by Larry Bond
She had never met Dyalov before, but the old man had taken pity and helped, simply because he knew one of the families. Severomorsk, like most of the towns in the Kola Region, was a navy town. Because of this, the church was filled to capacity and then some. Family and friends had converged here because it was centrally located, and because it was the home of the Northern Fleet Headquarters. Some of the Severodvinsk families had come from Gadzhiyevo, near the Sayda Guba submarine base; some lived in Murmansk, a short distance to the south; many lived in Severomorsk itself. But wherever they lived, they were here now, in the church, praying for a miracle and supporting each other.
That human contact had helped her regain her reason, but not her strength. Suddenly frail, she leaned back against the wall of the church again. Olga would never admit it to anyone, but she needed its strength, and the strength of those inside.
She unfolded the paper and read the article, just a few paragraphs, and much of it addressed what the author didn’t know. Crumbs for the starving.
Reentering the church, she saw that the service was almost over. She stood quietly in the back rather than disturb anyone, but those in the rear had seen her come back in, just as they had seen the messenger enter. Now they saw her blotting her eyes, her face red and puffy. There’d been more than a few tears in the church that afternoon, but a murmur ran through the back of the church, then moved its way forward.
A woman she didn’t recognize, her young son on her hip, came back and whispered, “Are you all right? Is there news?” Her eyes, her face pleaded for answers, but the last part of her question held more dread than curiosity. After all, Olga had been crying.
“Yes,” Olga answered, but when she saw the woman’s face fall, she quickly added, “They’re still alive.”
The young mother stifled her gasp and smiled, a little forced but genuine. She went back to her place as the priest finished the service, but many eyes were on her and Olga.
After the last prayer ended, everyone remained in their places. A low buzz of conversation built, then faded away. The priest spoke softly with someone in front, then took his place again. “Mrs. Sadilenko. Please, if there is news, tell us all.”
Olga walked down the center aisle, embarrassed in spite of the priest’s polite request. Reaching the front, she turned and faced families and friends of the families. It made sense. Severodvinsk’s heart was in that church.
She unfolded the paper and read the news article. The first line announcing the failed rescue attempt brought gasps and cries. She skipped the paragraph about their website, although Olga was sure everyone would hear about it later. The last two paragraphs spoke of the Priz minisub and the Norwegians without giving the slightest clue about the Navy’s plans.
Finishing, she folded the paper and pushed it back into the pocket of her dress. She was still facing the crowd, full of concern for her Yakov, and anger and frustration at the Navy. She found those emotions becoming words.
“I should stand here and praise our Navy for their efforts to rescue our men. That is what they want me to do, but I cannot, because I do not know if our Navy really is trying to save them!”
She gestured to the church’s congregation. “Why are there no uniforms in this church? Are they ashamed?” She paused, and put her hands on her hips. “Has anyone in this room received any information from our Navy about our men?” She waited, then added, “They have never even admitted that Severodvinsk is actually missing!
“Are they afraid of what we might discover? Why do they ignore even the simplest of questions?”
The mayor looked distinctly uncomfortable. He was an old-school politician, and while open criticism of the Navy might not get someone arrested these days, it certainly wasn’t the norm. But the crowd was responding to her questions. Some were crying. Many more looked angry.
“The only thing the Navy has done is to blame the Americans for this disaster. But the only information we have gotten, information we know is true, has come from the Americans.”
Her voice had been rising, not to a shout, but loud and strong. “We have nothing but questions for the Navy, and they have nothing but contempt for us. They have ignored us. They have even lied to us!
“We have the right to know whether everything possible is being done to rescue our loved ones. We have given them our sons, our husbands. They expect us to sit quietly at home and be grateful for our sacrifice.
“But our men don’t need us at home! They need us to keep the Navy honest, to make sure that they have missed nothing. We must sit on the Navy’s doorstep until we know they have done their job.”
Applause filled the church, and without thinking, Olga turned and marched to the front door of the church. The Northern Fleet Headquarters complex lay six blocks away down one of the main streets of the city. The old walrus had turned them away once. He wouldn’t do it this time.
She could hear the congregation following her, and briefly wondered what the mayor would do.
~ * ~
11 October 2008
0800/8:00 AM
Petr Velikiy
Rear Admirals Vidchenko and Kurganov stood together near Petr Velikiy’s twin-barreled 130mm gun, while Captain Chicherin fussed and the side-boys checked their dress uniforms. The after end of the superstructure loomed above and behind them, with the glassed-in helicopter control station two stories up. A phone talker next to Captain Chicherin gave him constant updates in the helicopter’s distance.
“It’s down to fifteen kilometers, sir. Bearing is Red one two zero.”
Chicherin was the only one with glasses, and swung around to that bearing. “Sideboys, stand by.”
The group waiting with the officers took their places while a petty officer hurried them along, then called them to attention.
