Anton’s thoughts turned to the fact that Kuznetsov was an example of how success does not ensure job security. Success never fails to raise the ire of those around you when they see you as a threat to their own power, or their envy grows so strong that they are willing to sacrifice anything to stop you.
Kuznetsov’s power, prestige, and dominance of the military had caused the admiral to oppose the party when Khrushchev denounced Stalin earlier this year. Failing to fall in line with the party risked a one-way trip to Siberia. But Kuznetsov was so powerful he was able to retire with full military honors. Of course, no one really knew where he retired to, so it may have been Siberia.
Anton realized Katshora had quit speaking. “Admiral Gorshkov is a great thinker and intellectual,” Anton replied quickly. He hoped the answer fit whatever the admiral had said.
Katshora nodded, his head turning at the approaching sailor. “My apologies if I am boring you, Captain.”
“No, sir,” Anton protested. Daydreaming when an admiral was talking to you was not a good way to start his tour of duty.
Katshora smiled, a twinkle in his eye as if relishing Anton’s discomfort.
“Here. Finally Miskin has brought us our coffees.”
Espresso was the shot in the arm that started the day for every citizen of the Soviet Union — at least those who could afford it or had access to it.
There were burdens to bear for every citizen as the Soviet Union recovered from the Great Patriotic War. Sacrifices from the war continued as the face of the enemy changed to the growing threat of the Americans and their lackey British ally. Someday, Anton thought, the world will be a better place where everyone shared Earth’s bounty; where no one kept the stranglehold on the wealth that capitalism brought with it.
“You are right, Anton. Admiral Gorshkov is the right man for this time of our Navy. He is a great thinker and intellectual. He is the type of leader who will have the tenacity of leadership needed in this epic moment of our Navy. Someone who can build upon the war-fighting expertise and spirit Kuznetsov gave our Navy”—lifting his hand, he put his fingers and thumb together and moved it to the palm of the other, as if lifting something—“and move it from the remnants of the Great Patriotic War into the modern frigates, destroyers, cruisers, and submarines that are filling our ports today.” Miskin handed a small cup of espresso to Katshora, and then turned to Anton, who lifted his from the tray.
Katshora lifted his espresso and cradled it in his hands. The cup shook slightly. “I am so honored to play a small part in this resurgence of our motherland.”
“Miskin, that will be all,” the admiral said.
Anton lifted his cup, but then saw that Katshora was resting his on the arm of the chair, so Anton held his between his hands, enjoying the heat against his cold palms.
“Admiral Kuznetsov did a lot for our country and our party while he was admiral of the fleet, but in every destiny there is a time for change. Serving with Nikolai Kuznetsov was an honor.” Anton shook his head. “Yes, sir.”
“Nikolai and I fought together in the Great Patriotic War, and we worked together in our younger junior officer days.” Katshora looked at his cup as he spoke. “Nikolai Kuznetsov is a hero of the Soviet Union. You know his story?”
Then, without waiting for Anton to speak, Katshora grunted. “Of course you do. Every officer in the Soviet Navy, every comrade of our great nation knows the story of Admiral of the Fleet of the Soviet Union Nikolai Kuznetsov. The story of how he fell in with a bunch of sailors marching along the countryside during the revolution. How he never returned home. How he earned his command of the sea in the Black Sea Flotilla.” Katshora’s voice seemed to quaver for a moment. The admiral lifted his cup and drained the thick, hot espresso.
Anton followed suit, lifting the cup and throwing the espresso into his mouth, splashing across his tongue. The aroma of the strong drink lifted along the back of his throat as the sharp smell filled his nostrils and the strong taste assaulted his tongue. He wondered if it were the great sensations of aroma and taste rather than the trip of the espresso to his stomach that made the morning ceremony.
“Admiral Sergei Gorshkov is a thinker — methodical, looking to the future, preparing us for world leadership on the seas,” Kat-shora said, tapping his finger against his head. “Kuznetsov pointed us on the way. He lined up the Kremlin and the party to build a great Navy, and now the chairman in his wisdom has given the intellectual challenge of building the world’s greatest Navy to Gorshkov — our greatest Navy thinker. Do you agree?”
Whenever anyone asked Anton to agree, he weighed the agreement with a thought of Siberia in the background. Too many friends and comrades of the sea disappeared from agreeing to words uttered socially. He lifted the cup again and pretended to drink for a moment.
“Thank you for the drink, Admiral.”
“So?”
“Admiral, Chairman Khrushchev is the greatest leader of our times. I don’t presume to understand his thinking. Admiral Kuznetsov is a hero of the Soviet Union. Admiral Gorshkov will take our Navy on to bigger and better things.” He stopped, and when Katshora did not immediately reply, Anton added, “As you are, Admiral Katshora.”
Katshora laughed. “Don’t worry, Anton,” he said.
The admiral called him by his first name. It was unusual. Most prefaced the ranks with “Comrade” to show their party loyalty.
Personal friendships were always suspect. Seldom in his career had others in the Navy referred to another officer by his first name unless they were very close friends or at a social event. Rank was everything.
“Anton; you don’t mind me calling you Anton, do you?”
“No, sir.” But why would you want to? he asked himself. “Good. I don’t want to stand on ceremony too much. You have been given a most important job, one that will catapult the submarine force of the Soviet Union to the same level as the United States and its closest ally, Great Britain, which the Americans are helping. It is a job that is dangerous — let no one tell you differently — but it is a job that Admiral Gorshkov and I believe only you can do. Do you know what the job is, Anton?”
Katshora placed the cup on the small coffee table in front of them and then leaned back, his hands clasped together, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. A thin smile crossed the crevices of the wrinkled face. “Do you?”
Anton opened his mouth to answer.
The admiral’s voice hardened. “You are to be the ‘first broadside’ of the new Soviet submarine force. A broadside called atomic power. You are going to command the first atomic-powered submarine of the Soviet Navy.” Katshora shrugged. “Granted, it is a prototype, but prototypes are always the first broadside.” He looked at Anton. “So it is my honor that I am to be the admiral of the man who will command the Whale.”
Anton’s mind was in a whirl as he took in what Katshora was telling him. In the back of his mind was the question as to what had happened to the commanding officer before him. Chief Ekomov had talked about the Whale as if they had been out to sea trials before now. Ergo, there had to have been another skipper. Anton met Katshora’s gaze and wondered if could ask without. .
“First broadside; that will be in your record, and I would not be surprised, Comrade Captain, if you are destined for higher honors when we finish the sea trials and atomic power becomes the staple power of the submarine force.”
The term “first broadside” grew out of a comment in 1934 by Admiral Sverdlov. Sverdlov was another hero of the Great Patriotic War. He had been a gunnery officer in the early years of the Soviet Navy. He had been a proponent of major ships taking the battle for supremacy of the seas onto the seas.