Cold Choices

24. STRIKE ONE

10 October 2008

1835/6:35 PM

Skynews Report

“Although the Russians have made no official announcement, their attempt to rescue the crew of Severodvinsk appears to have failed.

“Approximately forty-five minutes ago, at 1448 Greenwich Mean Time, sonars near the scene of the rescue detected a series of small explosions. It is believed these were from charges intended to clear obstructions preventing the release of the submarine’s rescue capsule. According to submarine rescue experts, if the charges had worked, the crew would have been able to ascend to the surface in the capsule almost immediately.

“It is believed that the men aboard Severodvinsk are running short of the U.S.-supplied chemicals needed to remove the deadly carbon dioxide from their atmosphere. Medical experts are also concerned that they may be suffering from hypothermia, as the crew have been subjected to near-freezing temperatures for several days now. Hypothermia would cause the survivors’ bodies to increase their oxygen consumption, in an attempt to preserve body heat, thus complicating the carbon dioxide problem.

“While the Russian Navy has not provided any information on the condition of the men trapped inside, information on the status of the crew has appeared on the Wives and Mothers of Severodvinsk website, now one of the most popular websites in the world. Late yesterday, the ‘portrait pages’ were updated. Several crew-member photographs were modified to include a Russian Orthodox cross, while others had a red cross added.

“Having recently finished her last dive, the Priz minisub will now have to recharge its batteries. This will take at least six hours, which means it will be tomorrow morning before the Russians can even hope to make another attempt. What form this could take is not known.

“The Norwegian marine salvage vessel Halsfjord is also due to arrive this evening. Whether they will be able to act before the submariners run out of time is impossible to say.

“This is Britt Adams, for Skynews.”

Severodvinsk

“Be careful, watch out for the hatch coaming!” commanded Petrov. “Slowly, slowly. There, I have him.” Wrapping both arms around the injured man’s abdomen, Petrov held him steady while Zubov removed the rope suspending him from the escape chamber. Once free of the sling, the two laid their shipmate on to a stretcher. It was young Sadilenko.

“Nikolay, Nikolay,” he moaned deliriously.

“Yes, Yakov, I know,” replied Balanov gently. “Let’s get you back to bed. Careful now,” he said to the stretcher-bearers as they lifted him and proceeded back to the third compartment.

“That’s everyone, Captain,” reported Mitrov, still up in the chamber.

“Very well. Thank you, Vladimir. Make sure you turn off the emergency lights before you secure the hatch.”

“Pavel is doing that now, sir.”

“Good, good.”

The flickering of a light from the rear of the central post caught his attention and he walked over toward the source. Kalinin and Lyachin appeared slowly from the ladder well. Both were breathing heavily.

“There doesn’t appear to be any additional damage from the explosive charges, Captain,” reported Kalinin as he leaned against the bulkhead.

“I’m glad to hear that, Vasiliy. That was a most unpleasant experience.”

“It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if it had worked,” he replied as he wiggled a finger in his right ear. “Well, at least now we know what it’s like to be inside a kettledrum.”

Lyachin and Petrov chuckled at the starpom’s apt analogy. The doctor had said the ringing in their ears would take a little time to subside. The smile on Lyachin’s face, however, lasted for only an instant, and was replaced by the same forlorn, haunted expression he’d shown earlier. Straightening himself, he turned toward Petrov and asked, “Sir, if I may be excused, I would like to check on my men.”

“Certainly, Sergey.”

As the chief engineer walked away, Kalinin pointed in his direction and said, “He seems to be doing better.”

“Unlike some of us,” countered Petrov, remembering the dazed Sadilenko, his voice heavy with fatigue and dejection.

“You need some rest, sir.”

“No, Starpom. What I need is some fresh air.”

“As do we all,” said Kalinin, conceding the argument. For a moment the two leaders stood there in silence, both were tired, cold, and emotionally drained. After about a minute, Kalinin finally brought up the topic they had both been avoiding.

“That failed evolution was rather depressing.”

“Yes, it was. I could see it on the men’s faces. I should have been more guarded with my optimism.”

“What are we going to do now, Captain?”

“I wish to God I knew, Vasiliy. We’ve done everything we possibly can.”

“There’s still that option the doctor and I talked about,” suggested the starpom.

“What? Oh yes, I suppose we should give it more consideration. It may buy us a little more time,” Petrov replied. “I guess we should go find the good doctor.”

