visitors joked about her bedroom looking like the inside of a fishbowl.
Now the bright tropical quilt on her bed was covered with boxes and papers. Someone had moved in the big comfortable chair from her living room. There was just enough space with the bed pushed hard against the far wall. It was a good chair, battered, but it fit her shape. She’d slept in it last night, too tired to move all the clutter off her bed.
In fact, the days had blended together. Word of her meeting with Kokurin and her work afterward had spread. She hadn’t believed her tiny apartment could hold so many people.
Irina Ivanova Rodionov had completely taken over one side of the living room, showing up early in the morning with her computer, scanner, and printer. Since she shared her apartment with her invalid mother, Irina had to move into Olga’s living room to work on updating the website. Once Yelena showed up with a fancy American laptop, the living room looked more like a computer center. Maria, whose son worked with Irina’s Anatoliy, hustled about organizing the flood of photos and papers that had been arriving since last night into neat files.
After Irina scanned the photographs, Maria had started pinning them to the bedroom walls, covering the tropical fish prints and the seaweed wallpaper. Two walls were covered and a third was half filled with the photos of their loved ones. Women would walk in and touch one of the photos. Some prayed. Like a church, the room alternated between a place of hope and a memorial.
Other women had taken over answering the phone, and one of them, somehow, had arranged for a second phone line to be installed. Someone else had brought chairs, and a long plank had turned two of them into a work- table.
Two older women, less savvy with modern technology, took over the kitchen, and there was always something to eat: stew and bread, or pickles or smoked fish.
Irina walked into Olga’s room, carrying a plate full of food. “Olga, you really should eat something. We had a nice lunch, but you were busy with that reporter.”
“That idiot, you mean,” Olga grumbled, sitting up a little straighter. “He was a hack from Interfax, if he was a reporter at all.”
Irina looked alarmed. “Do you think he was from the FSB?”
The older woman shrugged and reached for the plate. “It’s possible. He seemed more interested in where we got our information than our men.”
“There will be others. Yelena says our website is getting more hits by the minute.”
“Hits? It’s being attacked?” Olga asked alarmed.
Irina smiled. “No, darling. Each ‘hit’ is a different person looking at our web page, visiting it in cyberspace. Counting the hits measures how many people have seen our web page.” She patted Olga’s hand. “It’s a good thing, and Yelena says it’s been doubling about every two hours. Lots of people are reading our message.”
“I’m grateful to you and Yelena. All of us are. Without you to help, we’d just be a mob of angry women. Easy for the government to ignore.”
As they talked, Olga ate. “This is a feast, but I can’t eat it all right now. We have to talk.”
She set the plate aside and reached for a stack of papers. “I was reading these American accounts of the collision. Did you know that an American sailor was killed? That they have wounded aboard their submarine?”
Irina nodded. “Yes, but I’ve been looking at the computer screen for hours and hours updating our story. I haven’t been keeping up with the news.”
“I’ve been so worried about my Yakov, and the rest of our men on
“But the American captain could talk to them, with that satellite phone.”
“And that same American captain can talk to
Irina sighed. “Our Navy doesn’t trust the Americans.”
Olga quickly retorted, “I don’t care. I’d talk to the devil himself if he could tell me how Yakov is. Are those bloated toads afraid of lies from the Americans? They’re so full of lies themselves, a few more shouldn’t bother them.”
Irina leafed through the printouts. “There is another American ship in the area. They are sending a helicopter to their submarine to get the injured sailors.”
“Which means they can talk to
Irina smiled. “We have something better than radio, Olga — email.”
Four Il-38s made up the first wave. With the weather finally clearing, it was time for the Russian Navy to show they were making an all-out effort. Interfax news crews invited by the Navy filmed the big four-engine patrol planes as they thundered down the runway.
Positioned at the end of the runway, the film crews got dramatic footage of the planes climbing against a backdrop of ragged overcast.
The Navy spokesman, a pilot himself, gave the interviewer a detailed description of the plane’s antisubmarine sensors and its weapons load. He made a point of mentioning that because the search area was relatively close, the planes would be carrying their maximum load of antisubmarine sensors and ordnance. They would be over the collision site in less than an hour.
It had cleared overnight. A few high, thin clouds couldn’t interfere with the bright daylight. The light held no warmth, though, and with
Captain Baker had allowed Patterson and others from her party to watch the helicopter launch. They huddled in a safe spot just behind the after exhaust stack, escorted by
It was a strange and exciting place, full of motion: the sea, the deck, the wind, and the whirling helicopter blades made her hold on to a fitting for some feeling of solidity.
She was also surrounded by reminders of
Right beside her, a Phalanx gun mount partially blocked the wind as it whipped by. Hampton had described it as a “killer robot,” armed with a radar-directed 20mm gatling gun. She wondered if he wasn’t sensationalizing things a little, and reminded herself to look up the Phalanx on the Internet.
And then there was the helicopter, turbines spooling up. Patterson was grateful for the wind, because it carried part of the sound aft, away from them. What was left still made conversation impossible.
The Seahawk could carry missiles or torpedoes, but this time it carried tanks with extra fuel. She’d seen helicopters before, even ridden in them occasionally, but not like this one. They seemed small and vulnerable by comparison, like insects in their complexity and fragility. This beast was two or three times larger, vibrating with power as the pilot tested the engines, straining at the leash.
Lieutenant Commander Hampton proudly explained the evolution as the helicopter was brought out of the portside hangar and prepared for flight. It all happened quickly as the machine was moved out, the blades unfolded, and the engines started. An enlisted phone talker stood near the group and provided updates on the launch.
The talker tapped Hampton on the shoulder, and the XO leaned close and listened to the enlisted man’s report. Hampton turned and signaled to the group. Shouting over the wind and the engine noise, he said, “The Captain’s going to slow us down now. The helicopter’s ready, so we have to slow to reduce the air turbulence near the ship.”
