“Thank you, sir,” the radioman said, turning, and hurrying to the hatch leading down. “Excuse me, sir,” Baron said, standing aside as Arneau climbed into the conning tower.
Shipley unfolded the message from inside the envelope and read it. He looked up and motioned to Arneau. “Read this, XO. Looks as if we are going to pick up some riders.”
TWO
Anton Zegouniov stood in front of the mirror, fighting his tie. Why did Igor’s tie always look so straight, smooth, and his always as if a pair of pigeons had scratched the cloth into a knot? A pair of slim hands emerged from under his arms, smooth arms following with familiar breasts pressing against his back. He dropped his hands to his sides.
His wife giggled. “You look like what your officers and sailors call you behind your back.”
He smiled. “You mean ‘Bear.’ ”
Her hands reached up to the unfinished knot.
He turned and leaned forward, his eyes squinting slightly. “I don’t think I look like a bear,” he said, straightening.
“Anton, you worry too much about your appearance. You are not Igor Kuvashin — hot, dashing—”
“You think he is hot and dashing?” he said, feeling the heat rise into his cheeks.
Elena Zegouniova laughed. “He does have a destroyer.” She laughed and slapped him lightly on the chest. “You are too jealous. Don’t you think we women know what he is after?”
He straightened. “He hasn’t. .” He left the question unfinished.
“Igor has been the consummate gentleman with me. Why wouldn’t he be? Because I am Madame Elena Zegouniova, wife of the new captain first rank, commanding officer of the ship Whale”
“Woman,” he said with a laugh, “it is a submarine. A boat, not a ship. And yes, it is called Whale, but its real name is Prototype 10 of Project 627, or K-2, as most refer to it.”
“Wow,” she responded, her hands pushing the knot up against his neck.
“Don’t strangle me.”
Elena responded, “Today I am going to stand around with the other officers’ wives — one of whom is an admiral’s wife — and tell them you are the commanding officer of Prototype 10 of. . of. . of whatever? I can’t even remember it now.” She pulled her hands away.
He heard the pout in her voice, felt the way her lips pursed when she grew slightly agitated at his seriousness. She was right. He was too serious, but in today’s Soviet Navy, being too lighthearted drew too much attention, and he had yet to sit down with his political commissar to discuss the party direction for his new command.
“And yes, you do remind people of a bear. Look at the chin; look at the hair.”
He looked at his reflection in the mirror. “There is nothing wrong with my hair.”
She laughed, her hand covering her mouth for a moment.
Anton smiled. Seventeen years of marriage, and he loved her more each day. Her eyes bubbled with radiance when she was happy. Of course, he had yet to convince her that her duties did not extend to promoting his career. He had given up. Elena was the consummate military wife, considering whose wife was more important than another and which wife she must always be nice to because “that wife” had a husband who could jeopardize Anton’s career.
He nodded once. “You are right. I am a captain first rank in the world’s most powerful Navy.” Then he thought of the American Navy.
“Your hair is everywhere. Why don’t you cut it shorter, like Admiral—”
“Admiral Katshora? You must be kidding, woman. His hair is everywhere, and the last time he had short hair was when he was born.”
“So the hero of the Great Patriotic War has long, gray hair. Yours is shaggy and projects like wings from the sides when you forget to cut it. Wives notice these things, and we discuss.”
“Then next time I will ask his wife for advice on what to do with my hair.”
She turned him around and jerked the tie tighter. “See! That’s what a wife is for.” She leaned forward until her chin touched his chest.
“You nearly choked me.”
“And if you say anything to his wife, I will, my bear.”
He grabbed her in a hug, bussing her face with a series of kisses as she giggled. “That is what a wife is for.”
She pushed away playfully. “You are such a bear, Anton.” She reached over to the nearby vanity and pulled the Navy hat off it. She ran her hands lightly over the embroidered gold on the edge of the visor. “This feels so nice, my love,” she said, smiling up at him. “The children and I are so proud of you. Your own ship—”
“Boat,” he corrected. “Ships go above the water, and by now—” She covered her mouth as she laughed, her dark black hair shaking with her amusement.
“Ah, Dorogojj,” he said, slapping her on the butt. “After this many years of being married to a submariner, you know what we call them.”
“But now you are a captain first rank. Now you have your own boat,” she said with a slight twinkle in her eye as she emphasized “boat,” puffing the word out. “I intend to ensure that every wife at today’s luncheon knows what my husband is and how he was picked by the party from the ranks to head this Whale.”
“And what would this accomplish?”
“This will make them envious and they will be forced to be nice to the new wife within their midst.” She clapped once. “Isn’t this fun?”
Anton leaned down and kissed her. “Sounds very dangerous to me. What if you upset a wife of someone senior to me?”
“Then she will go home and tell her husband, who will dismiss her as a gossiping old bag, but he will know your name. And he will know that you have a wife worth watching.”
“I think you and I will enjoy Siberia.”
Her smile disappeared. “That is not something to joke about, Anton. Too many—”
He put his finger to his lips.
She stopped talking and looked around their bedroom. Then, as if the topic had never surfaced, she continued, “You are destined to be an admiral. Right? Don’t they pick men for this type of job — a most secret job — because they have great plans for him?”
He turned back to the mirror and adjusted the cap so the visor was square with the nose. The key to a sharp uniform was having the pants zipper, the belt buckle, the shirt line, and the cap aligned together. It made for a sharper image. Of course, his tie knot was perfect now, thanks to his ambitious wife, but the shirt still looked wrinkled. It mattered little how much effort Elena put into the laundry; as soon as it was put onto his body, the effort fell apart. His broad shoulders pulled the press from the ironed fabric.
“You must never discuss my job or refer to it as a secret job, Elena. What I do, I do for the good of our nation; for the party,” he scolded lightly. Then he leaned down to her ear. “Others will talk and they will think you know more than you should. Then they would want to talk with us as they talked with Maks and Gennadiy.”
She stepped back slightly. He ignored the fright he gave her. But fright was better than being visited by the Committee for State Security — the KGB. Fright was better than discovering too late. He had no idea whatever happened to Maks and Gennadiy. Rumor had it they were in Siberia, but rumors were whispered in such a manner that they were not to be considered true, even if so. He took a deep breath. Luckily for him, he thought, Elena and Gennadiy had little contact — both considered their husbands competitors for promotion.
“But let’s not worry about them. That was long ago, and I am sure whatever happened, they deserved it. The state does not make mistakes.”