Cold Choices

by Larry Bond

  “. . . by using her active sonar,” Palmer completed. “We can get range and bearing readouts for both Seawolf and the Russian from LaVerne for most of the Russian’s maneuvers.”

  Jerry kicked himself. The UUV’s sonars were high-definition imaging sets, with wonderful resolution but very short range. They were not designed for general search, so he hadn’t thought of using LaVerne’s sensor logs.

  Jerry and Palmer stood up from their seats at almost the same moment. “It’ll take some time to print out the logs from LaVerne’s memory,” Palmer reminded him.

  “Then I’ll work off the console until you have them,” Jerry answered. He left his lunch unfinished.

  He reported to Shimko’s cabin three hours later, beaming, with Palmer in tow. “It was better than we thought, sir,” Jerry explained. “Not only did LaVerne track the Russian with her active sonar, but her imaging sonars also intercepted the Russian’s mine-hunting set. They overlapped frequency bands.”

  Armed with this new data, Jerry had completely redrawn the plot. The fan of passive bearing lines with a range dot here and there was gone, and two dark lines ran across the paper. The black line, Seawolf’s, was curved in places, but was the straighter of the two by far. The red line spiraled and danced across Seawolf’s track. LaVerne’s line was a dark green, like an innocent bystander. Her track now showed two arcing turns as she avoided the advancing Russian, before finally heading northwest.

  Shimko took it eagerly, praising both of them. Then his face fell as he comprehended their maneuvers. “My God.” He paused and looked up at the two officers. “I’m assuming you’ve double-checked these tracks—scales, bearings. That I’m reading these distances correctly.”

  Jerry quickly nodded. “Yes sir, the data from LaVerne is of better fidelity, but it closely matches our own. The distances are correct.”

  On the first pass, the Russian had approached to 372 yards, not a lot compared to Seawolf’s length of 360 feet. The second pass had been at only 186 yards, frighteningly close when combined with the Russians’ speed of nearly thirty knots.

  “Wise man says ‘If dancing with crazy person, listen to crazy music.’ There’s no way we could have dodged this guy.” He stood up abruptly, rolling up the plot, and began marching toward the door. Jerry and Palmer stepped back so Shimko could walk into the passageway. “Let’s go brief the Skipper.”

  The lights were on in the captain’s cabin this time, and Rudel was at his desk. He was pale, almost white, and his face was deeply lined. Jerry remembered a friend who looked that way after he’d broken an arm. He knew the captain hadn’t slept.

  Shimko handed Rudel the plot. “Please, look at this, sir.”

  The captain cleared a spot on his desk and laid the plot out carefully. All three officers watched as he studied the chart piece by piece. First the label and legend, then the supplementary tables, and then, finally, the tracks of the two submarines and the UUV.

  “This is where I turned right to open the range on the first pass?” Rudel pointed to a mark on Seawolf’s track.

  “Yes, sir,” Jerry answered.

  “And this is the second turn,” Rudel observed, but this time he said it as a statement, not a question. He picked up a straightedge and laid it along Seawolf’s track. “If I hadn’t opened the range, the closest point of approach would have been 250 yards the first time.”

  He moved the straightedge. “The second time it would have been”—he checked the scale—“less than a hundred yards.”

  “It reminds me of when I visited Naples. The Italians all drove like that.” Jerry regretted the joke as soon as he’d said it, but even Rudel laughed.

  “Maybe the Russians have been studying Italian submarine tactics,” Rudel observed. Jerry knew Rudel had a good sense of humor. It was one of the reasons, and one of the ways, he’d connected so well with his crew.

  Rudel looked at the three officers, then slowly paced in the small space allowed to a sub’s commanding officer. “Seawolf was a dream assignment for me. A top-notch crew and a first-line sub in its prime. I’ve worked my whole life to be here.

  “I realize why you wanted me to see this plot, and what you wanted me to know. I understand now that the collision was not my fault, or more properly, not the result of a bad decision by me. But Denny Rountree is still dead, and there could have been more, possibly many more. It has to make you stop and think. Question your choices, and your motives.”

