Cold Choices

8. RECOVERY

Jerry came to lying on the deck, his head and shoulder throbbing with pain. QM1 Peters was kneeling over him, pressing something on his head and calling for the corpsman. The deck was pitched upward and vibrating badly as the main engines drove them toward the surface. It was dark in control. The lights were out and the emergency battle lanterns were providing the only illumination. Most of the flat-panel displays were blank; the few that were alive displayed reddish fuzz. The air smelled of smoke and burnt insulation. A lot of men were down, crumpled on the deck where they fell.

The XO was on the sound-powered phones taking in reports from all over the ship. “Personnel casualties in engineering! Sonar reports all systems are down.” As he spoke, the lights flickered, then failed. “Engineering reports there are numerous shorts in the forward compartment. They are trying to isolate the affected circuits.”

As Jerry’s eyes started to adapt to the low light, he could see that every face in control held the same horrified look. Seawolf had collided with the Russian and they were now fighting for their lives.

MM1 Bryan, the GQ chief of the watch, had hit the “chicken switches” for the emergency blow system as soon as the captain had ordered “Emergency surface!” High-pressure air blasted into every ballast tank on the boat, giving her an immediate boost of buoyancy. The diving officer, Master Chief Hess, had ordered, “All ahead full,” and then, “Full rise on bow and stern planes.” Jerry could hear Hess controlling the fear in his voice as the ship’s control party executed the well-drilled routine.

The helmsman repeated the order automatically, “Planes to full rise, aye,” but a moment later reported, “Bow planes are not responding.”

Hess glanced at the repeater, then the helm controls. Both were down and the bow planes had shifted into emergency, but nothing was happening. The helmsman had the wheel pulled all the way back, but the mechanical angle indicator still read zero.

The XO cut in again. “Chief Gallant has reached the engine room and is tending to the injured.” Seawolf didn’t carry a doctor, and Jerry prayed there was nothing that required skills beyond that of a chief hospital corps-man.

The sternplanes were still working, and Jerry felt the deck tilt even more as the boat clawed her way toward the surface. Just as Seawolf had driven herself under, she’d come up using her powerful engines. Normally they wouldn’t even bother blowing the ballast tanks completely dry with compressed air, they’d just drive on up and use the low-pressure blower. But this wasn’t a normal surfacing by any stretch of the imagination.

Jerry slowly climbed to his feet, despite his leading quartermaster urging him to stay down. He took the cloth and held it to the side of his head. It was warm, wet, and stung like crazy. Jerry could feel enough through the fabric to know he had an ugly cut. He wished for a mirror. On second thought, maybe he didn’t want to know. He motioned for the QM1 to go and assist the XO with the damage reports.

“Main Ballast Tank One Alpha is not holding pressure,” Chief McCord reported. That meant a leak, more likely a rip, in the forwardmost ballast tanks. “One Bravo is mushy, it’s holding pressure a little better. It probably has a leak as well.”

The diving officer acknowledged the report, but there was nothing they could do right now. There was no easy way to isolate the air to the leaking tanks; they’d have to rely on the two remaining forward ballast tanks to get them up.

Jerry looked for the speed and depth displays on the command console. Both were out. The backup mechanical depth gauge reassuringly showed they were going up. Seawolf had been hit forward. What else had she lost besides bowplanes and ballast tanks? The deck vibration was intensifying with the acceleration, and Jerry tried to analyze the unfamiliar sensation. Was Seawolf responding properly?

Suddenly, the boat started shaking more violently. A series of loud bangs and a grinding noise startled them all, even Rudel, and Jerry imagined pieces of the hull breaking off. He glanced again at the mechanical depth gauge. They were very close to the surface.

“It’s the ice,” Shimko announced with relief, and Jerry felt himself breathe again. He tightened his grip as the deck surged below him, then abruptly fell forward. For half a minute Seawolf bobbed up and down and rolled from side to side as their upward inertia dissipated. And then there was nothing but a gentle roll and silence. They were on the roof. They’d reached the surface.

Rudel slowed the sub to five knots, and the control-room watch busied themselves closing ballast blow valves and balancing Seawolf’so she would stay afloat on an even keel.

A subtler banging and grinding started, and Jerry imagined ice floes, some weighing tons, rubbing against Seawolf’s sides. He also felt the deck rolling under his feet, and wondered what the sea state was. Normally, he took antiseasickness medicine if they planned to operate on the surface, but this had caught him unprepared.

Jerry was still holding the cloth to his forehead and, experimentally, he gently dabbed the wound. It still hurt, and he could feel a good-sized lump forming. Peters had a first-aid kit, and after treating another sailor who’d gashed his hand, he treated Jerry’s cut with antibiotic. Jerry had only thought the cut stung, but it did feel better once Peters had taped a gauze bandage over it.

The overhead lights came back on, and Lavoie reflexively checked the breaker panels in the control room. Many of the displays were still dark, and he asked IC2 Keiler, the General Quarters auxiliary electrician forward, to reset the panel. He did, but the breaker popped almost immediately.

“Head up to the electronics equipment space and find out what’s wrong,” Lavoie ordered. Keiler left in a hurry. Jerry knew that much of the boat’s electronics were in two rooms one deck above control — directly overhead. The control room had the displays, but the number-crunching guts of the gear were in those spaces.

