Cold Choices

5. TRIALS

20 September 2008

Atlantic Ocean, Lat 58°25’N, Long 035°50’W

Course 015° true, speed 16 knots

Jerry’s alarm clock went off at 0530. The recorded bird songs and the wind rustling through trees gradually grew louder, drawing him gently from his semicomatose state. He’d spent quite a bit of money on it, and it was worth every penny. Not only did it show the day and date, but it could display multiple time zones and it gave him a choice of “gentle environmental noises” designed to wake him slowly. He’d bypassed the “ocean surf” in favor of forest sounds.

Jerry spent a moment looking at the clock’s digital display, fixing the day and date in his mind; like the ship’s ordered course and speed, it helped him to orient himself. It was Saturday, the 20th of September. They’d been at sea five days. Seawolf would reach the op area in the Barents in four more days.

Jerry needed the clock. The unchanging hum of machinery gave no clue to time of day or season. On top of that was the submarine force’s unorthodox watch rotation of six hours on and twelve hours off, which threw any normal human being’s circadian rhythm into chaos. In the berthing spaces, the lights were turned to red at night, but in the control room and other working spaces, the white lights were almost always on. There were no windows, and even if there had been one, it would have showed only dark water.

One clue to the time of day was the sound of quiet movement in the passageway outside his stateroom. And Jerry could smell breakfast in the wardroom, just a few feet down the passageway.

Jerry shared his stateroom with Lieutenant Chandler, who occupied the lower bunk, and Ensign Tim Miller, who had the top rack. Being a department head, Jerry had the middle bunk — the easiest one to get in and out of. Still, Jerry was always careful to make sure of Chandler’s location before getting out of his bunk. He remembered the perils of being in the lower bunk during his tour on Memphis when Lenny Berg nearly jumped on him once or twice. Space management becomes very important when three people occupy the floor space of a walk-in closet — a small closet.

Chandler and Miller were gone, already risen and dressed, much to Jerry’s relief. It wasn’t just the extra floor space. Ever since Jeff Chandler’s promotion, there’d been friction.

There used to be four lieutenants aboard Seawolf, and then there were five. Jerry was competitive. He understood the natural drive, not to reach some goal, but to beat someone or something.

But he didn’t understand Chandler. His roommate, subordinate officer, and shipmate was doing everything he could to get ranked as the best lieutenant aboard Seawolf, and that “everything” went far beyond just doing a stellar job.

Every officer was evaluated annually on a standard fitness report form. It was filed in his jacket and used to decide if he merited promotion. It was also used by the Bureau of Personnel to see if an officer was a good fit for their next duty station. A “bad” fitness report, even as a junior officer, could haunt someone throughout their entire career. And bad, in the highly competitive, small-town community of submarine officers, could be interpreted as anything less than perfection.

Shortly after Chandler’s promotion, they’d both been doing paperwork in their stateroom. Chandler had to leave and offered to take a stack of Jerry’s finished paperwork to the XO on his way. Jerry had of course agreed, but later the XO asked him about some of the documents. Several were missing, and had to be redone. Jerry was sure he’d done them — pretty sure, at any rate.

And Chandler had started finding reasons to talk to the XO and the skipper. A division officer like Chandler was supposed to check with his department head, Jerry, before seeing the XO, and then he was supposed to check with the XO before seeing the captain. It was part of the chain of command. Your juniors weren’t supposed to deal directly with a senior officer without your knowledge and permission. Sure there were social occasions, even while at sea, when the CO would spend time with his junior officers to watch a movie, play games, or just talk. That helped to build camaraderie and a tight wardroom.

But Jerry had recently seen Chandler speaking with the XO and even the captain — never for long, and about trivial matters, as far as Jerry knew, but what was he after? More face time? You couldn’t help but get face time on a submarine, but that seemed to be his goal.

Jerry detested politics, especially petty office politics. It was a drain, a distraction, and it destroyed trust. He’d seen a lot of this self-promoting posturing in his career already, and had hoped to avoid it on Seawolf. Chandler’s shenanigans could also affect Jerry’s fitness report, simply because part of Jerry’s evaluation covered his ability to lead those under him in the chain of command.

