the best the Russians have, but nothing exotic, as far as we know. We were a little noisier during the UUV recovery, mostly short mechanical transients, but nothing more than what’s normal for that evolution.”
“Then keep sorting though those recordings. I want to know everything you know.” Carpenter nodded his understanding.
“Mr. Mitchell, what about the electronics?”
“We’ve lost radar and ESM. I was just about to get Mr. Chandler’s report on the radios.” Jerry didn’t need to share his problems with the XO.
Chandler didn’t wait to be asked. “We should be able to get an HF receiver circuit on line by the end of the day, an LF receiver will take a little more time. Chief Morrison said it would take at least six hours, maybe longer. He’s got his people working on a transmitter, but they’re in considerably worse shape.” He shrugged. “The bridge- to-bridge radio works, so if we get in line of sight with another vessel on the surface, we can talk to them.”
Jerry almost laughed. The bridge-to-bridge radio was no bigger than a good-sized walkie-talkie, and would not reach farther than the horizon. Still, they’d need it to communicate when they got back to a friendly port.
“Mr. Wolfe, what about weapons department?”
“All bow arrays are officially gone. As is the TB-16 towed array. Its stowage tube was crushed during the collision. The TB-29, WAA, and HF sonar are on line, torpedo division is ready. Mr. Palmer is preparing to recover LaVerne.”
The XO asked Lavoie, “Engineering?”
“Everything’s on line, sir. The plant took a heckuva shock, but no equipment failures. We’re watching everything very closely.”
The XO absorbed the reports for a moment. “We’ve been hurt, but we are not in danger of losing the boat. We’re ending the mission, of course. As soon as we recover the UUV we’re turning southwest and heading for Faslane.”
Jerry knew the place. On the western coast of Scotland, Faslane was a British submarine base. It was the closest friendly port that could take their injured and make emergency repairs.
“Mr. Mitchell, I’ll need a recommended course as soon as possible.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Mr. Wolfe, you’ll do the death investigation for Petty Officer Rountree.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Mitchell, start reconstructing the incident, beginning with our initial detection, up to the moment of the collision. You are not writing the incident report — that’s my job — but I want a chronology that may help explain how he found us and what he was trying to do. And I will use it in my report.” Shimko motioned toward Carpenter. “Use whatever the Senior Chief can give you about the Russian’s movements and activities.
“That’s all,” Shimko said, dismissing them.
Jerry hurried back to control. It only took a few minutes to work out the course changes and times for Faslane, Scotland. He arrived at the XO’s cabin just as Shimko was returning.
After Shimko reviewed and approved the route, Jerry said, “Thank you, sir. Should I go brief the Skipper now?” That was standard procedure.
“No, Jerry, I’ll brief him.” That was unusual. Rudel always wanted to be briefed by the officer involved. And it was unnecessary. Rudel’s cabin was right there, a few steps away. And Shimko’s tone was off. He was trying too hard to sound casual.
“Is everything all right, sir? Was the Captain hurt? I noticed he wasn’t at the meeting.” Jerry was deeply concerned. Rudel was more than a commanding officer. Everyone in the crew liked and admired Rudel, and thought of him as a friend, a father, or a favorite teacher.
“He’s fine.” But Shimko said it too quickly, and seemed uncomfortable. Finally, he added, “He’s taken Rountree’s death pretty hard.”
“We all have,” Jerry agreed. But then he added, “He doesn’t think it’s his fault, does he?”
“It’s always the Captain’s responsibility, you know that,” Shimko answered. It was a mantra in the navy, but it didn’t tell Jerry what was wrong with the captain.
9. DISASTER
A coughing fit yanked Petrov back to consciousness, an acrid scent that made his mouth taste of old tires. Disoriented, he fought to remember where he was. It was dark, but he didn’t recall turning off the reading light in his bunk.
No. That wasn’t right. This wasn’t his cabin. He felt himself lying on the deck, propped up against the command console. His head and right shoulder burned with pain, which became sharper when he tried to pull himself up. As he struggled to stand, he saw the dim glow of the emergency lights.
Everything was wrong. What had happened to the power? The central post was dark, really dark, in the worst possible way. Not only were the lights out, but most of the console displays were dead as well. As his confusion subsided, he felt the sudden loss of information. What was happening throughout the rest of the boat?
He took a cautious first step, but nearly fell anyway. The deck was tilted, down by the bow and sharply to port. They must be resting on the bottom. He coughed again, and smelled what had to be smoke. Fear poured into him, and he searched for other signs of fire. By the time he’d scanned the entire central command post his head was clearing. Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be any flames. But he still had to figure out where that smoke was coming from.
A number of the men were just getting up themselves, some with effort, a sure sign of injury. Others lay crumpled on the deck, unmoving. As Petrov started inching toward the nearest man, he asked himself two questions. How many of my crew are injured? What is the material condition of my boat? He needed answers, and he needed them now.
Chief Engineer Lyachin was just getting up as Petrov climbed over to the ship’s systems-control station. Steadying the wobbly engineer, Petrov was relieved that he did not appear to be seriously hurt. “Sergey Vladimirovich, I need you to go back to the aft compartments and inspect them for damage. Can you walk?”
“Yes, Captain. I think so.”
“Good, Chief. Report on casualties and the status of the engineering plant. Use messengers. The internal communications aren’t working.”
“I suspect that’s not the only system that isn’t functioning,” remarked Lyachin with a slight grin. The engineer coughed and then sniffed the air, a look of concern flashed on his face. “Smoke?”
“Yes, Chief. I don’t know if it’s from some electrical equipment that shorted out or if we have an actual fire on board, so be careful.”
“Understood, comrade Captain.” Lyachin then pointed at a still-groggy Shubin and ordered, “You. With me. Let’s see how badly we are hurt.”
As the two men worked their way aft, Petrov’s eyes reflexively went back to the darkened status displays. Their blank features mocked his ignorance, but he remembered that the mechanical depth gauge didn’t need power. Grabbing the emergency flashlight attached to the commander’s console, he crawled over to the maneuvering- control station and shined the light on the depth gauge. It showed 197 meters. That was well above collapse depth, but too deep for a free ascent if they had to abandon the submarine. It was clear that they were on the bottom, and it hadn’t been a soft landing.
He scanned the rest of the central post with the flashlight, its bright beam highlighting the smoke that hung in the air. It didn’t appear to be getting worse, but it was thick enough to sting any soft tissue exposed to it, including the lungs. Petrov saw that most of the watch section was on their feet, checking on each other and their equipment. He watched as they made their reports to Kalinin and cared for two men who had sustained more than just bruises.
Kalinin waddled over, favoring his left ankle. He spoke softly. “Two serious injuries, Seaman Naletov and Warrant Officer Kotkov. Kotkov is hurt very badly. He gashed an artery in his leg. They’re putting a tourniquet on him now, but we really need Dr. Balanov. I’ve sent a runner to go look for him. As for the ship’s systems, everything’s nonoperational, even the backup power systems.” The starpom paused to cough, then added, “I felt us
