Cold Choices

21. TURN AWAY

9 October 2008

1030/10:30 AM

USS Seawolf

Jerry and Shimko were both in control when they received the message. Captain Rudel was still topside, so Jerry volunteered to take it up to him. The fresh air helped settle his queasy stomach.

The bridge was roomier with only Hayes, the lookout, and the captain. “Message from USS Churchill, Skipper. They’re coming to join us.”

Rudel smiled broadly. “It will be nice to see a friendly face.” The message stated Churchill’s intentions and ETA, in a little over two and a half hours.

“They’re going to ignore the Russians’ exclusion zone,” Jerry observed.

“I’ll still be glad for the company. Particularly given the Russians’ behavior as of late,” Rudel answered. There was a hint of relief in his tone.

The lookout called down, “Sir, air contact to the southwest, just above the horizon.”

Hayes and Rudel instantly turned their glasses in that direction. Jerry had to wait, then borrowed the pair that Hayes was using. He’d anticipated more fighters, but this was worse: two Kamov antisubmarine helicopters.

“Ka-27 Helixes,” Rudel announced as Jerry got his first look, and of course he was right. These helicopters carried their ordnance externally, but they were still too far away for Jerry to see whether or not they were armed.

Rudel didn’t wait to find out. “Sound General Quarters.” Hayes passed the order below, and soon thereafter the BONG, BONG, BONG of the general alarm reverberated from the access trunk. As Jerry handed him back his binoculars and stepped toward the open hatch, Rudel told him, “Tell the XO I’m staying up here.”

“Aye, sir.” Jerry couldn’t see the point in the captain staying topside, but there was little precedent for where the captain of a surfaced nuclear sub should be during General Quarters.

Jerry ran into the organized chaos of the control room and passed the captain’s message on. The XO nodded, although he didn’t look comfortable with Rudel’s decision. Wordlessly, he pointed to the plotting table by the fire-control displays, Jerry’s GQ station.

Shimko took station near the useless periscopes. These helicopters were harbingers of the approaching Russian surface task force, a group that contained some pretty significant firepower. Their radar was down, as was the ESM system, and all the bow arrays were useless. They could still use the wide-aperture array on flanks, but they had to steer a beam manually. That was it. They were almost blind.

Jerry tried to imagine what Seawolf could see or do. She could fire a torpedo while surfaced, since the tubes were still functional, but you couldn’t torpedo a helicopter. Besides, they didn’t want to shoot at anybody. This was supposed to be a rescue mission, not a wartime patrol.

Rudel’s voice came over the intercom a moment later. “Control, bridge. This is the Captain. I have the deck and the conn.” The watch section acknowledged the relinquishing of command from Mr. Hayes to the captain, but not without an odd look. A couple of minutes later, both Hayes and the lookout came in to control and repeated Rudel’s intention to stay topside. Confused, Will Hayes shrugged his shoulders. Shimko nodded silently. Jerry could see the XO was even less of a happy camper now. Hayes then sat at one of the blank fire-control consoles, his General Quarters station.

“Control, bridge. Both Helixes are armed.” Rudel’s voice described their movements. “One’s coming straight in. The other’s pacing us a hundred yards to port.”

Jerry and the others could only wait. Seawolf was out of her natural element, and defenseless. Without her electronic sensors, the watchstanders in control had to rely on Rudel’s running commentary of the events up on deck.

“The first is passing directly over us. They’re loaded with four depth charges.” That was bad. Russian air-dropped antisubmarine torpedoes only work against submerged subs, but a Helix could set a depth charge to detonate at shallow depth, say thirty feet. Dropped at close range, it would shatter Seawolf’s hull.

“They’re not responding to my hails on the bridge-to-bridge radio.” Rudel then added, “The helicopter to port is lowering its dipping sonar.”

Most antisubmarine helicopters either carried a small sonar at the end of a cable or dropped expendable sonobuoys. Ka-27 Helix helicopters could carry sonobuoys along with the dipping sonar, but only at the expense of ordnance. To hunt for a sub, a Helix driver would be directed to a likely spot where the crew would then lower the sonar “ball” into the water, and listen. If they didn’t hear the sub, they could actively search, or ping, for it by transmitting an intense burst of acoustic energy and then listen for the echo. The main advantage of a dipping sonar was that it could change its search depth by raising or lowering the array. This negated a submarine’s ability to hide from a shallow sensor by ducking below the thermocline.

While nuclear subs are fast and maneuverable compared to other warships, helicopters can run rings around them. They needed a cue from some other sensor on where to start looking, but if they found you, it was hell to get away.

“Conn, sonar, Lamb Tail sonar on the WLR-9, bearing zero four seven. Signal strength is off the scale.” The intercept repeater in control beeped away angrily, alerting the occupants to the presence of a threat emitter.

