Cold Choices

13. HOME FRONT

6 October 2008 10:55 AM

OPNAV N77 Director, Submarine Warfare Division Main Office, Fourth Floor, A Ring, the Pentagon

“Yes, sir. I’m watching the news as well. No, sir. I have no idea how they found out so quickly. My staff and I only got the word late last night from Norfolk.”

Captain William Richardson, USN, spun in his chair at a knock and waved the yeoman into his office. Petty Officer Second Class Michaels walked in and held up a binder with a colorful title page and CD in a plastic case, smiling.

Richardson smiled back and gave him a thumbs-up even as he continued the conversation. “Admiral Keller is due to land in about an hour and a half. We have a briefing scheduled for him at 1400. I understand, sir. I’m sure he would want you there as well. Yes, sir. Of course not, sir. Someone will meet your plane and bring you straight here. Thank you, sir.”

Richardson slammed the phone down, stood and grabbed his service dress blue uniform blouse. “We’ll need another car at Andrews in half an hour. SUBGRU Two will be landing at 1125 from New London and he will join the admiral for the brief.”

Michaels handed over the combined package with one hand and reached for Richardson’s phone with the other. “He didn’t give us a lot of warning.”

“We’re lucky he called to complain about the television coverage. Someone in New London was supposed to phone ahead.”

Michaels nodded as he punched the buttons.

Richardson finished buttoning his coat and quickly flipped through the hard copy of the presentation. “And this has the stuff from BUPERS, the shots of Rudel and his service record?”

“Third slide. This is OPNAV N77 at the Pentagon. The executive assistant needs a driver to meet Rear Admiral Jeffrey Sloan, Commander Submarine Group Two, at Andrews at 1125. No, I’m not kidding. Our extension is 4257, and it’s room 4A720. Thank you.”

While Michaels ordered the car, Richardson hurriedly stuffed the binder, a stack of papers, and a laptop into his briefcase. He finished as the YN2 hung up. “Hernandez is at the Mall Entrance waiting for you. And Lieutenant Meeks has already left to meet Rear Admiral Keller.”

“Good.” Richardson headed for the door. “And now we’ll need two flag-rank reservations for tonight instead of one.”

“I’ll see to it, sir. Good luck at the White House.”

Richardson stopped to check his uniform and reflexively glanced at the television mounted in the corner. It showed a black-and-white video image of a submarine plowing through the water. The legend below said “USS Thresher.” He shuddered, grabbed his uniform cover, and yanked on the doorknob.

He hadn’t taken three steps down the hallway when a woman’s voice behind him called out, “Captain Bill! I just heard the news.”

He turned to see a tall woman walking quickly to catch up. Her expensive dark-colored suit made her ash-blond hair look all the brighter. Richardson waited the few moments it took for her to catch up. “Dr. Patterson, it’s good to see you.”

Richardson turned back and resumed walking. If he hurried, he’d make the briefing on time.

Patterson matched his stride easily. She was half an inch taller. “I just came from the CNO Intel Plot. They brought me up to speed on Seawolf’s mission and the incident.”

“What? Oh, of course.” Richardson corrected his initial reaction. Seawolf’s mission was highly classified, but Dr. Patterson certainly had the necessary clearances.

“Pardon me if I hurry, Doctor, but I have a briefing at the White House.”

“Yes, the NSC meeting at 1130. I won’t slow you down.”

“Thank you. I’ve got to get there early. I’ll be presenting. ” Richardson actually stopped walking. “Are you going to be at the meeting?”

“I think the Navy would want me to be there,” Patterson answered matter-of-factly.

Richardson started walking again, maybe a little faster than before, and thinking faster still. He was due to brief the National Security Council in less than an hour about the Seawolf crisis. He’d been invited as the navy’s senior submarine representative, since the director and deputy director were both on travel. He’d reviewed Seawolf’s mission, what they knew of her damage, and what the Navy’s options were for dealing with the crisis.

His audience would include the President’s National Security Adviser, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Chief of Naval Operations, the Director of National Intelligence, and half a dozen other luminaries. He would brief them on the situation and answer questions about submarines in general and Seawolf in particular.

