Cold Choices

by Larry Bond

  Manning called to Vidchenko in Russian, he spoke rapidly and intently. Vidchenko, still angry but surprised, turned to listen but obviously was unmoved. Patterson watched the exchange without understanding, but finally Manning shrugged. He leaned close to Patterson, and said softly, “There’s nothing more we can do here. I’ve said everything that could be said. We should leave. I’ll explain on the way back.”

  Confused and reluctant, Patterson followed the others back to the helicopter.

  23

  REVELATION

  USS Churchill

  * * *

  The twenty-five-minute flight back to Churchill gave Dwight Manning time to explain what had happened aboard the Russian flagship. The truth had not set Patterson free, or removed the incredible sense of failure that weighed her down.

  All the work and chances she’d taken to open communications with the Russians, for the benefit of Russian sailors, had been undone by more Cold War mistrust.

  Manning reprised his entire conversation with Vidchenko for her, but at the end, she had to admit there was nothing else she could have added or changed to what was said.

  As they landed aboard Churchill, Patterson rejected the first three things she thought of saying, and finally told Silas, “Please report to me in my stateroom in five minutes.”

  She had time to dump her coat and laptop before she heard a quiet knock. Commander John Silas stood at the open door silently, his expression impassive.

  Seeing him again fanned her anger, and she badly wanted to shout at him. Controlling her first impulse, she stuck to the script. “I assume you understood the Russians’ objections to you aboard their ship. Mr. Manning says you speak Russian fluently.” Patterson’s tone was cold, almost harsh.

  “Yes, Doctor, I did.” He looked like he was going to say something else, but instead he stopped himself, waiting.

  Seeing his self-control strengthened hers, and she asked, “Did you wonder why I didn’t take Dr. Russo with us? He’s a submarine rescue expert and a former submariner. He has some Russian-language skills. He would have been perfect for this meeting, except for one small problem. He works at the CIA!”

  She paused for a moment. Patterson had felt her voice rising. “I knew the Russians would be security-conscious to the point of paranoia. I deliberately left him behind because I wanted them to trust us. I haven’t heard you deny their accusations.”

  Silas sighed. “They’re true. I am assigned to the CIA as a senior analyst. I’m their expert on the Russian naval operations. I’ve been studying and writing on the Russian Navy for most of my naval career. You can see why the Navy thought I’d be perfect for this assignment. I’ve . . .”

  “How long have you been there?”

  “Two-plus years. I’m retiring in two more and they’ve promised to hire me as a civilian.”

  “And you just hoped the Russians didn’t know about your assignment to CIA.” She threw up her hands. “Once they hear those three letters, that’s it.”

  “Ma’am, my only goal was to support you. I planned to listen and observe. They might have revealed vital clues about their intentions.”

  She almost threw something at him. “We already know their intentions! This is a rescue operation! The Cold War ended while you were in college, but you’re still thinking that way, and so are the Russians.”

  “Ma’am, I’m not supposed to discuss my CIA affiliation. It’s need-to-know only.”

  “Which I obviously did!” She fought to keep her temper from rising any further. “That’s the problem with need-to-know. The people who need to know aren’t the ones who make the decision about what they get to know. Too many secrets.”

  Silas had no immediate response, but his expression had changed as they talked, the lines in his face sliding slowly downward. He looked profoundly unhappy.

  “Dr. Patterson, I’m very sorry that my poor judgment has caused this problem. I understand that you want to help rescue those Russians, and I’ve messed that up.” He spoke carefully, almost formally. “Tell me what I can do.”

  “There isn’t anything,” she answered. “That’s the worst part of it all. We’ve missed our chance. I pulled that one opportunity out of thin air and I don’t know where the next one will come from.”

  There was nothing else either of them could say. She dismissed Silas. “Go on, you’ve got a trip report to write for your bosses at Langley.”

  Patterson found Rudel in Churchill’s wardroom, saying his good-byes. Captain Baker had loaded the helicopter with fresh supplies and other items for Seawolf’s crew. Baker was wishing the submarine captain luck, but Ken Bover was still trying to convince him that it was time to head for port, with no effect.

  Rudel shook Patterson’s hand slowly, with a grim expression. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” he apologized. “Do you have a Plan B?”

  “Not yet. I’m still trying to pick up the pieces of Plan A.”

  “You know, I tried to ‘forget’ that envelope on the table. A Russian officer followed me and gave it back. He treated it like pornography.”

  She laughed in spite of her mood. “It could have been. They’ll never know.”

  Rudel shrugged. “Maybe they’ll get lucky and the charges will work. AS-34 will start its dive in about four hours.”

  “I really hope it does. But they’d have a better chance if they’d used your survey,” Patterson grumbled. “They have to see it.”

  “Only if you can trick them into looking. You’d have better luck if it really was pornography,” Rudel said suggestively.

  She smiled knowingly. “And where do you find pornography these days?”

  Skynews Report

  * * *

  “Stunning images of the mortally wounded Russian submarine Severodvinsk have been obtained by Britt Adams, one of our Skynews correspondents. They show the crippled vessel lying on the seabed, tilted to the left so far that the crew inside are unable to escape.

