Cold Choices

15. RUSH JOB

7 October 2008 5:30 AM

Georgetown, Washington, DC

The car picked her up just before dawn, with Lowell’s advice still filling her ears. Joanna Patterson’s husband had insisted on getting up with her and making breakfast while she finished packing. She appreciated the meal, but Lowell insisted on briefing her on Navy protocol — again.

“You know the ranks and organization aboard a ship, dear, but I can’t emphasize enough, make sure all your requests go through either the captain or XO. Don’t go bossing the crew.” Lowell, six foot two in his bare feet and flannel pajamas, still thought like a Navy captain. His congressional staff joked about the clock in his office that chimed “eight bells” rather than striking twelve.

“Lowell, I’ve dealt with Navy captains before.” She smiled smugly. “Quite recently, as a matter of fact.”

“And you’re very good at it,” he replied, kissing her warmly, “but that better not be how you plan on dealing with Churchill’s Skipper.”

“Whatever works,” she teased, but then she continued, “I made my choice. One port, one sailor.” She patted his temple. “Even with your thinning hair.”

The phone rang and Lowell jumped to answer it. “Hardy.” He listened for a moment, then turned to his wife. “The car’s outside. Did you pack your charger?”

“Yes. And my spare computer glasses. And don’t you forget about that meeting with Representative Acheson.”

“The man’s made of clay,” he complained.

“You need him, and he’s a lot smarter than he looks,” she cautioned. “Wish me luck.”

She hugged Lowell one last time and pecked him on the cheek as the doorbell rang. The government driver identified himself, then gathered her bags and took them to the car.

The chill lasted only until she was inside, where she allowed herself ten minutes with the newspapers before she pulled out her BlackBerry. There were emails to answer.

Traffic was light, and they made good time to the Old Executive Building, where they picked up Jane Matsui. Like Patterson, she looked like she’d overpacked, but Matsui explained that one suitcase contained nothing but warm clothing. Another bag, which she kept with her, was filled with work from Patterson’s office.

The instant they started moving, Matsui was ready to work. There were a lot of people who still thought Patterson would be in her office this morning, and the two women worked through the twenty-minute car ride to Andrews.

They were heading east, out of the city, so they made good time, and since it was a government car, they were waved through the front gate at Andrews Air Force Base with a minimum of delay.

An airman in dress blues met the car as it pulled up in front of the VIP waiting area. The nondescript door led into one of the buildings that made up the operations center. The Eighty-ninth Airlift Wing was tasked with ferrying all manner of government officials of any rank, in any numbers, wherever they needed to go, often at a moment’s notice.

“Welcome to Andrews Air Force Base, Dr. Patterson, Miss Matsui.” The young airman didn’t salute, but treated the ladies with deference appropriate for a general. While the driver dealt with the bags, he walked the two ladies inside. “Another member of your party is inside already. We’re waiting for two more.” He checked the clipboard. “You’ll be leaving at 0800 aboard a C-20B. It’s one of our smaller aircraft, but it has intercontinental range.”

The VIP waiting area looked like any airport terminal, except for the Air Force decor. The airman led them over to a Navy commander, the only other person in the room. He rose, almost coming to attention.

“I’m Commander John Silas, ma’am, your Navy liaison.” Silas was short, in his early forties, and already fighting a paunch. He was dressed in neatly pressed khakis.

After introductions, Patterson asked, “Where are you stationed? When you’re not TDY, that is.”

“I’m on Admiral Sloan’s staff, at SUBGRU Two. With your permission, I’ll file regular reports with him, so he’s kept up to date.”

The door opened again and the airman ushered Dr. Russo into the waiting area. He shook Patterson’s hand warmly. “Thank you for asking for me, Dr. Patterson. Frankly, I don’t get out a lot, and I miss it.”

“You’re welcome, Doctor, I think your expertise will be a great help.” There were more introductions, and Patterson discovered that Silas and Russo knew each other.

“Al Russo has come up to see us several times, and we send information to his office as well.” Since Russo was a CIA technical analyst, she presumed that Silas was talking about intelligence data gathered by SUBGRU Two boats.

Silas offered, “Doctor, I’ve got a few suggestions about how the investigation should proceed…”

Patterson cut him off. “This isn’t an investigation, Commander. I’m acting as on-scene coordinator for Commander Rudel and Seawolf. This is a search-and-rescue operation, not some fact-finding junket.”

“Given the success rate of Soviet and Russian submarine rescues, Doctor, it’s likely there will be little for us to do.” Silas looked over at Russo.

The analyst shrugged. “The Russians have never been able to pull a large portion of crew out of a bottomed sub. For that matter, neither have we, at least not since Squalus went down, and that was in 1939.”