By 0545, Jerry was dressed. He stopped in the wardroom just long enough to grab some coffee, then headed for control. The watch was changing as he reviewed the charts and the planned course for the day. As usual, Seawolf was where she should be and on schedule. He inspected the chart and the logs and found them being properly maintained. He hadn’t expected anything else, but he couldn’t sit down to breakfast until he’d satisfied himself that everything was in order.

The weather report showed a storm overhead. Winds gusted to forty knots, with waves up to twenty-five feet high. It was an early winter storm, but not too early. The weather would get worse as they sailed farther north, but Seawolf might as well be on blocks for all the motion Jerry felt. His sensitive stomach appreciated their isolation from the surface. Submarines were not designed to ride the waves, and Jerry turned a pale gray-green every time Seawolf ran on the surface in a rough sea.

And Jerry hated to lose his appetite. Food on a sub was always good. The cooks regularly served pancakes or French toast, eggs and hot and cold cereal, along with bacon, sausage, and lots of fruit. And then there were the hot, fresh cinnamon sticky buns — the bane of every waistline on board. Jerry could easily make breakfast a big meal, but he’d disciplined himself early on to eat lightly. There was almost no room to exercise aboard a sub, although there was an exercise bike and some free weights crammed into one of the auxiliary machinery rooms. A lot of submariners joined the jogging circuit after they returned from patrol.

A stack of angled-in boxes on the bulkhead held each officer’s message traffic, and Jerry picked at his fruit salad as he read a mix of news summaries and administrative traffic.

At sea, the XO never held morning officers’ call. There was little room in the cramped spaces, and too many of the officers were on duty throughout the ship. Besides, it really wasn’t necessary; Jerry and the other department heads spoke with Shimko at breakfast or immediately after the meal, trading information about the day’s activities.

When Jerry found the XO this morning, his greeting was “On track, sir. No adjustment required until the next course change at 0700 tomorrow.”

Finishing a bite of eggs, Shimko nodded, unsmiling. Swallowing, he asked, “And the other checkpoint?” He managed to sound conversational.

“Also on schedule, sir.”

“Good. See me later.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Jerry toured his spaces quickly, finding everything in order. The ITs were dealing with a bad display in the radio room, but they expected to have it up in an hour, “no prob.” Chandler was in radio as well, working with Chief Morrison on the rate training schedule for the next advancement exam. Jerry headed back to officers’ country, pleased to find the passageway empty.

Shimko answered Jerry’s soft knock, and urged him inside. “Shut the door.” Jerry eased the door closed, and held the knob so it wouldn’t make a noise.

“Sir, I recommend a small speed change when we change course tomorrow so that we’ll cross the Arctic Circle at 1400 hours tomorrow afternoon,” Jerry reported.

“Do it. Then it’s still tomorrow after lunch, eh? Excellent. You’ll be secretary,” Shimko informed Jerry.

“Aye, sir. Who’s going to be Boreas?”

Shimko grinned broadly.

“Uh, XO, weren’t you Boreas last year?” Jerry’s tone was mildly accusatory.

“Yeah,” replied Shimko defensively. “Do you have a problem with that, Mr. Mitchell?”

“No sir! Absolutely not!” Jerry exclaimed, wisely recognizing the right answer when told. “But from the rumors I heard, you had way too much fun last time.”

“And that’s why I want to do it again. XO’s prerogative.” Shimko was still smiling. “COB still has the props from last time.”

“Aye, aye, sir. I mean, Your Majesty. I’ll need the list of candidates.”

Shimko handed him a single sheet with a list of names. “There are thirty-seven unrepentant warm bodies for you to keep track of.”

Jerry took the paper, read it, and whistled. “This is over a quarter of the crew.”

“It’ll take a while,” Shimko agreed. “But it will be fun. That I promise.”

Jerry winced, remembering his own trials and tribulations during the initiation into the Royal Order of the Bluenose. He was grateful he wouldn’t have to do that again.

