Larry Bond - Cold Choices

“Why haven’t they sent it already?” asked Adams.

Patterson smiled. “Remember? All their radios were damaged and don’t work. The data will have to be hand-delivered to the Russian commander.”

Adams concluded. “So someone from Seawolf has to meet with the Russians personally.”

“Exactly.”

Adams shut off his camera and grinned. He didn’t say anything to Patterson, but she knew he had his sound bite.

Petr Velikiy

The admirals’ plot was a space designed to manage a three-dimensional naval battle. Most of the displays were dark now. They weren’t at general quarters, and aside from a few helicopters aloft, everything was quiet. In spite of an airtight ASW search, they hadn’t found any western submarines, in their path or trailing them.

Admirals Vidchenko and Kurganov ostensibly took turns watching the task group’s progress, but often both were present, planning, refining, and discussing scenarios with each other.

The messenger had found them both there, with another question from Moscow. He had two copies.

Vidchenko spoke first. “Tell Moscow there’s nothing we can do about the helicopter.”

Kurganov nodded his agreement, but after the messenger left, he told Vidchenko, “You know, that’s not exactly correct.”

The submarine admiral looked surprised. “None of our weapons or sensors will be in range of Churchill or Seawolf by the scheduled flight time tomorrow.”

“We will have a Ka-31 radar helicopter up tomorrow morning. Its radar will cover the entire exclusion zone and more.”

“True, so we can track their flight. That’s useful information, admiral, but a radar helicopter can’t stop them.”

Kurganov knew Vidchenko well enough by now to risk a small criticism. “You’re still thinking like a submariner. We could request a pair of Mi-28s from the Army. They could fly out to Petr tonight and refuel. In the morning they would be vectored by the Kamov to an intercept. They could force the American to turn around.”

Vidchenko nodded his understanding. The Mi-28 Havoc was a heavily armed attack helicopter. They wouldn’t even need to carry antitank missiles. Their 30mm cannon would convince a Seahawk pilot to turn around.

Kurganov continued. “We could also request interceptors from the Air Force. They could be guided by the Ka-31 as well, although they wouldn’t have as much time on station as the Army helicopters, and their options would be limited, but. ”

He didn’t have to continue. A helicopter, any helicopter, would stand no chance at all against two jet fighters. If it came to that.

“Good. Request the fighters, and make sure they are armed, but make it clear they will only make an overflight. They will not be interfering with the flight in any way. It will be good training for both the Kamov and the fighters. And it will let the Americans know what we could have done if we had wanted to.”

“Why?” Kurganov asked.

Vidchenko patted the map, right over Severodvinsk’s plotted position. “Because I believe them when they say they transferred air regeneration chemicals to Petrov’s boat. It’s too outrageous a lie to make up. It would have been so much easier for the Americans to just leave. So, since they helped our people, I will let them fix their radios and evacuate their wounded.”

Kurganov looked surprised. Every plan they’d drawn up hinged on finding the American boat and driving her off. This was not a trivial task. Most tactics were designed to kill a sub once it had been detected and localized. Playing underwater keep-away was much harder.

Vidchenko reassured him. “I don’t hate the Americans, but they have no business in the Barents. I know the strategic reasons why they send their boats into these waters, but they are intrusions nonetheless. If Seawolf had kept out, eighteen Russians and one American would still be alive.

“We will make sure the Americans don’t create any more mischief.”

Olga Sadilenko’s Apartment, Severomorsk, Russia

They’d settled on Olga’s apartment. It was closer to the train station, and only two floors up.

Most of the activity was in the living room. Some of her furniture had been pushed aside, or moved into the bedroom. That was Olga’s headquarters, a constant stream of women entering with questions and leaving with wisdom.

The bedroom was small, but like many Russians, she’d filled it with vivid color. She loved tropical fish, and visitors joked about her bedroom looking like the inside of a fishbowl.

Now the bright tropical quilt on her bed was covered with boxes and papers. Someone had moved in the big comfortable chair from her living room. There was just enough space with the bed pushed hard against the far wall. It was a good chair, battered, but it fit her shape. She’d slept in it last night, too tired to move all the clutter off her bed.

In fact, the days had blended together. Word of her meeting with Kokurin and her work afterward had spread. She hadn’t believed her tiny apartment could hold so many people.

Irina Ivanova Rodionov had completely taken over one side of the living room, showing up early in the morning with her computer, scanner, and printer. Since she shared her apartment with her invalid mother, Irina had to move into Olga’s living room to work on updating the website. Once Yelena showed up with a fancy American laptop, the living room looked more like a computer center. Maria, whose son worked with Irina’s Anatoliy, hustled about organizing the flood of photos and papers that had been arriving since last night into neat files.

After Irina scanned the photographs, Maria had started pinning them to the bedroom walls, covering the tropical fish prints and the seaweed wallpaper. Two walls were covered and a third was half filled with the photos of their loved ones. Women would walk in and touch one of the photos. Some prayed. Like a church, the room alternated between a place of hope and a memorial.

Other women had taken over answering the phone, and one of them, somehow, had arranged for a second phone line to be installed. Someone else had brought chairs, and a long plank had turned two of them into a work-table.

Two older women, less savvy with modern technology, took over the kitchen, and there was always something to eat: stew and bread, or pickles or smoked fish.

Irina walked into Olga’s room, carrying a plate full of food. “Olga, you really should eat something. We had a nice lunch, but you were busy with that reporter.”

“That idiot, you mean,” Olga grumbled, sitting up a little straighter. “He was a hack from Interfax, if he was a reporter at all.”

Irina looked alarmed. “Do you think he was from the FSB?”

The older woman shrugged and reached for the plate. “It’s possible. He seemed more interested in where we got our information than our men.”

“There will be others. Yelena says our website is getting more hits by the minute.”

“Hits? It’s being attacked?” Olga asked alarmed.

Irina smiled. “No, darling. Each ‘hit’ is a different person looking at our web page, visiting it in cyberspace. Counting the hits measures how many people have seen our web page.” She patted Olga’s hand. “It’s a good thing, and Yelena says it’s been doubling about every two hours. Lots of people are reading our message.”

“I’m grateful to you and Yelena. All of us are. Without you to help, we’d just be a mob of angry women. Easy for the government to ignore.”

As they talked, Olga ate. “This is a feast, but I can’t eat it all right now. We have to talk.”

She set the plate aside and reached for a stack of papers. “I was reading these American accounts of the collision. Did you know that an American sailor was killed? That they have wounded aboard their submarine?”