Cold Choices

by Larry Bond

  There was some yaw in the motion, too, a slight turn to starboard and then back to port as the rudder lost its bite. And because the bow wasn’t a smooth, round, symmetrical shape anymore, all manner of vibrations and clunks found their way into the pattern.

  Jerry had long ago ceased being seasick, if that meant losing the contents of one’s stomach. His stomach muscles were exhausted and sore, thankfully fatigued to the point where they were unable to spasm. He still felt weak and almost dizzy from the boat’s motion, but he could function—barely. He was still keeping death as a fallback option.

  On Seawolf, all normal functions had been stripped down to bare bones, and then the extra bones had been discarded. Sea state six meant near gale-force winds and ten to twelve-foot seas, streaked with large tails of ice-laden spray. Submarines just weren’t built for this weather. Movement had to be carefully planned, not only through the passageways, but even simply crossing to the opposite side of a compartment. Handholds here and there, wait for the right moment to step, or risk banging your head on that cabinet, pipe, panel, or whatever as you’re thrown forward.

  Shimko had passed the word as soon as they turned east. Rig the boat for heavy weather. Anything that could move, would. Anything that could be shaken loose, would move. Two thankfully minor injuries in the first six hours had shown the strength of the storm, and that the crew needed to use their imagination when securing for rough seas.

  Jerry moved carefully, shuffling in concert with the deck’s gyrations in a nautical zen that came from hours of practice and a deep need to conserve energy. He, Shimko, and the captain were taking turns touring the boat, visiting each deck in every compartment, checking up on the tormented occupants. It was tiring, but necessary.

  His first stop was enlisted berthing, aft and high up in the hull. The motion of the ship was, unfortunately, quite pronounced and the men literally had to wedge themselves in their bunks to prevent from being thrown out. With everyone not on watch confined to their rack, it was crowded, and noisier than usual from the motion of the ship and the sound of water and ice pounding the rubber-coated hull. Jerry was reminded of the old-style Pullman sleeper cars; assuming the train was riding a roller coaster in a hailstorm.

  Many of the men were surprisingly asleep, but a few saw him, and waved or greeted him weakly. Jerry wasn’t the only one suffering the mal de mer. While only a few were as sensitive as he was, in seas like this, more than two-thirds of the crew were affected.

  He noted two men in berthing that had sick chits taped to their bunks and IV bags hung over them. Dehydration was a real risk with severe seasickness. He asked to make sure the doc was looking in on them regularly.

  Down lower, closer to the bottom of the boat, the torpedo room offered a smoother ride. With the boat moving so violently, all regular maintenance had been suspended, so it was quiet. The single watchstander, a pale olive hue, was seated, braced against the weapon launch console and one of the stowage racks. He was wearing his sound-powered phones and was alert enough to notice Jerry’s arrival and carefully stood.

  Several other enlisted members had sought refuge there against the motion. A few were even trying to eat—cold boxed meals had been prepared by the galley. The smell of food stirred Jerry’s stomach, but he quickly left before it could wake up and remember how unhappy it was.

  Aft of the torpedo room were the auxiliary machinery spaces, and then the forward reactor bulkhead. Like the torpedo room, these spaces were sparsely populated. He then climbed back up to the next deck, passing by the wardroom to radio. Actual work was being done in the radio room, as the ITs printed out message traffic and sorted it by department. With the floating wire stowed, they couldn’t monitor the fleet broadcast while on the surface; the two multipurpose antennas were still down. They’d bolted several fans, blowing as hard as they could, to cabinets and shelves to help keep the air moving. Stray bits of paper flew through the small space, but the two men on watch looked almost comfortable.

  Chandler was in there as well, hunched over one corner of a table, struggling to return a binder to a storage rack filled with hefty-looking manuals. He looked pale, but focused on his task. He saw Jerry and stood, made sure the binders and manuals were secure, then stepped out into the passageway. “No change in equipment status, sir,” Chandler reported.

  “I’m sure you would have told me if there was,” Jerry said coolly.

