Cold Choices - [Jerry Mitchell 02]

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Cold Choices - [Jerry Mitchell 02] Page 27

by Larry Bond


  The deck shuddered, an unusual motion. Both Jerry and Shimko grabbed for support and waited until it had passed.

  “The storm’s getting worse,” Shimko announced. It wasn’t news, but it started him talking about what was obviously an uncomfortable request. “I want you to go topside and look at the weather.”

  Jerry smiled, almost involuntarily, and laughed, but only for a moment. “It’s hard not to look at the weather when you’re up there.”

  “We’re starting to get more injuries,” the XO explained. “It’s mostly scrapes and bruises, but Garcia was actually thrown from his rack when he was asleep. The doc just put seven stitches in his forehead.”

  Shimko spoke carefully, as if he’d rehearsed what he had to ask. “As long as we’re forced to remain on the surface, the Captain’s concerned about the boat’s ability to weather the storm. It’s bad enough that the storm’s moving slowly to southeast, but we’re heading northeasterly, almost perpendicular to its path. Read the latest weather reports, go up and look things over, then report back to me. Should we keep going, or slow and try to find a more comfortable course?”

  The confusion must have shown in Jerry’s expression. Shimko explained, “Yes, this is the Captain’s decision to make. And yes, he and I both went up a little while ago. He used the sat phone to call Rountree’s parents. We both looked at the weather, but now he wants to hear your opinion as well.”

  There was only one answer. “Aye, aye, sir. I’ll report back as soon as I can.”

  Jerry went back to his stateroom, trying to work it through. The captain might be testing him, seeing what Jerry’s answer would be, but Shimko hadn’t acted like this was a training evolution. The XO also hadn’t hinted at his own opinion.

  Rudel was an expert sailor. Certainly nobody aboard Seawolf would question his decision, whatever he chose. So why was the skipper taking a poll? Was he second-guessing his own judgment?

  After changing into his thermals and several layers of warm clothes, Jerry worked his way to control and told the chief of the watch he needed to go up. He hadn’t been topside since he’d inspected the damage with Shimko after the collision. Since then, qualified conning officers had taken one-hour watches topside, while the deck was manned in control.

  An auxiliaryman met him on the first deck with the foul-weather gear, boots, pants, and a heavy coat, and helped Jerry climb into them. Standing on one leg was impossible with the motion of the boat, and Jerry sat on the deck to get the pants on. Getting up was strangely easy, a matter of waiting, then simply pushing up as the deck fell away beneath you.

  A parachute harness went over everything, and the chief of the boat, EMCM Hess, double-checked the clips, as if Jerry was planning to jump from a plane. Then he helped Jerry into a bright orange life vest. “Sir, use the first clip, right at the top of the ladder.” Master Chief Hess’s tone was earnest, dead serious. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but we almost lost someone because he didn’t clip up quickly enough. He wanted to close the hatch first.” As he talked, the master chief checked the emergency flasher and waterproof radio attached to the vest.

  “Who?” Jerry question’s was automatic.

  The COB shook his head. “I promised I wouldn’t say if he promised not to be a knucklehead again.” He grinned. “Besides, I could get in trouble speaking that way to an officer.”

  Jerry suppressed his own smile and answered solemnly, “Just like you said, COB. Right away, first one at the top of the ladder.”

  As he stated to climb, carefully moving with the motion of the ship, the master chief said, “Wait until we’re at the top of a wave. Most of the water’s drained out the cockpit by then.”

  Jerry nodded and climbed the few rungs. He grabbed the hatch, then waited, feeling the bow pitch down once, then twice. On the third wave he quickly worked the mechanism, then, helped by the downward motion, threw the hatch up.

  He spotted the clip at the top of the ladder and hurriedly secured his harness. Jerry was out of the ladder and closing the hatch when the first wave hit. Some of the water went down the access trunk, but Jerry slammed it as quickly as he could.

  Tom Norris, the reactor officer, had the watch, along with Fireman Inglis as lookout. To their credit, both had their glasses up and were searching the ragged horizon. The sound of the wind and ice masked his arrival until the hatch clanged shut and Jerry yelled, “Permission to come up.”

  Norris turned, one hand braced on the bridge coaming, and shouted back, “Granted. Watch your footing!” He pointed to the deck, and Jerry could see patches of ice on the wet surface.

  Remembering the COB’s instructions, Jerry waited for a break in the waves before quickly switching his harness clip to an attachment point nearer the front of the bridge. He had to carefully pick his footing on the slippery surface while he braced against the ship’s motion and the wind tearing at him.

  The wind came from the port side, trying to roll Seawolf over while it pulled them out of the cockpit, but the sail didn’t have enough area for the wind to work on. It drove the snow and ice ahead of it, making Jerry pull his hood around to shield his face.

  A wave broke over the coaming. Jerry tried to dodge it, but the other two didn’t bother. After it passed, leaving half an inch of water splashing in the cockpit, Norris leaned over as far as his harness allowed and said, “It’s too early for my relief, but if you insist. . .” He had to speak up to be heard over the wind.

  “How is she handling the weather?”

