by Larry Bond
Kalinin watched as Fonarin shuffled slowly away, his shoulders hunched over in defeat. “He’s a good lad. But he shouldn’t take his responsibilities quite so personally.”
Petrov chuckled a little. “I think the pot just called the kettle black.”
“Perhaps,” admitted Kalinin with a shrug. “So what do you think our good squadron commander is up to?”
“I don’t know,” replied Petrov with some irritation. “You heard what he said a few hours ago. Help was coming but it would take a little time.”
“Hmmm, you’d think he’d realize that we don’t have much time to spare.”
“One would think.”
Petrov leaned back against the bulkhead, physically exhausted and emotionally spent. He was out of ideas, and almost out of time. A part of him wished that death would stop toying with them and just get it over with.
Without warning, the loudspeaker on the underwater communications system crackled to life, and a familiar voice filled the central post.
“Severodvinsk, this is Seawolf. Captain Petrov, please respond.”
Petrov snapped out from his brooding and looked over at Kalinin, who was equally surprised. They both struggled to their feet and Petrov grabbed the microphone.
“Seawolf, this is Petrov. Captain Rudel, it is good to hear your voice.”
“Likewise, my friend. Please have your crew prepare to receive more supplies.”
“Thank you, Captain. Give us some time to open the tube’s outer door.”
“Understood. Seawolf is standing by.”
“A remarkable fellow, this Rudel,” Kalinin observed nonchalantly, although his face radiated relief.
Petrov didn’t answer. He couldn’t. It required all his strength to simply hold back the tears brought on by this latest emotional roller coaster. But, for the first time since the failed rescue attempt, Petrov dared to hope.
26
TEAM EFFORT
11 October 2008
1645/4:45 PM
Severodvinsk
* * *
The recovery of the second supply vehicle from Seawolf was welcomed, but Petrov had forbidden any spectators. Unnecessary movement consumed more oxygen, producing even more carbon dioxide. There was enough poison in the air already; they didn’t need to make more simply to satisfy someone’s curiosity.
Captain-Lieutenant Rodionov checked the sight glass to make sure the torpedo tube had drained. Once satisfied that most of the water was in the tanks, he ordered his men to manually open the breech door. It still seemed very wrong to open a tube’s inner door and see the front of something that looked a lot like a torpedo staring back at you. After a quick inspection, Rodionov moved aside to make room for his torpedo specialists to prepare the vehicle for extraction. And this time they were ready. Hauling the first UUV, “Patty,” out of the tube had been a nightmare.
This time the tube had been prepared. Duct tape covered every obstruction, and having studied the vehicle’s construction, they knew which tools would be most effective for drawing it from the tube. Some would damage the exterior casing, but it was the last trip for it anyway, just as they would never bother removing the duct tape lining the tube. Severodvinsk would never move from her resting place, either.
As with all things in submarines, preparation made all the difference. Beaded with water, the dark green cylinder rolled smoothly onto the tray. The torpedomen moved it to an empty rack and began working on it like they’d done it their whole lives.
This time, the load was mostly V-64 air regeneration cassettes. “I count eighteen, Captain,” Rodionov reported. “They’ve also sent several batteries for our own lanterns and some boxes wrapped in plastic. There are also some more candy bars stuffed around the cassettes, but ours fit much better than those American curtains,” he said proudly.
“So Russian cassettes fit better in a jury-rigged American vehicle than the American equivalents.”
Rodionov shrugged. “Well, if you put it that way . . .”
“Look at this!” One of the torpedomen held up a fat envelope, labeled “For the crew of Severodvinsk” in crisp Russian. He started to tear open the flap, but stopped himself, then handed it sheepishly to Petrov.
The captain didn’t wait to satisfy his curiosity. Inside was a thick sheaf of papers. The top sheet was a handwritten note from Admiral Borisov. He had taken command of the rescue operation, and was using every available resource to save them, etc., etc. . . .
He’d read it later. The second sheet was from his father, in the city of Severodvinsk. Automatically, he started to read it, then stopped himself and turned to the next page. It was also for him, from his sister Nadya in Moscow. The next one was addressed to Kalinin, and then to Lyachin, and one to Mitrov, and so on. There was at least one letter for every surviving member of the crew!
“What are these?” interrupted one of the torpedomen holding two bags with numerous wrapped objects. “Is this food?”
Petrov took one of the bags, punched a hole in it, and pulled out one of the objects. Raising it up into the light, he read the label and chuckled. “No, I don’t think you’d want to eat this. I believe it’s poisonous.” He then opened the wrapper and removed a plastic tube about ten centimeters in length. Grasping the tube with both hands, he bent it until it made a crunching sound. He shook the tube vigorously, and it began to glow brightly. “Those clever Americans knew we would need some light to read our letters from home.”
Taking the top three pages, he thrust the rest of the papers and the glow sticks toward Rodionov. “Take these to the Starpom, and have him pass them out to the crew.”
“At once, Captain,” responded Rodionov eagerly.
