by Larry Bond
Remembering the COB’s instructions, Jerry waited for a break in the waves before quickly switching his harness clip to an attachment point nearer the front of the bridge. He had to carefully pick his footing on the slippery surface while he braced against the ship’s motion and the wind tearing at him.
The wind came from the port side, trying to roll Seawolf over while it pulled them out of the cockpit, but the sail didn’t have enough area for the wind to work on. It drove the snow and ice ahead of it, making Jerry pull his hood around to shield his face.
A wave broke over the coaming. Jerry tried to dodge it, but the other two didn’t bother. After it passed, leaving half an inch of water splashing in the cockpit, Norris leaned over as far as his harness allowed and said, “It’s too early for my relief, but if you insist . . .” He had to speak up to be heard over the wind.
“How is she handling the weather?”
Norris turned his back to the wind, and the two huddled side by side as they talked. “The wind’s come a little to the right since I got up here. The bow is starting to pound, and I’m worried about what happens if we strike a large ice floe. I’ve steered us around some really big ones, but I don’t know how big is too big.”
Jerry deliberately reassured him. “We’re okay since they welded the reinforcements in place. That’s still HY-100 steel. We’d have to ram something bigger and harder than an ice floe to be in trouble.”
Norris shrugged, a gesture barely visible under the heavy clothing. “I hope you’re right, but once in a while we go deeper in the trough, or are slower coming up. That’s when these harnesses pay off. I’d recommend finding a smoother course, maybe we can turn more toward the southeast so we’re taking the waves from the stern quarter.”
“Understood,” Jerry answered, and backed up a little, ending the conversation. He stayed on the bridge for another twenty minutes, until the watch changed, watching the storm and how Seawolf rode it.
The pitch-down, the slide to the right, the shudder as the ice hit were all there, but more pronounced, the difference between a football game on a big-screen TV and seeing it live. Jerry saw the boat take a big wave. Instead of smashing over the bow it rolled up the hull, a gray-green wall that broke against the sail. All three ducked as the spray engulfed them. Some froze in midair, pelting them with wet ice.
Strangely, Jerry wasn’t seasick. The cold and the work of staying on his feet occupied most of his attention. The rest was focused on how Seawolf behaved in the wind-driven sea. For the most part, the beat-up boat was holding her own.
Finally the watch changed, two new victims climbing up while Jerry and the two watchstanders almost slid down the ladder. Their eagerness to get below was matched by the watch’s desire to get the hatch closed.
As Jerry took off his dripping gear, the smell hit him. Twenty minutes of fresh air had rebooted his nose, and the odors of one hundred men, ozone, oil, and vomit were thick enough to chew. His stomach flashed a warning, but was too tired and empty to react. By the time he’d climbed into dry coveralls, his sense of smell was numb again.
Jerry headed straight to the XO’s cabin. “Seawolf can handle the storm. We can stay on this course.”
“Good, let’s tell the Skipper.”
Rudel’s door was closed, but he answered quickly and was working at his desk. “Trying to get it all down before my memory fades,” he explained. Which he didn’t need to do, of course.
Jerry reported, “Seawolf should handle the weather until we finish the repairs and can submerge.”
Rudel nodded silently, acknowledging the report and considering. “It’s pretty rough on the watchstanders up there.”
Was Rudel playing devil’s advocate? “Norris seemed okay when he came down, sir. We can always shorten the interval, especially since they should finish the repairs in a few hours.”
“I’m concerned about additional injuries.”
“They’ve been minor so far, sir, and the crew is learning how to deal with the rolls,” Shimko observed.
Rudel sighed. “This crew has been through so much. I think I’m just reluctant to put them through anything they don’t absolutely need to.”
Jerry’s mind raced. Rudel could ask this crew to swim through acid and they’d do it. He should know that. Finally, Jerry answered, “Whatever direction we sail, Captain, we’re stuck on the surface. I believe it’s best to push ahead.”
The captain stood. “You’re right.” He looked at both of them. “Thank you both. We’ll continue on course.”
