Larry Bond - Cold Choices

Lindstrom’s voice showed his confusion. “I don’t know what’s happened. Both tugs suddenly veered to starboard. It looks like the cables to the sub’s bow are slack on both tugs.”

Nicherin, one of Borisov’s staff, interrupted, “Admiral, I’ve got reports from both Pamir and Altay. No casualties, but each has lost the cable to Severodvinsk’s bow.”

“That still gives them two cables each. Tell them full power!” Nicherin nodded quickly and hurried off.

Borisov returned his attention to the handset. Lindstrom was speaking, and Borisov asked him to repeat. “We’re moving the ROVs in to get a closer look at the cables.”

The sailor in Borisov thought about the forces, the way they were applied. “Concentrate on the bow section. The cables must have come loose somehow.”

“I agree. The chance of two breaking at the same moment is incredibly small.”

“How long until you can see?” Borisov asked.

“There’s a lot of silt from the charges,” Lindstrom answered. “We’ll have to get in very close, almost on top of the submarine. With the tugs still pulling, there is a risk we could lose one.”

“I understand,” Borisov answered. “Go ahead.”

“We are already sending one of the ROVs in. It will take three, maybe four minutes.”

“If they’ve simply come loose, be ready to reattach them.”

“Understood. We can do that.”

USS Seawolf

Jerry and most of the wardroom were in control, with as many of the crew that could fit down in the torpedo room, watching the displays. Maxine had been running slow, angled racetracks, her sonar optimized for short range, high-resolution images.

They’d heard the explosion through the hull, a little alarming in spite of being right on time. Sonar also reported the tug’s engines running flat out. Maxine’s sonar showed most of Severodvinsk, lying angled to port. They all longed for her to slowly roll to starboard, and then for the escape chamber to appear above the sail. The UUV would be able to see it, even through the murk from the explosions.

Rumor was, the cooks were putting together a big party, with a Russian menu. Blinis, something called piroshki. They might even invite Borisov back. Seemed like a nice enough guy.

Sonar then reported the engines slowing, followed by a revving up again to full power.

But Severodvinsk never moved. Kurganov’s call over the underwater telephone confirmed the bad news.

USS Churchill

They’d moved from CIC to the bridge, as if actually seeing the vessels would tell them something new. The radiomen piped the circuits over the bridge loudspeakers, and they listened to Borisov’s questions and his order to maintain power.

After about five minutes, Lindstrom came back on the circuit. “We have a clear view of the bow from the first ROV. The mooring point is gone! It’s been torn off of the casing!”

He was reporting to Borisov, who responded in English. “I do not understand.”

“The fitting that the cables were attached to has been ripped from the submarine’s deck.”

“Impossible. Those mooring points are designed to withstand tremendous forces.”

Lindstrom patiently answered, “We will be sending the photos to you in a few moments. The foundations are cracked, and the metal of the casing is torn. The fitting itself is missing entirely. The cables did not come loose, they pulled it off the deck.”

Borisov’s voice, even over the radio, was incredulous. “How could this happen?” He was asking himself as much as Lindstrom.

“Severodvinsk suffered a lot of damage to her bow. The hull’s structure must have been weakened.”

There was a long pause, and everyone on the bridge could imagine the Russian searching for some solution. “Can the cables be reattached to the bow some other way? It must be done quickly,” he added.

“No, Admiral. There’s nothing left to attach them to. And the tugs would have to stop while we did the work.”

After another pause, Borisov answered, “Very well. I intend to continue with the remaining two lines.”

Lindstrom’s answer was simple. “Good luck. Out.”

Joanna Patterson, Captain Baker, and the others stood listening to the conversation. After the Norwegian had signed off, they stood silently, absorbing and understanding. Silas cursed, Russo walked out to the bridge wing, and Patterson saw him pounding his fist on the rail.

She was surprised when Joyce Parker pulled out a Kleenex and offered it to her. She hadn’t felt the tears until then.

They watched as the tugs strained, working to move Severodvinsk. Borisov had them alternate, then angle left and right. All the while, Seawolf and Halsfjord watched their vehicles, eager to report any movement. Finally, after half an hour with nothing to show, the admiral had each tug cast off one of its cables, so that Pamir had the midships while Alt ay pulled on the stern. He ordered them to pull in opposite directions, hoping that the twisting motion might somehow help.

Severodvinsk

Petrov waited, holding his hand against the metal bulkhead of the capsule. It was a lousy way to monitor the rescue efforts, but the capsule had no sensors. He held his hand there, feeling the vibration, knowing the tugs were working, but the inclinometer never moved.

Soon after the explosions, he’d felt a jar that had passed through the deck, but the vibration had resumed quickly. It stayed constant, and he could only wait and hope and watch the needle as it hovered at thirty-six degrees.

After ten minutes, he pulled his hand away, but others took up his watch. He visualized the tugs, tried to calculate the forces, but his thinking kept trailing off into worries about his men, and what was taking so long.

After fifteen minutes, he started to look for reasons why the hull hadn’t shifted yet, but would. After another ten minutes, he confirmed that the vibrations were still there, but according to the inclinometer, they were not having any effect. Were the vibrations something else? If not the tugs, what? He decided he didn’t want to know.

The excitement of moving into the chamber and the explosions had passed. The crew waited patiently, and silently. There was no point in wasting air by asking questions. They knew as much as their captain. Most of the injured appeared to be asleep, or at least passed into a quiet state brought on by exhaustion and stress.

Petrov promised he’d wait until forty minutes had gone by, and then found himself looking for reasons to keep waiting. Waiting meant there might still be a chance. When he stopped waiting, and opened the lower hatch, it meant that yet another rescue attempt had failed.

He knew Borisov and Rudel and Lindstrom were probably calling on the underwater telephone. But they knew he and his men would be waiting here in the chamber, out of touch but ready to ascend the instant the sub rolled far enough to starboard.

Fifty-two minutes after the explosive charges had been detonated, the vibration stopped. He waited a full five minutes for it to resume, or for anything else to happen. Feeling like a failure, he unsnapped his seat belt and stood.

His action, final as a jail door slamming shut, brought moans and cries from his crew. A few wept as he walked to the hatch and unsealed it. Before descending, he turned to Kalinin and ordered, “Keep them here for a few more minutes while I call Petr Velikiy .” The starpom nodded sadly, even though it was just delaying the inevitable.

Petrov left the escape chamber, heading for the underwater communications station and bad news.