Petrov only half-watched as the torpedomen collected the cassettes, batteries and food. There were two other unidentified wrapped boxes for Dr. Balanov. Medicines, thought Petrov as he shifted his position slightly. There were only two lanterns left in the torpedo bay, Rodionov having just taken the third one when he left. One was placed over the torpedomen as they worked on the American vehicle. The other provided general illumination, and Petrov positioned himself so the paper could catch as much of the light as possible.
Dear Aleksey,
The Navy says they will give this to you, but what should I say to a son who is trapped at the bottom of the sea? It is hard knowing you are in danger, but I try to remember that you are an officer in the Navy. This is part of your service.
The television is full of news about you and your crew. All of Russia, and many people around the world know about Severodvinsk. Everyone I know has asked me to tell you how sorry they are about the men you have lost, and that they are praying for your safe return.
Nadya says she will write to you as well. You know how she worries, but she is being very brave. The Navy should give her a medal.
All of your sub’s families have formed a “Wives and Mothers” group. They are taking care of the families of those who died, and pressing the Navy for information about your rescue. Olga Sadilenko is in charge, and the group is so successful that other navy families are joining, from other submarines and ships. They are thinking of making it a permanent organization.
In all my years of building submarines I never had to face what you are facing now. No matter what happens, I know you will always act for the good of your crew, the Navy and your country. I am proud of you, and I love you, my son.
Petrov finished the letter, then the one from Nadya, then his father’s letter again. It was still cold, and the air was still foul, but for the moment, it didn’t matter so much.
AS-34
* * *
Umansky nervously tapped the gauge that measured the battery discharge rate. It never helped, but he did it anyway. Just in case. This was the eighth dive for AS-34 on Severodvinsk, and the discharge rate increased almost every time. They weren’t drawing any more power, but the batteries were losing their charge more quickly. He’d tried to troubleshoot the problem back on Rudnitskiy, during charging cycles, but the incr
eased loss was probably internal, inside each battery.
He checked his watch, then noted the rate, time, and remaining charge on the neatly columned pad. Detailed records might lead to understanding, and like every good submariner, Bakhorin wasn’t happy until he knew exactly how much trouble he was headed for.
Luckily, the trip down was short now, almost familiar. One of Halsfjord’s remotes had planted a sonar beacon near Severodvinsk’s bow. It was simple to home in on it, and they also didn’t need to use their active sonar. That meant more power saved.
This trip, the biggest drain would be the motors. AS-34 was carrying a cable, one of six that would be attached to Severodvinsk. Topside, they would be connected to two salvage tugs that were enroute from Severomorsk. Pamir and Altay were due to arrive early tomorrow, but it took time to attach the cables to the sub’s hull. For the time being, the upper end of each cable was fastened to a lighted buoy, which also served to mark Severodvinsk’s position.
AS-34 held the lower end in one of her handling arms, which had to be strengthened to accommodate the heavy wire cable. The wire rope was over an inch in diameter. A loop spliced onto the end would be attached to the hull where the sub’s mooring lines were usually placed.
When the word was given, Severodvinsk would blow her port tanks, flood her starboard tanks, the charges lining her hull would be fired, and the two tugs would pull on the cables for all they were worth. At some point, the cable would snap, or the mooring points might be ripped from the casing, but by the ghost of Admiral Makaroff, they would right Severodvinsk.
“Fifty meters.” Bakhorin’s depth report was routine, and Umansky checked the passive sonar display, as if his partner would stray off course. They were moving slowly, which seemed strange because the weight of the cable should make them descend more quickly. But three hundred meters of cable had considerable drag, and much of it was still on Rudnitskiy’s deck. It wouldn’t be completely paid out and attached to the buoy until AS-34 did their part of the job.
“Seventy-five meters.” Bakhorin was still on track, and Umanksy took another set of battery readings.
Discharge rate was more than doubled. He could almost watch the charge meter go down. “We’re down to eighty percent,” he warned.
“What?” Bakhorin’s immediate response was to look for some errant piece of gear that was drawing power. There was none, of course. Umansky was busy with his tables and a calculator. Bakhorin wanted to let him finish his calculations, but the answer was obvious. “Are the batteries failing?”
Umansky nodded, a look of frustration on his face. “The only question is how much power do we have left. I have to assume the discharge rate will increase, instead of staying constant.” Finally, he tossed the calculator into a corner with disgust. “Twenty minutes at most, maybe as little as ten. I’d like to plot the change in the discharge rate. It may be an exponential function.”
“You don’t need mathematics like that to know we can’t make it back to the surface in time.”
“We can still make it to Severodvinsk.”
“With barely enough time to attach the cable,” Bakhorin confirmed. “But this is the second one. I know what needs to be done.”
“Then we proceed,” Umanksy answered.
By the time they’d reached Severodvinsk, the battery charge was down to thirty-four percent. It should have read in the seventies, because it took more power to ascend than descend.
The first cable had been attached forward, so they headed aft. In spite of his haste, Bakhorin was careful to steer clear of the bow. There was no telling exactly where the dark-colored cable was, and running into it could damage both AS-34 and the cable.