“I won’t accept that, not with so many unknowns. We don’t know how badly the Russian boat is damaged. Nothing can be decided until we know that. And if there’s the slightest chance of the U.S. improving their chances of survival, I want us to find out what it is and then make it happen.”

“Bravo, Dr. Patterson, I wish I’d had a microphone.” It was a woman’s voice, behind her, and Patterson turned to see the public affairs official from yesterday’s meeting.

“Joyce Parker, Doctor. It’s good to see you again.” She offered her hand, and Patterson automatically shook it as she absorbed Parker’s presence. “I’m delighted to be part of this adventure.”

Silas pulled out a sheet of paper and consulted it, confusion growing in his expression. “I’m confused, Ms. Parker. I was given a list of people who were accompanying Dr. Patterson. You’re not on it.”

“I’m taking Art Lopez’s place,” she explained almost casually. “It was a last-minute change. He has a bad case of the flu, and State didn’t find out until early this morning, which is when I got the call.” She grinned. “I’ve been scrounging cold-weather gear everywhere I could. I had to wake some of my girlfriends. Am I late? Are we ready to go?”

Patterson eyed Parker with suspicion. “State was supposed to send a Russian specialist from the European desk.”

“Undersecretary Abrams said I could take Art’s place with the group. And you need a media specialist,” Parker countered. “Have you looked at the television coverage?” She offered a digital player with a news story about the collision. “The Russians are now claiming that they can’t find their sub, which they still refuse to identify, because a ‘mysterious’ U.S. sub is interfering with their operations.”

Silas snorted. “Their stuff is either still stuck at the pier or grounded.”

“The Russians say the search is progressing in spite of the weather,” she countered. “Of course, it helps when you’re not handicapped by the truth.”

An Air Force officer approached the group. “Dr. Patterson, we’re ready for your party to board.”

The C-20, engines idling, waited with a roll-up stairs at the fuselage door. Patterson, glad to be moving, set a fast pace and hurried aboard. It was supposed to be a rescue mission, after all.

An Air Force first lieutenant in olive coveralls greeted her. “I’m Lieutenant Neal, ma’am, the copilot. We’ll taxi and take off as soon as your party’s seated and the luggage is aboard. It’s a seven-hour flight to Orland, Norway. We’ll refuel there, then fly to Bardufoss, where you’ll transfer to an MV-22 Osprey for the trip out to Winston Churchill.”

Patterson was all business. “I’m assuming you’re flying as fast as possible.”

“Yes, ma’am. We have priority clearance, and we’ll do everything we can to get you there quickly.”

Patterson thanked him and he left for the cockpit. As the rest of her group quickly settled in for the flight, she looked over the plane. The C-20B was the military version of a Gulfstream III and was configured for VIP transport, with three rows of first-class-sized seats, four across. Behind them, a bulkhead and door led to a conference area, including a communications center and a galley. It was not lavish, but looked more like an executive boardroom than a passenger aircraft.

Once she was buckled, an Air Force staff sergeant gave them a familiar-sounding speech about oxygen masks and aircraft exits, then belted in himself for takeoff.

As they taxied, Patterson found her mind racing. She’d turned off her BlackBerry, cell phone, and laptop for the takeoff, but begrudged even those few minutes of enforced idleness. She was eager to attack the problem.

She pulled the hard copy of Russo’s brief that Matsui had brought with her and looked through it again. Patterson had given up thirty minutes of sleep the night before to read everything she could find online about Russian submarine rescue equipment, but the classified brief had considerably more detail and she needed time to absorb the information.

Russo was sitting across the aisle from her and noticed what she was reading. He grinned. “That’s the canned one-hour briefing I usually give. I really should have edited it down for the NSC meeting.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Patterson replied. “I’d only heard about a fraction of the ones listed here.” She paused, thinking. “I’m having trouble understanding why the Russians allowed so many accidents to happen.”

“Well, it’s not like they choose to have accidents, but their submarine production and maintenance philosophy makes them more prone to them. Remember, they’ve always played catch-up with our nuclear technology. They were desperate to field and operate their own nuclear boats. The losses were bad, but the alternative was American naval dominance. The guy in second place always has to take more risks to level the playing field. We’d do the same if our positions were reversed. In fact, we’ve done it, in other areas.”

Russo insisted, “They are not casual about their crew’s lives.” He gestured to the printout. “Turn to slide thirty. Look at the escape capsule.”

Patterson examined a cutaway drawing of a Russian sub, with a cylinder inside the sail circled in red.

