Larry Bond: Cold Choices

After a short pause, Jerry heard Palmer say, “Yes, sir. I do.” After another pause, he answered, “There can’t be any damage, because he’s tight alongside us.”

Rudel asked, “But won’t he keep our bow from moving out from the pier?”

“No sir, we’re so much bigger than the tug, with a much deeper draft, and he’s at our pivot point anyway. Then, as soon as our headway’s off and we’ve swung more parallel to the pier, I’d send the lines back over and get us moored again.”

“Why would you do that, mister?” The XO’s voice was still level. “I thought the idea was to get under way.”

“Not with the tug in the way. Besides, he’s broken down and we can’t leave him adrift in the channel.”

“Very good, Mr. Palmer, never abandon a mariner in distress.” The captain’s praise was followed by a quick “Carry on,” and he stepped out of the XO’s stateroom and back to his own. As he passed Jerry, the skipper winked at him, smiling. Jerry felt himself smiling as well. He was sure now Palmer would pass.

Rudel’s kind words were the only praise Palmer received. The XO grilled him for another twenty minutes, and there were more trick questions as well as hard ones. Jerry knew the XO wasn’t really testing Palmer’s knowledge, but his presence of mind, his ability to think under pressure.

Finally, he said, “All right, Mr. Palmer, I’m satisfied that you’re able to properly get Seawolf under way next Monday. Continue your preparations. The Navigator and I will review them Monday after quarters.”

Jeff Palmer stepped out of the XO’s stateroom, pale but smiling. Jerry and Palmer walked some distance away from the XO’s stateroom before either spoke. “Compared to that, the underway will be a breeze.” Palmer sounded stressed but pleased.

“Just hope you’re right, Jeff. Things can get past you before you know you’re in trouble.” Jerry gestured back toward the XO’s stateroom. “In there, you knew you were being asked a question. On the bridge, you’ll have to ask yourself the questions, as well as answer them.”

Palmer’s expression became more serious, but his smile didn’t go away completely. “Believe me, sir, I get it. My first underway taught me that. We live in a boat designed to sink, filled with explosives and a nuclear reactor. If we don’t stay on our toes, we’re screwed.”

“Learning from your mistakes is a good thing. But dwelling on them is not,” advised Jerry sternly. “You lost the bubble last time and it’s been holding you back. This time you need to stay in control, which means you have to think ahead. We may move slowly, but a submarine on the surface reacts to your helm orders just as slowly — so keep your wits about you and plan accordingly.”

“I will, Nav. And this time, I won’t screw up.”

“Sounds good, Jeff. Let’s plan to meet on Friday, you and Mr. Hayes, to do a final review, okay?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll inform Will.”

“Very well, Mr. Palmer, carry on.”

8 September 2008

Northern Fleet Headquarters, Severomorsk, Russia

The four men marched down the main hall of the Northern Fleet Headquarters building in perfect, if unintentional, unison. The echoes of their footsteps reverberated sharply off the ornate walls, giving the illusion of a much larger contingent. The mood was somber, the air formal, the countenance of the men stern and determined. “How perfectly Russian,” mused Captain First Rank Aleksey Igorevich Petrov. Flanked by his eskadra and diviziya commanders, Petrov followed the staff functionary as he led the way to the fleet commander’s conference room. “Finally,” thought the young captain, “we will finish this godforsaken fleet acceptance process and I will be able to take my boat to sea.” Frustrated and irritated by the unceasing paperwork, inspections, and constant bickering with the shipyard, Petrov longed for the peace and serenity that only the sea could provide.

He was born in Severodvinsk on the Kola Peninsula, the son of a senior shipyard engineer, and submarines were in his blood. He remembered many visits to the shipyard with his father to watch those underwater behemoths as they were rolled out of the great construction halls.

As a boy, he’d dreamed of commanding one, and that dream had never changed. And it was with great pride that he bid his parents farewell to join the Soviet Navy to pursue his dream. He graduated first in his class from the Lenin Komsomol Higher Naval Submarine School in Leningrad, and everything seemed to be going according to plan when disaster struck in December 1991.

The fall of the Soviet Union brought nothing but chaos and poverty to the “new” Russian Navy, whose members lost the respect of their countrymen along with their paychecks. Petrov didn’t care about the fate of the Communist Party. They had brought this on themselves. He was deeply concerned, however, about the effects their sudden collapse had on the navy in general, and his career prospects in particular.

Good fortune smiled on him, however, as he was assigned to a fairly new Project 671RTM attack submarine in the Northern Fleet. Known as an Improved Victor III class SSN in the West, they were some of the quietest and most capable boats in the Russian order of battle. Being relatively new, it was fully functional and not suffering from the neglect that was all too common with the older boats, brought on by the decaying Soviet maintenance infrastructure.

Petrov also considered himself to be doubly blessed, as his commanding officer was the master tactician Captain First Rank Dmitriy Makeyev, a brilliant and cunning hunter who handed numerous NATO submarine skippers their heads on a silver platter. Even some of the vaunted American 688-class submarines fell victim to the “Dark Lord,” as he was called. According to the waterfront gossip, Makeyev had never been caught unawares. He always maintained tactical control, only revealing himself when he wished and usually by a vicious lashing with his main active sonar.

“To be victorious in submarine combat,” he preached, “one has to be aggressive. If you are not aggressive, you lose. If you lose, then you die. It is that simple.”

Aleksey Igorevich accepted, believed, and lived by this tactical philosophy, so eloquently coined by his first captain, throughout his career. And it had served him well; very well indeed, as it enabled him to chalk up an impressive history of success in whatever he did. Now Petrov was the commanding officer of the newest and most advanced attack submarine in the Russian Navy— Severodvinsk. The very thought of being in command of his home’s namesake filled him with immense pride. Now if only the damned bureaucrats would release their icy grip and allow him to command his boat, then the dream that he had worked so hard for would finally become a reality.

Petrov’s half-musing, half-stewing daydreaming was brought to an abrupt end when the staff officer opened the large double doors to the conference room. Inside the spacious hall were over a dozen flag officers milling about, drinking tea or coffee and chatting in small groups. As soon as Petrov and his commanders entered, a large man at the far end quickly made his way over toward them. Although Petrov had met him only once before, it was hard to forget the commander of the Northern Fleet, Vice Admiral Sergey Mikhailovich Kokurin. Rounding the corner of the table, Kokurin grasped Petrov’s eskadra commander’s hand and shook it heartily. It was well known within the fleet that the fleet commander and Vice Admiral Pavel Borisov were close friends.

“It is good to see you again, Pavel,” boomed Kokurin as he slapped Borisov’s shoulder. “How is Irina? Well, I trust?”