by Larry Bond
Patterson nodded. “We’re carrying spare electronics parts for her.”
Bover pulled out a printout. “I’ve got the list. That was the one thing I was able to get, and it’s the Air Force cargo manifest. It’s all very last-minute. I almost didn’t make the flight.”
By now the plane was taxiing, and Patterson said, “Once we’re in the air, Commander Silas will help you contact NAVSEA and get you whatever you need. We have top priority on this mission.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Doctor. The most important thing is to find out where Seawolf is heading, Vadsø or Tromsø. I don’t remember whether either port can take a vessel with her draft. . .”
“Mr. Bover, Seawolf is in the middle of a search-and-rescue operation for a downed Russian submarine.”
Bover nodded vigorously. “I understand that, Doctor. It’s all over the media and the Internet. I promise, the instant Seawolf reaches port, my techs will be all over her. We’ll turn her around in record time.”
“She’s not coming in to port. The plan is to send these parts out to her.”
Bover’s shocked expression surprised her. “Who thought that up? The weather is just getting better here. It’s still very bad to the north. Even if we can get the parts to her, the reported damage is extensive. Temporary repairs would normally take a few weeks. I was going to move heaven and earth to get it done in two, maybe three days.”
“Are you saying that these repairs can’t be made at sea?”
Bover answered instantly. “I’d recommend against it. This is sophisticated equipment. The techs will have a lot of work to do just identifying all the damaged parts. If they don’t get all the bad boards out, they could fry the replacement parts when the gear’s turned on.”
He paused for a moment, then added, “I’m amazed she isn’t heading for port right now.”
“Mr. Bover, this is literally a life and death situation. Seawolf can’t leave.”
He sighed. “Then I don’t know what I can do.”
Confusion swirled inside Patterson as she considered Bover’s information. What if he was right? But he said he wasn’t a technician and his expertise was in surface ships.
They reached altitude and unbuckled, and Patterson immediately found herself surrounded. Hayes was first in line. “Jeff Monroe says you need a weather update, ma’am. Current conditions?”
Patterson nodded, “Yes, that would be fine.”
“For what location, please?” She looked confused, and Hayes added, “For Bardufoss, or Churchill’s position, or the Barents? And how far in advance?” Getting a tailor-made weather forecast meant giving the tailor your measurements.
She paused, adjusting, but only for a moment. “Please forecast the progress of the storm, and when it will clear the site of the collision and the Northern Fleet’s ports. And make sure to give the information to Dr. Russo as well.” Hayes nodded and went aft.
After that, Commander Silas wanted permission to send a message to Churchill and tell her CO about the extra personnel. Then Joyce Parker wanted to protest Patterson’s refusal to let a reporter on board, and Monroe wanted to know if they wanted dinner.
There were more introductions during the meal, and while the atmosphere was cordial, almost jovial, Patterson felt control slipping away. Russo and the Norwegian were huddled with Hayes the weather sergeant, Silas and Bover were conferring, while Parker was typing furiously on her laptop in a corner.
Then she noticed Jane Matsui, standing at her elbow with a question about an upcoming bill. It was a trivial issue given the circumstances, but she welcomed Jane’s question gladly.
The flight to Bardufoss was only two hours, and halfway through she called another conference to hear Russo’s analysis.
He kept it brief. “If Seawolf can find the Russian sub, that makes the rescue possible. Without Seawolf, it’s doubtful they can be found in time.” He nodded toward Hayes. “If the storm stays on track, the Russians can leave port late tomorrow, which puts them on station late the next day based on the max speed of their rescue ship. That means Severodvinsk will have already been down five days.”
Russo looked around the table, saw no disagreement. “Arne’s people will leave port this evening, which puts them on station in sixty-two hours, at their best speed. That’s the good news. The bad news is that Russian crew will be almost out of breathable air by the time the Norwegians arrive. They’ll be hurting, at best.” Lindstrom nodded grimly. “The morning of the tenth of October is the earliest rescue operations can begin, other factors permitting.”
“The other factors being that we’ve found her, that the weather does indeed improve—and that they’re still alive to begin with,” Silas offered. Patterson noticed Bover nodding agreement.
“We can’t control that,” Russo agreed, “but we need information from the Russians so that Arne’s people are ready to go when they get on station. Technical data on Severodvinsk’s escape hatches and internal layout. That’s the first thing we’ll need from them.”
Bover snorted. “Their newest nuclear attack sub? They’d rather sell their mothers.”
Russo ignored the comment. “Good charts of the area would also help a lot. More than hydrography, the area has been used and fought over for a hundred years. Knowing the location of wrecks or expended ordnance will help Seawolf with her search as well as warn us of any potential trouble spots.”
Patterson asked, “What if we can’t get the information on Severodvinsk?”