Shimko and Jerry left, with Jerry working his way toward control, habit driving him to check the chart. His mind was still circling around the captain’s state of mind. Rudel had always been close to his troops, but he’d crossed a line somewhere, feeling their pain, and nobody can bear the suffering of a hundred men, especially if you’re responsible for it. A captain needs to be detached, removed emotionally because of the orders he might, almost certainly will, have to give.
Jerry tried to, or pretended to study the chart. It was the captain’s problem, but if the captain had a problem then they all had a problem. It was also Rudel’s problem to solve, just as Jerry faced his own demons. In the meantime, Jerry was more than willing to back up the skipper and keep Seawolf on task.
He finally focused on their course. They were closing on the collision site, and once they submerged they’d be able to increase speed. He ran a calculation to see how much time they had until they could begin the search.
Then Jerry headed forward, to boot Palmer out of his rack. They would need a search plan soon.
Seawolf finally submerged an hour and fifteen minutes later, with the crew at battle stations and the COB’s hands hovering over the chicken switches. Rudel seemed more his old self as he carefully managed the boat’s submergence.
Once submerged and still dry, he took the boat deeper and deeper, in steady increments. No matter how excited the report, Rudel smiled and took it all aboard as the seals stayed dry down to four hundred feet. “There’s no need to go deeper than that, not in the Barents.” Rudel’s tone was so casual he could have been talking about the menu for dinner. He settled on a depth of two hundred feet and a speed of ten knots.
He passed the news over the 1MC, and included Brann and the rest of Todd Williams’s gang in his public praise. “They’ve worked their tails off and given us all a dry boat. Now that our stomachs are recovering, the cooks have started on a feast in their honor.” Rudel paused to glance at the clock. “After that, we’ll begin our search.”
15
RUSH JOB
7 October 2008
5:30 AM
Georgetown, Washington, DC
* * *
The car picked her up just before dawn, with Lowell’s advice still filling her ears. Joanna Patterson’s husband had insisted on getting up with her and making breakfast while she finished packing. She appreciated the meal, but Lowell insisted on briefing her on Navy protocol—again.
“You know the ranks and organization aboard a ship, dear, but I can’t emphasize enough, make sure all your requests go through either the captain or XO. Don’t go bossing the crew.” Lowell, six foot two in his bare feet and flannel pajamas, still thought like a Navy captain. His congressional staff joked about the clock in his office that chimed “eight bells” rather than striking twelve.
“Lowell, I’ve dealt with Navy captains before.” She smiled smugly. “Quite recently, as a matter of fact.”
“And you’re very good at it,” he replied, kissing her warmly, “but that better not be how you plan on dealing with Churchill ’s Skipper.”
“Whatever works,” she teased, but then she continued, “I made my choice. One port, one sailor.” She patted his temple. “Even with your thinning hair.”
The phone rang and Lowell jumped to answer it. “Hardy.” He listened for a moment, then turned to his wife. “The car’s outside. Did you pack your charger?”
“Yes. And my spare computer glasses. And d
on’t you forget about that meeting with Representative Acheson.”
“The man’s made of clay,” he complained.
“You need him, and he’s a lot smarter than he looks,” she cautioned. “Wish me luck.”
She hugged Lowell one last time and pecked him on the cheek as the doorbell rang. The government driver identified himself, then gathered her bags and took them to the car.
The chill lasted only until she was inside, where she allowed herself ten minutes with the newspapers before she pulled out her BlackBerry. There were emails to answer.
Traffic was light, and they made good time to the Old Executive Building, where they picked up Jane Matsui. Like Patterson, she looked like she’d overpacked, but Matsui explained that one suitcase contained nothing but warm clothing. Another bag, which she kept with her, was filled with work from Patterson’s office.
The instant they started moving, Matsui was ready to work. There were a lot of people who still thought Patterson would be in her office this morning, and the two women worked through the twenty-minute car ride to Andrews.