At that moment, Balanov entered the central post and walked up to them. He looked worn out, but his movements suggested he was agitated.

“Ah, Doctor, we were just about to come visit you,” said Kalinin jovially.

“Captain, Starpom,” Balanov greeted them formally. “Captain, I wish to report that there are complications developing with some of the injured.”

“Complications?” Petrov echoed with a mixture of confusion and worry. “What sort of complications?”

“Sir, a number of the injured have started showing symptoms of mild hypothermia. I’ve taken the temperature of several of them, and their core temperatures are at or just below thirty-five degrees Celsius. There are some indications that several of the other crew members are starting to show symptoms as well.”

“Doctor, we’ve given you as many survival suits as you require and most of the bedding,” exclaimed Kalinin defensively.

“Starpom, you don’t understand! The suits and blankets only slow the rate at which heat is lost! It’s taken several days, but with such low ambient temperatures, hypothermia is inevitable.”

“All right, Doctor, what are the short-term implications?” Petrov asked. He was well aware that death was the ultimate result.

“At this stage, the patient will start to shiver uncontrollably It’s the body’s attempt to generate heat through muscle activity. This means that his blood pressure, heart rate, and breathing rate all increase. If enough members of the crew start suffering from hypothermia, our carbon dioxide problem will get considerably worse.”

Pained expressions showed on both their faces, as the impact of the doctor’s explanation struck them. Ravaged by the seemingly never-ending string of bad news, Petrov fell against the bulkhead for support and rubbed his face with both hands.

“Captain, we must find a way to generate some heat before things get worse,” implored Balanov.

“And just how do you suggest I do that!?!” snapped Petrov angrily. Immediately, he regretted lashing out at the doctor. He wasn’t the cause of this latest problem; he was just the messenger.

Sighing, Petrov reached out and placed his hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Viktor, you are merely doing your duty. Thank you, for your report. I will… I will try and think of something. In the meantime, I want you to prepare to issue sleeping drugs to as many of the crew as you can. I know, I know it buys us only a little time. But right now I’ll take every minute I can get.”

Balanov nodded and wearily withdrew.

“Now what?” asked Kalinin bluntly, as he watched Petrov push himself upright.

“I think it’s time I have a chat with Vidchenko and inform him of this new problem, then find out what they are going to do next.”

USS Seawolf

Seawolf and Churchill were running parallel racetracks, long, slow patterns designed to let ships move without actually going anywhere. At five knots, it took over an hour and a half for them to cover one side of the eight-mile leg. They’d turn a full 180 degrees, then countermarch back along the same line.

The two ships were separated by three miles, more than enough distance between a surface ship and a submerged submarine. With two of her transmitters and one multimission mast repaired, Seawolf could now transmit and receive from periscope depth, letting her stay in her natural, and preferred, environment.

With both ships at creep speed, it also maximized their passive sonar detection. Even though they were about fifty miles away, Seawolf heard the rather noisy AS-34 on herTB-29 towed array, both ships heard the charges detonate. Then nothing.

Jerry had wanted the Russian plan to work. He’d prayed and waited, knowing that the Russians weren’t stupid. The minisub had made two earlier dives. They could see what needed to be done. They’d overengineered the job with charges that might actually cause more damage to the sub, but were surely big enough to clear whatever was holding Severodvinsk in that port list.

Seawolf and Patty had bought Severodvinsk some time. He was proud of that unorthodox resupply effort, but now it looked like it wouldn’t be enough. The Russians had wasted that chance, missed their best, and perhaps only, shot. They could have planted charges on their first dive, and done a better job of it, if they had used the information Rudel had tried to give them.

Jerry felt somehow responsible for the Russians’ mistrust. He knew it was stupid to think so, and ran though every action, every decision he’d made since the collision, and then since they’d entered the Barents. He could think of nothing that would have affected the Russians’ refusal, but the feeling wouldn’t go away. His stomach knotted, and with Seawolf riding smooth at two hundred feet, he knew it wasn’t seasickness.

Were Petrov and his men doomed? After hearing the Russian’s voice over the underwater telephone, Jerry thought of him as a person. He could imagine the man, like any good captain, doing his best to take care of his crew until help arrived. It was easy to imagine himself on that boat, in Petrov’s place, or more properly as one of his officers. Rudel could imagine himself in Petrov’s position. And he probably did, in his nightmares.

Jerry was touring the boat before visiting control. He didn’t need to, but it was constructive, and he didn’t have the heart for paperwork right now.

