Cold Choices

26. TEAM EFFORT

11 October 2008

1645/4:45 PM

Severodvinsk

The recovery of the second supply vehicle from Seawolf was welcomed, but Petrov had forbidden any spectators. Unnecessary movement consumed more oxygen, producing even more carbon dioxide. There was enough poison in the air already; they didn’t need to make more simply to satisfy someone’s curiosity.

Captain-Lieutenant Rodionov checked the sight glass to make sure the torpedo tube had drained. Once satisfied that most of the water was in the tanks, he ordered his men to manually open the breech door. It still seemed very wrong to open a tube’s inner door and see the front of something that looked a lot like a torpedo staring back at you. After a quick inspection, Rodionov moved aside to make room for his torpedo specialists to prepare the vehicle for extraction. And this time they were ready. Hauling the first UUV, “Patty,” out of the tube had been a nightmare.

This time the tube had been prepared. Duct tape covered every obstruction, and having studied the vehicle’s construction, they knew which tools would be most effective for drawing it from the tube. Some would damage the exterior casing, but it was the last trip for it anyway, just as they would never bother removing the duct tape lining the tube. Severodvinsk would never move from her resting place, either.

As with all things in submarines, preparation made all the difference. Beaded with water, the dark green cylinder rolled smoothly onto the tray. The torpedomen moved it to an empty rack and began working on it like they’d done it their whole lives.

This time, the load was mostly V-64 air regeneration cassettes. “I count eighteen, Captain,” Rodionov reported. “They’ve also sent several batteries for our own lanterns and some boxes wrapped in plastic. There are also some more candy bars stuffed around the cassettes, but ours fit much better than those American curtains,” he said proudly.

“So Russian cassettes fit better in a jury-rigged American vehicle than the American equivalents.”

Rodionov shrugged. “Well, if you put it that way. ”

“Look at this!” One of the torpedomen held up a fat envelope, labeled “For the crew of Severodvinsk” in crisp Russian. He started to tear open the flap, but stopped himself, then handed it sheepishly to Petrov.

The captain didn’t wait to satisfy his curiosity. Inside was a thick sheaf of papers. The top sheet was a handwritten note from Admiral Borisov. He had taken command of the rescue operation, and was using every available resource to save them, etc., etc.

He’d read it later. The second sheet was from his father, in the city of Severodvinsk. Automatically, he started to read it, then stopped himself and turned to the next page. It was also for him, from his sister Nadya in Moscow. The next one was addressed to Kalinin, and then to Lyachin, and one to Mitrov, and so on. There was at least one letter for every surviving member of the crew!

“What are these?” interrupted one of the torpedomen holding two bags with numerous wrapped objects. “Is this food?”

Petrov took one of the bags, punched a hole in it, and pulled out one of the objects. Raising it up into the light, he read the label and chuckled. “No, I don’t think you’d want to eat this. I believe it’s poisonous.” He then opened the wrapper and removed a plastic tube about ten centimeters in length. Grasping the tube with both hands, he bent it until it made a crunching sound. He shook the tube vigorously, and it began to glow brightly. “Those clever Americans knew we would need some light to read our letters from home.”

Taking the top three pages, he thrust the rest of the papers and the glow sticks toward Rodionov. “Take these to the Starpom, and have him pass them out to the crew.”

“At once, Captain,” responded Rodionov eagerly.

Petrov only half-watched as the torpedomen collected the cassettes, batteries and food. There were two other unidentified wrapped boxes for Dr. Balanov. Medicines, thought Petrov as he shifted his position slightly. There were only two lanterns left in the torpedo bay, Rodionov having just taken the third one when he left. One was placed over the torpedomen as they worked on the American vehicle. The other provided general illumination, and Petrov positioned himself so the paper could catch as much of the light as possible.

Petrov finished the letter, then the one from Nadya, then his father’s letter again. It was still cold, and the air was still foul, but for the moment, it didn’t matter so much.

