Cold Choices

by Larry Bond

  “Yes, sir, I approved it and gave it to Senior-Lieutenant Rostov yesterday before breakfast to transmit.” He smiled proudly.

  Vidchenko angrily demanded, “Then why did we receive requests for food and fuel at 0900, ammunition at 1010, and important spare parts for your sonar at 1130?” He shoved the offending messages at Smirnov, one by one.

  The captain almost snapped to attention. “The food is being loaded now, the fuel is due to show up in about half an hour, and the ammunition will be here late this afternoon.”

  “And yet you reported you were ready to sail yesterday morning?”

  “We were ready, sir.”

  “How can you report as being ready for sea when you were missing so many supplies?” Although phrased as a question, Vidchenko’s hostile tone challenged the officer.

  “We would have experienced some difficulties, sir, but my sailors are used to hard conditions. Legkiy was the first ship of the task force to report ready for sea, and we can sail this minute if you wish.”

  Vidchenko almost exploded. “What good would you do without ammunition or food or a functioning sonar?” He bore down on the captain. “You knew the weather would keep us in port for another day or two, so you took the opportunity to posture. A paper prize for a meaningless accomplishment.”

  Stiffly, still at attention, Smirnov repeated, “If ordered, we would have sailed, and I am sure my crew could have overcome any supply difficulties.”

  The man was impossible. Either he was a fool or chose to cling to his lie. “Summon your Starpom.”

  “Yes sir.” Smirnov turned and spoke quickly into a phone near his desk.

  Legkiy’s first officer showed up almost instantly. He must have been waiting outside the captain’s cabin. “Captain Third Rank Vasiliy Ivanovich Filippov reporting as ordered.” A younger man than Smirnov, he smiled, eager to please the high-ranking visitor.

  Vidchenko returned Filippov’s salute, then turned back to Smirnov. “Captain Second Rank Smirnov, you are relieved of command. Report immediately to the Headquarters Northern Fleet for reassignment.”

  Smirnov was still processing Vidchenko’s order as the admiral turned to the equally shocked Filippov. “Captain Third Rank Filippov, take command of Legkiy. By the time I return to my headquarters, I want a full and correct report on her readiness for sea on my desk.” Vidchenko let his expression soften a little. “You have a little time. I have one or two other stops to make.”

  Smirnov was starting to react, realization passing across his face in a wave. As he opened his mouth to speak, Vidchenko cut him off. “Relieved for cause is much better than being court-martialed. Falsifying official reports and lying to one’s superiors are serious charges.”

  Vidchenko turned back to Filippov. “And I intend to sortie the task group early tomorrow morning.” It was Filippov’s turn to look shocked, but he wisely said nothing, so Vidchenko added, “We will be moving northwesterly while the storm moves east. Time is our first enemy. There may be others.”

  Filippov gathered himself enough to respond. “Yes, comrade Admiral.”

  “I’ll find my own way out,” Vidchenko announced as he left the two officers. He hadn’t even taken off his greatcoat.

  Petty Officer Denisov had turned the car around, and was smoking in the lee of a storehouse. By the time Vidchenko reached the gangplank, the driver had ditched the cheap cigarette and had one hand on the door handle. In spite of the ice, Vidchenko hurried down the gangplank.

  Once in the car and out of the weather, the admiral ordered, “Take me to the Supply Motor Transport Section.” He looked at his notes. “It’s building K-115.” Denisov nodded and started moving.

  Vidchenko checked his notes. According to Captain-Lieutenant Morsky, it was simply impossible for him to transport the supplies they’d requested to all the ships in the task group today.

  He was sure he could change Morsky’s mind.

  Northern Fleet Headquarters, Severomorsk

  * * *

  Vice Admiral Sergey Mikhailovich Kokurin was a solid-looking man. He’d had a wrestler’s physique as a young man, and while some of the sand had settled, he was still an imposing figure.