Over that day and the next, Jerry watched the plot as Seawolf drove steadily north beneath dark gray waves. The seawater turned colder, there were few surface contacts, and the sound of clinking ice floes appeared on the sonar displays. Seawolf was crossing into the Marginal Ice Zone, an area where sea ice covered the ocean’s surface. This was to be their cover for the rest of the approach north. Jerry could visualize the northern wilderness in front of them, civilization and all it offered falling away behind.

Electrician’s Mate Master Chief Hess was chief of the boat, the senior enlisted man on board. He was also one of the key conspirators, having crossed the Arctic Circle so often he’d worn a bare spot on the chart. Immediately after lunch, he and Jerry met by one of the auxilary machinery spaces, midships fourth deck.

The storage room’s door was locked, but the master chief had a key. No one saw the COB and Jerry quickly slip inside. The space held racks of spare electronic equipment and other supplies. It also contained the ship’s small stock of holiday decorations. A narrow strip of linoleum-covered deck provided the only room to pull out the well-organized boxes. Hess, taller than Jerry, hunched over, since the overhead was not only low, but covered with brackets and cables.

A gray-painted metal box, labeled “D. Jones,” sat at one end of the space. The master chief unlocked it and began passing bizarre items back to Jerry: a quill pen, a green eyeshade, a leather-bound book, and a silver cloak covered with gold-colored paper letters.

Jerry couldn’t help grinning. This was only his second Bluenose ceremony, and his first as a member of the Royal Court. His first had been aboard Memphis. When she had crossed the Arctic Circle, the vessel had been visited by King Boreas, Lord of the Northern Waters, and his Royal Court. They had sensed the presence of warm-blooded intruders to their icy realm, and demanded they be transformed into proper Bluenoses.

The navy took this seriously. At the end of a Bluenose ceremony, each initiate received a Bluenose certificate, and an entry was made in his service record so that on future voyages, he could prove to future King Boreases that he was cold-blooded enough to safely enter his realm.

Besides his own regalia as Royal Secretary, Jerry collected a garish crown dotted with snowflakes, a barber pole-striped scepter, and a rather nice fur-trimmed purple cloak. This was the XO’s costume as Boreas. The COB also dug out a sheaf of blank certificates. Part of Jerry’s job as Royal Secretary was to fill them out. More paperwork.

At 1345 on Sunday afternoon, as soon as lunch had been cleared away, the 1MC came to life. It was not routinely used under way, and the sound boomed down the narrow passageways. “NOW HEAR THIS. ALL WARM BODIES AND ALL THOSE SEEKING AUDIENCE BEFORE KING BOREAS, LORD OF THE NORTHERN REALM, MUSTER IN THE CREW’S MESS. HONOR GUARD, MUSTER BY THE FORWARD ESCAPE TRUNK.”

While the initiates, forewarned and dressed in swim trunks, gathered in the mess, Boreas and his Royal Court assembled in the forward passageway. There was a strict order for the procession.

Davy Jones was played by MM1 Bryan. He carried an oversized scroll that had been colorfully lettered with Magic Marker. A costume made of fake seaweed and plastic fish covered him from head to toe. Davy was the herald, preceding and announcing the king’s arrival.

Shimko came next as King Boreas. In addition to his crown, cape, and battery-powered scepter, the XO had fashioned a beard from string, or possibly a mop. Jerry couldn’t decide.

His consort, Aurora, Queen of the Snows, looked extremely uncomfortable, since the one dress in the costume locker was a little tight for Petty Officer Hoague. He was the right height, at least, but didn’t dare bend over. A blond wing and makeup that looked more like war paint completed his ensemble.

Behind “her” came the Royal Baby. The bulk of Chief McCord’s attire consisted of an extremely large, baggy diaper. He had been allowed to keep his socks on, but the oversized bonnet and bib weren’t keeping him warm. He shivered, not for the first time.

As Royal Secretary, Jerry was next. He was loaded with paper, some of it props, most of it not. Chandler was the Master-at-Arms and brought up the rear.

A line of chief petty officers in their dress blues filled up the ladder from the chief’s quarters. They took position behind Davy Jones as the King’s honor guard. Master Chief Hess, at the head of the line and looking back at the XO, asked, “Are we ready, sir?”