AS-34

Umansky nervously tapped the gauge that measured the battery discharge rate. It never helped, but he did it anyway. Just in case. This was the eighth dive for AS-34 on Severodvinsk, and the discharge rate increased almost every time. They weren’t drawing any more power, but the batteries were losing their charge more quickly. He’d tried to troubleshoot the problem back on Rudnitskiy, during charging cycles, but the increased loss was probably internal, inside each battery.

He checked his watch, then noted the rate, time, and remaining charge on the neatly columned pad. Detailed records might lead to understanding, and like every good submariner, Bakhorin wasn’t happy until he knew exactly how much trouble he was headed for.

Luckily, the trip down was short now, almost familiar. One of Halsfjord’s remotes had planted a sonar beacon near Severodvinsk’s bow. It was simple to home in on it, and they also didn’t need to use their active sonar. That meant more power saved.

This trip, the biggest drain would be the motors. AS-34 was carrying a cable, one of six that would be attached to Severodvinsk. Topside, they would be connected to two salvage tugs that were enroute from Severomorsk. Pamir and Altay were due to arrive early tomorrow, but it took time to attach the cables to the sub’s hull. For the time being, the upper end of each cable was fastened to a lighted buoy, which also served to mark Severodvinsk’s position.

AS-34 held the lower end in one of her handling arms, which had to be strengthened to accommodate the heavy wire cable. The wire rope was over an inch in diameter. A loop spliced onto the end would be attached to the hull where the sub’s mooring lines were usually placed.

When the word was given, Severodvinsk would blow her port tanks, flood her starboard tanks, the charges lining her hull would be fired, and the two tugs would pull on the cables for all they were worth. At some point, the cable would snap, or the mooring points might be ripped from the casing, but by the ghost of Admiral Makaroff, they would right Severodvinsk.

“Fifty meters.” Bakhorin’s depth report was routine, and Umansky checked the passive sonar display, as if his partner would stray off course. They were moving slowly, which seemed strange because the weight of the cable should make them descend more quickly. But three hundred meters of cable had considerable drag, and much of it was still on Rudnitskiy s deck. It wouldn’t be completely paid out and attached to the buoy until AS-34 did their part of the job,

“Seventy-five meters.” Bakhorin was still on track, and Umansky took another set of battery readings.

Discharge rate was more than doubled. He could almost watch the charge meter go down. “We’re down to eighty percent,” he warned.

“What?” Bakhorin’s immediate response was to look for some errant piece of gear that was drawing power. There was none, of course. Umansky was busy with his tables and a calculator. Bakhorin wanted to let him finish his calculations, but the answer was obvious. “Are the batteries failing?”

Umansky nodded, a look of frustration on his face. “The only question is how much power do we have left. I have to assume the discharge rate will increase, instead of staying constant.” Finally, he tossed the calculator into a corner with disgust. “Twenty minutes at most, maybe as little as ten. I’d like to plot the change in the discharge rate. It may be an exponential function.”

“You don’t need mathematics like that to know we can’t make it back to the surface in time.”

“We can still make it to Severodvinsk.”

“With barely enough time to attach the cable,” Bakhorin confirmed. “But this is the second one. I know what needs to be done.”

“Then we proceed,” Umansky answered.

By the time they’d reached Severodvinsk, the battery charge was down to thirty-four percent. It should have read in the seventies, because it took more power to ascend than descend.

The first cable had been attached forward, so they headed aft. In spite of his haste, Bakhorin was careful to steer clear of the bow. There was no telling exactly where the dark-colored cable was, and running into it could damage both AS-34 and the cable.

Neither Russian was terribly worried about their minisub at this point. They knew it was her last dive. With the batteries shot, and no replacements or any way to fix them, she was finished.

The mooring point was under a retractable plate. It was designed by Russians, to work when the deck was caked with ice and snow, and it worked underwater as well.

Using one claw, Bakhorin uncovered the mooring point, and as carefully as a watchmaker, slipped the eye of the loop over the cleat. Once it was settled into place, he released the claw and announced, “I’m clear.”

Umansky gave him a thumbs up and said, “Good. Move us away from the submarine.”