“Well of course,” Jerry muttered cynically. “It’s three hundred feet off our port beam.” “Lamb Tail” was the NATO designation for the dipping sonar on the Ka-27 Helix. The Russian name for it was “VGS-3, Ros-V,” which was probably easier to say in Russian.

Unlike Severodvinsk’s brutal lashing, the helicopter’s sonar set operated at a higher frequency, but was still within the range of human hearing. The eerily tinny pings hammered away, providing the Helix with precise range and bearing information. But they knew exactly where Seawolf was, unless they were blind and stupid. Why lower the ball and ping?

Alberto Constantino, still functioning as the contact coordinator, passed the bearing data up to Rudel. The captain answered with “Control, bridge. Concur, bearing matches. The other one’s doing lazy eights half a mile out in front of us.”

Jerry stared at the meager plot before him, as if it could reveal the Russians’ intentions. One to the front, one to the side, using its dipping sonar.

“Conn, sonar. The pinging’s stopped.”

Constantino acknowledged sonar’s report and passed it up to the bridge, then looked around, unhappy at the enforced idleness. There was nothing they could do. They were surfaced, running at five knots, steering a box pattern around a downed Russian sub. And there were Russian ASW helicopters overhead, with unknown intentions.

Rudel reported, “It looks like the dipper’s shifting positions. He’s moving to keep position off our port beam.”

Jerry fidgeted with a pencil over the mostly blank sheet of paper laid over the plotting table. This game was completely one-sided. Not only did the Russians own the ball, they owned the ballpark as well.

“Two minutes to the next turn, new course will be to the left to zero four five.” QM2 Dunn’s report was routine. Seawolf’s track was a square centered on Severodvinsk. Three miles on a side, it was designed to keep Seawolf close to the downed sub.

“Control, bridge. The helicopter’s dipping again,” Rudel reported. “Same relative position, to the northeast.”

“And directly in our path,” Jerry added. Constantino looked at the plot and nodded his understanding. “They’ve been watching us. They know where our next turn should be.”

“The helicopter in front of us just dropped something in the water, about one thousand yards away!”

The end of Rudel’s report was punctuated by a BOOM that came right through the hull, muffled but definite.

“That was not a signaling charge,” Constantino observed. Aircraft that operated near submarines often carried small explosive charges, the size of a hand grenade, designed to attract the attention of a submerged sub. They could also be used to simulate an attack.

This was no simulation. But they could have put it right next to Seawolf, if they’d wanted to. Jerry looked at Shimko and Hayes. Nobody in control said anything for a moment; then Constantino asked, “Where are they going to put the next one?”

The XO asked Jerry, “How far was that charge from Severodvinsk?”

Jerry barely glanced at the chart. “We’re at the corner of the box, so it’s a little over two miles.” Laying a ruler across their course, he reported, “The charge was fifty-five hundred yards, two and three quarters miles from Severodvinsk.”

“Time for the turn, sir,” Dunn reminded Jerry.

“Belay the turn,” Shimko ordered sharply. “I’m going up. This isn’t working. And the Skipper’s up there all by himself.” The XO was on the ladder to the first deck before he’d even finished his sentence.

Shimko had barely cleared the last step when another BOOM came through the hull, jerry tried to convince himself that his imagination made it seem closer, but Rudel’s voice on the intercom confirmed it. “Control, bridge. That one was only five hundred yards away, dead ahead! Hard right rudder! Come right to one eight zero!”

The helmsman acknowledged the command over the intercom as he threw the rudder yoke over all the way to the right. A moment later, Rudel ordered, “Continue coming right to three one five.” That put them back along their last leg, but in the opposite direction.

Jerry looked around control, with Rudel and the XO topside, and the engineer back in maneuvering, he was the senior officer present. The younger junior officers, Santana, Miller, and Norris, all looked at him with a mixture of shock, fear, and confusion. He tried to reassure them with a tight smile, but he knew this setup was all wrong.

Suddenly, the XO’s voice boomed from the intercom loudspeaker. “Navigator, lay to the bridge, on the double. And bring the satellite phone!” Dunn grabbed the phone and semi-threw it to Jerry as he rushed up the ladder well. He didn’t even bother to put on a parka as he started climbing up the access trunk as fast as he possibly could.

Uncharacteristically, Shimko had left the upper access hatch open. The only reason he’d do that was if his intention was to immediately bring the captain below. Jerry was near the top of the access trunk when he clearly heard Rudel’s voice. Given the circumstances, he seemed remarkably calm. “They’re still not responding on the radio, Marcus, but they know why we’re here. They can only go so far.”

“That last charge was only a quarter mile in front of us, Captain. What if they halve it again? And again?”

“They have their rules of engagement, just like we do.”

