Anton bit his lower lip. No reason to tear through Miskin’s obvious lie.
“ ‘Frowns’ is probably a gentler word than what our war hero does when he is upset with my performance.”
Normally Anton would have burrowed deeper into the explanation. Sometimes discretion is better than knowledge. He nodded and turned back to the Whale, grasping his hands behind his back as he waited for his vision to acclimate to the lower light.
“With your permission?”
Anton nodded, not turning when he felt the air rush by him as Miskin opened the hatch and left the main part of the floating dock.
Anton walked slowly toward the bow of the submarine, stopping at the edge of the pier across from the boat’s bridge. The Whale was dark black, as all submarines were. There were no white letters showing her as the K-2, and he did not expect to see the name “Whale” embossed on her, either. Anton unclasped his hands to pull the bridge coat away for a moment to let some of his body heat escape.
That was where he would stand when the boat was surfaced, he told himself as he stared at the bridge. Never is a captain’s responsibility more evident than when he is standing on the bridge of his boat.
Here he would navigate the boat through the “sea and anchor” detail as the Whale arrived at and departed from a port. Here his sailors would scramble up the huge tower as lookouts, and from here he would be the last to scramble down the unseen hatch in the deck leading to the conning tower below.
His eyes traveled up the conning tower to where masts rose several meters above the bridge. He mentally tallied the masts as his eyes stopped on each one, basking in the joy of exercising his knowledge. On top of each mast were unique fixtures that told him the purpose of each. The large and small lenses on two identified them as the periscopes, one for navigation and one for firing; another mast had the small radar — the hydraulics would open it for use once surfaced or at periscope depth; then the one least expected to see based on Zotkin’s brief was the snorkel. Snorkels were like long pipes penetrating the surface of the sea so air could feed the diesel engines when the submarine was submerged. It also allowed the air for the crew to be replenished. The only time the snorkel was used was when the threat of the enemy was non-ex istent.
The Americans were everywhere, so he doubted he would use it outside of the Soviet Union’s national waters. Then he saw an unusual shaft, at the same height as the others, but forward, and separated from the radar and snorkel by the periscopes. Anton concentrated for a few seconds before he surmised that this must be the new electronic warfare system Zotkin had mentioned. He knew that EW was something the Americans, the British, the Germans, and even the Japanese had during the war. The Allies refused to share this technology even when the Soviet Army was fighting — he nearly thought retreat, but the Soviet Army never retreats; it only fights in a different direction.
Anton looked around, ensuring he was still alone. Why am I alone? he asked himself. A new commanding officer, and no one to greet him? Do they think so little of themselves and those who lead them that even his XO was unavailable?
He looked back at the EW mast. He wondered if the scientists had worked the bugs out of the EW gear like they had for radar. If so, he would have two pieces of equipment that most times failed to work. Most submarine commanders seldom used the radar— only when failure to use it might cast aspersions on their respect for Soviet engineering and science.
The EW system was passive, so there should be no danger of them being detected if they used it. But you never knew what engineers would do. He had never met an engineer who had ever completed a project; not because the project was failing, but because they always saw a “much-more-better” way to improve on improvements. He and his fellow submariners joked that as soon as an engineer achieved success, they should be tackled, tied up, and dragged ashore, never to return to the boat.
His footsteps echoed as he continued his walk, heading toward the bow of the boat. Other footsteps joined his, and he heard them approaching. He thought about turning around and waiting, but decided to let them be the ones to announce their presence. After all, this was his boat, and he was the commanding officer.
FOUR
Anton leaned over the side of the bridge, watching the Whale ease from the confines of the concealed dock. The morning light reflected off the clear waters of Kola Bay, and the tight breeze of the past two days had disappeared. He blew his breath out, watching the cold clouds that produced. Even in the protected areas of the covered dock, the Arctic made sure you knew it was there.
“Cast off number six,” he said.
“Cast off number six!” his executive officer and the diving officer for today’s trip, Commander Georgiy Gesny, shouted. Anton grinned without looking over at the XO.
Gesny was a head shorter than Anton, had shocking black hair that fought any semblance of control, and a pudginess that belied the seriousness the Georgian gave to everything about the boat. Anton’s smile disappeared. They would be a good team. The attention to detail for this project needed an officer such as Gesny.
Anton glanced toward the stern and watched the number six line fall off the bollard, the weight of the line pulling it off the pier and into the icy water.
Yesterday had been interesting. He had finished the day with a deeper appreciation of the honor the Navy had bestowed on him to command the Soviet Union’s first atomic submarine.
In his wardroom, for the most part, were veteran submariners. Only one young officer was assigned. That officer was his zampolit—his political officer. Before the Great Patriotic War, the zampolit was assigned to military units to ensure the assimilation of former Czarist officers and men into the new military services. Then, a zampolit could override the commands of a commanding officer. But warfare quickly shoves aside extraneous people, restrictions, and organizations. Early in the war zam-polits became victims of their purpose and quickly discovered the authority gone if it interfered with the orders of the commanding officer. But Anton knew that everything did, said, and heard on board the Whale by this Josef Tomich would be documented with the KGB. So alongside him and Gesny stood Tomich.
“Last line on board, Captain,” Gesny said, each word punctuated distinctly and with vigor. An explosive breath punctuated the sentence. A thicker cloud of vapor came with the report than the ones coming out of Anton’s mouth.
“Very well, XO. Make revolutions for two knots,” Anton said.
Gesny leaned into the open hatch and shouted the command into the control room.
“Making revolutions for two knots!” the officer of the deck— the OOD — repeated.
Every command on board a ship that controlled speed, courses, and directions were repeated a minimum of twice; once by the person giving the order, and once by the person executing it. This ensured clarity of command and served to reduce risk to the ship and crew.
“Sir, making revolutions for two knots,” Gesny relayed to Anton, though Anton could hear every word said. The bridge of a submarine was a confined area in comparison to the huge bridge of a destroyer or a cruiser. Here everyone stood shoulder to shoulder, though his XO would have to borrow a crate to stand shoulder to shoulder with him and Tomich.
“There is something funny, Captain?” Gesny asked, his voice serious.
“No, no, XO.” He patted his chest through the heavy bridge coat. “I am enjoying the moment of actually getting under way again.” He nodded. “In Moscow there is not much opportunity for enjoying the sea.”