“Understood. I’m heading to the northeast.”

“Away from the buoy and the ships. I concur.”

As Bakhorin guided them to their new location, Umansky checked the discharge rate again. It had increased slightly. Whatever was going on inside those batteries, it was only getting worse. They only had ten percent of a full charge now. It would be impossible to make the surface with the motors. In fact, Bakhorin hoped they would be able to get at least half a kilometer away from Severodvinsk.

Twenty seconds later, the display panel lights began flickering and the motors started losing thrust. “That’s far enough. Releasing yellow flare.” Bakhorin pressed a lever, releasing a smoke float. They were not coming up where they were supposed to, so it was only polite to mark their current location.

The minisub drifted to a stop, and Umansky reached over to cut the switches to the motors, the passive sonar, and the exterior lights. The gauge read less than five percent charge. The batteries were essentially flat. Bakhorin laughed. “Well, that’s it for me. I’m just a passenger now.”

“You always were the lazy one,” Umansky shot back. “I think it’s time to quickly shed some unnecessary weight.”

“Make sure that panel still has some power,” Bakhorin joked.

“We have a green board,” Umansky replied. “Dropping ballast.”

A dull BANG reverberated through the hull and they felt a sudden jolt.

Umansky pressed a second button, and another BANG sounded as explosive bolts detached the mechanical arms from the bottom of the minisub. Between the ballast and arms, nearly a thousand kilograms of dead metal landed on the seabed, just a few meters below them.

They were rising, but there was no point in taking their time. “Initiating gas generators.” The last button fired four chemical containers located in the minisub’s ballast tanks. Each was fitted with a small hydrazine charge that would fill the tanks rapidly with gas; emptying them of water. The sound was smaller, but they could still feel the vibration, and better still, the depth meter started spiraling upward. They’d be on the surface in moments.

“Now comes the hard part,” said Bakhorin ruefully, “breaking the news to the Admiral.”

Skynews Network

Navy Wives and Mothers Organization, Gorshkov Prospekt, Severomorsk

The walls were stained in one corner, the pattern had worn off the linoleum in many places, and Mariska and her husband had left in search of a proper lock for the front door.

But a sign painter was at work on the front window, and secondhand furniture was streaming in from half a dozen places. And most importantly, Irina had her Internet access.

Olga had appropriated the small office in the back. She was supervising a couple of the new girls as they organized the furniture when Galina found her. “There’s another reporter here.” She smiled broadly.

Olga was curious. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing’s funny, Olga. I’m pleased. He’s from the base newspaper.” The base newspaper was run by the Navy, and only printed articles approved by the headquarters.

“I was expecting him. Thank you, Galina. Show him in.”

He’d phoned ahead, which was polite, and Olga had insisted he come over straightaway. In all the bustle she’d forgotten to tell Galina, but no matter. She chased the other women out of her half-finished office, satisfied that there was a battered desk for her to sit behind, and a chair for her guest.

She was still sitting down when she heard Galina say, “Go right in.” The tone of Galina’s voice was the first warning. The young man that entered looked like he was still in university, younger even than her son Yakov. She felt like fixing him lunch.

But he was here for an interview, and his age really didn’t matter. They all seemed so young to Olga.

“Mrs. Sadilenko, thank you for seeing me.” The young man fiddled with a notepad and tape recorder.

“I’m flattered that the paper is interested in our new organization, Mr. Borzin.”

“I’m hoping that the story will run on the front page, Mrs. Sadilenko.”

“Please, call me Olga.” She fought the maternal urge to straighten his tie.

“Thank you, Olga, and I am Ivan Pavelovich.” He referred to his notepad for a moment, then asked, “What is the goal of your new organization?”

Borzin spent about fifteen minutes quizzing Olga about the Navy Wives and Mothers group. How many members did it have, what were the requirements for membership, how did they operate?

“With much confusion,” Olga joked. “We are still sorting ourselves out into some sort of structure. Irina talked about a ‘wiring diagram’ and I thought she meant the insides of her computer.”