“What if they make a mistake? Did they take into account our stressed pressure hull? One miscalculation by a Russian caused this whole situation. We can’t rule out another.”

“I have to push this, XO.” Rudel’s voice was determined, stoic, almost obstinate. “I want them to look us right in the eye, and then blink. Petrov and his men are depending on us.”

“With all due respect, sir, the men on this boat are also depending on you.” Shimko’s intensity matched Rudel’s. He was respectful, but Jerry would never dream of talking to the skipper like that. “They’re using live ammunition, Captain. And they’ve made it clear they don’t want to talk to us. You’ve done everything that you can. We have to leave, sir.”

Uncomfortably aware that he was eavesdropping, Jerry shouted, “Permission to come up to the bridge.”

“Granted,” responded Rudel crisply. “Where’s the satellite phone?”

“Here, sir.” Jerry handed it to his captain, who passed it on to Shimko.

“XO, time to call the boss and issue a formal complaint.”

Jerry thought phoning home sounded like an excellent idea. But Shimko was far from convinced. “Sir, we don’t have time for this. They’ll drop another charge any minute now!”

As if on cue, Jerry watched as the Helix released another cylindrical object into the water. The explosion was closer and louder than the last one. He could feel the shock wave as it hit Seawolf’s hull.

“Damn it, XO! Make the call! That’s an order!” shouted Rudel.

Shimko was fuming, but did as he was told and started punching the buttons vigorously. Rudel then looked at Jerry and seemed surprised that he was still there. “Get below, mister!” he commanded.

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Jerry.

As he dropped down into the hatch well, Jerry could hear the XO almost pleading with Rudel. “Captain, they are not going to stop this. We have to turn away and head west!”

“We’re responsible for Severodvinsk. I’m responsible for Severodvinsk shrieked Rudel. His voice trembled with pain, as if abandoning Petrov and his men was the same as betraying a close friend.

“And the Russians aren’t going to let you do anything about it. Sir, we have to change course to the west now, before they drop another charge.”The captain didn’t respond before Shimko added, “Group Two is on the line, sir.”

Jerry heard Rudel begin his report to SUBGRU Two; then the XO suddenly called down the trunk. “They’re dropping another charge close by. All hands brace!”

Rudel’s voice came over the intercom. “Hard left rudder! Course two seven zero.”

Jerry grabbed onto the ladder as he heard the chief of the watch pass the warning on the 1MC. The KA-BOOM and vibration that followed wasn’t as bad as he’d dreaded, but it filled his mind with images of the shoring giving way, of the forward compartment filling with seawater. Had the last-second turn-away helped to deflect the shock?

The slam of a hatch and an urgent “Down ladder!” caused Jerry to slide down the rest of the access trunk ladder, followed immediately by the XO and the captain. Shimko bolted for the ladder down to control and shouted, “Submerge the boat, take us to three hundred feet, steady on course two seven zero, speed seven knots.”

The watchstanders hesitated, confused as to who should be giving the orders, who they were supposed to listen to. The last they knew, the captain had the deck and the conn. Lieutenant Wolfe saw the confusion and jumped up to the conning station. “You heard the XO. Chief of the Watch, over the 1MC ‘Dive, Dive.’ Diving officer, make your depth three hundred feet. Helmsman, all ahead one third.”

Jolted out of their inaction by Wolfe’s forceful presence, the men acknowledged their orders and began to follow through on the procedure to take Seawolf down.

As Shimko entered control he quickly pointed to Wolfe and announced, “The XO has the conn, Mr. Wolfe has the deck.” Without waiting for the control room watchstanders to respond, he twirled around and pointed at the damage control assistant. “Mr. Williams, check the hull and the shoring for the slightest sign of new damage. Report back here as soon as you’ve completed the inspection.”

A flurry of “Aye, aye, sir” echoed throughout control. Williams disappeared up the ladder, nearly running over a passive, despondent Rudel, who appeared to be muttering to himself.

With a pained and frustrated expression, Shimko looked over to Master Chief Hess, the battle stations diving officer. “COB, get the Skipper to his stateroom.” Then, pointing toward Constantino by the command displays, “Al, you’re my diving officer.”

“Yes, sir,” replied both men simultaneously as they exchanged places. Hess then gently grabbed Rudel and threw his arm over his shoulders. The captain seemed confused, dejected, weak. “C’mon, Skipper,” coaxed the COB. “You need a little rest.”

Once Hess had escorted Rudel out of control, Shimko turn to the chief of the watch and ordered, “Have Chief Gallant report to the CO’s stateroom on the double.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said Chief McCord, as he picked up the phone and dialed sickbay.

