Cold Choices

by Larry Bond

  The chief of the boat was waiting, and saluted, then asked Borisov to follow him. Borisov’s aide, Patterson, and Manning followed the admiral to the wardroom.

  Rudel and his department heads were waiting, and the wardroom table was covered with documents, neatly organized and labeled by Shimko. A detailed chart showed the tracks of the two subs and the UUV, surrounded on one side by log pages and on the other by photographs of the damage, both inside and outside the ship. A plate of warm chocolate chip cookies and a carafe of hot coffee were off to the side.

  “Nice touch, Al,” complimented Shimko, pointing to the refreshments. “That should help put our guests into the proper frame of mind.”

  “A wise cook once said, ‘An empty stomach is not a good political adviser.’ ” Constantino chortled as he finished, clearly very pleased with himself.

  Shimko initially looked shocked, then menacing. “You trying to horn in on my territory, Chop?”

  “Quiet, you two,” scolded Rudel as he saw the mess steward signal him from the pantry. Seconds later, the door to the wardroom opened and Borisov walked in.

  Rudel was the only one who spoke. “Welcome aboard Seawolf, Admiral. We’ve laid out this material for your inspection. You may take all of it with you when you leave, if you desire. My executive officer and department heads are ready to answer any immediate questions you may have, then we will tour the damaged areas of the ship.” As Rudel spoke, a mess steward poured Borisov a cup of coffee. He took it wordlessly, distracted by the wealth of information laid out before him. Shimko had even included a blank notepad and pen.

  “While you’re reviewing this material, I’d like to speak with Dr. Patterson privately, just for a few moments.” Borisov nodded, already examining the track chart, and the captain took Patterson by one elbow, guiding her forward to his cabin. Jerry Mitchell followed, then took station in the passageway, to make sure they weren’t overheard.

  Rudel closed the door to his stateroom, then spoke softly, but intently. “Doctor, are you aware of the regulations and procedures that have to be followed when you invite a foreign visitor aboard a nuclear submarine?”

  Patterson wasn’t intimidated. “You don’t approve of me bringing Admiral Borisov aboard.” It was a flat statement, but she included understanding, even sympathy in her tone. “I’m sorry for springing this on you, but I believe it’s the best way—the only way—to convince Borisov that the collision was not your fault. Improving your standing with the Russians will help us in many ways.”

  Rudel looked angry, barely under control. “Letting a Russian on board Seawolf goes against everything I’ve been taught. And he’s not just any Russian. He’s a submariner, and a senior officer! I don’t see how this can turn out well.

  “It’s not the documents. He would get copies of those anyway,” Rudel continued. “But we could just as easily have briefed him aboard his ship.”

  Patterson shook her head, disagreeing. “He needs to see your damage for himself. There is a small risk of a security breach,” she acknowledged, and he nodded agreement, “but the payoff is winning over Borisov, and with him the commander of the Northern Fleet and potentially, the Russian government.”

  Rudel didn’t look entirely convinced, but didn’t reply, instead motioning toward the door. They left, and with Jerry following, returned to the wardroom.

  While Rudel’s officers came to attention when he entered, Borisov appeared absorbed in the documents. Patterson assumed his English was good enough to read the material, and that he wasn’t just posing.

  Shimko leaned over and whispered, “Not a word since you left. But I think he likes the Chop’s cookies.” He pointed toward the now half-full plate.

  A few moments after they entered, the admiral stood. Without a word about the documents in front of him, he said, “I would like to see the damage to the outside hull, please.”

  That meant a trip through control, and Patterson followed the others from the wardroom. Once they reached the bridge access trunk, Rudel turned to the contingent and said, “There isn’t as much room on our bridge as on one of your submarines, sir. You, Dr. Patterson, and I will go up. The rest will have to wait here.”

  “Very well, Captain. Proceed.”

  Both Borisov and Rudel insisted Patterson go first. Borisov followed, then Rudel.

  Seawolf was running with the wind, the following sea lapping over her stern. Ballasted aft, the sub had lifted more of her crushed bow out of the water than Patterson had seen, even in other photos of the damage. Slate-gray waves barely reached up the sides, and Patterson studied the bow, along with the two officers. Lieutenant Chandler, on watch as conning officer, did his best to stay invisible.

  Rudel pointed back, to a long scar on Seawolf’s aft deck. “We believe this is where Severodvinsk struck us first, then here,” he pointed to the battered sail. “Finally, her screw struck us on the bow, nearly slicing our pressure hull open.”

  Chandler handed Patterson his glasses and she studied the bow. Rudel explained to his visitors, “See those parallel slash marks on the casing? They were caused by Severodvinsk’s screw as it struck our hull. If you do the math, the distance between the scars matches the blade rate we heard on sonar and her speed at the time of impact. The softer bronze blades broke up on impact with the hull and our forward momentum bent the propeller shaft upward.”

  Patterson handed her glasses back to Chandler, and watched Borisov. This was all for his benefit.

  Borisov studied the bow for another moment, then lowered his glasses. “I see different-colored metal embedded in the casing,” he said solemnly.

  “Those are pieces of bronze from Severodvinsk’s propeller. We recovered some fragments, and will give you some to take with you.”

