Cold Choices

11. SLOW REACTION

5 October 2008

Twenty-fourth Atomic Submarine Diviziya Headquarters,

Sayda Guba Submarine Base

Rear Admiral Vidchenko stared out his office window, slowly sipping a steaming cup of coffee. The storm had descended with its full fury on the base, and gale-force winds pounded the office building with a wintry mix of snow, sleet, and rain. He glanced at the clock on the wall, 0845, over half an hour since the morning’s main fleet support broadcast window had closed. His chief of staff was late in bringing him the morning’s communiqués.

Vidchenko’s mood matched the foul weather outside. He wondered again why he had accepted this posting in the first place. Sayda Guba was nothing but a primitive frontier outpost in comparison to the cosmopolitan air of Saint Petersburg, a fact his wife never tired of berating him with. Two years, he thought. In two years he could leave this godforsaken land for a comfortable staff position in Moscow, or even back in Saint Petersburg. For two years he could tolerate this cultural exile to the far north. He wasn’t sure his marriage would, though. A knock at the door broke his brooding.

“Enter,” he snapped.

“Good morning, sir,” said Captain First Rank Boris Shepenetnov. “I apologize for being late, but there have been base-wide power problems because of the storm. The communications specialists just printed out your messages.”

“Hrmph,” growled Vidchenko as he sat. He was well aware there were power outages. He’d shaved by candlelight this morning in his quarters. Shepenetnov placed the folder on the desk in front of the admiral and stepped back. Vidchenko scanned the summary list of messages in the folder, and then shot a glaring look at his chief of staff. “Still no word from Petrov?”

“Er, no sir. Nothing was received from Severodvinsk this morning.”

“I see,” replied Vidchenko with growing displeasure. “Tell me, Captain, does every senior officer in this diviziya treat routine deadlines with such callous disregard?” He slapped the folder with his hand to emphasize his point.

“Not at all, comrade Admiral,” answered Shepenetnov defensively. “Captain Petrov has been extremely punctual in maintaining his twice-daily communication schedule. In fact, this is the first time he has ever missed a routine communications period. Either the tactical situation or the elements preclude him from doing so.”

“Nothing should preclude him from following orders, Captain!” Vidchenko bellowed as he jumped to his feet. “It has been my experience as a submarine captain that even in tactical contact with an enemy unit it was possible to report in without compromising my position.”

“With all due respect, Admiral, this is not the Baltic Fleet.” Shepenetnov paused as he forced himself to settle down. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper, not with this admiral. If he continued down this road, it would only result in charges of insubordination. No, Rear Admiral Vidchenko could only be dealt with if one ignored his adversarial nature and focused on the topic at hand. One had to keep to the facts and pay no attention to his barbs.

The chief of staff appreciated Vidchenko’s disciplined approach to running the diviziya. He had little tolerance for pomp and circumstance, thank God, but he lived for schedules and procedures. If schedules weren’t kept and procedures not followed, he would lash out in rage at the offending individual. While not a bad trait in and of itself, Vidchenko’s views were heavily biased by his experience in the Baltic Sea, a well-mannered duck pond in comparison to the Northern Fleet’s operating area.

“Sir, Petrov’s last report is just over twenty-five hours old and he was headed into an area with considerable sea ice. Given the high sea states over the past fourteen hours, it would be foolish to hoist a communications antenna in such an environment. It would be crushed in seconds.”

“I am well versed on the limitations of our submarines’ antenna complexes, Captain,” Vidchenko said with a sneer. “The point is that Petrov has missed not one, but two regular communication periods, and by fleet procedures I need to report him as missing.”

“Technically, sir,” countered Shepenetnov patiently. “You have the discretion to wait until the first alternate period is missed, five hours from now.”

“I intend to do so, but I will not tolerate any of my commanding officers failing to follow fleet protocols. I will deal with Petrov when he returns. Is there anything else of importance to report?”

Relieved that the subject of the discussion was changing, Shepenetnov opened his binder, skimmed down the list, and said, “Only one other matter, sir. PLAs Vepr and Tigr were required to conduct an emergency start-up of their reactors due to a loss of shore power. It appears that their pier lost its transmission station. Repairs won’t be made until after the storm passes.”

