Cold Choices

by Larry Bond

  They were manning the rails. Jerry hit the intercom. “Captain and XO, lay to the bridge.”

  The lookout tapped his shoulder and pointed to a destroyer on their starboard side. Jerry turned and saw its crew taking places along the railings as well. He quickly made a survey of the rest of the ships, and other than the two tugs, every ship in the Russian formation had its crew on deck.

  They were only a few hundred yards short of their assigned station. Jerry called “Captain to the bridge!” with more urgency, and seconds later, Rudel appeared, followed by the XO. Both officers looked around frantically, searching. “What’s wrong, Jerry? Is it the bow?”

  They relaxed a little when they saw his calm expression, but then Jerry pointed to port, toward Petr Velikiy’s starboard bridge wing, two hundred yards ahead and a hundred feet above them. It was filled with blue and gold uniforms, all at attention and facing to starboard.

  Rudel took Jerry’s glasses and studied the group. “Migod. That’s Borisov, and Kurganov, and Chicherin, and all their cousins and uncles.” He keyed the intercom. “Chief, send up the XO’s and my combo covers, and do it now!”

  Rudel opened the hatch and tossed down his foul-weather coat. The XO followed suit. By that time, the chief had climbed up the ladder holding their uniform covers. They quickly replaced their ball caps.

  They turned and faced to port just as Seawolf came abreast of the Russian flagship. Even at half a mile, they heard the shouts. An earsplitting blast from Petr Velikiy’s whistle carried across the water, and was echoed by the other ships in the task force. Led by Vice Admiral Borisov, every sailor in the task force saluted.

  Standing stiffly at attention, Captain Rudel and his officers returned the Northern Fleet’s salute.

  EPILOGUE

  Olga Sadilenko sat nervously on Ludmilla Tatiana’s flower-print couch. She’d arrived early, and the two women tried to chat as the minute hand slowly crawled toward ten o’clock. They’d wanted this to be low-key, so Olga had arranged to meet them here, at her friend Ludmilla’s apartment, instead of at her own apartment or the Wives and Mothers Organization’s office.

  Precisely at ten, they heard a knock, and Ludmilla had to force herself to pause for a moment before opening the door.

  She’d seen photos of Rudel, taken from the Internet, but here he was, in a foreign-looking uniform. He was younger than she expected, and looked more like a college professor. Jerry Mitchell could have been one of his assistants, younger still, shorter and more athletic. Both smiled warmly, but they were nervous. She could tell.

  “Mrs. Tatiana, I am pleased to meet you.” Rudel had obviously been practicing the phrase, and Ludmilla drew them inside, smiling. A young Russian sailor, serving as driver and interpreter, stood outside until he was ushered in as well.

  Olga stood, and Rudel walked over, taking her hands in his. “Mrs. Sadilenko, I am pleased to meet you.” She almost laughed at Rudel’s rote speech, but managed to turn it into a warm smile. They just stood, silently, for a moment, then she reached over to take one of Jerry’s hands, welcoming him as well.

  Ludmilla waited, then spoke to Rudel’s driver. “Ask them if they will sit, and take tea.”

  Both men smiled and nodded, then sat while their hostess poured two steaming cups from her good tea set. With her guests served, Ludmilla urged one on the embarrassed driver as well.

  “How is your son?” Rudel asked through the driver.

  Olga answered, “I will see him again, later today. They say he is doing well, that soon he will learn to live with his grief.” It was easier to speak of her Yakov, now that there was hope for him.

  “He saved many lives,” Jerry offered respectfully.

  Olga sighed. “By killing his closest friend. It was a high price for both of them to pay.”

  Rudel paused for moment, struggling for words. Finally, he said, “I want to say how sorry I am, how sorry all my men are, for what . . .”

  She held up a hand, stopping him. “Please, Captain.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Nobody thinks this was your fault, or Captain Petrov’s. These things are tragedies—something we can learn from, but that cannot be anticipated or prevented.”

  Then she reassured him, “You risked your own lives to save our men on Severodvinsk. That is what we will always remember.”

  Ludmilla came over with a plate of tea cakes, speaking softly. The driver explained to Rudel, “She says it is good you came, that friends can share grief, and make it hurt less.”

  A knock at the door called Ludmilla out of the conversation. It was Irina, holding a covered plate. “I brought some cake. Oh, am I too late? Are they already here?” A man in his late twenties, in a michman’s uniform, stood behind her.

  “As if you couldn’t tell time, Irina Ivanova Rodionov!” Olga said sharply, but smiling at the same time. She then escorted the younger woman over and introduced her to the Americans, explaining, “She is our webmaster,” using the English term. The michman saluted, and the three men shook hands, smiling.

  Irina greeted them each with a hug. In English, she said, “I had to thank you myself.” She looked over at her escort. “This is Michman Maksim Yerasov. He is the senior rating who works for my Anatoliy. He begged to come and meet you; to meet the men who saved them.”

  Rudel and Jerry were becoming rather uncomfortable with all the gratitude that was being heaped upon them. Clearing his throat, Jerry tried to change the subject. “Your husband isn’t here?”

  “No, Anatoliy is already at the inquest. Since he is the torpedo and mine battle department commander, he has been very busy.”

  After a moment of awkward silence, Rudel made another attempt at small talk. “So you are the one who constructed that amazing website?”

  “Yes, yes, I did, with much help from Olga and the others. When Anatoliy was trapped, I had the computer to keep my mind busy, to help me not to worry so much, but whenever I stopped working . . .” She started to tear up, and Olga came over, squeezing her shoulder reassuringly.

  “They wanted to apologize to us. Can you imagine such a thing?” Olga remarked brightly.

