Cold Choices

by Larry Bond

  “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 form 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 t
he 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 const
antly 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.