As he passed the crew’s mess, the Wolf’s Den, he saw a new email had been posted. It had been sent by Britt Adams, a reporter on Churchill but the original sender had been a Russian woman, Olga Sadilenko. She had sent questions to Adams, who passed them to Rudel. Rudel apparently answered them and then responded back through Adams. It probably violated several regulations, but Joanna Patterson knew about it and approved. That was enough for Jerry, and also Rudel. The woman deserved answers.

Jerry read it twice. He wondered how many times Rudel had read it.

10 October 2008

1855/6:55 PM

Severomorsk

The Seaman’s Memorial Church had never closed its doors, even at the height of Communist power. Built when the town was still called Vayenga, it had seen many tragedies. Whatever its name, Severomorsk had always been a port, and sailors didn’t always return.

Right now the church was filled with the families and friends of the men of Severodvinsk. The mayor and most of the city government had come. It was both a memorial for those known to have died, and a prayer service for those injured and still in peril. With definite news, the wives and mothers had decided not to wait for the crew’s rescue.

Olga Sadilenko, along with the other family members, was near the front, so the messenger had to search for a few minutes, whispering questions, before he could find her. Olga recognized him. Sasha was the teenage brother of Irina’s Anatoliy. He would have been at the service, but had been drafted to look after the younger children. Was there a problem with one of them?

He didn’t speak, but pressed a slip of paper into her hand. It read simply, “There is important news. Please come outside.”

Curious, she left as quietly as she could. Outside, Sasha pointed toward an older man she didn’t recognize, waiting at the bottom of the steps. He was stooped over, with a face so worn it was almost battered, and he held one arm at an angle. “My name is Dyalov. I used to work at the naval base. I’m a friend of Galina Gudkov’s family. She sent me to tell you they tried to raise the sub with explosives late this afternoon. If it had worked, the crew would be out and on the surface by now.”

“If it had worked. ” Olga had repeated the words automatically, attempting to understand. She found she had understood, but her mind didn’t want to accept the idea.

“Why did they need explosives? What happened? Did the explosives cause more damage? Why didn’t they work?”

Dyalov shook his head. “I’m sorry. I do not know these things. Galina says the article appeared just a short time ago. It comes from the Americans.”

Olga’s world spun. She took one step to lean against the church’s stone wall. “Will they try again?”

“I do not know,” Dyalov apologized. “I live down the hall. Galina called me and asked me to deliver the news. She read the article to me. They heard explosions on their hydroacoustic system, but after that nothing more. Here is a translation she gave me.” He pressed a folded paper into her hand.

Her shoulder was cold where she leaned against the church. The stone under her was hard, unmoving. She stood for a moment, shaking, as the carefully restrained fear for her son escaped, draining her strength, her reason. She’d used purpose and hope to keep it locked up, but now it was loose, and she had no way to fight it. She was crying, almost silently, the tears pouring down her face.

Dyalov stood uncomfortably, silent. She realized he was waiting for her answer, but she had none. Finally, she said “Thank you for your kindness.” She turned and impulsively hugged him, pecking him on the cheek. Dyalov smiled and limped off.

She had never met Dyalov before, but the old man had taken pity and helped, simply because he knew one of the families. Severomorsk, like most of the towns in the Kola Region, was a navy town. Because of this, the church was filled to capacity and then some. Family and friends had converged here because it was centrally located, and because it was the home of the Northern Fleet Headquarters. Some of the Severodvinsk families had come from Gadzhiyevo, near the Sayda Guba submarine base; some lived in Murmansk, a short distance to the south; many lived in Severomorsk itself. But wherever they lived, they were here now, in the church, praying for a miracle and supporting each other.

That human contact had helped her regain her reason, but not her strength. Suddenly frail, she leaned back against the wall of the church again. Olga would never admit it to anyone, but she needed its strength, and the strength of those inside.

She unfolded the paper and read the article, just a few paragraphs, and much of it addressed what the author didn’t know. Crumbs for the starving.

Reentering the church, she saw that the service was almost over. She stood quietly in the back rather than disturb anyone, but those in the rear had seen her come back in, just as they had seen the messenger enter. Now they saw her blotting her eyes, her face red and puffy. There’d been more than a few tears in the church that afternoon, but a murmur ran through the back of the church, then moved its way forward.