Shimko paused a moment and took stock of the situation in control, allowing himself a deep breath or two. Satisfied that things were well in hand, he pressed the intercom switch. “Sonar, conn. Hear anything from our friends?”

“Conn, sonar. No, sir. If they’re dipping, they’re doing it passively.”

“I’m sure they are. They’ll have no trouble following us.” Shimko sounded resigned, but not discouraged.

“Jerry, what’s the endurance of a Ka-27 Helix?”

Pulling out an ONI reference sheet, Jerry ran his finger down a table. “Two, maybe two and a half hours, at cruise speed, fully loaded.”

“If the Russian ships are now about seventy miles away. When will they have to turn for home?”

Jerry checked his watch and did the math. “Half an hour, forty-five minutes tops, XO.”

“Good. Then we’ll turn in forty-five minutes to rendezvous with Churchill. Give me your recommendation for an intercept course.”

Severodvinsk, K-329

Petrov, Kalinin, and the other senior officers made their way to the central post after they heard the active sonar transmissions. It took a little longer than usual, as they had to dodge all those plastic curtains that seemed to be hanging everywhere. The first explosion caught them all off guard. By the second, they were standing around the underwater communications station wondering what the hell was going on.”Seawolf, this is Petrov. Do you hear me? What is happening?”

There was no response, only the reverberating echo from the explosions crackled over the loud speaker.

“Those aren’t signaling charges,” Kalinin stated. “The explosions are far too loud for that.”

Petrov shook his head wearily, a look of disappointment on his face. “I fear one of our helicopters is trying to persuade Commander Rudel to leave.”

“With live ordnance!?! What kind of moron would authorize dropping depth bombs on a badly damaged submarine!?!” Kalinin’s outraged expression was shared by several of the others. “Don’t they realize what Rudel and his crew has done for us?”

“Calm yourself, Vasiliy. I agree with you that it is an unwise action, but I’m sure the pilot is not dropping the depth bombs too close.”

A third explosion was heard. This one was not as loud, farther away.

“Comrade Captain, I do not share your confidence in the abilities of our airmen. Those are the same idiots that displayed horrible tactical proficiency during our acceptance trials. They couldn’t find their ass with either hand! They are just incompetent enough to misjudge the distance and actually lay a depth bomb alongside Seawolf’s hull!”

Petrov had to struggle not to laugh. Kalinin’s backhanded compliment was as damning as it was accurate. He appreciated his starpom’s strong concern for the crew of Seawolf. Indeed, he shared it. But this was to be expected.

“Vasiliy, we knew this would happen. It’s standard procedure to establish an exclusion zone around a rescue site, and then drive off any foreign vessels. I had hoped that our superiors would see the logic of allowing Seawolf to remain. But the fact is they are doing what they think is best.”

A fourth louder explosion, even farther away, caused Petrov to wince. “All we can do is hope and pray that our overzealous countrymen didn’t inflict any more damage on Seawolf.”

Skynews editorial office, London, England

Befuddled by sleep, Ed Fellowes answered his stapler and his electric shaver before finally locating his cell phone. He hurriedly flipped it open. “This is Fellowes.”

“This is Nicholas Hertz, Mr. Fellowes.”

“Nicholas, I’ve asked you call me ‘Ed.’”

“Thanks, Mr. Fellowes. Ed. I forgot. I’m still so excited with the new equipment you ordered for me, it’s so expensive, but it works great! No more analog displays, and the direct link to my laptop. ”

Nicholas Hertz bubbled with excitement, like any teen with a new toy. In Nick’s case, the “toy” was a signal analyzer that could dismantle a radio transmission almost to its component electrons. And he knew how to use it.

“What have you got for me, Nick?” Shaking off fatigue, Fellowes sat up straighter and woke up his laptop. He’d just sent off a piece on the last intercept to his bosses, and that followed a very long night covering the Seawolf collision. Sleeping at his desk wasn’t a choice, it was inevitable.

“Another satellite phone call, transmitted 0844 our time, and lasting three and a half minutes. It was Rudel, like always. I’m sending you the sound file now. Ed, I think he was under attack. He said the Russians were dropping depth charges on Seawolf!”

“What?” Fellowes had heard Hertz clearly, but he had trouble comprehending his words. Had the Russians actually fired on the American submarine?

“And the conversation just stopped, in midsentence, while he was reporting to the admiral’s staff. There may even be the sound of an explosion in the file.”

Hertz had been listening in on Seawolf’s satellite phone calls from the beginning, using his home-built electronic listening setup. He’d mentioned it to a neighbor, who’d mentioned it to a relative, who knew Ed Fellowes was covering the incident. Skynews had immediately put the young electronics hobbyist on retainer.

The teen hadn’t slept much in the past two days, although it was easier on him than Fellowes. Now Hertz sounded genuinely worried. “What if they’ve sprung a leak in that damaged pressure hull? If they’re submerged, they can’t call for help, and Churchill’s still a couple of hours away to the southwest.”

