by Larry Bond
Manning shared one piece of interesting information. Moscow was full of rumors, fueled by the families’ demands for information and the complete lack of anything useful from the Navy Ministry. The only official release from the ministry had stated that search operations were under way, and more information “would be released when it was available.” So far, none was available.
Very quickly, it seemed, the loadmaster stood again and used the public address system. “We’re twenty-five minutes out. Churchill’s doing her best to steer a smooth course, but she says there are ten-foot waves and twenty-five-knot winds. The pilot’s going to use a fast straight-in approach, and not go vertical until the last minute.”
“It’s going to get pretty bumpy,” she warned, “and I’ll come around and make sure your straps are snug. When we land, you’ll feel the thump. Do not unbuckle! After the pilot lands, he’ll reverse the prop’s pitch to hold us on the deck. When he’s satisfied, he’ll tell me, and then, while I drop the ramp, you all unbuckle and move quickly off the plane. Sailors will guide you from that point.”
After her instructions, they all sat waiting. It was still bumpy, worse than any commercial flight she’d ever had, and Patterson wondered how bumpy it was going to get. It got worse, and she kicked herself for asking. She found herself checking her watch every few minutes, but didn’t fight the urge. It was something to do.
It happened in less time than Dolan’s instruction had taken. The plane banked sharply left, leveled, and then suddenly slowed. Patterson saw the wing and engine out her window tilt toward the vertical, and the plane mixed a front-and-back movement into its uneven flight path. It was hard to tell, but she hoped they were descending. The WHAM startled her, and they were down.
Dolan, still strapped in her own seat, motioned with her arms and shouted, “Stay put!” She looked up toward the ceiling, and Patterson saw a pair of lights. One, a bright red, was lit. A moment later the engines’ vibration changed, then intensified again, and the airframe shuddered.
The other light came on, a brilliant green, and Dolan shouted, “Unbuckle! Go! Go!” The ramp was opening, and Patterson was near the back of the group. The overcast daylight nearly blinded her, and a freezing wind pulled at her clothes. Behind her, Dolan and another marine were working with the cargo net. Patterson concentrated on standing right behind Manning and the others. Once again, she would be the last one off the aircraft, and she looked over her enlarged flock almost protectively.
Dolan was urging her forward, even though there was nowhere to go. Patterson shuffled uselessly, then took two steps and felt a rough-surfaced deck beneath her. The wind grew stronger, but a sailor grabbed her by the shoulders and steered away from the aircraft, toward a ladder.
She took three steps and then turned back to look, but the Osprey was already lifting off, the ramp closing as it climbed away from the deck. She stood still for a moment, silently wishing them luck and realizing she’d never said a word to anyone aboard the plane.
A voice behind her said, “Welcome aboard Winston S. Churchill.”
~ * ~
16
SORTIE
7 October 2008 9:45 AM
Severomorsk Naval Base
Sleet streaked the air with pale gray lines and added a glittering white to the freshly fallen snow. The winds had subsided a little, but the force on the car was quite noticeable once it left the lee of a nearby building. Vidchenko’s driver took extra care on the pier’s icy concrete.
The small antisubmarine ship Legkiy lay alongside to the right, her angles and edges softened by the weather. Crates and drums with ice collecting on their tops were piled everywhere, with busy sailors rigging slings and passing boxes hand to hand.
At least, until they spotted the approaching staff car. A sailor pointed and called out, and suddenly every man headed for the ship, piling aboard with petty officers shouting.
As they pulled up to the pier, Vidchenko saw more men boiling out of the ship. They formed ranks along the lifelines on the main deck, and on each level above the main deck running the length of the ship. Twenty-plus officers, in their best uniforms, stood in two ranks on either side of the aft gangplank.
Vidchenko almost rubbed his eyes in disbelief. They were manning the rails! Ships usually did this to honor a high-ranking officer, but this was a working visit, not some ceremonial occasion.
As the car half-slid to a stop by the after gangplank, Vidchenko fought the urge to shout at the idiot captain. Instead, he calmly stepped out of the car, saluted the sentries at the foot of the gangplank, and then the Russian naval ensign when he reached the top.
Legkiy’s captain was tall, with short blond hair under his oversized white uniform cap. Particles of ice were collecting on his cap and greatcoat. He stood stiffly, nervously at attention. What was his age? Mid-thirties? Obviously he was capable. Vidchenko knew that with so few ships in commission, the Navy had its pick of men for each commanding officer’s position. Unfortunately, imagination didn’t seem to be one of the selection board’s priorities.
As Vidchenko stepped onto the deck, the captain called his crew to attention and he saluted, along with the other officers arranged behind him. Vidchenko went through the motions as quickly as he could, suppressing his irritation.
“Captain Second Rank Yuri Alexandrovich Smirnov reports Legkiy is ready! Will you inspect the ship, sir?”
“No, Captain, you may dismiss the crew.”
