Cold Choices

18. FIRST AIR

8 October 2008

0730/7:30 AM

USS Seawolf

“No pressure,” Jerry kept muttering to himself. “We can do this.” He’d finally taken off his watch to keep from looking at it. It had been over eleven hours since they started, and they still had a lot of work yet to do.

They’d opened up LaVerne, so Jerry could work out the loading arrangement while Palmer and his torpedomen modified Patty.

Petty Officer Allen came clattering down the ladder holding a battle lantern. “Here’s the first one. The chief wanted to make sure this is what you wanted, sir.”

A Navy battle lantern was a large waterproof flashlight, a box about six inches on a side. They were placed throughout the ship and designed to turn on automatically if power failed. They could also be detached and used like a standard battery-powered lantern.

The plan was to put three into the UUV, because the Russians’ own lanterns were just about shot. Jerry had asked Clausen, the chief auxiliary-man, to remove the mounting bracket on the back and the handle on top. That saved three inches in one direction and five in the other, important for packing them into a small space.

“This is perfect, MM2,” Jerry replied. “Tell the chief I need the others the same way, and about six additional batteries. And he should double-check the seals, to make sure they’re still watertight.”

“We’re on it,” Allen replied excitedly as he almost raced out of the space.

Jerry handed the lantern to QM1 Peters, who weighed the device on a scale they’d borrowed from the galley.

While Peters entered the data on a laptop, Jerry studied the accumulating pile. The Russians needed lots of help: medical supplies, battle lanterns and batteries, and especially the carbon dioxide absorption chemicals.

Everything had to fit in the space normally occupied by some of the mission payload and most of Patty’s batteries. One piece of luck: The UUVs lithium-thionyl-chloride batteries were removable. They had to be replaced after each sortie. Each energy module was made up of three batteries and occupied a space four feet in length and exactly nineteen and three-quarter inches in diameter. Altogether, Jerry had a little over seven feet of Patty’s twenty-foot, eight-inch length to work with.

Chief Johnson worked with several of the nuke electricians to rig up a much smaller battery that would give Patty about an hour of juice; more than enough for her to make the short trip to Severodvinsk. They’d given Jerry the rough dimensions of the new battery, and it was Jerry’s task to fill the remaining space with as many supplies as could fit.

He knew they couldn’t exceed the weight of the batteries they’d removed, or it would make Patty too heavy to swim. But weight wasn’t the issue. His problem was volume. The supplies he was planning to load didn’t come close to the density of the batteries, so he was trying to cram as much as he could to just get close to the original weight. And that weight had to be properly arranged, or Patty wouldn’t be able to maintain trim, and that would make her very difficult to steer.

All he had to do was simultaneously solve several multiple-variable equations, and hope he’d get it right. And the only way to test their answer was to launch Patty and hope she didn’t drive herself into the bottom. And he kept thinking about the Russian sailors, who would die without these supplies. No pressure at all.

The XO came down the ladder and glanced at Patty, lying gutted on the storage rack, but he barely stopped on his way to where Jerry and Peters were working.

“The Skipper wants to know if there’s room for some food. He was just reviewing the list with Petrov and he mentioned that they are running out of food.”

Jerry sighed. “Food isn’t as heavy as batteries, but it takes up about the same amount of space. Still, it weighs something. Where does it rank on the list? After the CO, chemicals, but ahead of light? What about the medicine?”

Shimko almost pleaded. “These guys are getting hungry and they’re wasting a lot of body energy just trying to stay warm. We need to be concerned about hypothermia, too.”

Jerry threw up his hands, but tried to work it through. “So what are we talking about? Granola bars?”

“I’ve got the Ferengi going through our stores. Yeah. Granola bars, candy bars, fruit, cheese. Anything prepackaged.”

“We’ll have to throw in a knife if we send over cheese,” Jerry muttered sarcastically. He suddenly felt like he was planning a picnic. “Please have the chop bring me candy bars, preferably with nuts in them, and anything that is small, compact, and as dense as possible. Small hard candies would be good too. But XO, whatever I squeeze in won’t be enough for sixty-some-odd guys.”

The XO looked relieved. “Great. It’s something. I’ll tell the Captain.”

As Shimko turned to leave, Wolfe and Palmer came down the ladder. They didn’t look happy. “We’ve got a problem with one of the interlocks.”

Shimko looked surprised. “I thought you’d bypassed all the interlocks.”

“Only on the batteries, XO,” Palmer answered. “We’ve managed to fool the computer into thinking that six charged batteries will be in place when we launch Patty. That was easy. We found the sensors and wired them to a single feed that will. ”

“What’s the new problem?” Shimko demanded impatiently.

“It’s the collision-avoidance turn-away circuit, sir,” Wolfe responded.

“We disabled that,” Jerry said. “It’s just a software switch on the control panel.” He sounded surprised, almost incredulous.

“There’s more than one,” Palmer explained.

“Damn.”

Palmer explained. “The one on the console commands a turn-away from any object at a preset distance. Drive toward a solid wall, get too close, and it automatically makes a one-eighty. We got rid of that one by setting the turn-away distance to zero.

“But this other one’s hard-coded into the navigation processor. It’s a simple test. If the range to an object is less than four yards, and it’s not getting a homing signal, it executes a turn to avoid a collision. It’s a safety check, really.”

