Larry Bond - Cold Choices

“Very well, Captain. Proceed.”

Both Borisov and Rudel insisted Patterson go first. Borisov followed, then Rudel.

Seawolf was running with the wind, the following sea lapping over her stern. Ballasted aft, the sub had lifted more of her crushed bow out of the water than Patterson had seen, even in other photos of the damage. Slate-gray waves barely reached up the sides, and Patterson studied the bow, along with the two officers. Lieutenant Chandler, on watch as conning officer, did his best to stay invisible.

Rudel pointed back, to a long scar on Seawolf’s aft deck. “We believe this is where Severodvinsk struck us first, then here,” he pointed to the battered sail. “Finally, her screw struck us on the bow, nearly slicing our pressure hull open.”

Chandler handed Patterson his glasses and she studied the bow. Rudel explained to his visitors, “See those parallel slash marks on the casing? They were caused by Severodvinsk’s screw as it struck our hull. If you do the math, the distance between the scars matches the blade rate we heard on sonar and her speed at the time of impact. The softer bronze blades broke up on impact with the hull and our forward momentum bent the propeller shaft upward.”

Patterson handed her glasses back to Chandler, and watched Borisov. This was all for his benefit.

Borisov studied the bow for another moment, then lowered his glasses. “I see different-colored metal embedded in the casing,” he said solemnly.

“Those are pieces of bronze from Severodvinsk’s propeller. We recovered some fragments, and will give you some to take with you.”

Rudel pulled out a close up photograph of Severodvinsk’s propeller hub. “Here’s a digital image of the propeller shaft and hub. You can see the ragged remnants where the blades blended into the hub.” The bladeless, distorted shaft almost filled the frame. Borisov’s stoic expression was worthy of a professional poker player.

Rudel produced a second piece of paper, a smaller version of the same track chart showing the two submarines as they maneuvered that Borisov had seen below. A small colored square lay along the Russian sub’s path between the estimated point of impact and its current location. “That’s where one of the unmanned vehicles found the impact debris. We believe additional pieces of the blades can be found there.”

Rudel let the Russian admiral study the image for a moment, then spoke carefully. “I know you believe that Seawolf rammed your submarine. But we have three different damage patterns spaced out along our upper hull. How could we have done this and still managed to tear off Severodvinsk’s propeller blades?”

Borisov sighed, but didn’t answer. “Could I see the damage to the bow from inside? You said that you had reinforced that part of the hull.”

It only took a few moments to go back down to ladder, take off their cold-weather gear, then over to the electronics equipment space. Chandler had alerted the chief of the watch to clear the technicians out of the space.

Since it was Jerry’s space, Rudel signaled for him to follow. Rudel led them into electronics space, showing Patterson and Borisov the wooden shorings that supported the pressure hull. Once they’d carefully stepped around the bracing, Rudel pointed out the damage. “Our pressure hull is deformed here and here. The seals around several of the masts started to ship water. We used wood, and later steel reinforcing plates, to seal the leaks.”

“How much water came in?” asked Borisov.

“Approximately two metric tons.” The actual amount meant little to Patterson, but Borisov looked alarmed. Rudel motioned to the scorched bulkheads and equipment racks. “The salt water obviously ruined all the equipment in here. There was a major fire.”

As Rudel spoke, Borisov studied the damaged compartment. In one corner, an open equipment rack held a photograph of a smiling young sailor. It was surrounded with small items — a pair of silver dolphins, a Seawolf ball cap with a third-class crow pin in it, and a pile of notes. A sign that said please cheer me up hung over the photo.

“This was where your crewman died.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“Is there anything else you wish me to see?”

“No, sir.”

“Then let us go back to your wardroom.”

They were gathering and packaging the documents, photos, and metal fragments when the party entered. Borisov sat down heavily at the table and asked, “Coffee, please.”

Jerry poured for the admiral, who sipped the cup thoughtfully, then cradled it, as if warming his hands. “It is good coffee,” he finally remarked.

The chief of the boat was waiting in the corner, and caught Rudel’s eye, who nodded. Walking over to the admiral, he said, “Sir, I am Master Chief Hess. I’m the chief of the boat, the senior enlisted man aboard. We’d like to thank you for coming aboard, and we’d like you to have these, to remember your visit.”

He handed Borisov a ball cap and a framed photo of Seawolf. They were traditional gifts for visiting VIPs, but Jerry felt the strangeness of giving them to a Russian.

But Borisov smiled broadly and thanked Hess. “These are excellent.” Then the smile went away. “You have been much better hosts than me.” Slowly, deliberately he stood, and turned to face the American crew. “I now believe that Seawolf did not ram Severodvinsk, deliberately or accidentally. For now, that is all we can say. We must wait for the investigation to tell all of the story of what happened.”

After a short pause, he added, “I cannot speak for my government, or even for my Navy, but for myself, I am very sad that two fine crews have suffered injured and dead. We must work much harder to make sure this never happens again.”

Patterson waited a moment, making sure Borisov was finished speaking. As he handed the gifts to the enlisted man to put in the package, she said, “There are a lot of press reports from your Navy. They accuse Seawolf of many things, and they’re simply not true. Can you speak to your Navy, ask them to stop making such accusations?”

The Russian didn’t answer immediately, but finally said, “You are right. Those stories are not helpful, but now anyone in Russia can speak to the newspapers.”

“Many of the stories are coming from sources in your Navy,” Patterson insisted.

Borisov nodded. “I will stop any false stories.”

Patterson smiled. “The newspapers need to print something. You could provide them with better stories — accurate ones.”

“I will consider it.”

National security adviser’s office, Old Executive Office Building, Washington, DC

“She did what?” Wright’s exclamation echoed out of the office and down the hall.

Admiral Forrester’s voice mixed anger and frustration. “It’s all in the message. She informed Admiral Sloan that she invited Vice Admiral Pavel Borisov, a Russian submarine officer, to visit Seawolf and inspect her damage for himself.”

Wright skimmed the printout. “Operational precedence, but she must have sent it right before the meeting. By now Borisov has come and gone.” He set the paper down carefully on his desk, as if it would bite.

“This is not good,” Admiral Forrester insisted. “She’s making her own deals. We are out of the loop.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s made a bad decision.”

“What? How could letting a Russian admiral aboard one of our best submarines be a good idea?”

“He didn’t inspect the submarine. He was there to see the damage.”

“So he got a good look at a modern attack boat, and her vulnerabilities.”