Cold Choices

the bow.”

“Well, for God’s sake don’t let our stern get too light.”

“What we can’t get over the side, we’re moving aft, and the stern planes are starting to bite.”

“Mr. Mitchell, give me a course,” Rudel ordered.

“We can continue this port turn to two two five. That will keep us clear of the rest of the formation.”

“Helm, steady on two two five.”

“We are rising,” Shimko announced, “we’re coming up!”

Jerry felt his own spirits rise, and he studied the rest of the watch. He saw relief, excitement, fatigue, but no fear. They were done.

“All tanks blown, sir.” McCord grinned, an infectious expression.

“Very well.” Rudel answered with his own smile as well.

* * *

They surfaced into five-foot swells and a high overcast. Seawolf shot out of the water like a drunken walrus, seesawing back and forth before she settled on the surface, seriously down by the bow. By the time they’d set the bridge watch, Rudel had turned them back toward the rest of the formation, a mile and a half distant.

Jerry and the other officers rook turns coming up to the bridge to watch the rescue. He could see the black tile-covered escape chamber, bobbing like a child’s ball. Pamir and Altay were standing by on each side, and the tug’s sailors were helping the crewmen out and over to their two ships. Helicopters were taking turns lifting the injured from their fantails.

The bridge-to-bridge radio crackled to life while Jerry watched the two tugs go by. “USS Seawolf, this is Petr Velikiy. Please take station one thousand yards to starboard of my position. We wish to see if you have suffered any additional damage.”

He passed the message to control, and Rudel approved the request. Jerry guided Seawolf toward the massive warship. It lay near the center of the Russian formation. Looking aft, he could see USS Churchill falling in trail, half a mile behind them.

Jerry studied the Russian vessel as they approached. It loomed over them, even from nearly a mile away. Being so low to the water didn’t help either. The formation was only steaming at five knots, so they were overtaking slowly.

A shrill whistle blast cut through the air, coming from the battle cruiser’s forecastle. Jerry saw men pouring out of the weather deck hatches. What was going on? Were they sounding General Quarters? Then he saw the crew arranging themselves along the edge of each deck, from the main deck up through the many stories of the superstructure.

They were manning the rails. Jerry hit the intercom. “Captain and XO, lay to the bridge.”

The lookout tapped his shoulder and pointed to a destroyer on their starboard side. Jerry turned and saw its crew taking places along the railings as well. He quickly made a survey of the rest of the ships, and other than the two tugs, every ship in the Russian formation had its crew on deck.

They were only a few hundred yards short of their assigned station. Jerry called “Captain to the bridge!” with more urgency, and seconds later, Rudel appeared, followed by the XO. Both officers looked around frantically, searching. “What’s wrong, Jerry? Is it the bow?”

They relaxed a little when they saw his calm expression, but then Jerry pointed to port, toward Petr Velikiy s starboard bridge wing, two hundred yards ahead and a hundred feet above them. It was filled with blue and gold uniforms, all at attention and facing to starboard.

Rudel took Jerry’s glasses and studied the group. “Migod. That’s Borisov, and Kurganov, and Chicherin, and all their cousins and uncles.” He keyed the intercom. “Chief, send up the XO’s and my combo covers, and do it now!”

Rudel opened the hatch and tossed down his foul-weather coat. The XO followed suit. By that time, the chief had climbed up the ladder holding their uniform covers. They quickly replaced their ball caps.

They turned and faced to port just as Seawolf came abreast of the Russian flagship. Even at half a mile, they heard the shouts. An earsplitting blast from Petr Velikiy’s whistle carried across the water, and was echoed by the other ships in the task force. Led by Vice Admiral Borisov, every sailor in the task force saluted.

Standing stiffly at attention, Captain Rudel and his officers returned the Northern Fleet’s salute.

EPILOGUE

Olga Sadilenko sat nervously on Ludmilla Tatiana’s flower-print couch. She’d arrived early, and the two women tried to chat as the minute hand slowly crawled toward ten o’clock. They’d wanted this to be low-key, so Olga had arranged to meet them here, at her friend Ludmilla’s apartment, instead of at her own apartment or the Wives and Mothers Organization’s office.

Precisely at ten, they heard a knock, and Ludmilla had to force herself to pause for a moment before opening the door.

She’d seen photos of Rudel, taken from the Internet, but here he was, in a foreign-looking uniform. He was younger than she expected, and looked more like a college professor. Jerry Mitchell could have been one of his assistants, younger still, shorter and more athletic. Both smiled warmly, but they were nervous. She could tell.

“Mrs. Tatiana, I am pleased to meet you.” Rudel had obviously been practicing the phrase, and Ludmilla drew them inside, smiling. A young Russian sailor, serving as driver and interpreter, stood outside until he was ushered in as well.

Olga stood, and Rudel walked over, taking her hands in his. “Mrs. Sadilenko, I am pleased to meet you.” She almost laughed at Rudel’s rote speech, but managed to turn it into a warm smile. They just stood, silently, for a moment, then she reached over to take one of Jerry’s hands, welcoming him as well.

Ludmilla waited, then spoke to Rudel’s driver. “Ask them if they will sit, and take tea.”

Both men smiled and nodded, then sat while their hostess poured two steaming cups from her good tea set. With her guests served, Ludmilla urged one on the embarrassed driver as well.

“How is your son?” Rudel asked through the driver.

Olga answered, “I will see him again, later today. They say he is doing well, that soon he will learn to live with his grief.” It was easier to speak of her Yakov, now that there was hope for him.

“He saved many lives,” Jerry offered respectfully.

Olga sighed. “By killing his closest friend. It was a high price for both of them to pay.”

Rudel paused for moment, struggling for words. Finally, he said, “I want to say how sorry I am, how sorry all my men are, for what. ”

She held up a hand, stopping him. “Please, Captain.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Nobody thinks this was your fault, or Captain Petrov’s. These things are tragedies — something we can learn from, but that cannot be anticipated or prevented.”

Then she reassured him, “You risked your own lives to save our men on Severodvinsk. That is what we will always remember.”

Ludmilla came over with a plate of tea cakes, speaking softly. The driver explained to Rudel, “She says it is good you came, that friends can share grief, and make it hurt less.”

A knock at the door called Ludmilla out of the conversation. It was Irina, holding a covered plate. “I brought some cake. Oh, am I too late? Are they already here?” A man in his late twenties, in a michman’s uniform, stood behind her.

“As if you couldn’t tell time, Irina Ivanova Rodionov!” Olga said sharply, but smiling at the same time. She then escorted the younger woman over and introduced her to the Americans, explaining, “She is our webmaster;” using the English term. The michman saluted, and the three men shook hands, smiling.

Irina greeted them each with a hug. In English, she said, “I had to thank you myself.” She looked over at her escort. “This is Michman Maksim Yerasov. He is the senior rating who works for my Anatoliy. He begged to come