Jerry replied, “And the Russian can’t send out the homing signal.”

Patty and the other UUVs were designed to home in on a very-high-frequency sonar signal sent out from a transponder mounted on the recovery arm. The plan, however, was to have the vehicle swim into one of the Russians’ tubes without the aid of an arm or a homing signal. Of course, Patty would have to be guided in manually, which explained Palmer’s worried expression.

Shimko processed the implications. “So, just before it reaches the Russian sub, she’ll turn away and head in the opposite direction.”

“Exactly.” Palmer looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I should have found this much earlier.”

Wolfe added, “I missed it, too. The only place it’s mentioned is in a safety checklist. In the back of the manual, I might add.”

“What’s the fix?” asked Jerry.

“We can’t reprogram the nav computer. We’re just not set up for that. The only solution is to feed a false signal to the ranging logic, so it thinks it’s still a safe distance away from Severodvinsk.”

“But that means we won’t have range data as we approach the Russian,” Shimko protested.

“We’ve spent the last half hour looking for another solution,” Wolfe argued. “We can’t fiddle with the pumpjet’s directional controls. We need those to function normally. If we try to feed in a fake homing signal, the seeker will drive Patty into a spin trying to follow it.”

“How long will it take to rig?”

“Half an hour or so. Chief Morrison and some of the sonar techs are working on it now.”

“The forward looking sonar will still give us a clear picture,” Palmer said hopefully. “There’s just no depth perception, but if we take it slow, we should be all right.”

“Not too slow,” Shimko cautioned. “I saw Johnson’s endurance estimates on the substitute battery, but I’m still a little skeptical. We’re making a lot of changes to this beast, and we can’t make a dry run; once we start, we are committed. I don’t want us putting a lot of stock into our assumption of how much time we’ll have. I’ll brief the Captain on our status. He wants us to be ready in two hours.”

Jerry looked at the jumble of supplies next to LaVerne. “Sir, Captain Petrov said their carbon dioxide levels shouldn’t reach three percent until this evening. More time to prep would be good.”

“The skipper wants to try and keep their C0₂ below three percent, if at all possible. Once the carbon dioxide gets that high the Russian crew’s breathing rate will double and things will get worse fast. It’s a slippery slope that the Captain wants to stay away from. So he’s pushing us a little.”

Jerry gave off a weary sigh. Like many of the crew, he hadn’t slept since they had conceived of the plan to resupply the Russians. They were all driven by the urgency of the rescue mission and their intense loyalty to Captain Rudel, who seemed particularly determined. “Okay, XO, I sure as hell don’t want to disappoint the Skipper. If he wants to launch in two hours, we launch in two hours.”

USS Winston S. Churchill, 150 miles northwest of Vardø, Norway

“Dr. Patterson?” The male voice startled her out of a fitful, unhappy sleep. An enlisted man stood a foot away, calling her name. The unfamiliar surroundings, including a moving deck and bed, combined with the fragments of her dream, made for a less than restful slumber.

Jane Mastui snapped on the reading lamp over her bunk. In the artificial twilight, Patterson could see a young man in dungarees. He was offering her a folder with a handful of messages. “The Captain thought you should see these, ma’am.”

As she became coherent she looked at the clock, it read 0746. Matsui’s head popped into view from the top bunk. “Should I take them?”

Finally awake, Patterson answered, “No, Jane, I’ve got them.” She took the messages, thanking the petty officer, and sat up.

“Breakfast is available in the wardroom, ma’am. Captain Baker invited you to join him in half an hour.”

Her stomach debated the pro and cons of breakfast as the enlisted man left and she reviewed the message traffic. Jane Matsui hopped down from the upper bunk and used the washstand. Across the berthing space, just a few feet away, Joyce Parker stirred and mumbled in the lower bunk; the upper bunk belonged to a Lieutenant Sandy Miller, who was the ship’s gunnery officer and apparently up already

The first message was from SUBGRU Two to her. It repeated the information about Severodvinsk’s status and Seawolf’s improvised resupply plan, which she’d received late last night. It asked for frequent updates. A message from Wright’s office also repeated the information on the Russian boat. It added a doctor’s evaluation of how long the submariners could last in those conditions, with no surprises, and ended by asking for frequent updates.

President Huber’s office had also sent a message. It included his personal best wishes and his confidence in her abilities. He was interested in her expert opinion on the environmental effects if the submarine couldn’t be raised. Then he asked for frequent updates.

Other messages gave her information on weather and the status of Mystic’s loading in New London. The last message was the important one. The Russian Northern Fleet had sailed, most of the larger combatants, anyway, with Mikhail Rudnitskiy as the guest of honor. Intelligence didn’t say how they knew, but it listed several of the ships known to have left. They’d sailed, and in strength.

Churchill’s wardroom was roomier than a submarine’s. It would have accommodated a sub’s entire wardroom at once, but Burke-class destroyers had twice as many officers as a nuclear submarine, twenty-three, and three times as many enlisted men, over three hundred. Patterson’s eleven visitors had added to those numbers.

