Kalinin looked at his watch, it read 0918, and understood what his captain was referring to. Still unconvinced, he began to argue with Petrov.
“How can you be so sure? Even though we’ve missed two regular communications periods, any one of our senior commanders could easily rationalize that given our last known heading, and the weather conditions, that we simply couldn’t check in. They’d wait until after the storm abated before they would recognize that we are really missing!”
“Vasiliy, Vasiliy, you don’t understand our diviziya commander very well, do you?” replied Petrov patiently. “Rear Admiral Vidchenko’s very existence is defined by procedures, protocols, and schedules. He is one of those, oh, how do you put it, one of those loathsome bureaucratic assholes.”
Kalinin looked down, a sheepish grin on his face, and admitted his guilt. “Yes, I uh. I seem to recall saying something like that once or twice.”
“Well, it’s true! If the instructions required Vidchenko to swim to each pier in the performance of his duties, he would stoically dive in headfirst, dress uniform and all, and execute a flawless breaststroke. That is just how the man works.
“No, Vasiliy, I have already been reprimanded in absentia for my flagrant violation of fleet procedures. By 1505 this afternoon, he
Petrov shifted his weight around, getting a solid footing on the canted deck, as he prepared to leave the sonar post, but before he started walking, he turned once more to Kalinin and said, “You are right about one thing, Vasiliy. That is a devil of a storm and it won’t be easy for the fleet to find us in the middle of this mess. And even if they do, they certainly wouldn’t be able to deploy a rescue submersible in those seas. Those huge chunks of ice would crush it in an instant. But all we can do about that, Vasiliy, is pray. Pray that the storm will pass soon and that the fleet will find us quickly. Before it’s too late.”
Vice Admiral Kokurin growled at the growing pile of messages from his eskadra and base commanders. All of them spoke of minor damage inflicted by the storm to the Northern Fleet’s elderly infrastructure. Individually the damage was annoying, but collectively it was becoming more than just a nuisance. Finding the funds necessary to pay for the repairs was going to be difficult, particularly since the budget year was coming to a close and the fleet’s operating accounts had been sorely depleted by the aggressive training schedule.
“Why are you being so inhospitable, Grandfather Winter?” whined Kokurin to himself. A storm of this magnitude, so early in the season, did not bode well for the rest of the winter. The fleet commander wrote down a reminder to speak with the chief of rear services about ensuring an adequate fuel oil supply for the bases. He finished and was about to pick up his cup of tea when the intercom buzzer rang.
“Yes,” answered Kokurin.
“Sir, Vice Admiral Borisov is on line one. He says he needs to speak to you about an urgent matter.”
“Thank you.” Reaching over, he picked up the phone and hit the blinking line.
“Greetings, Pavel Dmitriyevich, how are things at Sayda Guba?”
There was only silence on the line, and Kokurin thought that he had lost his connection with Borisov. “Pavel, are you there?”
“Yes, sir, I am still here,” Borisov replied with some hesitation. Kokurin could hear him taking a deep breath. Something terrible must have happened.
“Steady yourself, Pavel. Tell me, what is wrong?”
“Admiral, I regret to inform you that
Kokurin sat up straight in his chair; he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Thirty hours?” he repeated. “Did you send out messages ordering him to make contact?”
“Yes, sir. We have sent out three messages within the last six hours telling Petrov to break off pursuit and respond. There has been no reply.”
“Do you think he is still under the sea ice? That would limit his ability to communicate.”
“We looked into that possibility, sir,” Borisov admitted. “Unfortunately, we don’t have a good position for
“Very well, Pavel, I concur. I will issue the alert,” said Kokurin. “Make sure my staff has all your data and analysis.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You can see what the weather outside is like just as well as I can. Rescue missions under the best of circumstances are a difficult undertaking. With this storm, it may be impossible. But, I will do what I can.”
“I know, sir,” replied a solemn Borisov.
“Keep me apprised of any new developments,” ordered Kokurin.
“Understood, Admiral. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Pavel.”
As the old admiral hung up the phone, his mind started racing. A hundred questions sprung up, and he had answers for none of them. Rubbing his thinly covered head with his hands, he wondered if they had lost yet another submarine and a brave crew. Slamming the desk with his fist, he cursed the fear that was gripping him. There was no time for self-pity. Hitting the intercom button, Kokurin summoned his deputy.
“Boris, get in here immediately. Bring Georgy with you.”
Within seconds, both men hurried through the door. They knew their boss well enough to know that something was wrong. As they approached the fleet commander’s desk, he began firing off orders at them.
“Boris, I am declaring an emergency alert. Have the communications officer issue Signal Number Six.
Vice Admiral Baybarin furiously wrote down his instructions. He was full of curiosity, but there would be time for questions later. He bolted from the room as soon as Kokurin barked, “Now go!”
Vice Admiral Radetskiy was next, and he anxiously awaited his orders.
“Georgy, contact the Chief of the Search and Rescue Services and have him prepare
As the chief of staff left, Kokurin looked at the clock on his desk. It read 1529. He should see the emergency message in about ten minutes. Turning to face the window, he watched as the snow was whipped about by the gale-force winds. The dreariness of the afternoon matched his mood. The real question now was whether or not a rescue force could actually leave in the middle of this accursed storm. God willing, the ships should be ready to get underway by the early evening hours. Now, if Grandfather Winter would only cooperate.
Jack Ferguson was already bored. It was less than two hours into his shift, and there wasn’t much going on in the Russian Northern Fleet AOR. The winter storm had really shut things down. It’s going to be a very long day, he thought.
“Hey, Jack,” called Paul Anderson, Ferguson’s supervisor, “anything good on the Russia Northern Fleet channel?”
“Nope, they’re getting the snot beaten out of them by that storm. Overall traffic volume is way down, and most of the stuff is administrative shit. I did have one message, though, about ten minutes ago that had an urgent
