Larry Bond - Cold Choices

Jerry’s face must have shown his concern, because Wolfe reassured him. “The XO wants us to take it slowly. We’ll work our way down to three hundred feet, but in baby steps.”

“Well, it’s got to be better than riding it out on the surface. It’s way beyond nasty up there,” Jerry replied as he struggled to unzip his parka with half-frozen hands. And then more lightly, “I guess someone really pissed off King Boreas, because he’s hopping mad right now.”

“Wasn’t me; honest,” cried Wolfe defensively.

Jerry chuckled and then groaned as he gratefully stripped off the icy foul-weather gear. He hadn’t realized just how sore he was. Somebody handed him a towel, and he stepped to one side, blotting the seawater from his face, while another sailor mopped up the puddle he’d left on the deck.

“The XO wants a status on all the gear ASAP.” Jerry acknowledged Wolfe’s message as he stepped over to the chart table. QM3 Bishop was tending the nav plot, and Jerry studied their track, the twists and turns of their encounter with the Russian, their slow northwest crawl since. Their submerged speed was still just five knots.

He took a quick bearing to LaVerne’s programmed location. Wolfe already had them on course to the rendezvous with the UUV. At five knots, they’d reach her in an hour or so.

Sighing, he asked the chief of the watch to please send the messenger of the watch to find Mr. Chandler, Chief Hudson, and QM1 Peters. “Tell them to meet me in the wardroom immediately.” He headed aft, straight to the wardroom, half-expecting to find injured sailors, but the corpsman had finished his work. The space was clean.

QM1 Peters showed up first, then Chandler and finally Chief Hudson. The chief’s clothes were stained and wet.

With all three of his divisions’ leadership present, Jerry got straight to business. “All right. Who else was hurt?” He didn’t need to mention Rountree.

Peters spoke first. “Gosnell slammed his shoulder, but that’s all.”

Hudson said, “Troy Kearney landed wrong on the deck and broke his wrist. The doc’s already put a splint on it.”

Chandler added, “Minor bumps and bruises, but nobody’s reported anything serious.”

“Chief?” Jerry dreaded Hudson’s reply, but they had to know. “Does anything work?”

“We’re still trying to get power to the racks. Between finding shorts and replacing charred cables, that’s been hard enough. We’ve restored power to the ship control circuits, internal comms, and the WAA. I can tell you right now that the radar and ESM are a total loss.”

“Matt, what about the radios?”

“Without power, we couldn’t test the gear.”

Jerry waited a moment, expecting to hear more, but Chandler seemed to be finished. “Fine. QM1, see what your people can do to help the ETs and the ITs. I know you’re not techs, but they’re shorthanded. Hourly reports. That’s all.”

They all turned to leave, but Jerry asked, “Matt, stay a minute.” As soon as Peters and Hudson were gone, Jerry said, “I need to know more about our radios.”

“I’ll get right on it, sir. I’ve been busy with other things.”

That “sir” thing again. Jerry fought to control his irritation. “What could be more important than fixing the radios, Matt?”

“Documenting the collision. I’ve been working on my account of events. I wanted to do it while they were still fresh in my mind.” He reminded Jerry, “You know, we’re all going to have to provide them.”

Between Chandler’s self-serving response and his own grief over Rountree’s death, Jerry snapped. His anger flashed into full bloom. “Lieutenant, we’re in the middle of the Barents on a boat that’s deaf, dumb, and blind. Now is not the time to cover your ass.”

“Sir, I resent the implication that I’ve neglected my duties.” Chandler’s injured demeanor increased Jerry’s anger.

“I’m not implying it, I’m saying it. Drop the damn paperwork and get to work on those radios.”

“Sir, are you ordering me to not work on recording my account of the collision?”

Jerry pulled himself up short. His irritation changed to caution. Chandler was looking for Jerry to say the wrong thing, something angry while he was cold and tired and strung out. It would go right into his report, part of an official record.

Jerry adopted a formal tone. “I am informing you of what our priorities are in this critical situation, and reminding you, as always, to spend your time wisely and to do your duty accordingly.”

After a moment, Jerry added, “This is no time for mind games. Report to me in control in five minutes. I need to know exactly how quickly we can get one HF transmitter and receiver on line. And don’t ever tell me that ‘nobody’s reported anything’ to you. It’s your job to find out. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir.” Chandler’s tone and expression didn’t change, but Matt was no fool. The message had been received, for now.

Cursing Chandler, Jerry quickly changed into some drier clothing and headed for the electronic equipment space. He needed to know just how bad it was.

Standing outside the door, Jerry could smell burnt paint and rubber. Inside the cramped compartment, illuminated by work lights, three enlisted men struggled to pull blackened electronics modules from their racks. Every module had been sprayed with salt water, and would have to be thoroughly cleaned before anyone dared to run power through it.

Their movements were hampered by a wooden framework that had been roughly braced to the deck. Several beams angled up to an area of gray metal on the forward bulkhead. The insulation that normally covered it had been torn away, and Jerry could see the ribs that lined the inside and strengthened the pressure hull, spaced a few feet apart. Three ribs were exposed, and the center one was deformed inward — not a lot, but Jerry could see where it was no longer a perfect circle.

The wooden braces would shore up the weakened rib, although there was no way of knowing how much strain the area could take. He was enough of an engineer to know what their vulnerabilities were. He just couldn’t calculate how much trouble they were in.

One enlisted man from auxiliary division, wearing sound-powered phones, had been posted in the space. His only job was to watch for signs of stress in the hull or the shoring, and for any new leaks.

One of the technicians, ET1 Kearney, looked up from his work and asked, “Need something, Mr. Mitchell?”

“No, Kearney. That’s what I was going to ask you. How’s your wrist?”

Kearney held out his right arm for Jerry to inspect. A metal splint surrounded his arm from below the elbow to his palm. “The chief did a good job. He says it’s hardly more than a greenstick fracture.”

Jerry flashed back to his own injury, a shattered right wrist that had ended his aviation career.”Now you’ll always be able to tell when we change depth. How’s the pain?”

Kearney shrugged. “It hurt like hell when he examined it, but since then it’s just a dull ache.”

“It’s going to swell some. Keep taking the ibuprofen that the doc prescribed.”

“How’d you know he’d told me that?”

Jerry held out his own wrist, showing him the scars. “Been there, done that, bought the pharmacy.”

Jerry headed for control. He found the XO there, watching as Greg Wolfe cautiously took Seawolf deeper. They’d worked their way to two hundred and fifty feet and seven knots. Reflexively, Jerry checked their sea room on the chart and found no issues. They would reach the rendezvous with LaVerne in half an hour.

Lieutenant Chandler showed up, but as Jerry asked for his report, the XO appeared. “Department head meeting in the wardroom. Pass the word.”