“But your organization is doing much work.” He referred to his notepad. “I asked for this story because I heard about the phone call you arranged between Captains Bakhorin and Umansky and their families.”

Olga smiled. “That was Galina’s idea, but it was a good one. The Navy praised these men, but they had to risk death to become heroes. Their loved ones are proud, of course, but even after the fact, they were worried about the risks their men were taking. Hearing each other’s voices for just a few minutes gave heart and strength to both the naval officers and their families back home.”

“Has the Navy ever allowed that before — letting men aboard a ship speak to their families ashore?”

“Oh, no.” Olga smiled. “They were quite surprised when we suggested it.”

“But wouldn’t it be a distraction to the men?”

“Their experiences are the distraction,” Olga countered. “Hearing from their loved ones helps them get back on an even keel.”

“And what did the Navy say when you suggested this?”

Olga waved her hands about. “They worried about the precedent it would set. They worried that it would reveal state secrets. But Vice Admiral Kokurin graciously allowed it this time as a trial. We want to show the Navy we can be an asset, that the fleet will be stronger with us.”

“What other activities have you performed?”

“Of course, we are helping those families who lost loved ones aboard Severodvinsk. This includes helping them obtain all the survivor’s benefits the Navy is supposed to provide. In the past, some people have had problems with this. From now on we will be there for them.”

Borzin closed his notepad. “I’m going to ask for an interview with Vice Admiral Kokurin. I understand you’ve met with him a few times.”

“That’s true.” Olga didn’t smile, and fought the urge to say something unwise. She finally said, “I’m sure you will find it worthwhile.”

USS Churchill

The messenger found her in wardroom. “Doctor, Captain Baker sends his compliments, and asks if you would join him in CIC.”

They really did talk like that, she marveled. Contacts abaft the beam, marlinspikes, and piping people on and off the ship. Secretly, she loved it.

Baker was smiling when she saw him sitting in his command chair, an unusual smile in the middle of a life-and-death submarine rescue. “The Russians have reported a surface contact to the southwest. It’s entered the maritime exclusion zone.”

He gestured to the contact display in the center screen. The six-by-six display showed not only the ships in the rescue force, but a large circle marking the fifty-mile exclusion zone. Baker had shown her how to read the symbols. The symbology was easy to interpret once you knew the system, and she could see a surface ship just across the arc marking the exclusion zone. It was headed straight toward their position.

“This is why you’re smiling?”

“The Russians sent a helicopter and visually identified it as a Norwegian-flagged fishing vessel. The aircraft challenged it by radio but the boat won’t answer.”

“What would they like us to do?”

“Their helicopter will be out of fuel in about half an hour. They’d like one of our birds to relieve it. They also want Churchill to back it up, in case they refuse to change course.”

“Intercept them?” she asked.

“With your permission, ma’am.”

“Borisov is the SAR commander, after all. Did this boat ask them for permission before entering the exclusion zone?”

“I asked the Russians that question and they said it did not.”

“Then there’s no guarantee they’ll behave themselves. Yes, Captain, permission granted.”

Baker’s hand was already resting on the phone. “Bridge, launch the alert bird, bring the other helo up to plus thirty readiness. After it’s gone, change course to intercept Track zero three four seven, speed twenty-five knots.”

Baker listened for a moment to the reply, then hung up. “They were ready for my word. We’ll launch our helicopter in about five minutes. We should intercept in about an hour, a little after sunset. Our helicopter will be there in twenty minutes.”

Motor Vessel Stavanger

Captain Jonson didn’t look happy even when the Russian helicopter left. Brewer had persuaded Jonson to not answer the helicopter’s radio calls, even when they switched from Russian to passable English.

Truth be told, Brewer had been a little nervous himself, at least until he satisfied himself that the helicopter was unarmed. He smiled as it flew off to the northeast. It couldn’t do a thing to stop them.

Jonson didn’t smile when the helicopter left, but he hadn’t turned his boat around, either. At the time, promising him triple the normal charter rate had seemed a little excessive. Now Brewer thought it was money well spent.

