Cold Choices

17. CONTACT

7 October 2008

1830/6:30 PM

Severodvinsk

Petrov stretched his aching body as he climbed out of his command chair in the central post. While his engineers had rigged it so he could sit safely, the significant port list had the back of the chair carrying a lot of his weight. Of course, this wasn’t part of the design specifications, and while it could easily carry the load, it did so at the expense of human physiology. As he worked the kinks out, Petrov looked around at his watchstanders. Anatoliy Rodionov, the torpedo and mine commander, had the deck watch, while Maksim Tylik was over at the engineer’s post. Fonarin sat cross-legged against the BIUS console with his log sheets and a calculator. He punched away at the buttons with dogged determination, a pencil clenched between his teeth. Petrov smiled at his chief of chemical service’s dedication.

A sudden crunch announced the relief of stress in his spine, and even though this reduced the pain in his back, he still felt tired and sore. The lingering headache was also still there, more noticeable now that the back pain had subsided. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much he could do about that. Looking down at his watch, Petrov reminded himself that they had been on the bottom now for over three days. So far, the emergency measures they had taken were working. Besides being a little chilly, the crew was holding up very well. Morale was still quite good. But the “easy” part of this endeavor was about to end. The next three days would see things get steadily worse. And there was still no sign that the fleet had found them.

The sound of heavy footsteps drew Petrov’s attention to the passageway behind him. Kalinin emerged from the dim light carrying a steaming cup in his hand. “Your evening tea ration, sir,” he said as he offered the cup to his captain.

“Bless you, Vasiliy,” Petrov replied gratefully. Slowly, he sipped the hot liquid and felt its warmth penetrate his body. Despite wearing the insulated green survival suit, he still felt chilled and the hot tea seemed to melt away the cold. “Hmmm, good tea. Thank you.”

Kalinin smiled and said, “You’d probably say the same thing about hot piss right now, but I accept your compliment.”

Petrov grimaced at his first officer’s crudity and gestured for him to sit down. “I see that even in these adverse circumstances you’ve retained your belowdecks sense of humor, Vasiliy.”

“You know what they say, sir. You can take the sailor out of the bilge, but you can’t take the bilge out of the sailor,” Kalinin quipped as he plopped down on the deck.

Shaking his head in mock despair, Petrov sat back down in his chair. Then in a more serious tone asked, “What’s our status, Starpom?”

Pulling out his notes from his breast pocket, Kalinin started going through the now all-too-familiar list. “The reserve battery is at fifty-eight percent, but a number of the emergency battle lanterns have depleted their batteries. Per your orders, I’ve secured all nonessential lights to preserve them for use in critical locations and for when we abandon ship. We are okay on food and water, although we are down to the less tasty bits. We have plenty of stale hardtack and a couple more days of canned meat paste, at least that is what the label says.”

Petrov grinned as he recalled the popular debate of the last two days as to whether or not the contents of the cans were indeed a meat product, and then as to what parts of what animal it came from. All concerned had decided in the end that, in this case, ignorance was not necessarily a bad thing.

“What about the tea and coffee?” inquired Petrov as he raised his cup. Under normal conditions, such a question would be considered trivial in the extreme. But given the powerful effect it had on his crew’s morale, being the only real creature comfort they could offer, it was of considerable importance to Petrov.

“We have both in abundance,” Kalinin replied. “We’ll run out of power long before the engineer’s cache is consumed.”

“Very good. It’s important to the men. It gives them something to look forward too. Please continue your report.”

“There has been no change, good or bad, in the condition of the injured, although Captain-Lieutenant Sadilenko had to be sedated again. The doctor says there is little that he can do for Yakov, and that it is best to keep him unconscious until we can get him to a proper mental health specialist.”

“Ever the optimist, our good Dr. Balanov,” remarked Petrov.

Kalinin nodded his agreement as he turned the page in his pocket notebook. “The quality of the atmosphere has declined slightly; oxygen has dropped to sixteen point five percent and carbon dioxide is up to one point two percent. The increase is due to the fact that there are now only four air regeneration units online, using the last of the V-64 cassettes, I might add.”

“How long before this last set’s chemicals are depleted?”

“We have less than an hour. After that, the air will slowly get worse and worse.”

“Has Fonarin revised his estimate on the amount of time we have?” Petrov asked as he jerked his thumb in chemical service chief’s direction.

“Igor has triple-checked — no, correction, quadruple-checked his figures. Taking into account the number of survivors and our rate of breathing, which will increase as the carbon dioxide levels climb, he believes we have until around midday on the tenth before we reach a lethal concentration. By the evening of the eleventh, we’ll all be dead, unless we’re rescued, of course.”

Both men fell silent as Kalinin concluded his report, put his notebook away, and pulled himself up. Petrov could tell his starpom was exhausted; he had slept very little since the incident.

“Anything else, sir?”

“Yes, Vasiliy. Have Lyachin start recycling the used V-64 cassettes in the air-regeneration units. I know they’re probably next to useless, but at this point I’ll take every molecule of carbon dioxide that they can remove from our atmosphere. After that, I want you to get some sleep.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Kalinin wearily. “I will see to both requirements immediately.”

As Kalinin started to hobble toward the ladder well, Petrov called out to him, “Vasiliy, just one more item. Please confer with Dr. Balanov on the possibility of administering sleeping drugs to the majority of the crew.”