Fellowes checked his watch. It was 0901, less than twenty minutes since the call was made. “Let me listen to the file, Nick. Maybe they weren’t actually under attack. Can you do something to the file and confirm whether or not there was an explosion?”

Hertz didn’t say anything for a moment. Fellowes fought to suppress his impatience. Let the lad think, he reminded himself. “I’ve got some software that might be able to isolate the sound. I can sample. ”

“That’s great, Nick, please get on that, as fast as you can. Call me back in fifteen minutes, will you? Good lad. Cheers.”

Hertz was still talking when Fellowes hung up. Checking his email, he found the message with the file attached, and opened it. He forced himself to listen to the entire file. Rudel’s words were clear, although there was a desperate tone to his voice.

Fellowes didn’t understand everything Rudel said. They had a retired Royal Navy officer on retainer who could translate; he’d be listening to the file, along with several other people. He didn’t have to be a naval officer, though, to know what “using warshots” meant.

As the file finished, suddenly and in midsentence, he punched a number on his cell, simultaneously forwarding the sound file to a select list of people within Skynews. One of them was the editor-in-chief. The subject line for the email was “Skyrocket,” the internal code word for a hot story.

Fellowes waited eagerly, running his fingers through his hair, as the phone rang four times before being answered. A dispassionate voice announced, “Mr. Heath’s office.”

“Mary, it’s Ed Fellowes. I just sent the boss a skyrocket. Tell him the Russians have attacked Seawolf.”

Mikhail Rudnitskiy

Captain Gradev had lived on the bridge since they’d left port, eating, getting what little sleep he could, and haranguing the engineers. Between his ship’s worn-out engines and the cranky minisubmarine, he’d had plenty to deal with.

Alex Radimov, Gradev’s starpom, appeared, shaking his head. “The engines are at maximum, Captain. Unless we can scrape the barnacles off her hull, fourteen and a half knots is the best they can do. Still, this is a minor miracle and we should buy the chief engineer an entire case of spirits when we get back.”

“Very well, Alex. I’m convinced the engineers are giving us their best.”

“I toured the sub hangar as well. Everything is proceeding well. AS-34 will be ready to launch the instant we reach the site.”

“I’ll send Rear Admiral Vidchenko another message, reconfirming our readiness.”

Radinov looked excited, and Gradev shared it. AS-34 would launch in a few hours. By dinnertime, they would finally know for themselves what had happened to Severodvinsk.

USS Churchill

The first sign of trouble was when Patterson’s laptop died, or rather, her connection to the Internet died. She’d been proud of keeping up on her email, and monitoring Parker s progress with their publicity campaign. Their correspondence with the Russian Wives and Mothers website had proved useful and educational.

Now the site she’d been reading froze. She was still trying to solve the problem when the General Quarters klaxon rang.

Patterson’s heart leapt in her throat. General Quarters was only sounded for battle or a dire emergency, like a fire aboard the ship. As she hurried to CIC, she didn’t know which one to hope for.

Baker saw her come in CIC. In fact, he must have been watching for her, letting his XO supervise the ship’s preparations. Churchill’s CIC had chairs for the captain and an embarked admiral, and Baker invited her to sit in the admiral’s place. Three large screens faced them. The center one showed a map of the area overlaid with what she assumed were tactical symbols.

As soon as she sat, Baker quietly, almost too calmly, reported, “Seawolf reports that she’s being driven from the area by ASW helicopters. They’re dropping live depth charges.”

Patterson tried to match Baker’s calm demeanor, and said nothing for some time while her mind fiashbacked to her own depth-charging experience. Shivering, she forced herself to focus on the current situation. At once, a number of questions bubbled up. She answered several of her most obvious ones herself, then asked, “Was Seawolf damaged?”

“Not as far as we know.” He handed her a message slip. “But SUBGRU Two reports the conversation was cut off, and according to them Rudel says some of the charges were getting close.”

Baker gestured to the activity in CIC. “As soon as GQ is set, I’ll place the ship in Condition Two. Condition One is General Quarters, but you can’t do that for very long before the crew gets tired. In Condition Two, all our weapons and sensors are manned, but some of the crew is allowed to rest or do essential work. We’ll stay at Condition Two, extended General Quarters, until this ship and Seawolf are both out of the Russian exclusion zone.”

Patterson absorbed Baker’s explanation, and tried to imagine how it changed the situation. “I’m uncomfortable with how this will look to the Russians, Captain.”

“I don’t care how it looks, Doctor. The Russians have dropped weapons near an American submarine, a damaged American submarine. It was a very deliberate act, not an accident.”

