Cold Choices

9. DISASTER

A coughing fit yanked Petrov back to consciousness, an acrid scent that made his mouth taste of old tires. Disoriented, he fought to remember where he was. It was dark, but he didn’t recall turning off the reading light in his bunk.

No. That wasn’t right. This wasn’t his cabin. He felt himself lying on the deck, propped up against the command console. His head and right shoulder burned with pain, which became sharper when he tried to pull himself up. As he struggled to stand, he saw the dim glow of the emergency lights.

Everything was wrong. What had happened to the power? The central post was dark, really dark, in the worst possible way. Not only were the lights out, but most of the console displays were dead as well. As his confusion subsided, he felt the sudden loss of information. What was happening throughout the rest of the boat?

He took a cautious first step, but nearly fell anyway. The deck was tilted, down by the bow and sharply to port. They must be resting on the bottom. He coughed again, and smelled what had to be smoke. Fear poured into him, and he searched for other signs of fire. By the time he’d scanned the entire central command post his head was clearing. Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be any flames. But he still had to figure out where that smoke was coming from.

A number of the men were just getting up themselves, some with effort, a sure sign of injury. Others lay crumpled on the deck, unmoving. As Petrov started inching toward the nearest man, he asked himself two questions. How many of my crew are injured? What is the material condition of my boat? He needed answers, and he needed them now.

Chief Engineer Lyachin was just getting up as Petrov climbed over to the ship’s systems-control station. Steadying the wobbly engineer, Petrov was relieved that he did not appear to be seriously hurt. “Sergey Vladimirovich, I need you to go back to the aft compartments and inspect them for damage. Can you walk?”

“Yes, Captain. I think so.”

“Good, Chief. Report on casualties and the status of the engineering plant. Use messengers. The internal communications aren’t working.”

“I suspect that’s not the only system that isn’t functioning,” remarked Lyachin with a slight grin. The engineer coughed and then sniffed the air, a look of concern flashed on his face. “Smoke?”

“Yes, Chief. I don’t know if it’s from some electrical equipment that shorted out or if we have an actual fire on board, so be careful.”

“Understood, comrade Captain.” Lyachin then pointed at a still-groggy Shubin and ordered, “You. With me. Let’s see how badly we are hurt.”

As the two men worked their way aft, Petrov’s eyes reflexively went back to the darkened status displays. Their blank features mocked his ignorance, but he remembered that the mechanical depth gauge didn’t need power. Grabbing the emergency flashlight attached to the commander’s console, he crawled over to the maneuvering-control station and shined the light on the depth gauge. It showed 197 meters. That was well above collapse depth, but too deep for a free ascent if they had to abandon the submarine. It was clear that they were on the bottom, and it hadn’t been a soft landing.

He scanned the rest of the central post with the flashlight, its bright beam highlighting the smoke that hung in the air. It didn’t appear to be getting worse, but it was thick enough to sting any soft tissue exposed to it, including the lungs. Petrov saw that most of the watch section was on their feet, checking on each other and their equipment. He watched as they made their reports to Kalinin and cared for two men who had sustained more than just bruises.

Kalinin waddled over, favoring his left ankle. He spoke softly. “Two serious injuries, Seaman Naletov and Warrant Officer Kotkov. Kotkov is hurt very badly. He gashed an artery in his leg. They’re putting a tourniquet on him now, but we really need Dr. Balanov. I’ve sent a runner to go look for him. As for the ship’s systems, everything’s nonoperational, even the backup power systems.” The starpom paused to cough, then added, “I felt us collide with the American boat, Captain. We hit and slid along its hull before something pitched us nose down and drove us into the mud.”

“That’s more than I remember, Vasiliy.”

“Yes, sir. You were thrown into the command console when we first collided. You were knocked out. ”

“We’ll piece our memories together later, Vasiliy. Right now we need to figure out how bad off we are. I already sent the Chief Engineer aft to check on the propulsion plant. Send some more runners forward and aft. Pass the word for each compartment to report their status via messenger, since the comms systems aren’t functional.”

“Already done, sir,” replied Kalinin.

