Cold Choices

by Larry Bond

  Brewer exploded. “You can’t turn us over to the Russians!”

  Figg answered, “This is a legally declared military exclusion zone to effect the rescue of a Russian submarine. You’ve knowingly violated an official announcement by the Russian Federation government, with a senior Russian naval officer in command of the operation. You’re trespassing on their estate. Who did you think you’d be dealing with?”

  Figg ordered his team, “Search the boat.” Johnson motioned for his first mate to go with them as Brewer looked on in complete amazement. A pile quickly developed on the aft deck, although it took almost half an hour to find not only the INN video equipment, but also personal cell phones and even a crewman’s personal camera.

  While the contraband was loaded into Churchill’s whaleboat, Figg warned Jonson, “If you do not reach Severomorsk by 1830 tomorrow evening, your boat will be confiscated. You will be tracked by aviation assets and from shore until you arrive. If you have difficulties, we will be monitoring the standard international distress frequencies.”

  Jonson nodded silently.

  Brewer made one last plea. “This is insane. Nobody was hurt. Why can’t we just turn around? We’ll go back to Ålesund.”

  “You ignored warnings from two different aircraft, and lied to us about your business here. Be grateful it was an American vessel that intercepted you. And by the by, there is a formal billet for a Royal Navy officer on board USS Churchill as a tribute to Sir Winston. Have a good day, sir.”

  27

  SECOND TRY

  12 October 2008

  0815/8:15 AM

  Rescue site, Barents Sea

  * * *

  Borisov and Lindstrom had agreed to wait until it was light to move the cables from the buoys to the tugs. In spite of the urgency, there was no rush to perform this step. The limiting factor, especially after the loss of AS-34 Priz, was still the number of dives needed to lay the line charges and attach the last cables to Severodvinsk. The two Norwegian ROVs had held up so far, which meant they were still on schedule for the second attempt early that afternoon.

  Halsfjord’s two vehicles would keep working during the transfer, both laying the charges that would break the Russian sub free of the bottom. On the surface, the salvage tug Altay backed carefully until it was only meters from one of two buoys, each a checkered orange and white sphere almost ten meters in diameter. Cables from Severodvinsk curved up out of the water to huge padeyes on the sides of the buoy. Those cables would be transferred from each buoy to one of the tugs.

  A workboat passed close alongside Altay. A crewman on the back of the tug tossed a “monkey fist” to the men in the boat. Nothing more than a ball wrapped with cord, it trailed a thin line. The men on the boat started pulling on the line while the men on the tug payed it out. After a dozen meters, the line became cord, then after another interval rope, then after a longer span, a nylon hawser over an inch in diameter.

  Motoring over to the buoy, the workboat’s crew attached the line to the cable, passing it through the six-inch loop on the end. It was difficult work, with the boat and buoy moving in the swells, sometimes banging into each other hard enough to break bones, if anyone was careless enough to get in the way.

  The final step was to unscrew the heavy padeye, allowing the cable end with the hawser attached to drop free. As it hit the water, a winch on Altay started up, pulling the hawser in toward the tug’s stern. Once the hawser had pulled the cable aboard, it was slipped over a bollard at the stern. With the cable safely attached to the tug, the workboat went back to get the next cable.

  Each tug would pull three cables, going to Severodvinsk’s bow, midsection, and stern. It was important to have the tugs doubling up. With each tug pulling on Severodvinsk’s bow, middle, and stern, there would be fewer problems in synchronizing their pulling power. It also provided a safeguard against a cable parting, or, God forbid, an engine failing on one of the tugs.

  But it meant that the cables had to be different lengths, carefully calculated and cut, and once the tugs took the cables aboard, they were stuck to that one spot in the ocean where their three cables came together.

  Five were already laid out to Severodvinsk, and with the arrival of the tugs, the last one would be attached directly to Pamir.

  Meanwhile, on the seabed, Halsfjord’s two remotes worked carefully, laying fifteen-kilogram charges as far under the hull as possible. It was a time-consuming process because the mud and silt had to be cleared away before each charge was emplaced. In fact, the charges were being placed where the mud was thickest, as much as two meters. The explosions had a much better chance of freeing the sub if they went off inside the mud, next to the underlying rock, instead of just resting on top.

  Another complication was that the charges would be detonated by electrical signals over wire, instead of by an acoustic signal, as they were the first time. The speed of sound in water was slow enough that a fraction of a second would pass between the nearest charges getting the signal and the ones farther away. Instead, the detonation signal would be sent over wires carefully cut to an exact length so that they went off in a staggered sequence, a ripple effect from stem to stern.

  The web of detonation wires and cables required the remote vehicles to steer a careful path each time they approached the downed submarine, and as they ascended. It all took time.

  After connecting the last cable to Severodvinsk’s hull from Pamir, the ROV did not immediately ascend to the surface. Instead, it rose just a little and turned to “face” the sub. Powerful lights illuminated the hull as it glided above the hull toward the bow. It slowed to almost a crawl, then followed the streamlined curve of the sail. Finally, embedded in the middle of the sail, the grayish outline of the rescue chamber’s panels came into sight.