“They didn’t attack her directly. They were trying to drive her from the area.

“With live ordnance! This is unheard of, and unacceptable. They know she’s damaged, and that she is responding to maritime emergency. I don’t know how many international accords they have just violated. Until I know which side of the line they’re staying on, I’m not taking any chances.”

He was right, of course. Patterson studied the message, trying to glean clues to the Russians’ behavior from the transcript of Rudel’s last phone call.

“Your orders, ma’am?”

Patterson shook her head. “No change. We find Seawolf and make sure she’s all right. Then we figure out how to make these sons of Russia talk to us.”

“Understood,” Baker replied. A phone buzzed near him, and he diverted his attention to ship’s business.

Patterson sat there and stewed; the whole situation was spiraling completely out of control. The Russians’ belligerent behavior and outright refusal to communicate irritated her to no end. They seemed hell-bent on a crusade to embarrass and humiliate the United States over this incident. What did her loving husband call it? Ah yes, “chest thumping.”

She also saw that this spiral could become a vicious circle unless she somehow penetrated the communications barrier. But how? You can’t make someone pick up the phone when you call them. Or can you?

Baker hung up the phone. “Sorry, Doctor Patterson, I had to confer with my XO. We’ll be setting Condition Two momentarily.”

Patterson didn’t respond; she seemed lost in thought. A slight grin on her face.

“Doctor Patterson?”

“Yes? Oh, excuse me, Captain. You were saying?”

“I said that we’ll be setting Condition Two momentarily.”

“Excellent, Captain. Thank you. Will you please have Ms. Parker and Mr. Adams meet me in the wardroom? We have another press announcement to make.”

“Certainly. May I ask what you have in mind?” inquired Baker.

“There is an old proverb that says if you can’t bring Muhammad to the mountain, then you bring the mountain to Muhammad. Well, I intend to try that with the Russians.”

Baker looked on as she left CIC, more confused by her answer than before.

Olga Sadilenko’s apartment, Severomorsk, Russia

Olga heard the commotion in the other room before Irina burst in. “They dropped depth bombs on the American submarine!”

The older woman was puzzled. “But isn’t it near Severodvinsk? The Americans said they were going to guide our ships to the right spot.”

“Not anymore. It’s all over the Internet that Seawolf was attacked by our Navy’s helicopters. She may have been damaged.”

Others had crowded into Olga’s bedroom now to hear the conversation. They all nodded as Irina read several articles from the news sites. She saw several women pull out tissues. With the strain they were all under, tears came quickly.

“So they dropped depth bombs on the American submarine, with our men trapped underneath.” Olga’s expression mixed anger with disbelief.

“But there’s more news,” Irina announced. I just got an email from Joyce Parker aboard Churchill. It’s a press release. They are going into the exclusion zone, and she says Rear Admiral Vidchenko has agreed to meet with them aboard Petr Velikiy. The Americans have vital information they wish to give our Navy, and they will also deliver that Norwegian to our ships.”

One of the women behind Irina snorted. “Right. Use a warship to deliver one person. If he’s even on board at all.”

“He is on board,” another young woman insisted. “The Norwegian company says he is aboard an American destroyer, and they sent him ahead to prepare for their rescue ship.”

Olga absorbed it all as quickly as Irina could tell her. “And our Navy has said nothing, of course,” she predicted.

Everyone nodded knowingly.

Irina answered, “Well, if the Navy will talk to the Americans, then perhaps we should talk to the Americans as well. Do they have that list of our men?”

“Yes, I sent it to them earlier today.”

“And our list of questions for Commander Rudel?”

“Assembled and ready for your final review.”

“Whatever they say, post their response to our questions on the website as soon as you get them.”

Northern Fleet Headquarters

The phone call was from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. They weren’t in his chain of command, but reminding them of that hadn’t stopped their incessant questioning.

Vice Admiral Kokurin listened politely, but finally said, “Deputy Minister, I can only accept instructions from the Main Naval Staff. They’re in Moscow, the same as you. ”

He paused to listen, but his body language made it clear he didn’t like what he was hearing. “I’m sure the ministry’s expertise will benefit us in this situation, but you have to speak to Admiral Pucharin. His office can answer all your questions, as well.”

After another pause, he said politely, “I’m not authorized to discuss the rescue operation over an open line.”

Kokurin listened for a moment, then hung up. His deputy, Vice Admiral Baybarin, had sat patiently, if curiously, while his superior deflected the Foreign Ministry’s questions and suggestions.

“Boris, this is going to get messier. The deputy minister said the Americans have formally protested the ‘attack’ on their submarine, and at the same time they’re meeting with Vidchenko aboard Petr Velikiy.” He held up his hands, pleading. “Does this make sense to you?”

Baybarin laughed. “No. There was no attack. Did the Foreign Ministry agree to the meeting?”