Vidchenko spotted the Mi-14 helicopter as the phone talker called “Ten kilometers.” It was a big land-based machine, usually used for coastal ASW, but in this case, as a VIP transport. It passed aft of the ship, lining up on the wake, then slowly overtook them.
When it reached the fantail, the helicopter settled onto the pad as gently as thistle down. Vidchenko was willing to put money down that the best helicopter pilot in the regiment was at the controls.
The instant the wheels touched, the captain gestured, and the petty officer screamed commands over the sound of the engines. The sideboys quickly ran aft to places marked on the deck, forming two lines facing each other.
A fading whine replaced the engine roar and the door swung open. First out was a crewman with a small stepladder. He attached it to the lower edge of the door, and then scrambled down to the deck one and a half meters below.
As soon as he signaled it was safe, Vice Admiral Sergey Kokurin, commander of the Northern Fleet, appeared, followed by Vice Admiral Borisov, commander of the Twelfth Submarine Eskadra. Behind him was a clutch of aides and assistants.
Kokurin hurried down the steps and across the flight deck. He climbed the ladder to the main deck, and paused just long enough to receive the side-boys’ salute before heading toward where Vidchenko and the others waited. The supporting cast hurried to catch up as Vidchenko, Kurganov, and Chicherin all braced and saluted.
Kokurin returned their salutes as he approached, and asked peremptorily, “Is the Norwegian ready?”
“Mr. Lindstrom is ready to brief us in the flag mess, sir.”
“Then let’s get up there. Petrov and his men don’t have much time.”
Lindstrom was waiting, along with Kurt Nakken, captain of the salvage and rescue ship Halsfjord. In a sea of dark blue and gold braid, their civilian clothes seemed almost sloppy, although their manner was professional. They were already set up, and waited patiently as Kokurin and the others took their places and tea was served.
Although Petr Velikiy was Chicherin’s ship, and Vidchenko commanded the rescue effort, this was Kokurin’s meeting. Before Chicherin could begin his welcoming statement, Kokurin pulled a thick sheaf of papers out of his briefcase and
plopped them onto the table.
“My staff printed all this material off the Internet. The names of Severodvinsk’s crew, the ships in the rescue force, weather conditions, our progress, are all available to anyone in the world. And they are watching with considerable interest. Web pages like the Wives and Mothers of Severodvinsk website are receiving literally millions of visitors each day. Word of the failure to rescue Severodvinsk’s crew yesterday afternoon was posted within an hour.”
He paused for a moment, letting that sink in. The Russian Navy believed in secrecy, a shield that hid both strengths and weaknesses. Seeing their operations exposed, discussed, and criticized was anathema.
Kokurin completed his thought. “We cannot afford another failure. Losing Petrov and his men would be tragedy, but we would also do it in front of the world.” Kokurin managed to include the entire room in his gaze, but finished by looking at Chicherin. “Whenever you are ready, Captain.”
Chicherin wisely skipped his opening remarks and immediately began by reviewing Severodvinsk’s status. Atmosphere quality was the primary concern. A little less than six hours remained before the C02 chemicals provided by Seawolf were depleted. The injured crewmen were stable, although the cold was now a major concern as well since it was intimately linked with the carbon dioxide situation. Battery power, food, and water were also becoming significant issues. After a week on the bottom, the crew of Severodvinsk was running out of everything.
Captain Bakhorin briefed Kokurin on AS-34’s material condition. The batteries were still being charged after their latest dive, although he noted that it was taking longer each time to reach a full charge, and that the charge was lasting less each time.
“So AS-34 is almost crippled,” Kokurin acknowledged. “Can you get me one more dive?”
“Yes, Admiral,” Bakhorin answered eagerly. “At least one more.”
Lindstrom was last. He spoke passable Russian, and after introducing Halsfjord’s captain, pressed a key on his laptop, which was already connected to the fiat-panel display mounted on the bulkhead.
A false-color image of Severodvinsk appeared, lying on the seabed. Contour lines and depths were combined with detailed data on the bottom’s makeup. Lines led from Severodvinsk upward, and lettering in Roman and Cyrillic labeled different parts of the diagram.
Vidchenko was puzzled. The image was very detailed, and even showed the damage to Severodvinsk’s bow and engineering section. Halsfjord had only arrived last evening. They certainly hadn’t had the time to survey the bottom. Was this the work of a computer artist?
The admiral asked that question, but Kokurin cut in before Lindstrom could answer. “I have seen this image before. It is from the American underwater robots.”
Lindstrom added, “Yes, that is correct. We thought it would be the quickest way to diagram out our rescue plan.”
“But that information hasn’t been validated!” Alarm crept into Vidchenko’s voice. “It may have been altered, and even if it hasn’t, we know nothing about the accuracy of their sensors.”
Kokurin’s concern showed in his questions. “Did you find evidence of tampering? How closely does it match your information?”
