Larry Bond - Cold Choices

Back in control, he used the intercom to report to Shimko. The captain’s voice answered. “Thank you, Mr. Mitchell. Please personally supervise the evolution at the midships escape trunk. They’re sending down the last of the supplies now.”

Jerry answered “Aye, sir” and headed aft one more time. Threading his way past the working party, he managed to get to the crew’s mess. Chief Gallant was waiting with Kearney, last of the three injured, and Jerry joked, “Remember your toothbrush?”

Kearney opened his mouth to speak, probably to protest, Jerry predicted, but the 1MC cut though the conversation. “MR. MITCHELL TO THE BRIDGE! ON THE DOUBLE!”

In the half a heartbeat it took Jerry to understand the order and start moving, everyone near the door flattened against the bulkhead or got out of the way. It wasn’t until he was clear of the wardroom that he wondered what the problem was.

A rating was waiting in control with a foul-weather jacket, and Jerry threw it on as he climbed up the ladder to the first deck and the access trunk to the bridge. As he exited the hatch, someone was climbing out of the cockpit to make room for him, and in two seconds he was blinking in the cold sunshine.

It was crowded, with the skipper and the XO there, as well as Will Hayes, the OOD. Hayes faced forward, keeping watch ahead of the boat, but both senior officers had their binoculars up and were staring intently to port.

He heard the tail end of a transmission on the bridge-to-bridge radio. “.. not locked on. Repeat, no lock-on.” It was the helicopter pilot. He sounded concerned, even scared, but he was maintaining.

By now Jerry was all the way up, and Shimko turned, handing him his binoculars. Shouting over the noise of the hovering helicopter, he pointed to the port quarter. “There, low. About twenty degrees above the horizon. Company.”

Hayes made room along the coaming, and Jerry leaned against it and turned to the port side. He followed the captain’s line of sight. He scanned left to right just above the horizon. Nothing.

Shimko nudged him farther to the left, pointing. “There, and up a bit.”

Jerry moved the glasses and two arrowhead shapes appeared in his field of view, passing quickly to the left. Old reflexes flashed through his body, but he wasn’t sitting in a fighter cockpit.

“Fighters,” Jerry said automatically. “Su-27 Flankers.” Excitement filled him. In spite of two years of flight training, he’d never seen a real Russian combat aircraft anywhere, much less in flight; and especially not this close to Mother Russia.

“The helicopter reported detecting their radars about a minute ago. We didn’t see anything at first, then these two made a high-speed pass a few miles away.”

As Shimko explained, the planes’ aspect changed, becoming narrower. They were turning toward Seawolf.

Rudel asked Jerry, “Could the Russians have started running interceptor patrols out here?”

“No sir, these guys weren’t patrolling or their radars would have been on much earlier.” The two arrowheads expanded and became more recognizable as the twin-tailed Sukhoi interceptor. The planes passed down their starboard side. Jerry estimated the distance as a mile. They were keeping well clear of the hovering helicopter. “They were vectored — directed to our location.

“They’re armed,” Shimko remarked tensely.

The binoculars let Jerry see drop tanks and both versions of AA-10 air-to-air missiles under their wings. “They’re loaded for bear. I can see heat-seekers and radar-guided antiair missiles. But no bombs or rockets.”

“So they’re no threat to us,” declared Rudel. The fighters were well ahead of them now.

“They could strafe us, sir, but that’s about it. The helicopter’s their meat.” Jerry checked the Seahawk. Kearney was safely aboard, and they were sending down the sling again; empty this time. All the spare parts were safely aboard. Watkins and Kahanek reached down to bring up Rountree.

Rudel added, “And if they wanted it dead, they could have done it from twenty miles out. Not subtle, but we get the message.”

The Flankers, dots several miles ahead, made a tight turn and split up. It looked like they were going to make a pass down each side of the sub this time.

Rudel noticed them attaching Rountree to the hoist. His attention had been focused completely on the fighters. Jerry saw emotions cross the captain’s face as he fought for control. The radio announced “Hoisting” and the cable became taut.

Rudel told Hayes, “Pass the word that Electronics Technician Third Class Dennis Rountree is leaving the ship.” Rudel saluted, and everyone else on the bridge did as well, holding it for the twenty seconds or so that it took to bring Rountree’s body up to the aircraft.

Once the body was aboard, the skipper dropped his hand. Everyone else on the bridge followed and immediately started looking for the Flankers again, but Rudel continued to stare at the helicopter. “Twenty-three years in the Navy and I’ve never lost a man. Not until now.” Tears streamed down his face. “I’d rather it was me in the body bag.”

Jerry looked at Rudel. There were times when he felt exactly the same way. He didn’t dare speak. Jerry, Rudel, Shimko, and most the division had written letters to Rountree’s folks. At the time, it had helped, a little. But now Jerry felt powerless, sorrowful, and guilty.

The Seahawk’s cabin door closed, and the bridge-to-bridge radio carried the pilot’s voice. “We’re done here, Seawolf. Godspeed.” The helicopter was already applying power and moving forward, leaving hover.

Shimko picked up the mike. “Understood, Rider Zero Two. Have a safe trip back. Please take care of our people.”

“We will, Seawolf. If those fighters follow us, please notify our next of kin.”

Crowded as the bridge was, none of the officers moved. They watched the helicopter climb and head westward. After ten minutes it was just a dot on the horizon. The two Russian fighters had carefully made their passes on the port side of the boat, to the east, until the helicopter was out of sight.

Now, well to the north, the Flankers joined up again. Jerry watched the two planes descend until they were skimming the surface. They were speeding up, too, and he could imagine the grins on the two pilots’ faces. He knew what was coming.

Jerry shouted “Brace yourselves and cover your ears!” and pointed aft. As he raised his own hands, the two fighters suddenly changed from dots to toy planes to aircraft fifty feet across, seventy feet long and at arms’ length overhead.

A shattering BOOM almost knocked Jerry to the deck. Half a moment later, a shock wave strong enough to rock the boat did make the bridge crew stumble. One man on the hull was literally pushed off his feet and tumbled toward the water. Saved by his lifeline, he hung dangling along Seawolf ’s flank. The other members of the crew scrambled to his aid. Jerry had been expecting it, but everyone else, especially Rudel, looked alarmed. “They broke the sound barrier right above us!” Jerry shouted.

Clear of the sub, both fighters pulled up until they were vertical. They zoomed upward, spinning slowly, drilling through the air until they were only specks. Along with the rest of the bridge crew, Jerry tracked them with his glasses until they leveled out at high altitude. He noted their direction— to the southwest and back to base. “Show-offs,” he muttered enviously.

“I’m glad we didn’t have any masts up,” Shimko remarked.

“They almost got a sample of our paint,” Hayes answered.

“Mr. Mitchell, before our rude guests showed up, Rider Zero Two told us they’d spotted a group of Russian surface ships headed this way.” Shimko glanced at his watch. “As of twenty-three minutes ago, they bore two two five degrees at ninety miles. They also said they’ve got radar intercepts from other aircraft. We passed the information on to Mr. Constantino below.”