Larry Bond - Cold Choices

Rudel stripped off the wet gear and handed it to the watch, then accepted the message from the XO. He read it quickly, ignoring the sailor mopping the water around him.

Lieutenant Chandler showed up with IT2 Solomon, one of the radiomen, in tow. “I heard about the sat phone,” Chandler told Jerry. “We’ll send Solomon up whenever you’re ready.”

“The Skipper’s reviewing the OPREP-3 message right now. I know we’ve got a pile of outgoing messages that haven’t been sent, to include a detailed casualty report. Pull out any important ones and get them to Solomon.”

“You mean like the list of repair parts for the SATCOM transmitters?” Chandler asked.

“That’s the second message to go out.” Shimko had listened to their conversation. “We’ll keep the boat surfaced for ten minutes. Then we’re pulling the plug.”

Rudel had heard them as well. “And send another man up there with Solomon to keep the rain off, or he’ll never be able to work.”

Chandler and Jerry both said, “Understood,” and Chandler disappeared. The captain, XO and Jerry waddled down to control; the rough seas made even walking an exercise. Jerry checked his watch and reassured his digestive system that it only had to hang on for another ten minutes.

Once in control, he braced himself against the chart table and listened as the XO asked Rudel about his conversation with the squadron commander. He wasn’t eavesdropping. As one of the more senior officers on the boat, he was being included.

Shimko prompted Rudel by asking, “Did Captain Jackson have any orders for us?”

Rudel almost laughed, but he didn’t sound happy. “Orders? By the time I’d finished briefing him, he could barely speak.” He stopped briefly, then said, “Imagine your kid calls and tells you that he’s been in an accident, that he’s wrecked the car and hurt someone, and that it was his fault.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Skipper,” Shimko stated softly.

Chandler and another radioman showed up with a plastic binder. Both enlisted men hurriedly pulled on their foul-weather gear, and armed with the phone number of the Atlantic Fleet Message Center, proceeded up to the first deck to the bridge access trunk.

“Jackson says he’ll arrange to get us transmitter parts and anything else we need, possibly through the Russians.”

“So they’ll tell the Russians we’re here?” Jerry spoke without thinking, out of habit. It felt weird, like the Navy was betraying their presence, but then they weren’t covert now.

Rudel was understanding. “It goes against my grain, too, but the Navy’s got almost a day to bring the Russians up to speed. Knowing that we’re in the area will help prevent an incident.” Then Rudel corrected himself, “. another incident.”

“He’s also endorsing my decision to return to the collision site. He agrees it’s the right thing to do, but he also feels that it will open up the biggest can of worms since Vincennes shot down that Iranian airliner in 1988.”

Jerry tried to imagine the reaction back home. Crippled U.S. sub. Missing Russian sub. CNN. State Department. International relations. Media feeding frenzy. His sister Clarice in Minnesota. His uncle the senator. What would they think?

The two ITs scrambled down the ladder, and one of Jerry’s quartermasters went up to disconnect the suitcase. They were submerging; thank Neptune and all the other gods of the sea.

They’d found a way to report, to tell the Navy what was happening, and that was a good thing. But part of him was very sad, a strange feeling considering the circumstances. He thought about it for a while, and realized it was because of the special incident report. He remembered a half-formed thought pushed aside while he was writing the message, but now he had the time to consider it fully.

It would take a little time to go through channels, but sometime tomorrow, Denny Rountree’s parents in Florida were going to get the terrible news that their son was dead.

6 October 2008 10:55 AM

OPNAV N77 Director, Submarine Warfare Division Main Office, Fourth Floor, A Ring, the Pentagon

“Yes, sir. I’m watching the news as well. No, sir. I have no idea how they found out so quickly. My staff and I only got the word late last night from Norfolk.”

Captain William Richardson, USN, spun in his chair at a knock and waved the yeoman into his office. Petty Officer Second Class Michaels walked in and held up a binder with a colorful title page and CD in a plastic case, smiling.

Richardson smiled back and gave him a thumbs-up even as he continued the conversation. “Admiral Keller is due to land in about an hour and a half. We have a briefing scheduled for him at 1400. I understand, sir. I’m sure he would want you there as well. Yes, sir. Of course not, sir. Someone will meet your plane and bring you straight here. Thank you, sir.”

Richardson slammed the phone down, stood and grabbed his service dress blue uniform blouse. “We’ll need another car at Andrews in half an hour. SUBGRU Two will be landing at 1125 from New London and he will join the admiral for the brief.”

Michaels handed over the combined package with one hand and reached for Richardson’s phone with the other. “He didn’t give us a lot of warning.”

“We’re lucky he called to complain about the television coverage. Someone in New London was supposed to phone ahead.”

Michaels nodded as he punched the buttons.

Richardson finished buttoning his coat and quickly flipped through the hard copy of the presentation. “And this has the stuff from BUPERS, the shots of Rudel and his service record?”

“Third slide. This is OPNAV N77 at the Pentagon. The executive assistant needs a driver to meet Rear Admiral Jeffrey Sloan, Commander Submarine Group Two, at Andrews at 1125. No, I’m not kidding. Our extension is 4257, and it’s room 4A720. Thank you.”

While Michaels ordered the car, Richardson hurriedly stuffed the binder, a stack of papers, and a laptop into his briefcase. He finished as the YN2 hung up. “Hernandez is at the Mall Entrance waiting for you. And Lieutenant Meeks has already left to meet Rear Admiral Keller.”

“Good.” Richardson headed for the door. “And now we’ll need two flag-rank reservations for tonight instead of one.”

“I’ll see to it, sir. Good luck at the White House.”

Richardson stopped to check his uniform and reflexively glanced at the television mounted in the corner. It showed a black-and-white video image of a submarine plowing through the water. The legend below said “USS Thresher.” He shuddered, grabbed his uniform cover, and yanked on the doorknob.

He hadn’t taken three steps down the hallway when a woman’s voice behind him called out, “Captain Bill! I just heard the news.”

He turned to see a tall woman walking quickly to catch up. Her expensive dark-colored suit made her ash-blond hair look all the brighter. Richardson waited the few moments it took for her to catch up. “Dr. Patterson, it’s good to see you.”

Richardson turned back and resumed walking. If he hurried, he’d make the briefing on time.

Patterson matched his stride easily. She was half an inch taller. “I just came from the CNO Intel Plot. They brought me up to speed on Seawolf’s mission and the incident.”

“What? Oh, of course.” Richardson corrected his initial reaction. Seawolf’s mission was highly classified, but Dr. Patterson certainly had the necessary clearances.

“Pardon me if I hurry, Doctor, but I have a briefing at the White House.”

“Yes, the NSC meeting at 1130. I won’t slow you down.”

“Thank you. I’ve got to get there early. I’ll be presenting. ” Richardson actually stopped walking. “Are you going to be at the meeting?”