“The capsule looks small in that drawing, but consider the size of the sub. The thing is bigger than a Greyhound bus. It can hold the entire crew— that’s over a hundred men, and has survival supplies, and an emergency radio to use when they reach the surface. The Russians put a lot of thought and effort into those things.”

“And it just floats to the surface?” asked Patterson.

“Yep, simple buoyancy. They close the hatch in the bottom, release the locking clamps, and up it comes.”

“Has it ever been used?”

“Once, when the lone Mike-class SSN, Komsomolets, was lost to a fire in April 1989. Most of the crew abandoned the boat while she was still on the surface, but the captain and four others weren’t able to get off in time as the boat suddenly foundered and sank. They managed to get into the capsule, but the sub’s trim was too great and the capsule wouldn’t release until it hit the bottom and she leveled out. Unfortunately, toxic gases from the fire leaked into the capsule and four of the five died.”

Russo shuddered. “It’s not foolproof, and they haven’t used it this time, for whatever reason. Submarining is a dangerous business.”

Patterson automatically agreed, maybe a little too strongly, remembering her own experience during the fire aboard Memphis. Russo’s expression of curiosity made her think of a new question before he started asking ones of his own.

“How long can they live, if they are alive?”

He shrugged again. “That all depends on how badly damaged the sub is, and how many of the crew survived. Ideally, they’ve got stored oxygen and power from their emergency batteries for some warmth. The problem is carbon dioxide poisoning. If the survivors aren’t able to keep C0₂ down below five percent, the clock starts ticking.

“Assuming most of the crew made it through the collision, and their emergency air-regeneration system still works, I estimate that they may be able to last for up to a week. Given Rudel’s initial report, the Russians have already been down for three days. Unfortunately, the weather isn’t cooperating and this makes things really sticky.”

“But Seawolf can ignore the weather,” Patterson stated, “and use her UUVs to find the sub quickly.”

“Exactly. But finding Severodvinsk won’t be the hard part.” His unspoken question went unanswered.

Their conversation had taken them through the takeoff and climb to altitude. The copilot’s voice over the announcing system announced, “Dr. Patterson, your group can unbuckle now and move around, and safely use electronic devices. Staff Sergeant Monroe can organize some breakfast as well, if you’d like.”

The moment Patterson stood, Joyce Parker, seated two rows behind her, stood as well. “Dr. Patterson, I must speak to you about the media response.”

“Ms. Parker, my only concern is supporting Seawolf and helping rescue Severodvinsk’s crew.” Patterson used a coldly formal tone that usually made others wilt.

Parker stood her ground. “I thought it was representing U.S. interests in an international crisis. Did you know that the Russians are claiming that the U.S. State Department deliberately fed them a bad location?”

“I’m not interested in fighting Russian propaganda.”

Parker showed Patterson her laptop. “Look at these headlines. The rest of the world is already calling this ‘the Seawolf attack.’ Our international reputation is being ruined, and we’re not doing anything about it.” Parker sounded deeply concerned.

The rest of the group had listened silently, but Russo now spoke up. “After Kursk went down, the Russians claimed that their boat had collided with a foreign submarine in the area. Early in the incident, they also claimed that they were in communication with the crew, and were sending air and power to them. Both statements were wildly false. Later they accused us directly of attacking Kursk, again a false statement.”

“What’s your point?” Parker was impatient with Russo’s observation, almost hostile.

“Nobody in the Russian Navy ever has gotten in trouble for lying to the media. It’s like the weather. We can’t control it.”

“Which means we have to get the truth out there.” Parker’s intensity was unnerving. Patterson could see that she cared deeply about the image of the United States, but her concern didn’t make it Patterson’s problem. Parker wasn’t even supposed to be here.

“Ms. Parker, we are going to have some breakfast, then I’d like Dr. Russo to run us all through his briefing.” Parker looked like she was going to say something, but Patterson just ran out of patience. “We’re done for now. Who else wants to eat?”

Staff Sergeant Monroe served fruit and pastries and excellent coffee, thank goodness. Patterson studied her team as they ate. No, they’re not a team, she thought. So far, it’s just a bunch of people together on an airplane. Like one of those disaster movies, she thought, but quickly squelched the comparison.

She had an empire builder, an intel analyst, and a naval officer who thought the whole endeavor is a waste of time. She had to make them work together.

During Russo’s brief, she listened and learned a little more, but also made up a list of action items, and watched her people. Silas and Russo had a running discussion during the brief. They were comfortable with each other, and seemed to respect each other’s expertise. Parker appeared interested, and took notes, but that could have been her journalist’s instincts.

Silas continued to be pessimistic about Severodvinsk’s chances. “Even with a good location, they’ve got very few rescue submersibles that can go down and save them.”