Captain Rudel had already gone up to the mess decks. He would welcome the Royal Court to Seawolf, and it was not a good thing to make the captain wait. Shimko paused and looked back down the crowded corridor, counting noses. All the players were present and patiently waiting to make their grand entrance. “We’re good to go, COB. Royal Court, forward march.”

Proceeding at a stately pace, the procession threaded its way aft and up to the crew’s mess on the second deck. Davy Jones ran ahead to fulfill his heraldic duties, and as the Royal Court reached the galley passageway, the 1MC boomed again. First came eight bells, which signaled the arrival of a person of high rank, then, “ALL HAIL HIS MAJESTY KING BOREAS, LORD OF THE NORTHERN REALMS, AND HIS ROYAL COURT!”

The XO timed it perfectly, arriving at the door to the mess as the announcement ended. Davy Jones called “Attention on deck!” and thirty-seven members of the crew snapped straight and tall. They were formed in ranks, but their military bearing was adversely affected by the swimsuits. Others of the crew, already having “experienced” the ritual, crowded into the rear of the mess to watch.

Shimko laid it on with a trowel. “Captain Rudel, I am delighted to have such an excellent sub as Seawolf enter my realm. Surely it is a smart and well-found vessel. But Captain, I am disappointed. Did you think you could sneak these unworthy warm-blooded wretches across my border without notice?”

Rudel played his part as well, placating the august monarch. “Of course not, Your Highness. These supplicants for admission are assembled here to plead their case. They are ready for your examination.”

Boreas appeared to be mollified. “In truth, Captain, we had observed your coming for some time, and noted these hot-blooded sailors. They have much to answer for before they can be admitted to my kingdom. Royal Secretary!”

That was Jerry’s cue. He stepped forward and opened up his ornate ledger book. He made a production of going through the book, as if sorting though a great number of documents, then handed Boreas a large sheet of parchment. “Here it is, Your Majesty, the list of charges.” Jerry made the last three words sound ominous.

Boreas made a great affair of studying the document, saying “Tsk, tsk,” and “I can’t believe it!” as he examined the charges. Finally he handed the list back to Jerry. “Seaman John Inglis, front and center!”

Inglis was one of those pale-skinned, freckle-ladened redheads, with hair that almost glowed in the dark. He nervously approached the king, with a little assist from the Master-at-Arms.

“Seaman Inglis, you are accused of having red hair. Is this true?”

Inglis was but the first victim. Each penitent that was called before Boreas faced similarly absurd charges, such as “having overly large feet,” or “having too pretty a girlfriend.” Boreas then meted out punishment, with the assistance of the court. It could be ridiculous, humiliating, and possibly uncomfortable. Sometimes it was all three.

Jerry had drawn up the list of charges the day before, with some assistance from others in the wardroom and the chief’s mess. Shimko and the COB had devised most of the punishment themselves.

Living and working in such close quarters, the crew knew each other well. Jerry had easily figured out most of the “charges.” In fact, the only difficult candidate was one of Jerry’s own men — Rountree, who’d reported to the sub just days before sailing. They’d learned a great deal about him, but not the kind of quirks one could poke fun at. Jerry had puzzled for some time before finding an appropriate offense.

Rountree was the last one called, and allowed himself to be marched by the Master-at-Arms to face the King. Even after watching the fates of the others, there was a hint of a smile on his face. Boreas laid into the young sailor. “Petty Officer Rountree, your constant complaints and grumbling have echoed through the ocean, sinking icebergs, corroding ship’s hulls, and driving an entire school of tuna to seek an early death.”

Since Rountree was eternally, unperturbedly cheerful, this brought laughter from everyone, including the victim.

Boreas ignored Rountree’s laughter. “For the crime of extreme glumness, you are hereby condemned to wear this sign.” Jerry pulled a piece of card stock out of his ledger book with a cord attached. Decorated with multicolored happy faces, it read, “Please cheer me up.”

Then the Baby stepped forward with paint and a brush. “And since you refuse to smile,” Boreas continued, “for your shipmates’ sake we will give you one to wear.” Gurgling happily, the Baby painted a clown smile and rosy cheeks on Rountree, even angling the eyebrows to improve his expression. As Jerry expected, the sailor took his ridiculous accusation and punishment with the same good humor he took everything else.

