by Larry Bond
“President Huber will appoint you an ‘on-scene coordinator’ for the search-and-rescue operation. Under international law, Rudel is the on-scene commander, since he was or is the first unit there. Given his limited communications, supporting him with a surface ship makes sense.”
Wright made some notes. “Now, once the Russians arrive, they will quite properly take over the rescue effort, but you will stay there until Seawolf comes home.”
“Who do I report to?” Patterson asked. She wasn’t going to say yes until she knew where the wires led.
Wright grinned. “That depends. SUBGRU Two on matters relating to Seawolf, the Russians for the rescue, me for everything else. I’ll stay out of your hair as long as I feel informed, and I’ll get you whatever you need.”
“Can I take along someone? Dr. Russo. I met him at the brief. He’s an expert on Russian submarine rescue.”
“I’ll arrange it. I’ll also include a State Department rep, in case things with the Russians get intense, and a naval officer as your aide.” Wright saw her expression and reassured her. “They will work for you, I promise.”
“All right.”
“Splendid.” Wright’s smile lit the room. “Ben will arrange the travel details, but expect to leave tomorrow—early.”
~ * ~
Two hours later, she skipped dinner to hit an outfitter’s store on Seventh Street. They expressed interest in her destination when she told them she needed arctic gear, but Patterson put them off with a story about an environmental survey in Alaska, which she’d actually done, years ago.
She’d barely started when her phone beeped. It was a text from Lowell. check cnn. She hit a key and checked a list of articles on the screen. It was obvious which one he was referring to.
The audio with such a small speaker was awful, and she had to keep the volume down in the store, but the anchor’s voice was understandable.
“The Russian Interfax news agency has announced that the Americans have admitted their role in the loss of their submarine, now identified as Severodvinsk. A Russian naval ministry spokesman says that the U.S. government has provided both the location and time of the submarine’s loss through a collision with an American nuclear attack submarine.
“The Russian statement did not name the U.S. submarine, and questioned its ‘oceanographic survey’ mission. The submarine will evidently remain in the area conducting its own search for the downed Russian vessel.
“The ministry claims that because the location is in international waters, the only way the Russian submarine could have been crippled is through ‘hostile actions’ by the American vessel. They are discounting the American claim of an accidental collision, on the grounds that there is no reason for two submarines to be operating in such close proximity, and also the need to conduct a search, since it and the American had collided. He hinted the U.S. actually knows the precise location of their missing submarine, and is withholding it.
“The ministry says it is continuing its rescue plans, but that the search vessels will be escorted by Northern Fleet warships to prevent any interference.”
~ * ~
14
UPHILL
In the Barents Sea
It was a series of regular, violent motions. First the deck would pitch down and to starboard as Seawolf crested a wave. Then the entire boat would actually slide to the right, finally rolling back to port as she came down into the trough. As the wave’s crest moved toward her stern, it sometimes lifted her propulsor partway out of the water. The vanes would thrash for just a moment, and then as the water covered them, ice chunks would strike the vanes and then the cowling. The shuddering vibration, like ice cubes in a disposal, ran though the hull and everything attached to it.
There was some yaw in the motion, too, a slight turn to starboard and then back to port as the rudder lost its bite. And because the bow wasn’t a smooth, round, symmetrical shape anymore, all manner of vibrations and clunks found their way into the pattern.
Jerry had long ago ceased being seasick, if that meant losing the contents of one’s stomach. His stomach muscles were exhausted and sore, thankfully fatigued to the point where they were unable to spasm. He still felt weak and almost dizzy from the boat’s motion, but he could function— barely. He was still keeping death as a fallback option.
On Seawolf, all normal functions had been stripped down to bare bones, and then the extra bones had been discarded. Sea state six meant near gale-force winds and ten to twelve-foot seas, streaked with large tails of ice-laden spray. Submarines just weren’t built for this weather. Movement had to be carefully planned, not only through the passageways, but even simply crossing to the opposite side of a compartment. Handholds here and there, wait for the right moment to step, or risk banging your head on that cabinet, pipe, panel, or whatever as you’re thrown forward.
Shimko had passed the word as soon as they turned east. Rig the boat for heavy weather. Anything that could move, would. Anything that could be shaken loose, would move. Two thankfully minor injuries in the first six hours had shown the strength of the storm, and that the crew needed to use their imagination when securing for rough seas.
Jerry moved carefully, shuffling in concert with the deck’s gyrations in a nautical zen that came from hours of practice and a deep need to conserve energy. He, Shimko, and the captain were taking turns touring the boat, visiting each deck in every compartment, checking up on the tormented occupants. It was tiring, but necessary.
His first stop was enlisted berthing, aft and high up in the hull. The motion of the ship was, unfortunately, quite pronounced and the men literally had to wedge themselves in their bunks to prevent from being thrown out. With everyone not on watch confined to their rack, it was crowded, and noisier than usual from the motion of the ship and the sound of water and ice pounding the rubber-coated hull. Jerry was reminded of the old-style Pullman sleeper cars; assuming the train was riding a roller coaster in a hailstorm.
