Larry Bond - Cold Choices

“I will be fine, Vasiliy,” rasped Petrov hoarsely as he cleared the last of the tea from his windpipe. “But I’m afraid you misunderstood me. We aren’t cutting our schedule by three weeks, we only have three weeks.”

“What?” whispered Kalinin in utter disbelief.

“The Fleet Commander has issued orders for us to sail on the twenty-ninth of this month. We have twenty-one days to get ready.” If anyone had been walking outside of the captain’s stateroom at that moment, they would have sworn a polar bear was inside.

“Three weeks! What do those self-serving bureaucratic jackasses think we are? Magicians? How in God’s name do they expect me to compress all of this into three weeks?” Kalinin picked up the copy of the schedule he had given Petrov and waved it about wildly as he ranted. “Those damned fools don’t have the faintest clue as to what it takes to bring a submarine into service!”

Petrov sat there quietly as the starpom vented his frustrations. Even though Kalinin’s words were insubordinate, his statements were accurate and showed an excellent grasp of fleet procedures and politics.

Petrov knew the trick to handling men like Kalinin was to allow them to say what they needed to, without fear of retribution, and let them get it out of their system. Afterward, they would move heaven and earth to accomplish an impossible task. Trust and an understanding ear went a long way toward harnessing the dedication and boundless energy of these men. It also encouraged a fierce loyalty that was infectious throughout the crew. Properly managed, such a crew could do unbelievable things.

The tirade lasted for only a few minutes. As Kalinin began to wind down, Petrov gestured for him to take his seat and said, “Calm yourself, Vasiliy. It’s not quite as bad as it sounds.”

“Not quite as bad!?!” replied Kalinin incredulously. “Sir, you know just as well as I that we are nowhere near ready to go on combat patrol. There are just too many things that have to be done. Three weeks is simply not enough.”

“Then we defer those tasks that are irrelevant to this particular mission,” Petrov responded firmly. “I also have both Borisov’s and Vidchenko’s assurances that we will have the highest priority to assist us in our preparations.”

“Sir, with all due respect, we have been the navy’s top priority for the last several years and I don’t think I need to remind you of what we had to do to just get out of the shipyard, or how long it took us!”

“I thought the same as you originally, but there is an important distinction that we both have missed.”

“What is that?”

“While in the shipyard, we were under the fleet’s jurisdiction but only peripherally. Remember, any request we made was sent to the Main Navy Staff via the manufacturing representative at the shipyard. The Northern Fleet staff was only informed of our requirements. They never approved them.”

Kalinin leaned forward as he listened to his captain’s explanation with focused attention. Petrov knew that the quickest way to get his starpom to engage his mind instead of his heart was to throw a well-reasoned argument at him.

“On top of this, we have Rear Admiral Vidchenko, our new diviziya commander. He undoubtedly wants to prove himself to both Borisov and Kokurin, and I should think he’d be rather motivated to assist us in any way possible. So you see, Vasiliy, I don’t think we’ll get the same response as we did before.”

Standing slowly, Kalinin looked his commander straight in the eyes, and with a slight nod acknowledged his orders, “Very well, sir. I will recalculate our schedule based on your intuition.”

“You are the best planner and organizer in the diviziya, and very likely the eskadra as well, Vasiliy. If anyone can compress three months of effort into three weeks, it is you.”

“I shall try not to disappoint you, my Captain,” answered Kalinin, still uneasy with Petrov’s news.

“I know you won’t, Vasiliy. You have never given me cause to doubt your abilities and I’m not about to start now. But before you begin working your magic, I want you to read our orders,” said Petrov as he handed the folder to his starpom. “Focus our efforts on those items that are absolutely essential to carry out this assignment. If you decide something isn’t mission-critical, you have my authority to defer it until we return.”

Buoyed by Petrov’s confidence in him, Kalinin said, “We will be ready to sail on time. We will not miss this opportunity, comrade Captain.”

“Very good, Starpom,” replied Petrov smartly. “Carry out your duties.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

15 September 2008

Atlantic Ocean—100nm SE of Subase New London

(39°55’N, 070°45’W)

The lookout was the first man down, followed soon after by Palmer and Hayes. “Chief of the Watch,” announced Palmer, “the bridge is rigged for dive, last man down, hatch secured.”

Jerry winced a little as he listened to the report. Technically, it was accurate. But Palmer’s voice still had a note of uncertainty to it. The chief of the watch acknowledged the report and then relayed it to LTJG Shawn McClelland, Seawolf’s sonar officer. McClelland had temporarily taken over as the officer of the deck, or OOD, while Hayes and Palmer prepared the bridge to submerge. This transfer of command ensured the safety of the ship while the men in the cockpit topside focused their attention on removing flat panel displays and other pieces of equipment that preferred not to get soaked. After a brief turnover, Hayes resumed his role as OOD and Palmer his as the junior officer of the deck (JOOD).

Looking down at the plotting table, Jerry saw the quartermaster of the watch point to a colorfully labeled position on the navigation chart and hold up two fingers. Nodding, Jerry turned and exclaimed, “Officer of the Deck, two minutes to the dive point.”

“Very well, Nav,” answered Hayes. “Mark the sounding.”

“Two nine eight fathoms,” replied the quartermaster.

It had been raining topside, and the discarded foul-weather gear added to the crowding and bustle as Seawolf prepared to submerge. Filled with control panels, mechanical and electrical equipment, the control room had about the same floor space as a large suburban kitchen.

The layout of the control room was similar to the older Los Angeles class, with the ship control panel and ballast control panel in the forward left-hand corner. To the forward and right was the entrance to the sonar room, and the five fire-control consoles directly aft of the entrance. The two periscopes were in the center of the space, flanked by two plotting tables, one on each side, and a series of command displays directly in front. While the normal watch in the control room was eleven or twelve men, additional watchstanders were required for the maneuvering watch. With the wet foul-weather gear taking up prime deck space, there was little room left for the captain and the XO. And nobody wanted to crowd the captain.

Rudel stood off to the side with Shimko and waited patiently for his cue. Upon hearing the sounding report, he maneuvered around the extra obstacles and stepped up to the periscope stand. “OOD, report.”

Although Rudel had said “OOD,” his gaze was firmly fixed on Palmer. Understanding his captain’s desire, Hayes said, “Mr. Palmer, make the report.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Palmer responded nervously. Then, after taking a deep breath, he began his lengthy report on the ship’s status. “Captain, the ship is on course one six five at all ahead flank, making two four knots. The ship is rigged for dive. We are about one minute from the dive point and the ship’s inertial navigation system is tracking with GPS. We hold one contact on radar; bearing 180 degrees, range two five thousand yards. Contact is past CPA and opening. Sounding is two nine eight fathoms beneath the keel. Request permission to submerge the ship, sir.”