Rudel turned to the XO. Jerry never heard what the captain intended to say, because Keiler reappeared at the forward door. He’d barely had time to climb the ladder to the deck above. Keiler took a breath, and Jerry could see him fighting for control. He swallowed, almost a gulp, and said, “Fire in the electronic equipment spaces! I opened the door and everything’s wet! There’s smoke and sparks everywhere!”

“I’m on it,” yelled Shimko.

The XO headed forward at speed, with Keiler behind him. Oddly, Rudel was silent, almost immobile.

Lavoie shouted, “Tell engineering to secure power to the electronic equipment spaces. And pass the word of fire in the forward compartment. All hands don EABs.”

The chief of the watch attempted to use the 1MC announcing system, but it was dead, not surprisingly. All the interior communications circuits were housed in the electronics rooms above. Grabbing the sound-powered phone, he spoke carefully into the mouthpiece. “Fire in the electronics equipment space, forward compartment first level. Away the casualty assistance team! All hands don EABs!”

Jerry scrambled over to the fire-control consoles and started pulling the bags with the emergency air breathing masks from the overhead. His head began throbbing again as the rapid motions aggravated his wound.

Fighting the dizziness that welled up every time he turned his head, Jerry and others worked feverishly to get all the bags down. Rapidly and efficiently, they yanked the masks from their bags, checked to see that the regulators worked, and then slipped the masks over the faces of their unconscious shipmates. A slight gray haze started to roll into control and Jerry could smell the acrid scent of burning rubber insulation.

Peters tossed Jerry an EAB mask and he pulled it quickly over his face. Immediately, he felt an intense stabbing pain that almost caused him to lose his balance. Just my luck, thought Jerry, as he felt the edge of the mask run right over his wound. Gingerly, he tried to adjust the face mask. But after a few more stabs he decided it was best just to leave it alone. Synching down the straps to get a good seal brought tears to his eyes.

Seawolf was still rocking in the swells. If anything, they had grown stronger, and Lavoie, thinking of the casualty team and the water sloshing about in the spaces above, shouted, “CAPTAIN, WE NEED TO GET ON A SMOOTHER COURSE.”

Rudel nodded silently, and Jerry tried to remember what the weather was supposed to be. Blowing up to a storm, winds from the northwest? In any case, their course would be westerly. Jerry took a deep breath and yanked his hose from the air manifold. He walked over to the plotting table on the other side of control, plugged his hose into another manifold, and started working the charts with QM1 Peters.

The chief of the watch had taken over as the phone talker and he kept up a running commentary. “CHIEF GALLANT IS SETTING UP THE EMERGENCY AID STATION IN THE WARDROOM.” Seawolf’s sickbay was barely large enough to treat a single minor injury. The standard procedure when there were more casualties was to take over the wardroom, as it had been designed to serve as an emergency operating room.

“THE XO REPORTS THE FIRE IS OUT AND THE REFLASH WATCH IS SET. RECOMMENDS THAT THE FORWARD COMPARTMENT BE EVACUATED WITH THE DIESEL.”

Lavoie looked at his captain. By rights, Rudel had the conn and should be taking action. The last thing a sub needed was two men giving orders. But the CO remained silent. The engineer knew what needed to be done.

“CHIEF, PASS THE WORD TO PREPARE TO EMERGENCY VENTILATE THE FORWARD COMPARTMENT WITH THE DIESEL. NAV, I NEED A GOOD COURSE TO REDUCE THE ROLL.”

As Chief McCord passed on Lavoie’s orders, Jerry walked over and said, “LAST KNOWN WIND DIRECTION WAS FROM THE NORTHWEST, RECOMMEND STEERING THREE TWO ZERO UNTIL WE CAN GET A BETTER ESTIMATE.”

There was one way, right in control, to see what the weather was like. Lavoie walked over to the pedestal for periscope number one and yelled, “UP SCOPE.” Grabbing the ring, he rotated it but the periscope didn’t move at all. Lavoie looked over at the chief of the watch, who was checking the hydraulic power plant section on the BCP. McCord started a hydraulic pump and glanced at the breaker panel. “THE EXTERNAL HYDRAULICS SYSTEM HAS POWER.” Lavoie tried periscope number two, but its hoist didn’t work either.

Nor did the snorkel mast. The snorkel was the intake for fresh air to the emergency diesel. More problems. Reacting quickly, Lavoie ordered that the emergency ventilation be switched to the low-pressure blower, and a half hour later the air was breathable, if unpleasant.

Shimko came back into control, his uniform spattered with water, grease, sweat, and soot. “The packing glands around the masts started leaking after the collision. There was spray under pressure from some of them onto the cabinets. It’s stopped now that we’re on the surface. The drains in the space can handle the accumulated water, but I can’t guess what will happen if we submerge.”

Rudel managed to look concerned and relieved at the same time. Jerry felt the same. It was bad, but it could have been worse.

The XO walked over to where Rudel and Lavoie stood together. “All the gear in there is soaked with salt water. A lot of it’s shorted out. There was a class-C electrical fire, but the casualty team made short work of it once the power was turned off.”

