Larry Bond - Cold Choices

Wright was calming down, but Forrester still seemed very upset. He’d never seen a chief of naval operations this emotional. “So you would have rejected her request?”

“Absolutely,” Forrester replied forcefully.

“Which is why she informed us, instead of asking our permission.”

“You have to get her out of there. Better still, get everyone out of there.”

“That’s not my call,” Wright replied. “I picked her, but the president approved her selection.”

“Then we need to take this to him.”

USS Churchill

She’d had about fifteen minutes’ warning, barely enough time to leave her dinner and get up to Churchill’s CIC. Captain Baker and Lieutenant Commander Hampton had come as well, to make sure the video link was functioning properly, and Dwight Manning, her State Department liaison and de facto second-in-command, was there as well, off-camera but available.

The command position in Churchill’s CIC was dominated by three large flat-panel computer displays. Normally they displayed maps or status boards, but the center one now held a widescreen image of several men seated, facing the camera. The background behind them was dark and functional-looking. She guessed they were in the White House situation room. It certainly wasn’t the Oval Office.

Patterson had been seated and ready when the link was activated. President Huber was flanked by the secretaries of state and defense. She was relieved to see Jeffrey Wright present, and she had the impression that many others were in the room as well. She felt a little alone.

Her image must have appeared there at the same time, because President Huber looked off to the right, then announced, “I’m taking fifteen minutes out of a very busy day, Joanna.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Doctor. Tell me why you invited a Russian admiral aboard Seawolf without getting approval from the Navy or DoD.”

“Vice Admiral Borisov has replaced Rear Admiral Vidchenko, the admiral who threw us off their flagship. I had to convince him beyond any reasonable doubt that Seawolf did not cause this incident, or that we had any motives beyond helping to rescue their trapped crewmen.”

“And this was worth cutting the Navy out of the loop.” That statement came from Hicks, the Secretary of Defense. His calm tone didn’t match his expression. The benefit of video teleconferencing was seeing as well as hearing.

“Time was short,” she answered. “The visit had to take place before rescue operations took up all his time.”

Huber answered again. “You had enough time for a phone call to clear this with Rear Admiral Sloan. You know that the submarine community is sensitive to such visits. No Russian has ever been aboard a Seawolf- class sub.”

She hadn’t expected them to buy it. “True enough. All right. I set up the visit on my own because it’s vital that we build some trust — not just for the sake of international relations, but for those trapped crewmen.

“I was there. Captain Rudel implemented his visit ship procedures. Displays were covered, sensitive material was stowed, and the Russian admiral showed absolutely no interest in Seawolf’s hardware. It was clear from his words that he was convinced, even moved, by what he saw.”

“The Russians will say anything,” Hicks answered sharply. “Doctor, I think you’ve been set up.”

“And I think you’re about twenty years out of date,” Patterson fired back. “Mistrust has already cost lives. We either learn to work with the Russians or we could lose more. And I don’t need to tell you how bad we’ll look in the eyes of the world if we walk away now because of a cold war mindset.”

“At any cost?” Summers asked.

“At almost no cost. except maybe to the Navy’s pride.” Patterson immediately regretted the retort, and quickly added, “To save their crew, the Russians are being forced to reveal information about their newest, most advanced submarine. We’d think they’d be foolish to withhold it. Our situation is no different.”

Both secretaries started to speak, but Huber stopped them. “All right, Doctor. I’m endorsing your decision — after the fact.” He paused for a moment, and then added, “I can’t remove you. That wouldn’t look good to the Russians or the media. But be very careful, Doctor. We need the situation simplified, not complicated.”

11 October 2008

1600/4:00 PM

Severodvinsk

Captain Third Rank Fonarin swept the light from the battle lantern around the central post, looking for his captain and starpom. Although he was tired and cold, he moved about quickly, his breathing labored, a notebook clutched in his left hand. As chief of the chemical services, Fonarin had just completed his latest test on the atmosphere’s quality; the news wasn’t good. It was times like this that he wished he had a different job on board Severodvinsk. After a quick look by the engineer’s post, he found Petrov and Kalinin huddled up on the deck aft, by the underwater communications station.

“Captain, sir, the latest report on the atmosphere,” panted Fonarin as he handed the notebook to Petrov.

“Just give me the bad news, Igor,” he said, as he accepted the pad.

“Yes, sir. Unfortunately, my suspicions have been confirmed. The American chemicals are fully depleted. Carbon dioxide has increased to two point seven percent.”

Petrov nodded wearily. He was physically unable to get upset any longer. “How long do we have?”

“Even with many of the men asleep, the carbon dioxide levels will rise to three percent within six hours. After that, things will get worse quickly. I estimate that no more than twenty hours later we’ll be at lethal concentrations; over five percent.”

“So, essentially we have one more day,” Petrov summarized.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

Petrov looked up at the junior officer and gave him a slight smile. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Igor. It is I who must apologize, to you, to the whole crew. Now go and get some rest.”

“Aye, sir.”

Kalinin watched as Fonarin shuffled slowly away, his shoulders hunched over in defeat. “He’s a good lad. But he shouldn’t take his responsibilities quite so personally.”

Petrov chuckled a little. “I think the pot just called the kettle black.”

“Perhaps,” admitted Kalinin with a shrug. “So what do you think our good squadron commander is up to?”

“I don’t know,” replied Petrov with some irritation. “You heard what he said a few hours ago. Help was coming but it would take a little time.”

“Hmmm, you’d think he’d realize that we don’t have much time to spare.”

“One would think.”

Petrov leaned back against the bulkhead, physically exhausted and emotionally spent. He was out of ideas, and almost out of time. A part of him wished that death would stop toying with them and just get it over with.

Without warning, the loudspeaker on the underwater communications system crackled to life, and a familiar voice filled the central post.

“Severodvinsk, this is Seawolf. Captain Petrov, please respond.”

Petrov snapped out from his brooding and looked over at Kalinin, who was equally surprised. They both struggled to their feet and Petrov grabbed the microphone.

“Seawolf , this is Petrov. Captain Rudel, it is good to hear your voice.”

“Likewise, my friend. Please have your crew prepare to receive more supplies.”

“Thank you, Captain. Give us some time to open the tube’s outer door.”

“Understood. Seawolf is standing by.”