  Jerry listened to the captain carefully, absorbing and trying to understand. He too had been walking down that same road of self-pity.

  Nobody said anything for a moment. Then the XO said, “Dwelling on the negative simply contributes to its power.”

  “More fortune cookie philosophy, Marcus?” responded Rudel with a weary smile. “I hear what you’re saying, but it’s hard for me to admit that I couldn’t get us out of that situation. That I had so little control.”

  Shimko shrugged his shoulders, “We like to think we are in control, but the truth is, we can’t eliminate every risk.”

  Even as he nodded, Rudel said, “This was a stupid risk, one nobody should have had to take. Part of me wants to throttle the idiot Russian captain. He endangered his boat as well as ours, and he’s back home, getting a pat on the back from the Commander of the Northern Fleet for chasing us off.

  “Meanwhile, we go home with a crippled boat, a man dead, and many more injured, on what was supposed to have been a cakewalk. And we failed to complete our mission.”

  Jerry was almost glad the captain hadn’t slept last night. He didn’t even want to try and imagine the kind of dreams he would have had.

  Jerry finally spoke. “Sir, we took those risks with you, and we’d do it again, the same way, if you asked us to. We’re all behind you.”

  Rudel gave another small, tired smile. “That means a lot, Jerry. Thank you.” He straightening up, and Jerry saw his “old” CO emerge from the ghost he had seen moments earlier. “So we go home, bury our dead, and heal. Simple enough.”

  Lieutenant Chandler appeared in the passageway, coming aft from control. Chiefs Hudson and Morrison were both with him, and all three were smiling.

  11

  SLOW REACTION

  5 October 2008

  Twenty-fourth Atomic Submarine Diviziya Headquarters,

  Sayda Guba Submarine Base

  * * *

  Rear Admiral Vidchenko stared out his office window, slowly sipping a steaming cup of coffee. The storm had descended with its full fury on the base, and gale-force winds pounded the office building with a wintry mix of snow, sleet, and rain. He glanced at the clock on the wall, 0845, over half an hour since the morning’s main fleet support broadcast window had closed. His chief of staff was late in bringing him the morning’s communiqués.

  Vidchenko’s mood matched the foul weather outside. He wondered again why he had accepted this posting in the first place. Sayda Guba was nothing but a primitive frontier outpost in comparison to the cosmopolitan air of Saint Petersburg, a fact his wife never tired of berating him with. Two years, he thought. In two years he could leave this godforsaken land for a comfortable staff position in Moscow, or even back in Saint Petersburg. For two years he could tolerate this cultural exile to the far north. He wasn’t sure his marriage would, though. A knock at the door broke his brooding.

  “Enter,” he snapped.

  “Good morning, sir,” said Captain First Rank Boris Shepenetnov. “I apologize for being late, but there have been base-wide power problems because of the storm. The communications specialists just printed out your messages.”

  “Hrmph,” growled Vidchenko as he sat. He was well aware there were power outages. He’d shaved by candlelight this morning in his quarters. Shepenetnov placed the folder on the desk in front of the admiral and stepped back. Vidchenko scanned the summary list of messages in the folder, and then shot a glaring look at his chief of staff. “Still no word from Petrov?”

  “Er, no sir. Nothing was received f
rom Severodvinsk this morning.”

  “I see,” replied Vidchenko with growing displeasure. “Tell me, Captain, does every senior officer in this diviziya treat routine deadlines with such callous disregard?” He slapped the folder with his hand to emphasize his point.

  “Not at all, comrade Admiral,” answered Shepenetnov defensively. “Captain Petrov has been extremely punctual in maintaining his twice-daily communication schedule. In fact, this is the first time he has ever missed a routine communications period. Either the tactical situation or the elements preclude him from doing so.”

  “Nothing should preclude him from following orders, Captain!” Vidchenko bellowed as he jumped to his feet. “It has been my experience as a submarine captain that even in tactical contact with an enemy unit it was possible to report in without compromising my position.”