A woman she didn’t recognize, her young son on her hip, came back and whispered, “Are you all right? Is there news?” Her eyes, her face pleaded for answers, but the last part of her question held more dread than curiosity. After all, Olga had been crying.

“Yes,” Olga answered, but when she saw the woman’s face fall, she quickly added, “They’re still alive.”

The young mother stifled her gasp and smiled, a little forced but genuine. She went back to her place as the priest finished the service, but many eyes were on her and Olga.

After the last prayer ended, everyone remained in their places. A low buzz of conversation built, then faded away. The priest spoke softly with someone in front, then took his place again. “Mrs. Sadilenko. Please, if there is news, tell us all.”

Olga walked down the center aisle, embarrassed in spite of the priest’s polite request. Reaching the front, she turned and faced families and friends of the families. It made sense. Severodvinsk’s heart was in that church.

She unfolded the paper and read the news article. The first line announcing the failed rescue attempt brought gasps and cries. She skipped the paragraph about their website, although Olga was sure everyone would hear about it later. The last two paragraphs spoke of the Priz minisub and the Norwegians without giving the slightest clue about the Navy’s plans.

Finishing, she folded the paper and pushed it back into the pocket of her dress. She was still facing the crowd, full of concern for her Yakov, and anger and frustration at the Navy. She found those emotions becoming words.

“I should stand here and praise our Navy for their efforts to rescue our men. That is what they want me to do, but I cannot, because I do not know if our Navy really is trying to save them!”

She gestured to the church’s congregation. “Why are there no uniforms in this church? Are they ashamed?” She paused, and put her hands on her hips. “Has anyone in this room received any information from our Navy about our men?” She waited, then added, “They have never even admitted that Severodvinsk is actually missing!

“Are they afraid of what we might discover? Why do they ignore even the simplest of questions?”

The mayor looked distinctly uncomfortable. He was an old-school politician, and while open criticism of the Navy might not get someone arrested these days, it certainly wasn’t the norm. But the crowd was responding to her questions. Some were crying. Many more looked angry.

“The only thing the Navy has done is to blame the Americans for this disaster. But the only information we have gotten, information we know is true, has come from the Americans.”

Her voice had been rising, not to a shout, but loud and strong. “We have nothing but questions for the Navy, and they have nothing but contempt for us. They have ignored us. They have even lied to us!

“We have the right to know whether everything possible is being done to rescue our loved ones. We have given them our sons, our husbands. They expect us to sit quietly at home and be grateful for our sacrifice.

“But our men don’t need us at home! They need us to keep the Navy honest, to make sure that they have missed nothing. We must sit on the Navy’s doorstep until we know they have done their job.”

Applause filled the church, and without thinking, Olga turned and marched to the front door of the church. The Northern Fleet Headquarters complex lay six blocks away down one of the main streets of the city. The old walrus had turned them away once. He wouldn’t do it this time.

She could hear the congregation following her, and briefly wondered what the mayor would do.

11 October 2008

0800/8:00 AM

Petr Velikiy

Rear Admirals Vidchenko and Kurganov stood together near Petr Velikiy’s twin-barreled 130mm gun, while Captain Chicherin fussed and the side-boys checked their dress uniforms. The after end of the superstructure loomed above and behind them, with the glassed-in helicopter control station two stories up. A phone talker next to Captain Chicherin gave him constant updates in the helicopter’s distance.

“It’s down to fifteen kilometers, sir. Bearing is Red one two zero.”

Chicherin was the only one with glasses, and swung around to that bearing. “Sideboys, stand by.”

The group waiting with the officers took their places while a petty officer hurried them along, then called them to attention.

Vidchenko spotted the Mi-14 helicopter as the phone talker called “Ten kilometers.” It was a big land-based machine, usually used for coastal ASW, but in this case, as a VIP transport. It passed aft of the ship, lining up on the wake, then slowly overtook them.

When it reached the fantail, the helicopter settled onto the pad as gently as thistle down. Vidchenko was willing to put money down that the best helicopter pilot in the regiment was at the controls.

The instant the wheels touched, the captain gestured, and the petty officer screamed commands over the sound of the engines. The sideboys quickly ran aft to places marked on the deck, forming two lines facing each other.

A fading whine replaced the engine roar and the door swung open. First out was a crewman with a small stepladder. He attached it to the lower edge of the door, and then scrambled down to the deck one and a half meters below.

