Volkov withheld his commentary about the dolphins being the solitary blotch on the mission’s otherwise perfect result. Instead of lamenting the loss, he chose to delay grieving his cetacean comrades in favor of starting the multi-day journey to his next port of call. He jammed his chagrin into his belly and turned his attentions to planning for a voyage to Bahrain.
Three days later, he stood beside his translator within the entryway of the Fifth Fleet’s waterfront officer’s club. Remembering the final years of the Cold War from his childhood, he grasped the irony of being a career Russian submarine commander enjoying American hospitality.
Wearing the beige pants and white collared shirt uniform of the Frenchman’s fleet, Cahill seemed a refreshed ball of energy. He extended a hand. “Where’ve you been, mate?”
Volkov shook his colleague’s hand. “I couldn’t match your speed in my mortal diesel boat. That must’ve been nice, getting that extra boost from the Indiana’s power plant underwater.”
Cahill watched the translator’s lips and chuckled. “Thanks to nuclear power, I got here last night and slept over a floor of solid concrete. Got me shore legs back already.”
“I don’t think I’ll be here long enough to get mine.”
“Really? Plans already? Where are you heading?”
“I’m trying to plan a fishing expedition.”
Cahill frowned. “What are you fishing for? I didn’t know you were a fisher.”
“I’ll tell you more after I talk to Pierre. I still need his help arranging it.”
“Sure, mate. You’re the last to arrive. The rest are already in there. Let’s go make the introductions.” Cahill pushed through a double-door into an austere dining hall. With the building reserved for the submariners’ private event, the Australian led him to the room’s solitary populated circular table.
As he approached the other diners, Volkov recognized half of them. Jake sat between Henri and Renard, who sat next to Commander Martin. The Wraith’s former rider had blown his hair dry and appeared like a new man in his starched white uniform. Four unfamiliar men in American uniforms, a captain and three commanders, sat together. After introductions, Volkov sat with his translator while Cahill took a seat facing the Russians.
The captain, an overweight man with a second chin, asserted control of the conversation. “As the task force commander, I’m honored to entertain our guests tonight. I was running the mission from the command center, and I must say it was impressive work by everyone. Introductions… I believe you know the post-command riders we assigned to your ships, but Commander Causey and Commander White of the Indiana and California respectively are new to most of you, although it seems that Mister Slate and Commander Causey were classmates at the academy.”
As his translator completed his interpretation, Volkov raised his eyebrows. “It’s a small world.”
Jake specified. “We were even in the same company. We roamed the same floor together studying to the wee hours of the morning getting our engineering degrees.”
The obese captain interjected his opinions. “Despite differences in nations and fleets, we’re submariners first. But it’s nice when we realize some of us have history. To those of us who fight below the waves.” He raised a glass of wine.
Volkov lifted his beverage with the rest of the table, added his gratitude to the California’s commander for his bravery, and clanked his vessel with the others’.
A shadow fell across the captain’s face. “As a reminder, we don’t talk about classified matters outside secure facilities. Mister Renard has said that his staff will risk such discussions, but as a matter of practice, we don’t do that in the United States Navy. So, keep our conversations unclassified tonight.”
The Indiana’s commander spoke. “I have to thank you all. I’m not sure where my crew and I would be without you. Now, the Indiana will continue to serve the fleet for decades.”
The hefty captain seemed impressed with his knowledge of history as he added context. “This won’t be the first American nuclear submarine to be flooded and recovered. The Guitarro was accidentally sunk by the pier during tests prior to its commissioning. Don’t ask me how the shipyard workers managed that, but someone decided the cost of raising and recovering the ship was worth it. So, we’ll salvage the Indiana, especially since it was only half-flooded.”
Volkov remembered his nation’s similar case study, which he shared through his translator. “Of course, as a general rule, we Russians always outdo you Americans in mistakes driven by haste and carelessness. For example, you had Three Mile Island, which harmed nothing outside the containment barrier, but we had Chernobyl.”
The preamble to his anecdote begot polite chuckles.
He continued. “You may have had the Guitarro, but we had the K-429. Sunk and refloated not once, but twice. And, of course, we managed to snuff out more than a dozen lives in the process.”
After a moment, the hefty captain nodded slowly and then shifted the conversation. “I think we’ve all had enough talk of sunken submarines. Why don’t we talk about something more lighthearted while we order some food? Mister Renard, I’d like to know how you manage your sailors’ logistics when they live where they want and you homeport your ships around the globe.”
Volkov noticed his boss had been oddly silent, like a man with nothing left to prove. Reluctantly, Renard opened his mouth. “It was nothing really. Just overhead expenses, like a consultancy in which one must be liberal about spending money to keep the staff happy. Chartered flights, top-rate hotels, great food. Add that to excellent salaries, and the men worried about little other than succeeding and coming home alive.”
Hoping he’d misheard, Volkov whispered to his translator. “Did he just speak in the past tense?”
“Yes. I’m sure of it. It surprised me as well.”
Volkov remained quiet during the meal and sought signs in Renard’s body language that the rescue mission had changed his boss from a man of action to a retiree. But other than unprecedented silence, the Frenchman withheld hints.
After dinner, the American captain ushered the group to a lounge for cocktails. A bartender took orders, and remaining on their feet, the submariners broke into cliques. Volkov saw a choice between joining members of his team or the Americans, and he selected the familiar faces.
Holding a highball glass, Renard stirred ice cubes with a toothpick running through an olive. The gesture seemed slow, as if intended to build a dramatic effect. He inhaled thoughtfully and then looked at each man. “I’ve been making a difficult decision, and I believe I’ve come to it. I don’t want to destroy what I’ve built — what we’ve all built together — but I don’t have the energy to continue, at least not at the moment.”
Among groans, Cahill protested. “What’s that mean, mate? You’re not quitting on us, are you?”
“Quitting? I hate such a term. I’m going to call it a sabbatical.”
The Australian seemed calmer. “Well, at least a sabbatical is temporary. Is that what you mean?”
“I’m not entirely sure, but I think so. I intend to put our ships into dry dock for a year and give everyone a holiday. Believe me, this isn’t anything I’d planned, but with this recent success, I…” Tears welled in the Frenchman’s eyes. “Such good fortune. The opportunity. The outcome. It’s all too perfect. I can’t see what else there’s left for me to achieve.”
As the group’s newest commander and rising star, Volkov identified himself with the fleet. He hated the discussion. “But you said there were other missions awaiting us.”