Jonson had been willing enough to take them out. The fishing season was over. He’d been slow putting his boat up for the winter because of needed repairs. Brewer’s fee had not only paid for the repairs, it more than made up for the fishing Jonson had missed.

Brewer was willing to spend. The Severodvinsk story was big news, but almost every piece was secondhand, from either Norwegian or Russian or U.S. official sources. The media couldn’t even interview families of Severodvinsk’s crew. Severomorsk was a closed city, barred to foreigners, much less Western reporters.

So Harry Brewer, INN news producer, had flown from the U.S. to Norway. Heading north from Oslo in a chartered plane, he and his crew had found Jonson and his men on the northern coast, in the fishing town of Alesund.

Stavanger was a sturdy-looking craft, not big, but big enough for Brewer, his assistant, a cameraman and a soundman. Jonson’s crew of five spoke at least passable English, and the cook had proven to be very good, although Brewer was getting a little tired of fish.

There was no question about where to go. The Internet was full of maps and diagrams showing the location of the rescue site. And as for the exclusion zone, Brewer dismissed the prohibition. The only good stories were on the far side of the police tape. Working as a journalist, he’d climbed dozens of fences. Sometimes they shooed him away, sometimes he got the goods. On something like this, with worldwide play, he was ready to do whatever it took. To tell the truth, he’d enjoyed the adrenaline rush when the Russian helicopter had appeared, and watching it disappear had been even sweeter. His cameraman had gotten plenty of footage.

Brewer checked their progress on the chart, although he already knew what it would show. They were on course, on schedule, chugging away at Stavanger’s best speed of twelve knots. Most of Jonson’s repairs had been to her two diesel engines, and now he was running them almost flat out.

It was vital that Stavanger reach the rescue site by dawn tomorrow. Most of the activity would take place in the morning, and he needed daylight to position himself properly. Footage of the Russian rescue capsule would be flashed around the world within minutes of it breaking the surface, and it would be his crew that got it. Definitely Pulitzer Prize material.

A shout in Norwegian pulled him back to the bridge windows. Jonson quickly raised his glasses, and searched to the north. The first mate, manning the helm, translated for Brewer. “The lookout says he can see a helicopter.”

“The same one?” Brewer asked.

The mate shrugged. “It’s coming from the same direction.”

Brewer wanted to borrow the captain’s binoculars, but he wouldn’t know what he was looking at. It only took a few minutes to confirm that the aircraft was approaching them again, but from dead on, they could tell nothing about it.

Finally, it grew from a speck to a shape, and Jonson announced, “It’s not the same kind. I think it’s American.”

“What?” Brewer was surprised at the idea of an American aircraft in these waters. But an American destroyer was part of the rescue group. It could have come from that ship. What did they want?

Jonson maintained course and speed, and the helicopter circled them twice, first from a distance, then closer in, only a few hundred yards away. As it circled, Brewer studied the craft, wondering if this one was armed. Jonson had the same thought, and reported, “No weapons. Those pods on each side are drop tanks.”

Finally, it came up on their port side, only a hundred feet up and not much farther away. The radio came to life. “Norwegian fishing vessel, this is a U.S. Navy helicopter. You are inside a maritime exclusion zone established during a rescue operation. Turn around immediately and head southwest.”

Jonson looked at Brewer who shook his head violently. “Do not answer. As long as we don’t answer, they can’t say we received their transmission. This is just like the other one. It’s unarmed.”

The helicopter repeated its message, and when it didn’t receive a reply, it changed position, dropping aft and closing. Brewer knew they were looking for the vessel’s name on the stern, but he’d had the captain cover it with a fender. He hadn’t been able to talk Jonson into taking down the Norwegian flag.

“Norwegian fishing vessel, you are violating international law. You are approaching an area where rescue operations are underway. If you do not come about, you will be arrested on your return and fined.”

Brewer quickly said, “INN will pay the fines and any other expenses.”

Johnson looked unconvinced. He scratched his blond beard thoughtfully. “What if I lose my license?”