They were heading east, out of the city, so they made good time, and since it was a government car, they were waved through the front gate at Andrews Air Force Base with a minimum of delay.
An airman in dress blues met the car as it pulled up in front of the VIP waiting area. The nondescript door led into one of the buildings that made up the operations center. The Eighty-ninth Airlift Wing was tasked with ferrying all manner of government officials of any rank, in any numbers, wherever they needed to go, often at a moment’s notice.
“Welcome to Andrews Air Force Base, Dr. Patterson, Miss Matsui.” The young airman didn’t salute, but treated the ladies with deference appropriate for a general. While the driver dealt with the bags, he walked the two ladies inside. “Another member of your party is inside already. We’re waiting for two more.” He checked the clipboard. “You’ll be leaving at 0800 aboard a C-20B. It’s one of our smaller aircraft, but it has intercontinental range.”
The VIP waiting area looked like any airport terminal, except for the Air Force decor. The airman led them over to a Navy commander, the only other person in the room. He rose, almost coming to attention.
“I’m Commander John Silas, ma’am, your Navy liaison.” Silas was short, in his early forties, and already fighting a paunch. He was dressed in neatly pressed khakis.
After introductions, Patterson asked, “Where are you stationed? When you’re not TDY, that is.”
“I’m on Admiral Sloan’s staff, at SUBGRU Two. With your permission, I’ll file regular reports with him, so he’s kept up to date.”
The door opened again and the airman ushered Dr. Russo into the waiting area. He shook Patterson’s hand warmly. “Thank you for asking for me, Dr. Patterson. Frankly, I don’t get out a lot, and I miss it.”
“You’re welcome, Doctor, I think your expertise will be a great help.” There were more introductions, and Patterson discovered that Silas and Russo knew each other.
“Al Russo has come up to see us several times, and we send information to his office as well.” Since Russo was a CIA technical analyst, she presumed that Silas was talking about intelligence data gathered by SUBGRU Two boats.
Silas offered, “Doctor, I’ve got a few suggestions about how the investigation should proceed . . .”
Patterson cut him off. “This isn’t an investigation, Commander. I’m acting as on-scene coordinator for Commander Rudel and Seawolf. This is a search-and-rescue operation, not some fact-finding junket.”
“Given the success rate of Soviet and Russian submarine rescues, Doctor, it’s likely there will be little for us to do.” Silas looked over at Russo.
The analyst shrugged. “The Russians have never been able to pull a large portion of crew out of a bottomed sub. For that matter, neither have we, at least not since Squalus went down, and that was in 1939.”
“I won’t accept that, not with so many unknowns. We don’t know how badly the Russian boat is damaged. Nothing can be decided until we know that. And if there’s the slightest chance of the U.S. improving their chances of survival, I want us to find out what it is and then make it happen.”
“Bravo, Dr. Patterson, I wish I’d had a microphone.” It was a woman’s voice, behind her, and Patterson turned to see the public affairs official from yesterday’s meeting.
“Joyce Parker, Doctor. It’s good to see you again.” She offered her hand, and Patterson automatically shook it as she absorbed Parker’s presence. “I’m delighted to be part of this adventure.”
Silas pulled out a sheet of paper and consulted it, confusion growing in his expression. “I’m confused, Ms. Parker. I was given a list of people who were accompanying Dr. Patterson. You’re not on it.”
“I’m taking Art Lopez’s place,” she explained almost casually. “It was a last-minute change. He has a bad case of the flu, and State didn’t find out until early this morning, which is when I got the call.” She grinned. “I’ve been scrounging cold-weather gear everywhere I could. I had to wake some of my girlfriends. Am I late? Are we ready to go?”
Patterson eyed Parker with suspicion. “State was supposed to send a Russian specialist from the European desk.”
“Undersecretary Abrams said I could take Art’s place with the group. And you need a media specialist,” Parker countered. “Have you looked at the television coverage?” She offered a digital player with a news story about the collision. “The Russians are now claiming that they can’t find their sub, which they still refuse to identify, because a ‘mysterious’ U.S. sub is interfering with their operations.”
