Cold Choices

Patterson found Rudel in Churchill’s wardroom, saying his good-byes. Captain Baker had loaded the helicopter with fresh supplies and other items for Seawolf’s crew. Baker was wishing the submarine captain luck, but Ken Bover was still trying to convince him that it was time to head for port, with no effect.

Rudel shook Patterson’s hand slowly, with a grim expression. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” he apologized. “Do you have a Plan B?”

“Not yet. I’m still trying to pick up the pieces of Plan A.”

“You know, I tried to ‘forget’ that envelope on the table. A Russian officer followed me and gave it back. He treated it like pornography.”

She laughed in spite of her mood. “It could have been. They’ll never know.”

Rudel shrugged. “Maybe they’ll get lucky and the charges will work. AS-34 will start its dive in about four hours.”

“I really hope it does. But they’d have a better chance if they’d used your survey,” Patterson grumbled. “They have to see it.”

“Only if you can trick them into looking. You’d have better luck if it really was pornography,” Rudel said suggestively.

She smiled knowingly. “And where do you find pornography these days?”

Skynews Report

“Stunning images of the mortally wounded Russian submarine Severodvinsk have been obtained by Britt Adams, one of our Skynews correspondents.

They show the crippled vessel lying on the seabed, tilted to the left so far that the crew inside are unable to escape.

“These pictures were taken by robotic underwater vehicles launched from the submarine USS Seawolf, which was also involved in the collision with Severodvinsk. Although the hull looks relatively intact, detailed digital photographs show heavy damage, piercing the pressure hull and flooding several sections of the submarine’s interior.

“Russian Federation Navy spokesmen have refused to respond to questions about the images, and U.S. Navy spokesmen will only say that the images were not released through their office, so they cannot comment on their accuracy or authenticity. They emphasize that USS Churchill and USS Seawolf are both standing by to render whatever assistance the Russians may require.

“Adams also reports that the Russians are in the final stages of preparations and may be ready to attempt a rescue very soon.”

AS-34

Captain Bakhorin said, “Start,” as he hit the valves, and Umansky clicked his stopwatch. AS-34 began her descent, and as they dropped, Bakhorin fed his navigator depths and descent rates.

Umansky divided his time between the nav display and his hand-drawn graph. Marking their downward speed on the graph, he reported, “Within tolerances.”

AS-34 dropped faster and faster. They needed to reach the bottom quickly, to avoid wasting time and precious battery power. But they needed the motors to slow their descent. Using them too soon wasted time, using them too late would be disaster for them and Severodvinsk.

“Time for the sonar,” Umansky announced. To save energy, he’d left even that vital sensor off. Turning it on now held some risk. A fault could only be corrected on the surface. If it didn’t work properly, their dive was wasted.

But it did work, and showed their goal within easy reach. “Recommend course two three one to bring us to their starboard side, three hundred meters.

Bakhorin nursed the horizontal thrusters while he watched depth gauge unwind. Normally, by now he’d be braking, but it was better to wait. One short, powerful burst from the motors took less time and less power than a slow descent. Still, Bakhorin wished he’d checked the figures one more time. They could only do this once.

“Begin braking in five, four, three, two. now.” Umansky’s calm tone held no urgency, but Bakhorin was tense enough for both of them. They’d allowed for the uneven bottom in their calculations. He hoped it was enough.

Bakhorin dumped ballast and hit the motors. He tried to forget about the several hundred kilos of fused explosives that hung in baskets just under his nose.

Umansky had also calculated how long the motors would be needed to stop their descent. He called out the seconds while Bakhorin watched the depth gauge, his hand hovering over the controls.

Umansky called out as the depth gauge nudged one hundred and ninety meters. AS-34 came to a stop with seven meters under the keel and Severodvinsk’s port bow thirteen meters dead ahead.

“Let’s hope the rest of this mission goes as smoothly,” Bakhorin prayed. He then turned the minisub toward the first rock outcropping.

Olga Sadilenko’s apartment

Olga Sadilenko hardly knew what to think when she looked at the first image. The colors were all wrong, like a misadjusted television. The shapes were jagged at the edges, but the center shape could only be a submarine. It looked like the photographs she’d seen of Severodvinsk, although they were of a surfaced sub at a pier, with smiling sailors lining her deck. Some of the other images looked more reasonable, but they covered only small sections of the submarine. A number of the photos showed the true extent of the damage.

“The Americans sent us these pictures?”

“A Skynews reporter,” Irina replied. “He’s British, but he’s aboard Churchill. I’m sure he must have received them from the Americans. They gave him a lot of information. There are maps of the bottom where the sub is located and images taken from many different angles.

“Some are sonar photographs taken by an underwater robot and printed out by a computer. The different colors on the maps show what the underlying substance is: rock, mud, or sand. The contour lines show the depth in three-meter increments. The others are high-definition digital photography.”

Irina flipped a few pages over, moving further down the stack. “Look at these pictures. They show the damage to the hull.”

Olga took one of the pictures from Irina. In spite of the small field of view, she could clearly see how the metal of Severodvinsk’s bow was ripped and dished in. She thought of her little Yakov and struggled not to cry.

The Americans had finally responded to their pleas for information on casualties, and her son was listed as one of the injured. No specific details, just that his injuries weren’t considered life-threatening. Praise God! Unfortunately, eighteen families had received the worst possible news — their menfolk were dead. Many tears had been showered upon Olga’s floor. Many lives had been forever ruined, including several young girls with small children or a child not yet born. She felt powerless and frustrated that she could not relieve them of their sorrow and pain. She remembered her own grief when her husband fell overboard during a storm and was lost at sea. Yakov was only three then.

And yet, there still had been no word from the Russian Navy. Nothing but silent indifference.

She almost hugged the page, then wanted to hug the Americans; may God bless them. “But why did they do this?” she asked.

Irina answered, “The reporter didn’t say why. In the email, he just said it was ‘useful information, describing Severodvinsk’s exact status.’ He said it’s not secret. The Americans want to give it to our Navy, to help in the rescue.”

Olga Sadilenko smiled. “And that’s why they gave them to us. Our Navy hasn’t seen these images.”

Irina shrugged. “Maybe they don’t need them.”

“Maybe they don’t, maybe they do. I believe they haven’t seen them because they don’t want to. It would mean giving the Americans some credit for helping.”

“Olga, do you believe our admirals would do that? That they would intentionally ignore foreign help just because it would make them look bad?” Irina’s shocked expression showed her naivete.

Chuckling cynically, Olga took hold of the young woman’s hand and said, “Oh yes, child, I do. Are you willing to wager our men’s lives on the judgment of those pompous toads in headquarters?” Olga paused, considering.