The starpom was both surprised and shocked by Petrov’s order and his expression showed it.

“Think about it, Vasiliy,” explained Petrov has he stood and walked over to Kalinin. “If we can’t remove carbon dioxide from the air, then we have to reduce the rate at which it is produced. The only way I know how to do that is to get a large number of the crew to sleep more.”

“Yes, sir. You are correct, we do need to consider what options we have in case… in case the fleet takes longer than we would like to find us.”

“Let’s pray that it is as drastic as we need to get, Starpom. But on the good side, it appears that the storm is finally waning. Within twenty-four hours we’ll know if Kokurin has sent anyone out to look for us.”

USS Seawolf

Jerry was one of the last ones to arrive in the torpedo room, trailing down the ladder behind a couple of sonar techs from control. The captain, the XO, and even the chief engineer clustered around the UUV console. Behind them, edging around the officers for their own peek, were the off-watch torpedomen and other stragglers. The crewmen saw Jerry and quickly made a hole, and the officers edged over just a little. It was enough to see.

The color display was designed to show detailed bathymetric sonar data, not a high-resolution photographic image. Palmer had selected a false-color mode that showed a strong sonar return as a brighter color than a softer echo. Thus, rocks on the seabed showed as yellow against a mottled brown and purple bottom, probably sand and mud. The false colors only threw off an observer for a moment. The UUVs primary sensors used high frequency sonars along with a precision underwater mapping algorithm, which gave the image the sharpness of a television camera. The observers could see patterns on the seabed where currents had scoured the bottom, a few clusters of rocks, but nothing more.

Rudel ordered, “Shift back to the long-range search.”

Palmer hit a key and a few seconds later the image shrank into the foreground as the sonar shifted range scales. Ahead and slightly to the left, near the top of the screen, a yellow-green shape appeared. “Range is six hundred fifty yards,” Palmer reported.

“Take your time,” Shimko cautioned, needlessly. The display showed LaVerne at a speed of three knots. She couldn’t go any slower and still be steered reliably.

It had to be Severodvinsk. It was in the right place, and after a day and a half of searching they were running out of places to look. The system had reported an anomalous contact at a range of over eight hundred yards, about half of maximum range for the vehicle’s sonar. An indistinct echo at that range, and in multiple sonar beams had to be something big, maybe a sunken submarine or a large outcropping of rocks.

The closer the UUV got, the more the blip took on a recognizable shape. Jerry studied it, along with everyone else in the room. He was looking for something that would show it wasn’t the sub as much as something that said it was. They’d had several false alarms in the past twenty-four hours, and he’d been delayed in the control room checking the updated charts for wrecks. There were none recorded by any of the UUVs in the area — a good sign. But this was no false alarm. It was just too big.

“It’s the right size,” Shimko observed cautiously.

“Could be, XO, but shouldn’t we have seen it further out than eight hundred yards?” asked Lavoie.

“We’re probably dealing with a new type of anechoic coating on Severodvinsk. Maybe its high frequency performance is better than we thought,” replied Shawn McClelland.

“Two points for the sonar officer,” remarked Shimko without taking his eyes off the display screen.

After another few minutes, Palmer reported, “Range is five hundred yards.” The range readout was shown on the computer screen, but not everyone in the room could see the whole display.

The shape was definitely narrower at one end, which Jerry automatically labeled the stern. An irregular blob of canary yellow occupied a spot one-quarter of the way back from the other end. It was the proper location for Severodvinsk’s sail.

Rudel studied the readouts, then turned to the intercom. “Sonar, torpedo room. Do you have anything on bearing two four seven?”

“Torpedo room, sonar. We can hear LaVerne’s motor on the wide aperture array, bearing is two four six. Nothing else, sir.”

“Sonar, torpedo room, very well. Keep a special watch for anything from the southwest. LaVerne may have found the Russian.”

“Torpedo room, sonar, aye.”

Jerry shrugged. It would have been nice to have heard some sign of life, but couldn’t imagine what machinery could still be running aboard the downed sub. The object was quiet, inert.

“Hold at two hundred fifty yards and circle the contact.”

Palmer acknowledged Rudel’s order and typed in the commands. The “contact” now filled a quarter of the screen, and Jerry started to think of it as a sub. The perspective shifted and the shape resolved even more.

“It’s the Russian boat,” Shimko declared. “It’s Severodvinsk.” He turned to the torpedo room watchstander, wearing his sound-powered phones. “Tell control we’ve found the Russian. Log the time and location.”

An excited buzz broke out in the torpedo room, but Rudel and the other officers ignored it. Jerry noticed money changing hands in the back of the room.

“Tell me you’re recording this,” Shimko asked Palmer, and the junior officer nodded vigorously, his eyes still fixed on the display. “The instant we got a detection,” he answered, then pointed to a red “R” in one corner of the display.

The image’s outlines continued to shift as the aspect changed. The sail took shape at the appropriate spot along the hull, but foreshortened.

“She’s listing,” Palmer observed. “It’s bad.” Resting on the uneven bottom, the sub was tilted to port — a lot. The UUV continued its circle around toward the bow, looking down the length of the boat.

“I’d guess. what? Thirty degrees?” Shimko sounded as if he hated to be right.

“At least,” Rudel answered. “This is not good. With the deck at that angle, it’ll be really tough to dock a DSRV on an escape hatch. And they haven’t launched their rescue chamber, so if they’re alive, they’re trapped.”