There were two other briefs after his, one about the Russians and one about the weather. When they were over, the assembled national-level decision-makers would list possible options and recommend one or more to the President of the United States. This was the real deal.

His intention was to give a good brief, answer their questions to the best of his ability, and otherwise keep the hell out of the way. Richardson was a full Navy captain, a “four-striper.” He’d commanded two nuke subs, one a boomer, but these people operated at a much higher level.

Dr. Joanna Patterson was angling for an invite. Could she bring anything useful to the party? She was President Huber’s science and technology advisor for intelligence, which meant she looked at intelligence from a scientific viewpoint and told President Huber what she thought. It said a lot about Huber’s opinion of her.

Joanna Patterson watched Bill Richardson consider her request, and she knew that’s all it was, a request. One simply did not show up at an NSC meeting because one had something useful to say. One was invited.

And she needed to be invited. Ever since her patrol aboard Memphis, she’d become friends with many submariners. She’d socialized with them, gone to special events, learned about submarine technology. She’d even married a submariner.

Along with her husband, she’d gone to the change of command ceremony in New London when Tom Rudel had become Seawolf’s captain. Her husband Lowell and Tom had served together, and Jerry Mitchell was aboard Seawolf as well. Once one of her contacts had called to tell her about Seawolf, she’d dropped everything else.

Everyone at the NSC meeting would want to resolve the crisis, but state, defense, intelligence, even the navy had their own goals. Her only agenda was the crew of USS Seawolf. She knew Washington, and what was politely called “politics.” She had helped President Huber and had his ear. And she would use every trick she knew to make sure the men in that room moved heaven and earth to bring Seawolf home.

Richardson also knew she’d been a powerful friend to the Navy, and submarines in particular. Word in the Pentagon was that she’d been involved in several technology programs, basically grading other agencies’ homework for the president. She also had a Bluenose certificate in her office, framed in a place of honor. She refused to say where or how she got it.

He’d first met her at a Submarine League gathering, along with her husband, a retired submariner and now a congressman. She had a sharp mind and did not suffer fools at all. Both had political connections, but hers were wider and higher. Much, much, higher.

Three steps after Patterson’s request, Richardson answered, “Doctor, I’d be delighted if you’d join me. I can add you to our list as a ‘submarine technology subject-matter expert.’”

“That’s accurate enough for our purposes. They have all my information over there on file.”

They’d reached the car, and as soon they were moving Richardson called and made the arrangements. It was a twenty-minute ride to the White House, and risking rudeness, Richardson took the time to review the hard copy of what he hoped were error-free slides.

Patterson busied herself with her BlackBerry. Her first email was to Lowell, of course, and then a general call to several submariner friends. There was no way she’d get answers in time for the meeting, but she needed input, ideas, wisdom.

Lowell, bless his heart, did answer her note with a two-word text reply: be gentle.

The meeting was actually being held in the basement of the Old Executive Office Building, across the street from the White House. Richardson and Patterson passed through the security screenings at the main entrance, again on the basement level when they came off the elevator, and one last time when they reached the secure area. Richardson gave up his cell phone and laptop, while Patterson gave up her BlackBerry, a second cell phone, iPod, and digital camera.

Patterson knew the names and faces of all the cabinet-level officials. She was a little surprised when she didn’t see any of them here. While Richardson set up his presentation, she worked the room.

The secretary of state was missing. Instead, a stocky forty-something introduced himself as the Assistant Secretary of State for European affairs. “The Secretary hopes this can be dealt with quickly, without involving the cabinet.” His name was Abrams.

He’d brought along another assistant secretary, a carefully groomed woman named Parker, in charge of public affairs. She looked ready to step in front of a TV camera, but Patterson thought she had too much makeup on for a meeting. “Getting our message out properly is key to resolving this crisis,” she declared.

“I would think successfully rescuing the Russian submariners and getting our people home would be a better goal,” Patterson observed.

The Joint Chiefs had sent the vice chairman, a four-star Air Force general, with a Navy four-star admiral at his elbow. Patterson actually knew the admiral, the vice chief of naval operations, named Sotera. He was an aviator, not that she had anything against pilots.