Jerry tried to remember which systems were in the electronic equipment space. They’d lost radio, certainly, and also the radar and ESM.

“There’s worse news,” Shimko added sadly. “Rountree was in there. They pulled him out of the space, but he’s unconscious. He took a couple of good whacks judging from the bruises, and he’s got electrical burns. He probably took a bad jolt when the equipment started arcing.”

Jerry had stopped working as he overheard the XO’s report, but now he couldn’t remember what he’d been doing. He took two steps toward the forward control room door, intending to go up and help. Rountree was one of his guys. But then he checked himself. The boat was still at General Quarters; Chief Gallant would take care of him. On top of that, they were still recovering from a nasty collision and a fire. There was nothing Jerry could do to help Rountree, and he’d probably just get in the way. Duty demanded that he stay at his post, but he wanted to go nonetheless.

Lavoie, the XO, and the captain turned back to the problem with the masts. None of them could be raised. Jerry wondered how many others of the crew had been hurt. Was Dennis Rountree the only serious one? Rudel only listened.

The XO pulled Lavoie aside and softly told him to take over in control and get some eyes up on the bridge. Lavoie nodded silently and then turned to Chief McCord. “We need to set the surface bridge watch. Get some foul-weather gear up here.” McCord acknowledged the order and sent the messenger of the watch and the stern planesman off to fetch the necessary apparel.

Jerry spoke up. “I’ll take the bridge. Peters can handle the nav plot.”

Lavoie nodded. “Fine, Jerry. I’ll keep the deck here. You’ll have the conn.” Suddenly, Jerry could hardly wait to get topside.

It took McCord a few minutes to break out the cold-weather clothing. When it arrived, Shimko grabbed a set as well. “As soon as you’re set up, I’ll join you.”

Jerry automatically answered “Yessir,” half-expecting the captain to come up as well, but Rudel simply watched the preparations.

When they opened the lower hatch to the bridge access trunk, the water pouring down the ladder was so cold that at first Jerry thought they had a leak up there as well. After a moment, the rush of water ended. He quickly climbed up the ladder, grabbed the hand wheel, and undogged the hatch. Ready for the next blast, with gloves on and every zipper the parka had closed and buttoned, Jerry pushed the hatch open and locked it. He then released the bolt on the clamshell and tried to lower it — it didn’t budge. After a second failed attempt, Jerry had the lookout grab hold of the handle and they pulled hard together. With a sharp pop the clamshell fell away, opening the cockpit to the elements. Making sure that his lookout was also ready, the two crawled out into the open.

The hard-driven icy air tore at his hood. There was more than just a strong wind blowing. Looking windward, Jerry could see a dark, uneven line of clouds. Remembering where he was, Jerry used his binoculars to scan the area.

For the first time since the collision, Jerry wondered about the other boat. Was it surfaced nearby? The uneven sea was almost completely covered with ice floes, but he saw no sign of it. Occasionally, one of the larger ice chunks would thud into Seawolf’s bow, but most were pushed away by her bow wave.

“Horizon’s clear,” Seaman Boster reported.

“I concur,” Jerry replied. “With this ice, there won’t be a lot of surface traffic, but there’s a good chance of aircraft — and watch out for the other submarine. Report anything that isn’t an ice floe.” Jerry had to shout to be heard over the wind. Boster nodded. “Permission to come up to the bridge,” came a voice from below.

“Granted,” replied Jerry. “But I’d advise you to be properly dressed. It’s cold up here.”

“No problem, sir,” said IT3 Fisher. “We ain’t stayin’ up here long! We’re just here to install the bridge suitcase.”

Two enlisted ratings hurried up, bringing the “suitcase” with the compass and other instruments. The navaids needed to conn the boat on the surface would never survive extended submergence, so they were designed as a removable package that could be quickly plugged in whenever Seawolf operated on the surface. It only took a few minutes for them to install and test the instruments.

“That looks a little different,” remarked Jerry sarcastically as he gazed at their handiwork.

“Well sir, it’s what we call an unauthorized shipalt. Since the network is still down, we can’t use the flat-panel displays. At least this way the older mechanical dials can tell you which direction the bow is pointing.”

“I’ll take whatever I can get. But what about comms?”

“Here you go, sir,” answered Fisher while handing Jerry a headphone set. “Your own sound-powered phone line. Now, sir, with your permission, we’re out of here.”

Jerry chuckled as his two guys bolted for the warm interior of the submarine. With the suitcase installed and the surface clear, Jerry used his improvised comms circuit to report his status below. “This is Lieutenant Mitchell, I have the conn. XO, sir, all clear.”

Shimko must have been waiting on the ladder, because Jerry had hardly started speaking when the XO appeared from the access trunk below. He was holding a digital camera.

Together, they studied Seawolf Her bow was half hidden by the waves, but the way the water flowed told the ugly story. Normally, Seawolf’s round nose pushed a bow wave up onto her forward casing in a smooth, clear sheet, which fell off to the sides and turned into white foam. Now, the bow itself was covered in uneven froth, making whitewater rapids as the bow pitched in the sea. It was clear that a large chunk of the sonar dome was missing.