  Rudel pulled out a close up photograph of Severodvinsk’s propeller hub. “Here’s a digital image of the propeller shaft and hub. You can see the ragged remnants where the blades blended into the hub.” The bladeless, distorted shaft almost filled the frame. Borisov’s stoic expression was worthy of a professional poker player.

  Rudel produced a second piece of paper, a smaller version of the same track chart showing the two submarines as they maneuvered that Borisov had seen below. A small colored square lay along the Russian sub’s path between the estimated point of impact and its current location. “That’s where one of the unmanned vehicles found the impact debris. We believe additional pieces of the blades can be found there.”

  Rudel let the Russian admiral study the image for a moment, then spoke carefully. “I know you believe that Seawolf rammed your submarine. But we have three different damage patterns spaced out along our upper hull. How could we have done this and still managed to tear off Severodvinsk’s propeller blades?”

  Borisov sighed, but didn’t answer. “Could I see the damage to the bow from inside? You said that you had reinforced that part of the hull.”

  It only took a few moments to go back down to ladder, take off their cold-weather gear, then over to the electronics equipment space. Chandler had alerted the chief of the watch to clear the technicians out of the space.

  Since it was Jerry’s space, Rudel signaled for him to follow. Rudel led them into electronics space, showing Patterson and Borisov the wooden shorings that supported the pressure hull. Once they’d carefully stepped around the bracing, Rudel pointed out the damage. “Our pressure hull is deformed here and here. The seals around several of the masts started to ship water. We used wood, and later steel reinforcing plates, to seal the leaks.”

  “How much water came in?” asked Borisov.

  “Approximately two metric tons.” The actual amount meant little to Patterson, but Borisov looked alarmed. Rudel motioned to the scorched bulkheads and equipment racks. “The salt water obviously ruined all the equipment in here. There was a major fire.”

  As Rudel spoke, Borisov studied the damaged compartment. In one corner, an open equipment rack held a photograph of a smiling young sailor. It was surrounded with small i
tems—a pair of silver dolphins, a Seawolf ball cap with a third-class crow pin in it, and a pile of notes. A sign that said PLEASE CHEER ME UP hung over the photo.

  “This was where your crewman died.”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  “Is there anything else you wish me to see?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then let us go back to your wardroom.”

  They were gathering and packaging the documents, photos, and metal fragments when the party entered. Borisov sat down heavily at the table and asked, “Coffee, please.”

  Jerry poured for the admiral, who sipped the cup thoughtfully, then cradled it, as if warming his hands. “It is good coffee,” he finally remarked.

  The chief of the boat was waiting in the corner, and caught Rudel’s eye, who nodded. Walking over to the admiral, he said, “Sir, I am Master Chief Hess. I’m the chief of the boat, the senior enlisted man aboard. We’d like to thank you for coming aboard, and we’d like you to have these, to remember your visit.”

  He handed Borisov a ball cap and a framed photo of Seawolf. They were traditional gifts for visiting VIPs, but Jerry felt the strangeness of giving them to a Russian.

  But Borisov smiled broadly and thanked Hess. “These are excellent.” Then the smile went away. “You have been much better hosts than me.” Slowly, deliberately he stood, and turned to face the American crew. “I now believe that Seawolf did not ram Severodvinsk, deliberately or accidentally. For now, that is all we can say. We must wait for the investigation to tell all of the story of what happened.”

  After a short pause, he added, “I cannot speak for my government, or even for my Navy, but for myself, I am very sad that two fine crews have suffered injured and dead. We must work much harder to make sure this never happens again.”

  Patterson waited a moment, making sure Borisov was finished speaking. As he handed the gifts to the enlisted man to put in the package, she said, “There are a lot of press reports from your Navy. They accuse Seawolf of many things, and they’re simply not true. Can you speak to your Navy, ask them to stop making such accusations?”

  The Russian didn’t answer immediately, but finally said, “You are right. Those stories are not helpful, but now anyone in Russia can speak to the newspapers.”

  “Many of the stories are coming from sources in your Navy,” Patterson insisted.

  Borisov nodded. “I will stop any false stories.”

  Patterson smiled. “The newspapers need to print something. You could provide them with better stories—accurate ones.”

  “I will consider it.”

  National security adviser’s office, Old Executive Office Building,

  Washington, DC

  * * *

  “She did what?” Wright’s exclamation echoed out of the office and down the hall.

  Admiral Forrester’s voice mixed anger and frustration. “It’s all in the message. She informed Admiral Sloan that she invited Vice Admiral Pavel Borisov, a Russian submarine officer, to visit Seawolf and inspect her damage for himself.”

  Wright skimmed the printout. “Operational precedence, but she must have sent it right before the meeting. By now Borisov has come and gone.” He set the paper down carefully on his desk, as if it would bite.

  “This is not good,” Admiral Forrester insisted. “She’s making her own deals. We are out of the loop.”

  “That doesn’t mean she’s made a bad decision.”

  “What? How could letting a Russian admiral aboard one of our best submarines be a good idea?”

  “He didn’t inspect the submarine. He was there to see the damage.”

