“Not as great as for that soldier. He was found guilty of deserting his post.”
Anton ignored the comment. To acknowledge something wrong meant risking. .
“Of course, how can one desert his post when he took his post with him?” The driver laughed at his own humor.
“I am sure the incident was investigated fairly.”
“Of course, Captain,” the driver said, his laugh stopping instantly. Then he added, “You will need your papers, Captain.” Minutes later they were through the rigorous papers check and easing to a stop in front of the main facility.
“You are here, Captain,” the driver said, glancing at Anton through the rearview mirror.
He had seen buildings such as this one. It was a massive covered dock, with the front part of the building jutting into a man-made channel leading into the waters of the bay.
He opened the door and stepped out.
The driver rolled his window down. “What time should I pick you up, comrade?”
Anton’s eyes traveled the massive building. Within that building was the K-2. But the Navy called the submarine Whale. It must be there where he would find his command.
“Captain?”
“Oh, sorry. I’m not sure when I will be finished today.”
“I will be here at seventeen hundred hours in the event you are ready by then, Captain. If not, I will track you down for an update.”
“Thanks. That will be fine.”
“Comrade, if we are here past nineteen hundred hours we will be here all night, for the hill will be a sheet of ice.” Without waiting for Anton to reply, the driver rolled up the window and drove off.
He turned his back. A splatter of cold mud from the left rear tire hit his bridge coat. He glanced down and swept it away with his hand, leaving a smidgen of Arctic along the base of his hand and a smudge of brown against the black wool of the coat.
He took in the surroundings. Bleak and gray seemed to be a proper description for everything. Murmansk was bleak and gray. Severomorsk was bleak and gray. The sky, the land, the hills were bleak and gray. The only thing not bleak and gray was the freezing blue water of Kola Bay. It was a crystal clear body of water, with the exception of the mining sludge flowing into the bay east of Murmansk.
He looked along the building, finally spotting an entrance. A set of double doors the same color as the facility blended into the building off to his right. There had been no one to meet him. His face scrunched in slight apprehension.
Admiral Baikov, the head of the Soviet Navy classified R&D section, had told him how important his new job was when the elderly war veteran had promoted him to captain first rank. Anton climbed the wooden steps leading up to the building edge and then went along the narrow walkway toward the doors. If he were so important, then why would they not at least meet him? Admiral Katshora had seemed impressed at the social function the other day. Anton had no idea.
A couple of approaching sailors saluted and stepped into the mud to allow him to pass. Elena was right: being a captain first rank did have its privileges in a nation without privileges.
He reached the door, pulled on the handle, and was surprised to see it opened effortlessly. For a secret facility, entry seemed too easy. The noise of typewriters and several conversations filled the air, coming from open doors along the hallway ahead of him. He pulled the door shut.
From the end of the hallway, a chief petty officer looked up from his morning Pravda. The chief frowned, folded the newspaper, and walked toward him. Almost too lean, thought Anton as he watched the sailor walk toward him. The man looked down for a moment, and Anton noticed a couple of bare spots on top of the man’s head in the middle of the short-cropped haircut.
“Comrade, do you have papers?”
Anton smiled. Elena would be furious at the lack of deference to the shoulder boards of a captain first rank. She would never understand that communism only confirmed to chiefs that they were equal to any officer. Without speaking, he reached inside his wool bridge coat and pulled out his national identity card along with his orders, handing them to the chief.
The chief glanced at them for a few seconds, a couple of grunts escaping. After a few more seconds of turning the card one way, then the other, almost as if the man were unable to read, the older sailor grinned, revealing a row of missing teeth along the left side. Deep yellow stains on the remaining ones revealed long years of cigarette use. He handed the papers back to Anton.
“My apologies, Captain. Here, at the Soviet Navy’s premier research and development facility — unlike across the bay — we take security seriously.” He shrugged. “Besides, we were told to expect you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.” He shrugged again. “Anyway, comrade, welcome aboard.” The chief stood straight, looking up a few inches until their eyes met. “I am Chief Petty Officer Ekomov, the lead electrician technician in the engineering department of the Whale.”
“So, they do call it the Whale?"
Ekomov shrugged, his lower lip sticking out. Holding his hand up and wiggling it, he said, “I call it the Whale; the crew calls it the Whale.” Then he jerked his thumb over his shoulders. “But the scientists and those who refuse to see their handiwork at sea prefer the term ‘K-2 prototype’—Ekomov waved his skinny arm in the air—“something or other.” Looking away, he smiled. “Who knows what these landlubbers think when they fuck around with our boats?”
He could like this man, Anton thought, if the political officer liked him.
“Been here long, Chief?”
“Too long, sir.”
“And the crew?”
“We have replacements almost monthly.”
“Monthly? Seems excessive.”
Ekomov turned and started back toward his chair. “Best you talk to Doctor Zotkin. He has his own opinion as to why so many of us get sick.” He picked up his newspaper, opened it, and put his feet on the table.
“Doctor Vasiliy Zotkin?”
Ekomov lowered the paper. He nodded several times, his lips pushed out, raising his sparse mustache against his nose. “Not many Zotkins around here, Captain. You will grow to love Doctor Zotkin, as we all do,” Ekomov replied with a hint of sarcasm. He raised his newspaper again, covering his face.
Anton nodded as he stuffed the papers back into the pocket of his bridge coat and followed. “Chief, would you take me to Admiral Katshora’s office so I may check in,” Anton ordered. If the chief was part of his crew, it was time to establish who was the captain and who was the chief.
Ekomov dropped the paper. He leaned across the table, his hands clasped on top of the Pravda. Several mustache hairs fell out, coming to rest on the chief’s chin. Ekomov scratched the side of his face for a moment, his forehead wrinkling. “Comrade, I’d like to take you to his office, but the admiral’s office is at Headquarters in Severomorsk”—he pointed back toward the entrance—“across the bay. He is seldom here. He is to be here tomorrow to meet you.”
“Well, then take me to my boat.”
Ekomov nodded. “I can do that, sir, but Doctor Zotkin would be angry at me — with you”—he pointed up—“with God.” He shrugged. “He is always angry with someone about something. The good thing is he never remembers about what.”
Anton’s forehead wrinkled. In today’s Navy, the man was destined for reeducation in Siberia, and then he realized Siberia would be little different from the weather here around Kola Bay.
Ekomov put both hands on the side of the desk, then looked at
Anton. “First you have to be cleared by Doctor Zotkin. The good doctor does not like anyone going aboard the Whale without his personal approval.” Ekomov shook his head. “No, sir; without his approval, you may be shot before you even take command.” Ekomov pointed toward the door to the left. “Doctor Zotkin’s office is down that hallway, third door on the left.” Ekomov raised his feet again, plunked them on top of the desk, and then crossed them at the ankles. The newspaper once again covered the electrician’s face.