Shimko took photos, then said, “Slow to three knots.”

Jerry passed the order down. Three knots was bare steerageway, enough to give the rudder control so Seawolf could stay on a straight course. The speed change did reduce the turbulence a little, and Jerry spotted an angular shape poking up from the foam. Steel or fiberglass, it had been torn and bent several feet out of its proper position. There were also huge gashes in the hull around main ballast tank 1A. But as bad as it looked, there was clearly much more damage still out of view.

“I don’t think the sonar techs will be able to get any of the bow arrays working again,” Jerry observed.

“If we still have them at all,” Shimko remarked darkly. Jerry wondered if the XO was being pessimistic, but the bow wave made sense if you imagined Seawolf’s nose as a twisted and raggedly torn beer can.

They could also see damage on the sail, a large grooved dent running up the starboard side all the way to the top. Shimko took more photos, cursing the damage but praising their luck. “At that speed, if he’d hit us dead-on, we’d be on the bottom right now.”

It was harder to see the aft part of the casing from the sail, but Shimko managed to spot damage back there as well, an angled scar in the boat’s anechoic tiles. The pressure hull underneath was made of HY100 steel two inches thick. It didn’t appear to be dented, so if the Russian had hit them there, the two boats must have bounced, hard.

Jerry occasionally checked the gyrocompass and scanned the horizon. There were no navigational hazards, except for the ice, for miles in any direction, but they were under way, and he had the conn. The roll of the deck reminded him of unfinished business.

“XO, I recommend two eight zero to smooth out the ride.” That would take them into the wind, and also toward where the UUV was waiting for them.

Shimko, still taking photos, agreed, and Jerry ordered them onto the westerly course. Toward the line of clouds.

He felt the wind swing around as they slowly turned, and found what shelter he could from the wind. Almost unwillingly, Jerry focused on the pitch and roll of the hull. It was a little better. And so far, his stomach was behaving itself. Too much other stuff to think about.

“We’ll stay surfaced until they’ve finished plugging the leaks around the masts. Stay at three knots.” Shimko finished taking pictures, but continued to stare at the bow. “I’ll move it along as quickly as I can, but figure on being surfaced for at least a couple of hours.”

“Yessir. If you get any information on the casualties, sir, could you please pass it up?”

Shimko nodded. “It’s first on my list.”

The XO left and Jerry began his regular bridge watch routine. Scan all the dials, sweep the horizon with binoculars, check on the lookout. Poor Boster was just as exposed to the elements as he was; there was really nowhere to hide from the wind. Seeing no reason to freeze lookouts, Jerry recommended that they be relieved every hour. Lavoie agreed, and said he’d arrange it.

The dark radar repeater reminded Jerry of their damage, as well as their location. Normally, when Seawolf ran on the surface, she extended a radar mast, but none of their masts would function. Even if the mast had worked, the transmitter module in the electronics equipment space was fried. And even if everything did work, broadcasting a U.S. military radar here, practically on the Russians’ doorstep, was a great way to attract unwelcome attention.

They’d lost their bow sonars, their periscopes and all their other masts, the radar, and their radios. Most of that gear, except the sonar, was his responsibility, maintained by his electronics techs and ITs. It was too soon to think about all the repairs, not while they were still at General Quarters, but the instant they secured, he’d have to find Chandler and Hudson and put them to work.

Jerry shivered as the wind gusted. But it wasn’t only the cold chilling his bones. They were virtually blind, close to the Russian coast, with a leaky boat and no way to call for help. And that storm was coming right at them and it didn’t look friendly.

Shimko was good as his word. He’d been gone only a few minutes when his voice came over the sound-powered phones. “Jerry, you asked about the casualties. We’ve got nine total, besides the bumps and bruises on just about everyone. Most are minor injuries, but they also include two fractures — and Rountree. The doc’s working on him, but that’s all I can say.”

Jerry thanked the XO, and returned his attention to his bridge watch duties. The boat’s slow speed and the bleak horizon belied the urgency of the situation. A Russian aircraft could appear at any time, and without their sensors, they’d have no warning until it basically flew overhead. He wasn’t afraid of being attacked, but it would be best for everyone if they could leave the Barents undetected.

Shuffling about in an attempt to keep warm, Jerry found his mind constantly going back to the events that led to the collision. He knew he’d have to write a report, possibly testify at a board of inquiry, so he tried to fix details while they were clear in his mind. It would be important later.

He wasn’t worried about the outcome of any investigation. American and Russian subs had collided before on operations like this, although it wasn’t common. The entire incident would be reviewed, but as far as he could see, Rudel’s actions had been correct and the Russian had acted with incredible aggressiveness.

The cold wind swirled around him in the sub’s cockpit, and Jerry busied himself to pass the time. With Lavoie’s concurrence, he tried several different courses to smooth out the boat’s ride. Jerry wasn’t the only submariner vulnerable to seasickness.

An hour after he’d started his bridge watch, they secured from General Quarters. A moment later, a relief lookout appeared, ET2 Lamberth. Bundled up as the enlisted man was, Jerry didn’t recognize one of his own petty officers until Lamberth spoke, relieving Boster, who gratefully hurried below.