Vidchenko shook his head. “I do not know, sir. None of us have seen it.”
Now the fleet commander seemed confused. “Has anyone on your staff examined the data?”
Uneasy, but unsure why, Vidchenko quickly answered, “No sir. We didn’t feel we could trust the data.”
Kokurin sat for a moment in thought, then asked the Norwegian, “Have you had any problems with the Americans’ information?”
Lindstrom had stood silently, listening, during the exchange. “No, Admiral. I was provided with a copy when it arrived aboard Churchill and I’ve worked extensively with it since then. It is consistent with the data I’ve seen collected from similar craft.”
“How does it compare with the information we have?”
“Much more complete and detailed.” Lindstrom pressed a key several times and images flashed. “Here is an enlargement of Severodvinsk’s starboard side. Based on Captain Bakhorin’s description, I’ve shown the location of the charges you planted. I’d planned to include this later in the brief, but it shows the rock formations that you mined, and others here and here,” he gestured to screen, “that remained, preventing the sub from righting itself.”
“When did you receive this information?” Kokurin demanded.
“Approximately two days ago, Admiral.”
Kokurin followed the logic. “And if we had seen this data two days ago, AS-34’s first dive would have been able to place charges on those formations as well, freeing the sub.” He shot a hard look at Vidchenko, who sat impassively. Kurganov looked uncomfortable.
Lindstrom shook his head. “No, sir, I’m sorry to say that it probably wouldn’t have worked. The underlying rock where Severodvinsk rests is part of the Fennoscandian crystalline shield and is made up of very strong and hard granite, not the much softer marine shale that is typical in the South Barents Basin.”
He keyed a new page. A series of irregular but roughly parallel lines were highlighted in bright colors. They lay on either side of the crippled sub. Beneath the bright lines was a near uniform return from something very large and solid.
“Severodvinsk sits between two of these ridges, with the one to starboard holding her in that port list. You’d have to remove this entire ridge to free her. If you look closely, you will also see that ridge is part of this much larger segment that is tens of meters thick. For all intents and purposes, it is impenetrable.”
Vidchenko stared at the data, almost uncomprehending. The American submarine had gathered data that was superior, far superior to theirs. But it wouldn’t have made any difference. Severodvinsk was held tight in the jaws of an indestructible rock formation.
Lindstrom brought up another image, a simple line diagram. It showed the sub in cross-section lying on an uneven surface. Arrows showed forces acting on the hull.
“To right the sub, the hull must be rotated in place, which means overcoming friction. Not only is Severodvinsk’s weight being borne by these two ridges, but by this time it has begun settling into the mud that covers the underlying rock. Both of these work to hold the submarine where it is.
“The best solution would be to use water jets to clear the length of the hull of mud and silt where it rests on the rock. At the same time underwater robots would weld padeyes to the starboard side of the hull. These would be attached to towlines running to dedicated salvage tugs. We would literally pull Severodvinsk to an upright position.”
Vidchenko was impressed. It sounded like it would work. “But how long to do the work?”
Lindstrom answered, “Too long. Four days.” It was a death sentence. Vidchenko couldn’t accept that, having come this far.
He was still searching for words when Kokurin asked, “Is that our only option?”
Lindstrom shrugged. “We can measure the forces involved, the strength of the materials. We can even estimate the suction effects of the silt from other work we have done. This will work, with a probability of success in the ninety-percent range.
“Looking for ways to speed the process, we came up with this alternative approach.” He keyed a new diagram. It showed a row of small explosive charges along the two sides of the sub, and the towlines went to the deck now.
“Instead of welding padeyes, we use the existing deck fittings. They are not as strong, and even using the maximum number of towlines, we will not have the same lifting force. Instead of using waterjets to clear the silt, we propose running small charges the length of the hull, right where it touches the bottom. Hopefully, they will break the suction when they detonate. Additionally. Captain Petrov will have to put every bit of compressed air he has left into the port main ballast tanks, while simultaneously flooding the starboard main ballast tanks. This will generate a moment that wants to roll the boat to starboard, which should help tremendously to overcome inertia.”
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“And leave him no reserve air at all,” Vidchenko added.
Lindstrom nodded. “It is the only way to make up the shortfall in lifting power. We have to make the sub want to roll to starboard.”
Kokurin asked, “How quickly can this plan be put into action?”
Captain Nakken spoke for the first time. “My crew has already started. We expect to have two robots over the side,” he glanced at his watch, “in forty-five minutes. With your approval,” he added.
Kokurin smiled, the first time Vidchenko had seen the admiral pleased since he came aboard. He felt it, too. There was another option. There was still hope.
“Understand that our estimates are less certain with this concept. We give this plan only a sixty to seventy percent chance of success.”
Vidchenko could feel the tension ease. A good plan now was better than a perfect plan too late. “When will you be able to make the attempt?”
