Cold Choices - [Jerry Mitchell 02]

by Larry Bond

  ~ * ~

  Cold Choices

  [Jerry Mitchell 02]

  Larry Bond

  No copyright 2011 by MadMaxAU eBooks

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  PROLOGUE

  ALL THE WATER IN THE WORLD

  20 August 2008

  Groton, Connecticut

  Jerry Mitchell braced himself. There was no sensation of a hit, but the force of the inrushing water almost knocked two sailors off their feet. The liquid roar fought with the loudspeaker. “FLOODING IN ENGINE ROOM LOWER LEVEL!” The mechanical voice echoed off the metal bulkheads. He felt the air temperature drop, which gave only the briefest warning when the cold spray reached where he stood.

  Jerry fought the urge to rush in and help. Like all submariners, he was trained to run toward the sound of rushing water, but he was also supposed to lead these men. They struggled against the multiple fire-hose jets, but there were enough guys to get the job done. That was one of the first things he looked for, then whether they had the right equipment to plug each leak. But as he watched them work, he relaxed, as much as any submariner could with water lapping around his ankles. His men were on top of it. They knew what to do, and they were working together.

  He watched and waited. He suspected they were in for a beating. Sure enough, a rattling BOOM echoed through the space, and the loudspeaker blared “DEPTH CHARGE ATTACK! CLOSE ABOARD!” The reverberation hadn’t even died down when Jerry was drenched by a new jet of water as a pipe behind him cracked. He got out of the way as Petty Officer Robinson ran over with a bandit patch and began fitting it over the pipe. Two other pipe joints had also ruptured, and Jerry heard ETC Hudson, the leading chief petty officer, quickly order people to deal with those new leaks. Turning toward Lieutenant Chandler, his phone talker, Jerry passed on the disheartening news to control.

  Engine room lower level was a crowded collection of machinery, piping, and tanks, with catwalks and ladders passing through the tangled compartment. People filled most of the open space—very active people, as they struggled with tools and materials to plug or patch the holes in the pipes. Water continued gushing in, with some of the jets packing enough punch to knock a man over if he wasn’t careful. The solid streams splashed and ricocheted off the jumbled surfaces, throwing spray up in everyone’s face. Even when Jerry could keep the water out of his eyes, the white spray made it difficult to see more than a couple of feet away. And there was the incredible noise. The extra leaks raised the sound to levels reserved for the back end of a jet engine.

  In spite of the cold and the wet, the operations department was doing a great job. They worked as a team, looking to Hudson or one of the other senior petty officers for direction. Jerry occasionally heard shouting, of course. They had to raise their voices to be heard over the roaring water, but the tone was calm, reports and directions deliberate.

  The water was up to his knees when the auxiliary seawater flange broke. A three-quarter-inch gap opened up where two pipe flanges joined near the overhead. If anyone in the space had been bone dry, this alone would have drenched them. Jerry could see the water level begin to rise more quickly.

  Hudson, shaking the water off his face, immediately detailed two men to deal with the flange. Jerry watched them try to bring the pieces back together and his eyes continued upward to a glass-covered booth. Inside, a master chief petty officer, his arms folded, looked down on the chaos and smiled.

  Of course, they’d lose in the end. It was impossible to keep USS Buttercup afloat. No matter how many leaks the crew patched, new ones would appear, more water would flood in, and eventually the trainer would “sink.” The real question was, how would his team perform before the inevitable?

  It was one thing to sit through damage-control lectures, study diagrams, and practice in a dry, quiet space. The “wet trainer” made it real. You learned how to handle wet tools, how to hold a mattress over a torrent of inrushing water, and how to keep working as water battered your body and the water temperature made your internal organs cluster around your spine, huddling together for warmth.

  Most wet trainers looked like the inside of a surface ship’s berthing or engineering spaces. This one, in Groton, Connecticut, was built to look like the inside of a submarine. From the outside, it was just another anonymous concrete brick building on the base, identified by a blue and yellow building number. Inside the two-story building, a mass of catwalks and piping surrounded the incongruous-looking hull section. An 80,000-gallon tank supplied the facility with enough water to fill it to the overhead.

  The trainers sat above the space in comfort, controlling which leaks occurred and the water pressure behind them. Although the control booth sat well above the simulated compartment, the windows were fitted with windshield wipers—in use, Jerry noted.

  Lieutenant Jerry Mitchell was the navigator/operations officer aboard USS Seawolf (SSN 21), one of the U.S. Navy’s most capable nuclear attack submarines. He still couldn’t believe his luck in landing an assignment on Seawolf, but didn’t trust to luck in doing his job.

  Jerry was in charge of the operations department, with enlisted rates like quartermasters, electronics technicians, and information systems technicians working for him. They were not engineering specialists, but all submariners were sensibly required to be experts in fighting flooding and fire, and all other types of “casualties.” That was the less threatening navy term for an accident or equipment failure. Jerry drilled his men hard, maybe even a little harder than they wanted. Now it was paying big dividends.

  He’d been aboard for almost six months, and he knew these men well. Like all submariners, they were volunteers: screened, tested, and trained. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t screw up.