  “So he got a good look at a modern attack boat, and her vulnerabilities.”

  Wright was calming down, but Forrester still seemed very upset. He’d never seen a chief of naval operations this emotional. “So you would have rejected her request?”

  “Absolutely,” Forrester replied forcefully.

  “Which is why she informed us, instead of asking our permission.”

  “You have to get her out of there. Better still, get everyone out of there.”

  “That’s not my call,” Wright replied. “I picked her, but the president approved her selection.”

  “Then we need to take this to him.”

  USS Churchill

  * * *

  She’d had about fifteen minutes’ warning, barely enough time to leave her dinner and get up to Churchill ’s CIC. Captain Baker and Lieutenant Commander Hampton had come as well, to make sure the video link was functioning properly, and Dwight Manning, her State Department liaison and de facto second-in-command, was there as well, off-camera but available.

  The command position in Churchill’s CIC was dominated by three large flat-panel computer displays. Normally they displayed maps or status boards, but the center one now held a widescreen image of several men seated, facing the camera. The background behind them was dark and functional-looking. She guessed they were in the White House situation room. It certainly wasn’t the Oval Office.

  Patterson had been seated and ready when the link was activated. President Huber was flanked by the secretaries of state and defense. She was relieved to see Jeffrey Wright present, and she had the impression that many others were in the room as well. She felt a little alone.

  Her image must have appeared there at the same time, because President Huber looked off to the right, then announced, “I’m taking fifteen minutes out of a very busy day, Joanna.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, Doctor. Tell me why you invited a Russian admiral aboard Seawolf without getting approval from the Navy or DoD.”

  “Vice Admiral Borisov has replaced Rear Admiral Vidchenko, the admiral who threw us off their flagship. I had to convince him beyond any reasonable doubt that Seawolf did not cause this incident, or that we had any motives beyond helping to rescue their trapped crewmen.”

  “And this was worth cutting the Navy out of the loop.” That statement came from Hicks, the Secretary of Defense. His calm tone didn’t match his expression. The benefit of video teleconferencing was seeing as well as hearing.

  “Time was short,” she answered. “The visit had to take place before rescue operations took up all his time.”

  Huber answered again. “You had enough time for a phone call to clear this with Rear Admiral Sloan. You know that the submarine community is sensitive to such visits. No Russian has ever been aboard a Seawolf-class sub.”

  She hadn’t expected them to buy it. “True enough. All right. I set up the visit on my own because it’s vital that we build some trust—not just for the sake of international relations, but for those trapped crewmen.

  “I was there. Captain Rudel implemented his visit ship procedures. Displays were covered, sensitive material was stowed, and the Russian admiral showed absolutely no interest in Seawolf’s hardware. It was clear from his words that he was convinced, even moved, by what he saw.”

  “The Russians will say anything,” Hicks answered sharply. “Doctor, I think you’ve been set up.”

  “And I think you’re about twenty years out of date,” Patterson fired back. “Mistrust has already cost lives. We either learn to work with the Russians or we could lose more. And I don’t need to tell you how bad we’ll look in the eyes of the world if we walk away now because of a cold war mindset.”

  “At any cost?” Summers asked.

  “At almost no cost . . . except maybe to the Navy’s pride.” Patterson immediately regretted the retort, and quickly added, “To save their crew, the Russians are being forced to reveal information about their newest, most advanced submarine. We’d think they’d be foolish to withhold it. Our situation is no different.”

  Both secretaries started to speak, but Huber stopped them. “All right, Doctor. I’m endorsing your decision—after the fact.” He paused for a moment, and then added, “I can’t remove you. That wouldn’t look good to the Russians or the media. But be very careful, Doctor. We need th
e situation simplified, not complicated.”

  11 October 2008

  1600/4:00 PM

  Severodvinsk

  * * *

  Captain Third Rank Fonarin swept the light from the battle lantern around the central post, looking for his captain and starpom. Although he was tired and cold, he moved about quickly, his breathing labored, a notebook clutched in his left hand. As chief of the chemical services, Fonarin had just completed his latest test on the atmosphere’s quality; the news wasn’t good. It was times like this that he wished he had a different job on board Severodvinsk. After a quick look by the engineer’s post, he found Petrov and Kalinin huddled up on the deck aft, by the underwater communications station.

  “Captain, sir, the latest report on the atmosphere,” panted Fonarin as he handed the notebook to Petrov.

  “Just give me the bad news, Igor,” he said, as he accepted the pad.

  “Yes, sir. Unfortunately, my suspicions have been confirmed. The American chemicals are fully depleted. Carbon dioxide has increased to two point seven percent.”

  Petrov nodded wearily. He was physically unable to get upset any longer. “How long do we have?”

  “Even with many of the men asleep, the carbon dioxide levels will rise to three percent within six hours. After that, things will get worse quickly. I estimate that no more than twenty hours later we’ll be at lethal concentrations; over five percent.”

  “So, essentially we have one more day,” Petrov summarized.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

  Petrov looked up at the junior officer and gave him a slight smile. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Igor. It is I who must apologize, to you, to the whole crew. Now go and get some rest.”

  “Aye, sir.”