“Very good, Starpom.” Petrov took a little comfort in the fact that his first officer was already dealing with the situation. “I presume you fired the emergency gas generators after we struck the American, yes?” Petrov was referring to a set of chemical generators in the main ballast tanks. They could be triggered to send a one-time blast of high-pressure gas that would push the water out of the ballast tanks, hopefully causing the sub to ascend. The system was designed to get a submarine on the surface quickly during an emergency.

“Yes, sir, but it didn’t seem to help very much. Something was driving us down. Given that we are still on the bottom, I’m sure several ballast tanks were crushed on impact.”

Abruptly, the high-pitched shrieking of a panic-stricken man interrupted their discussion. “Captain! Captain! Seawater is entering compartment one! There is water coming into compartment one!” A young seaman scrambled into the dim light. He was visibly shaking; his eyes were wide with fear. It was the junior rating the starpom had sent forward.

“Calm yourself, Seaman Kessler,” Kalinin said reassuringly as he grabbed the young man’s shoulders, steadying him. “Now, give us your report.”

Kessler settled down a little. His shaking had subsided but he continued to gasp for air. Facing his captain, he struggled to speak clearly.

“Captain, the forward bulkhead in compartment one has been breached. There are numerous geysers pouring seawater into the compartment. The hull is… is starting to groan, sir!”

Petrov took the devastating report with a stoic expression, as if it were just part of a routine drill. He had to maintain control even though his own sense of fear was rising. If he panicked, the crew would soon follow suit and they all would perish. He was the rock on which they clung and he had to stand firm.

“Seaman, listen to me. Tell your compartment commander to. ”

Kessler shook his head violently and cut his captain off in midsentence: “Senior-Lieutenant Geletin is dead, sir! And most of the remaining crew members are badly injured!”

With his frustration growing, Petrov pulled on the seaman’s coveralls and looked at the billet number on the left breast pocket. The five-digit number told him what battle department the seaman belonged to, as well as his duty location and watch section. The first number was a “1,” indicating that he belonged to the navigation battle department. Scanning the room with his flashlight, Petrov spotted his commander of navigation, Captain-Lieutenant Ivanov, tending Seaman Naletov.

“Dimitry, take command of compartment one. Assess the situation and report back immediately. Take Starshini Michman Zubov with you.”

Senior Warrant Officer Vitaly Zubov was the senior and most experienced enlisted man on board Severodvinsk. His position starshini michman was roughly analogous to the American chief of the boat.

“Aye, Captain,” replied Ivanov as he and Zubov dashed for the ladder well.

Stepping out of the way, Petrov moved closer to Kalinin, who leaned over and whispered, “Sir, that bulkhead took the brunt of two impacts. Should it fail.. ”

“Yes, Starpom,” replied Petrov testily. “I am well aware of the implications. But I need an accurate report before I consign those injured crewmen to their deaths.”

Kalinin nodded as Petrov shouted, “Captain Mitrov!”

“Yes sir,” came the reply from the entrance to the sonar post.

Turning toward the voice, he ordered, “Get as many men as you can and evacuate the injured from compartment one. Then gather as many air-regeneration cassettes and emergency rations as possible. Post an able-bodied, clear-minded man at the watertight hatch. Seaman Kessler will take you to the injured men.”

“Yes, comrade Captain.” As Mitrov walked past Petrov, the captain grasped his arm, stopping him. Quietly, he said, “Move quickly, Vladimir Vasil’evich. If that bulkhead starts to go, I’ll have to order the hatch closed, regardless of who is in compartment one.”

“I understand, sir,” responded Mitrov. Then turning to Kessler, he said, “Come, seaman, we need to go rescue our comrades.”

For a brief moment, the room was still. Only slight murmurs could be heard as the remaining men tended to the wounded. But then a moving shadow at the rear of the central post caught Petrov’s attention. It was Shubin. He was pale and sweaty, his breathing labored. An IDA-59M emergency respirator hung around his neck.

“Captain, Chief Engineer Lyachin reports that there is extensive damage aft. Compartment eight is flooding from the stern tube. The compartment is over half full of water and. and the level is rising quickly.” The junior officer stopped as he tried to catch his breath. He was obviously fatigued and frightened.