Surface ships also had doors that opened out onto fresh air. Patterson took a moment on her way to the wardroom to get a personal look at the weather. Glossy gray waves looked unfriendly, almost dangerous, but at least there weren’t any huge swells this morning. They raced by. Patterson couldn’t guess their exact speed, but Churchill was moving fast. A slate-gray overcast matched the water’s color, but the air was definitely clearer. Cold air curled into the open passageway, and after a moment, she closed the door and latched it.

Captain Baker and the other officers were all standing when Patterson entered the wardroom. Others from her team were also there. They’d waited for her, and as she entered the wardroom, everyone stood behind their seats. They’d left a spot open at the head of the long table, on Baker’s right, and she gratefully took it. The moment she reached her place, the captain said “Seats” softly and fifteen chairs were pulled back as one.

Baker was solidly built, with thinning sandy hair and a round face that seemed stern, even when he smiled. “We’re not normally this formal at breakfast, but I wanted to officially welcome you aboard and introduce you to all my senior officers.”

Only Churchill’s department heads and the XO were present. Even with only some of Patterson’s group eating, there was no room for the rest. Not all of her team had made it to breakfast. The word was that Manning and Bover were suffering severe motion sickness. Tech Sergeant Hayes would eat with the crew in the galley, and Parker and the reporter Adams were gratefully absent.

As sailors in crackerjacks served breakfast, starting with Patterson, introductions ran around the table, down one side and up the other, ending with Churchill’s XO, a wiry-looking man with a crew cut named Hampton.

“Everyone on Churchill understands that this is a rescue mission. They’ll help you with anything you ask, Doctor.”

“Your crew’s already been very generous, Captain. I’m still amazed that you found places for us all to sleep last night.”

Baker smiled, but he didn’t look happy. “The XO will refine the sleeping arrangements today. We were fine with four extra riders. Eight was a stretch, but we were ready — we thought. But eleven! Doctor, we simply don’t have that many spare bunks.”

Lieutenant Commander Hampton added, “We’ll be rigging hammocks later this morning.”

Patterson waited for him to smile, and realized he was serious.

Hampton saw her expression. “Really. They’re good for your back. We’ve got some volunteers already.”

“The XO has also added your people to our watch, quarter and station bill.” Baker explained, “It says where each of you should go for different situations or emergencies. For example, when we’re at General Quarters, I assume you and Commander Silas will want to be with me in the combat information center.”

Patterson nodded silently, and Baker continued, “And for Abandon Ship stations, you and Miss Matsui and Miss Parker will be with me and the command team in the whaleboat.”

“God forbid,” Patterson answered.

“And you’re welcome to hear eight o’clock reports with me every morning and evening while you’re aboard. It will keep you apprised of our material condition and planned evolutions. For instance, we will practice abandon-ship drill along with several others this afternoon. And we will be running surface tracking and antimissile problems in CIC from now until we get closer to the Russians.”

“We aren’t going into battle, Captain.” Patterson said it automatically, and then realized he could see it as a criticism. She quickly added, “Can you tell me why you think that’s necessary?”

“I’m uncomfortable, Doctor. I can be honest about it. We’re one ship, not a formation. We’re going further north than most Navy surface ships ever get, and I don’t know anyone on this ship who’s been north of the Norwegian Sea, including me. There’s the weather.” He leaned forward a little. “And a Russian battle group reportedly just left port, heading for the same spot we’re going.”

Patterson remembered something in the message she’d read. “Why is it important that the Russians aren’t emitting any electronic signals?”

Baker was eating, and motioned to Hampton. “Because if they’re transmitting, we can locate them. The type of signal they’re radiating can help us identify the exact type of vessel as well,” the XO explained.

The captain added, “And if I was leaving port in formation in heavy-weather, I’d sure as hell have my navigation radar on. He’s using something we call EMCON — emission control. The Russian commander is deliberately taking a serious risk to deny us information about his movements and composition. He’s on a wartime footing.”

Baker sat back in his chair. “I know what my rules of engagement are, but until I see his, we’ll run drills.”

“When will we see them?” Patterson asked. “Will we reach the collision site before they do?”

“I don’t know, Doctor. We don’t know their precise location. The site of the collision is about three hundred and thirty nautical miles to the northeast from their base. The slowest ship in the formation is Mikhail Rudnitskiy. She can make what, fifteen knots?” Baker looked at Hampton.

The XO shrugged. “Downhill, maybe.”

“All right, we’ll assume a fourteen-knot base speed. Under normal conditions, they’d reach the spot in about twenty-four hours. Since the storm is still clearing along the northern Russian coast, that will slow them down a little. So add another hour, maybe two until they’re out from under it.”

He paused for a moment, then answered Patterson’s unspoken question. “We’re twenty-four to twenty-six hours away at our present speed of twenty knots. I’ll speed up when the weather’s clear, but in these seas, twenty-five knots is the best I can do, and we’ve got five hundred miles to cover.”

Patterson felt like she’d already lost the first move. “What will they do?”

Russo spoke from further down the table. “Declare an exclusion zone. It’s SOP for any rescue operation. Unfortunately, they can use it to keep us out, and Seawolf, too, if they find her.”

Hampton followed Russo’s logic. “Chase away Seawolf and they’re screwing themselves.”

