by Larry Bond
“Wrong answer, mister,” growled Jerry; his tone was almost guttural. Chandler gulped audibly. “You are going to draft that message as ordered, with or without Chief Morrison’s aid. In nine minutes, you will bring the draft to me. If you are one second late, I will personally put you on report the moment you walk through the wardroom door. DO I MAKE MYSELF ABSOLUTELY CRYSTAL CLEAR!?”
The on-duty ITs cringed and looked about for a convenient place to hide. No one had ever seen the navigator this mad before. In fact, no one in the department had ever heard him yell before. For the patient, professional Mr. Mitchell to blow his relief valve, the offender would have to have screwed up really, really badly.
Chandler started to shake visibly; beads of sweat lined his brow. “Please, Jerry, I have to write it all down.” He sounded fearful and desperate, almost pleading. And he’d used Jerry’s name.
Completely surprised by Chandler’s pitiful-sounding response, Jerry was instantly snapped out of his rage. There was none of the usual bravado, and the smug arrogant attitude was also absent.
Matt Chandler had manned one of the fire-control consoles during General Quarters, and he’d been there when they collided with Severodvinsk. It was as good a place as any to watch what was going on, but he hadn’t given any orders, made any decisions. Why the fanatical drive to write down his impressions?
Confused as to what was happening, Jerry asked, “I don’t understand why you feel this is so urgent. Did you see something, Matt—something important?”
“Important?! Migod, Jerry, we collided with another submarine. Rountree’s dead, and we almost lost the boat! We all nearly died!”
Jerry looked carefully at his communications officer. Chandler was excited—wide-eyed, even a little breathless. This couldn’t be an act. He was actually terrified. Sensing that Chandler was on the verge of losing it, Jerry pushed a little. “How long have you been working on this write-up?”
“I went straight to our stateroom right after we started for Scotland and just started writing. It was like I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I wrote down everything I could think of, before I forgot any of it, I didn’t want to miss anything. But I don’t know if I can ever forget any of it.”
“You’ve been at it that long? What about your duties? Your men?”
“They don’t matter. None of this matters. I just have to write it all down. I have to do it now, if I’m going to finish in time.”
Jerry was still confused. “In time for what?”
“For us getting back to port. There’s so much to write down. I can remember every detail like it happened only a moment ago, and it takes so long to explain things clearly ...”
Jerry cut him off. “Matt, why do you have to write it all down right now?”
“Because we could have all died. Not just Rountree, all of us. I really understand now how dangerous submarines are. I knew we had to be careful, follow procedures, but I always thought it was like crossing the street. You never think you’re going to be the one in an accident.”
“Matt, you can’t focus on . . .”
“On what? The danger?” Chandler held his hands out, encompassing the space. “We’re surrounded by it. We can’t escape it, it’s with us every minute of every day!” He paused for a moment, and then said flatly, “I... I shouldn’t be here. This is a mistake. Why in the world am I working my ass off for a promotion I’m never going to live to see?”
Jerry hardly knew what to do, or what to say Chandler was obviously on the edge, maybe over it. He’d stared his own mortality in the face, and didn’t like what he’d seen. Jerry was not a priest or a psychologist, and he felt completely at a loss. Part of him had always wanted to slap Chandler around, but that only worked in the movies.
“Matt, I need you to get past this.” Jerry grabbed Chandler by the shoulders and spoke calmly but firmly. “It’s been a shock, but we’re still here. And you’ve got an important job to do. You managed to get the radioes working earlier, so you know you can fulfill your duties even with this monkey on your back. Forget the report for now. There will be a time and place when it will be needed, but right now I need you to get that message drafted.”
Chandler looked exhausted, but he listened quietly, passively. Jerry wondered if he’d already given up, but the comms officer nodded slowly. “I’ll take care of it right away.”
Jerry felt relieved by Chandler’s answer. “Good. I’ll be in the wardroom when you’re ready, Matt.”
Still confused and a bit drained, Jerry literally stumbled through the wardroom door ten feet down the passageway. Whatever conversation had been going on had stopped the moment he threw open the door.
“Personnel issues, Mr. Mitchell?” asked Shimko with his trademarked pixieish grin.
Embarrassed and uncertain if he should say anything about Chandler, Jerry dropped forcefully into his chair and replied, “You heard?”
“Nav, I think the Russians heard you!” joked the XO. Everyone else in the wardroom laughed, and even Jerry had to crack a smile.
“Look, I know Chandler is a pain in the ass, but he is a very efficient pain in the ass. So please, try not to kill him.” The XO winked as he spoke; letting Jerry know he was on solid ground as far as he was concerned.
“Yes, sir. I will try,” Jerry replied wearily, relieved that the XO had been referring to his lost temper and not Chandler’s meltdown.
“Okay gents, back to our leetle problem. How the hell do we help the Russians with their C02 levels?”
Silence and blank stares greeted Shimko’s question. “Well, don’t all talk at once now.”