  He liked being imposing. His office was finished in rich colors with dark wood and filled with overstuffed furniture. The walls were covered with paintings and large photographs of great moments in Russian naval history. A bust of Fyodor Ushakov watched everyone from one corner, while flags of the Russian Federation and the Navy stood in the other.

  Kokurin was the commander of the Russian Northern Fleet, and while it was smaller and weaker than the force he’d known as a young man, he loved it with all the devotion and protectiveness of a father.

  Some of his men were missing, and he’d directed the entire Northern Fleet to do everything in its power to find Severodvinsk and rescue the crew, if they were still alive. He’d said so a dozen times since the crisis began. Everything that could be done was being done. He had his people keeping track of the rescue mission. He received briefings on their progress twice a day.

  So why was he sitting behind the desk that had belonged to Admiral Ushakov, cornered like an animal by a pack of angry babushkas?

  No, that isn’t true, he thought to himself. A babushka is an old woman, a Russian grandmother or a mother-in-law. They were a force to be reckoned with, as fierce and relentless as a Russian winter. But this group included some young women as well, wives and mothers, some barely out of their teens.

  The seven women in his office, quietly seated in an assortment of chairs, calmly drinking tea, were causing more problems than a collision at sea, than a weapons accident. He’d dealt with those things in his naval career. They had been Navy matters, handled within the Navy, and whatever the resolution, the matter had stayed inside the Navy’s haze-gray walls.

  But these wives and mothers had taken Severodvinsk’s loss outside the Navy, demanding answers from the government.

  Kokurin remembered all too well the loss of Kursk. That tragedy, as well as the debacle in Chechnya, had been the start. The families of that submarine had been able to organize and demand an investigation, and they’d gotten it. As far as he was concerned, the Navy had expended almost as much effort satisfying the families as it had in finding and raising the submarine.

  It had been different when he joined the fleet. Families were expected to sacrifice along with their servicemen, and to do so in silence. Discussing operational details or flaws or problems in training or matériel revealed valuable information. An enemy, especially one with the resources of the USA or NATO, could exploit those flaws. The Navy had actually released the official report of the Kursk investigation to the families. Normally such a document would have been highly classified, and now there were copies of it on the Internet!

  The defense minister had virtually ordered him to meet with the families. “Say whatever will make them happy. Remember to blame the Americans. This crisis is their fault.”

  Olga Sadilenko, the spokesperson for the group, was a hard case. The mother of Severodvinsk’s reactor officer, she was articulate and unimpressed by busts, flags, paintings or admirals. Her questions were maddeningly simple.

  “Have you confirmed the Americans’ information?”

  “If you mean the location they provided, no, we haven’t. A Navy spokesman has suggested that the Americans may have deliberately given us incorrect information,” Kokurin answered.

  “But that makes no sense,” the woman responded. “Why admit your involvement and then lead the searcher to the wrong place? What did the ships find there?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sadilenko, I’m not at liberty to say. There have been indications that the American is deliberately interfering with the search.”

  “How is he doing this?” Sadilenko demanded. “Why have your ships not driven him from the area?”

  “That information is classified.”

  Kokurin had tried to sound final, but Sadilenko wasn’t deterred. “Why classify i
t? The Americans obviously know, our Navy knows, and”—she paused to look at her notes—“Captain-Lieutenant Rvanin made the accusation public yesterday morning.”

  She looked straight at Kokurin. “If the Americans’ actions are harming our progress, shouldn’t we share our evidence with the world? Make them explain themselves?”

  “I’m sorry, madam, I cannot explain further.”

  Sadilenko looked unhappy, and the women broke into sudden discussion, everyone seeming to talk at the same time. It trailed off with Sadilenko nodding. She turned back to Kokurin.

  “Did the search forces at least include the Americans’ information in their plan?”

  “I’m sorry, that is classified.”

  “Do you know where the American submarine is?”

  “That is also classified.”

  “Have you attempted to communicate with the American submarine?”

  “No, we have not. There is no way to know if the Americans will tell us the truth.”

  “You can learn much from a man’s lies,” Sadilenko countered, quoting an old proverb.