  “With your permission, I’m helping the XO with a crew training summary. It’s a required report, and with most of the radio gear down I’ve got some free time, so I offered to help him with it.”

  “Since you’re already doing it, I suppose you can have my permission,” replied Jerry with a touch of irritation. He was in no mood for Chandler’s brown-nosing. “I’m sure you won’t let this interfere with your regular duties, and you’ll of course keep me informed.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” He was almost standing at attention, and Jerry noted an intensity in his manner. “The XO said he might have some other things for me to do as well.”

  “What about that write-up you were working on? Your account of the collision?” Jerry asked.

  “I’m, I’m still working on it,” Chandler replied nervously. “The fire-control plot narratives are taking a little longer to do than I expected. There is just so much information that I need to cram into a clear, succinct report.” The commo’s cheery expression vanished as he spoke, replaced by the haunted look Jerry had seen earlier.

  “I thought if I took a little break to help out the XO—you know, clear my mind a bit—it would get a little easier.” His gaze drifted downward, toward the deck, as he finished. Jerry wasn’t sure if Chandler was ashamed at getting caught jumping the chain of command again, or if he was still wrestling with the effects of the collision.

  Before he could say anything, Chandler’s head whipped back up, a slight smile on his ashen face. “But I’ve finished my eval inputs for next month. They’re on your desk. Well, at least that’s where I put them.”

  Genuinely surprised, Jerry said, “That’s good work, Matt. Thank you,” and then added, “As you were.” If the SOB liked formality, he’d give it to him.

  Chandler disappeared back into the radio room, looking almost eager to get back to his task.

  Jerry left radio glad that Chandler couldn’t see his puzzled expression. He’d never seen anyone that eager to push paper. It wasn’t natural, but it did make sense given Chandler’s cover-your-ass philosophy. He actually thought collecting all those brownie points mattered, that somehow if he got enough paperwork done, it would protect him from whatever loomed around the corner. Something must be eating at him, Jerry thought. He sure seemed to be afraid. But of what? Failure? Or not being recognized as exceptional?

  Jerry got in and out of control as quickly as possible. The bridge watch was being rotated frequently, and the prebriefs and debriefs were held in control. Every watchstander came down dripping wet; some still had ice in their hair. The air was wet, a cold clammy humid feel, almost dripping, in spite of the nuclear-powered dehumidifiers. They didn’t bother putting the swab and bucket away, but two well-placed bungee cords made sure they didn’t move.

  He briefly stopped to look over the navigation plot. Dunn had the duty and was carefully updating the track as he approached, one hand writing and the other locked to the edge of the table to steady himself. Dunn looked good—tired, but evidently not suffering from the sub’s motion.

  Once he’d checked the chart, Jerry headed aft again. He’d meant to just pass through officer’s country on his way to the XO’s stateroom, but Palmer’s desk light was on and the curtain drawn back. Loose papers had slid from his desk and were scattered across the deck. Jerry stepped in to gather them up, but saw Palmer, lying in his bunk, one arm limp over the edge and dangling, moving like a pendulum with the ship’s motion.

  Jerry hurriedly stepped over the papers and bent down to check on the junior officer. He was awake, a little pale, but Jerry had see
n far worse.

  “Jeff, are you OK?” Jerry was concerned but puzzled.

  With obvious effort, Palmer turned his head to look at Jerry. “I’m whipped. No, that’s what I’d feel like if I got better. I came down from the bridge an hour ago, and I meant to work on the search plan for the UUVs, but I was so tired I had to lie down.”

  Carefully lowering himself to one knee, Jerry gathered up the papers. “Try to get something to eat and drink, if you can keep it down.”

  “Oh, I grabbed a box lunch from the galley,” Palmer answered. “The doc’s pills are helping with the seasickness. I’m just fracking tired. It’s so easy to stop what I’m doing.”

  Jerry left without saying anything else. It would have been easy, almost reflexive, to either haul Palmer’s butt out of the rack, or blow sunshine at him until he was motivated to get up. Neither approach dealt with the real problem, and Palmer’s gas tank might actually be near “E.” But Jerry didn’t think so.

