by Larry Bond
Russo shuddered. “It’s not foolproof, and they haven’t used it this time, for whatever reason. Submarining is a dangerous business.”
Patterson automatically agreed, maybe a little too strongly, remembering her own experience during the fire aboard Memphis. Russo’s expression of curiosity made her think of a new question before he started asking ones of his own.
“How long can they live, if they are alive?”
He shrugged again. “That all depends on how badly damaged the sub is, and how many of the crew survived. Ideally, they’ve got stored oxygen and power from their emergency batteries for some warmth. The problem is carbon dioxide poisoning. If the survivors aren’t able to keep CO2 down below five percent, the clock starts ticking.
“Assuming most of the crew made it through the collision, and their emergency air-regeneration system still works, I estimate that they may be able to last for up to a week. Given Rudel’s initial report, the Russians have already been down for three days. Unfortunately, the weather isn’t cooperating and this makes things really sticky.”
“But Seawolf can ignore the weather,” Patterson stated, “and use her UUVs to find the sub quickly.”
“Exactly. But finding Severodvinsk won’t be the hard part.” His unspoken question went unanswered.
Their conversation had taken them through the takeoff and climb to altitude. The copilot’s voice over the announcing system announced, “Dr. Patterson, your group can unbuckle now and move around, and safely use electronic devices. Staff Sergeant Monroe can organize some breakfast as well, if you’d like.”
The moment Patterson stood, Joyce Parker, seated two rows behind her, stood as well. “Dr. Patterson, I must speak to you about the media response.”
“Ms. Parker, my only concern is supporting Seawolf and helping rescue Severodvinsk’s crew.” Patterson used a coldly formal tone that usually made others wilt.
Parker stood her ground. “I thought it was representing U.S. interests in an international crisis. Did you know that the Russians are claiming that the U.S. State Department deliberately fed them a bad location?”
“I’m not interested in fighting Russian propaganda.”
Parker showed Patterson her laptop. “Look at these headlines. The rest of the world is already calling this ‘the Seawolf attack.’ Our international reputation is being ruined, and we’re not doing anything about it.” Parker sounded deeply concerned.
The rest of the group had listened silently, but Russo now spoke up. “After Kursk went down, the Russians claimed that their boat had collided with a foreign submarine in the area. Early in the incident, they also claimed that they were in communication with the crew, and were sending air and power to them. Both statements were wildly false. Later they accused us directly of attacking Kursk; again a false statement.”
“What’s your point?” Parker was impatient with Russo’s observation, almost hostile.
“Nobody in the Russian Navy ever has gotten in trouble for lying to the media. It’s like the weather. We can’t control it.”
“Which means we have to get the truth out there.” Parker’s intensity was unnerving. Patterson could see that she cared deeply about the image of the United States, but her concern didn’t make it Patterson’s problem. Parker wasn’t even supposed to be here.
“Ms. Parker, we are going to have some breakfast, then I’d like Dr. Russo to run us all through his briefing.” Parker looked like she was gong to say something, but Patterson just ran out of patience. “We’re done for now. Who else wants to eat?”
Staff Sergeant Monroe served fruit and pastries and excellent coffee, thank goodness. Patterson studied her team as they ate. No, they’re not a team, she thought. So far, it’s just a bunch of people together on an airplane. Like one of those disaster movies, she thought, but quickly squelched the comparison.
She had an empire builder, an intel analyst, and a naval officer who thought the whole endeavor is a waste of time. She had to make them work together.
During Russo’s brief, she listened and learned a little more, but also made up a list of action items, and watched her people. Silas and Russo had a running discussion during the brief. They were comfortable with each other, and seemed to respect each other’s expertise. Parker appeared interested, and took notes, but that could have been her journalist’s instincts.
Silas continued to be pessimistic about Severodvinsk’s chances. “Even with a good location, they’ve got very few rescue submersibles that can go down and save them.”