“I don’t remember you being on the watch bill as a lookout,” Jerry remarked.

“I’m taking Stone’s place. He banged up his knee, and can’t climb a ladder too well. Besides, I wanted to tell you about Rountree.”

Jerry’s heart sank when he heard Lamberth’s foreboding tone. “Are his injuries that bad?” Jerry prompted.

“Yeah.” Lamberth paused, swallowed hard, and then just spat it out. “He’s gone, Mr. Mitchell. He died.”

The news hit Jerry like a freight train. Stunned, silent, he turned away from Lamberth, desperately trying to maintain his composure. A young sailor entrusted to his care had died. Rountree was his responsibility, and now he was gone.

Helpless, angry, Jerry slammed his fist on the coaming. “Shit!” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Yeah, sir. You got that right. It was his heart, sir. Chief Gallant said it was probably the electrical shock. It damaged the muscles in his heart, and they kept on wanting to stop. It did stop, twice, and the chief zapped him and brought him back. Everybody was rooting for him, even Brann with his broken leg, half drugged up.

“But it stopped again, and the chief ran out of things to do. They’ve got him bundled up in a blanket off to one side in the wardroom. Guys keep coming over to it and patting it, saying good-bye. Robinson’s sitting with him right now. He and Blocker are taking it pretty hard. I mean, we all are, it’s just bugging them more… I guess.”

They aren’t the only ones, thought Jerry as he wiped the stinging salt water from his face. “Thanks for coming up to tell me.”

Lamberth nodded sadly and moved over to the lookout position. Jerry turned back to check the bridge instruments, but then the petty officer spoke again.

“He’s got family in Florida, I think.” He had to raise his voice to be heard.

Jerry searched his memory of Rountree’s service record. “Parents and a younger sister,” Jerry answered. He’d never met them. Rountree hadn’t been aboard long enough for his family to visit.

Lamberth nodded and raised the binoculars again. Conscious of their exposed position, Jerry kept searching the sky, hoping he wouldn’t see anything. If something did appear, they couldn’t escape quickly. Nuclear subs couldn’t crash-dive the way the old fleet boats did in WWII. Come to think of it, he didn’t want to dive at all. Not with all those leaks, and the depleted air banks…

“Will we bury him at sea?” Lamberth asked. It took a moment for Jerry to realize he’d asked a question, and the petty officer had to repeat it.

Jerry paused before answering. Finally, he shook his head.

“I don’t think so.” Then more definitely, “No. We should bring him back to his family.”

“But where will we keep him?”

It surprised Jerry that they would have to think of such things, but there was hardly a spare inch of space on Seawolf, in spite of her size.

“They’ll have to put him in the freezer.”

Lamberth considered Jerry’s answer for a moment, then shrugged. It made sense. What else could they do?

There’d be a death investigation, Jerry realized. And how would they explain this to Rountree’s parents? The navy couldn’t tell them what really happened. They’d have to make up a cover story about something. Shoot, the navy would need a cover story for everyone on the boat. They couldn’t pull into port with this kind of damage without some plausible explanation.

A voice from the sound-powered phones broke Jerry’s train of thought. “Bridge, control. Lieutenant Wolfe wants to come up and take a look at the bow.”

“Control, bridge. Send him up.”

Greg Wolfe came through the access hatch as quickly as possible. He didn’t even greet Jerry, his attention fully taken up by Seawolf’s damaged bow. “Oh, migod. I was hoping the XO was wrong. It’s trashed!”

“He thinks the sphere, the low-frequency bow array, and the medium-frequency active array are all gone,” Jerry suggested.

“I think he’s right,” Wolfe answered in awe. Then more apologetically, “Oh. Sorry to hear about Denny Rountree.”

“Yeah. Thanks, I guess.” His division was the closest thing to family Rountree had aboard, and that made Jerry the head of the family.

“The whole boat’s taking it pretty hard. Everybody liked the kid.”

Jerry felt something sting his cheek and automatically turned in that direction, into the wind. He was rewarded with particles of wind-driven snow pelting his face. Or ice. Whatever it was, he turned to avoid the stuff, then half-turned back to study the advancing front more closely

He’d been an aviator in an earlier life, and had developed a good sense for weather. This oncoming storm was going to be a bad one. The front had advanced in the past hour, and Jerry could see a dark gray haze living under the cloud line.

“Greg, are you done?”

Wolfe had been looking at the storm front as well. “I’m gone,” and he was through the hatch.

Jerry pressed the intercom. “Control, bridge. What the status of the repairs?”

Lieutenant Constantino, the ship’s supply officer, was in control as the contact coordinator after Seawolf had secured from General Quarters. His answer was not helpful. “Feeling the cold, Jerry?”

“Everyone’s going to feel it when this storm reaches us.” Jerry then described the advancing weather.

“Those ice floes will beat us to death,” Constatino agreed. Some of Seawolf’s sonar arrays were mounted on her sides. They weren’t designed to be hammered by multi-ton hunks of ice.

“And the ride’s going to get a lot worse,” Jerry added from the bridge.