LaVerne finished her circuit. The imaging sonar had given them a clear picture of the Russian, resting on a rocky shelf, down a few degrees by the bow and tilted drunkenly to port, like a child’s discarded toy. The shape of the sub matched what they knew of Severodvinsk.

“All right, let’s recall Maxine. She doesn’t have to search anymore. And get Patty ready for launch, just in case.” Shimko looked behind him. “And anyone who doesn’t have business in the torpedo room, back to your own spaces.”

The room cleared out quickly, but was soon filled with activity as the torpedo gang prepared to recover one UUV and readied another one for launch.

While they worked, at Rudel’s direction, Palmer steered LaVerne in a close pass down Severodvinsk’s length. This time, the sub’s bow filled the screen, and they could see dark patches, hollows in the curve of the bow. There were also several spots that had a ragged look to them. Dents where she’d struck? The bow planes looked small for such a large vessel, but stood out clearly.

LaVerne continued down the port side. The resolution was good enough to make out the limber holes in the hull, designed to let air escape from the ballast tanks when it submerged. Rudel had chosen the port side so that the deck would be tilted toward them. The sail loomed three stories above the hull, and Palmer started to back the UUV out to get a distance.

“No, stay in close,” ordered Rudel. “Look. There it is. The escape chamber is still in place. No masts extended, either.”

“They either didn’t have time to use the chamber or couldn’t use it,” Shimko answered.

“Hopefully, it’s ‘couldn’t use it,’” Rudel observed.

Stan Lavoie watched the image. “I’m not seeing any obvious breaks in the hull. Their sonar dome is crushed, but that’s made of GRP.”

“I agree,” said Rudel. “But the sonar image isn’t good enough to make an accurate call. Mr. Palmer, I want you to make another three-sixty pass once we’re done, and this time take digital pictures as you go. We can use them to get a better idea as to the damage.”

“Yessir,” responded Palmer.

Another minute passed as LaVerne moved further aft. Behind the sail, Severodvinsk’s hull was essentially a smooth cylinder. Except for the limber holes and small deck fittings that passed beneath them, it was hard to see the UUV’s motion. As the vehicle moved along the hull, a bright circular section appeared on the display.

“Look at that cavity!” exclaimed Lavoie. “Is that a hole in the hull?”

“Don’t think so, Eng,” Jerry replied. “It’s in the right location for their emergency distress buoy.”

“Well, it doesn’t look like it went too far,” commented Shimko sarcastically. “Look at that line on the starboard sonar display. It comes out of the hull and then snakes off towards the southwest on the ocean floor. The buoy probably never made it to the surface.”

“Then it’s a fair bet that the Russians don’t have clue as to where she is,” added Rudel, a grim tone in his voice. “Keep moving aft, Jeff.”

LaVerne resumed her slow trek down Severodvinsk. A short time later it came across the emergency escape hatch; closed but apparently in good condition. Then the hull tapered sharply near the stern, and the rudder and stern planes came into view.

“Migod.” Shimko’s reaction was automatic, unthinking. Jerry felt the same horror. The starboard side stern plane was crushed, a mass of tangled color on the display that didn’t reveal its exact shape, but confirmed its destruction. Had it struck the bottom? Or Seawolf?

The lower rudder was also crushed, but it was impossible to tell if that was from being dragged on the bottom or from the collision. They were so focused on the condition of the stern planes and rudder that Palmer was the first to notice. “The screw’s gone!”

“What? Have LaVerne get us a view from the starboard quarter,” Rudel instructed.

According to intelligence, Severodvinsk was fitted with a seven-bladed “scimitar” screw. Instead of the older four or five broad leaf-shaped blades, seven thinner blades, sharply curved and skewed, sliced through the turbulent wake with less vibration, which meant less noise. Modern Western and Russian subs both used highly skewed seven-bladed screws, or even more exotic ducted propulsors.

But the image showed no blades at all, just a flat round circle with an occasional ragged edge where the propeller should be.

Palmer sounded like he was protesting. “We didn’t see it on the bottom. It’s some twenty-odd feet in diameter. We should have seen it when LaVerne circled the boat.”

“If the screw is gone, it would mark the actual spot where we collided,” Shimko said confidently. “She must have struck us with her stern. Her screw would have chewed up our bow, but the shock would have broken the blades off the propeller hub.”

“They hit us at a fairly high speed,” Lavoie remembered. “Without the water resistance from the blades on the propeller shaft, the propulsion plant would have run wild. We know he was running at high speed. Imagine it— fifty thousand horsepower with nowhere to go. The turbines would have torn themselves apart before the overspeed safeties tripped.”

Jerry added, “The shaft seals would have failed, so you’ve got massive flooding. Even if…”

Shimko impatiently ended the discussion. “Okay guys, enough. This speculation is pointless. They’re down, and without propulsion they’re helpless. There’s no sign of working machinery, but the hull appears to be intact. Based on what we’ve seen, there may be survivors on board.” He said the last with a note of formality, as if making an official statement.

“I concur,” Rudel stated, and the other officers nodded their agreement as well. “One last thing before we phone home. We’ll try the Gertrude.” Rudel quickly headed for the ladder. Over his shoulder, he ordered the phone talker, “Tell the chief of the watch to have Petty Officer Sayers report to control immediately.” Sayers was one of the crypto techs assigned to provide intelligence support. He spoke fluent Russian.