“Please continue your report, Mikhail,” coached Petrov calmly. He didn’t need to rattle the young senior-lieutenant any more than he already was. Petrov and Kalinin needed an accurate account of the situation in the engineering spaces, not the incoherent babblings of an overly stressed and terrified man.

“Yes, sir. The shaft bearings are badly distorted and Chief Engineer Lyachin says we cannot use the main propulsion turbines. He also regrets to report that the bulkhead between compartments seven and eight has been compromised. He doesn’t exactly know how bad, but water is welling up in the bilges in compartment seven. It’s already up to the deck plates in the below decks. He doesn’t think we can isolate it.”

The last sentence struck both Petrov and Kalinin like a knife through the heart. Kalinin groaned audibly as he leaned up against the command console for support. Stunned by the additional dark news, Petrov stood speechless. Severodvinsk was crippled and slowly dying, and there was virtually no chance of them getting off the bottom. They’d have to abandon ship, if they could.

“I see,” replied Petrov woodenly. “Anything else?”

“Yes, sir. Damage Control Chief Kolesnikov reports that there was a small electric fire in compartment three. It was put out with a portable chemical extinguisher. There was a far more serious fire in compartment six that required the application of the LOKh to extinguish.” The LOKh was a compartment-level fire-fighting system that used Freon gas to smother a fire by depriving it of oxygen. Unfortunately, it would also kill anyone trapped in the compartment.

“Casualties?” asked Kalinin quietly.

“There are numerous casualties, Starpom. We haven’t been able to compile a list just yet. Dr. Balanov is treating the wounded in compartment four.”

“Where is Captain Kolesnikov now?” Petrov’s voice was deadpan, but his face reflected the pain he felt.

“Captain Kolesnikov is on the line of defense established at the aft bulkhead of compartment five. He is assisting the Chief Engineer in evacuating compartments six and seven.”

“Very well, tell the Chief Engineer. ”

Suddenly the central post reverberated with the sound of mechanical popping and a low creaking groan that seemed to come from the hull itself. The unnatural noise grated on their already frayed nerves.

A puzzled Petrov looked toward Kalinin. His face was ashen; he understood. “My God! The forward bulkhead!”

Petrov took off running, while Kalinin hopped as best he could toward the ladder. The captain grabbed the handrails and sailed down the ladder well, the pain in his shoulder deadened by the adrenaline in his blood. It took him no more than ten seconds to reach the watertight door, despite having to jump over injured men lying on the deck. Mitrov was shoving Kessler through the hatch as Petrov arrived; both men were carrying two air-regeneration cassettes each.

“The bulkhead is failing, Captain!” shouted Mitrov as he stumbled through the door.

At the far end of the passageway, Petrov saw three men in orange rubber damage-control suits attempting to put up mechanical braces against the bulkhead. Heavy streams of water shot out of numerous small cracks in the steel hull.

“Are they the last ones in the compartment?” yelled Petrov.

“Yes, sir! All the injured are out and the belowdecks hatch is shut and dogged!”

As Kalinin hobbled up to the door, his face ablaze with pain, he found Petrov shouting and waving at the men to get away from the forward bulkhead. The hull groaned again, and new streams of high-pressure water shot out from the metal. A jet of water hit one of the men in the shoulder, spinning him violently into the wall; he bounced and fell into the pooling water on the deck. At this depth, the water had the force of a bullet, and it left its victim unconscious.

The larger man, seeing his unmoving comrade in the water, scooped him up and started retreating toward the watertight door. With the water level up to his knees, he waded at an agonizingly slow pace. He kept looking over his shoulder, motioning for the third man to follow, but the man remaining behind waved them on as he struggled to tighten up a brace.

Petrov watched in horror as the bulkhead visibly distorted even more— the low groaning became a high-pitched screech. Reaching through the doorway, he grabbed the injured man, pulled him through, and dumped his limp body on the deck. The larger man leapt through the door just as the forward bulkhead started to fail catastrophically. Petrov slammed the door shut and braced it with his body while Kalinin lunged on the locking mechanism handle, dogging the hatch. Less than a second later, the hull finally collapsed, and the resulting water hammer blasted the bulkhead between the two compartments. The transmitted force sent both Petrov and Kalinin flying, but the bulkhead held.