Vidchenko sat down as he listened to the additional bad news, a sour expression appearing on his face. “And when do the forecasters predict this storm will pass us by?”

“This is supposed to be the worst of it, sir. They expect conditions to slowly improve in the next two days.”

“So for the next three or four days, precious reactor core life will have to be expended to keep those two submarines livable. What a waste!” Vidchenko almost spat as he spoke those last few words. He quickly scribbled down a note to have yet another discussion with the base commander about the shoddy support his submarines were getting.

“Will there be anything else, comrade Admiral?” inquired Shepenetnov, eager to leave.

“Yes, Captain. Instruct the commanding officers of Vepr and Tigr to institute rigorous electrical power consumption procedures. Only vital equipment and minimal environment support are to be used until repairs to the pier’s transmission stations are made. And send out a message to Petrov ordering him to report his status on the prosecution of the American submarine. Perhaps we can jog his memory to follow routine procedures.”

Severodvinsk

“Captain. Captain, time to wake up.” The voice was faint at first, but grew steadily louder. Suddenly there was a bright white light; Petrov recoiled from its intensity. Instinctively he threw his hands up to block it while grumbling, “Turn the damn light off!”

“He appears to be in reasonable health, Starpom, given the circumstances. He’s going to be a bit stiff, and he’ll probably experience headaches, but I don’t believe he has a concussion,” reported Balanov.

“Thank you, Doctor,” replied Kalinin, a note of relief in his voice.

Still a bit groggy, Petrov rubbed his face and eyes. He started to shiver, and he pulled the loose blanket around him for warmth. “Would someone please tell me what is going on?” he demanded testily.

“Certainly, sir,” said Balanov. “You’ve been asleep for over twelve hours, and your Starpom here became worried when he couldn’t wake you. Naturally, I was very concerned with this report. I was afraid that you might have suffered a concussion during the collision and had slipped into a coma. My examination, though belated, indicates that you are in relatively good condition; barring the minor injuries to your head and shoulder.”

The tone of the doctor’s voice revealed he was still a little irritated with his captain, but Petrov had insisted that the rest of the crew be tended to first. The delay could have been life-threatening, but fortunately that was not the case this time. Treating a patient with a serious concussion would have severely stressed the medical department’s already meager resources. This false alarm only heightened the doctor’s frustration that he lacked the proper means to deal with many of the more serious injuries.

“Your concern is noted, and appreciated, Doctor. Oomph,” Petrov grunted as he pulled himself up. The doctor was right. He was very stiff and sore. “How is the rest of the crew?”

“Starpom Kalinin has my most recent report, he can repeat it as well as I. I must tend to my other patients. With your permission, sir?”

“Very well, Doctor, you are dismissed.” Petrov watched as Balanov slowly made his way out of the sonar post. His movements were wooden, his demeanor weary. As he entered the central command post, Petrov called out to him, “Thank you again, Doctor, for looking after my crew and me.”

The doctor nodded curtly, a faint smile on his face, and then resumed his walk back to the makeshift hospital.

After Balanov was out of sight, Petrov motioned with his head in the doctor’s direction and asked, “How’s he doing, Vasiliy? He doesn’t look good.”

“He hasn’t slept a wink since the collision, Captain. He’s simply exhausted. On top of that, he hasn’t had the best of days.”

Petrov was starting to get used to the steady stream of bad news, but his starpom’s tone and expression made it clear this was on the bad side of bad. Intuitively, he knew another member of the crew had died. “Who?”

“Warrant Officer Kotkov and Senior Lieutenant Annekov,” said Kalinin quietly.

Petrov’s face reflected the pain he felt. The doctor had warned him earlier that it was likely that they would lose two more, but that wasn’t much help now that reality had reared its ugly head. Shaken by the news, he leaned heavily on the chair to steady himself. Kalinin sympathized with his commander; he had felt the same pain a few hours earlier. Without being prompted, he provided additional details. “Kotkov died from severe blood loss, while Annekov died from complications of smoke inhalation. I’ve had the bodies placed in one of the portside torpedo tubes.”