As soon as he signaled it was safe, Vice Admiral Sergey Kokurin, commander of the Northern Fleet, appeared, followed by Vice Admiral Borisov, commander of the Twelfth Submarine Eskadra. Behind him was a clutch of aides and assistants.

Kokurin hurried down the steps and across the flight deck. He climbed the ladder to the main deck, and paused just long enough to receive the side-boys’ salute before heading toward where Vidchenko and the others waited. The supporting cast hurried to catch up as Vidchenko, Kurganov, and Chicherin all braced and saluted.

Kokurin returned their salutes as he approached, and asked peremptorily, “Is the Norwegian ready?”

“Mr. Lindstrom is ready to brief us in the flag mess, sir.”

“Then let’s get up there. Petrov and his men don’t have much time.”

Lindstrom was waiting, along with Kurt Nakken, captain of the salvage and rescue ship Halsfjord. In a sea of dark blue and gold braid, their civilian clothes seemed almost sloppy, although their manner was professional. They were already set up, and waited patiently as Kokurin and the others took their places and tea was served.

Although Petr Velikiy was Chicherin’s ship, and Vidchenko commanded the rescue effort, this was Kokurin’s meeting. Before Chicherin could begin his welcoming statement, Kokurin pulled a thick sheaf of papers out of his briefcase and plopped them onto the table.

“My staff printed all this material off the Internet. The names of Severodvinsk’s crew, the ships in the rescue force, weather conditions, our progress, are all available to anyone in the world. And they are watching with considerable interest. Web pages like the Wives and Mothers of Severodvinsk website are receiving literally millions of visitors each day. Word of the failure to rescue Severodvinsk’s crew yesterday afternoon was posted within an hour.”

He paused for a moment, letting that sink in. The Russian Navy believed in secrecy, a shield that hid both strengths and weaknesses. Seeing their operations exposed, discussed, and criticized was anathema.

Kokurin completed his thought. “We cannot afford another failure. Losing Petrov and his men would be tragedy, but we would also do it in front of the world.” Kokurin managed to include the entire room in his gaze, but finished by looking at Chicherin. “Whenever you are ready, Captain.”

Chicherin wisely skipped his opening remarks and immediately began by reviewing Severodvinsk’s status. Atmosphere quality was the primary concern. A little less than six hours remained before the C0₂ chemicals provided by Seawolf were depleted. The injured crewmen were stable, although the cold was now a major concern as well since it was intimately linked with the carbon dioxide situation. Battery power, food, and water were also becoming significant issues. After a week on the bottom, the crew of Severodvinsk was running out of everything.

Captain Bakhorin briefed Kokurin on AS-34’s material condition. The batteries were still being charged after their latest dive, although he noted that it was taking longer each time to reach a full charge, and that the charge was lasting less each time.

“So AS-34 is almost crippled,” Kokurin acknowledged. “Can you get me one more dive?”

“Yes, Admiral,” Bakhorin answered eagerly. “At least one more.”

Lindstrom was last. He spoke passable Russian, and after introducing Halsfjord’s captain, pressed a key on his laptop, which was already connected to the fiat-panel display mounted on the bulkhead.

A false-color image of Severodvinsk appeared, lying on the seabed. Contour lines and depths were combined with detailed data on the bottom’s makeup. Lines led from Severodvinsk upward, and lettering in Roman and Cyrillic labeled different parts of the diagram.

Vidchenko was puzzled. The image was very detailed, and even showed the damage to Severodvinsk’s bow and engineering section. Halsfjord had only arrived last evening. They certainly hadn’t had the time to survey the bottom. Was this the work of a computer artist?

The admiral asked that question, but Kokurin cut in before Lindstrom could answer. “I have seen this image before. It is from the American underwater robots.”

Lindstrom added, “Yes, that is correct. We thought it would be the quickest way to diagram out our rescue plan.”

“But that information hasn’t been validated!” Alarm crept into Vidchenko’s voice. “It may have been altered, and even if it hasn’t, we know nothing about the accuracy of their sensors.”

Kokurin’s concern showed in his questions. “Did you find evidence of tampering? How closely does it match your information?”

Vidchenko shook his head. “I do not know, sir. None of us have seen it.”

Now the fleet commander seemed confused. “Has anyone on your staff examined the data?”

Uneasy, but unsure why, Vidchenko quickly answered, “No sir. We didn’t feel we could trust the data.”

Kokurin sat for a moment in thought, then asked the Norwegian, “Have you had any problems with the Americans’ information?”