After a few seconds, the din of rushing water was replaced by the moaning and cries of injured men. Struggling to his feet, wet and in shock, Petrov stared at the watertight door. He’d just lost another man. How many was it now?

“Captain,” Zubov’s voice came from behind him. It was unsteady, broken, but grateful. “Thank you, sir.”

Petrov looked up at the large man clad in the damage-control suit, his face now exposed, and nodded. Turning back toward the secured watertight door, he asked, “Who did we lose?”

Zubov swallowed hard, there were tears welling in his eyes. Fighting his emotions, it took him a few seconds to answer his captain. “Captain-Lieutenant Ivanov, sir.”

Just then, several men came pouring down the ladder, their flashlight beams twitching wildly about as they descended. Chief Engineer Lyachin was in the lead.

“Dear God,” he said as he maneuvered his way to Petrov. “We felt the hull collapse. I was afraid we were all doomed. We were fortunate this time.”

“Some of us were, Chief,” responded Petrov as he helped Kalinin to his feet. His words were heavy with weariness and remorse. “Some of us were spared. At least for the moment.”

With one arm supporting Kalinin, he gestured to the injured men on the deck with the other. “Chief, get these men to compartment three. Set up the engineers’ living quarters as a hospital and alert Dr. Balanov that he has more patients waiting. Then meet me and the Starpom in the central command post; we have much to discuss.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Half an hour later, Petrov and Kalinin met with the surviving battle department commanders and the service chiefs. Petrov needed to hear their reports so that he could understand the full extent of the damage, and to determine what options they had. Chief Engineer Lyachin started off with an assessment of the ship’s overall status. As expected, the news was not good.

“Based on my direct observations, compartments one, seven, and eight are completely flooded. Compartment six is probably flooding slowly, since I heard water flowing as I left. The atmosphere in compartment six is toxic, as is compartment five, from the byproducts of the fire as well as the LOKh suppression system. The watertight bulkheads in compartments two and five appear to be holding. For now, our situation has stabilized.”

Kalinin shook his head and chuckled, “You have an unusual definition of stable, Sergey Vladimirovich.”

“I suppose so, Starpom, but we are in a rather unusual situation,” quipped Lyachin with a weary smile.

“Please continue, Chief,” commanded Petrov tersely.

“Yes, sir. The reactor is secure. The shutdown rods have been inserted and I initiated the emergency cooling system. This means we only have the reserve storage battery for electrical power. Used judiciously, it can last for several days.”

“Thank you, Chief. Captain Fonarin, what is the status of our atmosphere?”

“It is breathable, Captain. Oxygen is at nineteen percent and carbon dioxide is at half a percent. That’s a little high, but tolerable. The existing smoke particulates are annoying but not life-threatening. Pressure in the boat is a little over a standard atmosphere.”

Petrov nodded as he scribbled down the facts in his notepad. “Now for the crucial question, Igor. How long before the air will no longer sustain life?”

“I believe we have several days before carbon dioxide becomes a critical concern. We have plenty of oxygen in the storage tanks, but without the air-purification system, we have limited means of removing the carbon dioxide. I will have a better estimate once I know how many air-regeneration cassettes we recovered and how many. how many of the crew are still alive.” Fonarin’s last sentence trailed off suddenly. Embarrassed at the implication that the deaths they’d suffered thus far were of benefit to the rest.

“Thank you, Igor. Gather your data and make your calculations quickly.”

“Captain,” interrupted Dr. Balanov. “Forgive my ignorance, but why are we even discussing this? Shouldn’t we move the surviving crew members into the rescue chamber and abandon ship?”

An eerie silence filled the central post, as most of the senior officers looked down or away from the doctor and declined to speak. Sensing that he was missing an important point, he asked, “Why are you looking that way? What is it I do not understand?”

It was Kalinin who finally took pity on poor Balanov. “The reason why we haven’t used the VSK, Doctor, is that our port list is too great. The locking mechanism that secures the chamber to the boat is friction-bound. There is no way for us to detach.”

“I see,” said Balanov nervously. “Thank you for the explanation, Starpom.”