Jerry and the other officers followed their captain. “Gertrude” was a nickname for their underwater communications system. Jerry was suddenly reluctant to use it. No response might indicate there was nobody alive, or they might be alive, but without power.

But what if they did answer?

Severodvinsk

Senior Seaman Fesak was cold, tired, and bored. He had been sitting for the last three hours listening on the MG-35 underwater communications station for any sign that someone was out there looking for him and his crew-mates. But all he had heard thus far was the same he had heard over the last several days — nothing but waves and ice. He stifled a yawn and wrapped himself more tightly with his blanket. In one more hour he would be relieved and then he could find someplace to take a nap. It was rather difficult to listen to wave noise for long periods of time without being lulled to sleep.

Suddenly, the young sonar technician was jolted out of his half-dozing state. He thought he had heard something. Adjusting the gain on the receiver, he sat motionless, listening intently.

“Severodvinsk, Severodvinsk. Do you hear me? Please respond.”

Fesak couldn’t believe his ears. The voice spoke clear Russian. The fleet had found them! Excitedly, he called out, “Captain-Lieutenant Rodionov! Someone is out there! They are calling us!”

Rodionov bolted from his chair and quickly made his way to the underwater communications station. “Let me hear,” he ordered.

Grabbing the headset, he put it on and listened. A moment later, a smile appeared on his face. Turning to Fesak, he said, “Find the Captain. Hurry, lad!” The seaman moved off as fast as he could, adrenaline temporarily relieving his fatigue.

Rodionov grabbed the microphone and set the system to transmit. Pushing down on the mike, he said, “Hello. This is Severodvinsk. It is good to hear you. Please identify yourself.”

The smile on his face melted away as fast as it appeared when he received the reply. “Severodvinsk, this is the United States submarine Seawolf. You have been reported as missing and we are here to render assistance. We wish to speak with your Captain.”

Rodionov sat there stunned. An American, not the Northern Fleet, had found them. What was he supposed to do now? Where was the captain?

“Severodvinsk, this is Seawolf. Did you receive my last?”

Shocked out of his stupor, Rodionov reluctantly responded, “Yes, yes. I received your last transmission. I am waiting for my Captain. Please stand by.”

“Severodvinsk, Seawolf. Understood. Standing by.”

In less than a minute, Petrov, Kalinin, and most of the battle department commanders were in the central post, surrounding the underwater communications station. All were smiling, hope beaming from their faces.

“Have you responded to their hail, Anatoliy?” asked Petrov.

“Yes comrade Captain,” Rodionov replied nervously.

Puzzled by his junior officer’s answer, Petrov looked at him curiously and said, “Then what’s wrong?”

“Captain, it’s not the fleet. We have been found by an American submarine!”

“What!?!” exclaimed Petrov, alarmed. “You mean the one we collided with?”

“I don’t know, sir. They said they were the Seawolf, that we have been reported missing, and that they are here to render assistance.”

An unexplainable anger arose within Petrov as he wondered if this was the same boat that had had a hand in their disaster? If so, where had they been for the last three days? If they were truly here to help them, then why had it taken so long? And where the hell was the Northern Fleet? These questions only served to intensify his fury as he remembered the eighteen men he had lost.

Petrov struggled silently to maintain a professional demeanor, but his clenched jaw betrayed his true emotions. It didn’t matter if this was the same sub that had collided with them. Despite their circumstances, he could not bring himself to speak with an American, any American, right now.

“Captain,” Kalinin asserted softly. “We need to respond.”

Petrov rebelled at his first officer’s gentle admonition. “I am well aware of that, Starpom!” The sheer venom in his response surprised even Petrov.

He saw the reaction of his men, and some of the rage left him. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to calm down and then added, “My apologies, Vasiliy. You are quite correct. I just find the irony of the situation to be highly. aggravating.”

Kalinin’s slight smile told Petrov that all was forgiven without a single word being spoken. After another deep breath, Petrov unplugged the headset, selected the loudspeaker, and picked up the microphone.

“United States submarine, this is Captain First Rank Aleksey Petrov, commanding officer of the Russian Federation submarine Severodvinsk. Do you read me?”

“Severodvinsk, this is Seawolf. We read you loud and clear. Your Navy has reported you as missing, we are here to render assistance.” The reply sounded a little wobbly and tinny over the loudspeaker, typical of acoustic communications through seawater.

“To whom am I speaking?” asked Petrov. After a brief pause, the American replied.

“Sir, my name is Petty Officer Wayne Sayers.”

“I must compliment you on your Russian, Petty Officer Sayers,” responded Petrov with a tinge of sarcasm. “Who is Seawolf’s commanding officer?”

“Commander Thomas Rudel is in command of USS Seawolf.”

“May I please speak with him directly?”

“Sir, Captain Rudel regrets that he does not speak Russian. Do you speak English?”

“Yes, I do,” Petrov answered clearly, with only a hint of an accent. “I was once an assistant naval attaché in your country. May I please speak to Captain Rudel?”

“Severodvinsk, this is Captain Rudel speaking. What is your situation?”

The man doesn’t waste time getting down to business, thought Petrov. The mark of a professional. Still, there was one thing that he had to know before they could get started.

“Captain Rudel, I must know. Was it your submarine that collided with us?”