“They’ve asked for help from the British and the Norwegians,” Russo offered.
“But it will be days before they can get there,” Silas argued.
“The Russians don’t even want us there,” Parker commented, and turned her laptop around so they could see the screen. The Internet headline read, “Russians demand U.S. submarine to leave.”
“This article says they have proof that the U.S. is interfering with their rescue operations, and may be trying to destroy evidence of a U.S. attack.”
Silas laughed. “They haven’t even left port.”
Patterson had enough. They could sit here and argue their way across the Atlantic. “Let’s make sure of that. Commander Silas, please contact the Office of Naval Intelligence and ask them for an update on the Russian rescue operations.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll add a request for any Northern Fleet movements, if that’s all right.” She nodded, and Silas headed aft for the communications gear. Good. At least he could take orders.
“Dr. Russo, figure a timeline for a Russian rescue attempt, assuming that Seawolf is able to guide them to the spot, and a second one assuming they can’t. I want to know what they must do, where they have choices, and where they might run into problems.”
She turned to Joyce Parker, who volunteered, “I’d suggest a press release. We have to show everyone that we are taking action.”
“The National Security Adviser wanted the Navy to handle the publicity for this incident. Contact the public affairs officer at OPNAV and get copies of whatever they are releasing.” Parker looked ready to protest again, but Patterson added firmly, “This mission should remain out of the press as long as possible. We will have greater freedom if we stay below the radar.”
Parker nodded her reluctant understanding and turned to her laptop.
Patterson worked them for several hours, finding answers, building plans, and testing alternatives. She also tried to keep up with her own email. Monroe brought by a box lunch about halfway through the flight, but after that, she found herself waking up, covered by a blanket. Almost everyone was asleep, except for Russo, reading a paperback.
They landed at Orland, Norway, seven hours and thirty-two hundred miles after takeoff. “It’s a major NATO base, ma’am,” Monroe explained. “We’ll taxi over to the refueling area, pick up our passengers, and then head for Bardufoss. Total time on the ground, about thirty minutes, less if we can manage.”
“Passengers?” Patterson asked.
“Yes, ma’am. We received word as we landed that a van will be meeting us with some people who are joining your party.”
Patterson was surprised, but curious. “Do you know who they are?”
“No, ma’am, we don’t even know how many. The tower just said ‘additional personnel.’ ”
Monroe opened the forward passenger cabin door, and waited as the ground crew brought up a rolling stairway. Patterson could see a slice of the airbase through the opening: hangars, vehicles, and a low ceiling of slate gray overcast. We’re under the southern edge of the storm, she thought.
The clouds were moving, she noticed, and cool wet air swirled through the opening. “Staff Sergeant, can you please get me an update on the weather?”
“Of course, ma’am, as soon as our passengers are aboard.”
They waited another ten minutes for the dark blue Air Force van. It finally pulled up as the refueling crew finished. Whoever they were, Patterson was eager for them to
be aboard so they could get moving.
The first person out the van and up the ladder was dressed in jeans and bright red and white parka. His beard and hair were streaked with gray, and his face was so weathered Patterson couldn’t tell whether he was thirty-five or fifty-five.
“My name is Arne Lindstrom. I’m with Marine Diving and Salvage. The Russians have contracted with us to help with the rescue.” As Lindstrom stepped aboard, he shook Patterson’s hand, but was then almost mugged by Russo, who introduced himself and began pelting the man with questions.
Behind Lindstrom was a twenty-something man in a suit. “My name is Hugh Glasgow. The base commander gave me permission to join your group.” He offered his hand.
Patterson took it, but alarm bells went off. “And why would you want to join us, Mr. Glasgow?”
“I’m with CNN, assigned here in Norway, Ms. Patterson. Colonel Ed Jenkins, the base commander, said you had space on the plane.”
She dropped his hand as if it was red-hot. “It’s ‘Dr. Patterson,” she said coldly. “How did you find out about this trip?” It wasn’t classified, but Patterson was alarmed to hear that others were even aware of her mission.
