Cold Choices

Seawolf into such a well-oiled machine that they believed there was nothing they couldn’t do. He was the quiet motivating force behind the scenes. Without his direct personal involvement, it would be nearly impossible to reestablish anything close to normal on board the boat.

Jerry usually ate dinner at the first sitting, along with the rest of the senior officers. It wasn’t so much a class prerogative as a chance for Seawolf’s leadership to sit down together. It was amazing how hard it could be to find time for a simple meeting on such a small vessel.

He had heard the supply officer tell the cooks to put on a really good dinner. Constantino knew how important food was to the crew’s morale, and he was playing that card for all it was worth. Besides, Seawolf would be going into the yards as soon as they returned home. Anything they didn’t eat would have to be offloaded. Knowing it was a way they could help, the cooks had worked flat-out, creating a meal that was memorable without being celebratory: fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, greens, fresh biscuits, and three kinds of pie for dessert, including Dutch apple pie, the skipper’s favorite.

But Captain Rudel wasn’t there. The XO sat in his place, and diverted any questions about the captain by asking his own questions — about the crew or the boat. After a few exchanges of question and counterquestion, they figured out that Shimko wasn’t going to budge. The officers shifted their thoughts toward sharing their experiences during the collision. Stories almost bubbled out of the diners, but the discussion quickly turned to the most important topic: the Russian’s identity and purpose.

Shimko didn’t have to tell the others about Senior Chief Carpenter’s information. It’s very hard to keep a secret on a submarine, and the identity of the Russian attack sub had spread like wildfire throughout the crew. Seawolf’s own sonar techs had come to the same conclusion on the sub’s identity. It was a Russian nuclear attack boat, but one that didn’t match anything in the database — Q.E.D. Severodvinsk. The name Severodvinsk now echoed off the bulkheads in discussions all over Seawolf, as if it were some mystical creature.

“But what was he doing?” Greg Wolfe was the third to ask the question, but nobody had an answer. Lieutenant Commander Stan Lavoie described the Russian’s movements, and the XO confirmed his account. Lieutenant (j.g.) McClelland told the others what the sonar gang knew about the Russian’s sonar lashing, and there was general consensus that the Russian was “certifiable.”

But the Russians didn’t put lunatics in command of nuclear submarines. He’d certainly disrupted their survey. “Could he have been trying to ram the UUV?” asked Wolfe.

Shimko quickly shook his head, chewing. He swallowed and said, “His aim couldn’t have been that bad. His mine-hunting sonar would see it. That’s a precision set, accurate to within a couple of yards. He was a lot closer to us than to LaVerne.”

Everyone at the table agreed that the Russian had “conclusively won” the encounter by disrupting their survey. “But he disrupted our operations the instant he announced his presence,” Jerry said. “He didn’t need to run circles around us.”

“Is that what you call it?” Lavoie grumbled.” ‘Announcing his presence,’ he says. Might as well have used a torpedo.”

“He was trying to herd us,” Constantino observed. “He cut across our path as we headed northwest.”

“That was on his third run,” Jerry countered. “On the first two, he passed down our port side, west of us. Was he telling us to sail east, toward the Russian coast?” Even as he said it, Jerry knew that was wrong. Russia was a hundred-plus miles away. Way too far.

“Was he herding us away from something else, then?” Wolfe asked.

“What’s out here?” Constantino asked. But they all knew the answer. Nothing but them.

“The UUV. He was trying to herd us away from LaVerne,” Wolfe said.

“So he could capture it?” Lavoie asked. “We had it under control the whole time. We could have kept it away from him.”

“He didn’t know that,” Jerry realized. “He must have assumed we had a wire to it. Break the wire, and it goes dead. Then he sits on it until someone arrives to salvage it.”

“And the Russians have an intelligence coup,” Shimko concluded. “It might have worked, if LaVerne had a tether.” He looked around the table. “Anybody see any holes in his theory?”

Jerry couldn’t. The Russian captain didn’t know that LaVerne was controlled by an acoustic modem. It explained a lot, and Jerry kicked himself mentally. He should have thought of that. It would have been simple to deceive them.

“I’ll take it to the Captain,” Shimko concluded, and stood. Everyone else turned to finishing dinner. There was still a second seating, and the discussion seemed to be finished.

It was Will Hayes who finally asked the one question that had eluded everyone. “What about the Russian? What do you think happened to him?”

Jerry’s first thought was reflexive: He didn’t want to know about him, and he didn’t want to think about him. But the question demanded an answer. He’d been damaged, certainly, but Russian subs were double-hulled, with internal compartmentalization that U.S. boats lacked. Their design philosophy had a significant emphasis on survivability, while U.S. designers focused predominantly on stealth. All other things being equal, the Russian sub was probably in better shape than they were.

“He wasn’t waiting for us when we submerged,” Lavoie reported. “If he headed south, toward home, while we were headed west, then we’ll never see him again.”

“Fine with me. He’ll be back in his home port before we get to Faslane,” Wolfe concluded.

“He found us easily enough out here,” Jerry remarked pessimistically. “I hope none of his friends know how to do that trick.”

“Which is why we’re headed westward at our best speed,” Shimko remarked, standing at the door to the wardroom. “Mr. Mitchell, the Captain has some questions for you.” He didn’t ask whether Jerry was finished with his meal.

Jerry followed the XO back up to the captain’s cabin. The door was closed, and Shimko knocked, but hardly waited before opening it.

For a moment, Jerry thought the XO was waking Rudel, because the only light was from the lamp over his desk. But that didn’t make sense. The captain had just asked to see him.

Rudel was sitting in his chair, tipped back against the bulkhead, a pad of paper in his lap. Jerry could see a few lines scrawled at the top, but the pen lay on the table next to him. He didn’t speak, or even look up when Shimko opened the door.

“Sir, here’s Mr. Mitchell. You wanted to ask him about tethered vehicles,” Shimko prompted.

Rudel raised his head without moving the chair. It was hard to see in the dark, but from what Jerry could tell, Captain Rudel looked terrible. His face was drawn, and there were dark areas under his eyes. He saw Jerry and the XO, then straightened up in the chair but didn’t stand. “Mr. Mitchell, do you think the Russian sub was trying to cut a line between the UUV and Seawolf?”

“Yes, sir, I do.” Admitting it made Jerry feel more guilty. Understanding that one fact could have changed everything. Rountree might still be alive.

The captain leaned back, seemingly satisfied, but the XO spoke up. “You’ve been to school on these ROVs, haven’t you?”

“Yessir, before I reported to Memphis”

“Do most of our vehicles use a tether?”

“Many do, sir. Only the LMRS and our UUVs are untethered.”

“What about the Russians? Did you learn anything about their ROVs?”

“We spent some time reviewing their technology in class.”

“Is their stuff tethered?”

“Yes, sir. What little they have.”

The XO’s questions occupied Rudel’s attention but the captain didn’t ask or say anything else until the XO said, “That’s all, then.”

As jerry started to turn, Rudel called him by name. “Jerry. I was sorry to hear about Dennis Rountree.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want to have a short service when we pull into Faslane. They’ll take the body off then, and it will give the crew a chance to say good-bye. Please set it up.”