“They’ve asked for help from the British and the Norwegians,” Russo offered.

“But it will be days before they can get there,” Silas argued.

“The Russians don’t even want us there,” Parker commented, and turned her laptop around so they could see the screen. The Internet headline read, “Russians demand U.S. submarine to leave.”

“This article says they have proof that the U.S. is interfering with their rescue operations, and may be trying to destroy evidence of a U.S. attack.”

Silas laughed. “They haven’t even left port.”

Patterson had enough. They could sit here and argue their way across the Atlantic. “Let’s make sure of that. Commander Silas, please contact the Office of Naval Intelligence and ask them for an update on the Russian rescue operations.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll add a request for any Northern Fleet movements, if that’s all right.” She nodded, and Silas headed aft for the communications gear. Good. At least he could take orders.

“Dr. Russo, figure a timeline for a Russian rescue attempt, assuming that Seawolf is able to guide them to the spot, and a second one assuming they can’t. I want to know what they must do, where they have choices, and where they might run into problems.”

She turned to Joyce Parker, who volunteered, “I’d suggest a press release. We have to show everyone that we are taking action.”

“The National Security Adviser wanted the Navy to handle the publicity for this incident. Contact the public affairs officer at OPNAV and get copies of whatever they are releasing.” Parker looked ready to protest again, but Patterson added firmly, “This mission should remain out of the press as long as possible. We will have greater freedom if we stay below the radar.”

Parker nodded her reluctant understanding and turned to her laptop.

Patterson worked them for several hours, finding answers, building plans, and testing alternatives. She also tried to keep up with her own email. Monroe brought by a box lunch about halfway through the flight, but after that, she found herself waking up, covered by a blanket. Almost everyone was asleep, except for Russo, reading a paperback.

They landed at Orland, Norway, seven hours and thirty-two hundred miles after takeoff. “It’s a major NATO base, ma’am,” Monroe explained. “We’ll taxi over to the refueling area, pick up our passengers, and then head for Bardufoss. Total time on the ground, about thirty minutes, less if we can manage.”

“Passengers?” Patterson asked.

“Yes, ma’am. We received word as we landed that a van will be meeting us with some people who are joining your party.”

Patterson was surprised, but curious. “Do you know who they are?”

“No, ma’am, we don’t even know how many. The tower just said ‘additional personnel.’”

Monroe opened the forward passenger cabin door, and waited as the ground crew brought up a rolling stairway. Patterson could see a slice of the airbase through the opening: hangars, vehicles, and a low ceiling of slate gray overcast. We’re under the southern edge of the storm, she thought.

The clouds were moving, she noticed, and cool wet air swirled through the opening. “Staff Sergeant, can you please get me an update on the weather?”

“Of course, ma’am, as soon as our passengers are aboard.”

They waited another ten minutes for the dark blue Air Force van. It finally pulled up as the refueling crew finished. Whoever they were, Patterson was eager for them to be aboard so they could get moving.

The first person out the van and up the ladder was dressed in jeans and bright red and white parka. His beard and hair were streaked with gray, and his face was so weathered Patterson couldn’t tell whether he was thirty-five or fifty-five.

“My name is Arne Lindstrom. I’m with Marine Diving and Salvage. The Russians have contracted with us to help with the rescue.” As Lindstrom stepped aboard, he shook Patterson’s hand, but was then almost mugged by Russo, who introduced himself and began pelting the man with questions.

Behind Lindstrom was a twenty-something man in a suit. “My name is Hugh Glasgow. The base commander gave me permission to join your group.” He offered his hand.

Patterson took it, but alarm bells went off. “And why would you want to join us, Mr. Glasgow?”

“I’m with CNN, assigned here in Norway, Ms. Patterson. Colonel Ed Jenkins, the base commander, said you had space on the plane.”

She dropped his hand as if it was red-hot. “It’s ‘Dr. Patterson,” she said coldly. “How did you find out about this trip?” It wasn’t classified, but Patterson was alarmed to hear that others were even aware of her mission.

“Sources, ma’am.” He smiled. “It’s my job. I promise I won’t be in the way…”

“That’s absolutely right, because you’re leaving, right now. I’m not letting any press on this trip.”

“Colonel Jenkins authorized it.”

“Colonel Jenkins is not running this operation, I am.” She turned to her assistant, quietly seated and working in the third row. “And Jane, please remind me later to thank Colonel Jenkins appropriately. Staff Sergeant Monroe, please escort this person off the aircraft, and make sure he gets his luggage back.”

Parker spoke up. “Dr. Patterson, CNN could help us get a lot of good press.”

