Larry Bond - Cold Choices

“Did your company help with the Kursk disaster?”

“No, but I was one of the divers working for Stolt Offshore and I dove on the boat. I am getting too old now, but I may make one or two early dives, so that I can see conditions for myself.”

Patterson made a note to listen carefully whenever Lindstrom spoke.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re approaching Bardufoss. Please take your seats.”

As they buckled in, Monroe listened on the plane’s interphone, then announced, “As soon as we land and you deplane, vans will take you over to the MV-22. It’s waiting for us to land, and actually, they would like to expedite their takeoff, so that they can be back at base before dark.”

The plane began to shudder, and Monroe warned, “It’s going to be bumpy coming in. Ceiling and visibility are at minimums, but Bardufoss has excellent instrument-landing facilities.”

As he reassured them, the staff sergeant carefully checked each passenger’s seat belt, snugging down Bover’s, and re-stowed several personal items. He almost lost his footing a few times, but finished, then hurried to his own jump seat and belted in.

At first, Patterson tried to make notes, but in the end she put the pad away, gripped the handrests and closed her eyes. Imagining the plane was a bus on a bumpy road helped, if she imagined it was a very bumpy road.

The shock of the landing was startling, but also a relief. A few minutes’ fast taxi put them near a hangar, and when Monroe opened the door, she could see Air Force vans waiting nearby. The wind pushed its way into the cabin with a sharp edge, and the clouds were so low Patterson wondered what the “minimums” were.

She let the others deplane first while she organized her things. Her BlackBerry beeped, and a message from Lowell appeared. She’d texted him about Bover’s concerns, and her husband’s answer was brief, submariners can fix anything. stay safe.

Both pilots came out of the cockpit, and along with Monroe, shook her hand. The pilot, a tanned, stocky major, said, “Good luck, ma’am. Watch those Navy types. I don’t know if they’re trustworthy.” He didn’t smile for half a second, but finally did, and she grinned at the joke as well.

Patterson made sure she was the last one of her party off the plane, with Monroe offering to take her things to the van. Hurrying ahead, he hustled everyone into one of the two vehicles, saving space for her in the front as she hurried through the swirling wind. She realized it was spitting rain, not enough to see, but she could feel the drops stinging her face.

Monroe reached in to shake her hand again as she belted in. “Good luck, ma’am. I’ve got a brother in submarines.”

The instant she closed the door, the van’s driver took off at speed. A base “follow me” car led the two vehicles around several hangars to another part of the flight line.

A Marine Corps MV-22 Osprey sat parked at one end of a line of helicopters. It was the only one not secured against the weather. Chains ran from the fuselages of the others to the concrete and the blade tips were tied down by ropes as well.

The gray-painted aircraft had a squarish, boxy fuselage and a rounded nose in front, and swept up at the rear for a cargo ramp that was down and open, waiting for them. The wings looked wrong, and she realized they were pointed straight up, as were the engines, like two helicopter rotors.

As she spotted the aircraft, figures around it suddenly burst into action, as if waiting for their arrival. Even as the vans came to a stop, the huge blades began to turn. A thin whine quickly built up to a bass roar that fought the wind for control and filled the air with an almost visible vibration.

As her group left the vehicles, they were led over to airmen standing by another van. They pulled olive one-piece coveralls out of the rear, and she realized they were lined and had hoods.

A noncom looked her up and down and called, “Pass me a Large.” He helped her out of her own civilian parka, reassuring her. “This survival suit is just as warm and will protect you if there are problems enroute, or during the transfer to the destroyer.”

Grateful she’d worn slacks for warmth, she let the enlisted man wrap the suit around her and efficiently zip her in. A part of her mind wanted to ask about what kind of “problems” he was referring to, but then decided she didn’t want to know.

Her own gear was transferred to a duffel, and he instructed, “Stand right there, and don’t move until the loadmaster says so.” The intensity in his instruction made her reluctant to even shift her stance. He patted her on the shoulder and said “Good luck” in an unnervingly serious tone. Standing with the others, she fiddled with the suit’s zippers and wondered which one of the men near the plane was the loadmaster.

Almost immediately, one of the figures, a staff sergeant, trotted over to the group and called, “Dr. Patterson!” She realized the caller, inside a hooded parka, was female. The name on the outside read “Dolan.”

Shouting over the noise of the engines, Staff Sergeant Dolan read a list of names from a clipboard, and each of Patterson’s group signaled in turn. Satisfied that everyone was accounted for, she approached Patterson, then motioned for everyone to surround her.

“We’ll approach the aircraft in single file. Please follow me, Doctor. All the baggage is aboard.”

Patterson had to ask. “What about the repair parts?”

Dolan nodded. “They are loaded, and I personally double-checked them. The rest of your party is already aboard, so as soon as you’re on we take off.”

“What? What ‘rest of my party’?” Either Patterson’s question was lost in the wind or Dolan was in a hurry, because she turned and started walking toward the aircraft. Patterson hurried to keep up and fell in behind her. It seemed a simple enough task to just follow someone else, but the buffeting air and enveloping noise in the unfamiliar surroundings interfered.

It took only a moment or two to reach the end of the ramp, and Dolan stepped to one side, urging Patterson and then the rest of the group up into the aircraft’s interior.

Nobody would ever confuse the inside of an MV-22 with an executive transport. The large interior was littered with fittings and fixtures she couldn’t begin to recognize. Canvas-covered jump seats lined each side, and a Marine corporal in a flight suit and helmet motioned her to move forward and buckle in.

There were about ten seats to a side, and three of the seats on one side were already occupied. A cargo net forward enclosed a pile of luggage, wooden crates, and boxes — the repair parts, the original reason for the trip.

The marine was urgently motioning for her to sit down on the opposite side, in the forward seat. As she did so, one of the figures on the other side unbelted and quickly moved over to her, buckling into the seat next to her.

As soon as he was secured, he turned and offered his hand. “Dr. Patterson, I’m Dwight Manning, your State Department liaison.”

“But.” She paused. “We. ”

Her confusion showed, and Manning explained, “When State found out Art Lopez was sick, they called me and asked me to take his place. I’m from the Political Office in the embassy in Moscow. I’ve been traveling since late last night. We landed at Bardufoss an hour ago, and we’ve been aboard less than fifteen minutes, waiting for you to arrive.”

By this time, the rest of Patterson’s group was aboard and belted in. Staff Sergeant Dolan spoke into a headset, then pressed a control. The ramp came up with a whine and closed with a solid latching sound, the sudden quiet and darkness startling.

Dolan picked up a microphone. “The flight will take approximately an hour and fifteen minutes. Once we’re closer to our destination I’ll give you instructions for leaving the aircraft. Do not leave your seat or unbuckle without asking my permission. Just raise your hand and I’ll come over.”