  The operator, sitting in Halsfjord, brought the ROV to a stop. “There it is,” announced Lindstrom. He told the operator, “Get as close as you can, then circle it.”

  A Russian observer aboard Halsfjord, a qualified submariner, studied the image closely. The picture was also broadcast to Petr Velikiy, Rudnitskiy, and to Churchill.

  USS Churchill

  * * *

  Aboard Churchill, a TV monitor in CIC displayed the underwater image sent by Halsfjord. Patterson, Russo, and Baker had the front-row seats, while the rest of her group and many of the crew clustered behind as closely as rank would permit. The grayish boundary of the escape chamber stood out clearly from the black anechoic coating.

  One of Churchill’s officers, on watch, asked, “Isn’t it a little late in the game to be checking the escape chamber?”

  Russo shook his head. “This isn’t the first inspection, it’s the last. We examined the chamber’s exterior panels on the very first dive from Halsfjord. This is a final check to make sure that we haven’t created an obstruction. We have to make sure the cables won’t snag the chamber when it detaches, or that some piece of debris hasn’t jammed it in place.”

  Patterson and some of the others watched over his shoulder, but after the allotted twenty minutes, two complete circuits around the sail showed no obstruction. Everything looked like it was falling into place, adhering to Lindstrom’s intricate plan.

  USS Seawolf

  * * *

  Jeff Palmer found Jerry in his rack, relaxing with a trashy paperback he’d borrowed from Chief Hudson. Boredom wasn’t usually a problem for Jerry, but with Seawolf simply waiting and watching, he had even managed to get caught up with all his paperwork.

  He looked up at the knock, then put down the book and rolled onto his side when he saw Palmer’s expression. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing right now, thankfully,” Palmer answered, “but I’ve been doing the math again. Severodvinsk will have used up most of the chemicals we delivered yesterday and that will leave them hanging if this attempt fails. Shouldn’t we start preparing Maxine for another supply run?”

  Jerry immediately shook his head. “We can’t. We need her to watch when they try t
o raise Severodvinsk. She has sensors that the Norwegian ROVs don’t.”

  Palmer nodded quickly, but pushed his point. “Of course, but there are things we could do to prepare—bring over more cassettes from Rudnitskiy, for instance. And my guys think they can even precut some of the packing material. It would shorten the time we need to get more supplies over to them—just in case.”

  Jerry thought about Palmer’s suggestion and seriously wondered if it was a good or a bad idea. There was a downside to making the preparations. The Russians might see it as a negative attitude. And while everybody acknowledged the possibility of failure, nobody wanted to think about it. Jerry certainly didn’t.

  “So you think we should expend our last UUV getting more atmosphere control chemicals to them?”

  The torpedo officer shrugged and looked uneasy. “I don’t like it, but it’s that or wait for them to suffocate . . .”

  “And what happens once we’ve sent them more cassettes?” Palmer didn’t answer right away, and Jerry continued. “Everyone is already doing everything that can be done.”

  Jerry forced the words out. “If this second try fails, and I was Petrov, I don’t know if I’d want more chemicals.”

  Palmer shuddered. “You might be right. But choosing to end it, just giving up . . .”

  “The extra time would just give them more opportunity to think about what’s coming.”

  “Unless someone can come up with something else.”

  Jerry joked, “Sure, the Jolly Green Giant with a big-ass fishing net,” but neither he nor Palmer smiled.

  “But it’s an option,” Palmer countered.

  Jerry made a face. “All right, make up a checklist and a timeline. I’ll make sure the XO and the Skipper know we’re ready.”

  “For the unthinkable,” Palmer added.

  “For the unfixable,” Jerry replied.

  Severodvinsk

  * * *

  Petrov kept them out of the escape chamber for as long as possible, but even huddled under their blankets, dozing and coughing in the foul air, he could feel the energy. He had skipped the last round of sleeping pills, and the crew was rousing, starting to feel restless. They wanted to move, but he told them to stay put, stay quiet. Save your strength.

  He tried to rationalize it. It was colder in the escape chamber. All the food and medical supplies had been removed days ago. The wounded were more comfortable where they were. The rescue force wouldn’t be ready on time, or there would be some last-minute snag.

  There. That was it. He couldn’t bear the thought of them going up into the chamber and then climbing back out of it again. They’d done it once already, and while most of his men had kept up a brave front, some had broken down, given up.

  The arrival of the Norwegians had given them new hope, sustained by the letters from their families and the supplies from Seawolf. With tangible support from three nations, they’d found the strength to endure, but Petrov knew how fragile that endurance was.

  Besides, his men had waited for so long. He would enjoy making everyone else wait for them for a change.

  Petr Velikiy

  * * *

  Borisov watched from his command chair as they ran down the checklist. He fought the urge to ask questions. The timing was calculated almost to the second, and he’d checked their calculations over and over. He even had a copy in front of him.

  The real question was, what else should be on that list? Like a traveler leaving the house, the question nagged at him. What had they forgotten?

  Halsfjord was positioning its remote vehicles now. The American remote, “Maxine,” was already in place, while Seawolf herself had withdrawn to three kilometers, close enough to maintain acoustic communication, but clear of the three small underwater vehicles or anything that might go over the side.