Silas snorted. “Their stuff is either still stuck at the pier or grounded.”
“The Russians say the search is progressing in spite of the weather,” she countered. “Of course, it helps when you’re not handicapped by the truth.”
An Air Force officer approached the group. “Dr. Patterson, we’re ready for your party to board.”
The C-20, engines idling, waited with a roll-up stairs at the fuselage door. Patterson, glad to be moving, set a fast pace and hurried aboard. It was supposed to be a rescue mission, after all.
An Air Force first lieutenant in olive coveralls greeted her. “I’m Lieutenant Neal, ma’am, the copilot. We’ll taxi and take off as soon as your party’s seated and the luggage is aboard. It’s a seven-hour flight to Orland, Norway. We’ll refuel there, then fly to Bardufoss, where you’ll transfer to an MV-22 Osprey for the trip out to Winston Churchill.”
Patterson was all business. “I’m assuming you’re flying as fast as possible.”
“Yes, ma’am. We have priority clearance, and we’ll do everything we can to get you there quickly.”
Patterson thanked him and he left for the cockpit. As the rest of her group quickly settled in for the flight, she looked over the plane. The C-20B was the military version of a Gulfstream III and was configured for VIP transport, with three rows of first-class-sized seats, four across. Behind them, a bulkhead and door led to a conference area, including a communications center and a galley. It was not lavish, but looked more like an executive boardroom than a passenger aircraft.
Once she was buckled, an Air Force staff sergeant gave them a familiar-sounding speech about oxygen masks and aircraft exits, then belted in himself for takeoff.
As they taxied, Patterson found her mind racing. She’d turned off her BlackBerry, cell phone, and laptop for the takeoff, but begrudged even those few minutes of enforced idleness. She was eager to attack the problem.
She pulled the hard copy of Russo’s brief that Matsui had brought with her and looked through it again. Patterson had given up thirty minutes of sleep the night before to read everything she could find online about Russian submarine rescue equipment, but the classified brief had considerably more detail and she needed time to absorb the information.
Russo was sitting across the aisle from her and noticed what she was reading. He grinned. “That’s th
e canned one-hour briefing I usually give. I really should have edited it down for the NSC meeting.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” Patterson replied. “I’d only heard about a fraction of the ones listed here.” She paused, thinking. “I’m having trouble understanding why the Russians allowed so many accidents to happen.”
“Well, it’s not like they choose to have accidents, but their submarine production and maintenance philosophy makes them more prone to them. Remember, they’ve always played catch-up with our nuclear technology. They were desperate to field and operate their own nuclear boats. The losses were bad, but the alternative was American naval dominance. The guy in second place always has to take more risks to level the playing field. We’d do the same if our positions were reversed. In fact, we’ve done it, in other areas.”
Russo insisted, “They are not casual about their crew’s lives.” He gestured to the printout. “Turn to slide thirty. Look at the escape capsule.”
Patterson examined a cutaway drawing of a Russian sub, with a cylinder inside the sail circled in red.
“The capsule looks small in that drawing, but consider the size of the sub. The thing is bigger than a Greyhound bus. It can hold the entire crew—that’s over a hundred men, and has survival supplies, and an emergency radio to use when they reach the surface. The Russians put a lot of thought and effort into those things.”
“And it just floats to the surface?” asked Patterson.
“Yep, simple buoyancy. They close the hatch in the bottom, release the locking clamps, and up it comes.”
“Has it ever been used?”
“Once, when the lone Mike-class SSN, Komsomolets, was lost to a fire in April 1989. Most of the crew abandoned the boat while she was still on the surface, but the captain and four others weren’t able to get off in time as the boat suddenly foundered and sank. They managed to get into the capsule, but the sub’s trim was too great and the capsule wouldn’t release until it hit the bottom and she leveled out. Unfortunately, toxic gases from the fire leaked into the capsule and four of the five died.”