  “These pictures were taken by robotic underwater vehicles launched from the submarine USS Seawolf, which was also involved in the collision with Severodvinsk. Although the hull looks relatively intact, detailed digital photographs show heavy damage, piercing the pressure hull and flooding several sections of the submarine’s interior.

  “Russian Federation Navy spokesmen have refused to respond to questions about the images, and U.S. Navy spokesmen will only say that the images were not released through their office, so they cannot comment on their accuracy or authenticity. They emphasize that USS Churchill and USS Seawolf are both standing by to render whatever assistance the Russians may require.

  “Adams also reports that the Russians are in the final stages of preparations and may be ready to attempt a rescue very soon.”

  AS-34

  * * *

  Captain Bakhorin said, “Start,” as he hit the valves, and Umansky clicked his stopwatch. AS-34 began her descent, and as they dropped, Bakhorin fed his navigator depths and descent rates.

  Umansky divided his time between the nav display and his hand-drawn graph. Marking their downward speed on the graph, he reported, “Within tolerances.”

  AS-34 dropped faster and faster. They needed to reach the bottom quickly, to avoid wasting time and precious battery power. But they needed the motors to slow their descent. Using them too soon wasted time, using them too late would be disaster for them and Severodvinsk.

  “Time for the sonar,” Umansky announced. To save energy, he’d left even that vital sensor off. Turning it on now held some risk. A fault could only be corrected on the surface. If it didn’t work properly, their dive was wasted.

  But it did work, and showed their goal within easy reach. “Recommend course two three one to bring us to their starboard side, three hundred meters.”

  Bakhorin nursed the horizontal thrusters while he watched depth gauge unwind. Normally, by now he’d be braking, but it was better to wait. One short, powerful burst from the motors took less time and less power than a sl
ow descent. Still, Bakhorin wished he’d checked the figures one more time. They could only do this once.

  “Begin braking in five, four, three, two . . . now.” Umansky’s calm tone held no urgency, but Bakhorin was tense enough for both of them. They’d allowed for the uneven bottom in their calculations. He hoped it was enough.

  Bakhorin dumped ballast and hit the motors. He tried to forget about the several hundred kilos of fused explosives that hung in baskets just under his nose.

  Umansky had also calculated how long the motors would be needed to stop their descent. He called out the seconds while Bakhorin watched the depth gauge, his hand hovering over the controls.

  Umansky called out as the depth gauge nudged one hundred and ninety meters. AS-34 came to a stop with seven meters under the keel and Severodvinsk’s port bow thirteen meters dead ahead.

  “Let’s hope the rest of this mission goes as smoothly,” Bakhorin prayed. He then turned the minisub toward the first rock outcropping.

  Olga Sadilenko’s apartment

  * * *

  Olga Sadilenko hardly knew what to think when she looked at the first image. The colors were all wrong, like a misadjusted television. The shapes were jagged at the edges, but the center shape could only be a submarine. It looked like the photographs she’d seen of Severodvinsk, although they were of a surfaced sub at a pier, with smiling sailors lining her deck. Some of the other images looked more reasonable, but they covered only small sections of the submarine. A number of the photos showed the true extent of the damage.

  “The Americans sent us these pictures?”

  “A Skynews reporter,” Irina replied. “He’s British, but he’s aboard Churchill. I’m sure he must have received them from the Americans. They gave him a lot of information. There are maps of the bottom where the sub is located and images taken from many different angles.

  “Some are sonar photographs taken by an underwater robot and printed out by a computer. The different colors on the maps show what the underlying substance is: rock, mud, or sand. The contour lines show the depth in three-meter increments. The others are high-definition digital photography.”

  Irina flipped a few pages over, moving further down the stack. “Look at these pictures. They show the damage to the hull.”

  Olga took one of the pictures from Irina. In spite of the small field of view, she could clearly see how the metal of Severodvinsk’s bow was ripped and dished in. She thought of her little Yakov and struggled not to cry.

  The Americans had finally responded to their pleas for information on casualties, and her son was listed as one of the injured. No specific details, just that his injuries weren’t considered life-threatening. Praise God! Unfortunately, eighteen families had received the worst possible news—their menfolk were dead. Many tears had been showered upon Olga’s floor. Many lives had been forever ruined, including several young girls with small children or a child not yet born. She felt powerless and frustrated that she could not relieve them of their sorrow and pain. She remembered her own grief when her husband fell overboard during a storm and was lost at sea. Yakov was only three then.

  And yet, there still had been no word from the Russian Navy. Nothing but silent indifference.

  She almost hugged the page, then wanted to hug the Americans; may God bless them. “But why did they do this?” she asked.

  Irina answered, “The reporter didn’t say why. In the email, he just said it was ‘useful information, describing Severodvinsk’s exact status.’ He said it’s not secret. The Americans want to give it to our Navy, to help in the rescue.”

  Olga Sadilenko smiled. “And that’s why they gave them to us. Our Navy hasn’t seen these images.”

