Larry Bond - Cold Choices

Jerry left before Palmer could raise any more objections; share more of his fears. The problem was, Jerry understood Palmer’s concerns. He shared them, and more that Palmer hadn’t even considered yet. Every so often, another one would pop up, distracting him, threatening to take over his thoughts. This time, just after midnight, was especially bad, with the boat quiet and his own mind tired and stressed after a long day.

Palmer was letting those worries take over his ability to think clearly. With fear in the driver’s seat, one’s thoughts would only take dark turns.

Jerry fought his fear with reason and faith. Palmer’s concerns about the Russians? They’d be in international waters. Jerry’s own guilt about Rountree’s death because he didn’t recognize the Russian’s misconception about the UUVs lack of a tether? Turns out it wouldn’t have made any difference.

And when he looked over the edge, into the darkness, there were other demons lying in wait, watching for weakness — his lack of confidence, his apparent helplessness whenever disaster struck. There were facts countering these demoralizing feelings as well, good ones.

But fear and guilt are emotions, and emotions don’t need reasons to exist or even thrive. Jerry had found he needed other emotions to hold his own fear in check. His confidence in Seawolf’s crew, his own competitive nature, and now his desire to help the Russian submariners replaced the negative feelings. They gave him reasons to work, something worth taking risks for.

Jerry’s dreams that night were vivid and frightening. He was back in the Hornet’s cockpit, skimming an ice-covered sea. The canopy was folded back, like a convertible, and icy rain stung his face. He flew over Seawolf on the surface, damaged and listing, smoke coming from her sail. A moment later, the Russian boat flashed by underneath. It was badly damaged as well, the ice-covered steel hull somehow on fire under the water.

He realized that instead of bombs or missiles, he was loaded with life rafts. Jerry tried to turn and make a pass over the crippled vessels, but every time he put the stick over, he turned sharply, but still ended up pointing directly away from the two subs. He tried an Immelman, pulling the nose back and watching the horizon fall away below him, but when he spun level and looked for the subs, they were still dead aft.

The subs were sinking, men jumping from the open hatches, when the alarm saved him.

Jerry was still washing up when the door popped open. The XO said quickly, “The Captain’s cabin, as soon as you dry off.” He left without waiting for a reply.

Hurrying, Jerry ran a towel over his face and grabbed his coveralls. He was still fastening his belt when he reached Rudel’s cabin. A small crowd was gathered outside, including Lieutenant Commander Lavoie and an embarrassed-looking second-class, one of the engineers.

They made a hole for Jerry, who saw the XO and the captain examining what looked like an oversized cell phone.

The XO spoke the moment he saw Jerry “Jerry, get an OPREP-3 Pinnacle message written. I need it five minutes ago.”

Jerry answered “Yes, sir,” automatically, but didn’t understand why the XO wanted it. An OPREP-3 Pinnacle message was a special incident report that was sent to inform a senior authority that an incident of high national interest had occurred involving a U.S. Navy ship. Instead of being sent to just its immediate superior, in this case commander, Submarine Development Squadron Twelve, it was sent to the entire chain of command at once, to the chief of naval operations and all the steps in between. It was almost always bad news, but it was designed to get that news to everyone as quickly as possible.

By rights, Seawolf should have sent out a Pinnacle within minutes after she’d collided with the Russian sub, but with all her transmitters down, it had been impossible.

Trying to grasp the XO’s reasoning, Jerry asked, “Did we get one of the transmitters on line?” He should have heard the news from Chandler, though, before the XO and the skipper.

Shimko pointed to the enlisted man, Petty Officer Moreau. “Thanks to Moreau here, we don’t need to get a transmitter back on line. He’s loaned us his personal satellite phone.”

“And it will work out here.” Jerry didn’t state it as a question. He was just working through the implications. “I’ll have it for you ASAP, sir.”

Jerry didn’t run back to his stateroom, but he didn’t waste any time pulling out a message blank and the manual from his bookshelf. The manual had instructions for each part of the message. It even included an example report, a hypothetical collision. Jerry marched through the fields quickly.

Date and time of the message, sender and addressees.

“Except that he’ll just dial someone,” Jerry thought. “Probably the squadron commander.”

He felt the deck angle up slightly. They weren’t all that deep, and he realized they were going to surface. To use the phone, the caller would have to stand in the bridge cockpit.

Precedence.

“Flash, never mind the fact that it’s overdue by about two days.”

Classification.

“Secret, which is kind of silly because we’re going to tell the Russians about it.”

The deck was moving now, side to side. His stomach began moving in time with the deck, and Jerry was glad he hadn’t had breakfast yet. Huddled in his cabin writing a message was not the best way to ward off seasickness. Focus, Jerry.

Subject.

“Collision. No,” he corrected himself. “Submerged collision.”

Narrative. The instruction said to “include all salient facts.”

“Right,” Jerry muttered. He started with the facts, the date and time, latitude and longitude, depth course, and speed and what they were doing when the unknown submarine appeared and.

Jerry looked up to find Shimko watching him work. If the XO wanted to read over your shoulder, you just nodded and kept writing.

The second paragraph was harder. He turned eleven minutes of confused maneuvers into an understandable narrative by stating only the broadest generalities. He looked back at the XO for approval, who nodded but also tapped his watch.

Jerry sighed. The next paragraph listed damage to the originating unit, including casualties. Jerry finally had to look up a fact: Denny Rountree’s Social Security number and date of birth. The rest of it, the details of the collision, personally experienced and then hashed over for two days, might as well be encoded in his DNA.

The final paragraph was damage to the other unit. He paused only for a moment, but it was no time to mince words. “Heavily damaged, may be down.”

“Add this at the end,” Shimko dictated. “Performing search at location of collision, will coordinate with rescue forces when they arrive.”

As Jerry wrote, he muttered, “Yeah, Russian rescue forces.”

Shimko shrugged. “Wise man says, ‘Man with burning mustache happy whoever shaves him.’”

Jerry handed him the message form. “Is the Captain going to send this?”

“Hell, no. He’s on the horn with the squadron commander right now. As soon as he’s finished, I’ll show this to him and get his approval. Have one of your ITs standing by to go topside and read it over the phone.”

“Aye, sir.” Shimko disappeared, heading for ops first level. Jerry made a quick call to radio, then followed him.

Rudel was coming down the ladder from the bridge access trunk. His foul weather gear was dripping wet, and a blast of cold air swirled down with him.

The XO handed the skipper a towel, meanwhile yelling up the ladder for “you knuckleheads” to “shut the damn hatch.” He was rewarded with a heavy clunk.