Cold Choices

electronic devices. Staff Sergeant Monroe can organize some breakfast as well, if you’d like.”

The moment Patterson stood, Joyce Parker, seated two rows behind her, stood as well. “Dr. Patterson, I must speak to you about the media response.”

“Ms. Parker, my only concern is supporting Seawolf and helping rescue Severodvinsk’s crew.” Patterson used a coldly formal tone that usually made others wilt.

Parker stood her ground. “I thought it was representing U.S. interests in an international crisis. Did you know that the Russians are claiming that the U.S. State Department deliberately fed them a bad location?”

“I’m not interested in fighting Russian propaganda.”

Parker showed Patterson her laptop. “Look at these headlines. The rest of the world is already calling this ‘the Seawolf attack.’ Our international reputation is being ruined, and we’re not doing anything about it.” Parker sounded deeply concerned.

The rest of the group had listened silently, but Russo now spoke up. “After Kursk went down, the Russians claimed that their boat had collided with a foreign submarine in the area. Early in the incident, they also claimed that they were in communication with the crew, and were sending air and power to them. Both statements were wildly false. Later they accused us directly of attacking Kursk, again a false statement.”

“What’s your point?” Parker was impatient with Russo’s observation, almost hostile.

“Nobody in the Russian Navy ever has gotten in trouble for lying to the media. It’s like the weather. We can’t control it.”

“Which means we have to get the truth out there.” Parker’s intensity was unnerving. Patterson could see that she cared deeply about the image of the United States, but her concern didn’t make it Patterson’s problem. Parker wasn’t even supposed to be here.

“Ms. Parker, we are going to have some breakfast, then I’d like Dr. Russo to run us all through his briefing.” Parker looked like she was going to say something, but Patterson just ran out of patience. “We’re done for now. Who else wants to eat?”

* * *

Staff Sergeant Monroe served fruit and pastries and excellent coffee, thank goodness. Patterson studied her team as they ate. No, they’re not a team, she thought. So far, it’s just a bunch of people together on an airplane. Like one of those disaster movies, she thought, but quickly squelched the comparison.

She had an empire builder, an intel analyst, and a naval officer who thought the whole endeavor is a waste of time. She had to make them work together.

During Russo’s brief, she listened and learned a little more, but also made up a list of action items, and watched her people. Silas and Russo had a running discussion during the brief. They were comfortable with each other, and seemed to respect each other’s expertise. Parker appeared interested, and took notes, but that could have been her journalist’s instincts.

Silas continued to be pessimistic about Severodvinsk’s chances. “Even with a good location, they’ve got very few rescue submersibles that can go down and save them.”

“They’ve asked for help from the British and the Norwegians,” Russo offered.

“But it will be days before they can get there,” Silas argued.

“The Russians don’t even want us there,” Parker commented, and turned her laptop around so they could see the screen. The Internet headline read, “Russians demand U.S. submarine to leave.”

“This article says they have proof that the U.S. is interfering with their rescue operations, and may be trying to destroy evidence of a U.S. attack.”

Silas laughed. “They haven’t even left port.”

Patterson had enough. They could sit here and argue their way across the Atlantic. “Let’s make sure of that. Commander Silas, please contact the Office of Naval Intelligence and ask them for an update on the Russian rescue operations.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll add a request for any Northern Fleet movements, if that’s all right.” She nodded, and Silas headed aft for the communications gear. Good. At least he could take orders.

“Dr. Russo, figure a timeline for a Russian rescue attempt, assuming that Seawolf is able to guide them to the spot, and a second one assuming they can’t. I want to know what they must do, where they have choices, and where they might run into problems.”

She turned to Joyce Parker, who volunteered, “I’d suggest a press release. We have to show everyone that we are taking action.”

“The National Security Adviser wanted the Navy to handle the publicity for this incident. Contact the public affairs officer at OPNAV and get copies of whatever they are releasing.” Parker looked ready to protest again, but Patterson added firmly, “This mission should remain out of the press as long as possible. We will have greater freedom if we stay below the radar.”

Parker nodded her reluctant understanding and turned to her laptop.

* * *

Patterson worked them for several hours, finding answers, building plans, and testing alternatives. She also tried to keep up with her own email. Monroe brought by a box lunch about halfway through the flight, but after that, she found herself waking up, covered by a blanket. Almost everyone was asleep, except for Russo, reading a paperback.

* * *

They landed at Orland, Norway, seven hours and thirty-two hundred miles after takeoff. “It’s a major NATO base, ma’am,” Monroe explained. “We’ll taxi over to the refueling area, pick up our passengers, and then head for Bardufoss. Total time on the ground, about thirty minutes, less if we can manage.”

“Passengers?” Patterson asked.

“Yes, ma’am. We received word as we landed that a van will be meeting us with some people who are joining your party.”

Patterson was surprised, but curious. “Do you know who they are?”

“No, ma’am, we don’t even know how many. The tower just said ‘additional personnel.’”

Monroe opened the forward passenger cabin door, and waited as the ground crew brought up a rolling stairway. Patterson could see a slice of the airbase through the opening: hangars, vehicles, and a low ceiling of slate gray overcast. We’re under the southern edge of the storm, she thought.

The clouds were moving, she noticed, and cool wet air swirled through the opening. “Staff Sergeant, can you please get me an update on the weather?”

“Of course, ma’am, as soon as our passengers are aboard.”

They waited another ten minutes for the dark blue Air Force van. It finally pulled up as the refueling crew finished. Whoever they were, Patterson was eager for them to be aboard so they could get moving.

The first person out the van and up the ladder was dressed in jeans and bright red and white parka. His beard and hair were streaked with gray, and his face was so weathered Patterson couldn’t tell whether he was thirty-five or fifty-five.

“My name is Arne Lindstrom. I’m with Marine Diving and Salvage. The Russians have contracted with us to help with the rescue.” As Lindstrom stepped aboard, he shook Patterson’s hand, but was then almost mugged by Russo, who introduced himself and began pelting the man with questions.

Behind Lindstrom was a twenty-something man in a suit. “My name is Hugh Glasgow. The base commander gave me permission to join your group.” He offered his hand.

Patterson took it, but alarm bells went off. “And why would you want to join us, Mr. Glasgow?”

“I’m with CNN, assigned here in Norway, Ms. Patterson. Colonel Ed Jenkins, the base commander, said you had space on the plane.”

She dropped his hand as if it was red-hot. “It’s ‘Dr. Patterson,” she said coldly. “How did you find out about this trip?” It wasn’t classified, but Patterson was alarmed to hear that others were even aware of her mission.

“Sources, ma’am.” He smiled. “It’s my job. I promise I won’t be in the way…”

“That’s absolutely right, because you’re leaving, right now. I’m not letting any press on this trip.”

“Colonel Jenkins authorized it.”

“Colonel Jenkins is not running this operation, I am.” She turned to her assistant, quietly seated and working