Silas added, “Seawolf has already found Severodvinsk and is attempting to provide them with supplies. I’d say they’ve done their bit. If the Russians want her to leave, that’s their problem.”

Russo shook his head. “It’s never that easy. Having that sub and her UUVs on the scene would be very useful. The data they can provide the rescue force may be the main thing that saves Severodvinsk’s crew.”

Silas wasn’t convinced. “Ma’am, Rudel will surface and report after he’s re-supplied Severodvinsk. I recommend that if he’s successful, you order him out of there. His boat is badly damaged, and the Russians already blame him, and us, for the accident in the first place. Limit our involvement and our risk.”

“I can’t talk to him, not yet. He’ll report to SUBGRU Two,” Patterson replied.

“Then have Admiral Sloan give the order. He’ll follow your lead.”

“Rudel is the on-scene search-and-rescue commander,” Russo argued. “He can’t leave until he hands over control to the Russians.”

“He’ll have to surface to do that,” Silas pointed out. “They’ll be able to see the damage to Seawolf.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” Patterson said.”Seawolf’s damage supports her side of the story.” She turned to Baker. “And this is a rescue operation, during peacetime. Run your drills, Captain, but the Russians aren’t fools. They won’t shoot at anyone. There’s no reason to.”

“I can’t make that assumption.”

“Agreed, but we can take steps to make it less likely. We are going to broadcast our position, in the clear, every half hour, explicitly state our actions, and Rudel’s as well. In fact, we are going to generate a constant stream of messages to the Russians, to the Norwegians, to everyone who will listen.”

“My intention was to use EMCON ourselves, Doctor.” Baker didn’t look happy. “I’d like to keep the Russians in the dark as long as we possibly can.” He paused. “It gives us more freedom of action, and limits theirs — it creates uncertainty in their plans.”

“Which in this particular instance is bad,” Patterson replied. “We don’t want any uncertainties in a rescue mission.”

Russo supported her argument. “If we tell the world exactly what we’re doing, we can actually limit the Russians’ political options. We also reduce the chance that they will blame us for anything by being totally open about our actions.”

At this time, they’d nearly finished breakfast, and others were waiting to eat, including Parker and Britt Adams from Skynews. As Patterson got up, she headed over to Joyce Parker, who at first tried to avoid her until she realized that Patterson intended to speak to her. The doctor even had a pleasant expression. “Miss Parker, after you and Mr. Adams have finished your breakfast, please see me in our cabin. There’s some important work you can do for me.”

USS Seawolf

With the supply loadout finalized, allocated, and triple-checked for total weight and trim, the torpedomen transferred the payload from the deck next to La Verne into Patty. It would be the UUVs last mission. The Russians would pull her inside to unload her, but there was no way for them to launch her again.

Without warning, Captain Rudel came down the ladder. Both Jerry and Palmer stood and faced their CO, but the fast-approaching deadline dictated that those working continue. Rudel handed Palmer a thick envelope, double-wrapped in plastic.

“I hope there is still room. These are hard copy images from La Verne’s survey of Severodvinsk. Petrov won’t be happy.” Rudel looked unhappy as well, largely because he was sending some really bad news. “But at least he’ll know the score. I’d want to know.” He paused, looking at the work in progress. “How much longer?”

Jerry fought the urge to answer. This was Palmer’s show. The jaygee said, “Twenty minutes, sir. We’re almost done with the loading, then sealing the case and getting her ready for launch is the same as any other mission.”

Rudel checked his watch. “Then we’ll set UUV stations at 0940. I brought this down myself because I wanted to wish you luck, Jeff. I know you’ll get the job done.”

Rudel left, and Palmer handed the package to Chief Johnson, who added it to the nearly-bursting UUV. While the torpedo division finished loading Patty, Palmer stepped back, motioning Jerry to follow.

Speaking softly, Palmer said, “Nav, I want you to make the run.”

Jerry was surprised. “What? You’re the UUV operator. You went to school on these things.”

“Yes, but we’ve all heard about your fancy Manta flying on Memphis. This run will be in full manual control. I did that once, on the school simulator, for about ten minutes.” Palmer pointed back toward the ladder. “You saw what just happened. The Captain came down here to wish me luck!”

“That’s because you’re the guy doing the job. If I was doing it, he’d wish me luck.” Jerry lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “Look, the Captain’s pretty tense about this. Is he making the right decision by letting us try this? Is he missing anything that would give it a better chance of success? And you have to admit this plan is pretty wild. Is there anything, anything at all that he can do if it doesn’t work?”

“This isn’t making me feel better,” Palmer gloomily observed.

“So if he didn’t think you were the best man for the job, would he let you do it? He’d pull you in a heartbeat if he thought someone else could do it better.”

“All those men depend on me doing this right.”

“Correction, they depend on all of us, and we’re not going to let them down.”

Jerry got out of the torpedo room before he yielded and agreed to Palmer’s request. He wanted to do it, and part of him believed he was the best man to do it, but not enough of him to take it away from Palmer. It was torpedo division business, and Jerry was the navigator. Palmer had run plenty of sorties, all without a bobble. He’d be fine.