Following their individual punishments, the inductees had to undergo several “tests.” The first involved running from the galley to the bow and back with an ice cube in each armpit. Next came bobbing for icebergs, a fish-identification drill, and as a final ordeal, each initiate had to crawl the length of the torpedo tube and touch his nose to the outer door. Since the metal of the tube, the door, and indeed the sub’s hull were in direct contact with the arctic water, it was just barely above freezing. After emerging into the relative warmth of the torpedo room, each shivering sailor was baptized with ice-cold seawater and his nose was painted a dark Prussian blue.

When the last warm body had been appropriately blessed, they all enjoyed a “celebratory feast” of cold mashed potatoes shaped into “snowballs,” mashed sardines, and “seaweed salad” made of cold boiled spinach and asparagus.

After the proceedings, Jerry retreated to his stateroom and quickly climbed into his coveralls. As he put his props away, he thought about how childish such a ceremony would seem to an outsider. And truth be told, it was pretty childish. But it helped to build camaraderie among the crew, solidified them as a team. Now the new intitiates would proudly display their deep-blue noses, fully vested members of a select club. No Ivy League leadership or management course could do as much.

Severodvinsk

Sayda Guba Submarine Base

Petrov felt the jolt from a door being slammed shut. He then heard a muffled voice through the bulkhead. It was Vasiliy’s, and he wasn’t happy— again. Sighing, he got up to go see what had caused his starpom to lose his temper this time. The last twelve days had been extraordinarily frustrating, and his second-in-command had been angry for most of them. Not without cause, as the submarine base personnel were being as uncooperative as they feared. And with only nine days left, the carefully orchestrated schedule to get Severodvinsk under way on time was in complete chaos.

As Petrov approached Kalinin’s stateroom, he could clearly hear his starpom’s raised voice. He was shouting to himself more than anything else, a method he often used to vent his anger before he hurt someone. Petrov knocked on the door and waited for a response.

“WHAT!?!” screamed Kalinin.

Cracking the door ajar, Petrov asked, “May I come in? Or do you still need time to calm down?”

“No, sir. Please, come in.” Kalinin’s response, while civil, still had fury in it. Petrov entered the stateroom to find his starpom breathing heavily, his face a deep crimson. After shutting the door, Petrov walked over to the small work desk and motioned toward the chair. Kalinin gave a curt nod, his rigidly clenched jaw yet another indicator of his displeasure.

Petrov pulled the chair away from the desk, slowly sat down, and took a deep breath. “All right, Vasiliy, what did they do this time?”

Struggling to restrain his temper, Kalinin blurted out only two words, “Ballast canisters.”

“What about the ballast canisters?” coached Petrov.

“I had Captain Third Rank Kirichenko place a requisition for the ballast canisters over a week ago, and we hadn’t heard anything so I sent him to the armaments section to find out what was going on.” Kalinin started to pace as he described the sequence of events.

Kirichenko was the commander of Battle Department 2, the weapons department, in charge of Severodvinsk’s missile weaponry. Unlike Western navies, the Russians separated naval armaments into two battle departments, one for torpedoes and mines and all other weapons in another.

The Russian Navy’s standardized shipboard organization consists of seven battle departments, Boevya Chast or BCh in Russian, along with several supporting services, such as medical and supply. With the exception of BCh-6, the aviation battle department, Severodvinsk’s organization mirrored the rest of the fleet.

Petrov nodded his understanding and said, “Please continue.”

“Yes, sir,” Kalinin replied a little more calmly. “Well, Boris came back and reported that they didn’t have our requisition. So I took a copy down to them and asked them to fill it as soon as possible. Then this petty bureaucratic asshole tells me he can’t do it because the paperwork wasn’t completed properly. After a brief discussion, he finally told me what he wanted and we submitted the revised requisition on Wednesday.”

Judging from his starpom’s facial features and tone the requisition had been correctly filled out in the first place, but the administrator was probably holding out for an incentive of some sort. Such behavior would irritate Kalinin to no end, and Petrov could only imagine the kind of discussion they had.