Many of the men were surprisingly asleep, but a few saw him, and waved or greeted him weakly. Jerry wasn’t the only one suffering the mal de mer. While only a few were as sensitive as he was, in seas like this, more than two-thirds of the crew were affected.
He noted two men in berthing that had sick chits taped to their bunks and IV bags hung over them. Dehydration was a real risk with severe seasickness. He asked to make sure the doc was looking in on them regularly.
Down lower, closer to the bottom of the boat, the torpedo room offered a smoother ride. With the boat moving so violently, all regular maintenance had been suspended, so it was quiet. The single watchstander, a pale olive hue, was seated, braced against the weapon launch console and one of the stowage racks. He was wearing his sound-powered phones and was alert enough to notice Jerry’s arrival and carefully stood.
Several other enlisted members had sought refuge there against the motion. A few were even trying to eat—cold boxed meals had been prepared by the galley. The smell of food stirred Jerry’s stomach, but he quickly left before it could wake up and remember how unhappy it was.
Aft of the torpedo room were the auxiliary machinery spaces, and then the forward reactor bulkhead. Like the torpedo room, these spaces were sparsely populated. He then climbed back up to the next deck, passing by the wardroom to radio. Actual work was being done in the radio room, as the ITs printed out message traffic and sorted it by department. With the floating wire stowed, they couldn’t monitor the fleet broadcast while on the surface; the two multipurpose antennas were still down. They’d bolted several fans, blowing as hard as they could, to cabinets and shelves to help keep the air moving. Stray bits of paper flew through the small space, but the two men on watch looked almost comfortable.
Chandler was in there as well, hunched over one corner of a table, struggling to return a binder to a storage rack filled with hefty-looking manuals. He looked pale, but focused on his task. He saw Jerry and stood, made sure the binders and manuals were secure, then stepped out into the pass
ageway. “No change in equipment status, sir,” Chandler reported.
“I’m sure you would have told me if there was,” Jerry said coolly.
“With your permission, I’m helping the XO with a crew training summary. It’s a required report, and with most of the radio gear down I’ve got some free time, so I offered to help him with it.”
“Since you’re already doing it, I suppose you can have my permission,” replied Jerry with a touch of irritation. He was in no mood for Chandler’s brown-nosing. “I’m sure you won’t let this interfere with your regular duties, and you’ll of course keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” He was almost standing at attention, and Jerry noted an intensity in his manner. “The XO said he might have some other things for me to do as well.”
“What about that write-up you were working on? Your account of the collision?” Jerry asked.
“I’m, I’m still working on it,” Chandler replied nervously. “The fire-control plot narratives are taking a little longer to do than I expected. There is just so much information that I need to cram into a clear, succinct report.” The commo’s cheery expression vanished as he spoke, replaced by the haunted look Jerry had seen earlier.
“I thought if I took a little break to help out the XO—you know, clear my mind a bit—it would get a little easier.” His gaze drifted downward, toward the deck, as he finished. Jerry wasn’t sure if Chandler was ashamed at getting caught jumping the chain of command again, or if he was still wrestling with the effects of the collision.
Before he could say anything, Chandler’s head whipped back up, a slight smile on his ashen face. “But I’ve finished my eval inputs for next month. They’re on your desk. Well, at least that’s where I put them.”
Genuinely surprised, Jerry said, “That’s good work, Matt. Thank you,” and then added, “As you were.” If the SOB liked formality, he’d give it to him.
Chandler disappeared back into the radio room, looking almost eager to get back to his task.
Jerry left radio glad that Chandler couldn’t see his puzzled expression. He’d never seen anyone that eager to push paper. It wasn’t natural, but it did make sense given Chandler’s cover-your-ass philosophy. He actually thought collecting all those brownie points mattered, that somehow if he got enough paperwork done, it would protect him from whatever loomed around the corner. Something must be eating at him, Jerry thought. He sure seemed to be afraid. But of what? Failure? Or not being recognized as exceptional?
Jerry got in and out of control as quickly as possible. The bridge watch was being rotated frequently, and the prebriefs and debriefs were held in control. Every watchstander came down dripping wet; some still had ice in their hair. The air was wet, a cold clammy humid feel, almost dripping, in spite of the nuclear-powered dehumidifiers. They didn’t bother putting the swab and bucket away, but two well-placed bungee cords made sure they didn’t move.
He briefly stopped to look over the navigation plot. Dunn had the duty and was carefully updating the track as he approached, one hand writing and the other locked to the edge of the table to steady himself. Dunn looked good—tired, but evidently not suffering from the sub’s motion.