Brewer answered lightly, “If they’re going to arrest us when we go back, let’s go back with the story. INN will be more interested in backing you up if you help us.”

The fisherman looked dubious, but Brewer said, “Look, you’re working for me. I’ll take the heat, and all they ever do to a journalist is kick us out. I’m trying to do my job.”

Jonson looked over at the first mate, who said nothing for a long moment. Finally, he gave a slight nod, and Jonson said, “All right. I will not pay any fines. Your bosses will pay them.”

They pressed on. The helicopter climbed and took station behind the fishing boat; steering large, slow figure eights to stay in position. Every ten minutes the aircraft would call them, but never received a response. Brewer wondered how long the aircraft’s fuel would last.

At sunset, the helicopter was still in position, its navigation lights marking its position long after its shape had blended with the night sky. Brewer knew the helicopter could track them with radar. They’d used radar to find Stavanger in the first place. There was no way to evade detection or slip in. He was just going to call their bluff.

They were having an early dinner when the lookout’s excited call brought Brewer and the captain up to the bridge. The third mate pointed to the radar, mounted in front of the ship’s wheel. “Twenty kilometers,” Jonson commented, “about eleven miles.”

The second mate was standing in the companionway, and Johnson barked orders in Norwegian. The second took the helm, while the third fastened his cold-weather gear and picked up a pair of binoculars.

Jonson studied the scope for a minute, then took a second range reading. “He’s coming fast,” the captain remarked. “About thirty knots.”

“Could it be a commercial ship?” Brewer asked.

Jonson snorted. “In these waters? At this time of year? At that speed? No, mister reporter, that is a warship.” Several emotions quickly played across the captain’s face — frustration, disappointment, then resignation.

Brewer went through a different set of emotions. He would have thought they had more important things to do than chase a harmless fishing boat, but he was ready for them.

The position of the lights didn’t change, but the shape they marked grew steadily larger. With only a quarter moon and a partly cloudy sky, it was virtually invisible, even with Brewer knowing where to look.

Then, at one mile’s distance, the ship suddenly flashed into visibility. They’d turned on their exterior lights. In the pitch darkness it almost floated somewhere between the dark sky and the darker sea.

“Norwegian fishing vessel, this is a U.S. Navy destroyer USS Churchill. Identify yourself.” The voice sounded like a Brit.

Confused, Brewer shook his head again, and half-reached out as Jonson walked toward the radio. The captain ignored him, and instead handed Brewer the glasses, pointing toward the ship as he picked up the microphone.

Brewer looked though the binoculars at the warship. He recognized it as an Aegis destroyer. He’d bought several books in the U.S. and studied them on the flight. It was a gray thing, all angles and shapes. It looked huge, even a mile away.

“This is motor vessel Stavanger, out of Alesund.”

Brewer studied the ship. It was exciting, seeing a warship like this, in its element. He wasn’t worried, even when he saw the gun on the bow pointed in their direction. This was an American ship.

“Stavanger; what is your business?”

“Tell them we have been chartered by Marine Salvage. We are bringing supplies to Halsfjord,”

Jonson gave Brewer a strange look, but shrugged and repeated the claim, in English.

Churchill rogered for the explanation, then said nothing more. She slowed and took position a mile off their port side. Above and behind Stavanger, the helicopter continued to fly lazy eights.

As the minutes passed, Brewer began to believe the explanation had worked. After all, the Russians had declared the exclusion zone. The U.S. hadn’t honored it earlier. Now, here they were headed northeast with an American destroyer alongside.

“Stavanger; this is Churchill. Marine Diving and Salvage and Halsfjord both deny any knowledge of your charter. Halsfjord expects no vessels. Heave to immediately and stand by to be boarded. If you do not cut your engines, we will fire.”

“They can’t mean it,” Brewer protested.

Jonson reached for the throttles. “They mean it. No bluff.”

Stavanger slowed quickly, the boat rolling unevenly as it drifted and turned to face the wind. Brewer watched Churchill slow as well, and take position upwind a hundred yards away. Her forward gun stayed trained on them, and Brewer could see sailors manning other weapons on her decks.