“Your report, Doctor,” ordered Petrov.

“We have suffered at least six dead and we have over a dozen moderate to serious injuries. At least eight men are missing and are presumed dead. We are compiling a comprehensive list of the deceased, missing, and injured and you will have it within thirty minutes. We also have one psychological casualty.”

“Psychological casualty?” inquired Petrov curiously. “Explain.”

“I was forced to sedate Captain-Lieutenant Sadilenko. He suffered a total loss of control and he was becoming a danger to his men.”

Both Petrov and Kalinin were now even more confused. Yakov Sadilenko was a most promising young officer with nerves of steel. His performance during the certification trials had been exemplary and he clearly knew his duties. What could have caused him to crack?

Kolesnikov, the chief of damage control, spoke up. “As the commander of compartment five, Sadilenko personally initiated the delivery of the LOKh into compartment six when it appeared that the fire would fully engulf the space. We didn’t know if everyone in compartment six had escaped. We couldn’t see because of the thick smoke and we couldn’t communicate with compartment seven.” There was a pause in the narration as Kolesnikov fought to keep his emotions in check. He too was clearly affected.

“There were tears streaming down his face, sir, as I watched him turn the wheel and flood compartment six with Freon gas. After the fire was out, we went into the compartment and found two bodies. Both men had been suffocated by the gas. One of them was Captain Third Rank Aryapov, the commander of compartment six.”

Kalinin closed his eyes and turned away, hiding the pain he felt. Petrov felt another blow. Aryapov and Sadilenko were exceptionally close. The joke was that they were twin sons born of different mothers. They worked together, played together, and drank together.

“He fulfilled his duty, comrade Captain,” continued Kolesnikov. “But I fear it will cost him his sanity. As soon as he saw Aryapov’s contorted face, Yakov knew he had killed him and his mind snapped. It took four of us to pin him down while the doctor administered the sedative.”

An uncomfortable, haunting quiet fell upon the participants of the meeting. The grief and stress they all felt was palpable.

“Comrades,” spoke Petrov softly, breaking the uneasy silence. “I know we all want to grieve the loss of our friends and shipmates. But unless we are willing to grieve much more, I need you to be focused on securing our survival. We have to fulfill our duty to the living first, then to the dead.”

The shallow nodding of heads by all present told Petrov that his gentle admonishment had gotten through. “All right, then. Doctor, what are our biggest challenges, in priority order?”

“We have three major issues to deal with, comrade Captain.” Dr. Balanov counted on his fingers as he ran down the list. “Number one. Captain Fonarin is absolutely correct, hypercapnia, carbon dioxide poisoning, is our greatest obstacle. A human being can function with oxygen as low as fourteen percent, and live down to about twelve percent with reduced mental capacities. But if carbon dioxide concentration gets above two percent, there are immediate and significant negative effects. Most prevalent are severe headaches, fatigue, and an increase in the rate of breathing. At five percent, an individual experiences hyperventilation, convulsions, and unconsciousness. Above six percent, death occurs.

“Second is atmospheric pressure. The more gas we release into the compartments, the higher the pressure. If the pressure gets sufficiently high to drive enough atmospheric gasses into our bloodstream, the crew could experience decompression sickness during the rescue operation.” Decompression sickness, or the bends, results when an individual breathing compressed air is suddenly moved to an environment with a lower pressure. The gases in the blood form small bubbles that can cause significant pain, and even death if not treated promptly.

“In addition, higher atmospheric pressure will increase the effects of carbon dioxide poisoning. So this must be monitored carefully. Finally, the third issue is hypothermia. Without power for the heating system, the temperature inside the submarine will be down to about two or three degrees Centigrade in a few hours. Every possible effort needs to be taken to try and keep the crew as warm as possible. Excessive cold for long periods, while bad in and of itself, will also exacerbate the carbon dioxide problem.”

“Understood, Doctor,” Petrov responded, feeling a little more like his old self. Instead of merely reacting to circumstances, he was working with his men to come up with a plan of action to deal with a significant problem. “Starpom, make up a duty roster and limit the number of watchstanders to three: a deck officer, an engineer to keep watch on the reserve battery, and a sonar technician to monitor the underwater communications system.”