  Seawolf’s crew had suffered a major hit, both physical and mental, when they collided with the Russian. Everyone in the service knows submarining is dangerous. The potential for disaster is just one mistake away. But submariners compensate for that with detailed procedures for any imaginable situation. Near-obsessive training pushes the danger and the fear it brings into the back corners of one’s mind, where driving a boat seems no riskier than riding a commuter train every morning. Sure, something might happen. But you’re much more likely to read about it happening to the other guy.

  But now it had happened to them, and instead of having a chance to recover, Rudel had turned them around, back toward an uncertain and potentially threatening future. And regardless of how things would turn out in the end, nobody on Seawolf would ever think of submarines in the same way.

  There was little to do about it, except recognize that it was happening. Jerry had faith that Seawolf’s crew would react quickly and properly when the next crisis came. In the meantime, let them rest and heal.

  Jerry was just about to make his report to the XO when he realized he had skipped the electronics equipment space up on the first deck. “Well, that was pretty stupid,” though Jerry out loud. Now he would have to trudge back up and check in on the guys doing repair work. He was briefly tempted to just report everything status quo, but that wasn’t how he operated. With a weary sigh, Jerry turned back around and made his way forward.

  Climbing up to the electronics equipment space was a circus act. Wait for the bow to begin pitching forward and the first step would take you halfway up the ladder. Watch for the roll to starboard, then step up at the bottom of the trough, but hang on as the boat swings back to port.

  Here, once again as high inside the sub as Jerry could get, the motion was constant and violent enough to bruise him on any of a dozen angles. Like a climber, he made sure of the next handhold before releasing the one he had as he worked his way from the top of the ladder to the door of electronics space.

  The noise was constant and unnerving. Instead of the quiet hum of electronics, Jerry heard wind-driven ice floes slammed and ground against the hull. It unnerved him, forcing him to remember that nothing was being crushed or mangled in runaway machinery.

  This is where the action was. The periscope and other retractable masts passed through the electronics equipment space on their way down. Packing glands in the overhead sealed them against the outside water pressure where they entered the pressure hull, and those joints had been strained and even opened by the impact of the Russian’s hull.

  EN2 Gaynor, one of Lieutenant (j.g.) Williams’s men, had wedged himself into a small gap between the periscope assembly and the bulkhead. It was uncomfortable, but it freed both hands to work on the seal overhead. Another petty officer, MM3 Day, alternately handed Gaynor tools and mopped up seawater around the gland so the second class could see to work.

  Day’s efforts hadn’t kept Gaynor from getting repeatedly splashed in the face with icy water. His shirt and even his pants were spattered, and he occasionally stopped long enough to wipe his glasses. It was crude, rough work, pounding material into the gland to plug the gap. It wasn’t the kind of thing one associated with nuclear submarines, but in some ways, a sailor’s work never changed.

  Todd Williams was there, looking miserable. Braced in a corner, he greeted Jerry tiredly. “Gaynor’s making progress.” A muttered imprecation from the petty officer made him pause, but only for a moment. “This is the third try. The first two leaked, but the stuff seems to be working, now that Gaynor’s got the proper tools.”

  Two more engineers maneuvered their way into the space, laden with tools and more packing material. Their clothing was wet enough to show they’d been working on the leak as well.

  There was only one question, and Williams didn’t wait for Jerry to ask. “Give it another two hours and we’ll be ready for a test.”

  “That’s good news, Todd. Thanks.”

  His tour of the operations compartment now finally complete, Jerry headed for the XO’s stateroom and reported. Shimko, pale but still seated and working at his desk, said, “Good. That matches what he told me earlier. I’m glad he’s still on schedule.”

  The deck shuddered, an unusual motion. Both Jerry and Shimko grabbed for support and waited until it had passed.

  “The storm’s getting worse,” Shimko announced. It wasn’t news, but it started him talking about what was obviously an uncomfortable request. “I want you to go topside and look at the weather.”