  Irina shrugged. “Maybe they don’t need them.”

  “Maybe they don’t, maybe they do. I believe they haven’t seen them because they don’t want to. It would mean giving the Americans some credit for helping.”

  “Olga, do you believe our admirals would do that? That they would intentionally ignore foreign help just because it would make them look bad?” Irina’s shocked expression showed her naïveté.

  Chuckling cynically, Olga took hold of the young woman’s hand and said, “Oh yes, child, I do. Are you willing to wager our men’s lives on the judgment of those pompous toads in headquarters?” Olga paused, considering. “Can these pictures be added to your web page? Will they fit?”

  “Yes,” Irina smiled. “We have plenty of room.”

  “And can we make more copies of these?” She held up the photos.

  Irina nodded.

  “Then make many copies. Send them to everyone we know, including all those news organizations.”

  “I’ve already done that, electronically, and two of our women are working on the website right now. They’ll be done in less than an hour.”

  “Can you send email back to this reporter?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I have some questions for him—or his friends.”

  Vice Admiral Kokurin’s office, Northern Fleet Headquarters,

  Severomorsk

  * * *

  “We can’t shut them down, Admiral. The server hosting their site is located in Germany. And we can’t cut the phone lines to a hundred families . . . and their friends . . . and every public telephone in Severomorsk.”

  Admiral Babyarin was trying to calm the Northern Fleet commander. Kokurin had exploded when the latest addition to the Wives and Mothers website had crossed his desk.

  Kokurin stared at the images. “Could these images be faked, a clever deception?”

  “Our experts are examining them right now. They are consistent with what Admiral Vidchenko has told us, and are consistent with what a good imaging sonar and underwater cameras can produce.”

  “So, how did those civilians obtain this data? From the Americans?”

  “According to the website, from a reporter connected to the Americans, but yes, it had to be leaked by them.”

  “Are they doing this to taunt us? It’s like looking at a corpse.” Kokurin’s heart turned to lead when he looked at the images. Their newest, their best atomic submarine was lost, now a tomb for eighteen sailors and a prison for sixty-seven more.

  Babyarin shrugged. “They may be trying to set up some sort of defense for their actions. With Vidchenko so close to rescuing the crew, they want to get these images into the media. They may not have been faked, but they could still have been altered.”

  Kokurin sat quietly. Babyarin didn’t like his expression, and finally asked, “What does Vidchenko say?”

  “I haven’t asked him. He’s too busy rescuing our men to distract him with this business.”

  “But has he seen the images?” Babyarin pressed.

  “It doesn’t matter. Petrov and his men could be on the surface in an hour.”

  Petr Velikiy

  * * *

  Vidchenko stood on the port bridge wing, binoculars fixed on an empty piece of water. It was pointless. A hundred other men watched that small spot of ocean as well, waiting for AS-34 to surface. In fact, it was redundant in the extreme, since the other watchers would all feel duty-bound to report a fact that the admiral had observed himself. Luckily, Kurganov received reports before he did, and filtered out the drivel.

  A small splash and a bobbing orange and white shape were all that marked AS-34’s return to the surface. A whaleboat standing by started its engine and hurried toward the craft, which had appeared several hundred meters off Rudnitskiy’s port side.

  While the boat approached, Vidchenko saw a hatch open and someone appeared in the opening, waves lapping less than a meter below the opening.

  The bridge-to-bridge radio crackled to life. “This is Bakhorin. The charges have been planted and tested. Everything is ready.”

  Petr Velikiy’s captain, Chicherin, picked up the microphone to acknowledge the transmission, but Vidchenko suddenly walked over and held out his hand. Chicherin gave up the microphone and stepped back.


  “This is Vidchenko. Well done, Captain Bakhorin. What is your battery charge?” Curiosity had overcome him, and he didn’t want to wait for their report.

  “Four percent, sir. We opened the hatch because we needed some light inside.”

  “Very well done. Join us in hoping now.”

  Vidchenko hung up the microphone and turned to the underwater communications set.

  Severodvinsk

  * * *

  The underwater communications station suddenly came to life. “Severodvinsk, this is Rear Admiral Vidchenko. Please respond.”

  Kalinin reached the underwater telephone first. He acknowledged the transmission. “This is Captain Second Rank Kalinin, sir. Captain Petrov is with the injured men.” He waved frantically to a michman and gestured for him to hurry aft, toward the third compartment, where the casualties were being cared for. “He will be here soon.”

  “Tell your Captain that we are ready to detonate explosive charges that will bring your submarine to an even keel. You must move everyone to the escape capsule immediately.”

  “Sir, could you please repeat your last transmission?” Vidchenko patiently repeated his message almost verbatim. The admiral then added, a little impatiently, “Tell us the moment you are ready.”

  “We will begin evacuation procedures immediately, sir. But it will take some time. We have wounded that must be carefully moved. We’ve had no warning, no time to prepare for this.”

  Petrov came running into the central post in time to hear Vidchenko answer, “We did not want to give the Americans warning. We know they can monitor these communications. We will do our best to keep them from interfering with the rescue.”