With his jaw firmly clenched, Petrov nodded his understanding and approval. Fighting to hold himself together, he was barely able to ask his next question. “What is our status?”

“Oxygen is at seventeen and a half percent and carbon dioxide is at one percent. We brought six air-regeneration units online at 2100 hours last night. The second set of regeneration cassettes will be depleted within a couple of hours. The units are quite popular with the crew right now.”

Each air-regeneration cassette contained a series of chemical plates coated with highly reactive potassium hyperoxide and sodium superoxide compounds. These chemicals reacted with the moisture in the air to absorb carbon dioxide and replace it with oxygen. A beneficial side effect of the chemical reaction was that it generated a lot of heat, which was exhausted into the compartment by a blower in each regeneration unit. It was noticeably warmer near one of these machines and the crew tended to congregate around them.

“We have conducted an inventory of our emergency food and water supplies,” continued Kalinin, “and with proper rationing, we can make them last for six or seven days. Chief Engineer Lyachin, however, believes he can gain access to one of the potable water tanks, which would greatly extend our water reserves.” At this point, Kalinin stopped, shook his head, and started to laugh. This abrupt change caught Petrov off guard, and it snapped him out of his dark mood. Watching Kalinin laugh, Petrov wondered whether his starpom was already suffering from oxygen deprivation.

“What’s so funny, Vasiliy?”

“Ohhh, it’s Sergey and his boys,” chortled Kalinin. “For the last six hours they have been calculating and debating on the best way to allocate power from the reserve battery. Our Chief Engineer called it a practical exercise.” The starpom clearly found the engineers’ wording to be rather humorous, and he had to pause before he was able to speak clearly.

“Anyway, after much discussion and brandishing of calculators, the engineering department has come up with a plan to briefly turn off two regeneration units each day and use the power to heat up some water to make tea and coffee for the crew. Did you know that those sneaky engineers had their own stash of coffee and tea?”

Petrov shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Submarine engineers are notorious for finding creative storage methods for just about anything. How many stills have you found in your career?”

“Too many. And their output always tasted the same — hideous.” He grimaced at the very thought of the foul-tasting, clear liquid common to all illegal distilleries. “But Lyachin and company have enough coffee and tea for every man to have two cups a day! Of course, the doctor is an enthusiastic supporter of the idea.”

“Have you checked their figures?”

“Yes, sir. I went over everything with the Chief Engineer. With the six devices drawing approximately the same amount of power, we should have sufficient battery capacity for seven, or even eight days if we are lucky.”

“So, once again it gets back to the carbon dioxide issue,” Petrov asserted. “We have enough food, water, oxygen, and power for about a week, a little more if we are very thrifty. But within five days we’ll be at lethal concentrations for carbon dioxide.”

“Fonarin’s estimate gives us five and a half days,” Kalinin replied soberly.

Both men fell silent, a little uncomfortable with the cold, callous direction their conversation had taken. While they both cared deeply about the crew, their training drove them to deal with the stark facts in an objective, if mechanical, manner. Acknowledging the reality of a particular situation, even if the process seems uncaring, is the foundation for sound decisionmaking. And given their circumstances, they couldn’t afford to make any poor decisions. The uneasy quiet lasted for only a few moments before Petrov broke it with a question.

“How’s the crew’s morale?”

“All things considered, sir, surprisingly good. The men are convinced that we will be rescued.”

Petrov looked closely at Kalinin as he spoke. His face didn’t mirror the confidence of his statement. Something was bothering him. Petrov could sense it.

“But?” he asked.

Warily, Kalinin eyed the doorway, making sure that no one was close by. Once he was sure their conversation would stay private, he leaned forward and whispered.

“Captain, I have listened to the underwater communications system several times while you were sleeping. There is a bitch of a storm up there. Ice floes are being tossed about like children’s toys. I don’t believe the distress buoy can survive in that kind of environment. In fact, we don’t know if it even reached the surface intact. How can we be certain that the Northern Fleet Headquarters knows we’re missing? Or even if they do, where to look for us?”

It was Petrov’s turn to chuckle, much to his starpom’s surprise.

“Am I certain they know we are missing right now? No. Am I confident that they will know in about six hours? Yes.”

