Larry Bond - Cold Choices

“Really? Losing your temper like that, how uncharacteristic of you, Vasiliy,” joked Petrov. And then in a more serious tone, “Do you need me to get involved?”

A slight smile flashed across Kalinin’s face, and then rubbing his forehead with his hand, he said, “I think you may have to, sir. Although I was pretty loud out there, I wouldn’t be surprised if half the base heard me, I don’t think my message penetrated their skulls.”

“I’ll bring the matter up with the diviziya commander when I meet with him this afternoon. How are we doing otherwise?”

Kalinin reached down and picked up his notebook and started going down the list of the items that were done and those yet to be completed.

“The repairs to the fire-control and navigation systems are complete. Tests have been conducted and they are fully functional. Specialists will arrive on Wednesday to effect repairs on the sonar suite. We have minimum levels of diesel fuel, fresh water, and provisions, but these aren’t scheduled for delivery until Friday.” He paused briefly as he flipped the page and ran his finger down the list.

“We have twelve USET-80 torpedoes and two 83RN antisubmarine missiles in both the port and starboard torpedo bays. I’d like some more weapons, if at all possible, but we can live with these if necessary

“Finally, we have a significant deficiency in some damage-control equipment, particularly RP-6 air generation canisters for the fire-fighting rebreathers and V-64 emergency air regeneration cassettes. Of the latter, we have only a fifty percent loadout.” As if to emphasize the finality of his report, he flipped the notebook shut and threw it on the desk.

“Fifty percent, eh?” repeated Petrov, concerned. “That won’t do, Star-pom. We have to have more. What have you done thus far?”

“Sir, I have used every contact at my disposal to find more. And while I have a line on some additional RP-6 canisters, there don’t appear to be any spare regeneration cassettes available in our diviziya or eskadra.”

Petrov sighed heavily, combing his hair with his hand. With disbelief he pressed Kalinin, “You’re sure about that? You’re absolutely sure that there are no spare cassettes available at all?”

“Yes, sir. I have exhausted all my options as of this morning. The very few regeneration cassettes that I have found were five years past their service life, and you know how unstable the chemicals in them can become with age. I didn’t think they were safe to bring aboard.”

Petrov was silent as he considered his possible options, and there weren’t many. If Kalinin with all his considerable talents had run into a brick wall, then they were in serious trouble.

“You’re right, or course. I’ll bring this up with Rear Admiral Vidchenko as well. Perhaps I can convince him to allow us to borrow some air regeneration cassettes from one or two of the Project 971 PLAs. I know Captain Sokolov’s boat, Leopard, has serious engineering problems and can’t go to sea. Anything else, Vasiliy?”

“No sir, that is all the depressing news I have for you at the moment.” Kalinin’s broad smile told Petrov that he was over his tiff with the supply personnel.

“Well, don’t trouble yourself by digging up any more,” Petrov responded whimsically. “I don’t think your heart could handle another episode like the one today.”

“Why thank you, sir. Your genuine concern for my welfare is much appreciated.” Kalinin then grabbed his coat and cover and politely gestured toward the door. “And now, by your leave, sir. I still have much to do to get this boat ready and I have only a scant nine days to do it in.”

Shaking his head, Petrov could only reply, “Carry on, Starpom. Carry on.”

29 September 2008

Barents Sea, Search Area One, 130nm west of Novaya Zemlya

“Conn, sonar. Sierra two seven bears three three zero, still drifting slowly to the left.”

The volume on the intercom circuit was turned down almost all the way, but sonar’s report could still be heard clearly.

“Sonar, conn, aye,” replied Greg Wolfe.

Jerry watched as the tracking party added another bearing line to their geoplot. The automated fire-control system paralleled their manual actions, and both agreed, more or less: Steady course and speed, closing, from the northeast.

They’d picked up the sub’s sounds almost an hour earlier. It was usually dangerous to make assumptions, but under the sea ice, in this part of the world, it was almost certainly a sub. Sonar had detected the rhythmic pulsing of machinery, mixed in with the white noise of ice floes and the howls and burping of sea life—”biologies.”

Their assumption had been quickly confirmed, and then reconfirmed as its sounds were sorted, processed, and analyzed. It was a boomer — a Delta IV-class ballistic-missile submarine. Based on intel reports, it was hull 2, Yekaterineburg, which had left her port of Sayda Guba about the same time Seawolf left New London. The current target motion analysis held her as being quite far away; about twenty thousand yards, maybe more.

Jerry shook his head in disbelief. These detection ranges are absurdly long, he thought. And yet, all the data pointed toward that conclusion. Seawolf’s design was driven by the requirement to fight the Soviet Union’s most advanced attack submarines. No expense had been spared to make the Seawolf class one of the quietest boats in the world. Even at eight knots, Seawolf was, as Lieutenant (j.g.) Shawn McClelland, the sonar officer, put it, “doing her best to imitate a water molecule.”

Along with her extremely quiet nature, Seawolf had the most capable sonar suite ever built, which included the TB-29A towed array. With almost 2,700 feet of passive hydrophone modules, the TB-29 arrays were also specifically designed to detect first-line nuclear subs. In this case, against an older “second-generation” submarine, even an improved design like the Delta IV, it was no contest. Yekaterineburg was simply not in the same league. The situation would be quite different if a late-model Akula, or even a fourth-generation sub like Severodvinsk, were out. But according to the latest reports, all of the Northern Fleet’s SSNs were in port.

Captain Rudel had already congratulated the sonar watch on spotting the sub; now he listened carefully as Shimko reported on the tracking party’s efforts. “Contact’s course is two two zero, speed five knots. Closest point of approach is estimated to be ten thousand yards in a little over two hours, if we maintain present course and speed.” The Delta IV was on a converging course with Seawolf and would pass astern of her at around five nautical miles.

Jerry had been plotting the Delta’s progress on his chart. It was headed southwest. He added, “Course is consistent with a route back to her home port in Sayda Guba.” Jerry used the same conversational tone as the XO. There would be no sign of buck fever in Tom Rudel’s boat. “He should be home in a couple days, assuming he cranks up his speed to a standard bell.”

“If he was outbound, I’d be sorely tempted to trail him,” Rudel remarked wistfully.

“It’s too bad we can’t play with him a little,” Shimko said. “We could steal their lunch and those poor dumb bastards wouldn’t even know we were here.”

“Agreed, XO, but our mission orders don’t include playing with Russian boats, regardless of how attractive the prospects may be.” Rudel smiled as he poked a little fun at Shimko.

“I curse the general irony of it all, sir,” replied Shimko with a slight pompous air. “Man who walks away from free meal needs many forks.”