Kokurin shook his head. “No, nobody will admit to it.”

“They do have Lindstrom,” his deputy pointed out.

“He could be transferred by helicopter while they stayed outside the exclusion zone. Instead, Churchill will rendezvous with our ships at the collision site, and there will be a meeting — aboard one of our ships!”

“What does Vidchenko say?”

Kokurin made a sour face. “I haven’t asked him. He has his orders. He will follow them.”

Baybarin waited for Kokurin to say something more, but when he didn’t, he asked, “What will you tell him to do about the American destroyer and the meeting?”

The fleet commander thought for a moment, pacing, then asked, “So you think I should instruct him?”

“We have information he doesn’t — about the American’s reaction to the depth bombs.”

“A distraction. I won’t let a rescue operation be influenced by diplomatic maneuvers.”

Babyarin offered, “They say they have vital information for us.”

“Whatever they have, AS-34 is there now, and their data is moot. With any luck, we will know all there is to know about Severodvinsk after his first sortie.”

“So you don’t think Vidchenko should meet with the Americans?”

Kokurin shrugged. “Only if it suits his purpose, and that’s his decision to make. I’ve given him the only order he’ll get from me: Find and rescue the crew of Severodvinsk.”

The White House, Washington, DC

The Oval Office was almost bursting, with the Secretaries of State and Defense, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Chief of Naval Operations, the Director of National Intelligence, Vice President Clemson, and Dr. Wright, the National Security Adviser. Most of their staffs had to wait outside.

Patterson would have been pleased with the attention Seawolf was getting now. The entire National Security Council was present. By rights, they should have met in the secure conference room. Huber had decided to have it in the White House to avoid making it an official NSC meeting, and perhaps because the Oval Office symbolized the authority of the president. That authority had been challenged, at least indirectly.

“Dr. Wright, please tell everyone in this room about your conversation with Dr. Patterson.” Huber’s tone wasn’t hostile, but it was formal, and very different from the easygoing air he usually affected.

Trying not to feel defensive, the national security adviser simply stated, “I’ve just been on the secure phone with Joanna Patterson. She issued the press release you’ve all seen to force the Russians’ hand.”

“Without any communications from them, or us.” That was from the Secretary of State. His tone was hostile.

“That’s the point, Mr. Secretary. They weren’t communicating at all. Has your department received any response to her messages?”

“None,” the secretary admitted. “But what if the Russians called her a liar, which would mean calling us all liars?”

Wright countered, “They’ve already accused us of far worse.”

The president asked, “But what is her goal? Why is she doing this? The Russians have made it pretty clear they don’t want us up there.”

“The sooner they start working with us, instead of depth-charging Seawolf, the sooner they’ll get their people back. Our obligation isn’t to the government of the Russian Federation, it’s to the men in that submarine.”

“Our first obligation is to Seawolf’,” injected Admiral Forrester, the senior officer in the Navy. It made sense that he’d think of his boat and the men aboard her.

“Then we have two goals. And they’re not mutually exclusive.” Wright felt uncomfortable defending Patterson, but he was really defending their role in Severodvinsk’s rescue.

State was not convinced. “Mr. President, I’m not sure that Dr. Patterson will be able to make this work. She has no foreign policy experience, and no background in crisis management. The quickest end to this mess is for you to order Seawolf and Churchill out of the area. No more friction with the Russians. We’ll just be abiding by their wishes. Any information we want to send to the Russians can be delivered to their embassy.”

“That won’t work anymore, Mr. Secretary. We’re involved, and if this turns out badly, people will ask why we didn’t stay and help. Even if the crew is rescued, the Russians will have been rewarded for bullying one of our subs.”

“She’s cutting us out of the loop,” Huber complained. Everyone in the room nodded in agreement, which to Wright only reinforced the correctness of her actions.

Wright threw it in their laps. “What do you want to happen? What do you want her to do?”

“She has to keep us informed, give us a chance to comment on what she proposes to tell or say to the Russians.” That was the secretary of state again, but defense and the DNI both nodded as well. “We’re running our own operations here, and working at cross-purposes could damage more than just our reputation.”

“This is a fast-moving situation, and waiting for Washington’s ‘guidance’ could have a high cost.” Wright looked to Huber, who slowly nodded his agreement.

The Chief of Naval Operations seemed more cooperative. “I’m willing to ‘conform to her movements,’ so to speak, but Seawolf is damaged, and the Russians aren’t respecting her, or international law. Depth charging an undamaged boat would be an incident. Doing it to Seawolf verges on the criminal.”

Huber stood up and paced. Wright knew the president liked to walk while he thought, or maybe he was just tired of sitting. Everyone waited.