Kalinin looked at his watch, it read 0918, and understood what his captain was referring to. Still unconvinced, he began to argue with Petrov.

“How can you be so sure? Even though we’ve missed two regular communications periods, any one of our senior commanders could easily rationalize that given our last known heading, and the weather conditions, that we simply couldn’t check in. They’d wait until after the storm abated before they would recognize that we are really missing!”

“Vasiliy, Vasiliy, you don’t understand our diviziya commander very well, do you?” replied Petrov patiently. “Rear Admiral Vidchenko’s very existence is defined by procedures, protocols, and schedules. He is one of those, oh, how do you put it, one of those loathsome bureaucratic assholes.”

Kalinin looked down, a sheepish grin on his face, and admitted his guilt. “Yes, I uh. I seem to recall saying something like that once or twice.”

“Well, it’s true! If the instructions required Vidchenko to swim to each pier in the performance of his duties, he would stoically dive in headfirst, dress uniform and all, and execute a flawless breaststroke. That is just how the man works.

“No, Vasiliy, I have already been reprimanded in absentia for my flagrant violation of fleet procedures. By 1505 this afternoon, he will call Vice Admiral Borisov and report us missing. After that, those very same procedures will start things in motion automatically. The fleet will come for us.”

Petrov shifted his weight around, getting a solid footing on the canted deck, as he prepared to leave the sonar post, but before he started walking, he turned once more to Kalinin and said, “You are right about one thing, Vasiliy. That is a devil of a storm and it won’t be easy for the fleet to find us in the middle of this mess. And even if they do, they certainly wouldn’t be able to deploy a rescue submersible in those seas. Those huge chunks of ice would crush it in an instant. But all we can do about that, Vasiliy, is pray. Pray that the storm will pass soon and that the fleet will find us quickly. Before it’s too late.”

Northern Fleet Headquarters, Severomorsk

Vice Admiral Kokurin growled at the growing pile of messages from his eskadra and base commanders. All of them spoke of minor damage inflicted by the storm to the Northern Fleet’s elderly infrastructure. Individually the damage was annoying, but collectively it was becoming more than just a nuisance. Finding the funds necessary to pay for the repairs was going to be difficult, particularly since the budget year was coming to a close and the fleet’s operating accounts had been sorely depleted by the aggressive training schedule.

“Why are you being so inhospitable, Grandfather Winter?” whined Kokurin to himself. A storm of this magnitude, so early in the season, did not bode well for the rest of the winter. The fleet commander wrote down a reminder to speak with the chief of rear services about ensuring an adequate fuel oil supply for the bases. He finished and was about to pick up his cup of tea when the intercom buzzer rang.

“Yes,” answered Kokurin.

“Sir, Vice Admiral Borisov is on line one. He says he needs to speak to you about an urgent matter.”

“Thank you.” Reaching over, he picked up the phone and hit the blinking line.

“Greetings, Pavel Dmitriyevich, how are things at Sayda Guba?”

There was only silence on the line, and Kokurin thought that he had lost his connection with Borisov. “Pavel, are you there?”

“Yes, sir, I am still here,” Borisov replied with some hesitation. Kokurin could hear him taking a deep breath. Something terrible must have happened.

“Steady yourself, Pavel. Tell me, what is wrong?”

“Admiral, I regret to inform you that Severodvinsk hasn’t been heard from for thirty hours. Since Petrov has uncharacteristically missed two fleet communications periods, I am requesting you declare an emergency alert.”

Kokurin sat up straight in his chair; he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Thirty hours?” he repeated. “Did you send out messages ordering him to make contact?”

“Yes, sir. We have sent out three messages within the last six hours telling Petrov to break off pursuit and respond. There has been no reply.”

“Do you think he is still under the sea ice? That would limit his ability to communicate.”

“We looked into that possibility, sir,” Borisov admitted. “Unfortunately, we don’t have a good position for Severodvinsk. His last reported location was just on the edge of the ice zone, and the Amga buoy he was heading toward is only eight miles inside the zone. Even at a standard bell, Petrov could have cleared the sea ice within an hour or two, raised an antenna, and reported in. This kind of behavior is totally unlike Petrov, sir. We are very concerned that something dreadful has happened. Sir, I repeat my request for you to issue Signal Number Six.”

