Perhaps we can jog his memory to follow routine procedures.”
“Captain. Captain, time to wake up.” The voice was faint at first, but grew steadily louder. Suddenly there was a bright white light; Petrov recoiled from its intensity. Instinctively he threw his hands up to block it while grumbling, “Turn the damn light off!”
“He appears to be in reasonable health, Starpom, given the circumstances. He’s going to be a bit stiff, and he’ll probably experience headaches, but I don’t believe he has a concussion,” reported Balanov.
“Thank you, Doctor,” replied Kalinin, a note of relief in his voice.
Still a bit groggy, Petrov rubbed his face and eyes. He started to shiver, and he pulled the loose blanket around him for warmth. “Would someone please tell me what is going on?” he demanded testily.
“Certainly, sir,” said Balanov. “You’ve been asleep for over twelve hours, and your Starpom here became worried when he couldn’t wake you. Naturally, I was very concerned with this report. I was afraid that you might have suffered a concussion during the collision and had slipped into a coma. My examination, though belated, indicates that you are in relatively good condition; barring the minor injuries to your head and shoulder.”
The tone of the doctor’s voice revealed he was still a little irritated with his captain, but Petrov had insisted that the rest of the crew be tended to first. The delay could have been life-threatening, but fortunately that was not the case this time. Treating a patient with a serious concussion would have severely stressed the medical department’s already meager resources. This false alarm only heightened the doctor’s frustration that he lacked the proper means to deal with many of the more serious injuries.
“Your concern is noted, and appreciated, Doctor. Oomph,” Petrov grunted as he pulled himself up. The doctor was right. He was very stiff and sore. “How is the rest of the crew?”
“Starpom Kalinin has my most recent report, he can repeat it as well as I. I must tend to my other patients. With your permission, sir?”
“Very well, Doctor, you are dismissed.” Petrov watched as Balanov slowly made his way out of the sonar post. His movements were wooden, his demeanor weary. As he entered the central command post, Petrov called out to him, “Thank you again, Doctor, for looking after my crew and me.”
The doctor nodded curtly, a faint smile on his face, and then resumed his walk back to the makeshift hospital.
After Balanov was out of sight, Petrov motioned with his head in the doctor’s direction and asked, “How’s he doing, Vasiliy? He doesn’t look good.”
“He hasn’t slept a wink since the collision, Captain. He’s simply exhausted. On top of that, he hasn’t had the best of days.”
Petrov was starting to get used to the steady stream of bad news, but his starpom’s tone and expression made it clear this was on the bad side of bad. Intuitively, he knew another member of the crew had died. “Who?”
“Warrant Officer Kotkov and Senior Lieutenant Annekov,” said Kalinin quietly.
Petrov’s face reflected the pain he felt. The doctor had warned him earlier that it was likely that they would lose two more, but that wasn’t much help now that reality had reared its ugly head. Shaken by the news, he leaned heavily on the chair to steady himself. Kalinin sympathized with his commander; he had felt the same pain a few hours earlier. Without being prompted, he provided additional details. “Kotkov died from severe blood loss, while Annekov died from complications of smoke inhalation. I’ve had the bodies placed in one of the portside torpedo tubes.”
With his jaw firmly clenched, Petrov nodded his understanding and approval. Fighting to hold himself together, he was barely able to ask his next question. “What is our status?”
“Oxygen is at seventeen and a half percent and carbon dioxide is at one percent. We brought six air- regeneration units online at 2100 hours last night. The second set of regeneration cassettes will be depleted within a couple of hours. The units are quite popular with the crew right now.”
Each air-regeneration cassette contained a series of chemical plates coated with highly reactive potassium hyperoxide and sodium superoxide compounds. These chemicals reacted with the moisture in the air to absorb carbon dioxide and replace it with oxygen. A beneficial side effect of the chemical reaction was that it generated a lot of heat, which was exhausted into the compartment by a blower in each regeneration unit. It was noticeably warmer near one of these machines and the crew tended to congregate around them.
“We have conducted an inventory of our emergency food and water supplies,” continued Kalinin, “and with proper rationing, we can make them last for six or seven days. Chief Engineer Lyachin, however, believes he can gain access to one of the potable water tanks, which would greatly extend our water reserves.” At this point, Kalinin stopped, shook his head, and started to laugh. This abrupt change caught Petrov off guard, and it snapped him out of his dark mood. Watching Kalinin laugh, Petrov wondered whether his starpom was already suffering from oxygen deprivation.
“What’s so funny, Vasiliy?”
“Ohhh, it’s Sergey and his boys,” chortled Kalinin. “For the last six hours they have been calculating and debating on the best way to allocate power from the reserve battery. Our Chief Engineer called it a practical exercise.” The starpom clearly found the engineers’ wording to be rather humorous, and he had to pause before he was able to speak clearly.
“Anyway, after much discussion and brandishing of calculators, the engineering department has come up with a plan to briefly turn off two regeneration units each day and use the power to heat up some water to make tea and coffee for the crew. Did you know that those sneaky engineers had their own stash of coffee and tea?”
Petrov shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Submarine engineers are notorious for finding creative storage methods for just about anything. How many stills have you found in your career?”
“Too many. And their output always tasted the same — hideous.” He grimaced at the very thought of the foul-tasting, clear liquid common to all illegal distilleries. “But Lyachin and company have enough coffee and tea for every man to have two cups a day! Of course, the doctor is an enthusiastic supporter of the idea.”
“Have you checked their figures?”
“Yes, sir. I went over everything with the Chief Engineer. With the six devices drawing approximately the same amount of power, we should have sufficient battery capacity for seven, or even eight days if we are lucky.”
“So, once again it gets back to the carbon dioxide issue,” Petrov asserted. “We have enough food, water, oxygen, and power for about a week, a little more if we are very thrifty. But within five days we’ll be at lethal concentrations for carbon dioxide.”
“Fonarin’s estimate gives us five and a half days,” Kalinin replied soberly.
Both men fell silent, a little uncomfortable with the cold, callous direction their conversation had taken. While they both cared deeply about the crew, their training drove them to deal with the stark facts in an objective, if mechanical, manner. Acknowledging the reality of a particular situation, even if the process seems uncaring, is the foundation for sound decisionmaking. And given their circumstances, they couldn’t afford to make any poor decisions. The uneasy quiet lasted for only a few moments before Petrov broke it with a question.
“How’s the crew’s morale?”
“All things considered, sir, surprisingly good. The men are convinced that we will be rescued.”
Petrov looked closely at Kalinin as he spoke. His face didn’t mirror the confidence of his statement. Something was bothering him. Petrov could sense it.
“But?” he asked.
Warily, Kalinin eyed the doorway, making sure that no one was close by. Once he was sure their conversation would stay private, he leaned forward and whispered.
“Captain, I have listened to the underwater communications system several times while you were sleeping. There is a bitch of a storm up there. Ice floes are being tossed about like children’s toys. I don’t believe the distress buoy can survive in that kind of environment. In fact, we don’t know if it even reached the surface intact. How can we be certain that the Northern Fleet Headquarters knows we’re missing? Or even if they do, where to look for us?”
It was Petrov’s turn to chuckle, much to his starpom’s surprise.
“Am I certain they know we are missing right now? No. Am I confident that they will know in about six hours? Yes.”