Neither Russian was terribly worried about their minisub at this point. They knew it was her last dive. With the batteries shot, and no replacements or any way to fix them, she was finished.
The mooring point was under a retractable plate. It was designed by Russians, to work when the deck was caked with ice and snow, and it worked underwater as well.
Using one claw, Bakhorin uncovered the mooring point, and as carefully as a watchmaker, slipped the eye of the loop over the cleat. Once it was settled into place, he released the claw and announced, “I’m clear.”
Umanksy gave him a thumbs up and said, “Good. Move us away from the submarine.”
“Understood. I’m heading to the northeast.”
“Away from the buoy and the ships. I concur.”
As Bakhorin guided them to their new location, Umansky checked the discharge rate again. It had increased slightly. Whatever was going on inside those batteries, it was only getting worse. They only had ten percent of a full charge now. It would be impossible to make the surface with the motors. In fact, Bakhorin hoped they would be able to get at least half a kilometer away from Severodvinsk.
Twenty seconds later, the display panel lights began flickering and the motors started losing thrust. “That’s far enough. Releasing yellow flare.” Bakhorin pressed a lever, releasing a smoke float. They were not coming up where they were supposed to, so it was only polite to mark their current location.
The minisub drifted to a stop, and Umansky reached over to cut the switches to the motors, the passive sonar, and the exterior lights. The gauge read less than five percent charge. The batteries were essentially flat. Bakhorin laughed. “Well, that’s it for me. I’m just a passenger now.”
“You always were the lazy one,” Umansky shot back. “I think it’s time to quickly shed some unnecessary weight.”
“Make sure that panel still has some power,” Bakhorin joked.
“We have a green board,” Umansky replied. “Dropping ballast.”
A dull BANG reverberated through the hull and they felt a sudden jolt.
Umansky pressed a second button, and another BANG sounded as explosive bolts detached the mechanical arms from the bottom of the minisub. Between the ballast and arms, nearly a thousand kilograms of dead metal landed on the seabed, just a few meters below them.
They were rising, but there was no point in taking their time. “Initiating gas generators.” The last button fired four chemical containers located in the minisub’s ballast tanks. Each was fitted with a small hydrazine charge that would fill the tanks rapidly with gas; emptying them of water. The sound was smaller, but they could still feel the vibration, and better still, the depth meter started spiraling upward. They’d be on the surface in moments.
“Now comes the hard part,” said Bakhorin ruefully, “breaking the news to the Admiral.”
Skynews Network
* * *
Russian Submariners Risk Lives to Continue Rescue Effort
Preparations to rescue the crew of trapped submarine Severodvinsk received a setback today, when the overage batteries on the rescue submersible AS-34 failed during a dive.
The Russian submersible, over fifteen years old, has suffered from battery problems since the rescue began, but until now they have only limited the number of dives the submersible could make, and their duration.
On the last dive, the batteries suddenly began to lose their charge, and the operators, Captains Third Rank Bakhorin and Umansky, faced a difficult choice. If they aborted the dive, the rescue would be delayed, but if they continued and attached the cable, they would not have enough power to return to the surface.
The two submariners took the dangerous course, and successfully attached the rescue cable. With barely enough electrical power remaining to move away from the downed submarine, they performed a risky emergency surfacing, which succeeded.
AS-34 is one of three underwater vehicles working on the rescue. The other two are remote operating vehicles operated by the Norwegian salvage and rescue vessel Halsfjord, and according to Mr. Arne Lindstrom, are in “excellent mechanical condition.” He estimates that the loss of AS-34 will cost “about six hours.”
In an interview with Skynews reporter Britt Adams, Vice Admiral Pavel Borisov, commanding the rescue operation, called Bakhorin and Uma
nsky “heroes upholding the best traditions of the Russian naval service,” and said that such men were “common throughout the fleet.”
Preparations are now expected to be complete at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon local time. If they are successful in righting the submarine, the survivors will be on the surface within minutes.
Navy Wives and Mothers Organization, Gorshkov Prospekt, Severomorsk
* * *
The walls were stained in one corner, the pattern had worn off the linoleum in many places, and Mariska and her husband had left in search of a proper lock for the front door.
But a sign painter was at work on the front window, and secondhand furniture was streaming in from half a dozen places. And most importantly, Irina had her Internet access.
Olga had appropriated the small office in the back. She was supervising a couple of the new girls as they organized the furniture when Galina found her. “There’s another reporter here.” She smiled broadly.
Olga was curious. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing’s funny, Olga. I’m pleased. He’s from the base newspaper.” The base newspaper was run by the Navy, and only printed articles approved by the headquarters.
“I was expecting him. Thank you, Galina. Show him in.”
He’d phoned ahead, which was polite, and Olga had insisted he come over straightaway. In all the bustle she’d forgotten to tell Galina, but no matter. She chased the other women out of her half-finished office, satisfied that there was a battered desk for her to sit behind, and a chair for her guest.
She was still sitting down when she heard Galina say, “Go right in.” The tone of Galina’s voice was the first warning. The young man that entered looked like he was still in university, younger even than her son Yakov. She felt like fixing him lunch.