“We are still unpacking—”
The admiral looked across the room at the sailor standing near the coffee bar. “Miskin! Bring us our coffees!”
Anton nodded slightly and blushed at the exuberance of the commander, Northern Fleet Submarine Force. Admirals he had known were less enthusiastic over a captain first rank, much less a war hero of Katshora’s renown. He was more impressed than the admiral could ever be. He was standing here in the presence of the man who led the sinking of the German troop transport Wilhelm Gustloff in the Baltic. Everyone in the Soviet Union knew the ship was evacuating their trapped soldiers from East Prussia. Now, with the war over and the West demonizing the Soviet Union, they say the Gustloff was carrying civilians and that the nine thousand who died were mostly children. The West said anything to make the Soviet Union look heartless.
Katshora dropped the handshake and stepped back. “Yes, yes. You are truly lucky your household goods have arrived,” he mumbled as he turned away. “Anton, I think you are going to find this new job of yours a challenge, but when you finish, you will have leapfrogged the Soviet submarine force ahead of most of our adversaries.”
Everything Anton had heard of the gentleman appeared true. His great stock of gray hair seemed as much in disarray as Doctor Zotkin’s, though the admiral stood ramrod straight, not leaning into the wind, as Zotkin always appeared.
Zotkin moved as if perpetually lost, tacking at a fast pace from one side of the passageway to the other, as if seeking assurance he had missed no exits. Yesterday the good doctor had bumped into Anton so many times that eventually Anton walked a couple of steps behind him to give the man room for his maneuvering.
Katshora turned around and surprised Anton by gripping his hand again. He held Anton’s hand with both of his. Katshora was a couple of inches taller than Anton. Katshora’s eyes narrowed as they locked with Anton’s. “You are going to do well, Anton. I know it. I can tell by looking a person in his eyes whether he has the right cut for any job where he is assigned. Matters little if it is bringing us coffee as Miskin, or looking into the eyes of someone personally chosen by Admiral Gorshkov to lead the submarine force into the future.”
Katshora dropped his hand. “There,” he said with a smile. “I have embarrassed you. Even that red flowing up through your face tells me that you are a humble sailor at heart and unused to the flattery that I find comes more often as you ascend the ladder of rank. You know, of course, that as you go up the ladder of rank, the more your butt is exposed,” Katshora said as he moved away to the larger chair sitting at the end of the coffee table. He motioned for Anton to sit down.
“This is more a greeting from me to welcome you aboard than to give you any instructions or orders for how you are to carry them out. That you were specially chosen for this important project and approved by Admiral Gorshkov himself for it is sufficient to convince me and the others within the force that you are more than capable for executing it.”
“Thank you, Admiral,” Anton replied. The back shirttail of the admiral’s white dress shirt was half in his pants; the right side hung partially out. The admiral’s belt had missed the loop at the very back of the dark trousers. But then, the admiral was a massive man, and it might be impossible for his hands to reach the loop. That realization meant the admiral seldom if ever went out on his submarines.
“Here, sit down, Captain.” Katshora pointed to a couch. The admiral turned, facing Anton, looked down, and put both hands on the arms of the cushioned chair. He then eased himself onto the cushions, dropping the last couple of inches. He grinned at Anton. “Old bones make for shaky moments when one reaches the twilight years of being a sailor, don’t you think, Captain?” He then motioned downward and laughed. “Sit, sit.”
Anton sat down.
“Of course you don’t. Look at you — young, new epaulets on your coat, and a young wife to keep you warm at night.” Katshora leaned forward. “Don’t ever pass up an opportunity to enjoy life, Captain — or you wake up one morning and discover it has passed you by.”
Katshora looked past Anton, who turned in the direction of the admiral’s gaze. He was looking at the sailor named Miskin, who was taking his time preparing their coffee, but then this was the Soviet Union, where everyone was equal; some, such as Katshora, were just more equal than others. Miskin turned toward them.
“Admiral Gorshkov is a great choice by Chairman Khrushchev, don’t you think?” Admiral Katshora asked with a sharp nod, bringing Anton’s attention back to them.
Anton turned to find Katshora staring at him. The thick, gray, bushy eyebrows of the veteran submariner of the Great Patriotic War projected over the deep-set brown eyes of the commander of the Northern Fleet Submarine Force.
“Sir, I am honored to have been selected and hope that I meet the expectations of Admiral Gorshkov and of you.”
Katshora laughed, the booming guffaw filling the office space. “Ah, Captain, everyone hopes they meet the expectations of the party and of their leaders. I don’t think anyone goes out their front door in the morning hoping they fail them.”
Anton felt the blush that had been fading, returning. What he really wanted to know was what had happened to the officer he was replacing. He nearly asked, but then thought it might be misunderstood.
Katshora made a downward motion with his hand as his laugh abruptly stopped. “My apologies, Captain. Sometimes I see the irony and the humor in what we do.” He waved his hand in a circular motion. “Here, in the Arctic, one must find their fun where they can.” Then in a serious tone he continued, “There is no doubt in my mind nor in that of Admiral Gorshkov over what you will accomplish here. We — the Soviet Union; your bosses”—Katshora laughed—“and the Soviet Navy know you will succeed.”
“Thank you for your confidence, Admiral,” Anton said, glad his voice did not shake.
“I met with Admiral Gorshkov when this project began. When we were able to have the rubles earmarked for this project, he assured they would not be redistributed when he relieved Admiral Kuznetsov.”
Gorshkov was still new to the Office of Commander of the Soviet Navy. His was the recent appointment by Chairman Khrushchev to replace Admiral Kuznetsov, who had led the Soviet Navy through the Great Patriotic War.
“Admiral Kuznetsov was a great man.”
“Is,” Katshora corrected. “Admiral Kuznetsov is a great man.”
“I meant—”
“Not to worry, Captain Zegouniov. Someday when you leave the Navy, even if you continue to come to the officers’ club, you will become past tense. They will say, ‘Captain First Rank Ze-gouniov was a great captain. He led the Soviet Navy into the twentieth century,’ and you will be sitting there hearing them talk of you in the past tense.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you are right. Admiral Kuznetsov may never receive the praise he richly deserves as the father of our modern Navy. But with Admiral Gorshkov continuing in the same direction, I have no doubt we will reach and pass the Americans, who have used the Great Patriotic War to put their imprint in every sea across the globe.” Katshora waved his hand in a circle. “Yes, we will.”
Anton agreed.
Katshora looked at Anton, his eyebrows arching into a “V.”
“You know I served with Admiral Kuznetsov?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
It had been Kuznetsov who had convinced the Kremlin that the Navy was more than a coastal force. It was Admiral Kuznetsov whose vision of a Navy with global dominance had tapped the ambition of the party leaders. It had been Kuznetsov who had paved the way for the cruisers and submarines continuing to come out of the Soviet yards every year.