by Larry Bond
Before anyone could respond, Huber added, “She’s making things happen, and she’s taking all the risks. As long as she keeps us informed—” He gave Wright a hard look.”—she has my authorization to act freely.”
~ * ~
Petr Velikiy
Kurganov, Vidchenko, and most of Petr’s wardroom had gathered in the central command post. The sonar officer had calculated the range of their underwater telephone as three miles. Racing ahead of Mikhail Rudnitskiy at thirty knots, and having reached that three-mile distance from “Point Severodvinsk,” the formation had slowed to a bare creep.
While the big cruiser continued to move slowly and silently toward the location provided by Seawolf, her escorts fanned out, spacing themselves in a ten-mile-diameter circle around the site. They didn’t use their active sonars, but they did listen passively. If a submarine was detected, Vidchenko had issued orders to drive it away.
At five knots, it would take a while to cover the last three miles, but that time didn’t matter. Rudnitskiy was still two hours behind the warships. They had to slow if they wanted to hear the sub.
The sonar officer spoke into a microphone, sending Severodvinsk’s pendant number over and over. “K-329, this is Hull 099, over.” He paused for a moment, then repeated the call. “K-329, this is Hull 099, respond.”
After five minutes, and checking the navigational plot for the distance, the sonar officer began again. Between each call, he paused for sixty seconds. In spite of the crowded room, nobody wanted to make the slightest noise. Vidchenko could hear the small cooling fans inside the electronic equipment, the click every time the sonar officer pressed the microphone.
It took fifteen minutes and 2500 yards before they heard a response. It was Petrov’s voice, clear and recognizable. “This is Severodvinsk, we are glad to hear you.”
The cheer almost deafened him. They were in a metal-walled compartment, after all. Both admirals glared and the sound stopped instantly, and they heard the end of a sentence: “. . . our families.”
The sonar officer managed to say, “Please repeat your last,” before Vidchenko took the microphone.
“This is Rear Admiral Vidchenko. What is your situation? Over.”
“We are resting on the bottom at a depth of one hundred ninety-seven meters. We have a thirty-four-degree port list and a nine-degree downward pitch. Compartments one, seven, and eight are completely flooded; compartment six is partially flooded. Over.”
Vidchenko marveled at Petrov’s coolness and the neat summary, even as he digested the information. The forwardmost compartment, which held mostly berthing, was flooded. That meant a hole in the pressure hull forward. That was bad enough.
Worse was the news aft. There must have been a second hull breach near the stern, or perhaps the stern tube ruptured. Compartment eight held the auxiliary mechanisms, such as rudder and stern plane actuators and the emergency propulsion motor. Compartment six and seven had the main propulsion turbines, electrical generation turbines, and machinery that supported the reactor. With that one sentence, Petrov had marked the end of his first command, and the newest submarine in the Russian Navy.
A burst of sadness and grief filled him, and the admiral asked, “Casualties?”
“Sixty-seven survivors, nineteen have serious injuries, but are currently stable.” Petrov paused, then reported, “Eighteen dead, sixteen during the collision, and two shortly after from their injuries.”
“Understood,” Vidchenko answered. “We’ll get names shortly. Mikhail Rudnitskiy will arrive in just under two hours and will immediately launch AS-34.”
“They won’t be able to evacuate us, not with compartment eight flooded.”
“Agreed,” Vidchenko replied. “Based on your report, we’ll have it survey the bottom and then we’ll determine what is needed to bring the boat level. Is your rescue chamber intact?”
“Yes!” Petrov’s frustration came though clearly. “If we can right the boat we will be able to bring everyone to the surface. Why are you surveying the bottom again? Seawolf has already performed one. Don’t you have it? They gave a copy to me when they sent us the carbon dioxide chemicals and medical supplies. It was very complete.”
Vidchenko ignored the question. “What about your atmosphere?”
“Oxygen is at sixteen percent, carbon dioxide at two point five percent. We have forty-four hours of chemicals remaining, thanks to Seawolf. We’d be near death by now if she hadn’t transferred her own emergency C02 absorption curtains to us.”
“We will have you righted and out of there by tomorrow, I promise.” It was surreal, speaking so easily to someone trapped on the ocean floor. Petrov and his men were in mortal danger, but he might as well have been telephoning his wife.
“Admiral Kuganov will take over now. He can get the details of your dead and injured. I must go see to Rudnitskiy and the submersible.”
“Thank you, Admiral, we are sure you will save us. And please thank Commander Rudel and the men aboard Seawolf, sir. Not only did they find us, they kept us alive until you could get here.”
Vidchenko didn’t answer.
~ * ~
22
RENDEZVOUS
9 October 2008
1915/7:15 PM
USS Seawolf
They surfaced five miles off Churchill’s port beam. Normally, when Seawolf joined on a surface vessel, she did so by announcing her presence with a green flare, a thousand yards astern, in perfect firing position. This time, instead of “bang you’re dead,” a yellow flare broke the surface, indicating that a submarine was coming to periscope depth. But without a periscope or most of her sonars, Seawolf had poor situational awareness of the surface above, and couldn’t safely come up near another ship. Once Churchill’s bridge crew saw the yellow flare, they maneuvered away to give Seawolf all the room she needed. While a little excessive, nobody disagreed with Rudel’s caution.