“Sources, ma’am.” He smiled. “It’s my job. I promise I won’t be in the way . . .”
“That’s absolutely right, because you’re leaving, right now. I’m not letting any press on this trip.”
“Colonel Jenkins authorized it.”
“Colonel Jenkins is not running this operation, I am.” She turned to her assistant, quietly seated and working in the third row. “And Jane, please remind me later to thank Colonel Jenkins appropriately. Staff Sergeant Monroe, please escort this person off the aircraft, and make sure he gets his luggage back.”
Parker spoke up. “Dr. Patterson, CNN could help us get a lot of good press.”
“Which I appreciate, but I’m not willing to pay the price. I am willing to work with the press, but we have to keep them at arm’s length.”
Two more people waiting on the stairs to board had to turn around and go back while Glasgow went down.
Once the reporter had left, an Air Force enlisted man in fatigues came aboard. He almost saluted Patterson, and did come to attention. “Tech Sergeant Hayes, ma’am,” he said in a west Texas drawl that seemed entirely appropriate to his six-foot-two height and long, angled looks. “I’m a weather specialist. I’m supposed to support you, the sub, and the ship we’ll be aboard.”
As he headed aft to sit down, the final passenger stepped inside. He was stout, in his fifties, and looked a little worried. “I’m from NAVSEA, Doctor. Ken Bover. I’m supposed to assist with the repairs to Seawolf.”
“You’re a technician?”
“No ma’am, a naval architect.” As Bover answered, Moore motioned urgently for them to sit, and then turned to close the door. Patterson buckled in, and Bover sat down in the next seat, continuing their conversation.
“I was on TDY at Haaksonvern, the Norwegian base at Bergen. I coordinate NAVSEA’s support for the new Nansen-class guided-missile frigates. I was scheduled to conduct sea trials on Thor Heyerdahl when I got a call yesterday from my boss telling me to get here pronto and be ready to support repairs to USS Seawolf.”
Patterson nodded. “We’re carrying spare electronics parts for her.”
Bover pulled out a printout. “I’ve got the list. That was the one thing I was able to get, and it’s the Air Force cargo manifest. It’s all very last-minute. I almost didn’t make the flight.”
By now the plane was taxiing, and Patterson said, “Once we’re in the air, Commander Silas will help you contact NAVSEA and get you whatever you need. We have top priority on this mission.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Doctor. The most important thing is to find out where Seawolf is heading, Vadsø or Tromsø. I don’t remember whether either port can take a vessel with her draft . . .”
“Mr. Bover, Seawolf is in the middle of a search-and-rescue operation for a downed Russian submarine.”
Bover nodded vigorously. “I understand that, Doctor. It’s all over the media and the Internet. I promise, the instant Seawolf reaches port, my techs will be all over her. We’ll turn her around in record time.”
“She’s not coming in to port. The plan is to send these parts out to her.”
Bover’s shocked expression surprised her. “Who thought that up? The weather is just getting better here. It’s still very bad to the north. Even if we can get the parts to her, the reported damage is extensive. Temporary repairs would normally take a few weeks. I was going to move heaven and earth to get it done in two, maybe three days.”
“Are you saying that these repairs can’t be made at sea?”
Bover answered instantly. “I’d recommend against it. This is sophisticated equipment. The techs will have a lot of work to do just identifying all the damaged parts. If they don’t get all the bad boards out, they could fry the replacement parts when the gear’s turned on.”
He paused for a moment, then added, “I’m amazed she isn’t heading for port right now.”
“Mr. Bover, this is literally a life and death situation. Seawolf can’t leave.”
He sighed. “Then I don’t know what I can do.”
Confusion swirled inside Patterson as she considered Bover’s information. What if he was right? But he said he wasn’t a technician and his expertise was in surface ships.