“Understood, Mr. Mitchell.” The XO’s voice surprised Jerry. “There are new issues. The collision may have cracked the pressure hull forward. We were stripping some wet insulation from the bulkhead and found out that one of the frames is bent.”

Jerry took a moment to take that in. The frames were steel ribs that reinforced the pressure hull. The force involved when the two subs came together must have been massive..

“We could change course, sir, run before the storm. Just five knots would buy us more time.”

“Negative, mister. That would mean heading east and closing on the Russian coast. We keep heading west.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Can you ask the chief to pass us up some safety harnesses?”

The harnesses came up a few minutes later, along with some hot cocoa for Jerry and Lamberth. Never did anything taste and feel so good to the two men.

The nylon webbing went on like a parachute harness, with some difficulty, over their parkas. It had a line that could be clipped to different spots on the hull. There were several such places in the bridge cockpit and up on the top of the sail when the flying bridge was erected. After Jerry double-checked Lamberth’s line, he made sure his own was secure and tried to guess how long it would be until they needed them.

Jerry had matter-of-factly accepted their need to stay on the surface. Until they figured out how badly the pressure hull was damaged, they dare not submerge.

He tried to visualize the impact. Two subs, each over three hundred feet long and displacing nearly ten thousand tons, slamming into each other at high speed. The hull had been weakened at more than just one small point. He imagined an area the size of a window, or a door, or the side of a house, laced through with invisible cracks. Under pressure, it might give way. In fact, it definitely would give way, at some depth. He wondered if they could submerge at all. But if they did, how deep could they go?

The roughness of the sea changed suddenly, well before the clouds reached them. Sea state three with four-foot waves became sea state five with peaks two or three times as high. The wind tore the tops off, adding their spray to the snow already flying into their faces. Small pieces of ice were picked up and hurled against the hull. And it was going to get worse.

Seawolf rolled violently in the swells, a fast combined pitching and rolling motion that threatened to knock Jerry off his feet. He looked up at Lamberth, who was hanging on to the cockpit’s handrails, his face pale. “Get below! You can’t do any more good up here!”

With careful timing, Lamberth unhooked his harness and almost dove into the bridge access trunk. Jerry steadied him as he went down. A sudden loud clang told him the larger ice chucks were starting to get thrown about. The wind’s intensity was picking up even more and had shifted toward the south. They were facing a full-blown winter gale. Jerry called down a course correction, a little more southwesterly.

Constantino acknowledged the course change, and added, “We’re ballasting her down a little as well. I know it gives you less freeboard up there, but it should help reduce the rolls.” After a moment, he added, “They’ll be done soon.”

Jerry held on tightly to the coaming with one hand and the binoculars with the other. Facing directly into the wind, he was glad to have the binoculars. At least his eyes were protected from the spray. He hoped someone down in control was watching their heading, because he couldn’t spare the time.

It started getting really bad when the waves began breaking halfway up the sail. Sheets of ice-cold water leapt over the top of the cockpit, drenching Jerry. Every once in a while he had to literally dodge a chunk of ice that was thrown by the waves. But as long as they were on the surface, somebody had to be up here.

He was getting ready to change the ship’s course again when Fisher appeared from the hatchway below. “We’re ready to submerge. I’ll get the suitcase.”

The console was caked with ice, but they finally knocked enough off to detach and close the lid, after which it was hurriedly manhandled below. With one last scan of the horizon, Jerry undipped his safety harness and dropped through the hatch. He gratefully dogged it shut, double-checking to make sure it had sealed properly.

By the time he dropped into the control room, they were already heading down. He heard Lieutenant Wolfe, the new OOD, order “One hundred feet” and began to worry. That was shallow for a submarine of Seawolf’s size.

Jerry’s face must have shown his concern, because Wolfe reassured him. “The XO wants us to take it slowly. We’ll work our way down to three hundred feet, but in baby steps.”

“Well, it’s got to be better than riding it out on the surface. It’s way beyond nasty up there,” Jerry replied as he struggled to unzip his parka with half-frozen hands. And then more lightly, “I guess someone really pissed off King Boreas, because he’s hopping mad right now.”

“Wasn’t me; honest,” cried Wolfe defensively.

Jerry chuckled and then groaned as he gratefully stripped off the icy foul-weather gear. He hadn’t realized just how sore he was. Somebody handed him a towel, and he stepped to one side, blotting the seawater from his face, while another sailor mopped up the puddle he’d left on the deck.

“The XO wants a status on all the gear ASAP.” Jerry acknowledged Wolfe’s message as he stepped over to the chart table. QM3 Bishop was tending the nav plot, and Jerry studied their track, the twists and turns of their encounter with the Russian, their slow northwest crawl since. Their submerged speed was still just five knots.

He took a quick bearing to LaVerne’s programmed location. Wolfe already had them on course to the rendezvous with the UUV. At five knots, they’d reach her in an hour or so.

Sighing, he asked the chief of the watch to please send the messenger of the watch to find Mr. Chandler, Chief Hudson, and QM1 Peters. “Tell them to meet me in the wardroom immediately.” He headed aft, straight to the wardroom, half-expecting to find injured sailors, but the corpsman had finished his work. The space was clean.

QM1 Peters showed up first, then Chandler and finally Chief Hudson. The chief’s clothes were stained and wet.

