An orderly put a fresh cup of coffee on the duty officer’s desk as he called a messenger to him. Reaching for it, his hand brushed against one of the stacks of paper cluttering the top, scattering papers on the wood floor of the old building.
Ignoring the accident, he took a sip of the thick, hot coffee. A cluttered desk was a sign of an intellectual. He laughed. If that was so, then the duty officers must the smartest men in the Soviet Navy.
He motioned a messenger to his desk. While the messenger waited at the front of the desk, the duty officer stamped the message “SECRET,” slipped it into a brown envelope, and licked the flap to seal it. He taped a receipt to the top of it before handing it to the messenger. The duty officer reminded the sailor to bring the receipt back to him.
Then he ordered the sailor on his way, the message heading for Admiral Katshora’s office. If it was a submarine, then it would belong to the Northern Fleet Submarine Force. The duty officer was a destroyer sailor — an officer of the surface force. He smiled. If it was a submarine, which he doubted, he pitied the poor skipper when Katshora finished with him. Submarines were the silent service — the unobserved service — always below the surface and never detected.
He laughed. He hoped it was a submarine. Submariners were an arrogant lot, what with their bravado about the dangers of being beneath the waves. Well, they could have their bravado. He preferred being able to step off a sinking ship onto the surface of the ocean to having to swim up from the dark depths of the sea.
TWELVE
“Cast off lines one, three, and five!” Anton shouted.
Along the pier sailors lifted the lines off the bollards. On board the Whale, sailors pulled the lines on board, hand over hand. No matter how far into the future this atomic power took the Soviet Navy — or any Navy — no ship would ever find a way to replace the mariners who did the real nautical stuff of the centuries. Atomic power could not cast off the lines; sailors did. Atomic power could not remove the rust and replace the paint; sailors did. Atomic power could not sail the ocean by itself; sailors did.
“Lines one, three, and five on board!” shouted Chief Starshina Slavik, who was standing — feet spread — on the aft deck.
Lieutenant Tomich stood alongside the chief. As Anton watched, the zampolit spread his legs and put his arms behind him back.
Of course, Chief Slavik was the real leader down there. The chief was in charge of the boat’s condition. He had sailors who were nothing more than labor, responsible for keeping the boat shipshape and the watertight integrity between compartments functioning properly. All of it labor. Work, work, work. If it required something only a man could do, then it was Chief Slavik and his band of nose-picking, butt-scratching sailors who received the dubious honors.
Without smiling, Anton congratulated himself on his idea of letting Tomich play the role of the “sea and anchor” officer, in charge of leading the men in casting off and tying up. Making Tomich a stakeholder in the fate of the Whale meant fewer opportunities for the zampolit to cause problems.
Where would the Soviet Navy be without its zampolits to show it the party-political correct way to run a fleet? His eyes widened at this thought of treason. He took a deep breath and tried to forget it. The Soviet Union was a new country building upon the bones and history of hundreds of years of capitalist enslavement. The only way to bring the ideals of communism quickly into today was constant pol itical indoctrination. To understand the principles of communism meant a stronger, safer Soviet Union.
“Cast off lines two and four!”
“Aye, two and four!” Chief Slavik echoed.
Echoing commands was something every Navy did. He had heard the British and the Americans doing it during World War II. The Polish Navy vessels, smaller and older, that had managed to reach Soviet ports had been refitted after Germany attacked them and manned by Polish sailors. They had done it the same way.
He leaned down to the voice tube. “XO, ahead one knot, left full rudder.” When the XO’s voice replied, Anton pushed the brass covering closed on the tube. It was a habit of submariners to close everything after them, from moving from one compartment to the next to closing openings such as the sound-powered voice tube he was using. Nothing was ever left open.
Belowdecks, he heard the faint echo of his command. Anton looked forward, watching for the bow of the Whale to twist away from the dock. He glanced aft to ensure that the strain on the remaining number six line loosened instead of tightening.
Seconds passed before he saw a slight opening between the bow of the Whale and the pier.
His chest touched the cold railing of the bridge as he looked aft. Tomich was watching him. Slavik was kicking a pile of line on the deck and shouting something at a couple of sailors, who scrambled to wind the line properly. He looked forward. The numbers one and two lines had already disappeared into their storage areas beneath the deck.
“Cast off line six!”
“Aye, sir!” Tomich shouted.
Slavik glanced at the zampolit, opened his mouth to say something, but instead just shook his head and echoed the order to the working party near the stern. On the dock, a couple of sailors easily pushed the line off the bollard, while the two on board the Whale quickly reeled it on board.
Slavik, tall and lithe, suddenly took off toward the far aft section of the Whale. Tomich watched for a moment before dropping his hands to his sides and quickly following.
Anton turned forward. He lifted the cover to the voice tube. “Ahead two knots; rudder amidships.”
The Whale inched forward, moving away from the pier toward the man-made channel leading to the open bay. The hatch opened on the side of the dry dock to Anton’s right. Doctor Zotkin stepped through, with several of his scientists following him. Their eyes met, and Zotkin raised his hand and waved.
For that brief moment, Anton felt a wave of respect and gratitude toward the man who had made everyone’s life a misery with his insistence of everything being done his way. A man who ultimately was responsible for the deaths suffered by sailors who were shoved unprotected into the atomic era of tomorrow. A tomorrow that would see the Soviet Union achieve an age-old Russian dream of an oceangoing Navy capable of going anywhere, fighting anywhere, and controlling the seas it entered. And he— Anton Zegouniov — would be one of the leaders of achieving that dream. Without thought, he raised his hand and saluted the Soviet scientist. Zotkin nodded.
“Two knots — rudder amidships!” came the familiar cry of his XO, Gesny, through the sound tube.
This sea trial was to test the repairs to the damaged aft torpedo room. The weather had created an opportunity for Anton to convince Doctor Zotkin of the necessity of ensuring that the repairs were effective. Better to do it inside Kola Bay. He had been surprised over the ease with which the good doctor had agreed. He had expected Zotkin to downplay the front heading their way and insist that they go into the Barents and conduct the sea trials. Instead, here he was in the early-morning hours of a Wednesday heading out again into Kola Bay to practice submerging and surfacing.
Looking forward, the sailors quickly entered the boat through the forward escape hatch. Lieutenant Tomich’s head appeared at the edge of the railing as the zampolit climbed onto the bridge. Behind him came the chief. The chief quickly saluted, reported lines stowed, and the ship was ready topside for sea. Then just as quickly Slavik disappeared down the hatch belowdecks. But Tomich stayed, standing slightly to the left of Anton, one step back.