At the end of the drive leading up to the parking area, Popov turned to the left, away from the normal direction taken in the evening when work allowed him to return home.
A few miles later, Popov turned between two warehouses. In the distance, Anton could see a small dock nestled alongside a smaller building. Popov slammed on the brakes, causing Anton to brace himself against the forward seat to keep from being tossed onto the floor. He thought in the icy haze of the front windshield that he could see something tied up alongside the pier, but with the tide out, the shore and the high pier mostly hid it.
“Have I offended you, Comrade Popov, or have you decided we both need to die?”
“Driver, driver, driver,” Popov mumbled. He reached up and pulled the wool watch cap he wore down over his ears. He turned to Anton. “Your ride is down the ladder of the pier. It will take you to your meeting in Severomorsk. I should be here when you return, unless I run out of gas or the weather causes me to think of my warm home in Murmansk or you find me frozen. If you find me frozen, the keys will be in the ignition.”
Anton opened the door, shutting it quickly behind him.
The Arctic wind whipped between the side of the building and the ZIL, sending a slight burn along Anton’s cheeks. When he stood, he could see the starboard outline of a boat with the bow pointed out to sea. He flipped up the flaps of the foul-weather jacket against the wind, then walked quickly to the wooden ladder leading down from the old rough-hewed pier. Tied up alongside the pylons was one of the Navy’s new torpedo speedboats.
Two sailors helped him on board. A spry Navy officer, his head hidden beneath a heavy woolen watch cap but his foul-weather jacket open to reveal his rank, shook his hand. “Comrade Captain, welcome to the Bolshevik, sir. I am the skipper, Lieutenant
Commander Jasha. Admiral Katshora sends his regards, sir.” Anton acknowledged the greeting while taking in the torpedo boat. The Bolshevik was the first of her class. From what he recalled from the article in Krasnaya Zvezda, the military newspaper published by the Soviet Ministry of Defense, the Bolshevik was slightly more than twenty-five meters long, had a wooden hull, and was capable of speeds in excess of forty knots.
Jasha smiled. His cheeks were bright red from the weather, and Anton wondered how long they had been waiting. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long, Captain,” Anton said, bestowing on Jasha the honorific title every commanding officer of a ship was given. He pointed at the jacket. “I would recommend buttoning up before you freeze.”
Jasha smiled.
They are so young today, Anton thought, but then maybe it was the years piling up on him.
“Cast off all lines!” Jasha shouted, his hands cupped to his mouth. He turned forward and did the same thing.
“Captain, if I may, belowdecks would be better for you.” Anton allowed a sailor to lead him below. Behind him he heard the engines revving up, and by the time he had slid into the lone table that made up the twenty-man mess, the Bolshevik was skipping across the choppy waves of Kola Bay, heading toward Severomorsk. He leaned back, his body adjusting to the penetrating cold trying to seek solace beneath his garments. He shut his eyes and wondered why the secrecy of this meeting with Admiral Katshora.
Shipley stood on the bridge. Evening came early to the northern latitudes as winter approached. The sound of the diesel exhausts masked the air exchangers as they pumped in the cold, fresh air of the Arctic and shoved the carbon dioxide-rich internal air out. It would be a tough ride to do four days submerged in a diesel submarine. The wind was already picking up. Senior Chief Boohan had handed him a watch cap with eyeholes and lips cut into it. He had smiled at first, but after ten minutes topside, he had pulled the makeshift mask over his face.
Arneau appeared in the hatch, wearing a foul-weather jacket, his face covered in a Boohan-tailored watch cap. “Skipper, you’ve been up here thirty minutes,” he said as he continued scrambling up. “I would like to relieve you.”
Shipley started to protest, but realized that in this weather, thirty minutes could be a lifetime. Behind Arneau, reliefs for the two topside observers followed. They, too, wore the face masks.
“See you in thirty minutes, XO,” Shipley said as he stood near the hatch, watching the sailors relieve each other. He did not see how the boat would be able to surface if the storm was going to be as bad as weather reports indicated.
“I recommend that you, I, and Alec take rotating turns. I didn’t realize how cold it was up here, Skipper.”
Shipley nodded. If it weren’t so damn cold, he might have been tempted to start a series of humorous “And how cold is it, XO?” but right now the heat from Crocky’s day-old gray, tannic-acid-filled coffee would feel great, even if it burned the tongue as it went down.
Breathing was terrible in the freezing air. Even breathing through the watch cap was painful, as air seemed to freeze his lungs with each breath. The off-going watch walked painfully to the hatch and disappeared down it. Shipley looked at Arneau and nodded before grabbing the ladder. The gloves were probably keeping his hands from freezing to the topside rungs. A fresh burst of wind whipped over the stanchion of the bridge, rippling through the mask and chilling his cheeks painfully. He did not turn to see how it affected Arneau.
Moments later, Shipley was in the conning tower. The be-lowdecks hatch was closed, while the hatch leading up to the bridge remained open. The watch standers within the conning tower were dressed in their foul-weather gear. Ice formed along the top of the hatch, and fog obscured the inside of the gauges aligning the bulkhead of the conning tower. He started pulling his gloves off.
“Skipper, if I may recommend, sir,” Senior Chief Boohan said, “I’d wait until you were in the control room before taking anything off.” The chief of the boat pointed to the thermometer on the bulkhead.
Shipley leaned forward, reaching up to rub the glass.
“Uh, sir!” Boohan shouted, causing Shipley to pull back. “I wouldn’t touch anything breakable up here.”
Shipley leaned close and saw that the mercury was completely in the reservoir at the bottom of the thermometer. It was below zero in the conning tower.
“We should shut the hatch to the bridge.”
Lieutenant Van Ness spoke up. “Sir, if we do that we won’t have any way to talk to the bridge.”
“Cliff, you’re the navigator and the admin officer, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s get the sound-powered setup between the conning tower and the bridge repaired. It’s one thing to shout back and forth during normal weather, but another. .” He stopped. He wriggled his toes and could feel them wriggle, but was unsure if he truly felt them. He realized he still had Boohan’s watch cap covering his face. Shipley reached up and pulled it off. He looked at Boohan. “Ought to patent this, COB.
“I’m going to the wardroom for a cup of coffee and then will be in the control room until my turn to relieve topside. Lieutenant Van Ness, keep an eye and be prepared to order a dive if necessary.” Van Ness saluted.
When Shipley turned, a sailor was opening the hatch. A moment later, Shipley was below the conning tower in what felt like a heat wave in the control room. He looked at the thermometer, which read twenty degrees. From the bridge to the conning tower, twenty degrees was a heat wave.
The operations officer, Lieutenant Weaver, was in the control room. Shipley told Weaver what he would find topside in terms of weather when the officer relieved Arneau. Shipley told him where he would be for a few minutes, then he would come back to the control room.