Cold Choices

Olga smiled. “That was Galina’s idea, but it was a good one. The Navy praised these men, but they had to risk death to become heroes. Their loved ones are proud, of course, but even after the fact, they were worried about the risks their men were taking. Hearing each other’s voices for just a few minutes gave heart and strength to both the naval officers and their families back home.”

“Has the Navy ever allowed that before — letting men aboard a ship speak to their families ashore?”

“Oh, no.” Olga smiled. “They were quite surprised when we suggested it.”

“But wouldn’t it be a distraction to the men?”

“Their experiences are the distraction,” Olga countered. “Hearing from their loved ones helps them get back on an even keel.”

“And what did the Navy say when you suggested this?”

Olga waved her hands about. “They worried about the precedent it would set. They worried that it would reveal state secrets. But Vice Admiral Kokurin graciously allowed it this time as a trial. We want to show the Navy we can be an asset, that the fleet will be stronger with us.”

“What other activities have you performed?”

“Of course, we are helping those families who lost loved ones aboard Severodvinsk. This includes helping them obtain all the survivor’s benefits the Navy is supposed to provide. In the past, some people have had problems with this. From now on we will be there for them.”

Borzin closed his notepad. “I’m going to ask for an interview with Vice Admiral Kokurin. I understand you’ve met with him a few times.”

“That’s true.” Olga didn’t smile, and fought the urge to say something unwise. She finally said, “I’m sure you will find it worthwhile.”

USS Churchill

The messenger found her in wardroom. “Doctor, Captain Baker sends his compliments, and asks if you would join him in CIC.”

They really did talk like that, she marveled. Contacts abaft the beam, marlinspikes, and piping people on and off the ship. Secretly, she loved it.

Baker was smiling when she saw him sitting in his command chair, an unusual smile in the middle of a life- and-death submarine rescue. “The Russians have reported a surface contact to the southwest. It’s entered the maritime exclusion zone.”

He gestured to the contact display in the center screen. The six-by-six display showed not only the ships in the rescue force, but a large circle marking the fifty-mile exclusion zone. Baker had shown her how to read the symbols. The symbology was easy to interpret once you knew the system, and she could see a surface ship just across the arc marking the exclusion zone. It was headed straight toward their position.

“This is why you’re smiling?”

“The Russians sent a helicopter and visually identified it as a Norwegian-flagged fishing vessel. The aircraft challenged it by radio but the boat won’t answer.”

“What would they like us to do?”

“Their helicopter will be out of fuel in about half an hour. They’d like one of our birds to relieve it. They also want Churchill to back it up, in case they refuse to change course.”

“Intercept them?” she asked.

“With your permission, ma’am.”

“Borisov is the SAR commander, after all. Did this boat ask them for permission before entering the exclusion zone?”

“I asked the Russians that question and they said it did not.”

“Then there’s no guarantee they’ll behave themselves. Yes, Captain, permission granted.”

Baker’s hand was already resting on the phone. “Bridge, launch the alert bird, bring the other helo up to plus thirty readiness. After it’s gone, change course to intercept Track zero three four seven, speed twenty-five knots.”

Baker listened for a moment to the reply, then hung up. “They were ready for my word. We’ll launch our helicopter in about five minutes. We should intercept in about an hour, a little after sunset. Our helicopter will be there in twenty minutes.”

Motor Vessel Stavanger

Captain Jonson didn’t look happy even when the Russian helicopter left. Brewer had persuaded Jonson to not answer the helicopter’s radio calls, even when they switched from Russian to passable English.

Truth be told, Brewer had been a little nervous himself, at least until he satisfied himself that the helicopter was unarmed. He smiled as it flew off to the northeast. It couldn’t do a thing to stop them.

Jonson didn’t smile when the helicopter left, but he hadn’t turned his boat around, either. At the time, promising him triple the normal charter rate had seemed a little excessive. Now Brewer thought it was money well spent.

Jonson had been willing enough to take them out. The fishing season was over. He’d been slow putting his boat up for the winter because of needed repairs. Brewer’s fee had not only paid for the repairs, it more than made up for the fishing Jonson had missed.

Brewer was willing to spend. The Severodvinsk story was big news, but almost every piece was secondhand, from either Norwegian or Russian or U.S. official sources. The media couldn’t even interview families of Severodvinsk’s crew. Severomorsk was a closed city, barred to foreigners, much less Western reporters.

So Harry Brewer, INN news producer, had flown from the U.S. to Norway. Heading north from Oslo in a chartered plane, he and his crew had found Jonson and his men on the northern coast, in the fishing town of Alesund.

Stavanger was a sturdy-looking craft, not big, but big enough for Brewer, his assistant, a cameraman and a soundman. Jonson’s crew of five spoke at least passable English, and the cook had proven to be very good, although Brewer was getting a little tired of fish.

There was no question about where to go. The Internet was full of maps and diagrams showing the location of the rescue site. And as for the exclusion zone, Brewer dismissed the prohibition. The only good stories were on the far side of the police tape. Working as a journalist, he’d climbed dozens of fences. Sometimes they shooed him away, sometimes he got the goods. On something like this, with worldwide play, he was ready to do whatever it took. To tell the truth, he’d enjoyed the adrenaline rush when the Russian helicopter had appeared, and watching it disappear had been even sweeter. His cameraman had gotten plenty of footage.

Brewer checked their progress on the chart, although he already knew what it would show. They were on course, on schedule, chugging away at Stavanger’s best speed of twelve knots. Most of Jonson’s repairs had been to her two diesel engines, and now he was running them almost flat out.

It was vital that Stavanger reach the rescue site by dawn tomorrow. Most of the activity would take place in the morning, and he needed daylight to position himself properly. Footage of the Russian rescue capsule would be flashed around the world within minutes of it breaking the surface, and it would be his crew that got it. Definitely Pulitzer Prize material.

A shout in Norwegian pulled him back to the bridge windows. Jonson quickly raised his glasses, and searched to the north. The first mate, manning the helm, translated for Brewer. “The lookout says he can see a helicopter.”

“The same one?” Brewer asked.

The mate shrugged. “It’s coming from the same direction.”

Brewer wanted to borrow the captain’s binoculars, but he wouldn’t know what he was looking at. It only took a few minutes to confirm that the aircraft was approaching them again, but from dead on, they could tell nothing about it.

Finally, it grew from a speck to a shape, and Jonson announced, “It’s not the same kind. I think it’s American.”

“What?” Brewer was surprised at the idea of an American aircraft in these waters. But an American destroyer was part of the rescue group. It could have come from that ship. What did they want?

Jonson maintained course and speed, and the helicopter circled them twice, first from a distance, then closer in, only a few hundred yards away. As it circled, Brewer studied the craft, wondering if this one was armed. Jonson