Larry Bond - Cold Choices

Vidchenko was beginning to write off the chance of getting any decent images. The only worthwhile examination would be his personal observations. He wished he’d brought a demolitions expert on this dive, and chided himself for not being more aware of AS-34’s capabilities and limitations.

“Don’t bother with the photographs,” ordered Vidchenko. “Make one pro forma pass down the port side. Then proceed over to the starboard side.”

“Understood, sir. We’ll be approaching from the bow.”

Bakhorin started the motors, both to slow their downward descent and start them toward the bottomed sub. Umansky reported, “Course is good, two hundred meters. Bottom is in sight, thirty meters.”

“We’ll go down to seven meters off the bottom,” Bakhorin explained. “Any closer and we stir up too much silt, any farther away and the lights won’t illuminate properly.”

“One hundred fifty meters. Recommend we slow.”

“Slowing to two knots, Mother,” Bakhorin teased.

Umansky coached them into position, and they made room for Vidchenko to crouch near one of the forward-facing viewports. They’d closed inside fifty meters, and Bakhorin had slowed to a bare crawl, with nothing but inky blackness in front of them. Vidchenko fought the urge to check his watch. Time could be measured in air or battery charge, and there was precious little of either.

Suddenly, a dull greenish black wall rushed at them, but Bakhorin was ready and backed sharply. He cut the motors after one short astern burst, and AS-34 drifted to a stop surrounded by a cloud of yellow and gray silt.

There was almost no curvature to the hull, and Vidchenko realized they could see only a few square meters of it through the port. It would take at least a dozen dives to thoroughly inspect the submarine and the surrounding area.

Bakhorin was already turning AS-34 to pass close alongside the sub’s hull. Even at a fast walk, it took a while to cover the one hundred and twenty meters. Severodvinsk listed in their direction, so the massive hull crowded over them. All three officers studied the bottom, looking for anything that would interfere with the boat righting itself if the obstructions were removed. Luckily, there was little to see, just an uneven layer of mud with the underlying rock sometimes showing through.

“We’re coming up on the stern, Admiral,” announced Umansky.

Vidchenko continued to watch, although Bakhorin had pulled the minisub up and away from the bottom. He hadn’t stopped moving aft, and one of the stern planes appeared and then passed aft, only a meter from the viewports. As large as the side of a house, Vidchenko remembered seeing them not that long ago, standing on the floor of a drydock before she was launched. Now she’d never leave this place.

“I’ll turn to port, sir.” Bakhorin turned AS-34 tightly. Vidchenko knew what to expect, but was still shocked when he saw the stern. There at the end of the shaft, distorted and bent upward, was the plus-sign-shaped end cap, but not a single propeller blade was on the hub. Only torn, jagged ridges where the scimitar-shaped blades once were. Vidchenko tried to imagine the shaft bending, flexing with the impact of each blade as it struck the American’s hull, the turbines instantly freed from their massive load, water pouring in from the shaft seals.

“Have you found the collision debris field?”

Umansky answered. “It wasn’t on any of our sonar sweeps. Severodvinsk had some way on at the time of the collision. She would have gone some distance, especially since she appeared to be descending when she struck this hillside. There’s a scar in the bottom on the other side. With a little time…”

“Which we don’t have,” Vidchenko interrupted. “We’ll leave the investigation of the bottom to a proper survey vessel, and hopefully Petrov and his men will be able to personally assist in reconstructing the collision.”

“This is where we’d have to plant the first charge, Admiral.”

Bukharin had move the mini-sub around to the starboard side and maneuvered it to an irregular rocky mound next to Severodvinsk’s hull. It had to be removed so that the sub could roll to starboard and right itself. The lights from AS-34 actually cast shadows, showing an empty space on at least one side of the obstruction.

Mud covered most of the underlying rock. But what kind of rock were they dealing with? Solid bedrock or just a small outcropping? How big a charge would they need to break it up?

“Can you use the motors to clear some of the silt? We need to get a sample of that rock.”

Umansky answered again. “We can do better than that, sir, we’ve got a water jet forward, like a fire hose. If Captain Bakhorin can position us. ”

“Already in progress,” Bakhorin answered. The pilot gently maneuvered them closer, and Umansky busied himself with the controls. Vidchenko couldn’t see the results, and impatiently asked, “How’s the battery charge?”

“Over fifty percent, sir, although with all this work you can almost see the indicator needle move.”

“I’ve got a sample!” Umansky exclaimed. “Hah! It’s in the basket.”

“Good work, Captain.” Vidchenko was sparing with praise, but these two men deserved it. But was their hard work going to be worth anything in the end?

“Sir, I recommend taking photos, but we will have to wait for the water to clear.”

“Then let’s move down to the next obstruction.”

“Aye, sir.”

They managed to examine four masses of rock altogether. They had to use the waterjet once more to get a feel for the extent of the formation. Whatever material they were made of, it easily resisted the high-pressure water shot at them. Finally, as the low battery charge alarm rang, they headed back to the surface.

Vidchenko was not a demolitions expert, but he was an engineer. The AS-34 crew had planted charges before, although never under such circumstances. The three of them talked all the way up. How much explosive could AS-34 carry? Could they plant all of them in a single dive? What types of work could the mechanical arm perform? Even as they rose, Vidchenko was already thinking ahead to the next dive, the most important dive. Hopefully, the last dive.

USS Seawolf

The helicopter crew chief was attempting to give her important instructions. She tried to listen, but even over the interphone, she could only make out half of what he said.

Hovering over Seawolf, the rotor wash tugging at her clothes and chilling any exposed skin, Joanna Patterson focused on the crew chief’s face. Truth be told, she was terrified. Flying was fine, even in something as improbably aerodynamic as a helicopter. But the thought of dangling over empty space, hung by a thread…

The crew chief finished speaking, and Patterson nodded vigorously. He waited for a moment, and it looked like he expected her to do something, but when she didn’t move, he took her gently by the shoulders and turned her to face the open cabin door.

He hooked the sling to the attachment points in her exposure suit, disconnected the lead for the interphone, and motioned for her to sit on the cabin floor. It took a moment for her legs to obey, and then he motioned for her to swing her legs over the edge.

She was still watching his face, and he pointed to his eyes and then the hoist in front of her. He repeated the motion, and she nodded, this time understanding. Eyes on the hoist.

He nodded and saluted, then pressed a control. The line went taut, and the suit tugged in uncomfortable places, and she was off the cabin floor and hanging in space. She heard a new sound, in spite of the engines. It was the whine of the hoist motor, and she felt herself slowly descend.