  “With all due respect, Admiral, this is not the Baltic Fleet.” Shepenetnov paused as he forced himself to settle down. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper, not with this admiral. If he continued down this road, it would only result in charges of insubordination. No, Rear Admiral Vidchenko could only be dealt with if one ignored his adversarial nature and focused on the topic at hand. One had to keep to the facts and pay no attention to his barbs.

  The chief of staff appreciated Vidchenko’s disciplined approach to running the diviziya. He had little tolerance for pomp and circumstance, thank God, but he lived for schedules and procedures. If schedules weren’t kept and procedures not followed, he would lash out in rage at the offending individual. While not a bad trait in and of itself, Vidchenko’s views were heavily biased by his experience in the Baltic Sea, a well-mannered duck pond in comparison to the Northern Fleet’s operating area.

  “Sir, Petrov’s last report is just over twenty-five hours old and he was headed into an area with considerable sea ice. Given the high sea states over the past fourteen hours, it would be foolish to hoist a communications antenna in such an environment. It would be crushed in seconds.”

  “I am well versed on the limitations of our submarines’ antenna complexes, Captain,” Vidchenko said with a sneer. “The point is that Petrov has missed not one, but two regular communication periods, and by fleet procedures I need to report him as missing.”

  “Technically, sir,” countered Shepenetnov patiently. “You have the discretion to wait until the first alternate period is missed, five hours from now.”

  “I intend to do so, but I will not tolerate any of my commanding officers failing to follow fleet protocols. I will deal with Petrov when he returns. Is there anything else of importance to report?”

  Relieved that the subject of the discussion was changing, Shepenetnov opened his binder, skimmed down the list, and said, “Only one other matter, sir. PLAs Vepr and Tigr were required to conduct an emergency start-up of their reactors due to a loss of shore power. It appears that their pier lost its transmission station. Repairs won’t be made until after the storm passes.”

  Vidchenko sat down as he listened to the additional bad news, a sour expression appearing on his face. “And when do the forecasters predict this storm will pass us by?”

  “This is supposed to be the worst of it, sir. They expect conditions to slowly improve in the next two days.”

  “So for the next three or four days, precious reactor core life will have to be expended to keep those two submarines livable. What a waste!” Vidchenko almost spat as he spoke those last few words. He quickly scribbled down a note to have yet another discussion with the base commander about the shoddy support his submarines were getting.

  “Will there be anything else, comrade Admiral?” inquired Shepenetnov, eager to leave.

  “Yes, Captain. Instruct the commanding officers of Vepr and Tigr to institute rigorous electrical power consumption procedures. Only vital equipment and minimal environment support are to be used until repairs to the pier’s transmission stations are made. And send out a message to Petrov ordering him to report his status on the prosecution of the American submarine. Perhaps we can jog his memory to follow routine procedures.”

  Severodvinsk

  * * *

  “Captain. Captain, time to wake up.” The voice was faint at first, but grew steadily louder. Suddenly there was a bright white light; Petrov recoiled from its intensity. Instinctively he threw his hands up to block it while grumbling, “Turn the damn light off!”

  “He appears to be in reasonable health, Starpom, given the circumstances. He’s going to be a bit stiff, and he’ll probably experience headaches, but I don’t believe he has a concussion,” reported Balanov.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” replied Kalinin, a note of relief in his voice.

  Still a bit groggy, Petrov rubbed his face and eyes. He started to shiver, and he pulled the loose blanket around him for warmth. “Would someone please tell me what is going on?” he demanded testily.

  “Certainly, sir,” said Balanov. “You’ve been asleep for over twelve hours, and your Starpom here became worried when he couldn’t wake you. Naturally, I was very concerned with this report. I was afraid that you might have suffered a concussion during the collision and had slipped into a coma. My examination, though belated, indicates that you are in relatively good condition; barring the minor injuries to your head and shoulder.”

