Larry Bond - Cold Choices

“Yes, sir. The shaft bearings are badly distorted and Chief Engineer Lyachin says we cannot use the main propulsion turbines. He also regrets to report that the bulkhead between compartments seven and eight has been compromised. He doesn’t exactly know how bad, but water is welling up in the bilges in compartment seven. It’s already up to the deck plates in the below decks. He doesn’t think we can isolate it.”

The last sentence struck both Petrov and Kalinin like a knife through the heart. Kalinin groaned audibly as he leaned up against the command console for support. Stunned by the additional dark news, Petrov stood speechless. Severodvinsk was crippled and slowly dying, and there was virtually no chance of them getting off the bottom. They’d have to abandon ship, if they could.

“I see,” replied Petrov woodenly. “Anything else?”

“Yes, sir. Damage Control Chief Kolesnikov reports that there was a small electric fire in compartment three. It was put out with a portable chemical extinguisher. There was a far more serious fire in compartment six that required the application of the LOKh to extinguish.” The LOKh was a compartment-level fire-fighting system that used Freon gas to smother a fire by depriving it of oxygen. Unfortunately, it would also kill anyone trapped in the compartment.

“Casualties?” asked Kalinin quietly.

“There are numerous casualties, Starpom. We haven’t been able to compile a list just yet. Dr. Balanov is treating the wounded in compartment four.”

“Where is Captain Kolesnikov now?” Petrov’s voice was deadpan, but his face reflected the pain he felt.

“Captain Kolesnikov is on the line of defense established at the aft bulkhead of compartment five. He is assisting the Chief Engineer in evacuating compartments six and seven.”

“Very well, tell the Chief Engineer. ”

Suddenly the central post reverberated with the sound of mechanical popping and a low creaking groan that seemed to come from the hull itself. The unnatural noise grated on their already frayed nerves.

A puzzled Petrov looked toward Kalinin. His face was ashen; he understood. “My God! The forward bulkhead!”

Petrov took off running, while Kalinin hopped as best he could toward the ladder. The captain grabbed the handrails and sailed down the ladder well, the pain in his shoulder deadened by the adrenaline in his blood. It took him no more than ten seconds to reach the watertight door, despite having to jump over injured men lying on the deck. Mitrov was shoving Kessler through the hatch as Petrov arrived; both men were carrying two air-regeneration cassettes each.

“The bulkhead is failing, Captain!” shouted Mitrov as he stumbled through the door.

At the far end of the passageway, Petrov saw three men in orange rubber damage-control suits attempting to put up mechanical braces against the bulkhead. Heavy streams of water shot out of numerous small cracks in the steel hull.

“Are they the last ones in the compartment?” yelled Petrov.

“Yes, sir! All the injured are out and the belowdecks hatch is shut and dogged!”

As Kalinin hobbled up to the door, his face ablaze with pain, he found Petrov shouting and waving at the men to get away from the forward bulkhead. The hull groaned again, and new streams of high-pressure water shot out from the metal. A jet of water hit one of the men in the shoulder, spinning him violently into the wall; he bounced and fell into the pooling water on the deck. At this depth, the water had the force of a bullet, and it left its victim unconscious.

The larger man, seeing his unmoving comrade in the water, scooped him up and started retreating toward the watertight door. With the water level up to his knees, he waded at an agonizingly slow pace. He kept looking over his shoulder, motioning for the third man to follow, but the man remaining behind waved them on as he struggled to tighten up a brace.

Petrov watched in horror as the bulkhead visibly distorted even more— the low groaning became a high-pitched screech. Reaching through the doorway, he grabbed the injured man, pulled him through, and dumped his limp body on the deck. The larger man leapt through the door just as the forward bulkhead started to fail catastrophically. Petrov slammed the door shut and braced it with his body while Kalinin lunged on the locking mechanism handle, dogging the hatch. Less than a second later, the hull finally collapsed, and the resulting water hammer blasted the bulkhead between the two compartments. The transmitted force sent both Petrov and Kalinin flying, but the bulkhead held.

After a few seconds, the din of rushing water was replaced by the moaning and cries of injured men. Struggling to his feet, wet and in shock, Petrov stared at the watertight door. He’d just lost another man. How many was it now?

“Captain,” Zubov’s voice came from behind him. It was unsteady, broken, but grateful. “Thank you, sir.”

Petrov looked up at the large man clad in the damage-control suit, his face now exposed, and nodded. Turning back toward the secured watertight door, he asked, “Who did we lose?”

Zubov swallowed hard, there were tears welling in his eyes. Fighting his emotions, it took him a few seconds to answer his captain. “Captain-Lieutenant Ivanov, sir.”

Just then, several men came pouring down the ladder, their flashlight beams twitching wildly about as they descended. Chief Engineer Lyachin was in the lead.

“Dear God,” he said as he maneuvered his way to Petrov. “We felt the hull collapse. I was afraid we were all doomed. We were fortunate this time.”

“Some of us were, Chief,” responded Petrov as he helped Kalinin to his feet. His words were heavy with weariness and remorse. “Some of us were spared. At least for the moment.”

With one arm supporting Kalinin, he gestured to the injured men on the deck with the other. “Chief, get these men to compartment three. Set up the engineers’ living quarters as a hospital and alert Dr. Balanov that he has more patients waiting. Then meet me and the Starpom in the central command post; we have much to discuss.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Half an hour later, Petrov and Kalinin met with the surviving battle department commanders and the service chiefs. Petrov needed to hear their reports so that he could understand the full extent of the damage, and to determine what options they had. Chief Engineer Lyachin started off with an assessment of the ship’s overall status. As expected, the news was not good.

“Based on my direct observations, compartments one, seven, and eight are completely flooded. Compartment six is probably flooding slowly, since I heard water flowing as I left. The atmosphere in compartment six is toxic, as is compartment five, from the byproducts of the fire as well as the LOKh suppression system. The watertight bulkheads in compartments two and five appear to be holding. For now, our situation has stabilized.”

Kalinin shook his head and chuckled, “You have an unusual definition of stable, Sergey Vladimirovich.”

“I suppose so, Starpom, but we are in a rather unusual situation,” quipped Lyachin with a weary smile.

“Please continue, Chief,” commanded Petrov tersely.

“Yes, sir. The reactor is secure. The shutdown rods have been inserted and I initiated the emergency cooling system. This means we only have the reserve storage battery for electrical power. Used judiciously, it can last for several days.”

“Thank you, Chief. Captain Fonarin, what is the status of our atmosphere?”

“It is breathable, Captain. Oxygen is at nineteen percent and carbon dioxide is at half a percent. That’s a little high, but tolerable. The existing smoke particulates are annoying but not life-threatening. Pressure in the boat is a little over a standard atmosphere.”