Russo looked to Lindstrom. The Norwegian said, “It’s all about time. Depending on the depth, we may not have the luxury of deploying divers. That means everything may have to be done with submersibles and ROVs. Even if we could get divers into the water, they would probably have to use atmospheric diving suits, there is simply not enough time for a saturation dive.”
“Conditions will be difficult. Visibility will be measured in single meters, and it is cold. The suit makes any movement an effort. If there’s a current, that makes it worse.” Lindstrom’s voice carried experience.
“Did your company help with the Kursk disaster?”
“No, but I was one of the divers working for Stolt Offshore and I dove on the boat. I am getting too old now, but I may make one or two early dives, so that I can see conditions for myself.”
Patterson made a note to listen carefully whenever Lindstrom spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re approaching Bardufoss. Please take your seats.”
As they buckled in, Monroe listened on the plane’s interphone, then announced, “As soon as we land and you deplane, vans will take you over to the MV-22. It’s waiting for us to land, and actually, they would like to expedite their takeoff, so that they can be back at base before dark.”
The plane began to shudder, and Monroe warned, “It’s going to be bumpy coming in. Ceiling and visibility are at minimums, but Bardufoss has excellent instrument-landing facilities.”
As he reassured them, the staff sergeant carefully checked each passenger’s seat belt, snugging down Bover’s, and re-stowed several personal items. He almost lost his footing a few times, but finished, then hurried to his own jump seat and belted in.
At first, Patterson tried to make notes, but in the end she put the pad away, gripped the handrests and closed her eyes. Imagining the plane was a bus on a bumpy road helped, if she imagined it was a very bumpy road.
The shock of the landing was startling, but also a relief. A few minutes’ fast taxi put them near a hangar, and when Monroe opened the door, she could see Air Force vans waiting nearby. The wind pushed its way into the cabin with a sharp edge, and the clouds were so low Patterson wondered what the “minimums” were.
She let the others deplane first while she organized her things. Her BlackBerry beeped, and a message from Lowell appeared. She’d texted him about Bover’s concerns, and her husband’s answer was brief, submariners can fix anything. stay safe.
Both pilots came out of the cockpit, and along with Monroe, shook h
er hand. The pilot, a tanned, stocky major, said, “Good luck, ma’am. Watch those Navy types. I don’t know if they’re trustworthy.” He didn’t smile for half a second, but finally did, and she grinned at the joke as well.
Patterson made sure she was the last one of her party off the plane, with Monroe offering to take her things to the van. Hurrying ahead, he hustled everyone into one of the two vehicles, saving space for her in the front as she hurried through the swirling wind. She realized it was spitting rain, not enough to see, but she could feel the drops stinging her face.
Monroe reached in to shake her hand again as she belted in. “Good luck, ma’am. I’ve got a brother in submarines.”
The instant she closed the door, the van’s driver took off at speed. A base “follow me” car led the two vehicles around several hangars to another part of the flight line.
A Marine Corps MV-22 Osprey sat parked at one end of a line of helicopters. It was the only one not secured against the weather. Chains ran from the fuselages of the others to the concrete and the blade tips were tied down by ropes as well.
The gray-painted aircraft had a squarish, boxy fuselage and a rounded nose in front, and swept up at the rear for a cargo ramp that was down and open, waiting for them. The wings looked wrong, and she realized they were pointed straight up, as were the engines, like two helicopter rotors.
As she spotted the aircraft, figures around it suddenly burst into action, as if waiting for their arrival. Even as the vans came to a stop, the huge blades began to turn. A thin whine quickly built up to a bass roar that fought the wind for control and filled the air with an almost visible vibration.
As her group left the vehicles, they were led over to airmen standing by another van. They pulled olive one-piece coveralls out of the rear, and she realized they were lined and had hoods.
A noncom looked her up and down and called, “Pass me a Large.” He helped her out of her own civilian parka, reassuring her. “This survival suit is just as warm and will protect you if there are problems enroute, or during the transfer to the destroyer.”
Grateful she’d worn slacks for warmth, she let the enlisted man wrap the suit around her and efficiently zip her in. A part of her mind wanted to ask about what kind of “problems” he was referring to, but then decided she didn’t want to know.
Her own gear was transferred to a duffel, and he instructed, “Stand right there, and don’t move until the loadmaster says so.” The intensity in his instruction made her reluctant to even shift her stance. He patted her on the shoulder and said “Good luck” in an unnervingly serious tone. Standing with the others, she fiddled with the suit’s zippers and wondered which one of the men near the plane was the loadmaster.
Almost immediately, one of the figures, a staff sergeant, trotted over to the group and called, “Dr. Patterson!” She realized the caller, inside a hooded parka, was female. The name on the outside read “Dolan.”
Shouting over the noise of the engines, Staff Sergeant Dolan read a list of names from a clipboard, and each of Patterson’s group signaled in turn. Satisfied that everyone was accounted for, she approached Patterson, then motioned for everyone to surround her.