  The three unmanned vehicles, two Norwegian and one American, were spaced equally around a circle three hundred meters in diameter. If the rescue went well, they’d be able to record the process. If there was a problem, there was a small chance they would be able to correct it.

  He scanned the monitors that filled every spare corner of the flag command post. Most displayed status reports: helicopter fuel, weather, equipment breakdowns. One showed a video image of someone in an impossibly bright blue parka, standing on the fantail of one of the tugs. A crawl across the bottom in alternating Russian and English identified him as Britt Adams, a reporter for Skynews aboard the tug Pamir. Thankfully, the audio was off.

  Patterson had convinced the admiral that the tug was the best place for a reporter to be. He was going to report anyway, she argued, and Borisov had conceded that point. And he certainly wouldn’t find any state secrets aboard a tugboat. The admiral had agreed with that as well. And what better way to show the Russian effort to save their crew than a live feed of Pamir straining at the cables?

  Borisov had given his permission, and Adams had been helicoptered over to Pamir at dawn. A condition of his presence was that his video signal was relayed from Pamir to the flagship, and then to a satellite. Borisov could cut this transmission at any time—rather, the English-speaking captain-lieutenant who’d been ordered to watch Adams’s broadcast could.

  The tugs and Halsfjord were all in position. In fact, they couldn’t move out of position, and that was beginning to make him impatient. The rest of the task force had assumed stations one mile away from Severodvinsk, and every ship had at least one boat out with a crew standing by. Legkiy’s boat was already in the water, standing by with a line she’d attach to the escape chamber.

  Every ship with a helicopter had it fueled and ready. Every sickbay, including Petr Velikiy’s extensive medical facilities, was on alert. Everything that could be thought of had been done.

  Borisov would not give the order. As far as that went, he’d already given the order, back when he took over the rescue. Lindstrom had control of the detonators and a Russian liaison on Halsfjord would tell the two tugs when to start pulling. And Lindstrom would give the signal only when Petrov said he was ready.

  Severodvinsk

  * * *

  “It’s time,” Petrov announced softly. Kalinin stood slowly, favoring his sprain, ready to direct the evacuation, but everything had been thoroughly planned. Even if they hadn’t held evacuation drills before the collision, they’d dreamed of little else since. Petrov had even calculated and recalculated how long it would take them to reach the surface. From their current depth, he figured one minute and forty-nine seconds. That was all it would take.

  Now, with few words, and not as quickly as he would have liked, men pulled themselves up, taking care to stay wrapped against the cold.

  Senior-Lieutenant Shubin did show some energy as he opened the access hatch, hopefully for the last time, Petrov thought, and then climbed up into the chamber. A moment later, he poked his head out and looked towards Kalinin. After reporting that everything was in order, a weary smile appeared on his tired face. “Why am I looking forward to going somewhere even colder than this place?”

  Senior-Lieutenant Kozyrev, waiting for his turn to climb, answered, “I’d take up with a polar bear and live on the ice to get away from your breath.” Several crewmen laughed. Nobody had been able to brush their teeth for several days, and there were worse odors.

  “Yours is no better,” Shubin countered. “You can use yours to stun a bear. I now know why it is so hard for you to find dates.” That made everyone laugh, and the pace increased a little.

  Once a dozen able-bodied men had climbed into the escape chamber, it was time to send up the wounded. The sixteen injured crewmen all had injuries that prevented them from climbing the ladder into the chamber: sprains, broken bones, wrenched backs. Kalinin was the first to go up. He would supervise the men in the chamber, and he wanted the men to practice with him.

  It was a slow process. In drills they’d held before the collision, they’d gotten eighty-five men into the escape chamber in seventeen minutes, beating the navy requirement by three
minutes. Now, even with fewer men to load, Petrov guessed it would take an hour.

  One by one, the injured were gently lifted and carried to the base of the ladder. Some could stand, but many had to be held upright while a line was passed under their shoulders. Then the men above gently, carefully, brought their disabled shipmate up into the chamber and belted them in place. The exertion made the men on the ropes cough, and it took five or six to do what would normally be the work of two men.

  The escape chamber was a cylinder two decks high. Each deck was a circular space with seats lining the bulkhead. The upper deck was open in the middle, and little more than a wide ring, allowing the men to move to and from their seats. It was not the best of accommodations. The injured were all strapped in on the lower deck, with healthy men on either side. Sadilenko was a special case. Dr. Balanov had insisted on keeping him completely sedated, and in a straitjacket as well. He was sent up last, after the injured men, limp as wet paper. A rope harness added to the seat held him upright.

  Maybe it was the thought of escape, or the increased activity. Certinly the coughing and moans of the wounded hadn’t helped, but Petrov felt a wave of claustrophobia wash through him. Suddenly he couldn’t draw a full breath. The cold air filled his lungs and refused to sustain him.

  The last of the men were climbing now. Lyachin, the senior officer after the starpom, reported to Petrov, “Codes and classified material have been passed up, sir.” He held up the logbook. “I was going to take this up myself. We are the last two.”