Cold Choices

by Larry Bond

  Kalinin reported to his captain, “They are ready to free us. The Admiral says we must move everyone to the escape chamber immediately.”

  Surprised, almost stunned, Petrov blinked at the news, paused a moment, then shrugged. He was puzzled by Vidchenko’s remark about the Americans, but that would keep. “Then let’s get moving, Starpom.” He turned to the rest of the men in the central post. “You heard the Admiral. Let’s go home.” He smiled, and it reflected off the faces of the men as they scrambled to their feet.

  Kalinin started shouting orders. “Get the wounded in here, but move them gently.” He turned to a michman. “Get some rope to rig slings for them.”

  Petrov picked up the microphone. “This is Captain Petrov, sir. We will move as quickly as possible. It will take some time, possibly over half an hour.” He hated to make that admission. The training standard was twenty minutes, but that was with a healthy crew.

  Behind him, he heard men laughing, joking. They were going home! It was a surprise, but what a wonderful surprise to get. Kalinin pulled out a checklist from alongside the command console. Being good submariners, they’d planned what to do if the opportunity came to use the escape chamber. He handed the crew roster to his starshini michman, Senior Warrant Officer Zubov, who started crossing off names as men climbed the ladder from the central post into the chamber.

  Petrov looked around the room, trying to run his own mental roster, when he realized that the chief engineer was missing. “Where’s Lyachin?” he asked, first to the starpom, then to the group. Nobody had an answer. The chief engineer was the next senior officer after Petrov and Kalinin. There were things he was responsible for and should already be here. It was impossible that he hadn’t heard the news. Where was he?

  Petrov grabbed the shoulder of the nearest enlisted man. “Find the chief engineer and tell him to come here immediately. I don’t care what he’s doing.” He saw the expression on the man’s face, and reassured him. “Don’t worry, we won’t leave without you—or Lyachin.” The man hurried off.

  Supervised by Dr. Balanov, the wounded started to arrive. A few were ambulatory, with broken arms or wrists, but many had leg injuries and had to be carefully carried through the narrow hatch between the third and second compartment. Their complaints and cries of pain were met with reassurances: “You’ll be in the hospital very soon.”

  Petrov tried to keep clear of the confusion, but found himself organizing the transfer of the injured to the escape chamber. He’d managed to get several aboard when the starpom pulled him aside. Kalinin’s expression showed concern, even alarm, and beyond him, Petrov could see the sailor he’d sent looking for the engineer. He had the same expression.

  “Sir, Captain Second Rank Lyachin is in the reactor compartment.” It was almost a formal report, and Petrov felt confused. There was nothing to do there. The reactor had been shut down immediately after the collision. It was as dead and safe as they could make it.

  The enlisted man took a step forward. “Sir, I think you should go see him.”

  “What? Now? He needs to get his ass up here!”

  “Captain, please, I’ll take you to him.” The rating’s pleading only deepened Petrov’s concern, but carrying one of the American lanterns, he let himself be led past the confusion in the emptying third compartment, back through the fourth, the missile compartment, then through another hatch into the reactor spaces.

  “He’s aft, sir, at the hatch into the auxiliary machinery spaces.” The man pointed down the dark passageway.

  “What’s he doing there?” Petrov asked, half to himself, but the enlisted man left without saying another word.

  The captain of Severodvinsk hurried down the dark passage, searching for his chief engineer. Walking quickly down the empty passageway, he finally found Lyachin right next to the watertight bulkhead, sitting on the deck, leaning against the hatch that led into compartment six. That compartment was now almost completely flooded, and automatically Petrov looked for signs of a leak. Is that what had drawn the engineer here, right now? There. In the lantern’s beam, he did see a few droplets of water glistening on the deck.

  Lyachin didn’t acknowledge his commanding officer’s presence, and for a moment Petrov wondered if he was concentrating, absorbed in some task. But time was pressing. If there was a leak, it would be moot the moment they left the boat. “Sergey Vladimirovich, we are leaving. You are needed forward.”