“Which I appreciate, but I’m not willing to pay the price. I am willing to work with the press, but we have to keep them at arm’s length.”

Two more people waiting on the stairs to board had to turn around and go back while Glasgow went down.

Once the reporter had left, an Air Force enlisted man in fatigues came aboard. He almost saluted Patterson, and did come to attention. “Tech Sergeant Hayes, ma’am,” he said in a west Texas drawl that seemed entirely appropriate to his six-foot-two height and long, angled looks. “I’m a weather specialist. I’m supposed to support you, the sub, and the ship we’ll be aboard.”

As he headed aft to sit down, the final passenger stepped inside. He was stout, in his fifties, and looked a little worried. “I’m from NAVSEA, Doctor. Ken Bover. I’m supposed to assist with the repairs to Seawolf.”

“You’re a technician?”

“No ma’am, a naval architect.” As Bover answered, Moore motioned urgently for them to sit, and then turned to close the door. Patterson buckled in, and Bover sat down in the next seat, continuing their conversation.

“I was on TDY at Haaksonvern, the Norwegian base at Bergen. I coordinate NAVSEA’s support for the new Nansen-class guided-missile frigates. I was scheduled to conduct sea trials on Thor Heyerdahl when I got a call yesterday from my boss telling me to get here pronto and be ready to support repairs to USS Seawolf.”

Patterson nodded. “We’re carrying spare electronics parts for her.”

Bover pulled out a printout. “I’ve got the list. That was the one thing I was able to get, and it’s the Air Force cargo manifest. It’s all very last-minute. I almost didn’t make the flight.”

By now the plane was taxiing, and Patterson said, “Once we’re in the air, Commander Silas will help you contact NAVSEA and get you whatever you need. We have top priority on this mission.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Doctor. The most important thing is to find out where Seawolf is heading, Vadsø or Tromsø. I don’t remember whether either port can take a vessel with her draft. ”

“Mr. Bover, Seawolf is in the middle of a search-and-rescue operation for a downed Russian submarine.”

Bover nodded vigorously. “I understand that, Doctor. It’s all over the media and the Internet. I promise, the instant Seawolf reaches port, my techs will be all over her. We’ll turn her around in record time.”

“She’s not coming in to port. The plan is to send these parts out to her.”

Bover’s shocked expression surprised her. “Who thought that up? The weather is just getting better here. It’s still very bad to the north. Even if we can get the parts to her, the reported damage is extensive. Temporary repairs would normally take a few weeks. I was going to move heaven and earth to get it done in two, maybe three days.”

“Are you saying that these repairs can’t be made at sea?”

Bover answered instantly. “I’d recommend against it. This is sophisticated equipment. The techs will have a lot of work to do just identifying all the damaged parts. If they don’t get all the bad boards out, they could fry the replacement parts when the gear’s turned on.”

He paused for a moment, then added, “I’m amazed she isn’t heading for port right now.”

“Mr. Bover, this is literally a life and death situation. Seawolf can’t leave.”

He sighed. “Then I don’t know what I can do.”

Confusion swirled inside Patterson as she considered Bover’s information. What if he was right? But he said he wasn’t a technician and his expertise was in surface ships.

They reached altitude and unbuckled, and Patterson immediately found herself surrounded. Hayes was first in line. “Jeff Monroe says you need a weather update, ma’am. Current conditions?”

Patterson nodded, “Yes, that would be fine.”

“For what location, please?” She looked confused, and Hayes added, “For Bardufoss, or Churchill’s position, or the Barents? And how far in advance?” Getting a tailor-made weather forecast meant giving the tailor your measurements.

She paused, adjusting, but only for a moment. “Please forecast the progress of the storm, and when it will clear the site of the collision and the Northern Fleet’s ports. And make sure to give the information to Dr. Russo as well.” Hayes nodded and went aft.

After that, Commander Silas wanted permission to send a message to Churchill and tell her CO about the extra personnel. Then Joyce Parker wanted to protest Patterson’s refusal to let a reporter on board, and Monroe wanted to know if they wanted dinner.

There were more introductions during the meal, and while the atmosphere was cordial, almost jovial, Patterson felt control slipping away. Russo and the Norwegian were huddled with Hayes the weather sergeant, Silas and Bover were conferring, while Parker was typing furiously on her laptop in a corner.

Then she noticed Jane Matsui, standing at her elbow with a question about an upcoming bill. It was a trivial issue given the circumstances, but she welcomed Jane’s question gladly.

The flight to Bardufoss was only two hours, and halfway through she called another conference to hear Russo’s analysis.