  There was another knock on the door. This time it was Nadya. She held a bottle, and she was barely inside before another woman arrived.

  It turned into quite a party, in spite of their planning. Jerry and Rudel had both wanted a quiet visit, and a chance to talk. But word had leaked out. Over a dozen couples, parents, and families came to see the men whose submarine had saved their loved ones. It wasn’t raucous, but it was lively, an impromptu celebration of their survival, with Rudel and Jerry as the honored guests.

  Finally, after almost two hours, and pleading a previous engagement, they managed to make their good-byes. Irina had given them email addresses for Seawolf’s webmaster to post, and every woman there hugged them both at least once. Ludmilla tried to send them away with food, but there was no way to bring any of it back.

  Olga followed them outside, away from the noise of the party, and kissed them good-bye on the cheek, embracing the two like her own Yakov. “I am glad we met, even if I am sorry for the reason.”

  The driver translated, and Rudel answered, “I’m glad I came, too.”

  Jerry added, “Tell Mrs. Tatiana we’re sorry for the mess. She is a very good host.”

  The driver spoke urgently in English, and Rudel apologized, “I’m sorry to leave so soon, but we have another appointment.”

  Olga nodded. “I know, and thank you for that as well. Will we see you at the memorial service? I double-checked. Dennis Rountree’s name will be read with the rest.”

  Both nodded. “Thank you. We’ll be there by six,” Rudel promised as he climbed into the car. He nodded toward the driver. “Pavel says he knows the way to the church.”

  Olga watched the car drive away, then went back to the party.

  . . .

  Dwight Manning and a knot of Russian officers were waiting on the steps when they pulled up outside. Manning almost pulled Rudel from the car.
“This is cutting it just a little too close.”

  “There was traffic,” Rudel apologized.

  Manning turned to face the waiting Russians. “Captain First Rank Aleksey Igorevich Petrov, may I present Commander Thomas Rudel.”

  Rudel and Jerry and saluted Petrov, the senior in rank; then Rudel offered his hand. Jerry studied them both, but their faces were masks, at first.

  Petrov took Rudel’s hand, grasping it firmly. He said, “I am pleased to finally meet you,” in a formal voice. He didn’t smile, but Russians don’t automatically smile just to be pleasant.

  Rudel did smile. “It’s good to meet you face-to-face. You sound different than you did over the underwater telephone.”

  Petrov asked curiously. “How so?”

  “Drier,” Rudel replied.

  Surprised, Petrov burst into laughter, and clapped Rudel on the shoulder. “And you sound different, too, my friend. Not like a wobbly fish.”

  “Gentlemen, we have two minutes,” fussed Manning.

  Both captains nodded. “Later, we will talk,” promised Petrov.

  “I would like that very much,” Rudel answered.

  The rest of the group was quickly introduced. Jerry waited for his turn to shake Petrov’s hand, and to greet the Starpom Kalinin and Chief Engineer Lyachev. The last few words were exchanged as Manning urged them up the granite steps. The sentry in front braced and saluted as the group hurried past.

  Inside, they slowed to a fast walk, and made one turn to face an oak door, marked by a flag on a stand. “We made it,” Manning announced with a glare, “with one minute to go.” He brushed a few cake crumbs off Jerry’s uniform.

  Another guard, a junior officer this time, saluted. He opened the door for them, then stepped aside.

  The far side of the room was lined with leaded-glass windows. The walls were columned marble, adorned with paintings of great naval battles. A long green table sat in front of the windows, one side half filled with high-ranking officers, facing them. Jerry recognized Borisov, and Kurganov, and Vidchenko.

  Chairs filled the room, with most of them occupied by naval officers, with the occasional civilian mixed in.

  Petrov pointed to three empty chairs one row back as they hurried up the center aisle. They had slips of paper taped to them with “Rudel,” “Mitchell,” and “Manning” spelled in Cyrillic, and below in English. Petrov, Kalinin, and Lyachev joined the rest of Severodvinsk’s wardroom, already seated in the front row.

  They’d barely sat down when a shouted command brought everyone in the room to attention. Jerry rose with the rest, and watched as a party of senior officers entered from a side door. “The one in front is Vice Admiral Kokurin, commander of the Northern Fleet,” Manning explained in a whisper, “then Vice Admiral Baybarin, his deputy. Vice Admiral Radetskiy is his chief of staff . . .”

  The group reached their seats at the table, and stood for a moment before turning to face the Russian flag, displayed at one end of the table. The recorded strains of the Russian national anthem played; then, at another command, everyone sat.

  Kokurin spoke first, and Manning translated. “We meet here to investigate the loss of the Russian Federation submarine Severodvinsk and the death and injuries suffered by its crew. We thank those who have come far to testify. There is much to learn from this tragedy. May we all grow in wisdom.”

  AFTERWORD

  Authors choose names to provide clues to a character’s personality, to help make them easier to remember, or sometimes to say hello to an old friend. In this case, the names of the crews aboard Severodvinsk and Seawolf were taken, with some minor exceptions, from the rosters of USS Thresher (SSN-593), USS Scorpion (SSN-589), and the Russian Project 949A SSGN Kursk.

  All we used were their last names. The characters’ physical descriptions, their personalities, their actions, and their words are entirely our own. We wanted to use these names so that they would be heard once more, and not pass from memory.

  All three crews perished in peacetime accidents. Considering the number of miles steamed by submarines and how long they have been doing it, submarines have a very low accident rate, but going to sea in a ship designed to submerge beneath the waves will always involve a higher degree of risk.

  Those who sail on submarines accept this risk as a part of their service, which is also demanding and difficult. Thousands of men, and some women, are serving right now, and we honor their service with this story.