“XO, how long you been up?”
“Not as long as you, sir.”
“Good.” He motioned Joe Tucker out of the small confines of the curtain-enclosed sonar compartment, into the main compartment of combat information center. “Let’s move forward.”
They walked together, inching through the equipment-and sailor-crowded Combat toward the hatch leading to the bridge. MacDonald touched Joe Tucker on the arm when they were in the one area of Combat where the two could whisper without being overhead. “XO, I’m going to hit the rack for a few winks. Would you see to it that we send an updated status report telling Seventh Fleet and Commander Naval Intelligence Command that we have lost contact? Tell them that ‘unless otherwise directed’ we are breaking off and rejoining the battle group.”
“Will do, sir.”
“If I recall correctly, XO, we are a couple hundred miles out, so bring the speed up to twenty knots. That should get us into Olongapo by nightfall. It’ll make the crew happy if we can reward them with some liberty downtown tonight.”
“Sounds like a great morale-building strategy.”
“And, Joe Tucker, have the watch wake me at zero eight hundred hours. That will give me four or five hours’ shut-eye. Then I’ll return the favor.”
Joe Tucker nodded.
“One other thing, Joe Tucker,” MacDonald whispered, his head nearly touching the XO’s. “We need to talk about the leadership in the ASW division. Not now. I never make decisions unless I have to when I’m this tired.”
The XO nodded, his lips clenched tightly. “I know, sir. I made a mental note to myself on the same subject.”
“Then you have a go at it first.” MacDonald turned and headed aft. His in-port and at-sea staterooms were one and the same on the small Forrest Sherman class destroyer. The new Spruance class destroyer the navy was designing would be much bigger, and in the plans the skipper had both an in-port and an at-sea cabin. The in-port cabin even had a sitting room. Next thing you knew, destroyers would have bathtubs. What in the world were tin-can sailors coming to?
Five minutes later his shoes landed on top of each other. His khaki shirt he tossed on the nearby chair, and then MacDonald collapsed on his rack, still wearing his khaki pants. Sleep came almost instantly.
Two sailors ambled past his stateroom two hours later and smiled when they heard the loud snores coming from within, almost “rattling the passageway bulkhead,” as one of them observed. From such inconspicuous moments come sea tales of the future.
“I know, Lieutenant Golovastov, and we will do the Party-political training we have missed,” Bocharkov said with a sigh. “I recognize that we should have made time, but you have to admit that with the American destroyer breathing down our tail for the past two days…” His voice trailed off.
“A day and a half, Captain Bocharkov.” The younger officer held up one finger. “Only a day and a half. A day and a half, we should have lost them, don’t you think?”
Bocharkov shut his eyes for a minute and took a deep breath. Most zampolits were reasonable officers — men who took their jobs with the seriousness the Party required. But even they soon recognized the challenges of living in cramped quarters beneath tons of water.
“Excuse me, just one moment,” Bocharkov mumbled. He turned to the sink, dipped his hands into it, and then splashed the cold water onto his face — making sure lots of it went over his shoulder, hitting Yasha Golovastov.
“Captain, you’re getting more on me than you.”
Bocharkov turned, grabbed his towel, and wiped his face. “Sorry about that, Lieutenant.” He offered the towel to the officer. “It has been a long voyage.”
Golovastov leaned away from the wet towel. “I have these movies that must be seen by everyone — including yourself.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. Then he lifted his notebook. “Here. I keep a record of attendance. It is something many of us zampolits are beginning to do. It helps us look at—”
Bocharkov interrupted. “There is not one officer or sailor on the K-122 who does not understand the importance of the Party-political work, Lieutenant, but sometimes the survival of the boat must come first.” After three months on board the K-122, he had yet to penetrate the Communist zealotry of this Golovastov with the demands of the sea. Zealots such as Golovastov believed as fiercely in the tenants of communism as some Americans believed in the righteousness of God. Both ran with the yoke of servitude and both were pains in the butt for their countrymen.
“The Party demands we work to keep the spirit of Lenin alive. The Party-political work does that,” Golovastov argued. “I think the survival of the boat is enhanced with the singularity of Party-political progress.”
“You have a way of making me see the errors in my thinking, Lieutenant. We are truly lucky to have had you assigned to my boat.” He wondered what Golovastov would do if he discovered the covert Christians who worshipped secretly in the forward torpedo room. If the man did not have a heart attack with the news, most of the crew — including Bocharkov — would be marched off for reindoctrination.
Golovastov nodded sharply. “This is my third ship…”
“Ship!” Bocharkov wanted to shout. “Submarines are not ships; they are boats!”
“… and the other two captains said mostly the same thing.” A tight smile appeared on Golovastov’s face. “I am thankful you feel the same as they did, sir. When I arrived there was lack of unity in Party-political thought.” A deep breath escaped him. “It took me lots of Party-political work — sometimes with the entire group before me, sometimes one-on-one, when I saw a comrade who wanted to travel the right path of the Party but lacked the tools to truly understand the way.”
“Captain Demedewe…”
The tight smile disappeared. “Captain Demedewe had very little patience for the works of the zampolit, sir. Political officers were to be seen and not heard.”
Bocharkov cocked his head to the side and nearly turned to the sink again. “… I think was very appreciative of your effort.” He was walking on thin ice, but there was only so much bullshit any naval officer could take.
Golovastov’s lips pursed as he seemed to weigh the comment. He opened his mouth to say something just as Ignatova stepped into the hatchway.
“Lieutenant Golovastov, am I glad I found you. I have assembled the off-duty watch in the crew’s mess for your lecture and movie.”
Golovastov turned, looking upward at Ignatova, who, like Bocharkov, towered nearly a head taller than the zampolit. His mouth dropped in his confusion. “I was unaware I had scheduled a Party-political time,” he stuttered.
Ignatova grinned. “You told me last night that we were behind, Lieutenant. As the zampolit, I take your comments as orders of the Party.”
“Yes… yes, my comments are orders of the Party,” Golovastov replied, repeating Ignatova’s words.
“Good.” Ignatova looked at Bocharkov. “Captain, as you ordered, the men are assembled.”
Golovastov straightened, his chin jutted out. “That is very good of you, Captain Second Rank Ignatova. Very good of you indeed. I will see that a comment is added in your Party record.”
Ignatova nodded at Bocharkov. “Don’t forget the captain. It was his orders to me and the officers that whatever the zampolit wants, make sure he gets it.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Now, if you would hurry, Lieutenant. I am sure you will want to drill the crew while they are still alert and excited over the prospect of seeing the newest Party film from Moscow.”