There was an uncomfortable pause while Petrov waited for Rudel’s reply. It was a straightforward enough question, and he wondered why the American was taking this long to answer it. Finally, Rudel’s voice came over the loudspeaker.

“Yes, Captain, our boats collided a little over three days ago.”

“Why did you hit us?” demanded Petrov angrily.

There was another short pause, but when Rudel did answer his voice sounded tense and angry as well. “It was not my intention to collide with you, Captain. In fact, I was doing everything I thought necessary to avoid just such a situation. My intention was to disengage and evade, as I was concerned with your rather aggressive behavior.”

“THESE ARE OUR WATERS,” yelled Petrov. His face a bright crimson, his body shaking with fury. At that moment, Kalinin placed his hand on Petrov’s shoulder and squeezed tightly. Turning to face his starpom, Petrov saw him shaking his head no. Quietly Kalinin whispered, “Sir, this is not the time to argue with the American.”

Almost as if on cue, Rudel’s response to Petrov’s accusation rang out from the speaker, “Captain Petrov, I will not debate issues of territory or policy right now. I hope there will be time for that later. Right now, my only concern is to assist in the rescue of you and your men.”

Between his starpom’s comment and the American captain’s measured words, a torrent of emotions completely engulfed Petrov. Anger, frustration, guilt, and even shame washed over him. He almost wished the American had been more belligerent. With his ego bruised and his feelings crushed, Petrov let loose a heavy sigh.

Lifting the microphone, he spoke calmly and deliberately. “Agreed, Captain. We will deal with how the collision occurred later. But if you are here to help, why did it take you so long to find us?” The last sentence sounded more like a plea for an explanation, rather than a demand.

“Honestly, we thought you had returned home. I believed that my boat had suffered more damage than you, and we were limping to a friendly port to effect repairs. Given your country’s reputation for building sturdy submarines, we never dreamed you had had the worst of the encounter,” answered Rudel frankly. “It wasn’t until we heard that you were reported as missing that we knew otherwise. After that, it took time for us to get back here and begin searching. My bow is badly torn up and we can’t move very fast.”

Petrov translated Rudel’s explanation for the delay to his subordinates who listened with rapt attention. Some were nodding as the story unfolded.

“Sounds plausible,” said Chief Engineer Lyachin. “It seems consistent with what we know.”

“Plausible?” Kalinin exclaimed. “It’s more than plausible, Captain. It’s believable. This American didn’t have to come back. He could have passed on what he knew to his commander and kept on going to Norway or Great Britain. No one would have questioned such a decision if he has suffered even a fraction of the damage we have. But instead, he turned around and went looking for us; probably at some risk to themselves. I believe this captain is an honorable man, sir.”

Coming from his starpom, a professional naval officer with unusually high standards, this was high praise indeed. Petrov, reluctantly, had to agree. With a weary grin on his face, Petrov raised the microphone once more and said, “Captain Rudel, I accept your explanation and your offer for assistance. Here is our current status.”

USS Seawolf

“Do you hear that son of a bitch!?!” exclaimed Shimko with total disbelief. “That stupid asshole is blaming us for the collision!”

Rudel rapidly drew his right hand across his throat with a slashing motion and ordered, “Quiet!” Then, in a more normal tone, “I don’t have time for posturing from Petrov or any of you. Let’s stay focused on the task at hand. He’s more than a bit pissed off and I can’t say I’d feel any differently if our roles were reversed.”

Jerry had seen Rudel’s initial reaction, and it was clear he was upset with the Russian captain’s accusation. Being the navigator, Petrov’s words had a particular sting to them that once again raised the ugly specter of doubt in Jerry’s mind. I don’t have time for this, he said to himself, and proceeded to stuff his personal demons back into their box. Jerry then listened as his skipper calmly and carefully disarmed Petrov’s accusations and successfully convinced him that Seawolf was really here to help them.

Suddenly, Rudel snapped his fingers at Jerry and motioned for him to start writing down the data that Petrov was providing. Nine dead, nine missing and presumed dead, seventeen crewmen with serious injuries. Three compartments completely flooded, reactor shut down, power provided by the reserve battery; Jerry winced as the list went on and on. Without a doubt, the Russians had drawn the short straw and had suffered accordingly. Even Shimko was shocked at the degree of damage that Severodvinsk had sustained. Whistling softly, he said, “It’s a miracle any of them are still alive.”

Finally, Petrov started to report on their atmosphere. Sixteen point four percent oxygen, one point four percent carbon dioxide. That’s not too bad, Jerry thought hopefully. But the last part of Petrov’s report filled everyone in Seawolf’s control room with dread. “All chemical air-regeneration cassettes are depleted. Repeat, all chemical air-regeneration cassettes are depleted. Estimated time to lethal carbon dioxide concentrations is two and a half days. End of report.”

Rudel groaned at the significance of Petrov’s last statement. Without aid of some sort, the survivors would be incapacitated in less than two days and dead soon after. And there was still no sign that the Russian Northern Fleet was anywhere near. As he slowly raised the mike to his face, Rudel took a number of deep breaths and tried to sound as “normal” as he could.

“Captain Petrov, we have your data and we will relay it to our government along with your exact location. However, I must surface to transmit. We will be out of touch for a couple hours, but we will be, back.”

“Understood; and Captain, thank you. Severodvinsk out.”

