by Larry Bond
The engineer’s report pulled Petrov out of his funk, and he instinctively looked around the command post, as if to make sure nothing had been left behind. Lyachin saw him look, and said, “We’ve had two people count, and they matched. Sixty-five men are in the chamber, comrade Captain. You and I will make it sixty-seven.”
Petrov nodded and walked over to the underwater communications station. “Halsfjord, this is Severodvinsk. Everyone is in the rescue chamber.” He looked at his watch for a moment, then said, “We will flood the starboard ballast tanks in one minute . . . mark!”
“Understood, Severodvinsk. Good luck to you.”
Petrov hung up the mike and reflexively switched off the set, smiling as he realized how ridiculous that was. Tracking the second hand on his watch, he hurried over to join Lyachin at the engineer’s post.
Thirty-five seconds. Petrov looked around the central post again. He tried to take it all in, fixing it in his memory. His first, and very likely last command. Regardless, he’d never be back here again.
Fifteen seconds. “On my count,” Petrov ordered.
Lyachin nodded silently, his hands hovering over the switches but not touching them.
Ten seconds. It was foolish to time things to the second, but Lindstrom was watching his own clock on the surface. Petrov wouldn’t be the one to mess up the timing.
He watched the second hand, and called “Five seconds,” resting his hands on the controls. He counted down the last few seconds, and at “Zero,” both he and Lyachin pushed the valve controls opening the vents on the starboard main ballast tanks. Suddenly, there was a loud roar coming from Severodvinsk’s starboard side as the air in the ballast tanks surged their way to the surface. By putting all their reserve air into the port ballast tanks, and flooding the starboard ones, the engineers hoped to create a torque on the submarine’s hull; a torque that would help rotate Severodvinsk upright.
Petrov waited for the few seconds it took for the indicators to change, then told Lyachin, “Go.”
Halsfjord
* * *
The passive sonar on the Norwegian ship wasn’t nearly as sensitive as a military suite, but they were sitting almost directly over the bottomed submarine. The operator reported, “I can hear mechanical noises, and air moving.”
Lindstrom nodded and said “Good,” never taking his eyes from the second hand. He’d conferred with the Russians about how long it would take the water to fill Severodvinsk’s ballast tanks, how long it would take for thousands of tons of steel to start to move. Some of her port tanks were ruptured, though, and some of that air would be lost. The next step was timed, hopefully, to coincide when the sub began to twist.
He turned to the Russian officer. “Tell the tugs to go. Full power.” It would take them some time to come up to full power as well.
“Thirty seconds.”
Severodvinsk
* * *
In spite of his haste, Petrov took extra time to double-check the hatch, then carefully climbed to the seat reserved for him next to the starpom. Kalinin was staring at his watch. Petrov looked again at the inclinometer. It showed thirty-six degrees of port list. They had to get within ten to fifteen degrees of an even keel.
According to the briefings he’d received, the escape chamber should not be released if the submarine was moving too much. He hoped a sideways roll wouldn’t be a problem, because the instant they showed less than twelve degrees, he was pulling the release.
“Ten seconds,” Kalinin announced.
Petrov called out “All hands brace! Remember, I can’t pull on the release until we roll vertical, so stay braced after the explosion. I don’t know how long it will . . .”
The shock and noise were as violent as anything he’d ever imagined, almost as bad as the collision itself. A Russian PLAB-250 depth charge held sixty kilograms of high explosive. Dropped close enough to an enemy submarine, it could crack the pressure hull and shake equipment off its mountings. Now, dozens of charges were exploding in a ripple fashion, not a hundred meters away, or fifty, or ten, but directly against the hull. Two rows of gas bubbles abruptly appeared, shoving the water and mud away from the sub’s hull, then collapsed in on themselves.
Like driving fast over a washboard road, or a hailstorm of hammers, Petrov felt each blast, or imagined he could. The seat he was strapped to carried the shock wave right into his body, jarring his spine and giving him an instant headache. The sound seemed to come from the water outside the chamber, from the hull below them, and from inside the chamber itself. Many of the crew yelled in surprise, and the injured men cried out from the pain. It was rough treatment, and Petrov felt their pain, helpless to avoid or forestall it.
In spite of the violent motion of water and gas under the hull, the list remained. He waited for them to roll, or at least shift position, but the inclinometer stayed frozen at thirty-six degrees.
The force of the explosions lasted for only a fraction of a second, but Petrov continued to feel, or imagine that he could feel, the wham-wham-wham vibration they had caused. Then the feeling became a real sensation, and Kalinin remarked on it as well. Still half-deafened by the explosions, Petrov couldn’t distinguish any sound, so he placed his palm against the metal bulkhead of the chamber, listening with his hand.
There was a vibration, low and jumbled. He tried to visualize it, but nothing in the submarine was working, so . . .
“It’s the tugs,” Petrov announced. Others mimicked his actions, feeling the rumble of the tugs’ engines carried through the cables to the hull.
Petr Velikiy
* * *
Borisov found himself watching Adams’s transmission, even ordering the sound turned up. Maybe he was attracted to the video image. Adams’s camera was trained on Pamir’s fantail, wreathed in white froth. Three thick black lines led in a tight fan from her fantail into the water.