Jerry took his station in control. There wasn’t much navigating involved, but Seawolf was going to move around to Severodvinsk’s starboard side. Since the Russian was listing to port, only the starboard torpedo tubes were accessible. Rudel would position his sub just two hundred yards from where Severodvinsk lay, shortening the distance Patty would have to cross with her brainwashed navigation system.

Jerry had prepared for the move by studying the sonar survey of the area. At the same time that LaVerne had imaged Severodvinsk, she had mapped the bottom around the crippled sub for two nautical miles in every direction. QM1 Peters was still updating their charts, but Jerry knew to the foot what the depths were, and where the rocks and hollows were. He’d picked a likely spot astern of the Russian sub, a hundred feet off the bottom. There was nothing but smooth seabed between Patty and her goal.

“Control, torpedo room. Maxine is away.” Chandler acknowledged the report. As part of his belt and suspenders policy, Rudel had ordered Maxine positioned so they could watch Patty’s progress with her sonar suite. Properly positioned, she could give Palmer some of the depth perception he’d lost when they’d bypassed Patty’s forward sonar ranging circuits.

The repeater set in control changed from black to blue as Maxine’s sonar activated. In map mode, it showed an overhead view of Seawolf, Severodvinsk, and Maxine’s location.

It took only a few minutes to cover the few hundred yards to the spot they’d decided on, and Maxine swung around. The Russian’s hull filled one side. Jerry knew Palmer would enter commands telling the vehicle to remain in that spot, pointed in that direction, and its own computer would keep it there. He’d be busy enough.

Palmer didn’t wait for an order from control. “Control, torpedo room. Patty is away.” After Chandler acknowledged that report, Rudel picked up the microphone for the underwater telephone. “Severodvinsk, Seawolf. We have launched the vehicle.”

The answer, distorted but brief, was “Understood. Good luck.” It sounded like Petrov’s voice. Passage through seawater had removed any emotion, and Jerry didn’t know what had been there. Desperation? Encouragement?

The bridge display shifted to Patty’s sonar image, showing the sonar picture from the vehicle’s point of view. Palmer brought Patty tight along Seawolf’s side after launch. The image shifted, wobbling up and down and left to right, and Jerry saw the difference between the stabilized automatic and the manual mode.

At first, the UUV seemed almost out of control. Wild pitch-downs were followed by equally wild pitch-ups. A zig to the left toward Seawolf almost rammed the UUV into her side, but then the hull disappeared entirely as Patty swung almost straight away from the sub.

Jerry realized what was happening. Quickly, he picked up the sound-powered phone handset and connected himself to the UUV circuit. “Torpedo room, control. Jeff, allow for the delay in your commands. Remember everything moves at the speed of sound in water. The time delay will increase the farther Patty is from us. You’ve got to get ahead of Patty, anticipate her movements more.”

Chief Johnson answered. “Mr. Palmer’s nodding,” came over the handset. The image steadied, swung back toward Seawolf, but then steadied again. Steering a slow, less sinuous path, Patty headed aft. Seawolf’s stern and propulsor passed, then disappeared off the right edge.

“Control, torpedo room. Patty is running with a slight up angle. Compensating with the thruster.” Palmer’s voice sounded calm, but clearly stressed.

Rudel nodded approvingly, “Not bad, Nav. You and your team did a good job of balancing the UUV out with just a scale, tape measure, and an Excel spreadsheet.”

“Thank you, sir, I’ll be sure to pass your compliments on to all concerned,” replied Jerry, pleased with the results.

Severodvinsk appeared, a little off to the right, but visible. The image swung left, away from the sub, and for an instant, Jerry was afraid Palmer was overcontrolling. Then he saw Palmer was opening the distance, to line up on Severodvinsk’s starboard torpedo tubes.

It took a few minutes, but the Russian swung back into view with her forward hull filling the screen. The open tube was a yellow dot down on the dull-colored hull, even with the forward edge of the sail.

Palmer had Patty advance slowly; he had to make a picture-perfect straight-in approach. This wasn’t going to be easy, as Severodvinsk’s torpedo tubes were angled out from the hull, like Seawolf’s. Complicating the matters was the Russian’s list to port and downward pitch. Thus, the tube pointed down as well as out. While the open tube was visible, there was nothing to line up on. They’d estimated what the proper azimuth and elevation angles should be graphically, but they were only approximate values. Patty would have to line up exactly on the tube’s axis, perfectly centered on the opening if she was going to make it inside.

Numbers danced at the top and bottom edges of the display. Elevation, azimuth, depth, speed, motor rpm, only range never changed, pinned at “999.” Even without range, Jerry could see the side of Severodvinsk grow. The false-color image was deep green, and the screen became a solid wall of the color.

It was impossible to see inside the opening, to see whether Patty was aligned with the Severodvinsk’s tube. He found himself watching the elevation and azimuth numbers, subconsciously trying to nudge them. The less they changed, the steadier the image, the better Jerry liked it.

The opening grew steadily, but slowly. Three knots was a slow walk, and Jerry began to eye the charge meter. Luckily, it gave an accurate reading, but it had started out in the red, showing only less than an hour where a full set of batteries was good for fifty-plus hours.