“Skipper, those guys are screwed!” exclaimed Lavoie, who looked just as stunned as everyone else.

“Enough of that, Engineer, I won’t tolerate a defeatist attitude. We’ll just have to come up with something to help them,” replied Rudel with a fierce determination. He then quickly turned about and began shooting out orders.

“Mr. Hayes, get us on the roof, ASAP! Nav, give your notes to Mister Chandler and have him prepare a report to be sent by the sat phone. I want this stuff out within ten minutes after we surface. The rest of you go with the XO to the wardroom and work this problem over. I want options, not excuses. We are not just going to let those men die. Understood?”

A chorus of “Aye, aye, sir,” rang out as people turned to and began to execute their skipper’s instructions.

As Shimko and the other officers went to the wardroom, Jerry made a quick detour into the radio room. He found Chandler already putting together the initial draft of the phone message. “Here you go, Matt,” said Jerry as he tossed his notes on the worktable. “This is all the information we got from the Russian skipper. Have it ready for transmission in fifteen minutes.”

“Right, I’ll have Chief Morrison put it together immediately.”

Jerry looked around the room, there was no sign of the ITC. Confused, he turned back to find Chandler pushing the notes Jerry gave him to the opposite side of the table. He then started writing furiously in a standard navy-issue green logbook. “Excuse me, Matt. But what are you doing? The Skipper wants this message drafted ASAP.”

“The chief will be here momentarily. I was going to finish up my report on the collision,” replied Chandler with an air of innocence.

Red flashed before Jerry’s eyes; he had had enough of Chandler’s cover-your-ass antics. Struggling to control his anger, he approached Chandler with a deliberate, menacing stride. The commo’s expression became more fearful as he watched Jerry approach; it was as if he saw flames shooting from Jerry’s icy blue eyes.

“Wrong answer, mister,” growled Jerry; his tone was almost guttural. Chandler gulped audibly. “You are going to draft that message as ordered, with or without Chief Morrison’s aid. In nine minutes, you will bring the draft to me. If you are one second late, I will personally put you on report the moment you walk through the wardroom door. DO I MAKE MYSELF ABSOLUTELY CRYSTAL CLEAR!?”

The on-duty ITs cringed and looked about for a convenient place to hide. No one had ever seen the navigator this mad before. In fact, no one in the department had ever heard him yell before. For the patient, professional Mr. Mitchell to blow his relief valve, the offender would have to have screwed up really, really badly.

Chandler started to shake visibly; beads of sweat lined his brow. “Please, Jerry, I have to write it all down.” He sounded fearful and desperate, almost pleading. And he’d used Jerry’s name.

Completely surprised by Chandler’s pitiful-sounding response, Jerry was instantly snapped out of his rage. There was none of the usual bravado, and the smug arrogant attitude was also absent.

Matt Chandler had manned one of the fire-control consoles during General Quarters, and he’d been there when they collided with Severodvinsk. It was as good a place as any to watch what was going on, but he hadn’t given any orders, made any decisions. Why the fanatical drive to write down his impressions?

Confused as to what was happening, Jerry asked, “I don’t understand why you feel this is so urgent. Did you see something, Matt — something important?”

“Important?! Migod, Jerry, we collided with another submarine. Rountree’s dead, and we almost lost the boat! We all nearly died!”

Jerry looked carefully at his communications officer. Chandler was excited — wide-eyed, even a little breathless. This couldn’t be an act. He was actually terrified. Sensing that Chandler was on the verge of losing it, Jerry pushed a little. “How long have you been working on this write-up?”

“I went straight to our stateroom right after we started for Scotland and just started writing. It was like I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I wrote down everything I could think of, before I forgot any of it, I didn’t want to miss anything. But I don’t know if I can ever forget any of it.”

“You’ve been at it that long? What about your duties? Your men?”

“They don’t matter. None of this matters. I just have to write it all down. I have to do it now, if I’m going to finish in time.”

Jerry was still confused. “In time for what?”

“For us getting back to port. There’s so much to write down. I can remember every detail like it happened only a moment ago, and it takes so long to explain things clearly…”

Jerry cut him off. “Matt, why do you have to write it all down right now?”

“Because we could have all died. Not just Rountree, all of us. I really understand now how dangerous submarines are. I knew we had to be careful, follow procedures, but I always thought it was like crossing the street. You never think you’re going to be the one in an accident.”

“Matt, you can’t focus on. ”

“On what? The danger?” Chandler held his hands out, encompassing the space. “We’re surrounded by it. We can’t escape it, it’s with us every minute of every day!” He paused for a moment, and then said flatly, “I… I shouldn’t be here. This is a mistake. Why in the world am I working my ass off for a promotion I’m never going to live to see?”

Jerry hardly knew what to do, or what to say Chandler was obviously on the edge, maybe over it. He’d stared his own mortality in the face, and didn’t like what he’d seen. Jerry was not a priest or a psychologist, and he felt completely at a loss. Part of him had always wanted to slap Chandler around, but that only worked in the movies.

“Matt, I need you to get past this.” Jerry grabbed Chandler by the shoulders and spoke calmly but firmly. “It’s been a shock, but we’re still here. And you’ve got an important job to do. You managed to get the radioes working earlier, so you know you can fulfill your duties even with this monkey on your back. Forget the report for now. There will be a time and place when it will be needed, but right now I need you to get that message drafted.”