He kept it brief. “If Seawolf can find the Russian sub, that makes the rescue possible. Without Seawolf, it’s doubtful they can be found in time.” He nodded toward Hayes. “If the storm stays on track, the Russians can leave port late tomorrow, which puts them on station late the next day based on the max speed of their rescue ship. That means Severodvinsk will have already been down five days.”

Russo looked around the table, saw no disagreement. “Arne’s people will leave port this evening, which puts them on station in sixty-two hours, at their best speed. That’s the good news. The bad news is that Russian crew will be almost out of breathable air by the time the Norwegians arrive. They’ll be hurting, at best.” Lindstrom nodded grimly. “The morning of the tenth of October is the earliest rescue operations can begin, other factors permitting.”

“The other factors being that we’ve found her, that the weather does indeed improve — and that they’re still alive to begin with,” Silas offered. Patterson noticed Bover nodding agreement.

“We can’t control that,” Russo agreed, “but we need information from the Russians so that Arne’s people are ready to go when they get on station. Technical data on Severodvinsk’s escape hatches and internal layout. That’s the first thing we’ll need from them.”

Bover snorted. “Their newest nuclear attack sub? They’d rather sell their mothers.”

Russo ignored the comment. “Good charts of the area would also help a lot. More than hydrography, the area has been used and fought over for a hundred years. Knowing the location of wrecks or expended ordnance will help Seawolf with her search as well as warn us of any potential trouble spots.”

Patterson asked, “What if we can’t get the information on Severodvinsk?”

Russo looked to Lindstrom. The Norwegian said, “It’s all about time. Depending on the depth, we may not have the luxury of deploying divers. That means everything may have to be done with submersibles and ROVs. Even if we could get divers into the water, they would probably have to use atmospheric diving suits, there is simply not enough time for a saturation dive.”

“Conditions will be difficult. Visibility will be measured in single meters, and it is cold. The suit makes any movement an effort. If there’s a current, that makes it worse.” Lindstrom’s voice carried experience.

“Did your company help with the Kursk disaster?”

“No, but I was one of the divers working for Stolt Offshore and I dove on the boat. I am getting too old now, but I may make one or two early dives, so that I can see conditions for myself.”

Patterson made a note to listen carefully whenever Lindstrom spoke.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re approaching Bardufoss. Please take your seats.”

As they buckled in, Monroe listened on the plane’s interphone, then announced, “As soon as we land and you deplane, vans will take you over to the MV-22. It’s waiting for us to land, and actually, they would like to expedite their takeoff, so that they can be back at base before dark.”

The plane began to shudder, and Monroe warned, “It’s going to be bumpy coming in. Ceiling and visibility are at minimums, but Bardufoss has excellent instrument-landing facilities.”

As he reassured them, the staff sergeant carefully checked each passenger’s seat belt, snugging down Bover’s, and re-stowed several personal items. He almost lost his footing a few times, but finished, then hurried to his own jump seat and belted in.

At first, Patterson tried to make notes, but in the end she put the pad away, gripped the handrests and closed her eyes. Imagining the plane was a bus on a bumpy road helped, if she imagined it was a very bumpy road.

The shock of the landing was startling, but also a relief. A few minutes’ fast taxi put them near a hangar, and when Monroe opened the door, she could see Air Force vans waiting nearby. The wind pushed its way into the cabin with a sharp edge, and the clouds were so low Patterson wondered what the “minimums” were.

She let the others deplane first while she organized her things. Her BlackBerry beeped, and a message from Lowell appeared. She’d texted him about Bover’s concerns, and her husband’s answer was brief, submariners can fix anything. stay safe.

Both pilots came out of the cockpit, and along with Monroe, shook her hand. The pilot, a tanned, stocky major, said, “Good luck, ma’am. Watch those Navy types. I don’t know if they’re trustworthy.” He didn’t smile for half a second, but finally did, and she grinned at the joke as well.

Patterson made sure she was the last one of her party off the plane, with Monroe offering to take her things to the van. Hurrying ahead, he hustled everyone into one of the two vehicles, saving space for her in the front as she hurried through the swirling wind. She realized it was spitting rain, not enough to see, but she could feel the drops stinging her face.

Monroe reached in to shake her hand again as she belted in. “Good luck, ma’am. I’ve got a brother in submarines.”

The instant she closed the door, the van’s driver took off at speed. A base “follow me” car led the two vehicles around several hangars to another part of the flight line.

A Marine Corps MV-22 Osprey sat parked at one end of a line of helicopters. It was the only one not secured against the weather. Chains ran from the fuselages of the others to the concrete and the blade tips were tied down by ropes as well.