“I’m standing on the topdeck of the Russian salvage tug Pamir. Those cables you see lead to the crippled submarine Severodvinsk, its half-frozen crew critically short of breathable air.” The camera swung to show the Norwegian ship, perhaps half a kilometer away. “Moments ago Halsfjord detonated thirty-two explosive charges on both sides of the stranded submarine’s hull. These are supposed to free her from the bottom suction and jar her loose of the rock ledges. Now the tugs are straining to pull the twelve-thousand-ton submarine upright.”
The camera shifted again to show Pamir’s sister Altay, just a hundred meters to port. With her white superstructure and a dark gray hull, she made an impressive picture as she strained at the cables. “Although a fraction of Severodvinsk’s size, each tug’s engines produce nine thousand horsepower. Their combined . . .”
The image tilted suddenly, then shuddered and spun. It stopped to show a portion of Pamir’s deck and handrail. Voices in Russian and one in English shouted, but the words were drowned out by an angry howl from the tug’s diesels. The engine noise quickly stopped, and someone, probably Adams, picked up the camera. There was an “I’ve got it” in English and the image steadied again, to show Altay heeling over to starboard, sliding sideways across the water toward Pamir.
A shout in Russian made Adams swing the camera to Pamir’s fantail. Two of the cables were no longer taut, and the third draped over her stern and was visibly moving to port, increasing the angle between it and the other two.
It had taken moments for Adams’s video to show the disaster. By the time his camera steadied on the limp cables, Borisov was on his feet, shouting orders. “Call the tugs! Talk to both of them, find out their status! Call the Norwegians. I want to speak to Lindstrom! Kurganov, call Severodvinsk.”
“I can’t,” the admiral replied, “they’ll still be in the escape chamber.”
Borisov paused. “You’re right, of course. Then call Seawolf. See what their remote vehicle saw.”
“I’ve got Lindstrom on the radiophone,” a lieutenant announced. Borisov hurried over and took the handset. “Borisov here. What happened?”
<
br /> Lindstrom’s voice showed his confusion. “I don’t know what’s happened. Both tugs suddenly veered to starboard. It looks like the cables to the sub’s bow are slack on both tugs.”
Nicherin, one of Borisov’s staff, interrupted, “Admiral, I’ve got reports from both Pamir and Altay. No casualties, but each has lost the cable to Severodvinsk’s bow.”
“That still gives them two cables each. Tell them full power!” Nicherin nodded quickly and hurried off.
Borisov returned his attention to the handset. Lindstrom was speaking, and Borisov asked him to repeat. “We’re moving the ROVs in to get a closer look at the cables.”
The sailor in Borisov thought about the forces, the way they were applied. “Concentrate on the bow section. The cables must have come loose somehow.”
“I agree. The chance of two breaking at the same moment is incredibly small.”
“How long until you can see?” Borisov asked.
“There’s a lot of silt from the charges,” Lindstrom answered. “We’ll have to get in very close, almost on top of the submarine. With the tugs still pulling, there is a risk we could lose one.”
“I understand,” Borisov answered. “Go ahead.”
“We are already sending one of the ROVs in. It will take three, maybe four minutes.”
“If they’ve simply come loose, be ready to reattach them.”
“Understood. We can do that.”
USS Seawolf
* * *
Jerry and most of the wardroom were in control, with as many of the crew that could fit down in the torpedo room, watching the displays. Maxine had been running slow, angled racetracks, her sonar optimized for short range, high-resolution images.
They’d heard the explosion through the hull, a little alarming in spite of being right on time. Sonar also reported the tug’s engines running flat out. Maxine’s sonar showed most of Severodvinsk, lying angled to port. They all longed for her to slowly roll to starboard, and then for the escape chamber to appear above the sail. The UUV would be able to see it, even through the murk from the explosions.
Rumor was, the cooks were putting together a big party, with a Russian menu. Blinis, something called piroshki. They might even invite Borisov back. Seemed like a nice enough guy.
Sonar then reported the engines slowing, followed by a revving up again to full power.
But Severodvinsk never moved. Kurganov’s call over the underwater telephone confirmed the bad news.
USS Churchill
* * *
They’d moved from CIC to the bridge, as if actually seeing the vessels would tell them something new. The radiomen piped the circuits over the bridge loudspeakers, and they listened to Borisov’s questions and his order to maintain power.
After about five minutes, Lindstrom came back on the circuit. “We have a clear view of the bow from the first ROV. The mooring point is gone! It’s been torn off of the casing!”
He was reporting to Borisov, who responded in English. “I do not understand.”
“The fitting that the cables were attached to has been ripped from the submarine’s deck.”
“Impossible. Those mooring points are designed to withstand tremendous forces.”
Lindstrom patiently answered, “We will be sending the photos to you in a few moments. The foundations are cracked, and the metal of the casing is torn. The fitting itself is missing entirely. The cables did not come loose, they pulled it off the deck.”
Borisov’s voice, even over the radio, was incredulous. “How could this happen?” He was asking himself as much as Lindstrom.