Intelligence had sent a senior executive service-level political-military expert along with a junior Russian Navy specialist, while Defense was represented by their senior counsel, a silver-haired man in an untidy suit. She hadn’t expected the Vice President, the official head of the NSC, to be here, but even the National Security Adviser, who chaired in the VP’s absence, was also missing.

Instead, a middle-aged woman, looking tired and a little impatient, called the meeting to order at precisely eleven thirty. “My name is Adrienne Gosport, I’m the deputy to National Security Adviser Wright.” Gosport looked over at a secretary to make sure she was recording the proceedings. “We are convening to discuss the incident involving USS Seawolf, to assess the situation and determine if any action needs to be taken at the national level.” She glanced at her notes. “Captain Richardson has prepared a brief of the situation.”

The captain walked them through the background: Russian exercises, Seawolf’s mission, then what Rudel had reported of the encounter, Seawolf’s material condition, and Rudel’s intentions. Richardson was good. He kept it short, stuck to the slides, and then sat down.

Gosport saw members start to ask questions, but cut them off. “Let’s hold our questions until the other briefs are finished. Let’s have the weather next.”

An Air Force staff sergeant, remarkably at ease in the presence of such high rank, didn’t mince words. “This area has some of the worst weather in the world. Vicious storms like the one near Svalbard are not uncommon this time of year, but it is not the norm. Units on the surface will experience heavy seas, winds of gale force, and visibility of less than a quarter mile. I’ve passed around printouts with the exact details, but the simple answer is that in the area of interest, conditions have worsened since yesterday and are expected to peak tomorrow.

“Even large surface ships will be affected by these conditions. Nothing’s flying. Search-and-rescue operations are out of the question until the winds and sea states moderate in two, possibly three more days. And then there is the sea ice, which is getting thicker in the area near the reported position.”

Joanna Patterson shuddered, remembering the water temperature on her own trip north. The interior of the sub was comfortable enough, but brushing up against any metal in contact with the hull had reminded her of the frigid wilderness inches away.

The intelligence analyst was the most interesting, a fiftyish academic named Russo, with thinning hair and a limp. A former submariner, he knew his topic. The problem was that he loved his topic. His opening slide told them that his three-part briefing would review past and present Soviet and Russian submarine rescue platforms, then Russian submarine incidents and their successes or failures in rescuing downed crews, and he planned to wind up with a review of Russian-Western cooperative agreements.

Gosport interrupted him. “Which of your slides covers their current capabilities?”

Disappointed, the analyst flipped forward to a slide titled “Northern Fleet Rescue Assets.” It was brutally short. One slide showed a photo of the Mikhail Rudnitskiy salvage and rescue ship, and the second a picture of an AS-34 Priz-class rescue submersible, built in 1991, and in “doubtful” mechanical condition.

“That’s it?” Gosport asked, incredulous.

“Russian submarines themselves are very survivable. They use a double hull design with internal compartmentation, which gives them very large reserve buoyancy. All of the attack submarines also have an internal escape chamber big enough to hold the entire crew.” He flipped to a cutaway of a Russian nuclear attack sub, then pointed to a cylinder embedded in the sail. “There it is, equipped with medical supplies, food and water, and emergency radio equipment.”

“But they haven’t used it,” General Winters, the vice chairman, observed.

“We don’t know for sure, sir. But it’s likely they haven’t.” The analyst was on familiar ground, and confidence buttressed his arguments. “For the Russians to declare a missing submarine alert means that it has failed to report in during a routine communications window, that it has not signaled in some other way, and repeated attempts to contact it have all been unsuccessful.”

Gosport took over again. “Thank you, Dr. Russo. Does anyone have other information to contribute?”

Sotera, the navy representative, volunteered, “We ordered Mystic to prep for movement two hours ago. She’s on twenty-four-hour notice, so she can be flown from San Diego early tomorrow, if we want to use her. The two Super Scorpio ROVs are already loaded on C-17s and are on strip alert. We’ve also detached USS Churchill from Standing Naval Force Atlantic. They’re near Norway. She’ll steam north, and we’ll fly the repair parts Seawolf requested out to her. When she delivers the parts to Seawolf she’ll also take off her casualties.”

