Cold Choices

Embarrassed and uncertain if he should say anything about Chandler, Jerry dropped forcefully into his chair and replied, “You heard?”

“Nav, I think the Russians heard you!” joked the XO. Everyone else in the wardroom laughed, and even Jerry had to crack a smile.

“Look, I know Chandler is a pain in the ass, but he is a very efficient pain in the ass. So please, try not to kill him.” The XO winked as he spoke; letting Jerry know he was on solid ground as far as he was concerned.

“Yes, sir. I will try,” Jerry replied wearily, relieved that the XO had been referring to his lost temper and not Chandler’s meltdown.

“Okay gents, back to our leetle problem. How the hell do we help the Russians with their C0₂ levels?”

Silence and blank stares greeted Shimko’s question. “Well, don’t all talk at once now.”

Still nothing.

Sighing, Shimko stood up, grabbed a black marker and threw a piece of butcher-block paper on the wardroom table. “Let’s start listing all the options and their feasibility.”

“Rescuing the Russians ourselves,” offered Lavoie. “Not an option. We have no way to transfer the crew.”

“What about using our high-pressure air to blow their remaining ballast tanks,” suggested Ensign Miller.

“It’s a nice idea, Tim,” remarked Todd Williams, Seawolf’s damage-control assistant. “But not feasible. We have no way to hook up our main ballast tank blow system to theirs. Besides, with three compartments flooded and a number of their ballast tanks violated, we couldn’t generate enough buoyancy to get them off the bottom.”

“All right then. Direct rescue is not a practical option. Agreed?” Shimko asked. All present nodded their heads yes. “So, removing carbon dioxide is the next option. Suggestions?”

“Well, we probably don’t have any equipment that’s compatible with their systems,” said Constantino.

“But we do have CO₂ curtains with the lithium hydroxide canisters,” Williams replied.

“Yeah, but how do we get our gear to the Russians?” asked Lavoie pointedly.

“Won’t the Russian fleet have the ability to resupply them?” asked Wolfe.

“Maybe,” answered Williams. “The problem is that when C0₂ gets over three percent, people get a bit loopy and judgment goes to hell; not to mention a person gets fatigued by merely moving. If the Russians aren’t here by tomorrow evening, those guys in Severodvinsk will be in the hurt locker.”

“Besides, how do we know if the Russian fleet is enroute,” injected Constantino. “If you remember, the weather has been pretty shitty as of late and they may not even have left port.”

All the qualified deck officers present silently glared at the supply officer with significant annoyance. He had never stood a watch on the bridge during the storm; they had, and they were all well aware of just how bad the weather had been.

Constantino quickly realized that he had “opened mouth and inserted foot” and tried to backpedal. “Hey, it’s not my fault I’m not allowed to stand bridge watches.”

At that moment the wardroom door opened and mercifully diverted attention from the chop’s faux pas. Chandler and Palmer walked in; Palmer squeezed by the engineer and the weapons officer and sat down at the end of the table. Chandler remained standing; he looked pale and exhausted. He slowly approached Jerry, offered him a folder and said, “Sir, the draft message for your review.”

Shimko said nothing, and with a raised eyebrow, watched as Jerry took the folder. Jerry ignored the XO’s questioning look, quickly read the draft, made some minor changes, initialed it, and handed it back to the communications officer. Chandler then silently offered the folder to the XO. Shimko took the folder, read the message, initialed it, and returned it to Chandler. “Take this to the Skipper for his approval, Matt.”

“Yes, sir,” responded Chandler barely audibly, and then left.

“All right now, where were we?” remarked Shimko thoughtfully. “Oh yes, we were about to lynch the supply officer.” This time Jerry laughed along with the rest.

“Ahh, excuse me, sir,” stammered Palmer. Not quite sure what he had just walked into.

“Yes, Jeff. What is it?”

“Sir, LaVerne has completed her photographic survey of Severodvinsk and is in the process of being recovered. I should have copies of the sonar images and the pictures within two, maybe three hours.”

“Excellent, Jeff,” praised Shimko as he gave the young officer the thumbs-up. “Please, join us. The Chop here was just about to tell us his plan to save the Russians.”

“Ah come on, XO,” pleaded Constantino. “I don’t have a frickin’ clue, honest.”

“But you’re ‘the Ferengi,’ aren’t you?” taunted the XO. “You always seem to be able to get us what we need, anytime, anywhere.” Shimko’s reference to Constantino’s nickname on the waterfront went beyond the supply officer’s drastically receding hairline and large ears. He had an uncanny knack of getting anything Seawolf’s crew needed. He had never failed to fill a requisition.

“XO, you know damn well that I have a good network that enables me to find stuff we need. But I can’t get a FedEx or DHL delivery truck to drop the stuff off at our doorstep out here,” Constantino protested.

At the mention of the words “delivery truck,” Jerry eyes flew wide open and he looked at Palmer, who was staring right back at him with the same eyes. Almost in unison they both cried, “The UUVs!”

Shimko’s gaze bounced back and forth between Jerry and Palmer. “What?” he exclaimed.

“We can use the UUVs as a delivery truck,” stated Jerry.

“Yes! We can strip them of most of their recon gear, and probably gut an expended energy module to make space and weight available for emergency supplies,” Palmer added enthusiastically.

“Absolutely. We could easily get several hundred pounds’ worth of atmosphere control chemicals, medical supplies, battle lanterns, whatever, just as long as it physically fits in the vehicle,” continued Jerry.

“WHOA, WHOA, WHOA,” shouted Shimko. “Let me get this straight. We gut one of our UUVs. fill it with emergency supplies, launch it, and then drive it. ”

“Into one of Severodvinsk’s exposed torpedo tubes,” said Jerry as he finished the sentence.

“The idea is feasible,” concluded Wolfe. Lavoie also agreed.

“How long would it take you to prepare a UUV, Jeff?” Shimko queried intently

“I… I don’t know, XO; maybe ten or twelve hours. We have to remove a lot of stuff then plug the holes so that the cargo space is watertight. And then there are half a dozen interlocks we’ll have bypass so we can fly the vehicle into the Severodvinsk’s tube. I can get you a better estimate after I talk to Chief Johnson.”

“Not to be a pessimist here, but this plan depends on Severodvinsk’s torpedo tubes being functional,” Wolfe pointed out.

“True enough, Greg,” replied Jerry. “We’ll have to ask Captain Petrov if his starboard tube doors still work.”

“That’s good enough for me,” beamed Shimko. “Well done, gentlemen.” He then reached over for the sound powered phone handset, selected the CO’s stateroom, and cranked on the growler.

“Captain, XO here. Skipper, we have a plan.”

Old Executive Office Building, Washington, DC

Jeffrey Wright ran the meeting himself, this time. He didn’t have a choice anymore. The media had zeroed in on the incident as their next big newsmaker. It had mystery, high tech, and human tragedy — everything needed to keep viewers glued for the next breaking bulletin.

And they were just as happy reporting Russian accusations as they were press releases from Admiral Sloan’s office. How long had that lasted? A few hours? Sloan had gladly turned the job over to the CNO, and now the Department of Defense had replaced the Navy.

Wright waited for the CNO to sit, but just barely. “I apologize for the last-minute summons, but Commander Rudel’s latest phone report will be all over the media in less than an hour. Have you all seen it?”

All three of the Navy admirals nodded. They’d shown up quickly. The traffic was light at two o’clock in the afternoon, and they’d all been at the watch center at the Pentagon. The State Department official, the same