They reached altitude and unbuckled, and Patterson immediately found herself surrounded. Hayes was first in line. “Jeff Monroe says you need a weather update, ma’am. Current conditions?”
Patterson nodded, “Yes, that would be fine.”
“For what location, please?” She looked confused, and Hayes added, “For Bardufoss, or Churchill’s position, or the Barents? And how far in advance?” Getting a tailor-made weather forecast meant giving the tailor your measurements.
She paused, adjusting, but only for a moment. “Please forecast the progress of the storm, and when it will clear the site of the collision and the Northern Fleet’s ports. And make sure to give the information to Dr. Russo as well.” Hayes nodded and went aft.
After that, Commander Silas wanted permission to send a message to Churchill and tell her CO about the extra personnel. Then Joyce Parker wanted to protest Patterson’s refusal to let a reporter on board, and Monroe wanted to know if they wanted dinner.
There were more introductions during the meal, and while the atmosphere was cordial, almost jovial, Patterson felt control slipping away. Russo and the Norwegian were huddled with Hayes the weather sergeant, Silas and Bover were conferring, while Parker was typing furiously on her laptop in a corner.
Then she noticed Jane Matsui, standing at her elbow with a question about an upcoming bill. It was a trivial issue given the circumstances, but she welcomed Jane’s question gladly.
The flight to Bardufoss was only two hours, and halfway through she called another conference to hear Russo’s analysis.
He kept it brief. “If Seawolf can find the Russian sub, that makes the rescue possible. Without Seawolf, it’s doubtful they can be found in time.” He nodded toward Hayes. “If the storm stays on track, the Russians can leave port late tomorrow, which puts them on station late the next day based on the max speed of their rescue ship. That means Severodvinsk will have already been down five days.”
Russo looked around the table, saw no disagreement. “Arne’s people will leave port this evening, which puts them on station in sixty-two hours, at their best speed. That’s the good news. The bad news is that Russian crew will be almost out of breathable air by the time the Norwegians arrive. They’ll be hurting, at best.” Lindstrom nodded grimly. “The morning of the tenth of October is the earliest rescue operations can begin, other factors permitting.”
“The other factors being that we’ve found her, that the weather does indeed improve—and that they’re still alive to begin with,” Silas offered. Patterson noticed Bover nodding agreement.
“We can
’t control that,” Russo agreed, “but we need information from the Russians so that Arne’s people are ready to go when they get on station. Technical data on Severodvinsk’s escape hatches and internal layout. That’s the first thing we’ll need from them.”
Bover snorted. “Their newest nuclear attack sub? They’d rather sell their mothers.”
Russo ignored the comment. “Good charts of the area would also help a lot. More than hydrography, the area has been used and fought over for a hundred years. Knowing the location of wrecks or expended ordnance will help Seawolf with her search as well as warn us of any potential trouble spots.”
Patterson asked, “What if we can’t get the information on Severodvinsk?”
Russo looked to Lindstrom. The Norwegian said, “It’s all about time. Depending on the depth, we may not have the luxury of deploying divers. That means everything may have to be done with submersibles and ROVs. Even if we could get divers into the water, they would probably have to use atmospheric diving suits, there is simply not enough time for a saturation dive.”
“Conditions will be difficult. Visibility will be measured in single meters, and it is cold. The suit makes any movement an effort. If there’s a current, that makes it worse.” Lindstrom’s voice carried experience.
“Did your company help with the Kursk disaster?”
“No, but I was one of the divers working for Stolt Offshore and I dove on the boat. I am getting too old now, but I may make one or two early dives, so that I can see conditions for myself.”
Patterson made a note to listen carefully whenever Lindstrom spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re approaching Bardufoss. Please take your seats.”
As they buckled in, Monroe listened on the plane’s interphone, then announced, “As soon as we land and you deplane, vans will take you over to the MV-22. It’s waiting for us to land, and actually, they would like to expedite their takeoff, so that they can be back at base before dark.”