The destroyer lowered a boat on her lee side and it bounced through the waves to Stavanger’s side. Brewer could see men in the boat. Several of them were armed. At Jonson’s orders, a boarding ladder was waiting for them. The first man over the side was not armed, but the second and third were, and took covering positions on the deck while the rest of the group climbed aboard. Jonson and his first mate stood quietly until the leader introduced himself.

“I am Leftenant Keith Figg, Royal Navy. Who is master aboard?”

“I am. Captain Jonson.”

“Captain, what is your business in these waters?” Brewer noticed that as Figg asked his questions, another sailor was videotaping the proceedings— making a legal record.

“I am under charter by INN to carry a reporter and his men to the rescue location.”

“Were you aware that you entered an internationally recognized exclusion zone?”

Jonson didn’t answer immediately, and Figg said, “All mariners are required to know of any exclusion zones.” After a moment, he added, “And the Russians haven’t kept this one a secret.”

Finally Jonson nodded. He’d rather admit to a violation than ignorance. “Yes, I was aware of the exclusion zone.”

“Where are your charters?”

“Here,” Brewer replied. “Harry Brewer, INN.” Reflexively, he offered Figg a business card, then realized the absurdity of the act, standing on a heaving deck in the middle of the night to men with guns pointed at him. “May I ask why a British officer is on a U.S. warship?”

Figg ignored the question and took the card, but didn’t look at it. “Did Captain Jonson inform you of the exclusion zone?”

“Actually, I informed him. I didn’t want to deceive him about where we were going.”

“And you deliberately entered the exclusion zone.”

“As I said, I’m with INN. We’re here to cover the rescue of Severodvinsk’s crew. I’ve got equipment that will let us send the images worldwide, in real time.”

Figg shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. Captain Jonson, what is your best speed?”

“Twelve knots.”

Figg spoke into a handheld radio, then turned back to the two men. “Captain Jonson, Mr. Brewer, you are in violation of Article Twenty-five of the UN Convention on the Law of the Sea. We are confiscating all recording devices aboard — cameras, tape recorders, cell phones, all of it.” Brewer started to protest, but Figg cut him off. “It will all be logged and carefully handled. After your case is disposed, if the Russians choose, they can return your equipment to you.”

“The Russians?” A shocked Brewer started to ask a question, but Figg’s radio barked and he listened for a moment.

“Captain Jonson, you will steer course one nine seven for Severomorsk harbor, where your boat will be impounded by the Russian authorities. At a speed of twelve knots, you are expected to arrive by 1830 tomorrow evening. Senior-Lieutenant Andreyev and Warrant Officer Babochkin of the Russian Federation Navy will remain aboard as liaisons.”

Brewer exploded. “You can’t turn us over to the Russians!”

Figg answered, “This is a legally declared military exclusion zone to effect the rescue of a Russian submarine. You’ve knowingly violated an official announcement by the Russian Federation government, with a senior Russian naval officer in command of the operation. You’re trespassing on their estate. Who did you think you’d be dealing with?”

Figg ordered his team, “Search the boat.” Johnson motioned for his first mate to go with them as Brewer looked on in complete amazement. A pile quickly developed on the aft deck, although it took almost half an hour to find not only the INN video equipment, but also personal cell phones and even a crewman’s personal camera.

While the contraband was loaded into Churchill’s whaleboat, Figg warned Jonson, “If you do not reach Severomorsk by 1830 tomorrow evening, your boat will be confiscated. You will be tracked by aviation assets and from shore until you arrive. If you have difficulties, we will be monitoring the standard international distress frequencies.”

Jonson nodded silently.

Brewer made one last plea. “This is insane. Nobody was hurt. Why can’t we just turn around? We’ll go back to Alesund.”

“You ignored warnings from two different aircraft, and lied to us about your business here. Be grateful it was an American vessel that intercepted you. And by the by, there is a formal billet for a Royal Navy officer on board USS Churchill as a tribute to Sir Winston. Have a good day, sir.”