  Or make poor choices. The broken flange really had dramatically increased the rate the water was rising, and the level was approaching Jerry’s chest. Poor Bishop, the shortest guy in the department, was already treading water. Chief Hudson was trying to cover every leak, but there were just not enough people anymore.

  “Chief Hudson!” Jerry was only a few feet away, but in the soggy pandemonium, Hudson couldn’t hear. He was absorbed in wedging a shoring timber properly. He was too close to the problem. Jerry fought the urge to give the orders himself. Instead, he put his hand on Hudson’s shoulder, gently pulling him back from the action. He spoke slowly, forcing calm into the situation. “Worry about the big ones! You can’t plug them all! The drain pumps can handle the smaller leaks!”

  He swung his arm around the space, encouraging Hudson to take in the “big picture.” Hudson quickly nodded, droplets of water flying as he did. The electronics technician paused for a moment, considering, before calling out to his team and reassigning some men to the larger leaks.

  Jerry knew the simulation would be over soon, but it was never too late to do the right thing. Sure enough, no sooner had Hudson’s men started their new tasks than an amazingly loud klaxon jolted them to a stop. The rush of water faded, taking the urgency with it. It left Jerry and his department standing in neck-deep water. A new sound, a low-pitched whirring, took over as pumps began dewatering the space.

  “Well done, Seawolf ops department.” The chief trainer’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “Debrief in fifteen minutes.” The trainer’s compliment let a part of Jerry relax as well. Seawolf had a reputation in her squadron and the Atlantic Fleet. This might have been just an exercise, but it was also a chance for Seawolf to shine. Neither Jerry nor his men had any intention of letting their boat down.

  As the water level fell, his men stowed the tools and materials they’d used, then filed out, dripping and shivering.

  They toweled off as the trainers conferred, then started their de
brief. The master chief was matter-of-fact, but merciless. Jerry’s men knew the basics-— that was expected—but they had to be better than just good. The master chief reviewed how they used their tools, how to quickly set up a shoring timber, even how to hammer wedges into a hole that was underwater. “You may think you’re wet now. But if your boat takes a hit, you’ll be a long way from help, and all the water in the world is on the other side of that hole. If you can’t deal with it, you’ll lose the boat, the mission, and your lives.”

  Jerry watched as his men listened attentively to the critique. A deep sense of pride welled up within him; each one was a professional. He felt particularly blessed, as Chief Hudson and the other senior enlisted men in the department were all strong performers. The “plankowners” that had brought Seawolf into service had long ago rotated off, and theoretically the submariners now assigned to her were no better than the rest of the fleet, but Jerry felt and thought they were a cut above the rest. And yes, they were “his” guys . . .

  “All things considered, gentlemen, you did very well,” concluded the master chief with a grin. “I’ll inform your XO that you all died valiantly trying to save your boat. Any questions?”

  A collective groan, plus a volley of wet towels, was the operations department’s response. Jerry laughed as the master chief expertly dodged the assault. The skipper and the XO were going to be pleased with his department’s grade. His men had taken everything the training team had to give before they lost the fight. In a way, it was almost a compliment, if a damp one.

  Jerry didn’t mind. The more you trained for something, the less likely it was that you’d ever actually have to use it.

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  1

  BEWARE THE WOLF

  7 September 2008

  Pier 8, New London Submarine Base

  “Petty Officer Gibson, front and center,” barked Jerry as he and the communications officer, Lieutenant Chandler, stood in front of the operations department, assembled in Seawolf’s navigation equipment room. Seawolf was one of the biggest attack submarines in the U.S. Navy, but the ops department was just barely able to squeeze everyone in.

  When Jerry called out his name, Gibson stepped up smartly and took the clipboard. IT2 Paul Gibson had been aboard the boat longer than Jerry. He was a little on the pudgy side, a common problem on subs where great food and few opportunities for exercise left their mark. He was twenty-seven, with a wife and a one-year-old son. He took position in front of the assembled sailors and began reading the plan of the day.

  “Our underway is now in eight days. Supply chits have to be turned in by tomorrow if Mr. Constantino is supposed to fill them . . .”

  Jerry already knew what the PoD said, and Gibson had everything under control. As he stood, half-listening, Jerry looked over the operations department—his department. That still sounded strange, even after six months on board. Ops department was eighteen men, including Jerry and Lieutenant Chandler.

  As the commo, Chandler was in charge of six “information systems technicians,” or “ITs,” although most of the crew still called them radiomen. And he was responsible for all the boat’s communications equipment and encryption gear.

  And as operations officer, Jerry was responsible for everyone in the department, including Chandler. Jerry was also Seawolf’s navigator, in direct charge of the four quartermasters and six electronics technicians who ran the boat’s navigation systems.

  His sailors were neatly lined up in three groups, wearing clean working uniforms. Civilians would be impressed by their military bearing and discipline. But Jerry knew he faced a band of rugged individualists who worked together only by choice. And while they worked together well, that didn’t come automatically, or even easily.

