Unskilled at social gatherings, Volkov avoided his normal refuge of alcohol so he could try to prevent the disaster unfolding before him. He found ironic solace in the counsel of a man he’d once doubted, the dolphin trainer.
“Vasily?” he asked.
Lasagna hanging from his mouth, the trainer offered a blank stare, lifted his napkin over his face, and accelerated his chewing. After washing down a mouthful with wine, he spoke.
“Yes, Dmitry. You look troubled.”
“Doesn’t this concern you?” he asked.
He aimed his arm at one of his sailors with his foot on a chair hovering over an Australian technician. The young Russian’s eyes bulged as he used poor English and a translator to convince the Goliath’s sailor of the Russian crew’s superiority.
“Not really. From what I can tell, this is how submarine crews behave.”
“I don’t share your optimism,” Volkov said.
“I think you should,” the trainer said. “Look over there. Isn’t that the same sort of conversation taking place between members of the Goliath and the Specter? Doesn’t it look like the groups are comparing notes to prove which crew is superior?”
“They could be arguing sporting team abilities or swimsuit model attractiveness for all I know.”
“Regardless, my point is that they’re arguing. That’s what young, proud submarine sailors do. Let them do it.”
“But I am responsible for their behavior. I fear an argument will become a push, a push will become a shove, a shove will become a—”
“You’re overreacting, Dmitry.”
The definitiveness of the statement and the trainer’s courage to cut off his speech struck Volkov with its conviction. Their friendship was new and untested beyond the confines of a submarine, and he needed a second opinion — one he considered wiser.
“Perhaps you’re right, Vasily. I appreciate your counsel, but I should get advice from an older man who’s seen this sort of thing many times before. Please, excuse me.”
To avoid appearing cheerless, he grabbed his full wine glass as he stood. As he pushed his wooden chair back under the draped tablecloth, he had to lean away from a bustling waitress who scurried by him with clanking beer glasses.
Scanning the room, he found his boss standing at the bar with his wife and men he recognized as Renard’s countrymen and long-term friends. He braved the walk into the crowd.
The Frenchman exercised his crude Russian.
“How are you, Dmitry?” Renard asked.
“I’m fine. Can we talk alone?”
With a gesture, Volkov guided the Frenchman out of the pack and to a translator who was trying to defuse a debate between sailors from the Goliath and the Wraith.
“Tell Pierre that I’m concerned about this growing intensity among the different crews. Their arguments appear to be gaining momentum towards hostilities.”
“Yes, sir. The words are becoming harsh. I’m having trouble inserting my own soft words into the exchanges. I’ll tell him.”
During the translation, the Frenchman gave a dismissive wave.
“Pierre says this is normal for submarine crews.”
“Tell him I know what’s normal for submarine crews,” Volkov said. “This is excessive. Has he forgotten that these two crews tried to kill each other three months ago?”
During the next translation, the Frenchman’s face hardened.
“Pierre wants you to follow him outside with me.”
On the restaurant’s patio, Volkov felt the sultry air and faced ivy-covered walls of stone. His boss faced him and attempted communications in Russian, asking for help from the translator when words escaped him.
“There’s nothing wrong with your crew’s behavior,” Renard said. “Only your behavior.”
“My behavior? What do you mean?”
“This is supposed to be a celebration, but you appear as if you’re looking for a fight.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
Volkov swallowed his reactive anger and tried to give credence to his boss’ opinion.
“Really? I had no idea.”
The Frenchman’s face softened.
“I think I know what’s wrong,” Renard said.
“Please, if you know, share.”
“You’re still fighting the lost battle of the Black Sea.”
The words stung.
“I don’t understand.”
“I had hoped that one outcome of your success with the Wraith in the Arabian Sea would have been solace for your defeat in the Black Sea, but I see now that I’m wrong.”
Volkov scratched his beard while pondering the concept.
“So you’re a psychologist now?”
“No, I’m just stating what I see.”
“But what you see is from the perspective of a psychologist.”
“I can only ask you to ignore me as the source of the observation and to consider the observation on its own merits.”
“Perhaps,” Volkov said. “Let’s say for the sake of argument that you’re right. Then what?”
“Then you must grieve your losses and move on. You lost your battle, you lost your commission, and you lost your submarine. That’s a lot of suffering, and I should have had this conversation with you before putting you in command of the Wraith. In one respect, it’s a testimony to your strength of character that you led the Wraith successfully with this burden still on your soul.”
The insights made Volkov uncomfortable.
“You are a psychologist. At least this is how I imagine one speaks.”
“It is how they talk, indeed. But you needn’t worry about paying me two hundred dollars per hour. I’ll give you my findings free of charge to keep you as my commanding officer.”
Renard smiled, and Volkov chuckled.
“You may have a point,” Volkov said. “But even if you’re right, even if all this insight is true, what would you have me do?”
“Fake it for tonight and see how it goes.”
“How would I fake it?”
“Approach Jake and Terry as if you had defeated them.”
“But I didn’t, and I don’t see how to fake confidence. Confidence is earned by achievement, not by fantasy.”
“But I have every confidence in you. You were ambushed in the Black Sea, and you lost because you fell into a trap. But after surviving that trap, you fought as brilliantly as any commander could. I know it, and they know it. If there was any doubt, it’s been erased by your performance in the Arabian Sea.”
“It’s hard enough just trying to talk through a translator,” Volkov said. “Now you want me to play a mental game as well?”
“Do what you must to convince yourself you belong here.”
The words swam laps around Volkov’s head as the Frenchman asked him to wait outside while he went back into the restaurant. A minute later, he held his breath as Renard reappeared with the other two commanders behind him.
Having already shaken hands with them that evening, he restricted his salutation to a nod.
Renard spoke English, and Volkov awaited the translation.
“Jake and Terry both wish to thank you.”
“For what?” Volkov asked.
“For the idea of sending the dolphins to them.”
“It was the least I could do. It was the only way I could think to help them from the other side of the Suez Canal.”
“Terry says it may seem simple in retrospect, but it was nonetheless brilliant. Jake says he agrees and doesn’t think they could have survived without them.”
“Please tell them both they are too kind. I was glad to help.”