Still nothing.
Sighing, Shimko stood up, grabbed a black marker and threw a piece of butcher-block paper on the wardroom table. “Let’s start listing all the options and their feasibility.”
“Rescuing the Russians ourselves,” offered Lavoie. “Not an option. We have no way to transfer the crew.”
“What about using our high-pressure air to blow their remaining ballast tanks,” suggested Ensign Miller.
“It’s a nice idea, Tim,” remarked Todd Williams, Seawolf’s damage-control assistant. “But not feasible. We have no way to hook up our main ballast tank blow system to theirs. Besides, with three compartments flooded and a number of their ballast tanks violated, we couldn’t generate enough buoyancy to get them off the bottom.”
“All right then. Direct rescue is not a practical option. Agreed?” Shimko asked. All present nodded their heads yes. “So, removing carbon dioxide is the next option. Suggestions?”
“Well, we probably don’t have any equipment that’s compatible with their systems,” said Constantino.
“But we do have CO2 curtains with the lithium hydroxide canisters,” Williams replied.
“Yeah, but how do we get our gear to the Russians?” asked Lavoie pointedly.
“Won’t the Russian fleet have the ability to resupply them?” asked Wolfe.
“Maybe,” answered Williams. “The problem is that when C02 gets over three percent, people get a bit loopy and judgment goes to hell; not to mention a person gets fatigued by merely moving. If the Russians aren’t here by tomorrow evening, those guys in Severodvinsk will be in the hurt locker.”
“Besides, how do we know if the Russian fleet is enroute,” injected Constantino. “If you remember, the weather has been pretty shitty as of late and they may not even have left port.”
All the qualified deck officers present silently glared at the supply officer with significant annoyance. He had never stood a watch on the bridge during the storm; they had, and they were all well aware of just how bad the weather had been.
Constantino quickly realized that he had “opened mouth and inserted foot” and tried to backpedal. “Hey, it’s not my fault I’m not allowed to stand bridge watches.”
At that moment the wardroom door opened and mercifully diverted attention from the chop’s faux pas. Chandler and Palmer walked in; Palmer squeezed by the engineer and the weapon
s officer and sat down at the end of the table. Chandler remained standing; he looked pale and exhausted. He slowly approached Jerry, offered him a folder and said, “Sir, the draft message for your review.”
Shimko said nothing, and with a raised eyebrow, watched as Jerry took the folder. Jerry ignored the XO’s questioning look, quickly read the draft, made some minor changes, initialed it, and handed it back to the communications officer. Chandler then silently offered the folder to the XO. Shimko took the folder, read the message, initialed it, and returned it to Chandler. “Take this to the Skipper for his approval, Matt.”
“Yes, sir,” responded Chandler barely audibly, and then left.
“All right now, where were we?” remarked Shimko thoughtfully. “Oh yes, we were about to lynch the supply officer.” This time Jerry laughed along with the rest.
“Ahh, excuse me, sir,” stammered Palmer. Not quite sure what he had just walked into.
“Yes, Jeff. What is it?”
“Sir, LaVerne has completed her photographic survey of Severodvinsk and is in the process of being recovered. I should have copies of the sonar images and the pictures within two, maybe three hours.”
“Excellent, Jeff,” praised Shimko as he gave the young officer the thumbs-up. “Please, join us. The Chop here was just about to tell us his plan to save the Russians.”
“Ah come on, XO,” pleaded Constantino. “I don’t have a frickin’ clue, honest.”
“But you’re ‘the Ferengi,’ aren’t you?” taunted the XO. “You always seem to be able to get us what we need, anytime, anywhere.” Shimko’s reference to Constantino’s nickname on the waterfront went beyond the supply officer’s drastically receding hairline and large ears. He had an uncanny knack of getting anything Seawolf’s crew needed. He had never failed to fill a requisition.
“XO, you know damn well that I have a good network that enables me to find stuff we need. But I can’t get a FedEx or DHL delivery truck to drop the stuff off at our doorstep out here,” Constantino protested.
At the mention of the words “delivery truck,” Jerry eyes flew wide open and he looked at Palmer, who was staring right back at him with the same eyes. Almost in unison they both cried, “The UUVs!”
Shimko’s gaze bounced back and forth between Jerry and Palmer. “What?” he exclaimed.
“We can use the UUVs as a delivery truck,” stated Jerry.
“Yes! We can strip them of most of their recon gear, and probably gut an expended energy module to make space and weight available for emergency supplies,” Palmer added enthusiastically.
“Absolutely. We could easily get several hundred pounds’ worth of atmosphere control chemicals, medical supplies, battle lanterns, whatever, just as long as it physically fits in the vehicle,” continued Jerry.
“WHOA, WHOA, WHOA,” shouted Shimko. “Let me get this straight. We gut one of our UUVs. fill it with emergency supplies, launch it, and then drive it. . .”