“If Dr. Patterson is successful in opening talks with the Russians, the risk to Seawolf disappears. And the chance of the crew getting off that stricken Russian sub alive goes up.” He looked at the secretary of state. “That’s got to help our international standing.”

Before anyone could respond, Huber added, “She’s making things happen, and she’s taking all the risks. As long as she keeps us informed—” He gave Wright a hard look.”—she has my authorization to act freely.”

Petr Velikiy

Kurganov, Vidchenko, and most of Petr’s wardroom had gathered in the central command post. The sonar officer had calculated the range of their underwater telephone as three miles. Racing ahead of Mikhail Rudnitskiy at thirty knots, and having reached that three-mile distance from “Point Severodvinsk,” the formation had slowed to a bare creep.

While the big cruiser continued to move slowly and silently toward the location provided by Seawolf, her escorts fanned out, spacing themselves in a ten-mile-diameter circle around the site. They didn’t use their active sonars, but they did listen passively. If a submarine was detected, Vidchenko had issued orders to drive it away.

At five knots, it would take a while to cover the last three miles, but that time didn’t matter. Rudnitskiy was still two hours behind the warships. They had to slow if they wanted to hear the sub.

The sonar officer spoke into a microphone, sending Severodvinsk’s pendant number over and over. “K-329, this is Hull 099, over.” He paused for a moment, then repeated the call. “K-329, this is Hull 099, respond.”

After five minutes, and checking the navigational plot for the distance, the sonar officer began again. Between each call, he paused for sixty seconds. In spite of the crowded room, nobody wanted to make the slightest noise. Vidchenko could hear the small cooling fans inside the electronic equipment, the click every time the sonar officer pressed the microphone.

It took fifteen minutes and 2500 yards before they heard a response. It was Petrov’s voice, clear and recognizable. “This is Severodvinsk, we are glad to hear you.”

The cheer almost deafened him. They were in a metal-walled compartment, after all. Both admirals glared and the sound stopped instantly, and they heard the end of a sentence: “. our families.”

The sonar officer managed to say, “Please repeat your last,” before Vidchenko took the microphone.

“This is Rear Admiral Vidchenko. What is your situation? Over.”

“We are resting on the bottom at a depth of one hundred ninety-seven meters. We have a thirty-four-degree port list and a nine-degree downward pitch. Compartments one, seven, and eight are completely flooded; compartment six is partially flooded. Over.”

Vidchenko marveled at Petrov’s coolness and the neat summary, even as he digested the information. The forwardmost compartment, which held mostly berthing, was flooded. That meant a hole in the pressure hull forward. That was bad enough.

Worse was the news aft. There must have been a second hull breach near the stern, or perhaps the stern tube ruptured. Compartment eight held the auxiliary mechanisms, such as rudder and stern plane actuators and the emergency propulsion motor. Compartment six and seven had the main propulsion turbines, electrical generation turbines, and machinery that supported the reactor. With that one sentence, Petrov had marked the end of his first command, and the newest submarine in the Russian Navy.

A burst of sadness and grief filled him, and the admiral asked, “Casualties?”

“Sixty-seven survivors, nineteen have serious injuries, but are currently stable.” Petrov paused, then reported, “Eighteen dead, sixteen during the collision, and two shortly after from their injuries.”

“Understood,” Vidchenko answered. “We’ll get names shortly. Mikhail Rudnitskiy will arrive in just under two hours and will immediately launch AS-34.”

“They won’t be able to evacuate us, not with compartment eight flooded.”

“Agreed,” Vidchenko replied. “Based on your report, we’ll have it survey the bottom and then we’ll determine what is needed to bring the boat level. Is your rescue chamber intact?”

“Yes!” Petrov’s frustration came though clearly. “If we can right the boat we will be able to bring everyone to the surface. Why are you surveying the bottom again? Seawolf has already performed one. Don’t you have it? They gave a copy to me when they sent us the carbon dioxide chemicals and medical supplies. It was very complete.”

Vidchenko ignored the question. “What about your atmosphere?”

“Oxygen is at sixteen percent, carbon dioxide at two point five percent. We have forty-four hours of chemicals remaining, thanks to Seawolf. We’d be near death by now if she hadn’t transferred her own emergency C0₂ absorption curtains to us.”

“We will have you righted and out of there by tomorrow, I promise.” It was surreal, speaking so easily to someone trapped on the ocean floor. Petrov and his men were in mortal danger, but he might as well have been telephoning his wife.

“Admiral Kuganov will take over now. He can get the details of your dead and injured. I must go see to Rudnitskiy and the submersible.”

“Thank you, Admiral, we are sure you will save us. And please thank Commander Rudel and the men aboard Seawolf, sir. Not only did they find us, they kept us alive until you could get here.”

Vidchenko didn’t answer.