Chandler looked exhausted, but he listened quietly, passively. Jerry wondered if he’d already given up, but the comms officer nodded slowly. “I’ll take care of it right away.”

Jerry felt relieved by Chandler’s answer. “Good. I’ll be in the wardroom when you’re ready, Matt.”

Still confused and a bit drained, Jerry literally stumbled through the wardroom door ten feet down the passageway. Whatever conversation had been going on had stopped the moment he threw open the door.

“Personnel issues, Mr. Mitchell?” asked Shimko with his trademarked pixieish grin.

Embarrassed and uncertain if he should say anything about Chandler, Jerry dropped forcefully into his chair and replied, “You heard?”

“Nav, I think the Russians heard you!” joked the XO. Everyone else in the wardroom laughed, and even Jerry had to crack a smile.

“Look, I know Chandler is a pain in the ass, but he is a very efficient pain in the ass. So please, try not to kill him.” The XO winked as he spoke; letting Jerry know he was on solid ground as far as he was concerned.

“Yes, sir. I will try,” Jerry replied wearily, relieved that the XO had been referring to his lost temper and not Chandler’s meltdown.

“Okay gents, back to our leetle problem. How the hell do we help the Russians with their C0₂ levels?”

Silence and blank stares greeted Shimko’s question. “Well, don’t all talk at once now.”

Still nothing.

Sighing, Shimko stood up, grabbed a black marker and threw a piece of butcher-block paper on the wardroom table. “Let’s start listing all the options and their feasibility.”

“Rescuing the Russians ourselves,” offered Lavoie. “Not an option. We have no way to transfer the crew.”

“What about using our high-pressure air to blow their remaining ballast tanks,” suggested Ensign Miller.

“It’s a nice idea, Tim,” remarked Todd Williams, Seawolf’s damage-control assistant. “But not feasible. We have no way to hook up our main ballast tank blow system to theirs. Besides, with three compartments flooded and a number of their ballast tanks violated, we couldn’t generate enough buoyancy to get them off the bottom.”

“All right then. Direct rescue is not a practical option. Agreed?” Shimko asked. All present nodded their heads yes. “So, removing carbon dioxide is the next option. Suggestions?”

“Well, we probably don’t have any equipment that’s compatible with their systems,” said Constantino.

“But we do have CO₂ curtains with the lithium hydroxide canisters,” Williams replied.

“Yeah, but how do we get our gear to the Russians?” asked Lavoie pointedly.

“Won’t the Russian fleet have the ability to resupply them?” asked Wolfe.

“Maybe,” answered Williams. “The problem is that when C0₂ gets over three percent, people get a bit loopy and judgment goes to hell; not to mention a person gets fatigued by merely moving. If the Russians aren’t here by tomorrow evening, those guys in Severodvinsk will be in the hurt locker.”

“Besides, how do we know if the Russian fleet is enroute,” injected Constantino. “If you remember, the weather has been pretty shitty as of late and they may not even have left port.”

All the qualified deck officers present silently glared at the supply officer with significant annoyance. He had never stood a watch on the bridge during the storm; they had, and they were all well aware of just how bad the weather had been.

Constantino quickly realized that he had “opened mouth and inserted foot” and tried to backpedal. “Hey, it’s not my fault I’m not allowed to stand bridge watches.”

At that moment the wardroom door opened and mercifully diverted attention from the chop’s faux pas. Chandler and Palmer walked in; Palmer squeezed by the engineer and the weapons officer and sat down at the end of the table. Chandler remained standing; he looked pale and exhausted. He slowly approached Jerry, offered him a folder and said, “Sir, the draft message for your review.”

Shimko said nothing, and with a raised eyebrow, watched as Jerry took the folder. Jerry ignored the XO’s questioning look, quickly read the draft, made some minor changes, initialed it, and handed it back to the communications officer. Chandler then silently offered the folder to the XO. Shimko took the folder, read the message, initialed it, and returned it to Chandler. “Take this to the Skipper for his approval, Matt.”

“Yes, sir,” responded Chandler barely audibly, and then left.

“All right now, where were we?” remarked Shimko thoughtfully. “Oh yes, we were about to lynch the supply officer.” This time Jerry laughed along with the rest.

“Ahh, excuse me, sir,” stammered Palmer. Not quite sure what he had just walked into.

“Yes, Jeff. What is it?”

“Sir, LaVerne has completed her photographic survey of Severodvinsk and is in the process of being recovered. I should have copies of the sonar images and the pictures within two, maybe three hours.”

“Excellent, Jeff,” praised Shimko as he gave the young officer the thumbs-up. “Please, join us. The Chop here was just about to tell us his plan to save the Russians.”

“Ah come on, XO,” pleaded Constantino. “I don’t have a frickin’ clue, honest.”

“But you’re ‘the Ferengi,’ aren’t you?” taunted the XO. “You always seem to be able to get us what we need, anytime, anywhere.” Shimko’s reference to Constantino’s nickname on the waterfront went beyond the supply officer’s drastically receding hairline and large ears. He had an uncanny knack of getting anything Seawolf’s crew needed. He had never failed to fill a requisition.

“XO, you know damn well that I have a good network that enables me to find stuff we need. But I can’t get a FedEx or DHL delivery truck to drop the stuff off at our doorstep out here,” Constantino protested.