“We’ll approach the aircraft in single file. Please follow me, Doctor. All the baggage is aboard.”
Patterson had to ask. “What about the repair parts?”
Dolan nodded. “They are loaded, and I personally double-checked them. The rest of your party is already aboard, so as soon as you’re on we take off.”
“What? What ‘rest of my party’?” Either Patterson’s question was lost in the wind or Dolan was in a hurry, because she turned and started walking toward the aircraft. Patterson hurried to keep up and fell in behind her. It seemed a simple enough task to just follow someone else, but the buffeting air and enveloping noise in the unfamiliar surroundings interfered.
It took only a moment or two to reach the end of the ramp, and Dolan stepped to one side, urging Patterson and then the rest of the group up into the aircraft’s interior.
Nobody would ever confuse the inside of an MV-22 with an executive transport. The large interior was littered with fittings and fixtures she couldn’t begin to recognize. Canvas-covered jump seats lined each side, and a Marine corporal in a flight suit and helmet motioned her to move forward and buckle in.
There were about ten seats to a side, and three of the seats on one side were already occupied. A cargo net forward enclosed a pile of luggage, wooden crates, and boxes—the repair parts, the original reason for the trip.
The marine was urgently motioning for her to sit down on the opposite side, in the forward seat. As she did so, one of the figures on the other side unbelted and quickly moved over to her, buckling into the seat next to her.
As soon as he was secured, he turned and offered his hand. “Dr. Patterson, I’m Dwight Manning, your State Department liaison.”
“But.” She paused. “We . . .”
Her confusion showed, and Manning explained, “When State found out Art Lopez was sick, they called me and asked me to take his place. I’m from the Political Office in the embassy in Moscow. I’ve been traveling since late last night. We landed at Bardufoss an hour ago, and we’ve been aboard less than fifteen minutes, waiting for you to arrive.”
By this time, the rest of Patterson’s group was aboard and belted in. Staff Sergeant Dolan spoke into a headset, then pressed a control. The ramp came up with a whine and closed with a solid latching sound, the sudden quiet and darkness startling.
Dolan picked up a microphone. “The flight will take approximately an hour and fifteen minutes. Once we’re closer to our destination I’ll give you instructions for leaving the aircraft. Do not leave your seat or unbuckle without asking my permission. Just raise your hand and I’ll come over.”
She spoke into her headset again and then belted in. Patterson heard an alarming series of whines and thumps, but outside her window she saw the wing and engines tilting, moving from vertical to horizontal. As soon as the wing was fully down, she felt the aircraft move, and they taxied for a short while, then picked up speed. The Osprey quickly became airborne. It was a bumpy takeoff, and for a while all Patterson could think about was a thrill ride that properly belonged in an amusement park.
The light outside the window suddenly disappeared as they pushed into the angry overcast she’d seen from the ground. The bumps grew milder, and Patterson picked up the conversation with Manning.
“State said Joyce Parker was taking Lopez’s place.”
Manning looked surprised. “I know Joyce Parker. She’s in public affairs.”
Patterson nodded. “That’s right.” She gestured to Parker, further back in the aircraft.
Manning leaned forward a little to look, then sat back shaking his head. “State would never send a press hack to liaise with the Russians. I’m the number two in the Moscow embassy’s political office. I’ve studied and dealt with the Russians for twenty-three years. I speak Russian, Ukrainian, and even a little Georgian.”
Patterson made a promise to herself to deal with Parker once they reached the destroyer. She wondered if modern ships still had brigs. “What about the others?”
“The person on the left came with me from the embassy. Ron Phillips is a communications specialist. State said you had a large party, and you’d be generating a lot of message traffic. The other one showed up at the embassy late last night. He’s the Skynews Moscow correspondent, Britt Adams.”
Manning saw alarm in Patterson’s eyes and tried to reassure her. “I’ve worked with Adams many times. He’s good—experienced, and speaks Russian as well. He had a letter from State telling him about your mission and suggesting he join us. Get our side of the story out and counter some of this Russian trash they’re flinging around.”
“How would he have gotten that letter? Who would have sent it to him?” Even as Patterson asked Manning the question, she knew the answer, and looked at Parker again. This time Parker met her gaze, then quickly l
ooked down, lest she be burned to a crisp. A brig was too good for her.
Manning raised his hands, as if to ward off Patterson’s anger. “We need a reporter, and we can use Joyce Parker. She’s aggressive . . .”
Patterson snorted.
“.. . but the good ones always are. I’m here to help you. Let me deal with her.” He gestured around the inside of the aircraft. “It’s a little late to send her back.”
Patterson sat back, fuming at her helplessness and Parker’s duplicity at weaseling her way into the group, and then getting around her to get a reporter on board. But she forced herself to set it aside. Instead, she concentrated on learning all she could about Manning and his skills, and telling him what they’d determined so far.