“Was that wise?” Abrams, the State Department official, asked. “What if Churchill encounters Russian naval vessels while searching for the sub?”

“It’s international waters,” the admiral replied, “and we’ve ‘encountered’ Russian units before.” He wanted to say more, but Gosport kept things moving.

“We have several questions to be answered. I’ll address them in order of their urgency. First, do we pass Seawolf’s information on to the Russians?”

“We haven’t?” exclaimed Sotera. Several at the table were more than surprised. “It’s all over CNN.”

“The news reports are vague,” Abrams countered. “They confirm a Russian submarine emergency, but only hint that a U.S. sub may have been involved. To my knowledge, nobody at the State Department has had any official or unofficial communication with any Russian national in any capacity.”

“Mr. Abrams is correct,” Gosport added. “The United States has not officially provided the time and location of the collision to Russia. Until we do, the news reports can be dismissed as speculation. Once we do give Russia the data, we confirm our presence in the area and more importantly, our part in the collision.”

“They’ll blame us,” Abrams stated.

“Of course. Nothing new there,” Winters replied. “But from Rudel’s report, it sounds like he was doing his level best to avoid a collision.”

“Didn’t do a very good job,” muttered Bronson, the DoD counsel. “I’m assuming we don’t put incompetents in command of nuclear submarines, but couldn’t Rudel have simply moved away from the other submarine?”

Gosport looked to Richardson for an answer. The captain explained, “The Russian was trying to drive Seawolf out of the area by making passes very close to her. Both navies have used the tactic in different times and places to make the other side feel ‘unwelcome.’ It’s a risky business. There have been collisions between U.S. and Russian boats before, although never one this severe. In none of those cases was the U.S. captain held culpable.” The last sentence was directed straight at the counsel.

Bronson nodded and made a notation. “Still, what do we know about this man? He’s screwed up this mission. What if he makes a hash of finding the Russian sub?”

Richardson bristled. “He didn’t fail at anything, sir. Seawolf’s survey was interrupted by the Russian. That’s certainly not his fault.”

“I’ve met Captain Rudel.” Patterson spoke up. She had to make Tom Rudel real to these people. “My husband served with him when they were both lieutenants. He’s an excellent officer, intelligent and a good leader.”

“Dr. Patterson, did you have a technological insight into this situation?” Branson’s attitude was almost hostile.

Patterson wasn’t deflected by his snide comment. “The two nuclear subs involved are over three hundred feet long and displace almost ten thousand tons. Depending on their speed, it can take three to four boat lengths to change course. Given a noncooperative partner, maneuvering in close proximity, collisions are more than likely.”

Sotera, the vice CNO, reminded the group, “Rudel’s competence, or responsibility for the collision, doesn’t affect the basic fact that we know where the Russian sub is.”

“Where it may be,” corrected Abrams.

“Where it probably is,” countered the admiral. “This is a search-and-rescue mission. Not sharing what we know borders on the criminal. Furthermore, need I remind everyone here that we supported the Russians in August 2005 when the AS-28 got tangled in fishing nets off the Kamchatka Peninsula. And they were participants in this year’s NATO Bold Monarch submarine rescue exercise in May.”

Gosport’s expression showed that she wasn’t pleased at the admiral’s inference. “Until we know what the effects will be, sharing the information would seem unwise.”

“There’s no rush,” Abrams suggested. “The weather’s rotten and will be for two or three more days. Let Seawolf investigate and we can pass the information on if there’s anyone to rescue.”

“Unsatisfactory,” Sotera answered firmly. “Just like us, the Russians need time to prepare assets and equipment, and knowing where to look means they can start moving it now. And what if the weather breaks sooner than predicted?”

Bronson added, “The legal implications are fairly clear. Even if the Russian was totally responsible for the collision, withholding the information would have a very adverse effect on our position. And the Admiral is correct: We have included the Russians in rescue exercises as well as participating in the international submarine rescue liaison office. The course of action the State Department is recommending is completely counter to the president’s present policy.”

Patterson smiled, but only on the inside. That “adverse effect” would be a firestorm of international condemnation.