“Thank you, sir.” Firing a crisp salute, the captain spun in place and called “Dismiss by battle departments! Continue ship’s routine!”
The junior officers disappeared, but the senior ones remained, and the captain invited Vidchenko below. “We have some refreshments in the wardroom, sir. The . . .”
“No thank you, Captain, this is not a social visit.” Vidchenko glanced back at the other officers, waiting and listening. “Let’s speak in your cabin.”
“Yes, sir, of course.” Smirnov seemed puzzled, and a little disappointed. “This way.” Dismissing the waiting officers, he led the admiral forward along the main deck port side, then into an interior passageway and up one set of stairs.
As they walked along the port side, Vidchenko looked at everything. Legkiy was an escort frigate, designed to fight submarines with her medium frequency sonar and 85RU Metel missiles. She also carried short-range antiaircraft missiles and guns for self-defense. While one of the older ships in the fleet, commissioned in 1977, she had undergone an overhaul and modernization in the late 1980s and was still rated as a capable, combat-ready unit.
She looked a little shabby. Rust showed through the paint on corners, and he could see improvised repairs in several places, work that should have been done during a refit. But funds were scarce and the Project 1135 class ships that Legkiy belonged to were being retired. There were only three left in the Northern Fleet and the other two were hors de combat. There was barely enough money for fuel and pay, so spare parts got less and paint was an afterthought. The lines and gear, the admiral saw, were properly stowed. Legkiy was a neat ship, if a little worn.
Inside, in Smirnov’s stateroom, Vidchenko could still hear the wind-driven sleet striking the ship’s sides. A family portrait on his desk and several scribbled drawings taped to the bulkhead were the only personal touches.
Vidchenko spoke as soon as the door closed. “Captain, that ceremonial welcome was a waste of my time and your crew’s.” While he spoke softly, the admiral’s tone and expression matched his words.
Smirnov protested, “Protocol demands we render proper honors, Admiral, we . . .”
“We are preparing for a search and rescue mission, Captain. I don’t want anything as trivial as manning the rails to delay your preparations.” Vidchenko reached into his briefcase. “Which is why I’m here.”
He showed Legkiy’s captain a stack of messages. “This first one was received at 0700 October sixth, yesterday, reporting that you were ready for sea.” He handed it to Smirnov, who read it and nodd
ed.
“Yes, sir, I approved it and gave it to Senior-Lieutenant Rostov yesterday before breakfast to transmit.” He smiled proudly.
Vidchenko angrily demanded, “Then why did we receive requests for food and fuel at 0900, ammunition at 1010, and important spare parts for your sonar at 1130?” He shoved the offending messages at Smirnov, one by one.
The captain almost snapped to attention. “The food is being loaded now, the fuel is due to show up in about half an hour, and the ammunition will be here late this afternoon.”
“And yet you reported you were ready to sail yesterday morning?”
“We were ready, sir.”
“How can you report as being ready for sea when you were missing so many supplies?” Although phrased as a question, Vidchenko’s hostile tone challenged the officer.
“We would have experienced some difficulties, sir, but my sailors are used to hard conditions. Legkiy was the first ship of the task force to report ready for sea, and we can sail this minute if you wish.”
Vidchenko almost exploded. “What good would you do without ammunition or food or a functioning sonar?” He bore down on the captain. “You knew the weather would keep us in port for another day or two, so you took the opportunity to posture. A paper prize for a meaningless accomplishment.”
Stiffly, still at attention, Smirnov repeated, “If ordered, we would have sailed, and I am sure my crew could have overcome any supply difficulties.”
The man was impossible. Either he was a fool or chose to cling to his lie. “Summon your Starpom.”
“Yes sir.” Smirnov turned and spoke quickly into a phone near his desk.
Legkiy’s first officer showed up almost instantly. He must have been waiting outside the captain’s cabin. “Captain Third Rank Vasiliy Ivanovich Filippov reporting as ordered.” A younger man than Smirnov, he smiled, eager to please the high-ranking visitor.
Vidchenko returned Filippov’s salute, then turned back to Smirnov. “Captain Second Rank Smirnov, you are relieved of command. Report immediately to the Headquarters Northern Fleet for reassignment.”
Smirnov was still processing Vidchenko’s order as the admiral turned to the equally shocked Filippov. “Captain Third Rank Filippov, take command of Legkiy. By the time I return to my headquarters, I want a full and correct report on her readiness for sea on my desk.” Vidchenko let his expression soften a little. “You have a little time. I have one or two other stops to make.”
Smirnov was starting to react, realization passing across his face in a wave. As he opened his mouth to speak, Vidchenko cut him off. “Relieved for cause is much better than being court-martialed. Falsifying official reports and lying to one’s superiors are serious charges.”
Vidchenko turned back to Filippov. “And I intend to sortie the task group early tomorrow morning.” It was Filippov’s turn to look shocked, but he wisely said nothing, so Vidchenko added, “We will be moving northwesterly while the storm moves east. Time is our first enemy. There may be others.”