  Jerry smiled, almost involuntarily, and laughed, but only for a moment. “It’s hard not to look at the weather when you’re up there.”

  “We’re starting to get more injuries,” the XO explained. “It’s mostly scrapes and bruises, but Garcia was actually thrown from his rack when he was asleep. The doc just put seven stitches in his forehead.”

  Shimko spoke carefully, as if he’d rehearsed what he had to ask. “As long as we’re forced to remain on the surface, the Captain’s concerned about the boat’s ability to weather the storm. It’s bad enough that the storm’s moving slowly to southeast, but we’re heading northeasterly, almost perpendicular to its path. Read the latest weather reports, go up and look things over, then report back to me. Should we keep going, or slow and try to find a more comfortable course?”

  The confusion must have shown in Jerry’s expression. Shimko explained, “Yes, this is the Captain’s decision to make. And yes, he and I both went up a little while ago. He used the sat phone to call Rountree’s parents. We both looked at the weather, but now he wants to hear your opinion as well.”

  There was only one answer. “Aye, aye, sir. I’ll report back as soon as I can.”

  Jerry went back to his stateroom, trying to work it through. The captain might be testing him, seeing what Jerry’s answer would be, but Shimko hadn’t acted like this was a training evolution. The XO also hadn’t hinted at his own opinion.

  Rudel was an expert sailor. Certainly nobody aboard Seawolf would question his decision, whatever he chose. So why was the skipper taking a poll? Was he second-guessing his own judgment?

  After changing into his thermals and several layers of warm clothes, Jerry worked his way to control and told the chief of the watch he needed to go up. He hadn’t been topside since he’d inspected the damage with Shimko after the collision. Since then, qualified conning officers had taken one-hour watches topside, while the deck was manned in control.

  An auxiliaryman met him on the first deck with the foul-weather gear, boots, pants, and a heavy coat, and helped Jerry climb into them. Standing on one leg was impossible with the motion of the boat, and Jerry sat on the deck to get the pants on. Getting up was strangely easy, a matter of waiting, then simply pushing up as the deck fell away beneath you.

  A parachute harness went over everything, and the chief of the boat, EMCM Hess, double-checked the clips, as if Jerry was planning to jump from a plane. Then he helped Jerry into a bright orange life vest. “Sir, use the first clip, right at the t
op of the ladder.” Master Chief Hess’s tone was earnest, dead serious. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but we almost lost someone because he didn’t clip up quickly enough. He wanted to close the hatch first.” As he talked, the master chief checked the emergency flasher and waterproof radio attached to the vest.

  “Who?” Jerry question’s was automatic.

  The COB shook his head. “I promised I wouldn’t say if he promised not to be a knucklehead again.” He grinned. “Besides, I could get in trouble speaking that way to an officer.”

  Jerry suppressed his own smile and answered solemnly, “Just like you said, COB. Right away, first one at the top of the ladder.”

  As he stated to climb, carefully moving with the motion of the ship, the master chief said, “Wait until we’re at the top of a wave. Most of the water’s drained out the cockpit by then.”

  Jerry nodded and climbed the few rungs. He grabbed the hatch, then waited, feeling the bow pitch down once, then twice. On the third wave he quickly worked the mechanism, then, helped by the downward motion, threw the hatch up.

  He spotted the clip at the top of the ladder and hurriedly secured his harness. Jerry was out of the ladder and closing the hatch when the fist wave hit. Some of the water went down the access trunk, but Jerry slammed it as quickly as he could.

  Tom Norris, the reactor officer, had the watch, along with Fireman Inglis as lookout. To their credit, both had their glasses up and were searching the ragged horizon. The sound of the wind and ice masked his arrival until the hatch clanged shut and Jerry yelled, “Permission to come up.”

  Norris turned, one hand braced on the bridge coaming, and shouted back, “Granted. Watch your footing!” He pointed to the deck, and Jerry could see patches of ice on the wet surface.