“Aye, Captain,” replied Kalinin. “Do you want a chemical service watch-stander to monitor the atmosphere?”

“Fonarin will conduct an air sample once every four hours and report the results to the deck officer and Dr. Balanov. Beyond that, I don’t think we need a dedicated watchstander. Everyone else not on watch is to lie down, no unnecessary physical activity. This should reduce the amount of carbon dioxide we produce.”

“Captain,” said Kolesnikov, “I recommend that we get as many men into survival suits as we can. They were designed for immersion in water and so they should work just as well, if not better, in air. This will help to reduce the chance of hypothermia.”

“Good suggestion, Yury. Please, see to the distribution of the suits. Anything else? Anyone?” No one offered a response to the captain’s questions.

As the officers collected their notes, Petrov spoke again. “One last item. Tell your men that the situation is not hopeless. We are not just waiting to die. The V-600 emergency distress information buoy was automatically deployed when we hit the ocean floor.

“Northern Fleet Headquarters is aware of our plight and will send all available resources to find us and rescue us. We are taking these measures to give the fleet time to get here, ascertain the situation, and effect a rescue. Emphasize that we need their help if we are to succeed.

“All right, then. You have your assigned duties, comrades, please carry them out with all due diligence. I will await your reports. Dismissed.”

Petrov escorted the now-splinted Kalinin up to the central post, where his starpom started to put the watch rotation schedule into effect. Tired and very sore, Petrov walked over to the sonar post and sat down in one of the chairs. It would take his officers a little time to compile the detailed reports, and he just wanted to be off his feet for a minute or two.

An hour later, Kalinin woke him up with the reports in his hands. His demeanor spoke of more bad news. Petrov thanked his first officer and started to read the reports in the dim light.

Dr. Balanov’s report was first. Seven crewmen were known dead, with nine missing and presumed to be dead. There were eighteen men with moderate or serious injuries; two were in critical condition, and in the doctor’s professional opinion probably would not survive another day. And then there was Sadilenko’s mental state. Virtually everyone else had some minor injuries of one form or another.

Petrov did the math in his head. Thirty-five men, well over a third of his crew, were dead or badly hurt. A stiff price to pay for his folly.

Fonarin’s report was worse. They only had fifty-eight V-64 cassettes for the chemical air-regeneration units. They’d left port with only an eighty percent loadout and many cassettes had been lost in compartments one, seven, and eight. With sixty-nine men still alive, they only had three days’ worth of chemicals. The only good news was that there was adequate electrical power in the reserve battery to run the blowers in the regeneration units for up to six days.

Given their resources and the number of men, Fonarin and Balanov recommended maintaining oxygen at seventeen percent and carbon dioxide at one percent. Dr. Balanov articulated the medical effects of this atmospheric composition, and it was clear they would all be suffering from nasty headaches and fatigue.

Petrov placed the reports on the dead sonar console, his head already throbbing. His thoughts were drawn back to the list of the dead and missing. Sixteen men gone because of him.

No wait, it was likely more than that. He hadn’t even thought about the American submarine. Were they on the bottom, struggling to survive? Or were they already dead? He remembered that U.S. submarine designers didn’t emphasize survivability like the Russian Navy.

And then he thought of the half-truth he had told his officers. It was true the emergency distress buoy had deployed, but he didn’t know if it reached the surface, or that its message actually was sent and received by the Northern Fleet Headquarters. Could all of the measures they were preparing to take be pointless? Were they all doomed to die a slow and painful death from carbon dioxide poisoning?

And why? Just because he couldn’t let go of the American after he had beaten him. Suddenly, the words of advice from Vice Admiral Kokurin jumped up from his memory: “Aggressiveness can be a blessing or a curse. If it is not tempered by wisdom, it will lead to recklessness. And that can have unfortunate consequences. Be my wolfhound, but don’t be a rabid one.”

A cold sweat broke out on Petrov’s brow as he realized he had become rabid during the heat of the hunt. He’d lost control and let emotion replace reason. The loss of sixteen men, and perhaps as many as two hundred, weighed heavily on Petrov’s conscience. And there in the dark, cold and alone, Petrov wept.