Gosport was convinced. “Then the Secretary of State will pass the information immediately to the Russian ambassador here in Washington. After that has occurred, the Navy may relay the exact same data through the submarine liaison office.” She turned and spoke to an aide, who quickly left the room.

“The second question is whether we recall Seawolf or let her assist in the rescue operation.”

“Seawolf can’t be recalled, Ms. Gosport,” Admiral Sotera reminded her. “According to Rudel’s message, she’s submerged, so we can’t communicate with her again until she decides to surface.”

Richardson looked uncomfortable. He didn’t like correcting the aviator. “Sir, that’s not completely correct. She can still receive messages via the floating wire antenna. She just can’t talk to us without surfacing and using the satellite phone.”

Sotera nodded and smiled. “Thank you, Captain.” He turned to Gosport. “I still recommend letting Captain Rudel proceed with his search.”

“But what can he find?” Abrams asked. “According to the message, his bow sonar is destroyed.”

Patterson leaned over to Richardson. She whispered, “I can answer this one, if you want.” The captain nodded, and she spoke to the group.”Seawolf has three unmanned underwater vehicles fitted with high-resolution bottom-scanning sonar. Each can search a swath hundreds of yards wide at five knots…”

Gosport interrupted. “Then it sounds like Seawolf is very well equipped to find a downed submarine. But physically involving her in the search concerns me.”

Abrams agreed. “Informing the Russians of our role does not require her to be there. If Seawolf stays, they will have to work with the Russians. And questions will be raised about what we were doing there in the first place.”

“Describing her mission as oceanographic survey is both accurate and publicly acceptable,” Bronson stated. “Seawolf’s classified mission is not relevant and had nothing to do with the circumstances of the collision.”

“That’s simple, at least.” Gosport sounded relieved. “Dr. Russo, what do you think the Russians’ reaction will be?”

Russo didn’t hesitate. “Before the Kursk disaster, they’d probably ignore anything we said and conduct their own search. That would cost them days, but they’ve got their pride and always want to go it alone.

“Now they’re under a lot pressure from their own citizens to work with other nations. Most likely, they’ll use the information but not give us any of the credit.” After a pause, he added, “And they’ll say the whole thing is our fault, of course.”

“We’ll deal with that,” Parker stated. “After the meeting, I’d like to get copies of Captain Richardson’s brief, along with any other material you have on Rudel. Also, on the crew member that was killed, Rountree. I assume his next-of-kin’s been notified.”

Concern flashed up in Patterson, but she suppressed her urge to speak when she saw that Richardson, Sotera, even Winters were equally worried. The three uniformed officers exchanged glances, then Winters carefully asked, “Why would the State Department want personal information on service members?”

Parker explained, “For the press releases, of course. Since this involves our relations with a foreign country, State will coordinate our media response.”

Gosport shook her head. “No. Involving State moves this to a higher level. For the moment, we will let the Navy deal with the media.” She deliberately looked over the assembled group, including everyone in her gaze. “It is my desire that this crisis be resolved with as little media attention as possible, and with that coverage favorable.”

“The last question regards who is best suited to coordinate the United States’ response. While I’m sure State is willing to take this on, I will again insist that this be handled at a lower level.” She looked to Admiral Sotera. “How about within the Navy?”

Richardson and the admiral conferred, the captain spoke. “Seawolf is part of Submarine Group Two in New London. Admiral Sloan is Commander SUBGRU Two and is en route here. So is Admiral Keller, COMSUBFORLANT, his immediate superior.”

“Then my recommendation will be that Admiral Sloan is designated the action officer for this incident.” She glanced at the clock. “I’ll be speaking with Dr. Wright immediately. Please inform your superiors that he may convene a full meeting this evening. Thank you.” She stood up and quickly left, while an aide gathered her notes.

That’s it? Patterson checked her watch. Twenty minutes of briefings and fifteen minutes of discussion? They’d barely mentioned Seawolf and her casualties, or the crew of the Russian sub. Both of them deserved, no, demanded more.

As the meeting broke up, Patterson approached Dr. Russo and asked for a copy of his brief — the full version.