The gray-painted aircraft had a squarish, boxy fuselage and a rounded nose in front, and swept up at the rear for a cargo ramp that was down and open, waiting for them. The wings looked wrong, and she realized they were pointed straight up, as were the engines, like two helicopter rotors.

As she spotted the aircraft, figures around it suddenly burst into action, as if waiting for their arrival. Even as the vans came to a stop, the huge blades began to turn. A thin whine quickly built up to a bass roar that fought the wind for control and filled the air with an almost visible vibration.

As her group left the vehicles, they were led over to airmen standing by another van. They pulled olive one-piece coveralls out of the rear, and she realized they were lined and had hoods.

A noncom looked her up and down and called, “Pass me a Large.” He helped her out of her own civilian parka, reassuring her. “This survival suit is just as warm and will protect you if there are problems enroute, or during the transfer to the destroyer.”

Grateful she’d worn slacks for warmth, she let the enlisted man wrap the suit around her and efficiently zip her in. A part of her mind wanted to ask about what kind of “problems” he was referring to, but then decided she didn’t want to know.

Her own gear was transferred to a duffel, and he instructed, “Stand right there, and don’t move until the loadmaster says so.” The intensity in his instruction made her reluctant to even shift her stance. He patted her on the shoulder and said “Good luck” in an unnervingly serious tone. Standing with the others, she fiddled with the suit’s zippers and wondered which one of the men near the plane was the loadmaster.

Almost immediately, one of the figures, a staff sergeant, trotted over to the group and called, “Dr. Patterson!” She realized the caller, inside a hooded parka, was female. The name on the outside read “Dolan.”

Shouting over the noise of the engines, Staff Sergeant Dolan read a list of names from a clipboard, and each of Patterson’s group signaled in turn. Satisfied that everyone was accounted for, she approached Patterson, then motioned for everyone to surround her.

“We’ll approach the aircraft in single file. Please follow me, Doctor. All the baggage is aboard.”

Patterson had to ask. “What about the repair parts?”

Dolan nodded. “They are loaded, and I personally double-checked them. The rest of your party is already aboard, so as soon as you’re on we take off.”

“What? What ‘rest of my party’?” Either Patterson’s question was lost in the wind or Dolan was in a hurry, because she turned and started walking toward the aircraft. Patterson hurried to keep up and fell in behind her. It seemed a simple enough task to just follow someone else, but the buffeting air and enveloping noise in the unfamiliar surroundings interfered.

It took only a moment or two to reach the end of the ramp, and Dolan stepped to one side, urging Patterson and then the rest of the group up into the aircraft’s interior.

Nobody would ever confuse the inside of an MV-22 with an executive transport. The large interior was littered with fittings and fixtures she couldn’t begin to recognize. Canvas-covered jump seats lined each side, and a Marine corporal in a flight suit and helmet motioned her to move forward and buckle in.

There were about ten seats to a side, and three of the seats on one side were already occupied. A cargo net forward enclosed a pile of luggage, wooden crates, and boxes — the repair parts, the original reason for the trip.

The marine was urgently motioning for her to sit down on the opposite side, in the forward seat. As she did so, one of the figures on the other side unbelted and quickly moved over to her, buckling into the seat next to her.

As soon as he was secured, he turned and offered his hand. “Dr. Patterson, I’m Dwight Manning, your State Department liaison.”

“But.” She paused. “We. ”

Her confusion showed, and Manning explained, “When State found out Art Lopez was sick, they called me and asked me to take his place. I’m from the Political Office in the embassy in Moscow. I’ve been traveling since late last night. We landed at Bardufoss an hour ago, and we’ve been aboard less than fifteen minutes, waiting for you to arrive.”

By this time, the rest of Patterson’s group was aboard and belted in. Staff Sergeant Dolan spoke into a headset, then pressed a control. The ramp came up with a whine and closed with a solid latching sound, the sudden quiet and darkness startling.

Dolan picked up a microphone. “The flight will take approximately an hour and fifteen minutes. Once we’re closer to our destination I’ll give you instructions for leaving the aircraft. Do not leave your seat or unbuckle without asking my permission. Just raise your hand and I’ll come over.”

She spoke into her headset again and then belted in. Patterson heard an alarming series of whines and thumps, but outside her window she saw the wing and engines tilting, moving from vertical to horizontal. As soon as the wing was fully down, she felt the aircraft move, and they taxied for a short while, then picked up speed. The Osprey quickly became airborne. It was a bumpy takeoff, and for a while all Patterson could think about was a thrill ride that properly belonged in an amusement park.

The light outside the window suddenly disappeared as they pushed into the angry overcast she’d seen from the ground. The bumps grew milder, and Patterson picked up the conversation with Manning.

“State said Joyce Parker was taking Lopez’s place.”