“So yesterday this stupid bastard shows up with ballistic-missile ballast canisters! Can you believe that? I told him that we required 3M-55 missile canisters, not something ten times their size! And to be absolutely clear, I told him, again, that we need twenty-four of them.”

Severodvinsk was fitted with eight large vertical launch tubes aft of the sail, containing three 3M-55 Onyx antiship missiles per tube. With each missile and its launch canister weighing close to 8,600 pounds, a loadout of twenty-four missiles meant a little over one hundred tons of weight. Without the missiles on board, or specially constructed concrete ballast canisters in their place, Severodvinsk would not have the proper weight needed to submerge.

“I take it he still hasn’t delivered the canisters,” injected Petrov.

“Of course not!” cried Kalinin angrily. “In fact, this fool’s supervisor came down today and told me they didn’t know where they put the canisters we need. I’m afraid at that point I lost my temper and started screaming at them.”

“Really? Losing your temper like that, how uncharacteristic of you, Vasiliy,” joked Petrov. And then in a more serious tone, “Do you need me to get involved?”

A slight smile flashed across Kalinin’s face, and then rubbing his forehead with his hand, he said, “I think you may have to, sir. Although I was pretty loud out there, I wouldn’t be surprised if half the base heard me, I don’t think my message penetrated their skulls.”

“I’ll bring the matter up with the diviziya commander when I meet with him this afternoon. How are we doing otherwise?”

Kalinin reached down and picked up his notebook and started going down the list of the items that were done and those yet to be completed.

“The repairs to the fire-control and navigation systems are complete. Tests have been conducted and they are fully functional. Specialists will arrive on Wednesday to effect repairs on the sonar suite. We have minimum levels of diesel fuel, fresh water, and provisions, but these aren’t scheduled for delivery until Friday.” He paused briefly as he flipped the page and ran his finger down the list.

“We have twelve USET-80 torpedoes and two 83RN antisubmarine missiles in both the port and starboard torpedo bays. I’d like some more weapons, if at all possible, but we can live with these if necessary

“Finally, we have a significant deficiency in some damage-control equipment, particularly RP-6 air generation canisters for the fire-fighting rebreathers and V-64 emergency air regeneration cassettes. Of the latter, we have only a fifty percent loadout.” As if to emphasize the finality of his report, he flipped the notebook shut and threw it on the desk.

“Fifty percent, eh?” repeated Petrov, concerned. “That won’t do, Star-pom. We have to have more. What have you done thus far?”

“Sir, I have used every contact at my disposal to find more. And while I have a line on some additional RP-6 canisters, there don’t appear to be any spare regeneration cassettes available in our diviziya or eskadra.”

Petrov sighed heavily, combing his hair with his hand. With disbelief he pressed Kalinin, “You’re sure about that? You’re absolutely sure that there are no spare cassettes available at all?”

“Yes, sir. I have exhausted all my options as of this morning. The very few regeneration cassettes that I have found were five years past their service life, and you know how unstable the chemicals in them can become with age. I didn’t think they were safe to bring aboard.”

Petrov was silent as he considered his possible options, and there weren’t many. If Kalinin with all his considerable talents had run into a brick wall, then they were in serious trouble.

“You’re right, or course. I’ll bring this up with Rear Admiral Vidchenko as well. Perhaps I can convince him to allow us to borrow some air regeneration cassettes from one or two of the Project 971 PLAs. I know Captain Sokolov’s boat, Leopard, has serious engineering problems and can’t go to sea. Anything else, Vasiliy?”

“No sir, that is all the depressing news I have for you at the moment.” Kalinin’s broad smile told Petrov that he was over his tiff with the supply personnel.

“Well, don’t trouble yourself by digging up any more,” Petrov responded whimsically. “I don’t think your heart could handle another episode like the one today.”

“Why thank you, sir. Your genuine concern for my welfare is much appreciated.” Kalinin then grabbed his coat and cover and politely gestured toward the door. “And now, by your leave, sir. I still have much to do to get this boat ready and I have only a scant nine days to do it in.”

Shaking his head, Petrov could only reply, “Carry on, Starpom. Carry on.”