Cold Choices

There was a vibration, low and jumbled. He tried to visualize it, but nothing in the submarine was working, so.

“It’s the tugs,” Petrov announced. Others mimicked his actions, feeling the rumble of the tugs’ engines carried through the cables to the hull.

Petr Velikiy

Borisov found himself watching Adams’s transmission, even ordering the sound turned up. Maybe he was attracted to the video image. Adams’s camera was trained on Pamirs fantail, wreathed in white froth. Three thick black lines led in a tight fan from her fantail into the water.

“I’m standing on the topdeck of the Russian salvage tug Pamir. Those cables you see lead to the crippled submarine Severodvinsk, its half-frozen crew critically short of breathable air.” The camera swung to show the Norwegian ship, perhaps half a kilometer away. “Moments ago Halsfjord detonated thirty-two explosive charges on both sides of the stranded submarine’s hull. These are supposed to free her from the bottom suction and jar her loose of the rock ledges. Now the tugs are straining to pull the twelve-thousand-ton submarine upright.”

The camera shifted again to show Pamir’s sister Altay, just a hundred meters to port. With her white superstructure and a dark gray hull, she made an impressive picture as she strained at the cables. “Although a fraction of Severodvinsk’s size, each tug’s engines produce nine thousand horsepower. Their combined. ”

The image tilted suddenly, then shuddered and spun. It stopped to show a portion of Pamir’s deck and handrail. Voices in Russian and one in English shouted, but the words were drowned out by an angry howl from the tug’s diesels. The engine noise quickly stopped, and someone, probably Adams, picked up the camera. There was an “I’ve got it” in English and the image steadied again, to show Altay heeling over to starboard, sliding sideways across the water toward Pamir.

A shout in Russian made Adams swing the camera to Pamir’s fantail. Two of the cables were no longer taut, and the third draped over her stern and was visibly moving to port, increasing the angle between it and the other two.

It had taken moments for Adams’s video to show the disaster. By the time his camera steadied on the limp cables, Borisov was on his feet, shouting orders. “Call the tugs! Talk to both of them, find out their status! Call the Norwegians. I want to speak to Lindstrom! Kurganov, call Severodvinsk.”

“I can’t,” the admiral replied, “they’ll still be in the escape chamber.”

Borisov paused. “You’re right, of course. Then call Seawolf. See what their remote vehicle saw.”

“I’ve got Lindstrom on the radiophone,” a lieutenant announced. Borisov hurried over and took the handset. “Borisov here. What happened?”

Lindstrom’s voice showed his confusion. “I don’t know what’s happened. Both tugs suddenly veered to starboard. It looks like the cables to the sub’s bow are slack on both tugs.”

Nicherin, one of Borisov’s staff, interrupted, “Admiral, I’ve got reports from both Pamir and Altay. No casualties, but each has lost the cable to Severodvinsk’s bow.”

“That still gives them two cables each. Tell them full power!” Nicherin nodded quickly and hurried off.

Borisov returned his attention to the handset. Lindstrom was speaking, and Borisov asked him to repeat. “We’re moving the ROVs in to get a closer look at the cables.”

The sailor in Borisov thought about the forces, the way they were applied. “Concentrate on the bow section. The cables must have come loose somehow.”

“I agree. The chance of two breaking at the same moment is incredibly small.”

“How long until you can see?” Borisov asked.

“There’s a lot of silt from the charges,” Lindstrom answered. “We’ll have to get in very close, almost on top of the submarine. With the tugs still pulling, there is a risk we could lose one.”

“I understand,” Borisov answered. “Go ahead.”

“We are already sending one of the ROVs in. It will take three, maybe four minutes.”

“If they’ve simply come loose, be ready to reattach them.”

“Understood. We can do that.”

USS Seawolf

Jerry and most of the wardroom were in control, with as many of the crew that could fit down in the torpedo room, watching the displays. Maxine had been running slow, angled racetracks, her sonar optimized for short range, high-resolution images.

They’d heard the explosion through the hull, a little alarming in spite of being right on time. Sonar also reported the tug’s engines running flat out. Maxine’s sonar showed most of Severodvinsk, lying angled to port. They all longed for her to slowly roll to starboard, and then for the escape chamber to appear above the sail. The UUV would be able to see it, even through the murk from the explosions.

Rumor was, the cooks were putting together a big party, with a Russian menu. Blinis, something called piroshki. They might even invite Borisov back. Seemed like a nice enough guy.

Sonar then reported the engines slowing, followed by a revving up again to full power.

But Severodvinsk never moved. Kurganov’s call over the underwater telephone confirmed the bad news.

USS Churchill

They’d moved from CIC to the bridge, as if actually seeing the vessels would tell them something new. The radiomen piped the circuits over the bridge loudspeakers, and they listened to Borisov’s questions and his order to maintain power.

After about five minutes, Lindstrom came back on the circuit. “We have a clear view of the bow from the first ROV. The mooring point is gone! It’s been torn off of the casing!”

He was reporting to Borisov, who responded in English. “I do not understand.”

“The fitting that the cables were attached to has been ripped from the submarine’s deck.”

“Impossible. Those mooring points are designed to withstand tremendous forces.”

Lindstrom patiently answered, “We will be sending the photos to you in a few moments. The foundations are cracked, and the metal of the casing is torn. The fitting itself is missing entirely. The cables did not come loose, they pulled it off the deck.”

Borisov’s voice, even over the radio, was incredulous. “How could this happen?” He was asking himself as much as Lindstrom.

“Severodvinsk suffered a lot of damage to her bow. The hull’s structure must have been weakened.”

There was a long pause, and everyone on the bridge could imagine the Russian searching for some solution. “Can the cables be reattached to the bow some other way? It must be done quickly,” he added.

“No, Admiral. There’s nothing left to attach them to. And the tugs would have to stop while we did the work.”

After another pause, Borisov answered, “Very well. I intend to continue with the remaining two lines.”

Lindstrom’s answer was simple. “Good luck. Out.”

Joanna Patterson, Captain Baker, and the others stood listening to the conversation. After the Norwegian had signed off, they stood silently, absorbing and understanding. Silas cursed, Russo walked out to the bridge wing, and Patterson saw him pounding his fist on the rail.

She was surprised when Joyce Parker pulled out a Kleenex and offered it to her. She hadn’t felt the tears until then.

They watched as the tugs strained, working to move Severodvinsk. Borisov had them alternate, then angle left and right. All the while, Seawolf and Halsfjord watched their vehicles, eager to report any movement. Finally, after half an hour with nothing to show, the admiral had each tug cast off one of its cables, so that Pamir had the midships while Alt ay pulled on the stern. He ordered them to pull in opposite directions, hoping that the twisting motion might somehow help.