the American party with Vidchenko’s reason for declining the package. The visitors stirred at this news. The Americans spoke with each other in excited tones. The Norwegian, Lindstrom, turned and asked a question, a one-word question, which the interpreter relayed. “Explosives?”
Vidchenko nodded. “Yes. We will clear some obstructions that prevent Severodvinsk from sitting level on the sea floor. When those are gone, the crew will use the escape capsule.”
Suddenly, the door to the flag mess burst open and Chicherin’s executive officer hurried in. Vidchenko felt a flash of irritation, then curiosity. They’d posted a guard outside to prevent interruptions, but from the look of concern on the starpom’s face, the matter was serious.
Chicherin started to reach for the message, but the starpom took it straight to Vidchenko. As he pressed the paper into the admiral’s hand, he turned his face away from the visitors, and bent down to speak softly to Vidchenko.
“Sir, this is from the Main Intelligence Directorate. It was just decoded.”
Patterson and the others waited while Vidchenko read the message. His face darkened, and he handed the message to the other admiral, Kurganov, as he stood. He looked hard at Commander Silas and spoke in rapid-fire Russian. His voice had an edge to it. Silas and Manning both paled and Manning began to protest.
Patterson began to ask what had just happened, and the interpreter said, “Admiral Vidchenko says you must all leave right away. We have identified one of your party as a CIA agent.”
He turned and spoke in Russian to Vidchenko, who was stepping away from the table. Vidchenko answered, then started to leave the room. “Mr. Lindstrom is welcome to stay, but the rest must leave, now.”