Once he’d checked the chart, Jerry headed aft again. He’d meant to just pass through officer’s country on his way to the XO’s stateroom, but Palmer’s desk light was on and the curtain drawn back. Loose papers had slid from his desk and were scattered across the deck. Jerry stepped in to gather them up, but saw Palmer, lying in his bunk, one arm limp over the edge and dangling, moving like a pendulum with the ship’s motion.
Jerry hurriedly stepped over the papers and bent down to check on the junior officer. He was awake, a little pale, but Jerry had seen far worse.
“Jeff, are you OK?” Jerry was concerned but puzzled.
With obvious effort, Palmer turned his head to look at Jerry. “I’m whipped. No, that’s what I’d feel like if I got better. I came down from the bridge an hour ago, and I meant to work on the search plan for the UUVs, but I was so tired I had to lie down.”
Carefully lowering himself to one knee, Jerry gathered up the papers. “Try to get something to eat and drink, if you can keep it down.”
“Oh, I grabbed a box lunch from the galley,” Palmer answered. “The doc’s pills are helping with the seasickness. I’m just fracking tired. It’s so easy to stop what I’m doing.”
Jerry left without saying anything else. It would have been easy, almost reflexive, to either haul Palmer’s butt out of the rack, or blow sunshine at him until he was motivated to get up. Neither approach dealt with the real problem, and Palmer’s gas tank might actually be near “E.” But Jerry didn’t think so.
Seawolf’s crew had suffered a major hit, both physical and mental, when they collided with the Russian. Everyone in the service knows submarining is dangerous. The potential for disaster is just one mistake away. But submariners compensate for that with detailed procedures for any imaginable situation. Near-obsessive training pushes the danger and the fear it brings into the back corners of one’s mind, where driving a boat seems no riskier than riding a commuter train every morning. Sure, something might happen. But you’re much more likely to read about it happening to the other guy.
But now it had happened to them, and instead of having a chance to recover, Rudel had turned them around, back toward an uncertain and potentially threatening future. And regardless of how things would turn out in the end, nobody on Seawolf would ever think of submarines in the same way.
There was little to do about it, except recognize that it was happening. Jerry had faith that Seawolf ‘s crew would react quickly and properly when the next crisis came. In the meantime, let them rest and heal.
Jerry was just about to make his report to the XO when he realized he had skipped the electronics equipment space up on the first deck. “Well, that was pretty stupid,” thought Jerry out loud. Now he would have to trudge back up and check in on the guys doing repair work. He was briefly tempted to just report everything status quo, but that wasn’t how he operated. With a weary sigh, Jerry turned back around and made his way forward.
Climbing up to the electronics equipment space was a circus act. Wait for the bow to begin pitching forward and the first step would take you halfway up the ladder. Watch for the roll to starboard, then step up at the bottom of the trough, but hang on as the boat swings back to port.
Here, once again as high inside the sub as Jerry could get, the motion was constant and violent enough to bruise him on any of a dozen angles. Like a climber, he made sure of the next handhold before releasing the one he had as he worked his way from the top of the ladder to the door of electronics space.
The noise was constant and unnerving. Instead of the quiet hum of electronics, Jerry heard wind-driven ice floes slammed and ground against the hull. It unnerved him, forcing him to remember that nothing was being crushed or mangled in runaway machinery.
This is where the action was. The periscope and other retractable masts passed through the electronics equipment space on their way down. Packing glands in the overhead sealed them against the outside water pressure where they entered the pressure hull, and those joints had been strained and even opened by the impact of the Russian’s hull.
EN2 Gaynor, one of Lieutenant (j.g.) Williams’s men, had wedged himself into a small gap between the periscope assembly and the bulkhead. It was uncomfortable, but it freed both hands to work on the seal overhead. Another petty officer, MM3 Day, alternately handed Gaynor tools and mopped up seawater around the gland so the second class could see to work.
Day’s efforts hadn’t kept Gaynor from getting repeatedly splashed in the face with icy water. His shirt and even his pants were spattered, and he occasionally stopped long enough to wipe his glasses. It was crude, rough work, pounding material into the gland to plug the gap. It wasn’t the kind of thing one associated with nuclear submarines, but in some ways, a sailor’s work never changed.
Todd W
illiams was there, looking miserable. Braced in a corner, he greeted Jerry tiredly. “Gaynor’s making progress.” A muttered imprecation from the petty officer made him pause, but only for a moment. “This is the third try. The first two leaked, but the stuff seems to be working, now that Gaynor’s got the proper tools.”
Two more engineers maneuvered their way into the space, laden with tools and more packing material. Their clothing was wet enough to show they’d been working on the leak as well.
There was only one question, and Williams didn’t wait for Jerry to ask. “Give it another two hours and we’ll be ready for a test.”
“That’s good news, Todd. Thanks.”
His tour of the operations compartment now finally complete, Jerry headed for the XO’s stateroom and reported. Shimko, pale but still seated and working at his desk, said, “Good. That matches what he told me earlier. I’m glad he’s still on schedule.”