  “I’m needed here, too, sir. Captain, there are nine of my men back there. Four more in the port torpedo bay. I can’t abandon them.”

  Petrov, astonished, was almost overcome by the depth of Lyachin’s grief. Out of courtesy, he hadn’t shone the lantern on the engineer’s face, but he could see now that Lyachin was freely weeping, tears falling onto the deck.

  Suddenly weary, Petrov sat down next to Lyachin as loss and shame washed over him. He’d controlled his own feelings, more or less, but those dead men were in his charge as well. The question leapt up from a dark place in his mind. If Lyachin felt like this, why didn’t he as well?

  But the grief passed without disappearing. Duty to those still alive took pride of place. “Not all your men are gone, Sergey. There are others who still need you.” As do I, he added, to himself.

  “Sir, I won’t leave them all alone.”

  “You can’t do anything more for them,” Petrov responded. He didn’t even think of just ordering Lyachin forward. He was beyond simple discipline.

  “I can share their fate,” Lyachin responded, almost eagerly.

  “Which will accomplish nothing but add more tragedy.” Petrov shook his head and stood, holding out his hand to the engineer. “And we are not free yet. I am responsible, and guilty for every casualty on this boat. Please, help me save the rest of my crew.”

  Patting the hard metal of the hatch one last time, Lyachin stood and wiped his face.

  Petr Velikiy

  * * *

  Vidchenko had become more impatient as time passed well beyond half an hour. After an hour and twelve minutes, and many updates, Petrov’s voice on the underwater communications system finally reported, “Give me three minutes, then trigger the charges, sir.”

  “Three minutes. Starting now.” The admiral watched the second hand crawl around the dial three times.

  Vidchenko nodded to Kurganov, who stood by the bridge-to-bridge radio. “Rudnitskiy, this is Kurganov. Trigger the charges.” As he hung up the microphone, he pressed a button on the intercom. “Central post, bridge. Make sure sonar is alert.”

  Rudnitskiy would detonate the charges with a high-frequency sonar pulse. It was coded, so ordinary sonar transmissions would not affect the detonators. Petya’s passive sonar might or might not hear the trigger signal, but it would definitely hear the explosions.

  If they ever happened. Vidchenko waited, and then counted to ten. Assuming there was some difficulty, he was reaching for the radio microphone when the intercom finally barked, “Multiple explosions.” After a short pause, the operator reported, “Nothing else.”

  Sonar would probably hear the escape capsule leave the hull. It would take less than three minutes for it to break the surface. After ten minutes, he called sonar. They’d heard nothing from the sub. After twenty, he called on the underwater telephone. He received no answer, but they might still be in the escape chamber, out of touch. After half an hour, he asked how soon AS-34 could launch to examine the sub. They answered that it would be several hours.

  Petrov finally called in after forty minutes. There had been no change in the sub’s list, he reported. “We are moving everyone out of the escape chamber.”

  24

  STRIKE ONE

  10 October 2008

  1835/6:35 PM

  Skynews Report

  * * *

  “Although the Russians have made no official announcement, their attempt to rescue the crew of Severodvinsk appears to have failed.

  “Approximately forty-five minutes ago, at 1448 Greenwich Mean Time, sonars
near the scene of the rescue detected a series of small explosions. It is believed these were from charges intended to clear obstructions preventing the release of the submarine’s rescue capsule. According to submarine rescue experts, if the charges had worked, the crew would have been able to ascend to the surface in the capsule almost immediately.

  “It is believed that the men aboard Severodvinsk are running short of the U.S.-supplied chemicals needed to remove the deadly carbon dioxide from their atmosphere. Medical experts are also concerned that they may be suffering from hypothermia, as the crew have been subjected to near-freezing temperatures for several days now. Hypothermia would cause the survivors’ bodies to increase their oxygen consumption, in an attempt to preserve body heat, thus complicating the carbon dioxide problem.