Once on the roof, Seawolf began to close on the now fully illuminated destroyer. Jerry was well aware of Seawolf’s limitations, and he swore at times that he could physically feel them, but this surfacing bruised his already tender submariner’s ego. It was just plain wrong to meekly surface and then hobble over and take station astern of a surface combatant. Just thinking about it made him wince. And it was doubtful that Doc Gallant had anything, other than his cheery bedside manner, to treat it with.
Even though the weather had improved considerably, Seawolf was still very much restricted in her ability to maneuver on the surface. At anything more than five knots, the large gentle swells caused the heavily damaged bow to vibrate and make some very unpleasant noises. Instead of racing northeast at thirty-plus knots, Churchill would be limited to Seawolf’s glacial pace.
As the boat rolled slowly from side to side, Jerry was starting to get used to being on the surface. His stomach still complained, and he was sure he was losing weight from missed meals, but he was learning to cope with the nausea. It was amazing how much the weather could change in just over a day. The evening sky topside was magnificent, with a colorful twilight having faded away under clear skies. The main act, however, was the aurora borealis, or northern lights, which put on a spectacular display. The chief of the watch had no problems getting volunteers to man the two lookout positions on the bridge. Despite his doubling the number of lookouts, there were so many who wanted to go up that he’d shortened each watch to just an hour.
The captain and the XO slowly walked down the ladder into control, having just come down from the bridge, and handed their parkas to the messenger of the watch. Rudel looked much better, having gotten some rest after the depth-charging incident earlier. He still looked depressed over having to retreat from Severodvinsk’s position, but the XO assured Jerry that the captain was finally on the mend. Apparently, being forced to leave was the straw that broke the captain’s resolve and all the emotional baggage he had been holding on to since the collision was thrown overboard all at once. Jerry hoped the XO was right. He’d hate to
see a leader like Rudel suffer over the collision. There had been enough casualties already.
Both of them came over to the chart table, Shimko actually looked like he was in a good mood. “Nice job on the rendezvous, Nav. I particularly liked that little Kabuki dance at the end.”
“Thanks, XO. I think.” Jerry smiled; he knew Shimko was jerking his chain over the delay in meeting up with Churchill. “It’s not my fault that no one told me that Churchill went to afterburner and roared right by us,” he complained defensively. Between their escape course and Churchill’s increase in speed, the two ships had failed to link up as expected, and Churchill had to backtrack to rendezvous with Seawolf. Jerry had taken a little good-natured ribbing once they had realized the destroyer had passed CPA and was opening. “Still, it’s nice to finally operate with a ship from our Navy.”
“I think we all like having a friendly face in the neighborhood,” said Rudel.
“Hear, hear!” Shimko exclaimed. “I’d love to see those helos try a repeat of their antics with an Aegis destroyer around.”
“Listen, Jerry. I want to thank you for all you’ve done to help the XO hold this boat together over the last couple days. I guess I let myself get a little too preoccupied with Severodvinsk,” Rudel admitted quietly.
Jerry, surprised by Rudel’s confession, took a moment to react, and then another when he realized he didn’t know how to respond. Shimko covered for him.
“Skipper, wise man says, ‘Strong feelings precede great movements.’ We all want to help the Russian.”
“Perhaps, Marcus. But I think I need to keep better track of my responsibilities. I just didn’t see the forest fire for the flaming trees. And now that the Russian fleet is finally on station, they are better equipped than we are to rescue Petrov and his crew.”
Rudel studied the nav plot for a moment, then said, “It’s too dark to do anything more tonight, but in the morning some experts on Churchill are going to come aboard to inspect our damage. Then when they leave, I’m going with them to a meeting on board the Russian flagship, Peter the Great”
Jerry absorbed the news. Visitors at sea, the captain leaving the ship . . .
“And it turns out you know one of them,” Shimko added. “There’s a Dr. Patterson aboard. She’s billed as our SAR coordinator. Apparently, the president’s national security adviser appointed her to the position and she’s calling the shots.” He studied Jerry for a moment, gauging his expression. “She says you and her are old shipmates, which means she must have been with you on Memphis.”
Jerry searched for a moment, then replied simply, “That’s right. . .” and after another pause, “She’s a scientist, and she rode with us on our spec op. Since her trip on Memphis she’s become a big fan of submariners. She even married one.”
“She’s Lowell Hardy’s wife?” Rudel asked a little surprised.
“Yes, sir.”
“So ah, do you two keep in touch?” pushed Shimko.
“With her and Captain Hardy? Christmas cards, mostly. I visited them the last time I was in Washington.” Jerry was uncomfortable with Shimko’s interest and tried to move the conversation on. “XO, what time will they be coming aboard?”
