Cold Choices

One of Churchill’s officers, on watch, asked, “Isn’t it a little late in the game to be checking the escape chamber?”

Russo shook his head. “This isn’t the first inspection, it’s the last. We examined the chamber’s exterior panels on the very first dive from Halsfjord. This is a final check to make sure that we haven’t created an obstruction. We have to make sure the cables won’t snag the chamber when it detaches, or that some piece of debris hasn’t jammed it in place.”

Patterson and some of the others watched over his shoulder, but after the allotted twenty minutes, two complete circuits around the sail showed no obstruction. Everything looked like it was falling into place, adhering to Lindstrom’s intricate plan.

USS Seawolf

Jeff Palmer found Jerry in his rack, relaxing with a trashy paperback he’d borrowed from Chief Hudson. Boredom wasn’t usually a problem for Jerry, but with Seawolf simply waiting and watching, he had even managed to get caught up with all his paperwork.

He looked up at the knock, then put down the book and rolled onto his side when he saw Palmer’s expression. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing right now, thankfully,” Palmer answered, “but I’ve been doing the math again. Severodvinsk will have used up most of the chemicals we delivered yesterday and that will leave them hanging if this attempt fails. Shouldn’t we start preparing Maxine for another supply run?”

Jerry immediately shook his head. “We can’t. We need her to watch when they try to raise Severodvinsk. She has sensors that the Norwegian ROVs don’t.”

Palmer nodded quickly, but pushed his point. “Of course, but there are things we could do to prepare — bring over more cassettes from Rudnitskiy, for instance. And my guys think they can even precut some of the packing material. It would shorten the time we need to get more supplies over to them — just in case.”

Jerry thought about Palmer’s suggestion and seriously wondered if it was a good or a bad idea. There was a downside to making the preparations. The Russians might see it as a negative attitude. And while everybody acknowledged the possibility of failure, nobody wanted to think about it. Jerry certainly didn’t.

“So you think we should expend our last UUV getting more atmosphere control chemicals to them?”

The torpedo officer shrugged and looked uneasy. “I don’t like it, but it’s that or wait for them to suffocate…”

“And what happens once we’ve sent them more cassettes?” Palmer didn’t answer right away, and Jerry continued. “Everyone is already doing everything that can be done.”

Jerry forced the words out. “If this second try fails, and I was Petrov, I don’t know if I’d want more chemicals.”

Palmer shuddered. “You might be right. But choosing to end it, just giving up. ”

“The extra time would just give them more opportunity to think about what’s coming.”

“Unless someone can come up with something else.”

Jerry joked, “Sure, the Jolly Green Giant with a big-ass fishing net,” but neither he nor Palmer smiled.

“But it’s an option,” Palmer countered.

Jerry made a face. “All right, make up a checklist and a timeline. I’ll make sure the XO and the Skipper know we’re ready.”

“For the unthinkable,” Palmer added.

“For the unfixable,” Jerry replied.

Severodvinsk

Petrov kept them out of the escape chamber for as long as possible, but even huddled under their blankets, dozing and coughing in the foul air, he could feel the energy. He had skipped the last round of sleeping pills, and the crew was rousing, starting to feel restless. They wanted to move, but he told them to stay put, stay quiet. Save your strength.

He tried to rationalize it. It was colder in the escape chamber. All the food and medical supplies had been removed days ago. The wounded were more comfortable where they were. The rescue force wouldn’t be ready on time, or there would be some last-minute snag.

There. That was it. He couldn’t bear the thought of them going up into the chamber and then climbing back out of it again. They’d done it once already, and while most of his men had kept up a brave front, some had broken down, given up.

The arrival of the Norwegians had given them new hope, sustained by the letters from their families and the supplies from Seawolf. With tangible support from three nations, they’d found the strength to endure, but Petrov knew how fragile that endurance was.

Besides, his men had waited for so long. He would enjoy making everyone else wait for them for a change.

Petr Velikiy

Borisov watched from his command chair as they ran down the checklist. He fought the urge to ask questions. The timing was calculated almost to the second, and he’d checked their calculations over and over. He even had a copy in front of him.

The real question was, what else should be on that list? Like a traveler leaving the house, the question nagged at him. What had they forgotten?

Halsfjord was positioning its remote vehicles now. The American remote, “Maxine,” was already in place, while Seawolf herself had withdrawn to three kilometers, close enough to maintain acoustic communication, but clear of the three small underwater vehicles or anything that might go over the side.

The three unmanned vehicles, two Norwegian and one American, were spaced equally around a circle three hundred meters in diameter. If the rescue went well, they’d be able to record the process. If there was a problem, there was a small chance they would be able to correct it.

He scanned the monitors that filled every spare corner of the flag command post. Most displayed status reports: helicopter fuel, weather, equipment breakdowns. One showed a video image of someone in an impossibly bright blue parka, standing on the fantail of one of the tugs. A crawl across the bottom in alternating Russian and English identified him as Britt Adams, a reporter for Skynews aboard the tug Pamir. Thankfully, the audio was off.

Patterson had convinced the admiral that the tug was the best place for a reporter to be. He was going to report anyway, she argued, and Borisov had conceded that point. And he certainly wouldn’t find any state secrets aboard a tugboat. The admiral had agreed with that as well. And what better way to show the Russian effort to save their crew than a live feed of Pamir straining at the cables?

Borisov had given his permission, and Adams had been helicoptered over to Pamir at dawn. A condition of his presence was that his video signal was relayed from Pamir to the flagship, and then to a satellite. Borisov could cut this transmission at any time — rather, the English-speaking captain-lieutenant who’d been ordered to watch Adams’s broadcast could.

The tugs and Halsfjord were all in position. In fact, they couldn’t move out of position, and that was beginning to make him impatient. The rest of the task force had assumed stations one mile away from Severodvinsk, and every ship had at least one boat out with a crew standing by. Legkiy’s boat was already in the water, standing by with a line she’d attach to the escape chamber.

Every ship with a helicopter had it fueled and ready. Every sickbay, including Petr Velikiy’s extensive medical facilities, was on alert. Everything that could be thought of had been done.

Borisov would not give the order. As far as that went, he’d already given the order, back when he took over the rescue. Lindstrom had control of the detonators and a Russian liaison on Halsfjord would tell the two tugs when to start pulling. And Lindstrom would give the signal only when Petrov said he was ready.

Severodvinsk

“It’s time,” Petrov announced softly. Kalinin stood slowly, favoring his sprain, ready to direct the evacuation,