  Norris turned his back to the wind, and the two huddled side by side as they talked. “The wind’s come a little to the right since I got up here. The bow is starting to pound, and I’m worried about what happens if we strike a large ice floe. I’ve steered us around some really big ones, but I don’t know how big is too big.”

  Jerry deliberately reassured him. “We’re okay since they welded the reinforcements in place. That’s still HY-100 steel. We’d have to ram something bigger and harder than an ice floe to be in trouble.”

  Norris shrugged, a gesture barely visible under the heavy clothing. “I hope you’re right, but once in a while we go deeper in the trough, or are slower coming up. That’s when these harnesses pay off. I’d recommend finding a smoother course, maybe we can turn more toward the southeast so we’re taking the waves from the stern quarter.”

  “Understood,” Jerry answered, and backed up a little, ending the conversation. He stayed on the bridge for another twenty minutes, until the watch changed, watching the storm and how Seawolf rode it.

  The pitch-down, the slide to the right, the shudder as the ice hit were all there, but more pronounced, the difference between a football game on a big-screen TV and seeing it live. Jerry saw the boat take a big wave. Instead of smashing over the bow it rolled up the hull, a gray-green wall that broke against the sail. All three ducked as the spray engulfed them. Some froze in midair, pelting them with wet ice.

  Strangely, Jerry wasn’t seasick. The cold and the work of staying on his feet occupied most of his attention. The rest was focused on how Seawolf behaved in the wind-driven sea. For the most part, the beat-up boat was holding her own.

  Finally the watch changed, two new victims climbing up while Jerry and the two watchstanders almost slid down the ladder. Their eagerness to get below was matched by the watch’s desire to get the hatch closed.

  As Jerry took off his dripping gear, the smell hit him. Twenty minutes of fresh air had rebooted his nose, and the odors of one hundred men, ozone, oil, and vomit were thick enough to chew. His stomach flashed a warning, but was too tired and empty to react. By the time he’d climbed into dry coveralls, his sense of smell was numb again.

  Jerry headed straight to the XO’s cabin. “Seawolf can handle the storm. We can stay on this course.”

  “Good, let’s tell the Skipper.”

  Rudel’s door was closed, but he answered quickly and was working at his desk. “Trying to get it all down before my memory fades,” he explained. Which he di
dn’t need to do, of course.

  Jerry reported, “Seawolf should handle the weather until we finish the repairs and can submerge.”

  Rudel nodded silently, acknowledging the report and considering. “It’s pretty rough on the watchstanders up there.”

  Was Rudel playing devil’s advocate? “Norris seemed okay when he came down, sir. We can always shorten the interval, especially since they should finish the repairs in a few hours.”

  “I’m concerned about additional injuries.”

  “They’ve been minor so far, sir, and the crew is learning how to deal with the rolls,” Shimko observed.

  Rudel sighed. “This crew has been through so much. I think I’m just reluctant to put them through anything they don’t absolutely need to.”

  Jerry’s mind raced. Rudel could ask this crew to swim through acid and they’d do it. He should know that. Finally, Jerry answered, “Whatever direction we sail, Captain, we’re stuck on the surface. I believe it’s best to push ahead.”

  The captain stood. “You’re right.” He looked at both of them. “Thank you both. We’ll continue on course.”

  Shimko and Jerry left, with Jerry working his way toward control, habit driving him to check the chart. His mind was still circling around the captain’s state of mind. Rudel had always been close to his troops, but he’d crossed a line somewhere, feeling their pain, and nobody can bear the suffering of a hundred men, especially if you’re responsible for it. A captain needs to be detached, removed emotionally because of the orders he might, almost certainly will, have to give.

  Jerry tried to, or pretended to study the chart. It was the captain’s problem, but if the captain had a problem then they all had a problem. It was also Rudel’s problem to solve, just as Jerry faced his own demons. In the meantime, Jerry was more than willing to back up the skipper and keep Seawolf on task.

  He finally focused on their course. They were closing on the collision site, and once they submerged they’d be able to increase speed. He ran a calculation to see how much time they had until they could begin the search.

  Then Jerry headed forward, to boot Palmer out of his rack. They would need a search plan soon.

  ~ * ~

  Seawolf finally submerged an hour and fifteen minutes later, with the crew at battle stations and the COB’s hands hovering over the chicken switches. Rudel seemed more his old self as he carefully managed the boat’s submergence.

  Once submerged and still dry, he took the boat deeper and deeper, in steady increments. No matter how excited the report, Rudel smiled and took it all aboard as the seals stayed dry down to four hundred feet. “There’s no need to go deeper than that, not in the Barents.” Rudel’s tone was so casual he could have been talking about the menu for dinner. He settled on a depth of two hundred feet and a speed of ten knots.

  He passed the news over the 1MC, and included Brann and the rest of Todd Williams’s gang in his public praise. “They’ve worked their tails off and given us all a dry boat. Now that our stomachs are recovering, the cooks have started on a feast in their honor.” Rudel paused to glance at the clock. “After that, we’ll begin our search.”