“Into one of Severodvinsk’s exposed torpedo tubes,” said Jerry as he finished the sentence.
“The idea is feasible,” concluded Wolfe. Lavoie also agreed.
“How long would it take you to prepare a UUV, Jeff?” Shimko queried intently
“I ... I don’t know, XO; maybe ten or twelve hours. We have to remove a lot of stuff then plug the holes so that the cargo space is watertight. And then there are half a dozen interlocks we’ll have bypass so we can fly the vehicle into the Severodvinsk’s tube. I can get you a better estimate after I talk to Chief Johnson.”
“Not to be a pessimist here, but this plan depends on Severodvinsk’s torpedo tubes being functional,” Wolfe pointed out.
“True enough, Greg,” replied Jerry. “We’ll have to ask Captain Petrov if his starboard tube doors still work.”
“That’s good enough for me,” beamed Shimko. “Well done, gentlemen.” He then reached over for the sound powered phone handset, selected the CO’s stateroom, and cranked on the growler.
“Captain, XO here. Skipper, we have a plan.”
~ * ~
Old Executive Office Building, Washington, DC
Jeffrey Wright ran the meeting himself, this time. He didn’t have a choice anymore. The media had zeroed in on the incident as their next big newsmaker. It had mystery, high tech, and human tragedy—everything needed to keep viewers glued for the next breaking bulletin.
And they were just as happy reporting Russian accusations as they were press releases from Admiral Sloan’s office. How long had that lasted? A few hours? Sloan had gladly turned the job over to the CNO, and now the Department of Defense had replaced the Navy.
Wright waited for the CNO to sit, but just barely. “I apologize for the last-minute summons, but Commander Rudel’s latest phone report will be all over the media in less than an hour. Have you all seen it?”
All three of the Navy admirals nodded. They’d shown up quickly. The traffic was light at two o’clock in the afternoon, and they’d all been at the watch center at the Pentagon. The State Department official, the same European Affairs rep that had been present at the first meeting, was the only one to speak. “I read it on the way over. The information is explosive. Isn’t there any way of containing it?” He sounded desperate, almost pleading.
The CIA deputy director, a large, well-dressed man named Vincent, looked irritated with the question. “All of Rudel’s transmissions have been intercepted, reported, and posted on the web. News organizations, even some private individuals, have the ability to intercept satellite phone signals. It’s too easy, and the messages from Seawolf are the hottest news in the world.” He paused for a moment, and then stated flatly, “No, they can’t be contained.” He shook his head, as much in frustration as to accent his negative answer.
Wright glanced at his notes. “We have two questions to answer. First, now that we know there are men alive aboard Severodvinsk, and that they may not survive until help arrives, is there any more help we can give?” He looked first at the three admirals, but then made sure to look directly at the other side of the table: State, CIA, even Jacob Hoffman, counsel to the president.
After a moment’s pause, the State Department rep, Abrams, remarked, “We’re passing Seawolf ‘s information on to the Russians, of course. Beyond that, I don’t see what we can do but stand by. Given the possibility of misunderstandings with the Russians. . .”
Wright cut in again. “Seawolf is going to attempt to pass emergency atmosphere supplies of some sort to the Russian sub, using one of the UUVs. Should we order Rudel to stop? The UUV contains classified technology, doesn’t it? What will be the effects of it falling into the Russians’ possession?
Rear Admiral Keller, the senior submariner, gave a small shrug. “It has high-frequency imaging sonars and a powerful microprocessor, but most of the hardware and software technology is available off the shelf. The battery technology is pretty exotic, but again, it’s commercially available. I’d have to talk to ONR or the manufacturer’s reps to see if there’s anything that is controlled or whether there’s anything the Russians couldn’t buy or make themselves. The only real classified information is the bathymetric data that the UUVs have collected. Rudel has said that information will be removed before they send the vehicle over.”
“It doesn’t matter, Mr. Wright.” Hoffman’s tone was final. “Now that Rudel’s informed us of his plans to attempt the transfer, and if it has any chance of success, we are legally bound to follow through with it. And, as we’ve discussed, the whole world will know he’s trying it.”
“I agree with Mr. Hoffman, although not because of any legal constraints. The political benefits from any constructive efforts to save the men on board Severodvinsk outweigh the potential of a minor loss of classified technology,” remarked Abrams.
Wright looked frustrated. “So there are really no decisions to make? Which necessarily implies we have no control over events as they unfold.”
“We’ve got Seawolf on station, and Churchill is en route,” the
CNO replied.
There was nothing more to say.
~ * ~
18
FIRST AIR
8 October 2008
0730/7:30 AM
USS Seawolf
“No pressure,” Jerry kept muttering to himself. “We can do this.” He’d finally taken off his watch to keep from looking at it. It had been over eleven hours since they started, and they still had a lot of work yet to do.
They’d opened up LaVerne, so Jerry could work out the loading arrangement while Palmer and his torpedomen modified Patty.