With all three of his divisions’ leadership present, Jerry got straight to business. “All right. Who else was hurt?” He didn’t need to mention Rountree.

Peters spoke first. “Gosnell slammed his shoulder, but that’s all.”

Hudson said, “Troy Kearney landed wrong on the deck and broke his wrist. The doc’s already put a splint on it.”

Chandler added, “Minor bumps and bruises, but nobody’s reported anything serious.”

“Chief?” Jerry dreaded Hudson’s reply, but they had to know. “Does anything work?”

“We’re still trying to get power to the racks. Between finding shorts and replacing charred cables, that’s been hard enough. We’ve restored power to the ship control circuits, internal comms, and the WAA. I can tell you right now that the radar and ESM are a total loss.”

“Matt, what about the radios?”

“Without power, we couldn’t test the gear.”

Jerry waited a moment, expecting to hear more, but Chandler seemed to be finished. “Fine. QM1, see what your people can do to help the ETs and the ITs. I know you’re not techs, but they’re shorthanded. Hourly reports. That’s all.”

They all turned to leave, but Jerry asked, “Matt, stay a minute.” As soon as Peters and Hudson were gone, Jerry said, “I need to know more about our radios.”

“I’ll get right on it, sir. I’ve been busy with other things.”

That “sir” thing again. Jerry fought to control his irritation. “What could be more important than fixing the radios, Matt?”

“Documenting the collision. I’ve been working on my account of events. I wanted to do it while they were still fresh in my mind.” He reminded Jerry, “You know, we’re all going to have to provide them.”

Between Chandler’s self-serving response and his own grief over Rountree’s death, Jerry snapped. His anger flashed into full bloom. “Lieutenant, we’re in the middle of the Barents on a boat that’s deaf, dumb, and blind. Now is not the time to cover your ass.”

“Sir, I resent the implication that I’ve neglected my duties.” Chandler’s injured demeanor increased Jerry’s anger.

“I’m not implying it, I’m saying it. Drop the damn paperwork and get to work on those radios.”

“Sir, are you ordering me to not work on recording my account of the collision?”

Jerry pulled himself up short. His irritation changed to caution. Chandler was looking for Jerry to say the wrong thing, something angry while he was cold and tired and strung out. It would go right into his report, part of an official record.

Jerry adopted a formal tone. “I am informing you of what our priorities are in this critical situation, and reminding you, as always, to spend your time wisely and to do your duty accordingly.”

After a moment, Jerry added, “This is no time for mind games. Report to me in control in five minutes. I need to know exactly how quickly we can get one HF transmitter and receiver on line. And don’t ever tell me that ‘nobody’s reported anything’ to you. It’s your job to find out. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir.” Chandler’s tone and expression didn’t change, but Matt was no fool. The message had been received, for now.

Cursing Chandler, Jerry quickly changed into some drier clothing and headed for the electronic equipment space. He needed to know just how bad it was.

Standing outside the door, Jerry could smell burnt paint and rubber. Inside the cramped compartment, illuminated by work lights, three enlisted men struggled to pull blackened electronics modules from their racks. Every module had been sprayed with salt water, and would have to be thoroughly cleaned before anyone dared to run power through it.

Their movements were hampered by a wooden framework that had been roughly braced to the deck. Several beams angled up to an area of gray metal on the forward bulkhead. The insulation that normally covered it had been torn away, and Jerry could see the ribs that lined the inside and strengthened the pressure hull, spaced a few feet apart. Three ribs were exposed, and the center one was deformed inward — not a lot, but Jerry could see where it was no longer a perfect circle.

The wooden braces would shore up the weakened rib, although there was no way of knowing how much strain the area could take. He was enough of an engineer to know what their vulnerabilities were. He just couldn’t calculate how much trouble they were in.

One enlisted man from auxiliary division, wearing sound-powered phones, had been posted in the space. His only job was to watch for signs of stress in the hull or the shoring, and for any new leaks.

One of the technicians, ET1 Kearney, looked up from his work and asked, “Need something, Mr. Mitchell?”

“No, Kearney. That’s what I was going to ask you. How’s your wrist?”

Kearney held out his right arm for Jerry to inspect. A metal splint surrounded his arm from below the elbow to his palm. “The chief did a good job. He says it’s hardly more than a greenstick fracture.”

Jerry flashed back to his own injury, a shattered right wrist that had ended his aviation career.”Now you’ll always be able to tell when we change depth. How’s the pain?”

Kearney shrugged. “It hurt like hell when he examined it, but since then it’s just a dull ache.”

“It’s going to swell some. Keep taking the ibuprofen that the doc prescribed.”

“How’d you know he’d told me that?”

Jerry held out his own wrist, showing him the scars. “Been there, done that, bought the pharmacy.”

Jerry headed for control. He found the XO there, watching as Greg Wolfe cautiously took Seawolf deeper. They’d worked their way to two hundred and fifty feet and seven knots. Reflexively, Jerry checked their sea room on the chart and found no issues. They would reach the rendezvous with LaVerne in half an hour.

Lieutenant Chandler showed up, but as Jerry asked for his report, the XO appeared. “Department head meeting in the wardroom. Pass the word.”