“Oh seven hundred, they’ll be guests for breakfast. A woman on a submarine, eh? I’d love to hear some of her sea stories. Yep, I’m definitely looking forward to meeting an old shipmate of yours, Jerry.”
As Rudel and the XO both headed aft, Jerry forced his shoulders to unclench. Joanna Patterson. He would be glad to see her, even after, or maybe because of, everything that had happened aboard Memphis. He was pretty sure she wouldn’t talk to Shimko about Memphis’s last mission, but that wouldn’t stop the XO from trying.
~ * ~
10 October 2008
0630/6:30 AM
Mikhail Rudnitskiy
Someone was shaking his shoulder. “Admiral, sir, they’ll be ready to launch in half an hour.” Light flooded into his brain, and Vidchenko stirred. He shook his head, and then blinked several times.
A senior-lieutenant, one of Rudnitskiy’s engineers, had stepped back, and was offering him a mug of hot tea. The admiral waved it off, saying, “No, thank you. I’ll be there soon.”
The officer left, and Vidchenko rolled out of the bunk and stood carefully. He stretched briefly to work out some of the stiffness in his joints, then dressed and washed. Someone had left him a pair of submarine coveralls, more appropriate for AS-34 than the working uniform he’d worn over. They’d even put his name on them, along with the proper rank insignia.
He’d used the captain’s cabin, and its unfamiliar layout slowed him a little. Gradev had a large family. The photo over his desk showed a gray-haired woman surrounded by seven children, probably taken by Gradev himself. Other shots scattered around the cabin showed the captain with the children at sporting events. The largest photo was of Gradev in some sort of tropical setting, standing next to an incredibly large fish. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt.
A petty officer was waiting outside the cabin, and he snapped to attention as the door opened. “Would you like to have some breakfast, sir? There’s still time. They’ve just started . . .”
“No. I’ll go to the sub.”
“Yessir. Please follow me.”
The petty officer led him down a brightly lit passageway, then down two ladders to the main deck level, and out through a watertight door to the dark weather decks. The cold wind pulled at his coat, but the admiral hardly felt it. He was already absorbed in the dive.
A separate set of ladders took them down to the deck of the hold, now open to the air as they rigged lifting lines to the minisub.
Gradev came running over. “Good morning, sir!”
“How long until we launch, Captain?”
“We will disconnect the charging cables in another five minutes. The instant they are gone, you and the crew will board and we will put AS-34 over the side.”
“Disconnect the cables now. Petrov and his men are on borrowed time. Those final five minutes won’t make any difference.”
“Immediately, Admiral.” Gradev ran to give the orders, and Vidchenko studied the toylike submersible. It would have fit on the deck of his first command, a nuclear sub, and that boat was half the tonnage of Severodvinsk.
Two middle-aged officers in coveralls came up and saluted. “Captain Third Rank Bakhorin, Admiral. I am the officer in charge and pilot. This is Captain Third Rank Umansky, my systems engineer and navigator.”
Bakhorin hadn’t referred to himself as “Captain” because AS-34 was not a commissioned naval vessel. He wore a submariner’s insignia, as did Umansky, and Vidchenko wondered whether it was by choice or circumstance that two middle-grade officers had decided to crew this clumsy craft.
“There’s a jump seat just aft of the conning station, sir. There’s very little room to shift positions with three of us in there, so you’ll have to board first.”
“Will I be able to see out any of the ports?” That was the whole reason Vidchenko was going. The photos taken on the first dive had been so poor that it was hard to visualize Severodvinsk’s situation. He had to see for himself if that was the best they could do, and at the same time find out what he could of Severodvinsk’s plight.
“Yes, comrade Admiral,” Bakhorin replied. “Although the viewports are not very big. Your field of view will be limited. Come, let’s get on board.”
Bakhorin motioned to Vidchenko, pointing to a ladder. “This way, sir.” The three walked over to the ladder that provided access to the submersible’s deck, with crewmen along the way wishing them luck. Some saluted, others clapped them on the back, some even gave obscene encouragements. AS-34 Priz was the reason Rudnitskiy was there—the reason for the entire task force. There was a lot of hope riding on something that looked like a bath toy.
Vidchenko turned to start climbing the boarding ladder, but Bakhorin stopped him. “Your coat, sir. I’m afraid there’s no room for it inside.”The admiral handed it to a petty
officer, and then started up the ladder. Vidchenko struggled to keep his feet in the rungs as the ladder flexed and the ship rolled, but found himself quickly and was soon on top. “Just go straight in!” Bakhorin instructed, as he held the ladder extension so the admiral could step straight down into the interior of the minisub.
Stepping onto the hatch rim, Vidchenko grabbed the extension and slowly descended into the opening. It was lit, thank goodness, and he gingerly picked his way into the cluttered interior.
The access trunk was only a meter long, and led into a cylindrical compartment about two meters in length. It was an irregular cylinder, with equipment and consoles invading the space without regard for movement or human convenience. It was impossible to stand fully upright. Behind him, through a hatchway, was another larger cylinder with seating for twenty passengers.