She thought she had detected a basic difference between the collective American and the collective Russian. Generally, Americans found thrill in the moment and in the future, while Russians often wallowed in memories. The Rodina, the motherland, and her history had a firm grip on them. Frequently, Polodka wondered what the history books or the story tellers a decade from now would say about the upheaval taking place in her country at the moment.
Today, she was reverting to type, recalling the warmth of Valeri’s arms, bringing to mind vivid moments — at breakfast, at work — with her brother and her parents. She would write her brother and her mother in the morning.
Today, she could not quite become one with the elation being expressed by her new compatriots. For Svetlana Polodka, the future seemed indefinite.
And she was not quite so certain that the next few days or weeks would be the lark that the others anticipated.
The Arienne was docked stern first in a visitor’s berth in the San Francisco Marina. A brisk November wind whipping spume off the bay had driven Mark Jacobs and his six colleagues below to the salon an hour before. A bridge game was underway in the banquette below the port side windows, through which a necklace of headlights crossing the Golden Gate Bridge could be seen. The warning lights on the bridge towers were hazy with descending fog.
Two slips over, a loud party was underway on the seventy-two foot Broker’s Fee. The band was live, and amplified, but their music was obscure to Jacobs.
Jacobs and two of his associates, Debbie Lane and Mick Freelander, were hunched over the coffee table in front of the sofa, poring over the latest data to arrive on the yacht’s fax machines and modems. Jacobs subscribed to as many environmental publications as he could, but since the Arienne was a transient, constantly on the move around the world, printed material generally caught up with him out-of-date. To counter that, he utilized a service which culled the magazines and newsletters, then either faxed copies of pertinent articles to him, or relayed summaries to the boat’s computers.
Debbie Lane was thirty-two years old, an ex-housewife and an ex-Floridian. Jacobs could not imagine her as the young and vibrant suburbanite she had once been. Her waist-length dark hair, shapeless running suit, and piercing blue eyes were the chief traits of her elongated figure. The state of the world had dawned on her one night in a community college class she was taking, and she had vowed to put the earth right. She left her two children with their father, packed a duffle bag, and headed for the sea. She had spent two years with several Greenpeace boats before joining the Arienne.
Mick Freelander, now close to fifty years of age, had left Ireland in 1972 and had never been back. He had once been an accountant, but his shaggy gray and pony-tailed hair disguised that career.
Both Lane and Freelander served as Jacob’s chief advisors. Their quick minds gulped information, synthesized it, and produced concise analyses.
At the moment, the three of them were sifting through the printouts and copies for environmental problems that they might address in their particular way. Lane was jotting issues and geographical locations on a sheet of lined yellow paper. When they had completed their journey through the stack of paper, they would prioritize the listing.
The insistent buzz of the ship-to-shore telephone interrupted them.
“I’ll get it,” Jacobs said.
He got up and walked aft to the desk at the back of the salon where the electronics were stacked.
Pulling out the desk chair, he sat down and picked up the phone.
“Jacobs.”
“Mark, this is Wilson Overton.”
After a few seconds, he remembered who Overton was. He didn’t recall that he was on a first-name basis with the reporter.
Depressing the transmit button, he said, “With the Post. I remember. What can you do for me?”
Overton took a minute to digest the structure of that sentence before saying, “Actually, I was hoping you could do something for me. I know you’re tuned into the gossip and rumors involving oceanographic issues, and I wondered if you had heard about anything funny going on around the Pacific.”
“Funny?”
“I overheard some Navy people talking about a problem off the coast west of San Francisco. Something for which they would need special sonar equipment.”
Jacobs mulled that over. He also remembered that it was Overton who had broken the story on the Russian missile crisis, so he gave the reporter a few points for credibility.
“On first sweep through my memory, Mr. Overton….”
“Please, it’s Wilson.”
“Wilson. I don’t know of anything especially funny taking place. Let me make a couple calls and get back to you.”
“I’m at the Jack Tar. Look, Mark, if you run into anything interesting and decide to go take a look, I’d like to go with you.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.”
“I’ll pay my passage.”
“It’s not a question of payment.”
“You might get some good PR out of it. No guarantees, of course.”
“I’ll think about it,” Jacobs told him, then hung up.
Lane and Freelander were watching him, waiting for a bulletin on the call, but Jacobs was thinking about the people he knew who might have more information.
He found his Rolodex in the desk drawer, and started backwards alphabetically. Hap Wilson was working the Oriental Rose out of Seattle.
He called the marine operator and gave her the number of Hap’s boat.
Aft of the bridge were six small cabins used by the captain and, when they were on expedition, the senior research staff. Brande and Thomas had chosen the first cabin on the port side, then argued over who was entitled to the minuscule space in the hanging locker.
Thomas won, and Brande’s extra clothing was stuffed into the drawers under the double bunk.
The shower was almost as small as the closet, and under Sorenson’s restrictions relative to fresh water use, available for two minutes per person per day.
In the interest of efficiency and water conservation, Brande and Thomas showered together, using three minutes of hot water. It was close work in the confined space, but they both enjoyed it.
Brande stepped out of the stall first, grabbed a big and fluffy towel, and began polishing Thomas’s smooth skin. He took some time doing it, and when he reached her feet, said, “How’s that?”
“You might have missed some spots. Wanna try again?”
“Sure thing.”
The intercom buzzed.
“Damn,” Brande said, stepping to the bulkhead. He pressed the bar and said, “Paco, this had better be good.”
“Sorry, Chief. You’ve got a ship-to-shore call.”
“Anyone I know?”
“You know Mark Jacobs?”
He knew Jacobs. Over the years, they had had a few conversations, and as far as he knew, were merely acquaintances. He respected Jacobs’ stance on the environmental issues that affected the sea, but he deplored the tactics utilized by Greenpeace in many cases. Brande was just as concerned about his world, he thought, but he didn’t believe that sabotage and confrontation with authorities was necessarily the best way to get it changed.
“I’ll be right over, Paco.”
He pulled on a jump suit.
Thomas told him, “I’d better not be asleep when you get back.”
“You won’t be for long, if you are.”