Manning looked surprised. “I know Joyce Parker. She’s in public affairs.”

Patterson nodded. “That’s right.” She gestured to Parker, further back in the aircraft.

Manning leaned forward a little to look, then sat back shaking his head. “State would never send a press hack to liaise with the Russians. I’m the number two in the Moscow embassy’s political office. I’ve studied and dealt with the Russians for twenty-three years. I speak Russian, Ukrainian, and even a little Georgian.”

Patterson made a promise to herself to deal with Parker once they reached the destroyer. She wondered if modern ships still had brigs. “What about the others?”

“The person on the left came with me from the embassy. Ron Phillips is a communications specialist. State said you had a large party, and you’d be generating a lot of message traffic. The other one showed up at the embassy late last night. He’s the Skynews Moscow correspondent, Britt Adams.”

Manning saw alarm in Patterson’s eyes and tried to reassure her. “I’ve worked with Adams many times. He’s good — experienced, and speaks Russian as well. He had a letter from State telling him about your mission and suggesting he join us. Get our side of the story out and counter some of this Russian trash they’re flinging around.”

“How would he have gotten that letter? Who would have sent it to him?” Even as Patterson asked Manning the question, she knew the answer, and looked at Parker again. This time Parker met her gaze, then quickly looked down, lest she be burned to a crisp. A brig was too good for her.

Manning raised his hands, as if to ward off Patterson’s anger. “We need a reporter, and we can use Joyce Parker. She’s aggressive. ”

Patterson snorted.

“.. but the good ones always are. I’m here to help you. Let me deal with her.” He gestured around the inside of the aircraft. “It’s a little late to send her back.”

Patterson sat back, fuming at her helplessness and Parker’s duplicity at weaseling her way into the group, and then getting around her to get a reporter on board. But she forced herself to set it aside. Instead, she concentrated on learning all she could about Manning and his skills, and telling him what they’d determined so far.

Manning shared one piece of interesting information. Moscow was full of rumors, fueled by the families’ demands for information and the complete lack of anything useful from the Navy Ministry. The only official release from the ministry had stated that search operations were under way, and more information “would be released when it was available.” So far, none was available.

Very quickly, it seemed, the loadmaster stood again and used the public address system. “We’re twenty-five minutes out. Churchill’s doing her best to steer a smooth course, but she says there are ten-foot waves and twenty-five-knot winds. The pilot’s going to use a fast straight-in approach, and not go vertical until the last minute.”

“It’s going to get pretty bumpy,” she warned, “and I’ll come around and make sure your straps are snug. When we land, you’ll feel the thump. Do not unbuckle! After the pilot lands, he’ll reverse the prop’s pitch to hold us on the deck. When he’s satisfied, he’ll tell me, and then, while I drop the ramp, you all unbuckle and move quickly off the plane. Sailors will guide you from that point.”

After her instructions, they all sat waiting. It was still bumpy, worse than any commercial flight she’d ever had, and Patterson wondered how bumpy it was going to get. It got worse, and she kicked herself for asking. She found herself checking her watch every few minutes, but didn’t fight the urge. It was something to do.

It happened in less time than Dolan’s instruction had taken. The plane banked sharply left, leveled, and then suddenly slowed. Patterson saw the wing and engine out her window tilt toward the vertical, and the plane mixed a front-and-back movement into its uneven flight path. It was hard to tell, but she hoped they were descending. The WHAM startled her, and they were down.

Dolan, still strapped in her own seat, motioned with her arms and shouted, “Stay put!” She looked up toward the ceiling, and Patterson saw a pair of lights. One, a bright red, was lit. A moment later the engines’ vibration changed, then intensified again, and the airframe shuddered.

The other light came on, a brilliant green, and Dolan shouted, “Unbuckle! Go! Go!” The ramp was opening, and Patterson was near the back of the group. The overcast daylight nearly blinded her, and a freezing wind pulled at her clothes. Behind her, Dolan and another marine were working with the cargo net. Patterson concentrated on standing right behind Manning and the others. Once again, she would be the last one off the aircraft, and she looked over her enlarged flock almost protectively.

Dolan was urging her forward, even though there was nowhere to go. Patterson shuffled uselessly, then took two steps and felt a rough-surfaced deck beneath her. The wind grew stronger, but a sailor grabbed her by the shoulders and steered away from the aircraft, toward a ladder.

She took three steps and then turned back to look, but the Osprey was already lifting off, the ramp closing as it climbed away from the deck. She stood still for a moment, silently wishing them luck and realizing she’d never said a word to anyone aboard the plane.

A voice behind her said, “Welcome aboard Winston S. Churchill.”