The opening kept drifting right, and while Palmer kept correcting, it meant the angle was constantly changing. More and more of Severodvinsk’s hull became visible with each correction, and the UUV’s angle numbers went past the limits they’d calculated. Finally Palmer turned Patty to the left and circled. It was a small circle, and this time Jerry noticed Patty’s speed was a little higher. The image was steadier, and grew quickly, then shuddered and flickered.

“Seawolf, we felt a vibration.” The underwater telephone still mutated any voice, but Jerry imagined the Russians waiting, hoping. A vibration?

“It missed. Patty must have bounced off the edge of the tube.” Shimko’s voice couldn’t hide his disappointment.

Rudel passed the news to Severodvinsk. “Our first attempt failed. We’re positioning to try again.”

Palmer was already circling for another pass. It was a tight circle this time, but he made his approach at a bare crawl. It looked good, but at the last moment, the display flashed with bright yellow pixels, then froze. A moment later, Patty’s computer rebooted, showing the vehicle lying alongside Severodvinsk’s hull.

“We can’t do that again.” Rudel said what everyone was thinking. “Get Mr. Palmer up here.”

Palmer set Patty to hover, with her forward-looking sonar shut off to save power, and then headed for control. The CO, XO, and others were all clustered around the now-dark UUV display, discussing what had gone wrong, when Palmer entered almost throwing his hands up in frustration. “It’s the cross-current, sir. It’s strong enough to throw Patty out of alignment just before we reach the tube. I don’t have enough time to react to the change before she hits the boat.”

“Patty can’t take another bump like that.” Shimko was stating the obvious, but it was meant more as a question.

“I know I’m close, sir. Did you see the bright yellow flash, just before she hit the second time? That was the sonar beam reverberating off the inside of the tube. The rest of the hull has anechoic coating, but the tube is bare metal. We were that close, then the current pushed me out of line.”

“So we use a crosswind landing,” Jerry announced. Ignoring their expressions, he continued his explanation with Palmer: “The water’s pushing you to the right as you try to enter the tube, right? Well, we often had to land on a runway that wasn’t exactly downwind.”

Jerry held out one hand, moving it in one direction, but angled it slightly to the left. “We called it ‘crabbing,’ just a little sideway angle that compensates for the crosswind. At the last minute, as we touched down, we’d add a little rudder to bring us into line with the runway.”

Palmer nodded slowly. “We are ‘landing’ the UUV,” he agreed.

Shimko said, “We don’t know the speed of the cross-current.”

Palmer answered that. “Maxine can provide ranges, and we can measure the current from her data.”

“Then get back down there and get set for another pass. We’ll figure the current’s vector and pass it to you.” Shimko pointed to the screen. Even though the sonar display was dark, the readouts still showed their numbers. “Even if the sonar can survive another hard bounce, we’re running low on juice. The single battery is having trouble meeting all the power demands and we’re depleting it faster than expected. We’re on borrowed time already.”

“Mr. Palmer,” spoke Rudel, more as a coach than a commanding officer. “I know you can do this. Stay calm and follow your training. Now go.”

Palmer quickly disappeared, and Rudel went back to the Gertrude to update Petrov and tell him they were getting ready to make yet another attempt. By the time Jerry and Shimko finished the math, Palmer was already pointed toward Severodvinsk. “It’s just a small correction,” Shimko explained over the handset. “Add two degrees of azimuth to the left at three and a half knots.”

Johnson acknowledged for Palmer, and Jerry added, “It will look like you’re off to the left, but it keeps Patty aligned with the tube. You’ll know the angle’s right if the bearing to the tubes doesn’t change.”

The chief acknowledged for Palmer again, and Jerry hung up the handset. “This all assumes Jeff’s hand is steady,” Shimko remarked softly. He was silent for moment, then asked, “Shouldn’t you be down there? This is your idea.”

Jerry wasn’t sure whether the XO meant the crabbed approach or the UUV transfer itself. He wanted to be close to the action, and he wanted to provide moral support. But the skipper told Jeff Palmer that he could do this. Showing up at a critical moment might say the opposite and distract him.

“Jeff’s on top of this, XO. He knows what to do. He’ll make it this time.”

“Lives are at stake.” The XO’s eyes were fixed on the display, and Jerry realized how wrong it must look to him. But to Jerry’s aviator’s eyes, imagining himself landing a jet, Palmer was right in the groove.

Jerry didn’t say anything more, but watched the bearing and bearing rate numbers on the display. They held almost rock steady, and Jerry saw the approach from Maxine’s point of view; the UUV was just a few yards away from the Russian’s hull.

The image flashed bright yellow again, and Jerry tried to guess when Jeff would straighten out his approach. In an aircraft, the friction of the wheels on the runway helped straighten out a plane. The temptation was to do it too early, or overcontrol and make too large a correction. And then there was the time delay. Don’t do it too late.

Jerry thought Palmer had waited too long, then he saw the image shift and realized Palmer must have sent the signal a few moments ago. The tube opening moved toward the center of the screen and suddenly a bright, sustained flash of yellow filled the display. Then it went dark.

“Control, torpedo room. I’m revving the motor,” Palmer nearly shouted over the intercom. “Full rpm!”

“Seawolf, this is Petrov. We can hear something in the tube! There is the whine of a motor.”

Rudel answered. “Severodvinsk, we think it’s in.”