  Kokurin paused, but decided to ignore the accusation. “Severodvinsk is a Russian Federation Navy submarine that was engaged in routine operations when it was lost. The Navy is searching for it now with every means at its disposal. We want our men back as much as you want them back, and we have the added task of finding the cause of the accident and bringing to account those responsible.”

  One of the women, young with a face puffy from crying, stood up in back. “My friend says her husband is still in port. Her youngest is sick and he called to see if the baby was better. But he can’t do that unless he’s in port, can he?”

  “He shouldn’t have called at all. He violated regulations. What is your friend’s name?”

  “I won’t tell you. This isn’t like the old days. You can’t arrest anyone for that. She has a family.”

  Sadilenko asked, “How can they be searching if they’re still in port? Is the storm keeping them there? The Navy spokesman said two days ago that the storm wasn’t interfering with the rescue.”

  Kokurin felt impatience rising. He wasn’t used to being argued with. They were only women, unused to naval discipline and prone to emotion. But enough was enough.

  Kokurin stood. “Fleet movements are highly classified.” He tried to look directly at the young woman, but the others leaned toward her protectively. “Your friend’s husband serves on one ship, whichever ship it is. There are many ships involved in the search, and we do not tell anyone outside the chain of command the location of our warships.”

  Sadilenko ignored Kokurin’s hint that it was time to leave. “We would like to have a liaison assigned to the search and rescue force. He is the father-in-law of one of the missing officers, and a retired submariner. He could monitor the rescue effort and send regular updates to us here.”

  Kokurin was horrified at the thought. Let an outsider watch their operations? He’d rather blow a hole in the side of the flagship. It didn’t matter that the man they suggested was a retired naval officer. In fact, dealing with a civilian would be easier. A former Navy man might see and understand too much. It was a tailor-made security breach.

  “Absolutely not. It’s against regulations to have a civilian, even a retired naval officer, on a ship during possible combat operations.”

  “Then he could work here, at headquarters.”

  “No. He would see too much classified information.”

  “But he’s been cleared.”

  Kokurin paced behind his desk. “That was while he was in active service. He can tell you that his clearances were taken away when he retired.”

  “But you can give them back.”

  “Impossible. He’d have to be investigated all over again, and that takes time. The rules are quite clear on this matter.”

  Frustrated, Sadilenko commented, “It’s sad, Admiral. We are leaving here with no new information. I am disappointed that the commander of the Northern Fleet knows so little about our loved ones.”

  Another accusation, but Kokurin refused to be drawn out.

  “Blame the Americans, who have admitted their role in causing this crisis. The Navy is doing everything it can. As sailors’ mothers and wives, your role is hard, but there is little to do but wait.” Kokurin tried to sound paternal. It might not have worked, but at least they were finally leaving.

  The women filed out, grumbling. Once the door was shut, Kokurin let out a whoosh of air and slumped with fatigue. That was over, thank goodness. He was still coming to grips with Severodvinsk’s loss himself, and he found the mere mention of it created a storm of emotions.

  Grief, certainly, if they were dead, but did he dare hope they were alive? All of them? And anger at Petrov. He’d congratulated the boy how many days ago? Was this his fault? He was bright, an able commander, but certainly inexperienced. Could they have picked the wrong man to be captain?

  They’d given Petrov Russia’s newest boat, the best in the fleet. Could it be a matériel failure? Subs were designed to resist that, but others had succumbed over the years and Severodvinsk had spent an insane amount of time on the building ways. What did her loss mean for the Navy, and its future? He didn’t know how he was supposed to feel.

  Finally, he pushed the questions back into the shadows. Nothing would be resolved soon. Endurance was the only answer. He turned back to his desk and to next year’s budget submission.

  Outside the headquarters building, the women sheltered in a corner. Olga Sadilenko listened to their complaints and protests for a few minutes, making sure everyone had a chance to speak. When there was a lull, she was ready. “I didn’t expect that walrus to tell us anything. Who are we to them? Nothing? We give them our sons, our husbands, but they don’t believe they owe us a thing.”