Russo smiled at her interest. “I’m not usually called on to brief. I apologize for sharing my enthusiasm.” He handed her his hard copy of the slides. “You might as well take this one. It would just go into the shredder. At least someone will read it.”

“Don’t throw all that work away just yet, Doctor.” She smiled warmly. “And please, call me Joanna. We may need your expertise. I wish I’d heard more about actually helping those subs.”

“I wouldn’t like to be in Captain Rudel’s place right now. No nuclear sub has ever been as damaged as his and not headed straight for the barn. Once he finds the Russian, he’ll have to stay on station until the Northern Fleet shows up with a rescue force. And I don’t think this is going to be a simple handoff. Seawolf’s UUVs could be critical in saving the boat. The Russians have nothing like them, which means Seawolf could be there for the entire operation.”

Patterson frowned, imagining just how many ways things could go wrong. Then she wondered how many more ways there were that she couldn’t imagine.

CNN Report

“This is Jody Stevens in Moscow. A Russian Navy spokesman just released a report on the loss of the nuclear attack submarine Severodvinsk.

“The press release did not name the sub, but did describe the ‘loss of a new first-rank nuclear submarine to mysterious and hostile actions.’ The Russian naval officer would not elaborate on what might have caused the loss, but stated that ‘Russian submarines are well built and not subject to accidental loss. Only deliberate actions by another vessel could have put our submarine in danger.’

“When asked about Russian search-and-rescue plans, the Russian captain said the search was proceeding according to plans drawn up long before in accordance with fleet procedures. Weather in the area is very bad, but the captain insisted that the Northern Fleet was used to such severe conditions and would not be hampered.

“He refused to say whether the submarine has been located, or when rescue units could expect to arrive on the scene.”

Washington, DC

Patterson’s office was also in the Old Executive Office Building. She might have access to the president, with an appointment, of course, but that did not rate a desk in the West Wing.

Still, it was on the third floor, facing east, toward the White House, and she’d paid for the decorator herself. Antiques, warm colors and fresh flowers not only made it a pleasant place to work, but a place to visit. She also made sure that she had the best coffee on the floor, and comfortable chairs.

Her assistant, Jane Matsui, looked up as Patterson almost burst through the door. Patterson saw her reach for a stack of message slips and waved her off. “Call Ben Castle and tell him I need to speak with the adviser as soon as he finishes getting briefed by Gosport. It’s about Seawolf. Don’t let him put you off.” Matsui recognized her tone and dialed.

While her assistant spoke to the national security adviser’s office, Patterson quickly checked her emails. Only one answer, so far, but it was one of Lowell’s friends in the Pentagon. His only thoughts on the crisis were “Make sure Rudel’s got a friend in the room.”

Fifteen minutes later and one floor up, Patterson nodded to Wright’s staff. Adrienne Gosport was just leaving the adviser’s office, and she was more than a little surprised to see Patterson. She recovered quickly, though, and smiled thinly as she left for her own office next door.

Jeffrey Wright’s doctorate was in political economics. He tended to see conflicts in those terms, and he wasn’t an ideologue, which meant he tended toward the long view. Huber had appointed him as the national security adviser based on his raw intellect and the fact that without Wright he might not have carried the northeastern states.

Wright was a tall man, almost scrawny. Patterson often thought of a pile of sticks when she saw him in a chair with his legs crossed. His bushy hair was almost pure white, with only a few streaks of his original brown remaining. Although over seventy, he exercised frequently, de rigueur for anyone in the Huber administration.

“Jeffrey, the administration has to take a more active role in assisting Seawolf.”

“Nice to see you, too, Joanna.” Wright smiled and shook hands, then ushered her to a seat — not the one across his desk, but another, nearer and on the same side of the desk as his. He shrugged. “We’re letting Rudel continue with his search.”

“And doing not a single thing more,” Patterson countered. “He’s on a crippled sub in the middle of the Barents Sea and the only help he’s getting from us are some new radio parts.”

“That’s all he’s asked for.”

She smiled. “And you can’t think of another thing we can do to help him.” When Wright didn’t respond immediately, she stood and paced quickly, trying to walk off her frustration. “I wish you had run that meeting. This wouldn’t be happening. They were worried about everything except getting those men home safely.