Lindstrom had stood silently, listening, during the exchange. “No, Admiral. I was provided with a copy when it arrived aboard Churchill and I’ve worked extensively with it since then. It is consistent with the data I’ve seen collected from similar craft.”

“How does it compare with the information we have?”

“Much more complete and detailed.” Lindstrom pressed a key several times and images flashed. “Here is an enlargement of Severodvinsk’s starboard side. Based on Captain Bakhorin’s description, I’ve shown the location of the charges you planted. I’d planned to include this later in the brief, but it shows the rock formations that you mined, and others here and here,” he gestured to screen, “that remained, preventing the sub from righting itself.”

“When did you receive this information?” Kokurin demanded.

“Approximately two days ago, Admiral.”

Kokurin followed the logic. “And if we had seen this data two days ago, AS-34’s first dive would have been able to place charges on those formations as well, freeing the sub.” He shot a hard look at Vidchenko, who sat impassively. Kurganov looked uncomfortable.

Lindstrom shook his head. “No, sir, I’m sorry to say that it probably wouldn’t have worked. The underlying rock where Severodvinsk rests is part of the Fennoscandian crystalline shield and is made up of very strong and hard granite, not the much softer marine shale that is typical in the South Barents Basin.”

He keyed a new page. A series of irregular but roughly parallel lines were highlighted in bright colors. They lay on either side of the crippled sub. Beneath the bright lines was a near uniform return from something very large and solid.

“Severodvinsk sits between two of these ridges, with the one to starboard holding her in that port list. You’d have to remove this entire ridge to free her. If you look closely, you will also see that ridge is part of this much larger segment that is tens of meters thick. For all intents and purposes, it is impenetrable.”

Vidchenko stared at the data, almost uncomprehending. The American submarine had gathered data that was superior, far superior to theirs. But it wouldn’t have made any difference. Severodvinsk was held tight in the jaws of an indestructible rock formation.

Lindstrom brought up another image, a simple line diagram. It showed the sub in cross-section lying on an uneven surface. Arrows showed forces acting on the hull.

“To right the sub, the hull must be rotated in place, which means overcoming friction. Not only is Severodvinsk’s weight being borne by these two ridges, but by this time it has begun settling into the mud that covers the underlying rock. Both of these work to hold the submarine where it is.

“The best solution would be to use water jets to clear the length of the hull of mud and silt where it rests on the rock. At the same time underwater robots would weld padeyes to the starboard side of the hull. These would be attached to towlines running to dedicated salvage tugs. We would literally pull Severodvinsk to an upright position.”

Vidchenko was impressed. It sounded like it would work. “But how long to do the work?”

Lindstrom answered, “Too long. Four days.” It was a death sentence. Vidchenko couldn’t accept that, having come this far.

He was still searching for words when Kokurin asked, “Is that our only option?”

Lindstrom shrugged. “We can measure the forces involved, the strength of the materials. We can even estimate the suction effects of the silt from other work we have done. This will work, with a probability of success in the ninety-percent range.

“Looking for ways to speed the process, we came up with this alternative approach.” He keyed a new diagram. It showed a row of small explosive charges along the two sides of the sub, and the towlines went to the deck now.

“Instead of welding padeyes, we use the existing deck fittings. They are not as strong, and even using the maximum number of towlines, we will not have the same lifting force. Instead of using waterjets to clear the silt, we propose running small charges the length of the hull, right where it touches the bottom. Hopefully, they will break the suction when they detonate. Additionally. Captain Petrov will have to put every bit of compressed air he has left into the port main ballast tanks, while simultaneously flooding the starboard main ballast tanks. This will generate a moment that wants to roll the boat to starboard, which should help tremendously to overcome inertia.”

“And leave him no reserve air at all,” Vidchenko added.

Lindstrom nodded. “It is the only way to make up the shortfall in lifting power. We have to make the sub want to roll to starboard.”

Kokurin asked, “How quickly can this plan be put into action?”

Captain Nakken spoke for the first time. “My crew has already started. We expect to have two robots over the side,” he glanced at his watch, “in forty-five minutes. With your approval,” he added.

Kokurin smiled, the first time Vidchenko had seen the admiral pleased since he came aboard. He felt it, too. There was another option. There was still hope.

“Understand that our estimates are less certain with this concept. We give this plan only a sixty to seventy percent chance of success.”