  The tone of the doctor’s voice revealed he was still a little irritated with his captain, but Petrov had insisted that the rest of the crew be tended to first. The delay could have been life-threatening, but fortunately that was not the case this time. Treating a patient with a serious concussion would have severely stressed the medical department’s already meager resources. This false alarm only heightened the doctor’s frustration that he lacked the proper means to deal with many of the more serious injuries.

  “Your concern is noted, and appreciated, Doctor. Oomph,” Petrov grunted as he pulled himself up. The doctor was right. He was very stiff and sore. “How is the rest of the crew?”

  “Starpom Kalinin has my most recent report, he can repeat it as well as I. I must tend to my other patients. With your permission, sir?”

  “Very well, Doctor, you are dismissed.” Petrov watched as Balanov slowly made his way out of the sonar post. His movements were wooden, his demeanor weary. As he entered the central command post, Petrov called out to him, “Thank you again, Doctor, for looking after my crew and me.”

  The doctor nodded curtly, a faint smile on his face, and then resumed his walk back to the makeshift hospital.

  After Balanov was out of sight, Petrov motioned with his head in the doctor’s direction and asked, “How’s he doing, Vasiliy? He doesn’t look good.”

  “He hasn’t slept a wink since the collision, Captain. He’s simply exhausted. On top of that, he hasn’t had the best of days.”

  Petrov was starting to get used to the steady stream of bad news, but his starpom’s tone and expression made it clear this was on the bad side of bad. Intuitively, he knew another member of the crew had died.

  “Who?”

  “Warrant Officer Kotkov and Senior Lieutenant Annekov,” said Kalinin quietly.

  Petrov’s face reflected the pain he felt. The doctor had warned him earlier that it was likely that they would lose two more, but that wasn’t much help now that reality had reared its ugly head. Shaken by the news, he leaned heavily on the chair to steady himself. Kalinin sympathized with his commander; he had felt the same pain a few hours earlier. Without being prompted, he provided additional details. “Kotkov died from severe blood loss, while Annekov died from complications of smoke inhalation. I’ve had the bodies placed in one of the portside torpedo tubes.”

  With his jaw firmly clenched, Petrov nodded his understanding and approval. Fighting to hold himself together, he was barely able to ask his next question. “What is our status?”

  “Oxygen is at seventeen and a half percent and carbon dioxide is at one percent. We brought six air-regeneration units online at 2100 hours last night. The second set of regeneration cass
ettes will be depleted within a couple of hours. The units are quite popular with the crew right now.”

  Each air-regeneration cassette contained a series of chemical plates coated with highly reactive potassium hyperoxide and sodium superoxide compounds. These chemicals reacted with the moisture in the air to absorb carbon dioxide and replace it with oxygen. A beneficial side effect of the chemical reaction was that it generated a lot of heat, which was exhausted into the compartment by a blower in each regeneration unit. It was noticeably warmer near one of these machines and the crew tended to congregate around them.

  “We have conducted an inventory of our emergency food and water supplies,” continued Kalinin, “and with proper rationing, we can make them last for six or seven days. Chief Engineer Lyachin, however, believes he can gain access to one of the potable water tanks, which would greatly extend our water reserves.” At this point, Kalinin stopped, shook his head, and started to laugh. This abrupt change caught Petrov off guard, and it snapped him out of his dark mood. Watching Kalinin laugh, Petrov wondered whether his starpom was already suffering from oxygen deprivation.

  “What’s so funny, Vasiliy?”

  “Ohhh, it’s Sergey and his boys,” chortled Kalinin. “For the last six hours they have been calculating and debating on the best way to allocate power from the reserve battery. Our Chief Engineer called it a practical exercise.” The starpom clearly found the engineers’ wording to be rather humorous, and he had to pause before he was able to speak clearly.

  “Anyway, after much discussion and brandishing of calculators, the engineering department has come up with a plan to briefly turn off two regeneration units each day and use the power to heat up some water to make tea and coffee for the crew. Did you know that those sneaky engineers had their own stash of coffee and tea?”

  Petrov shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Submarine engineers are notorious for finding creative storage methods for just about anything. How many stills have you found in your career?”