Chandler followed Jerry and the XO to the wardroom, with Lavoie and Wolf arriving moments later. Shimko sat down tiredly and the others did the same. Sonar Technician Senior Chief Mike Carpenter, one of the intelligence riders, knocked on the door and then took a seat at the XO’s invitation.

“I asked the Senior Chief to tell us what he can about the Russian submarine — as much as he can, anyway,” Shimko added. Jerry hadn’t seen much of the acoustic intelligence, or ACINT, riders. There were three of them aboard, but they kept to themselves.

Carpenter’s sandy hair made him look younger than his early forties would suggest. As a senior chief, Jerry guessed that he had at least twenty years’ experience listening to Russian submarines. “In this case, sir, it’s pretty much everything we know. We’ve got twenty-eight minutes of recordings that covers the time from our first detection until the collision. She was running at high speed, and using her sonars freely, so we got plenty to work with. In fact, we haven’t gotten through all of it, but we’ve seen enough.”

Carpenter stopped, and the XO waited for a moment before asking him, “For what?” He was impatient, but curious.

“We didn’t get a positive match to anything in our database. That was the funny part. With so much recorded, we figured it would be simple to match his acoustic signature to one of the Northern Fleet’s boats, but it’s definitely not a match, which means it’s Severodvinsk by default, their newest boat. She’s been running trials, but we haven’t heard her before.”

“Given that it was Severodvinsk, does that explain how she found us or what she was doing?”

Carpenter frowned. “No sir, not at all. No transients, no unusual acoustic transmissions. Her sonar suite is the best the Russians have, but nothing exotic, as far as we know. We were a little noisier during the UUV recovery, mostly short mechanical transients, but nothing more than what’s normal for that evolution.”

“Then keep sorting though those recordings. I want to know everything you know.” Carpenter nodded his understanding.

“Mr. Mitchell, what about the electronics?”

“We’ve lost radar and ESM. I was just about to get Mr. Chandler’s report on the radios.” Jerry didn’t need to share his problems with the XO.

Chandler didn’t wait to be asked. “We should be able to get an HF receiver circuit on line by the end of the day, an LF receiver will take a little more time. Chief Morrison said it would take at least six hours, maybe longer. He’s got his people working on a transmitter, but they’re in considerably worse shape.” He shrugged. “The bridge-to-bridge radio works, so if we get in line of sight with another vessel on the surface, we can talk to them.”

Jerry almost laughed. The bridge-to-bridge radio was no bigger than a good-sized walkie-talkie, and would not reach farther than the horizon. Still, they’d need it to communicate when they got back to a friendly port.

“Mr. Wolfe, what about weapons department?”

“All bow arrays are officially gone. As is the TB-16 towed array. Its stowage tube was crushed during the collision. The TB-29, WAA, and HF sonar are on line, torpedo division is ready. Mr. Palmer is preparing to recover LaVerne.”

The XO asked Lavoie, “Engineering?”

“Everything’s on line, sir. The plant took a heckuva shock, but no equipment failures. We’re watching everything very closely.”

The XO absorbed the reports for a moment. “We’ve been hurt, but we are not in danger of losing the boat. We’re ending the mission, of course. As soon as we recover the UUV we’re turning southwest and heading for Faslane.”

Jerry knew the place. On the western coast of Scotland, Faslane was a British submarine base. It was the closest friendly port that could take their injured and make emergency repairs.

“Mr. Mitchell, I’ll need a recommended course as soon as possible.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Mr. Wolfe, you’ll do the death investigation for Petty Officer Rountree.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Mitchell, start reconstructing the incident, beginning with our initial detection, up to the moment of the collision. You are not writing the incident report — that’s my job — but I want a chronology that may help explain how he found us and what he was trying to do. And I will use it in my report.” Shimko motioned toward Carpenter. “Use whatever the Senior Chief can give you about the Russian’s movements and activities.

“That’s all,” Shimko said, dismissing them.

Jerry hurried back to control. It only took a few minutes to work out the course changes and times for Faslane, Scotland. He arrived at the XO’s cabin just as Shimko was returning.

After Shimko reviewed and approved the route, Jerry said, “Thank you, sir. Should I go brief the Skipper now?” That was standard procedure.

“No, Jerry, I’ll brief him.” That was unusual. Rudel always wanted to be briefed by the officer involved. And it was unnecessary. Rudel’s cabin was right there, a few steps away. And Shimko’s tone was off. He was trying too hard to sound casual.

“Is everything all right, sir? Was the Captain hurt? I noticed he wasn’t at the meeting.” Jerry was deeply concerned. Rudel was more than a commanding officer. Everyone in the crew liked and admired Rudel, and thought of him as a friend, a father, or a favorite teacher.

“He’s fine.” But Shimko said it too quickly, and seemed uncomfortable. Finally, he added, “He’s taken Rountree’s death pretty hard.”

“We all have,” Jerry agreed. But then he added, “He doesn’t think it’s his fault, does he?”

“It’s always the Captain’s responsibility, you know that,” Shimko answered. It was a mantra in the navy, but it didn’t tell Jerry what was wrong with the captain.