Vidchenko could feel the tension ease. A good plan now was better than a perfect plan too late. “When will you be able to make the attempt?”

“Laying the charges and rigging the lines, with everyone working at best efficiency, will take two days.”

“What?” Almost every Russian was on his feet, shouting, asking questions. Lindstrom seemed to expect it, and stood calmly until Kokurin could make himself heard. “I assume you have a way of keeping the crew alive until then.”

“They need more air regeneration canisters. Rudnitskiy has ample supplies aboard. The Americans can send more over to Severodvinsk using one of their underwater vehicles. That will give Petrov and his men enough time— barely.”

“That is unacceptable,” Vidchenko responded automatically. “The Americans caused this disaster.”

“Do you have another suggestion?” Kokurin demanded sternly.

“Use one of the Norwegian’s robots.”

Lindstrom replied, “No, that will not work. We need them to prepare for the rescue. If we lose one we wouldn’t be ready in time. Besides, they are not shaped properly. They couldn’t enter Severodvinsk’s tubes the way the American vehicle can. I’ve already spoken to Dr. Patterson and Captain Rudel. They are willing to make the attempt.”

The very thought of allowing the Americans near Severodvinsk again appalled Vidchenko. “There has to be another way.”

Lindstrom didn’t respond immediately, and when no one else spoke, Vice Admiral Kokurin stood and said, “We will use Mr. Lindstrom’s plan as he has explained it. Mr. Lindstrom, Captain Nakken, thank you for your expertise. I am sure that with your help we will rescue Petrov and his men. Dismissed.”

As the meeting broke up, Kokurin left first, but his aide intercepted Vidchenko. “The Admiral asks you to join him on the fantail.”

Vidchenko hurried aft. The admiral wanted a word in private. He thought that was wise. Involving the Americans in the rescue could only lead to more trouble. He was still rehearsing his arguments when he reached the fantail.

The Mil helicopter chat had brought Kokurin’s group filled the helicopter pad. It had been tied down and serviced, awaiting its passengers’ departure. Approaching the helicopter from the port side, Vidchenko didn’t see the fleet commander until he was almost at the aft railing. Kokurin stood near the jackstaff, the helicopter bulking over him. He’d chosen a very private place to talk.

“Reporting as ordered, comrade Vice Admiral.”

Kokurin had been looking aft, at Petya’s massive wake. Now he turned to face Vidchenko. “I am concerned for our men, Vasiliy.”

“Yes, sir.” Vidchenko stood quietly. He could wait for the admiral to make his point.

“Others are concerned as well. There was a near-riot in Severomorsk yesterday evening when word of the first attempt’s failure reached the families. I had several hundred people marching on Northern Fleet Headquarters!”

Vidchenko was puzzled. “How did they find out? We said nothing.”

“But others did. As I said, we are being watched. The world is watching us, comrade Rear Admiral. The President called and urged me to use every asset, any resource we could to bring our men back safely.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

“But, I just heard you say that you ignored information that the Americans had. You didn’t think it was ‘trustworthy.’”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I just heard you reject the idea of the American submarine sending more air-regeneration canisters to Severodvinsk, even though this has worked in the past. In fact, it’s the only reason Petrov and his men are still alive.”

“Sir, I believe the Americans caused this disaster, possibly deliberately, but even if it were by accident, all they are doing is attempting to expunge their guilt. You can’t shoot a man, then wipe away the crime by giving him first aid.”

“And if the victim will die without that aid?”

Vidchenko didn’t have a ready answer. He was aware of the conflict, but trusted to Russian ingenuity. There were always other options. Finally struggling for words, he could only say, “I thought it was better to keep the Americans as far away as possible.”

“A month ago, even a week ago, I might have agreed with you. But they have already helped, and now we need them.” Kokurin paused for a moment, then repeated, “Petrov needs them. And I need someone who is willing to work with them, who won’t automatically reject their assistance.”

Vidchenko suddenly realized what was happening. He had been so focused on the rescue.

“Vice Admiral Borisov will take over the operation. My chief of staff will inform Kurganov. I’d like you to come back with me to Severomorsk immediately. You can write your report.”

Vidchenko felt drained, a little lost. “My staff?”

“They can follow later. I’d like them to stay behind and help Borisov’s people.”

“Of course, sir, whatever you want.” Vidchenko’s words were flat, almost hollow-sounding.

“I am sorry, Vasiliy. You’ve done your best. You’ve started the job. Borisov will have to finish it.”