“Finally!” Wing said. “We’ve been here for a whole damned day!”
“Thank you, Sergeant Major. We’ll be along in a few minutes.”
“General, Colonel,” Tobias said as he nodded. The door closed behind him.
“You’ve been hell on wheels this trip,” Grisha said. “You’ve scared Tobias into acting like a subordinate instead of my mother, and you’ve got me wondering if I can talk to you without endangering my life.”
When she looked at him her eyes widened and her fierce demeanor melted into one of compassion. “Grisha, I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, you know that.”
“Not on purpose,” he said with a chuckle. “Now let’s go see what they have us doing next.” He grabbed his crutches.
They exited the building and entered a staff car, a long, dark affair with leather seats and a glass window between them and the driver. Grisha remembered the hidden microphone in the console of his boat and didn’t believe for a second that anything they said while in the car would not be recorded.
He abruptly realized he had not thought about Pravda for weeks, perhaps months. For the first time, he truly understood that the years skippering his boat were the last when he was truly his own master. Now he had responsibilities and interrelationships that demanded most of his time and might possibly take his life.
He was fine with that. If he could turn things back the way they were, he wouldn’t do it. Something shifted in his head and he completely accepted the turn his life had taken; not only accepted it, but welcomed it.
“Grisha, did you hear what I said?” Wing asked.
“I’m sorry, but no, I didn’t.”
“Are you feeling worse?”
“Actually I feel better than I have in a very long time. Have I told you lately that I love you?”
She laughed and his heart warmed.
“About half an hour ago, if that.”
“Oh, good. You remembered.”
The car stopped and a muscular, blonde RCN officer with a wide grin opened the door for them.
“General, Colonel, I am Lieutenant Commander Darold Hills. My friends call me ‘Bud.’ I will be your RCN liaison for the rest of your journey. Would you come with me, please?”
Grisha smelled the sea and the lush forest, transporting him emotionally to the Alexandr Archipelago. The horizon revealed a landmass in the distance. The port teemed with military life.
Huge cranes loaded transports while troops marched aboard. Bosun pipes shrilled from a variety of quarterdecks and, as they watched, a ship slipped its lines and slowly made its way toward the open water.
“Commander,” Grisha waved at the activity, “what is going on?”
Bud presented his wide, easy smile. “We’re at war, General. The Japs declared war on us in the middle of the f—, uh, the middle of the night, and we’re going to make them wish they had waited for morning and thought about it first.”
“We have been in transit. When was war declared?”
“About 0300. I’m not sure of the exact time, but they did wake me up for officers’ call.”
“Did they declare war on anyone else?”
“Not that I know of, sir. But then there are a lot of things they don’t tell me.”
A large man stood by a gangplank, waiting as if he had nothing else to do for the rest of the day. Lieutenant Commander Bud Hills saluted the man as they approached. Grisha noted the fellow had three half-inch rings on his cuffs.
“This is Commander Josh Vandenberg, also known as PacSubFlot One.”
Commander Vandenberg laughed at the expression on Grisha’s face. “Welcome to Pacific Submarine Flotilla One, General and Colonel Grigorievich. The RCS Mako is the most modern boat in our fleet and I’m proud to be her skipper.”
Grisha returned the salute and then shook hands with the submariner. “So you’re our next ride, Commander?”
“Yes, General, and honored to have the opportunity to be of service to two heroes of the Second Battle of Chena.”
“They tend to toss that ‘hero’ term around a bit too easily to suit me,” Wing said. “Commander, we appreciate your assistance to our cause. I thought all naval vessels were called ships, you called yours a ‘boat.’ ”
Commander Vandenberg’s grin was infectious. “Colonel, submarines were called pigboats when they first entered the fleet, since they were made out of pig iron, and the boat part has stuck.” He cracked his knuckles loudly. “We submariners persuaded the surface fellows to drop the ‘pig’ part.”
Grisha and Wing laughed.
Behind them, Grisha heard Sergeant Major Tobias chatting with Lieutenant Commander Hills.
“Please,” Commander Vandenberg said with a wide sweep of his arm, “come aboard our shark boat.”
The gangway angled down to the narrow deck of the RCS Mako where two men waited.
Grisha handed his crutches to Wing and grabbed the steel handrails of the gangway, swung his body back and up so both legs hooked over the railings and he easily slid down to where the railing bent and anchored itself in the bottom planks.
Both men on the submarine laughed in surprise when the general landed and stood tall in front of them.
Grisha turned and saluted the Bear flag hanging limply on the stern, then turned to the lieutenant wearing the Officer of the Deck armband.
“Request permission to come aboard, sir.”
The lieutenant returned the salute with a practiced snap and said, “Permission granted. Welcome aboard, General Grigorievich; it is an honor to meet you, sir.”
Grisha glanced down at the name tag on the officer’s uniform. “Thank you, Lieutenant Walls. What does the ‘D’ stand for?”
“Douglas, General. But I answer to ‘Doug’ just as fast.”
Wing stepped off the gangplank and poked Grisha in the ribs, muttering so only he could hear: “You ever pull another stunt like that and I will break your leg again!”
“And this is my lovely wife and adjutant, Colonel Wing Demoski Grigorievich. Keep her safe and I hold you all in my heart forever.”
Lieutenant Walls saluted Wing, then turned to the enlisted man at his side. “Allow me to introduce Chief of the Boat Keith Busch, our leading enlisted man.”
Grisha shook hands with the chief. “Gentlemen, I was in the Russian Army for a number of years and had little to do with the Russian Navy, so I’m at sea here in more ways than one.”
“If there’s anything we can do to make this easy for you, General, you just let us know,” Chief Busch said.
“Well, for starters, I can understand that crossed anchors indicate a bosun. But what does the device between all those stripes on your arm mean?”
“That is a diagrammatic representation of a sound wave, General. I am a master chief sonarman bumped up to serve as the senior enlisted man on the RCS Mako.”
“I’m sure the California Navy picks only the best.”
“General, I’m certainly not going to argue with you.”
Commander Vandenberg stepped toward the open hatch in the center of the deck. “General, Colonel, if you’ll please follow me, I’ll show you to your quarters.”
As they went down the steel ladder, Grisha commented, “I know that submarines don’t have guest accommodations, Captain. So who is giving up their stateroom for this trip?”
“They told me you were very perceptive, General. You and your wife will be sharing my cabin, and I apologize that it’s not larger than a standard telephone booth. But I am also impressed that once on board you addressed me as captain. Not many non-sailors are that well versed with naval protocol.”
“I owned my own boat for ten years, and it was important to me that passengers knew I was the captain. Thank you for the compliment.”