“Severodvinsk suffered a lot of damage to her bow. The hull’s structure must have been weakened.”
There was a long pause, and everyone on the bridge could imagine the Russian searching for some solution. “Can the cables be reattached to the bow some other way? It must be done quickly,” he added.
“No, Admiral. There’s nothing left to attach them to. And the tugs would have to stop while we did the work.”
After another pause, Borisov answered, “Very well. I intend to continue with the remaining two lines.”
Lindstrom’s answer was simple. “Good luck. Out.”
Joanna Patterson, Captain Baker, and the others stood listening to the conversation. After the Norwegian had signed off, they stood silently, absorbing and understanding. Silas cursed, Russo walked out to the bridge wing, and Patterson saw him pounding his fist on the rail.
She was surprised when Joyce Parker pulled out a Kleenex and offered it to her. She hadn’t felt the tears until then.
They watched as the tugs strained, working to move Severodvinsk. Borisov had them alternate, then angle left and right. All the while, Seawolf and Halsfjord watched their vehicles, eager to report any movement. Finally, after half an hour with nothing to show, the admiral had each tug cast off one of its cables, so that Pamir had the midships while Altay pulled on the stern. He ordered them to pull in opposite directions, hoping that the twisting motion might somehow help.
Severodvinsk
* * *
Petrov waited, holding his hand against the metal bulkhead of the capsule. It was a lousy way to monitor the rescue efforts, but the capsule had no sensors. He held his hand there, feeling the vibration, knowing the tugs were working, but the inclinometer never moved.
Soon after the explosions, he’d felt a jar that had passed through the deck, but the vibration had resumed quickly. It stayed constant, and he could only wait and hope and watch the needle as it hovered at thirty-six degrees.
After ten minutes, he pulled his hand away, but others took up his watch. He visualized the tugs, tried to calculate the forces, but his thinking kept trailing off into worries about his men, and what was taking so long.
After fifteen minutes, he started to look for reasons why the hull hadn’t shifted yet, but would. After another ten minutes, he confirmed that the vibrations were still there, but according to the inclinometer, they were not having any effect. Were the vibrations something else? If not the tugs, what? He decided he didn’t want to know.
The excitement of moving into the chamber and the explosions had passed. The crew waited patiently, and silently. There was no point in wasting air by asking questions. They knew as much as their captain. Most of the injured appeared to be asleep, or at least passed into a quiet state brought on by exhaustion and stress.
Petrov promised he’d wait until forty minutes had gone by, and then found himself looking for reasons to keep waiting. Waiting meant there might still be a chance. When he stopped waiting, and opened the lower hatch, it meant that yet another rescue attempt had failed.
He knew Borisov and Rudel and Lindstrom were probably calling on the underwater telephone. But they knew he and his men would be waiting here in the chamber, out of touch but ready to ascend the instant the sub rolled far enough to starboard.
Fifty-two minutes after the explosive charges had been detonated, the vibration stopped. He waited a full five minutes for it to resume, or for anything else to happen. Feeling like a failure, he unsnapped his seat belt and stood.
His action, final as a jail door slamming shut, brought moans and cries from his crew. A few wept as he walked to the hatch and unsealed it. Before descending, he turned to Kalinin and ordered, “Keep them here for a few more minutes while I call Petr Velikiy.” The starpom nodded sadly, even though it was just delaying the inevitable.
Petrov left the escape chamber, heading for the underwater communications station and bad news.
28
FINAL PUSH
12 October 2008
1433/2:33 PM
Petr Velikiy
* * *
It took only a few sentences for Borisov to tell Petrov what the unmanned vehicles had revealed. No explanations were needed. They both understood exactly what it meant.
“What is your CO2 level?”
Petrov reported, “Fonarin did an analysis just before we boarded the capsule. It was three point
two percent, and he says the chemicals, the cassettes, everything is exhausted. The physical activity of climbing in and out of the escape capsule has also produced more of the gas. We’ve all had headaches for some time now, but many of my crew are starting to complain of dizziness and seeing spots before their eyes. With all the regeneration cassettes depleted, there really isn’t much we can do. Dr. Balanov is attempting to administer another round of sedatives, but some of the men are refusing to take them.”
Borisov could understand men not wanting to end their lives in a drugged trance. “I understand. The Americans have another unmanned vehicle. They’ve offered to send you more cassettes.”
“No. Absolutely not.” At first, the strength of Petrov’s answer surprised Borisov, but then he realized it shouldn’t. One or two more days of lingering cold misery, and for what? To sit around and contemplate a fate that could not be changed? It would be his choice, if he were down there.
“My apologies, Admiral. I appreciate Rudel’s offer, but it wouldn’t matter. My Chief Engineer reports that we are almost out of reserve battery power. We can’t operate the air-regeneration system anymore, even if we had cassettes. I’m afraid we are just running out of time.” Petrov’s voice was remarkably frank, almost mechanical, as he made his report.
“We are not yet ready to concede, Captain. I must go now, to speak with Lindstrom and the others. Everything will be considered. We will speak again afterwards.”