  ~ * ~

  15

  RUSH JOB

  7 October 2008 5:30 AM

  Georgetown, Washington, DC

  The car picked her up just before dawn, with Lowell’s advice still filling her ears. Joanna Patterson’s husband had insisted on getting up with her and making breakfast while she finished packing. She appreciated the meal, but Lowell insisted on briefing her on Navy protocol—again.

  “You know the ranks and organization aboard a ship, dear, but I can’t emphasize enough, make sure all your requests go through either the captain or XO. Don’t go bossing the crew.” Lowell, six foot two in his bare feet and flannel pajamas, still thought like a Navy captain. His congressional staff joked about the clock in his office that chimed “eight bells” rather than striking twelve.

  “Lowell, I’ve dealt with Navy captains before.” She smiled smugly. “Quite recently, as a matter of fact.”

  “And you’re very good at it,” he replied, kissing her warmly, “but that better not be how you plan on dealing with Churchill’s Skipper.”

  “Whatever works,” she teased, but then she continued, “I made my choice. One port, one sailor.” She patted his temple. “Even with your thinning hair.”

  The phone rang and Lowell jumped to answer it. “Hardy.” He listened for a moment, then turned to his wife. “The car’s outside. Did you pack your charger?”

  “Yes. And my spare computer glasses. And don’t you forget about that meeting with Representative Acheson.”

  “The man’s made of clay,” he complained.

  “You need him, and he’s a lot smarter than he looks,” she cautioned. “Wish me luck.”

  She hugged Lowell one last time and pecked him on the cheek as the doorbell rang. The government driver identified himself, then gathered her bags and took them to the car.

  The chill lasted only until she was inside, where she allowed herself ten minutes with the newspapers before she pulled out her BlackBerry. There were emails to answer.

  Traffic was light, and they made good time to the Old Executive Building, where they picked up Jane Matsui. Like Patterson, she looked like she’d overpacked, but Matsui explained that one suitcase contained nothing but warm clothing. Another bag, which she kept with her, was filled with work from Patterson’s office.

  The instant they started moving, Matsui was ready to work. There were a lot of people who still thought Patterson would be in her office this morning, and the two women worked through the twenty-minute car ride to Andrews.

  They were heading east, out of the city, so they made good time, and since it was a government car, they were waved through the front gate at Andrews Air Force Base with a minimum of delay.

  An airman in dress blues met the car as it pulled up in front of the VIP waiting area. The nondescript door led into one of the buildings that made up the operations center. The Eighty-ninth Airlift Wing was tasked with ferrying all manner of government officials of any rank, in any numbers, wherever they needed to go, often at a moment’s notice.

  “Welcome to Andrews Air Force Base, Dr. Patterson, Miss Matsui.” The young airman didn’t salute, but treated the ladies with deference appropriate for a general. While the driver dealt with the bags, he walked the two ladies inside. “Another member of your party is inside already. We’re waiting for two more.” He checked the clipboard. “You’ll be leaving at 0800 aboard a C-20B. It’s one of our smaller aircraft, but it has intercontinental range.”

  The VIP waiting area looked like any airport terminal, except for the Air Force decor. The airman led them over to a Navy commander, the only other person in the room. He rose, almost coming to attention.

  “I’m Commander John Silas, ma’am, your Navy liaison.” Silas was short, in his early forties, and already fighting a paunch. He was dressed in neatly pressed khakis.

  After introductions, Patterson asked, “Where are you stationed? When you’re not TDY, that is.”

  “I’m on Admiral Sloan’s staff, at SUBGRU Two. With your permission, I’ll file regular reports with him, so he’s kept up to date.”

  The door opened again and the airman ushered Dr. Russo into the waiting area. He shook Patterson’s hand warmly. “Thank you for asking for me, Dr. Patterson. Frankly, I don’t get out a lot, and I miss it.”

  “You’re welcome, Doctor, I think your expertise will be a great help.” There were more introductions, and Patterson discovered that Silas and Russo knew each other.

  “Al Russo has come up to see us several times, and we send information to his office as well.” Since Russo was a CIA technical analyst, she presumed that Silas was talking about intelligence data gathered by SUBGRU Two boats.

  Silas offered, “Doctor, I’ve got a few suggestions about how the investigation should proceed ...”

  Patterson cut him off. “This isn’
t an investigation, Commander. I’m acting as on-scene coordinator for Commander Rudel and Seawolf. This is a search-and-rescue operation, not some fact-finding junket.”

  “Given the success rate of Soviet and Russian submarine rescues, Doctor, it’s likely there will be little for us to do.” Silas looked over at Russo.

  The analyst shrugged. “The Russians have never been able to pull a large portion of crew out of a bottomed sub. For that matter, neither have we, at least not since Squalus went down, and that was in 1939.”

  “I won’t accept that, not with so many unknowns. We don’t know how badly the Russian boat is damaged. Nothing can be decided until we know that. And if there’s the slightest chance of the U.S. improving their chances of survival, I want us to find out what it is and then make it happen.”

  “Bravo, Dr. Patterson, I wish I’d had a microphone.” It was a woman’s voice, behind her, and Patterson turned to see the public affairs official from yesterday’s meeting.

 

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