Cold Choices

Shimko looked surprised. “I thought you’d bypassed all the interlocks.”

“Only on the batteries, XO,” Palmer answered. “We’ve managed to fool the computer into thinking that six charged batteries will be in place when we launch Patty. That was easy. We found the sensors and wired them to a single feed that will. ”

“What’s the new problem?” Shimko demanded impatiently.

“It’s the collision-avoidance turn-away circuit, sir,” Wolfe responded.

“We disabled that,” Jerry said. “It’s just a software switch on the control panel.” He sounded surprised, almost incredulous.

“There’s more than one,” Palmer explained.

“Damn.”

Palmer explained. “The one on the console commands a turn-away from any object at a preset distance. Drive toward a solid wall, get too close, and it automatically makes a one-eighty. We got rid of that one by setting the turn-away distance to zero.

“But this other one’s hard-coded into the navigation processor. It’s a simple test. If the range to an object is less than four yards, and it’s not getting a homing signal, it executes a turn to avoid a collision. It’s a safety check, really.”

Jerry replied, “And the Russian can’t send out the homing signal.”

Patty and the other UUVs were designed to home in on a very-high-frequency sonar signal sent out from a transponder mounted on the recovery arm. The plan, however, was to have the vehicle swim into one of the Russians’ tubes without the aid of an arm or a homing signal. Of course, Patty would have to be guided in manually, which explained Palmer’s worried expression.

Shimko processed the implications. “So, just before it reaches the Russian sub, she’ll turn away and head in the opposite direction.”

“Exactly.” Palmer looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I should have found this much earlier.”

Wolfe added, “I missed it, too. The only place it’s mentioned is in a safety checklist. In the back of the manual, I might add.”

“What’s the fix?” asked Jerry.

“We can’t reprogram the nav computer. We’re just not set up for that. The only solution is to feed a false signal to the ranging logic, so it thinks it’s still a safe distance away from Severodvinsk.”

“But that means we won’t have range data as we approach the Russian,” Shimko protested.

“We’ve spent the last half hour looking for another solution,” Wolfe argued. “We can’t fiddle with the pumpjet’s directional controls. We need those to function normally. If we try to feed in a fake homing signal, the seeker will drive Patty into a spin trying to follow it.”

“How long will it take to rig?”

“Half an hour or so. Chief Morrison and some of the sonar techs are working on it now.”

“The forward looking sonar will still give us a clear picture,” Palmer said hopefully. “There’s just no depth perception, but if we take it slow, we should be all right.”

“Not too slow,” Shimko cautioned. “I saw Johnson’s endurance estimates on the substitute battery, but I’m still a little skeptical. We’re making a lot of changes to this beast, and we can’t make a dry run; once we start, we are committed. I don’t want us putting a lot of stock into our assumption of how much time we’ll have. I’ll brief the Captain on our status. He wants us to be ready in two hours.”

Jerry looked at the jumble of supplies next to LaVerne. “Sir, Captain Petrov said their carbon dioxide levels shouldn’t reach three percent until this evening. More time to prep would be good.”

“The skipper wants to try and keep their C0₂ below three percent, if at all possible. Once the carbon dioxide gets that high the Russian crew’s breathing rate will double and things will get worse fast. It’s a slippery slope that the Captain wants to stay away from. So he’s pushing us a little.”

Jerry gave off a weary sigh. Like many of the crew, he hadn’t slept since they had conceived of the plan to resupply the Russians. They were all driven by the urgency of the rescue mission and their intense loyalty to Captain Rudel, who seemed particularly determined. “Okay, XO, I sure as hell don’t want to disappoint the Skipper. If he wants to launch in two hours, we launch in two hours.”

USS Winston S. Churchill, 150 miles northwest of Vardo, Norway

“Dr. Patterson?” The male voice startled her out of a fitful, unhappy sleep. An enlisted man stood a foot away, calling her name. The unfamiliar surroundings, including a moving deck and bed, combined with the fragments of her dream, made for a less than restful slumber.

Jane Mastui snapped on the reading lamp over her bunk. In the artificial twilight, Patterson could see a young man in dungarees. He was offering her a folder with a handful of messages. “The Captain thought you should see these, ma’am.”

As she became coherent she looked at the clock, it read 0746. Matsui’s head popped into view from the top bunk. “Should I take them?”

Finally awake, Patterson answered, “No, Jane, I’ve got them.” She took the messages, thanking the petty officer, and sat up.

“Breakfast is available in the wardroom, ma’am. Captain Baker invited you to join him in half an hour.”

Her stomach debated the pro and cons of breakfast as the enlisted man left and she reviewed the message traffic. Jane Matsui hopped down from the upper bunk and used the washstand. Across the berthing space, just a few feet away, Joyce Parker stirred and mumbled in the lower bunk; the upper bunk belonged to a Lieutenant Sandy Miller, who was the ship’s gunnery officer and apparently up already

The first message was from SUBGRU Two to her. It repeated the information about Severodvinsk’s status and Seawolf’s improvised resupply plan, which she’d received late last night. It asked for frequent updates. A message from Wright’s office also repeated the information on the Russian boat. It added a doctor’s evaluation of how long the submariners could last in those conditions, with no surprises, and ended by asking for frequent updates.

President Huber’s office had also sent a message. It included his personal best wishes and his confidence in her abilities. He was interested in her expert opinion on the environmental effects if the submarine couldn’t be raised. Then he asked for frequent updates.

Other messages gave her information on weather and the status of Mystic’s loading in New London. The last message was the important one. The Russian Northern Fleet had sailed, most of the larger combatants, anyway, with Mikhail Rudnitskiy as the guest of honor. Intelligence didn’t say how they knew, but it listed several of the ships known to have left. They’d sailed, and in strength.

Churchill’s wardroom was roomier than a submarine’s. It would have accommodated a sub’s entire wardroom at once, but Burke-class destroyers had twice as many officers as a nuclear submarine, twenty-three, and three times as many enlisted men, over three hundred. Patterson’s eleven visitors had added to those numbers.

Surface ships also had doors that opened out onto fresh air. Patterson took a moment on her way to the wardroom to get a personal look at the weather. Glossy gray waves looked unfriendly, almost dangerous, but at least there weren’t any huge swells this morning. They raced by. Patterson couldn’t guess their exact speed, but Churchill was moving fast. A slate-gray overcast matched the water’s color, but the air was definitely clearer. Cold air curled into the open passageway, and after a moment, she closed the door and latched it.

Captain Baker and the other officers were all standing when Patterson entered the wardroom. Others from her team were also there. They’d waited for her, and as she entered the wardroom, everyone stood behind their seats. They’d left a spot open at the head of the long table, on Baker’s right, and she gratefully took it. The moment she reached her place, the captain said “Seats” softly and fifteen chairs were pulled back as one.

Baker was solidly built, with thinning sandy hair and a round face that seemed stern, even when he smiled. “We’re not normally this formal at breakfast, but I wanted to officially welcome you aboard and introduce you to all my senior officers.”

Only Churchill’s department heads and the XO were present. Even with only some of Patterson’s group eating, there was no room for the rest. Not all of her team had made it to breakfast. The word