Cold Choices

that provided access to the submersible’s deck, with crewmen along the way wishing them luck. Some saluted, others clapped them on the back, some even gave obscene encouragements. AS-34 Priz was the reason Rudnitskiy was there — the reason for the entire task force. There was a lot of hope riding on something that looked like a bath toy.

Vidchenko turned to start climbing the boarding ladder, but Bakhorin stopped him. “Your coat, sir. I’m afraid there’s no room for it inside.”The admiral handed it to a petty officer, and then started up the ladder. Vidchenko struggled to keep his feet in the rungs as the ladder flexed and the ship rolled, but found himself quickly and was soon on top. “Just go straight in!” Bakhorin instructed, as he held the ladder extension so the admiral could step straight down into the interior of the minisub.

Stepping onto the hatch rim, Vidchenko grabbed the extension and slowly descended into the opening. It was lit, thank goodness, and he gingerly picked his way into the cluttered interior.

The access trunk was only a meter long, and led into a cylindrical compartment about two meters in length. It was an irregular cylinder, with equipment and consoles invading the space without regard for movement or human convenience. It was impossible to stand fully upright. Behind him, through a hatchway, was another larger cylinder with seating for twenty passengers.

Vidchenko was still surveying the interior when there was a clatter on the hatch rim over his head and a pair of feet appeared in the opening. They were moving quickly, and the admiral shifted aft to give them space.

Bakhorin came down next and took the chair in the bow. After closing and dogging the hatch, Umansky took his seat, just a little forward of the entrance. A loud clang signaled the closing of the hatch.

An air horn sounded and the lines to AS-34 went taut. It sounded again and she came off the cradle, while crewmen with lines steadied her. Vidchenko felt a sudden jerk and then could see that they were being lifted clear of Rudnitskiy’s hull.

Lights followed the white-and-orange-striped vehicle as the crane swung it out of the hold and lowered it into the water. Vidchenko was too busy holding on to notice that they were in the water. AS-34 was now afloat on Rudnitskiy’s lee side, with only a bow and stern line connecting it to the mother ship.

Three measured raps echoed inside the sub. “They’ve released the mooring lines,” Bakhorin announced. “Flooding all tanks.”

“Best course is two four seven, distance twelve hundred meters,” recommended Umansky.

Bakhorin was his own helmsman as well as diving officer. “Course is two four seven.” He turned back to Vidchenko. “We won’t use the motors right now, to save battery charge — we’ll use a ‘gliding’ descent to cover a lot of that distance.”

“Why do you not power your way down?” asked Vidchenko impatiently.

“We do not have sufficient battery power, comrade Admiral,” responded Bakhorin frankly. “The batteries on this submersible are all beyond their service lives and we have only two hours or so of power. We can save energy by just sinking down naturally.”

“How long will this take?” Vidchenko grumbled. It was all about time.

“To one hundred ninety-seven meters? It took us thirty minutes yesterday, but we were proceeding cautiously. Now we are sure there are no obstructions, and know the exact location of the sub. We should be alongside Severodvinsk in twenty minutes.”

“We going to survey the starboard side this time, yes?”

Watching the gauges, Bakhorin sighed. “Correct, sir. We did one complete pass around Severodvinsk, but we only had sufficient time to do a thorough examination of the port side on the last dive.”

“And you’ll have just enough time to examine the other side on this one,” Vidchenko concluded. “Plus any time you save on the dive.”

“Yes sir.”

“We have to make enough time to go back to the port side.” He tapped a sheaf of papers he’d brought. “These photos are fuzzy, at best. They hardly show the shape of the bottom, much less its composition. If we are going to plant charges to right Severodvinsk, it will have to be on the next dive.”

“I wish we had more time, sir. I’d skip surveying this side, but if. ”

Vidchenko waved him off impatiently. The steps they had to take were obvious and mandatory. Even when you cut corners, there were things that couldn’t be skipped.

“Sonar contact.” Umansky’s report came only twelve minutes into the dive. “Four hundred meters, ten degrees to port.”

Vidchenko automatically bent over to look out through one of the ports, it was pitch black; he could see nothing. Umansky saw him look and said, “Our lights aren’t on yet, sir, to conserve power. But even with them on, we will only have a visual range of five to ten meters, and that’s only when the water is clear. The longer we stay in one place, the more silt we will stir up.”

He pointed to the photos Vidchenko held. “These are all the first shots, the best images, of each feature. The second ones were worse, and we didn’t bother with a third.”

Vidchenko asked, “Where are the cameras mounted?”

Umansky smiled sheepishly and held up an old Canon digital camera. “This is it, sir. We take pictures through the front port, which is optically flat, but we have to maneuver the sub to properly face the subject.”

Vidchenko was beginning to write off the chance of getting any decent images. The only worthwhile examination would be his personal observations. He wished he’d brought a demolitions expert on this dive, and chided himself for not being more aware of AS-34’s capabilities and limitations.

“Don’t bother with the photographs,” ordered Vidchenko. “Make one pro forma pass down the port side. Then proceed over to the starboard side.”

“Understood, sir. We’ll be approaching from the bow.”

Bakhorin started the motors, both to slow their downward descent and start them toward the bottomed sub. Umansky reported, “Course is good, two hundred meters. Bottom is in sight, thirty meters.”

“We’ll go down to seven meters off the bottom,” Bakhorin explained. “Any closer and we stir up too much silt, any farther away and the lights won’t illuminate properly.”

“One hundred fifty meters. Recommend we slow.”

“Slowing to two knots, Mother,” Bakhorin teased.

Umansky coached them into position, and they made room for Vidchenko to crouch near one of the forward- facing viewports. They’d closed inside fifty meters, and Bakhorin had slowed to a bare crawl, with nothing but inky blackness in front of them. Vidchenko fought the urge to check his watch. Time could be measured in air or battery charge, and there was precious little of either.

Suddenly, a dull greenish black wall rushed at them, but Bakhorin was ready and backed sharply. He cut the motors after one short astern burst, and AS-34 drifted to a stop surrounded by a cloud of yellow and gray silt.

There was almost no curvature to the hull, and Vidchenko realized they could see only a few square meters of it through the port. It would take at least a dozen dives to thoroughly inspect the submarine and the surrounding area.

Bakhorin was already turning AS-34 to pass close alongside the sub’s hull. Even at a fast walk, it took a while to cover the one hundred and twenty meters. Severodvinsk listed in their direction, so the massive hull crowded over them. All three officers studied the bottom, looking for anything that would interfere with the boat righting itself if the obstructions were removed. Luckily, there was little to see, just an uneven layer of mud with the underlying rock sometimes showing through.

“We’re coming up on the stern, Admiral,” announced Umansky.

Vidchenko continued to watch, although Bakhorin had pulled the minisub up and away from the bottom. He hadn’t stopped moving aft, and one of the stern planes appeared and then passed aft, only a meter from the viewports. As large as the side of a house, Vidchenko remembered seeing them not that long ago, standing on the floor of a drydock before she was launched. Now she’d never leave this place.

“I’ll turn to port, sir.” Bakhorin turned AS-34 tightly. Vidchenko knew what to expect, but was still shocked when he saw the stern. There at the end of the shaft, distorted and bent upward, was the plus-sign-shaped end cap, but not a single propeller blade was on the hub. Only torn, jagged ridges where the scimitar-shaped blades once were. Vidchenko tried to imagine the shaft bending, flexing with the impact of each blade as it struck the