At the mention of the words “delivery truck,” Jerry eyes flew wide open and he looked at Palmer, who was staring right back at him with the same eyes. Almost in unison they both cried, “The UUVs!”

Shimko’s gaze bounced back and forth between Jerry and Palmer. “What?” he exclaimed.

“We can use the UUVs as a delivery truck,” stated Jerry.

“Yes! We can strip them of most of their recon gear, and probably gut an expended energy module to make space and weight available for emergency supplies,” Palmer added enthusiastically.

“Absolutely. We could easily get several hundred pounds’ worth of atmosphere control chemicals, medical supplies, battle lanterns, whatever, just as long as it physically fits in the vehicle,” continued Jerry.

“WHOA, WHOA, WHOA,” shouted Shimko. “Let me get this straight. We gut one of our UUVs. fill it with emergency supplies, launch it, and then drive it. ”

“Into one of Severodvinsk’s exposed torpedo tubes,” said Jerry as he finished the sentence.

“The idea is feasible,” concluded Wolfe. Lavoie also agreed.

“How long would it take you to prepare a UUV, Jeff?” Shimko queried intently

“I… I don’t know, XO; maybe ten or twelve hours. We have to remove a lot of stuff then plug the holes so that the cargo space is watertight. And then there are half a dozen interlocks we’ll have bypass so we can fly the vehicle into the Severodvinsk’s tube. I can get you a better estimate after I talk to Chief Johnson.”

“Not to be a pessimist here, but this plan depends on Severodvinsk’s torpedo tubes being functional,” Wolfe pointed out.

“True enough, Greg,” replied Jerry. “We’ll have to ask Captain Petrov if his starboard tube doors still work.”

“That’s good enough for me,” beamed Shimko. “Well done, gentlemen.” He then reached over for the sound powered phone handset, selected the CO’s stateroom, and cranked on the growler.

“Captain, XO here. Skipper, we have a plan.”

Old Executive Office Building, Washington, DC

Jeffrey Wright ran the meeting himself, this time. He didn’t have a choice anymore. The media had zeroed in on the incident as their next big newsmaker. It had mystery, high tech, and human tragedy — everything needed to keep viewers glued for the next breaking bulletin.

And they were just as happy reporting Russian accusations as they were press releases from Admiral Sloan’s office. How long had that lasted? A few hours? Sloan had gladly turned the job over to the CNO, and now the Department of Defense had replaced the Navy.

Wright waited for the CNO to sit, but just barely. “I apologize for the last-minute summons, but Commander Rudel’s latest phone report will be all over the media in less than an hour. Have you all seen it?”

All three of the Navy admirals nodded. They’d shown up quickly. The traffic was light at two o’clock in the afternoon, and they’d all been at the watch center at the Pentagon. The State Department official, the same European Affairs rep that had been present at the first meeting, was the only one to speak. “I read it on the way over. The information is explosive. Isn’t there any way of containing it?” He sounded desperate, almost pleading.

The CIA deputy director, a large, well-dressed man named Vincent, looked irritated with the question. “All of Rudel’s transmissions have been intercepted, reported, and posted on the web. News organizations, even some private individuals, have the ability to intercept satellite phone signals. It’s too easy, and the messages from Seawolf are the hottest news in the world.” He paused for a moment, and then stated flatly, “No, they can’t be contained.” He shook his head, as much in frustration as to accent his negative answer.

Wright glanced at his notes. “We have two questions to answer. First, now that we know there are men alive aboard Severodvinsk, and that they may not survive until help arrives, is there any more help we can give?” He looked first at the three admirals, but then made sure to look directly at the other side of the table: State, CIA, even Jacob Hoffman, counsel to the president.

After a moment’s pause, the State Department rep, Abrams, remarked, “We’re passing Seawolf’s information on to the Russians, of course. Beyond that, I don’t see what we can do but stand by. Given the possibility of misunderstandings with the Russians. ”

Wright cut in again. “Seawolf is going to attempt to pass emergency atmosphere supplies of some sort to the Russian sub, using one of the UUVs. Should we order Rudel to stop? The UUV contains classified technology, doesn’t it? What will be the effects of it falling into the Russians’ possession?

Rear Admiral Keller, the senior submariner, gave a small shrug. “It has high-frequency imaging sonars and a powerful microprocessor, but most of the hardware and software technology is available off the shelf. The battery technology is pretty exotic, but again, it’s commercially available. I’d have to talk to ONR or the manufacturer’s reps to see if there’s anything that is controlled or whether there’s anything the Russians couldn’t buy or make themselves. The only real classified information is the bathymetric data that the UUVs have collected. Rudel has said that information will be removed before they send the vehicle over.”

“It doesn’t matter, Mr. Wright.” Hoffman’s tone was final. “Now that Rudel’s informed us of his plans to attempt the transfer, and if it has any chance of success, we are legally bound to follow through with it. And, as we’ve discussed, the whole world will know he’s trying it.”

“I agree with Mr. Hoffman, although not because of any legal constraints. The political benefits from any constructive efforts to save the men on board Severodvinsk outweigh the potential of a minor loss of classified technology,” remarked Abrams.

Wright looked frustrated. “So there are really no decisions to make? Which necessarily implies we have no control over events as they unfold.”

“We’ve got Seawolf on station, and Churchill is en route,” the CNO replied.

There was nothing more to say.