Cold Choices

boats.

Silas offered, “Doctor, I’ve got a few suggestions about how the investigation should proceed…”

Patterson cut him off. “This isn’t an investigation, Commander. I’m acting as on-scene coordinator for Commander Rudel and Seawolf. This is a search-and-rescue operation, not some fact- finding junket.”

“Given the success rate of Soviet and Russian submarine rescues, Doctor, it’s likely there will be little for us to do.” Silas looked over at Russo.

The analyst shrugged. “The Russians have never been able to pull a large portion of crew out of a bottomed sub. For that matter, neither have we, at least not since Squalus went down, and that was in 1939.”

“I won’t accept that, not with so many unknowns. We don’t know how badly the Russian boat is damaged. Nothing can be decided until we know that. And if there’s the slightest chance of the U.S. improving their chances of survival, I want us to find out what it is and then make it happen.”

“Bravo, Dr. Patterson, I wish I’d had a microphone.” It was a woman’s voice, behind her, and Patterson turned to see the public affairs official from yesterday’s meeting.

“Joyce Parker, Doctor. It’s good to see you again.” She offered her hand, and Patterson automatically shook it as she absorbed Parker’s presence. “I’m delighted to be part of this adventure.”

Silas pulled out a sheet of paper and consulted it, confusion growing in his expression. “I’m confused, Ms. Parker. I was given a list of people who were accompanying Dr. Patterson. You’re not on it.”

“I’m taking Art Lopez’s place,” she explained almost casually. “It was a last-minute change. He has a bad case of the flu, and State didn’t find out until early this morning, which is when I got the call.” She grinned. “I’ve been scrounging cold-weather gear everywhere I could. I had to wake some of my girlfriends. Am I late? Are we ready to go?”

Patterson eyed Parker with suspicion. “State was supposed to send a Russian specialist from the European desk.”

“Undersecretary Abrams said I could take Art’s place with the group. And you need a media specialist,” Parker countered. “Have you looked at the television coverage?” She offered a digital player with a news story about the collision. “The Russians are now claiming that they can’t find their sub, which they still refuse to identify, because a ‘mysterious’ U.S. sub is interfering with their operations.”

Silas snorted. “Their stuff is either still stuck at the pier or grounded.”

“The Russians say the search is progressing in spite of the weather,” she countered. “Of course, it helps when you’re not handicapped by the truth.”

An Air Force officer approached the group. “Dr. Patterson, we’re ready for your party to board.”

The C-20, engines idling, waited with a roll-up stairs at the fuselage door. Patterson, glad to be moving, set a fast pace and hurried aboard. It was supposed to be a rescue mission, after all.

An Air Force first lieutenant in olive coveralls greeted her. “I’m Lieutenant Neal, ma’am, the copilot. We’ll taxi and take off as soon as your party’s seated and the luggage is aboard. It’s a seven-hour flight to Orland, Norway. We’ll refuel there, then fly to Bardufoss, where you’ll transfer to an MV-22 Osprey for the trip out to Winston Churchill.”

Patterson was all business. “I’m assuming you’re flying as fast as possible.”

“Yes, ma’am. We have priority clearance, and we’ll do everything we can to get you there quickly.”

Patterson thanked him and he left for the cockpit. As the rest of her group quickly settled in for the flight, she looked over the plane. The C-20B was the military version of a Gulfstream III and was configured for VIP transport, with three rows of first-class-sized seats, four across. Behind them, a bulkhead and door led to a conference area, including a communications center and a galley. It was not lavish, but looked more like an executive boardroom than a passenger aircraft.

Once she was buckled, an Air Force staff sergeant gave them a familiar-sounding speech about oxygen masks and aircraft exits, then belted in himself for takeoff.

As they taxied, Patterson found her mind racing. She’d turned off her BlackBerry, cell phone, and laptop for the takeoff, but begrudged even those few minutes of enforced idleness. She was eager to attack the problem.

She pulled the hard copy of Russo’s brief that Matsui had brought with her and looked through it again. Patterson had given up thirty minutes of sleep the night before to read everything she could find online about Russian submarine rescue equipment, but the classified brief had considerably more detail and she needed time to absorb the information.

Russo was sitting across the aisle from her and noticed what she was reading. He grinned. “That’s the canned one-hour briefing I usually give. I really should have edited it down for the NSC meeting.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Patterson replied. “I’d only heard about a fraction of the ones listed here.” She paused, thinking. “I’m having trouble understanding why the Russians allowed so many accidents to happen.”

“Well, it’s not like they choose to have accidents, but their submarine production and maintenance philosophy makes them more prone to them. Remember, they’ve always played catch-up with our nuclear technology. They were desperate to field and operate their own nuclear boats. The losses were bad, but the alternative was American naval dominance. The guy in second place always has to take more risks to level the playing field. We’d do the same if our positions were reversed. In fact, we’ve done it, in other areas.”

Russo insisted, “They are not casual about their crew’s lives.” He gestured to the printout. “Turn to slide thirty. Look at the escape capsule.”

Patterson examined a cutaway drawing of a Russian sub, with a cylinder inside the sail circled in red.

“The capsule looks small in that drawing, but consider the size of the sub. The thing is bigger than a Greyhound bus. It can hold the entire crew— that’s over a hundred men, and has survival supplies, and an emergency radio to use when they reach the surface. The Russians put a lot of thought and effort into those things.”

“And it just floats to the surface?” asked Patterson.

“Yep, simple buoyancy. They close the hatch in the bottom, release the locking clamps, and up it comes.”

“Has it ever been used?”

“Once, when the lone Mike-class SSN, Komsomolets, was lost to a fire in April 1989. Most of the crew abandoned the boat while she was still on the surface, but the captain and four others weren’t able to get off in time as the boat suddenly foundered and sank. They managed to get into the capsule, but the sub’s trim was too great and the capsule wouldn’t release until it hit the bottom and she leveled out. Unfortunately, toxic gases from the fire leaked into the capsule and four of the five died.”

Russo shuddered. “It’s not foolproof, and they haven’t used it this time, for whatever reason. Submarining is a dangerous business.”

Patterson automatically agreed, maybe a little too strongly, remembering her own experience during the fire aboard Memphis. Russo’s expression of curiosity made her think of a new question before he started asking ones of his own.

“How long can they live, if they are alive?”

He shrugged again. “That all depends on how badly damaged the sub is, and how many of the crew survived. Ideally, they’ve got stored oxygen and power from their emergency batteries for some warmth. The problem is carbon dioxide poisoning. If the survivors aren’t able to keep C0₂ down below five percent, the clock starts ticking.

“Assuming most of the crew made it through the collision, and their emergency air-regeneration system still works, I estimate that they may be able to last for up to a week. Given Rudel’s initial report, the Russians have already been down for three days. Unfortunately, the weather isn’t cooperating and this makes things really sticky.”

“But Seawolf can ignore the weather,” Patterson stated, “and use her UUVs to find the sub quickly.”

“Exactly. But finding Severodvinsk won’t be the hard part.” His unspoken question went unanswered.

Their conversation had taken them through the takeoff and climb to altitude. The copilot’s voice over the announcing system announced, “Dr. Patterson, your group can unbuckle now and move around, and safely use