“Their plan is for Jeff Sloan to manage the ‘incident’ from New London,” she argued. “He can barely communicate with Seawolf, even when her radios are working, which they’re not!”

Wright sighed. “I agree. He’s working at arm’s length.”

“And he’ll be working at arm’s length with the Russians, too,” she added.

“You sound like that’s a bad idea.”

Patterson shook her head. “I’m not going to say anything bad about Jeff Sloan to the President’s National Security Adviser. He’s a fine officer and very charismatic.”

“But,” Wright prompted.

“He’s like ninety-five percent of the military men I know. He’s not political. He doesn’t think in those terms. In fact, he avoids thinking in those terms.”

“While you live for it.” Wright smiled.

“I’m a people person, Jeffrey.” She smiled back.

“All right. You’ve convinced me that we need better communications, both with Seawolf and the Russians. Adrienne really didn’t look very hard for an action officer. I’m certainly not obligated to follow her recommendation. I think it should be you. We’ll send you to USS Churchill along with those radio parts.”

Patterson stared at him.

Wright started ticking off items on an imaginary checklist. “You understand the technical and political issues. You know many of the people involved personally. President Huber trusts your judgment, and you’ve delivered for him in the past. You’ve even been on a submarine patrol up there.”

“The Russians probably shouldn’t know about that last bit,” Patterson mused. Pausing, she half-smiled. “I didn’t know I was so annoying. You know, I might find my way back “

Wright laughed out loud, but before he could say anything in reply, Patterson argued, “It won’t work. I’m not in the chain of command. I’m an adviser to the President.”

“President Huber will appoint you an ‘on-scene coordinator’ for the search-and-rescue operation. Under international law, Rudel is the on-scene commander, since he was or is the first unit there. Given his limited communications, supporting him with a surface ship makes sense.”

Wright made some notes. “Now, once the Russians arrive, they will quite properly take over the rescue effort, but you will stay there until Seawolf comes home.”

“Who do I report to?” Patterson asked. She wasn’t going to say yes until she knew where the wires led.

Wright grinned. “That depends. SUBGRU Two on matters relating to Seawolf, the Russians for the rescue, me for everything else. I’ll stay out of your hair as long as I feel informed, and I’ll get you whatever you need.”

“Can I take along someone? Dr. Russo. I met him at the brief. He’s an expert on Russian submarine rescue.”

“I’ll arrange it. I’ll also include a State Department rep, in case things with the Russians get intense, and a naval officer as your aide.” Wright saw her expression and reassured her. “They will work for you, I promise.”

“All right.”

“Splendid.” Wright’s smile lit the room. “Ben will arrange the travel details, but expect to leave tomorrow — early.”

Two hours later, she skipped dinner to hit an outfitter’s store on Seventh Street. They expressed interest in her destination when she told them she needed arctic gear, but Patterson put them off with a story about an environmental survey in Alaska, which she’d actually done, years ago.

She’d barely started when her phone beeped. It was a text from Lowell. check cnn. She hit a key and checked a list of articles on the screen. It was obvious which one he was referring to.

The audio with such a small speaker was awful, and she had to keep the volume down in the store, but the anchor’s voice was understandable.

“The Russian Interfax news agency has announced that the Americans have admitted their role in the loss of their submarine, now identified as Severodvinsk. A Russian naval ministry spokesman says that the U.S. government has provided both the location and time of the submarine’s loss through a collision with an American nuclear attack submarine.

“The Russian statement did not name the U.S. submarine, and questioned its ‘oceanographic survey’ mission. The submarine will evidently remain in the area conducting its own search for the downed Russian vessel.

“The ministry claims that because the location is in international waters, the only way the Russian submarine could have been crippled is through ‘hostile actions’ by the American vessel. They are discounting the American claim of an accidental collision, on the grounds that there is no reason for two submarines to be operating in such close proximity, and also the need to conduct a search, since it and the American had collided. He hinted the U.S. actually knows the precise location of their missing submarine, and is withholding it.

“The ministry says it is continuing its rescue plans, but that the search vessels will be escorted by Northern Fleet warships to prevent any interference.”