Cold Choices

modern ships still had brigs. “What about the others?”

“The person on the left came with me from the embassy. Ron Phillips is a communications specialist. State said you had a large party, and you’d be generating a lot of message traffic. The other one showed up at the embassy late last night. He’s the Skynews Moscow correspondent, Britt Adams.”

Manning saw alarm in Patterson’s eyes and tried to reassure her. “I’ve worked with Adams many times. He’s good — experienced, and speaks Russian as well. He had a letter from State telling him about your mission and suggesting he join us. Get our side of the story out and counter some of this Russian trash they’re flinging around.”

“How would he have gotten that letter? Who would have sent it to him?” Even as Patterson asked Manning the question, she knew the answer, and looked at Parker again. This time Parker met her gaze, then quickly looked down, lest she be burned to a crisp. A brig was too good for her.

Manning raised his hands, as if to ward off Patterson’s anger. “We need a reporter, and we can use Joyce Parker. She’s aggressive. ”

Patterson snorted.

“.. but the good ones always are. I’m here to help you. Let me deal with her.” He gestured around the inside of the aircraft. “It’s a little late to send her back.”

Patterson sat back, fuming at her helplessness and Parker’s duplicity at weaseling her way into the group, and then getting around her to get a reporter on board. But she forced herself to set it aside. Instead, she concentrated on learning all she could about Manning and his skills, and telling him what they’d determined so far.

Manning shared one piece of interesting information. Moscow was full of rumors, fueled by the families’ demands for information and the complete lack of anything useful from the Navy Ministry. The only official release from the ministry had stated that search operations were under way, and more information “would be released when it was available.” So far, none was available.

Very quickly, it seemed, the loadmaster stood again and used the public address system. “We’re twenty-five minutes out. Churchill’s doing her best to steer a smooth course, but she says there are ten-foot waves and twenty-five-knot winds. The pilot’s going to use a fast straight-in approach, and not go vertical until the last minute.”

“It’s going to get pretty bumpy,” she warned, “and I’ll come around and make sure your straps are snug. When we land, you’ll feel the thump. Do not unbuckle! After the pilot lands, he’ll reverse the prop’s pitch to hold us on the deck. When he’s satisfied, he’ll tell me, and then, while I drop the ramp, you all unbuckle and move quickly off the plane. Sailors will guide you from that point.”

After her instructions, they all sat waiting. It was still bumpy, worse than any commercial flight she’d ever had, and Patterson wondered how bumpy it was going to get. It got worse, and she kicked herself for asking. She found herself checking her watch every few minutes, but didn’t fight the urge. It was something to do.

It happened in less time than Dolan’s instruction had taken. The plane banked sharply left, leveled, and then suddenly slowed. Patterson saw the wing and engine out her window tilt toward the vertical, and the plane mixed a front-and-back movement into its uneven flight path. It was hard to tell, but she hoped they were descending. The WHAM startled her, and they were down.

Dolan, still strapped in her own seat, motioned with her arms and shouted, “Stay put!” She looked up toward the ceiling, and Patterson saw a pair of lights. One, a bright red, was lit. A moment later the engines’ vibration changed, then intensified again, and the airframe shuddered.

The other light came on, a brilliant green, and Dolan shouted, “Unbuckle! Go! Go!” The ramp was opening, and Patterson was near the back of the group. The overcast daylight nearly blinded her, and a freezing wind pulled at her clothes. Behind her, Dolan and another marine were working with the cargo net. Patterson concentrated on standing right behind Manning and the others. Once again, she would be the last one off the aircraft, and she looked over her enlarged flock almost protectively.

Dolan was urging her forward, even though there was nowhere to go. Patterson shuffled uselessly, then took two steps and felt a rough-surfaced deck beneath her. The wind grew stronger, but a sailor grabbed her by the shoulders and steered away from the aircraft, toward a ladder.

She took three steps and then turned back to look, but the Osprey was already lifting off, the ramp closing as it climbed away from the deck. She stood still for a moment, silently wishing them luck and realizing she’d never said a word to anyone aboard the plane.

A voice behind her said, “Welcome aboard Winston S. Churchill.”

16. SORTIE

7 October 2008 9:45 AM

Severomorsk Naval Base

Sleet streaked the air with pale gray lines and added a glittering white to the freshly fallen snow. The winds had subsided a little, but the force on the car was quite noticeable once it left the lee of a nearby building. Vidchenko’s driver took extra care on the pier’s icy concrete.

The small antisubmarine ship Legkiy lay alongside to the right, her angles and edges softened by the weather. Crates and drums with ice collecting on their tops were piled everywhere, with busy sailors rigging slings and passing boxes hand to hand.

At least, until they spotted the approaching staff car. A sailor pointed and called out, and suddenly every man headed for the ship, piling aboard with petty officers shouting.

As they pulled up to the pier, Vidchenko saw more men boiling out of the ship. They formed ranks along the lifelines on the main deck, and on each level above the main deck running the length of the ship. Twenty-plus officers, in their best uniforms, stood in two ranks on either side of the aft gangplank.

Vidchenko almost rubbed his eyes in disbelief. They were manning the rails! Ships usually did this to honor a high-ranking officer, but this was a working visit, not some ceremonial occasion.

As the car half-slid to a stop by the after gangplank, Vidchenko fought the urge to shout at the idiot captain. Instead, he calmly stepped out of the car, saluted the sentries at the foot of the gangplank, and then the Russian naval ensign when he reached the top.

Legkiy’s captain was tall, with short blond hair under his oversized white uniform cap. Particles of ice were collecting on his cap and greatcoat. He stood stiffly, nervously at attention. What was his age? Mid-thirties? Obviously he was capable. Vidchenko knew that with so few ships in commission, the Navy had its pick of men for each commanding officer’s position. Unfortunately, imagination didn’t seem to be one of the selection board’s priorities.

As Vidchenko stepped onto the deck, the captain called his crew to attention and he saluted, along with the other officers arranged behind him. Vidchenko went through the motions as quickly as he could, suppressing his irritation.

“Captain Second Rank Yuri Alexandrovich Smirnov reports Legkiy is ready! Will you inspect the ship, sir?”

“No, Captain, you may dismiss the crew.”

“Thank you, sir.” Firing a crisp salute, the captain spun in place and called “Dismiss by battle departments! Continue ship’s routine!”

The junior officers disappeared, but the senior ones remained, and the captain invited Vidchenko below. “We have some refreshments in the wardroom, sir. The. ”

“No thank you, Captain, this is not a social visit.” Vidchenko glanced back at the other officers, waiting and listening. “Let’s speak in your cabin.”

“Yes, sir, of course.” Smirnov seemed puzzled, and a little disappointed. “This way.” Dismissing the waiting officers, he led the admiral forward along the main deck port side, then into an interior passageway and up one set of stairs.

As they walked along the port side, Vidchenko looked at everything. Legkiy was an escort frigate, designed to fight submarines with her medium frequency sonar and 85RU Metel missiles. She also