“Comrade, you are so right,” Anton added. “Are you from Murmansk?”
“Da, comrade. But I was born in Leningrad. My parents moved here before the Great Patriotic War. They helped to raise the city from the frozen soil and tundra to what it is today.”
“Then you should be proud.”
“I am proud my parents and family have been permitted to be part of this great success.”
Anton looked out the window, feeling the eyes of the driver on him. The KGB must be hurting for eyes, he thought, to have someone so obvious on their payroll.
The bay sped past as the ZIM bumped along the half-paved road. They paralleled the shore, only yards away. The water lapped against the rocks pushed by the sea against the coast, rocks that looked as if a giant hand had casually tossed them along the edges of the inland sea. The Northern Fleet had located to Kola Bay because it never froze over. The warmer fresh waters of the rivers running into it brought heat to the Arctic waters shoved south into the bay. Even during the coldest of Arctic days, the Kola waters remained ice-free. Ships could steam into the bay to conduct exercises, check repairs, and train their crews. Submarines could submerge and practice their own tactics. Antisubmarine warfare was an art that could be practiced within Kola Bay and out of range of the prying eyes of the United States.
“Have you visited Murmansk, comrade?”
“Yes,” Anton replied. He opened his mouth to say more, then decided against it. His wife had enjoyed the visit, but he knew the avenues of Murmansk paled against what she had in Moscow.
How long until Elena decided she did not like the social life here and started to complain about the missed beauty of Moscow? Every social event worried him about her butterfly antics from person to person; her transparent ambition for his career — all dangerous professions if you offended the wrong person. On the plus side, the men gravitated toward her. She had a way with her eyes that promised much. His eyes widened. He didn’t think she had… He shook his head. Elena would never go that far.
Elena had enjoyed Murmansk, but he wondered if she enjoyed it because the people deferred to her as she shopped in the sparse government shops, or if she really enjoyed the adventure offered by the Arctic. He smiled. “Adventure” was a new term for Elena. Her idea of adventure was sneaking Western sheets onto the bed. The smile left. No doubt the KGB knew of her shopping adventures and it would matter if he should ever fall out of favor, which was easy to do in Chairman Khrushchev’s government, where no one really knew whether they were in favor or not until they disappeared or were promoted. He smiled again. He had been promoted, ergo, he was in favor.
The waters of Kola Bay simmered a dark blue in the rising sun. Around the bay, steep mountain terrain rose sharply, much like the fjords of Norway, where he had spent time in a Soviet submarine during the war with Germany. Where he ate packaged food stamped “USA.” Of course, no one would mention the arms, food, and other war supplies provided by the West. He saw Western war surplus often, with the source of the articles painted over with the “CCCP” of the Soviet Union. A national farce done for the good of the nation and the party. Anton saw nothing wrong with this propaganda. What was good for the people was good for the Soviet Union, and it was up to those such as himself and other members of the party to ensure a sense of unity across this great land. He felt pride over the size of the Soviet Union. It was the largest nation in the world, stretching through thirteen time zones, from the Pacific Ocean to halfway into Europe. No other nation had the resources of the Soviet Union or the patriotic tenacity of its people. They would overcome, and they would be the example of what this world called Earth could become.
“You smile, comrade?”
“Yes, I do. I was thinking of how happy I am to be allowed to have this opportunity to support our party and our country.”
The driver laughed. “I go to bed at night and rise in the morning thinking the same thing.”
“What is your name, driver?”
The man shrugged. Then, almost hesitantly, he replied, “My name is Viktor Popov, not that it matters.”
“You are Navy?”
Popov shrugged again. “I used to be, during the war, comrade, I was in the Baltic Fleet, but after the war I returned to Murmansk and met this young woman who enticed me with a twist of my arm into the civilian way of life. Now I drive a limousine for senior officers such as yourself or for party officials who visit here.”
The car twisted around the next bend, bringing the ZIM nearer a protruding lip of the bay. Then the car picked up speed as it headed north, the right wheels riding the edge of the road that separated Anton from the cold waters below.
“So, are you assigned to me permanently?”
Popov shrugged, an audible sigh reaching Anton’s ears. “Of course, comrade. I am assigned to you until you ask for someone else. Then they will reassign me to another car and another person. This is what makes our country so great: everyone is equal, but they have little choice of their driver.”
Maybe he wasn’t KGB, thought Anton, ignoring the last comment.
Ahead of them, the silhouette of Severomorsk rose like a dark stain across the bay. While Murmansk was the largest inhabited city within the Arctic Circle, there at Severomorsk was where he wished his boat were moored among the cruisers, destroyers, and auxiliary ships that made up a massive, oceangoing capability. A fleet that could sortie out when the Barents Sea permitted, meet anything the Americans might throw at them, and win.
“We are nearly there, Captain,” the driver said.
Anton was surprised. Until then, the driver had only referred to him as “comrade.”
His stomach rose as the ZIM topped a slight rise and then seemed to fall as it bounced down a steep portion of the road. Shoreline filled the front windshield as the car swept along, speed increasing, and no sign that the driver intended to use the brakes to slow down.
“We’ll have problems making it up this tonight, Captain. The mud will be frozen ice. The roads are terrible on automobiles,” the driver offered.
Anton fell against the right door as the driver jerked the car to the left, avoiding another pothole, and decorating the maneuver with severe words best never uttered in mixed company. To curse was admirable in the Navy, but to curse with poetry was a compliment to the originator. He had even applauded the chief engineer of his last boat for skill and art in cursing that could reduce the recipient to wordless appreciation.
They bounced as the ZIM hit the bottom of the hill and leveled out. Ahead of them a wire fence appeared. Razor wire curled along the top, giving Anton the impression of a prison instead of a base. He wondered where the razor wire came from. Along the fence every fifty or so meters a small guard box rose. Some stood straight, but most tilted to the right or the left.
As if reading Anton’s mind, the driver spoke. “It’s the permafrost. Permafrost is never permanent, and it melts just enough to cause the shacks to tilt to the right or to the left.”
The driver turned and looked at Anton, never taking his hands off the wheel and never slowing down. It seemed to Anton that the ZIM put on a few more kilometers in speed.
“The fence surrounds the facility, Captain,” the driver offered before turning his attention back to the front. “Where the fence rises, many of the shacks have already fallen back against the fence. I heard a few months back that one soldier was in a shack when it decided to come downhill, rolling through the fence, where it came to rest near one of the outbuildings, trapping the young man for hours.”
“Seems to be a great challenge.”