  “While the Russian Navy has not provided any information on the condition of the men trapped inside, information on the status of the crew has appeared on the Wives and Mothers of Severodvinsk website, now one of the most popular websites in the world. Late yesterday, the ‘portrait pages’ were updated. Several crew-member photographs were modified to include a Russian Orthodox cross, while others had a red cross added.

  “Having recently finished her last dive, the Priz minisub will now have to recharge its batteries. This will take at least six hours, which means it will be tomorrow morning before the Russians can even hope to make another attempt. What form this could take is not known.

  “The Norwegian marine salvage vessel Halsfjord is also due to arrive this evening. Whether they will be able to act before the submariners run out of time is impossible to say.

  “This is Britt Adams, for Skynews.”

  Severodvinsk

  * * *

  “Be careful, watch out for the hatch coaming!” commanded Petrov. “Slowly, slowly. There, I have him.” Wrapping both arms around the injured man’s abdomen, Petrov held him steady while Zubov removed the rope suspending him from the escape chamber. Once free of the sling, the two laid their shipmate on to a stretcher. It was young Sadilenko.

  “Nikolay, Nikolay,” he moaned deliriously.

  “Yes, Yakov, I know,” replied Balanov gently. “Let’s get you back to bed. Careful now,” he said to the stretcher-bearers as they lifted him and proceeded back to the third compartment.

  “That’s everyone, Captain,” reported Mitrov, still up in the chamber.

  “Very well. Thank you, Vladimir. Make sure you turn off the emergency lights before you secure the hatch.”

  “Pavel is doing that now, sir.”

  “Good, good.”

  The flickering of a light from the rear of the central post caught his attention and he walked over toward the source. Kalinin and Lyachin appeared slowly from the ladder well. Both were breathing heavily.

  “There doesn’t appear to be any additional damage from the explosive charges, Captain,” reported Kalinin as he leaned against the bulkhead.

  “I’m glad to hear that, Vasiliy. That was a most unpleasant experience.”

  “It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if it had worked,” he replied as he wiggled a finger in his right ear. “Well, at least now we know what it’s like to be inside a kettledrum.”

  Lyachin and Petrov chuckled at the starpom’s apt analogy. The doctor had said the ringing in their ears would take a little time to subside. The smile on Lyachin’s face, however, lasted for only an instant, and was replaced by the same forlorn, haunted expression he’d shown earlier. Straightening himself, he turned toward Petrov and asked, “Sir, if I may be excused, I would like to check on my men.”

  “Certainly, Sergey.”

  As the chief engineer walked away, Kalinin pointed in his direction and said, “He seems to be doing better.”

  “Unlike some of us,” countered Petrov, remembering the dazed Sadilenko, his voice heavy with fatigue and dejection.

  “You need some rest, sir.”

  “No, Starpom. What I need is some fresh air.”

  “As do we all,” said Kalinin, conceding the argument. For a moment the two leaders stood there in silence, both were tired, cold, and emotionally drained. After about a minute, Kalinin finally brought up the topic they had both been avoiding.

  “That failed evolution was rather depressing.”

  “Yes, it was. I could see it on the men’s faces. I should have been more guarded with my optimism.”

  “What are we going to do now, Captain?”

  “I wish to God I knew, Vasiliy. We’ve done everything we possibly can.”

  “There’s still that option the doctor and I talked about,” suggested the starpom.

  “What? Oh yes, I suppose we should give it more consideration. It may buy us a little more time,” Petrov replied. “I guess we should go find the good doctor.”

  At that moment, Balanov entered the central post and walked up to them. He looked worn out, but his movements suggested he was agitated.

  “Ah, Doctor, we were just about to come visit you,” said Kalinin jovially.

  “Captain, Starpom,” Balanov greeted them formally. “Captain, I wish to report that there are complications developing with some of the injured.”

  “Complications?” Petrov echoed with a mixture of confusion and worry. “What sort of complications?”