“Control, torpedo room.” Palmer’s excited voice blared over the loudspeaker. “Executing command shut down!”

A long moment passed as the sound traveled to Severodvinsk and Petrov’s reply came back.”Seawolf, the whining has stopped. We are closing the outer door.”

“Control, torpedo room. I’ve lost all contact with Patty.” Palmer’s hopeful tone contrasted with what would normally be very bad news. Moments later, he was in control, waiting for word from the Russians.

Once the outer door was closed, the water would have to be removed from the tube. Normally it would be blown down with air, but with most of the high-pressure air already spent, the Russians could afford to use only the slightest burst to get the tube to start draining into the water round the torpedo tank. If Patty was filling most of the tube, there wouldn’t be much sea-water to drain. Then the inner door would have to be opened. Again, that normally used hydraulics. But it could be done manually, by cold, exhausted men breathing poor air. Finally, the vehicle would have to be pulled from the tube on a boat with a significant list, and it weighed nearly twenty-eight hundred pounds.

Jerry had been torpedo officer on Memphis. He knew how he would have done it on that boat, or even Seawolf. How did the Russian mechanisms differ? Whatever the difference, he was going to have to wait a few minutes to find out if they were successful. Considering how long the Russians had waited, he couldn’t complain.

Severodvinsk

Petrov leaned heavily against the bulkhead, the microphone in his hand temporarily forgotten in relief and sudden fatigue. They’d done it, he told himself. The Americans had just saved their lives. He hoped.

Rodionov’s excited voice came over the intercom. “Request permission to open the breech door.”

“Granted,” Petrov replied.

“Door’s open and the vehicle is inside the tube. My men are rigging a block and tackle. Without power and with this pitch and list, we’ll be hauling the damn thing uphill, the wrong way out.”

“Understood. I’ll have the Starpom send down more men to help with the work.” With all of them tired and cold, hauling out the heavy vehicle would be exhausting work.

Kalinin overheard the conversation, and barked orders, sending a half-dozen uninjured men to the starboard torpedo bay. They almost hurried, and he saw several smiling. It was understandable, Petrov realized. There was now a chance they would not die.

He remembered the microphone, and knew Rudel was still waiting for word from him. There was nothing to say until he got word from the torpedo officer. If Rodionov and his people couldn’t get that thing out of the tube, they were still dead men. But the American had done his part. Petrov owed him an update. He picked up the microphone and reported, ‘‘“Seawolf, this is Petrov. We have the vehicle. My men are working to remove it from the torpedo tube. This will take a few minutes.”

Rudel’s voice answered. “Seawolf is standing by.”

Petrov stood by as well, for about twenty seconds. He’d planned to wait for word from Rodionov. There was nothing he could contribute, and he didn’t want to jiggle Rodionov’s elbow, but he had to see.

It seemed like more than half a dozen men had arrived to help the torpedomen retrieve the American device, but they made a passage for Petrov as soon as he entered. The senior torpedo michman was organizing the detail around a block and tackle while another examined the front of the American device.

There was no clearance between the American remote and the sides of the tube. It had never been designed to be hauled out nose-first. The smooth, flat nose was slightly rounded near the edges, but there were no attachment points or access panels. They hadn’t expected any.

The michman looked at Rodionov, then Petrov, and shrugged. Petrov nodded wordlessy, then added, “Go ahead.”

Using a wrench, the torpedoman tapped different parts of the nose. “There’s a sonar transducer here, but the metal below it might be part of the frame.” He picked up a drill and made several exploratory holes. Two seemed to mark a bar that supported the transducer. The michman widened the holes, then tapped them for a pair of lifting eyes.

Petrov watched the surgery with mixed feelings. It offended him to have to ruin this expensive device, but it would keep his men alive. For all their complexity and cost, all machines — his submarine, the American remote— served men’s purposes.

Rodionov had them pull gently at first, but it moved smoothly, and they took a strain, pulling uphill against the port list and bow-down pitch. With only a few more pulls it was almost halfway out.

Now a loading tray was jury-rigged under it, manually, and by the time that was done, some of the men were clearly winded and had to be replaced. Eager volunteers stepped in and picked up the lines, but when they pulled, it only moved a few inches.

They shrugged, then tried again. It would not move. At Rodionov’s direction, they pushed it back, then pulled again. It stuck at the same place.

There was no way to see where the thing was stuck. Ten feet of the vehicle was hidden, and the clearance was too narrow for flashlights to reveal the obstruction.

The inside of the tube was not completely smooth. Low rails held and guided a weapon, ports let water and air in or helped them escape. Others locked a weapon in place in case of sudden maneuvers by the boat.

“Rotate the thing,” Petrov ordered. “The obstruction is probably small, and the only things it can catch on are a centimeter across. Turn it and it might not get hung up.”

Rodionov nodded and they paid out the lines slightly, letting it fall back into the tube a few inches. Then, with three or four men on a side, they embraced the vehicle, twenty-one inches in diameter, and tried to roll it in place. It weighed hundreds of kilograms. It was wet, and cold, and didn’t want to turn.

“Try the other way,” Rodionov ordered, and the exhausted men shifted their stance. Coughing, trying to find strength in the stale air, they gripped and pulled. This time it moved, a little, and Rodionov urged them on until they’d turned the vehicle almost ninety degrees.

