Larry Bond - Cold Choices

But a sign painter was at work on the front window, and secondhand furniture was streaming in from half a dozen places. And most importantly, Irina had her Internet access.

Olga had appropriated the small office in the back. She was supervising a couple of the new girls as they organized the furniture when Galina found her. “There’s another reporter here.” She smiled broadly.

Olga was curious. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing’s funny, Olga. I’m pleased. He’s from the base newspaper.” The base newspaper was run by the Navy, and only printed articles approved by the headquarters.

“I was expecting him. Thank you, Galina. Show him in.”

He’d phoned ahead, which was polite, and Olga had insisted he come over straightaway. In all the bustle she’d forgotten to tell Galina, but no matter. She chased the other women out of her half-finished office, satisfied that there was a battered desk for her to sit behind, and a chair for her guest.

She was still sitting down when she heard Galina say, “Go right in.” The tone of Galina’s voice was the first warning. The young man that entered looked like he was still in university, younger even than her son Yakov. She felt like fixing him lunch.

But he was here for an interview, and his age really didn’t matter. They all seemed so young to Olga.

“Mrs. Sadilenko, thank you for seeing me.” The young man fiddled with a notepad and tape recorder.

“I’m flattered that the paper is interested in our new organization, Mr. Borzin.”

“I’m hoping that the story will run on the front page, Mrs. Sadilenko.”

“Please, call me Olga.” She fought the maternal urge to straighten his tie.

“Thank you, Olga, and I am Ivan Pavelovich.” He referred to his notepad for a moment, then asked, “What is the goal of your new organization?”

Borzin spent about fifteen minutes quizzing Olga about the Navy Wives and Mothers group. How many members did it have, what were the requirements for membership, how did they operate?

“With much confusion,” Olga joked. “We are still sorting ourselves out into some sort of structure. Irina talked about a ‘wiring diagram’ and I thought she meant the insides of her computer.”

“But your organization is doing much work.” He referred to his notepad. “I asked for this story because I heard about the phone call you arranged between Captains Bakhorin and Umansky and their families.”

Olga smiled. “That was Galina’s idea, but it was a good one. The Navy praised these men, but they had to risk death to become heroes. Their loved ones are proud, of course, but even after the fact, they were worried about the risks their men were taking. Hearing each other’s voices for just a few minutes gave heart and strength to both the naval officers and their families back home.”

“Has the Navy ever allowed that before — letting men aboard a ship speak to their families ashore?”

“Oh, no.” Olga smiled. “They were quite surprised when we suggested it.”

“But wouldn’t it be a distraction to the men?”

“Their experiences are the distraction,” Olga countered. “Hearing from their loved ones helps them get back on an even keel.”

“And what did the Navy say when you suggested this?”

Olga waved her hands about. “They worried about the precedent it would set. They worried that it would reveal state secrets. But Vice Admiral Kokurin graciously allowed it this time as a trial. We want to show the Navy we can be an asset, that the fleet will be stronger with us.”

“What other activities have you performed?”

“Of course, we are helping those families who lost loved ones aboard Severodvinsk. This includes helping them obtain all the survivor’s benefits the Navy is supposed to provide. In the past, some people have had problems with this. From now on we will be there for them.”

Borzin closed his notepad. “I’m going to ask for an interview with Vice Admiral Kokurin. I understand you’ve met with him a few times.”

“That’s true.” Olga didn’t smile, and fought the urge to say something unwise. She finally said, “I’m sure you will find it worthwhile.”

USS Churchill

The messenger found her in wardroom. “Doctor, Captain Baker sends his compliments, and asks if you would join him in CIC.”

They really did talk like that, she marveled. Contacts abaft the beam, marlinspikes, and piping people on and off the ship. Secretly, she loved it.

Baker was smiling when she saw him sitting in his command chair, an unusual smile in the middle of a life-and-death submarine rescue. “The Russians have reported a surface contact to the southwest. It’s entered the maritime exclusion zone.”

He gestured to the contact display in the center screen. The six-by-six display showed not only the ships in the rescue force, but a large circle marking the fifty-mile exclusion zone. Baker had shown her how to read the symbols. The symbology was easy to interpret once you knew the system, and she could see a surface ship just across the arc marking the exclusion zone. It was headed straight toward their position.

“This is why you’re smiling?”

“The Russians sent a helicopter and visually identified it as a Norwegian-flagged fishing vessel. The aircraft challenged it by radio but the boat won’t answer.”

“What would they like us to do?”

“Their helicopter will be out of fuel in about half an hour. They’d like one of our birds to relieve it. They also want Churchill to back it up, in case they refuse to change course.”

“Intercept them?” she asked.

“With your permission, ma’am.”

“Borisov is the SAR commander, after all. Did this boat ask them for permission before entering the exclusion zone?”

“I asked the Russians that question and they said it did not.”

“Then there’s no guarantee they’ll behave themselves. Yes, Captain, permission granted.”

Baker’s hand was already resting on the phone. “Bridge, launch the alert bird, bring the other helo up to plus thirty readiness. After it’s gone, change course to intercept Track zero three four seven, speed twenty-five knots.”

Baker listened for a moment to the reply, then hung up. “They were ready for my word. We’ll launch our helicopter in about five minutes. We should intercept in about an hour, a little after sunset. Our helicopter will be there in twenty minutes.”

Motor Vessel Stavanger

Captain Jonson didn’t look happy even when the Russian helicopter left. Brewer had persuaded Jonson to not answer the helicopter’s radio calls, even when they switched from Russian to passable English.

Truth be told, Brewer had been a little nervous himself, at least until he satisfied himself that the helicopter was unarmed. He smiled as it flew off to the northeast. It couldn’t do a thing to stop them.

Jonson didn’t smile when the helicopter left, but he hadn’t turned his boat around, either. At the time, promising him triple the normal charter rate had seemed a little excessive. Now Brewer thought it was money well spent.

Jonson had been willing enough to take them out. The fishing season was over. He’d been slow putting his boat up for the winter because of needed repairs. Brewer’s fee had not only paid for the repairs, it more than made up for the fishing Jonson had missed.

Brewer was willing to spend. The Severodvinsk story was big news, but almost every piece was secondhand, from either Norwegian or Russian or U.S. official sources. The media couldn’t even interview families of Severodvinsk’s crew. Severomorsk was a closed city, barred to foreigners, much less Western reporters.