“Very well, Pavel, I concur. I will issue the alert,” said Kokurin. “Make sure my staff has all your data and analysis.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You can see what the weather outside is like just as well as I can. Rescue missions under the best of circumstances are a difficult undertaking. With this storm, it may be impossible. But, I will do what I can.”

“I know, sir,” replied a solemn Borisov.

“Keep me apprised of any new developments,” ordered Kokurin.

“Understood, Admiral. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Pavel.”

As the old admiral hung up the phone, his mind started racing. A hundred questions sprung up, and he had answers for none of them. Rubbing his thinly covered head with his hands, he wondered if they had lost yet another submarine and a brave crew. Slamming the desk with his fist, he cursed the fear that was gripping him. There was no time for self-pity. Hitting the intercom button, Kokurin summoned his deputy.

“Boris, get in here immediately. Bring Georgy with you.”

Within seconds, both men hurried through the door. They knew their boss well enough to know that something was wrong. As they approached the fleet commander’s desk, he began firing off orders at them.

“Boris, I am declaring an emergency alert. Have the communications officer issue Signal Number Six. Severodvinsk is thirty hours overdue and is considered missing. I want the readiness status of every vessel in the Atlantic Squadron within the hour, and I want them to prepare to sail at a moment’s notice. And get me the latest weather forecasts for the next week.”

Vice Admiral Baybarin furiously wrote down his instructions. He was full of curiosity, but there would be time for questions later. He bolted from the room as soon as Kokurin barked, “Now go!”

Vice Admiral Radetskiy was next, and he anxiously awaited his orders.

“Georgy, contact the Chief of the Search and Rescue Services and have him prepare Mikhail Rudnitskiy for departure within six hours. Tell him to bring as many functional rescue and salvage submersibles as he can. Coordinate with the Commander, Twelfth Nuclear Submarine Eskadra for specific information on Severodvinsk’s last known position and their analysis of the sub’s possible location. Move!”

As the chief of staff left, Kokurin looked at the clock on his desk. It read 1529. He should see the emergency message in about ten minutes. Turning to face the window, he watched as the snow was whipped about by the gale-force winds. The dreariness of the afternoon matched his mood. The real question now was whether or not a rescue force could actually leave in the middle of this accursed storm. God willing, the ships should be ready to get underway by the early evening hours. Now, if Grandfather Winter would only cooperate.

National Security Agency, Fort Meade, Maryland

Jack Ferguson was already bored. It was less than two hours into his shift, and there wasn’t much going on in the Russian Northern Fleet AOR. The winter storm had really shut things down. It’s going to be a very long day, he thought.

“Hey, Jack,” called Paul Anderson, Ferguson’s supervisor, “anything good on the Russia Northern Fleet channel?”

“Nope, they’re getting the snot beaten out of them by that storm. Overall traffic volume is way down, and most of the stuff is administrative shit. I did have one message, though, about ten minutes ago that had an urgent precedence. Nothing much since.”

“Well, it certainly makes sense to just hunker down in that kind of weather,” responded Anderson. “You know what this place is like if we get even an inch of snow. Say, I’m going down to the cafeteria for some coffee. You want anything?”

Ferguson didn’t respond; he seemed to be mesmerized by his computer screen. “Jack, I said do you want anything?”

“Holy shit! Paul, you’d better get over here. I’m seeing over two dozen urgent messages from just about every major ship in the Northern Fleet.”

“What!? This couldn’t possibly be an exercise. Not in that weather,” stated Anderson incredulously.

“Look at these ships that are answering. That is Petr Velikiy. And that is Marshal Ustinov. There is the Admiral Kuznetsov. Everybody and their brother is rogering up for something. And whatever it is, it’s big.”

“All right Jack, start writing this up. I want a FLASH precedence message reporting this activity in ten minutes. Do you have any theories as to what is going on?”

“I do now,” Ferguson replied smugly. “I just saw the Mikhail Rudnitskiy, the submarine rescue ship, send its reply. I think we have a submarine emergency.”