  “Family day is Saturday, with a cookout at the ball field. We’re still looking for some people to help with the kids’ games, so contact MM2 Stone if you’re interested. The ship’s ombudsman and the family support network still need email addresses ...”

  Jerry’s mind wandered to his own personal “to do” list. However, since he was navigator, operations officer, and senior watch officer, technically it was “lists.” Oh. And he was one of three qualified divers on board.

  As he mentally went down his tally, he looked down at his watch to check the time. No sweat, he still had fifteen minutes before his meeting with Lieutenant Commander Shimko, the executive officer. He had to go over the voyage plan—again. The crew wouldn’t be briefed about their destination until they were under way, but Jerry not only knew where they were going, he had planned out their entire trip in detail.

  It was to Seawolf’s benefit that the XO was a detail freak, but it didn’t make Jerry’s life any easier. He was pretty sure he’d dreamed about the north Barents Sea again last night. He’d been cold when he woke up.

  Gibson finished reading the PoD and looked expectantly at Jerry. Sensing his cue, Mitchell stepped forward and asked, “Do the chiefs or leading petty officers have anything further to add?” All four men responded in the negative.

  “All right, then. Turn to and commence ship’s work. Dismissed.” As the members of the department queued up to exit through the narrow door into the control room, Jerry saw QM1 Peters waiting for his turn, and caught the quartermaster’s eye. He pointed to his watch and then held up five fingers. Peters nodded, understanding. The ship’s leading quartermaster would be at the briefing with the XO as well.

  Jerry waited patiently to exit the nav equipment space and quickly headed aft to his stateroom. Even though the wardroom was on the same deck, and near his quarters, he’d have to hurry a little if he wanted to be punctual. To save time, he’d already organized the materials he needed to bring the night before, but as he approached his stateroom he saw Lieutenant Chandler waiting with a sheaf of papers in his hand and an earnest expression on his face. “Jerry, here are the last of our school requests, but I need to ask you a few questions. . .”

  Jerry cut him off as he stepped into his stateroom. “Sorry, Matt. I’m wearing my navigator hat right now. I’ve got a voyage planning review in the wardroom with the XO.” He dialed his safe and began removing his notes.

  “I know, but this will only take a moment, and I have to turn them in this morning,” the comms officer pleaded.

  “It’ll be morning for some time yet, and I do not want to keep the XO waiting.” Closing the safe should have added a note of finality to Jerry’s statement.

  Chandler wouldn’t give up. “I’ll just turn them in as is. They’re probably fine.”

  “Not without me seeing them first,” Jerry insisted. That was standard procedure for any paperwork going up the chain of command. And Chandler knew better. When the commo smiled and started to offer Jerry the documents, Jerry repeated, “After the meeting. Find me then,” he said firmly, letting some irritation show. Jerry didn’t like mind games. Chandler seemed to think it was the only way to get things done.

  Hurrying the few steps to the wardroom, Jerry entered and found QM1 Peters already inside, laying out the charts. Jerry checked them over one last time, carefully comparing them to his own notes. Only after everything appeared in order did he allow himself to get a cup of coffee.

  ETC Hudson and Lieutenant Commander Shimko appeared in the door as Jerry was pouring. He offered a cup to the XO, who gratefully accepted one. Peters also had some, but Hudson declined.

  Marcus Shimko was second-generation American, born to Andrei and Natalia six years after they’d emigrated from what was then the Soviet Union and now Belarus. He was short, about Jerry’s height, but stocky where Jerry was slim. Shimko had already lost a lot of his hair, but what was left was sandy and cut very short. He was all business, an exceptional organizer and a detail hound—the perfect executive officer.

  Jerry teased Hudson about “not stooping to drink wardroom coffee” but kept one eye on the XO. When the executive officer sat down, ship’s business took over. Jerry picked up his notes while Hudson double-checked the wardroom door,
making sure it was locked.

  With his laser pointer, Jerry highlighted individual sections of the entire mission on the nautical chart taped to the table. The bright blue and yellow chart was overlaid with black lines showing Seawolf’s plotted course, and red top secret labels rubber-stamped on each corner.

  “Our projected track takes us out of the Block Island Sound, east, and then northeast. I’ve recommended passing to the west of Iceland, using the Denmark Strait. Once past Iceland, we follow the east coast of Greenland, using shallow water and biologies wherever possible to mask our approach. Assuming an on-time departure on the fifteenth and a speed of advance of sixteen knots, we should arrive at Point Alpha at 1200 Zulu time on the twenty-third.” Jerry pointed to the first of a series of x’s on the chart.

  He’d rehearsed the speech several times, and gotten it off smoothly. Shimko just nodded, inviting Jerry to continue. So far, so good.

  “I’ve marked the known Russian exercise areas and traffic lanes on the chart. They’ve used these same areas for six years, and there’s no indication that they plan to change them. We have two areas to survey, and a total of eighteen sorties with the three UUVs. Based on what little information we have about this part of the Barents, I’ve chosen sites within each area with potentially good bottom topography and reasonable acoustic conditions, but also a safe route in and out during the survey.”