Filippov gathered himself enough to respond. “Yes, comrade Admiral.”
“I’ll find my own way out,” Vidchenko announced as he left the two officers. He hadn’t even taken off his greatcoat.
Petty Officer Denisov had turned the car around, and was smoking in the lee of a storehouse. By the time Vidchenko reached the gangplank, the driver had ditched the cheap cigarette and had one hand on the door handle. In spite of the ice, Vidchenko hurried down the gangplank.
Once in the car and out of the weather, the admiral ordered, “Take me to the Supply Motor Transport Section.” He looked at his notes. “It’s building K-115.” Denisov nodded and started moving.
Vidchenko checked his notes. According to Captain-Lieutenant Morsky, it was simply impossible for him to transport the supplies they’d requested to all the ships in the task group today.
He was sure he could change Morsky’s mind.
~ * ~
Northern Fleet Headquarters, Severomorsk
Vice Admiral Sergey Mikhailovich Kokurin was a solid-looking man. He’d had a wrestler’s physique as a young man, and while some of the sand had settled, he was still an imposing figure.
He liked being imposing. His office was finished in rich colors with dark wood and filled with overstuffed furniture. The walls were covered with paintings and large photographs of great moments in Russian naval history. A bust of Fyodor Ushakov watched everyone from one corner, while flags of the Russian Federation and the Navy stood in the other.
Kokurin was the commander of the Russian Northern Fleet, and while it was smaller and weaker than the force he’d known as a young man, he loved it with all the devotion and protectiveness of a father.
Some of his men were missing, and he’d directed the entire Northern Fleet to do everything in its power to find Severodvinsk and rescue the crew, if they were still alive. He’d said so a dozen times since the crisis began. Everything that could be done was being done. He had his people keeping track of the rescue mission. He received briefings on their progress twice a day.
So why was he sitting behind the desk that had belonged to Admiral Ushakov, cornered like an animal by a pack of angry babushkas?
No, that isn’t true, he thought to himself. A babushka is an old woman, a Russian grandmother or a mother-in-law. They were a force to be reckoned with, as fierce and relentless as a Russian winter. But this group included some young women as well, wives and mothers, some barely out of their teens.
The seven women in his office, quietly seated in an assortment of chairs, calmly drinking tea, were causing more problems than a collision at sea, than a weapons accident. he’d dealt with those things in his naval career. They had been Navy matters, handled within the Navy, and whatever the resolution, the matter had stayed inside the Navy’s haze-gray walls.
But these wives and mothers had taken Severodvinsk’s loss outside the Navy, demanding answers from the government.
Kokurin remembered all too well the loss of Kursk. That tragedy, as well as the debacle in Chechnya, had been the start. The families of that submarine had been able to organize and demand an investigation, and they’d gotten it. As far as he was concerned, the Navy had expended almost as much effort satisfying the families as it had in finding and raising the submarine.
It had been different when he joined the fleet. Families were expected to sacrifice along with their servicemen, and to do so in silence. Discussing operational details or flaws or problems in training or materiel revealed valuable information. An enemy, especially one with the resources of the USA or NATO, could exploit those flaws. The Navy had actually released the official report of the Kursk investigation to the families. Normally such a document would have been highly classified, and now there were copies of it on the Internet!
The defense minister had virtually ordered him to meet with the families. “Say whatever will make them happy. Remember to blame the Americans. This crisis is their fault.”
Olga Sadilenko, the spokesperson for the group, was a hard case. The mother of Severodvinsk’s reactor officer, she was articulate and unimpressed by busts, flags, paintings or admirals. Her questions were maddeningly simple.
“Have you confirmed the Americans’ information?”
“If you mean the location they provided, no, we haven’t. A Navy spokesman has suggested that the Americans may have deliberately given us incorrect information,” Kokurin answered.
“But that makes no sense,” the woman responded. “Why admit your involvement and then lead the searcher to the wrong place? What did the ships find there?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Sadilenko, I’m not at liberty to say. There have been indications that the American is deliberately interfering with the search.”
“How is he doing this?” Sadilenko demanded. “Why have your ships not driven him from the area?”
“That information is classified.”
Kokurin had tried to sound final, but Sadilenko wasn’t deterred. “Why classify
it? The Americans obviously know, our Navy knows, and”—she paused to look at her notes—”Captain-Lieutenant Rvanin made the accusation public yesterday morning.”
She looked straight at Kokurin. “If the Americans’ actions are harming our progress, shouldn’t we share our evidence with the world? Make them explain themselves?”
“I’m sorry, madam, I cannot explain further.”
Sadilenko looked unhappy, and the women broke into sudden discussion, everyone seeming to talk at the same time. It trailed off with Sadilenko nodding. She turned back to Kokurin.
“Did the search forces at least include the Americans’ information in their plan?”
“I’m sorry, that is classified.”
“Do you know where the American submarine is?”