  “Sir, a number of the injured have started showing symptoms of mild hypothermia. I’ve taken the temperature of several of them, and their core temperatures are at or just below thirty-five degrees Celsius. There are some indications that several of the other crew members are starting to show symptoms as well.”

  “Doctor, we’ve given you as many survival suits as you require and most of the bedding,” exclaimed Kalinin defensively.

  “Starpom, you don’t understand! The suits and blankets only slow the rate at which heat is lost! It’s taken several days, but with such low ambient temperatures, hypothermia is inevitable.”

  “All right, Doctor, what are the short-term implications?” Petrov asked. He was well aware that death was the ultimate result.

  “At this stage, the patient will start to shiver uncontrollably. It’s the body’s attempt to generate heat through muscle activity. This means that his blood pressure, heart rate, and breathing rate all increase. If enough members of the crew start suffering from hypothermia, our carbon dioxide problem will get considerably worse.”

  Pained expressions showed on both their faces, as the impact of the doctor’s explanation struck them. Ravaged by the seemingly never-ending string of bad news, Petrov fell against the bulkhead for support and rubbed his face with both hands.

  “Captain, we must find a way to generate some heat before things get worse,” implored Balanov.

  “And just how do you suggest I do that!?!” snapped Petrov angrily. Immediately, he regretted lashing out at the doctor. He wasn’t the cause of this latest problem; he was just the messenger.

  Sighing, Petrov reached out and placed his hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Viktor, you are merely doing your duty. Thank you, for your report. I will . . . I will try and think of something. In the meantime, I want you to prepare to issue sleeping drugs to as many of the crew as you can. I know, I know it buys us only a little time. But right now I’ll take every minute I can get.”

  Balanov nodded and wearily withdrew.

  “Now what?” asked Kalinin bluntly, as he watched Petrov push himself upright.

  “I think it’s time I have a chat with Vidchenko and inform him of this new problem, then find out what they are going to do next.”

  USS Seawolf

  * * *

  Seawolf and Churchill were running parallel racetracks, long, slow patterns designed to let ships move without actually going anywhere. At five knots, it took over an hour and a half for them to cover one side of the eight-mile leg. They’d turn a full 180 degrees, then countermarch back along the same line.

  The two ships were separated by three miles, more than enough distance between a surface ship and a submerged submarine. With
two of her transmitters and one multimission mast repaired, Seawolf could now transmit and receive from periscope depth, letting her stay in her natural, and preferred, environment.

  With both ships at creep speed, it also maximized their passive sonar detection. Even though they were about fifty miles away, Seawolf heard the rather noisy AS-34 on her TB-29 towed array, both ships heard the charges detonate. Then nothing.

  Jerry had wanted the Russian plan to work. He’d prayed and waited, knowing that the Russians weren’t stupid. The minisub had made two earlier dives. They could see what needed to be done. They’d overengineered the job with charges that might actually cause more damage to the sub, but were surely big enough to clear whatever was holding Severodvinsk in that port list.

  Seawolf and Patty had bought Severodvinsk some time. He was proud of that unorthodox resupply effort, but now it looked like it wouldn’t be enough. The Russians had wasted that chance, missed their best, and perhaps only, shot. They could have planted charges on their first dive, and done a better job of it, if they had used the information Rudel had tried to give them.

  Jerry felt somehow responsible for the Russians’ mistrust. He knew it was stupid to think so, and ran though every action, every decision he’d made since the collision, and then since they’d entered the Barents. He could think of nothing that would have affected the Russians’ refusal, but the feeling wouldn’t go away. His stomach knotted, and with Seawolf riding smooth at two hundred feet, he knew it wasn’t seasickness.

  Were Petrov and his men doomed? After hearing the Russian’s voice over the underwater telephone, Jerry thought of him as a person. He could imagine the man, like any good captain, doing his best to take care of his crew until help arrived. It was easy to imagine himself on that boat, in Petrov’s place, or more properly as one of his officers. Rudel could imagine himself in Petrov’s position. And he probably did, in his nightmares.