Rodionov stopped them, and exhausted, they dropped to their knees. Panting, gasping, they waited while the other team took a strain on the line and began pulling.

It moved, and they all cheered when it came out farther, almost three-quarters of the way. Then it stopped, hung up on another protrusion. “Switch the groups,” Petrov ordered, and the pullers changed places with the turners. Now they knew what was needed, and moved the vehicle back a fraction and began twisting it in the tube.

They repeated the process twice more before the American vehicle finally slid clear. More men had to be brought down to help with the work, and others had to take over the job of actually opening the thing up. What had started with just the torpedo crew turned into an all-hands evolution.

Rudel had told them how to quickly open the vehicle, and the men set to work. Petrov watched them, more than aware of the irony. he’d done his best to take this thing away from the Americans. Its later recovery would have been a minor win for the Russian Navy and personal triumph for his new command.

Now, at great effort, the Americans had deliberately given him one of the remotes, and it would mean a different kind of victory. It wasn’t lost on him, either, that the vehicle had no tether. He could have done loops around the damn thing for a week, and it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference.

His mistake, his false assumption, had been a factor in this tragedy— possibly the primary factor. Every commanding officer has to live with the consequences of his mistakes. What grieved Petrov was that others were paying for them as well.

The side panel opened, and like everyone else, Petrov crowded in to see. Unlike everyone else, the men gave him plenty of room. Rodionov turned as the captain approached. “It’s all here, sir. The air chemicals, medicines, even some food.” He held up a candy bar with a bite missing. The captain-lieutenant’s grin was infectious, and Petrov could hear the men talking excitedly, almost shouting. It was time to get organized.

Petrov’s voice cut through the hubbub. “All right, the vehicle has been recovered. Anyone who is not part of the torpedo crew, return to your posts.” He pointed to one of the michman. “You. Collect all the medicine and all the food. Turn it over to Dr. Balanov.” He took in the entire group with a stern look. “We’re going to give the food to the injured first.”

There were several audible sighs as candy bars and other items were turned over. Petrov told the michman, “Pick men for a detail.”

Fonarin, in charge of life support, was already present to take charge of the air chemicals. With great curiosity, he examined the six-foot-by-three-foot plastic curtains littered with small pockets. He then picked up a can of lithium hydroxide granules and started to understand. Beneath the first curtain, he found an envelope with the Russian word “Instructions.”

“How considerate of them,” Fonarin remarked gratefully. “They’ve even provided instructions on their equipment in Russian. I will get these curtains distributed and hung immediately, sir.”

“Excellent, Igor.”

“Captain,” spoke the torpedomen michman. “This says it is for you.” He came over to Petrov with a plastic-wrapped package. Lettering on the front in Cyrillic and English said it was intended for the Captain of Severodvinsk.

That made him think of Rudel, and he turned to the intercom. “Central post, this is Petrov. Pass to Seawolf, ‘Thank you. We have the supplies.’”

The reply came back a minute later. “Captain, your message was passed. We heard cheering over their microphone.” Petrov felt almost like cheering himself as he cracked the seal. They had more time for the fleet to arrive, food, badly needed medicine, and now what had to be information. Curiosity filled him.

Then he saw the first photo. Although in false colors, the image showed his wonderful Severodvinsk, listing on the seabed, bow and aft sections scarred. Grief and anger brought tears to his eyes, and he quickly shoved the picture back into the envelope. He hurried out of the compartment, barely noticing the men that quickly jumped out of his way.

His cabin was in the first compartment, flooded and inaccessible. He wanted to examine the contents of the package alone, but that was impossible. Instead, he stood in the tilted passageway, out of the way of the men already bringing up vital supplies, and gathered himself.

In the central post, he called over Kalinin, Lyachin, and the other battle department commanders. They would share the first viewing with him. Several of the officers almost wept when he passed around the first image. The next was a detailed photo of the ragged bow, then worse, the bladeless stub of the propeller shaft. Those three images signed Severodvinsk’s death certificate.

“Oh my God,” rasped Kalinin as he picked up the next photo. Everyone present either gasped or groaned. The picture showed Severodvinsk’s V-600 emergency buoy lying on the ocean floor, a huge puncture in its tiny metal hull. It had never made it to the surface.

“No wonder we haven’t heard from the fleet,” Lyachin stated in awe. “They had no idea where to look!”

“Our debt to this Rudel fellow continues to grow,” responded Kalinin. There was no disagreement from those present.

After that came a detailed bow-to-stern series of photographs, both port and starboard, and annotated maps of the area, large and small-scale. One was marked with the location of debris from Severodvinsk and Seawolf, torn or broken off during the collision. Petrov was impressed with both the Americans’ thoroughness and the capabilities of their underwater vehicles. But it was a lot to take in. It was almost an hour later when he finally gave the package to Kalinin.

He tried to focus on the basics. Some of his crew had been lost, but the rest were alive, and thanks to the Americans, he didn’t have to pretend they had a chance of survival. But it was time to accept the bitter fact that Severodvinsk was lost. Horribly crippled, in deep water, she would never leave this place. A great sadness came upon him. He didn’t think it would ever go away.