  A cold wind eddied into the corner where they stood, as if to confirm her statement. “Yelena.” She turned to the young woman who had asked Kokurin about the phone call. “I’m proud of you for standing up to the admiral like that. Can you do more?”

  The young woman nodded, her unhappy expression carved from stone.

  “You and your friends call as many other families as you can. Find out which ships are still in port, or when they left. Get me what you can by noon tomorrow.”

  “Galina, do you have the notes?”

  A middle-aged woman held up a stenographer’s pad. “I’ll have these typed up by this evening.” Her face started to fall. “With my Yuri gone, there’s little to do.”

  A young woman reached out to hug her. “Then come and type them up with me. I’m alone, too. And when you’re done, I’ll add them to our web page.”

  The older woman dabbed at her eyes, “Thank you, Irina.”

  Sadilenko added, “And make sure everyone gives Irina a photo and information of your family member. Include as much biographical information as you want.”

  Irina, a pale woman with straw-colored hair, nodded emphatically. “There’s plenty of room on the server, and it takes no time to add the text and images. We need photos of every crewman, and also photos from parties and other gatherings while Severodvinsk was under construction.”

  As the group acknowledged their instructions, Sadilenko added one more task. “Nadya, make a list of every news organization you can find on the Internet—from every country in the world, if you can. As soon as Irina’s page is ready, I want to send them the link. They have to be hungry for news about our submarine. We’ll give them what we have.” She smiled grimly. “And we’ll tell them why we don’t have any more.”

  Severomorsk Naval Base

  Mikhail Rudnitskiy

  * * *

  Captain Second Rank Yefim Gradev stood back a fair distance. Even in this obscene weather, sparks flew about wildly, and the language the petty officers were using would certainly be grounds for disciplinary action, if he could actually hear them. They’d rigged a makeshift canvas shelter as a windbreak, but the men welding were sandwiched between f
ire and ice.

  Gradev was captain of Mikhail Rudnitskiy, one of the two submarine rescue vessels assigned to the Northern Fleet. An alert like this was something they planned and trained for, but dreaded at the same time. Nobody wanted submariners to be in danger. Sailors’ lives were at stake, and his ship, neglected and undermanned, was a weak reed.

  He’d hardly slept since the alert two days ago. There would have been much to do, even if they were in perfect order. But maintenance had been deferred, supply requests denied. Suddenly they had priority, but the supply system was slow to respond, and repairs took time.

  Their sister ship, Georgi Titov, was down with a bad turbine, and Gradev had been given permission to raid her for supplies and spare parts and even crewmen. He knew the entire rescue depended on this one ship.

  They needed at least one of the fifty-ton cranes working. The foundations were fatigued, and the only way to strengthen them in time was unsafe, unauthorized and uncomfortable for the men welding the supports in place.

  But it would last until Severodvinsk was found. Combined with the motors they’d cannibalized from Titov, the portside crane would be back . . .

  “Captain, we need you to look at AS-34.” Alex Radimov, Rudnitskiy’s starpom, intruded on his thoughts.

  “What, are the supports still giving us trouble?”

  “No, sir, that work is proceeding. It’s the batteries again.”

  Shaking his head, Gradev turned and headed for the forward hold. Rudnitskiy was a timber-carrier design adapted to carry two rescue submersibles in what had been cargo holds. Originally, the after hold had carried a larger rescue vehicle, AS-36 Bester, but that vessel had been taken out of service years ago. With AS-26 out of commission owing to a main thruster motor failure, there was only one rescue sub available, and any problem with AS-34 Priz was a potential showstopper.

  She sat in the roofed-over hold, out of the weather, but still surrounded by a storm of activity. Sparks bathed her sides as sailors expanded and reinforced the cradle that held the vessel. Nobody had ever imagined Rudnitskiy venturing out in such heavy weather, and Gradev had ordered extra battens fitted to brace the rescue sub in place. The thought of her breaking loose in seven-meter seas invoked several nightmares.