Larry Bond: Cold Choices

“They’re working damn fast, XO,” commented Rudel approvingly. “Pretty soon we’ll see if this semi-crazy idea of ours really works.”

“Ah, Skipper? Sir, there’s one thing. That order you gave about nonessential personnel?” There was concern in Shimko’s voice.

“What about it, XO?”

“Nobody will leave, sir. The officers and chiefs say everyone is essential, and when I tell the men individually, they respectfully refuse to carry out my order. All of them.”

“Dammit, XO, I made it an order because I knew nobody would leave voluntarily. It’s no disgrace. We drop them off just before we make the dive, and pick them up as soon as it’s done. They’ll wait on Halsfjord for what? An hour? Fewer lives at risk.”

“ ‘Fewer men to help’ was the universal response,” Shimko reported.

Rudel sighed heavily, leaning on the deckhouse rail. “This could go south in a dozen different ways we can’t imagine.”

“True, sir, so it may be hard to say who’s ‘essential’ and who isn’t.”

“So you disagree with my order as well?” Rudel sounded surprised.

“Disagree, maybe, sir, but never disobey.” Shimko continued, “I think they all appreciated the thought, Skipper, but nobody wants to be left out, so to speak.”

“I think the appropriate word describing this is ‘mutiny,’ Mr. Shimko,” Rudel grumbled.

“Other captains would kill to have a crew this undisciplined,” countered Shimko with a wide grin.

“Then belay my last.”

The “Russians” Lindstrom had referred to were Vice Admiral Borisov and Rear Admiral Oleg Antonovich Smelkov, chief of the Technical Directorate of the Northern Fleet. Both joined by teleconference, Borisov from Petya and Smelkov from his office ashore. Patterson and her group aboard Churchill were also electronically present.

Smelkov didn’t look like an admiral. A harried bank clerk, maybe. Or possibly a university professor during exam week. His uniform coat was off, and he sat at his desk, surrounded by computer printouts. Two voices spoke quickly offscreen.

They had gathered to hear Smelkov answer the big question: Where to push? Smelkov was not only a naval constructor, he had helped describe the fleet’s requirement for Severodvinsk, and then supervised her construction.

Smelkov was pale, with hair so blond that at first glance it seemed white. His thin face added to the first impression of an elderly man, almost frail. Then he spoke, and twenty years disappeared.

He didn’t waste time. “I will hope my English is acceptable. The answer to your first question is no. Not only is it too close to the escape chamber, but the sail’s structure was never designed to withstand that much side force. It would most likely rip clear of the hull.

“So, if you must push on the hull itself, I say here.” He typed for a moment, and the image changed to show a cross-section of Severodvinsk. A heavy black line just inside the outer hull showed the pressure hull, divided into compartments by similar lines.

A circle marked a spot on the lower hull, just aft of the sail. “This is in the center of the third compartment. You must set your depth so you are below the hull’s centerline. It will overhang your bow. When you push, also blow your forwardmost tanks to lift as well. Is this clear?”

“Yes,” Rudel answered simply. “Have you calculated how much force we will need?”

Smelkov shook his head. “There is no way to know. Mr. Lindstrom’s first figures were very reasonable, and his preparations very thorough. It should have worked. The only conclusion I can make is that Severodvinsk’s lower hull has been caught on the uneven surface she lies on.”

“Snagged on the rocks,” Rudel suggested.

“Yes,” Smelkov answered.

“That is our theory as well,” Lindstrom added.

“When you first start to push, the outer hull will give way. This is acceptable. It may even form a ‘pocket,’ or recess that will prevent your bow from sliding to the left or right.”

“When will Severodvinsk’s pressure hull give way?”

Smelkov threw up his hands. “I estimate near two-thirds of your full power, Captain Rudel. The hull is designed to resist the steady pressure of the sea and sudden shocks from torpedoes and depth bombs. This will be localized, like a depth-bomb attack, but longer, and harder. The hull will deform before it fails.”

“Which Petrov and his men won’t be able to see, because he will be in the escape chamber,” Rudel concluded.

“Given Petrov’s situation, the additional danger is irrelevant,” Borisov added. “No, Captain, before Petrov would start moving his men into the escape chamber again, he said he was not climbing out, no matter what happened.

“Also, I have a message from Olga Sadilenko. Do you know her?” Rudel nodded and Borisov read from a sheet of paper. “She says they are praying for the crews of both submarines, and that you and your men are very brave, as brave as her son’s crew. I will add my own prayers to hers.”

“Thank you, Admiral, and thank Mrs. Sadilenko for us.”

“Good luck to us all.”

Severodvinsk

It had taken almost two hours to move the men. Everyone was weak. Some refused to make the climb and had to be bullied, almost dragged to the ladder. As desperate as they were for light, warmth, life itself, they dreaded the thought of climbing into the escape chamber.

This time, he’d sent Lyachin up right away to supervise the loading inside the cylindrical capsule. Kalinin remained at the base of the ladder, cajoling and hectoring the men into climbing faster, or even climbing at all.

Finally, the injured had been moved, the logbooks and classified material stowed, and Petrov reported to the surface. “Comrade Admiral, Severodvinsk is ready.”

“Very good, Captain. What is your CO, level?”

“Fonarin just took a new reading. It’s three point seven percent.”

Borisov didn’t reply immediately, and Petrov added, “We’re still breathing, Admiral.”

“Good. They are getting ready to fit the wooden framework over Seawolf’s bow. Then they will get under way and submerge. It should be no more than half an hour.”

“I would prefer to remain in contact until the Americans are ready. Is that acceptable?”

“As long as you can get into the escape chamber in good order, that will be fine.”

“Yes, sir. We will stand by for your call.”

Petrov hung up the microphone and sat down wearily. It took all his concentration to manage a simple conversation. The constant headache made thought almost impossible. Still, he had to keep thinking.

Only four officers were left in the central post: Petrov, Kalinin, Fonarin, and Mitrov. There was nothing left to do.

“One collision put us here, another will save us.”

“ Will, comrade Captain?”

“I believe in having a positive attitude, comrade Starpom.” He smiled. “Besides, the surface holds its own hazards. The fresh air may finish me off.”

Fonarin chimed in. “I’m willing to risk it, sir.”

“You’re a brave man, Igor Mikhailovich.” Kalinin grinned. “Such sacrifice.”

“And I’ll risk the real food,” Mitrov said.

“And warmth,” Kalinin added.

“As long as they have enough painkillers for our headaches,” Petrov commented, and they all agreed.

“What will you do after we get home, sir?”

“Fill out a great many forms, I fear.” They laughed for a moment at his joke, but it was dark humor. “There must be a lot of paperwork involved with the loss of a submarine — and people.”