“What have you found, Sergoff, that has changed radically since we laid out that track yesterday?” His voice dripped with sarcasm as his thoughts drifted back to the previous days. He had not wanted to leave Anna in Moscow.
“I beg your pardon, Admiral,” Sergoff said, lost for a moment, ‘Tm not altering their course, sir… just determining their time of arrival off Seward Peninsula now that we have a departure time.”
“And?” Danilov demanded. His telltale eyebrows were once again menacing those about him.
Sergoff considered all this as the admiral waited for an answer. The knit eyebrows reminded him for the thousandth time that Danilov utilized his resemblance to Brezhnev with tremendous effect. Sergoff was younger, taller, much better proportioned, more striking in uniform, and he’d been with Danilov for years — but he still reacted with awe to his senior’s temper. Now, he responded to Danilov’s question with a stuttered, “I… I’m not sure… sir. I’m still working on her speed of advance through the Bering Sea. You said that with the ice still heavy this time of year, she’d probably be reduced to a speed of…” It was spring and the ice was breaking up.
“Between eight to twelve knots, Captain,” Danilov said, his expression changing to one of amusement. “And I believe we agreed to use the higher speed since we want to be waiting for her if she survives that long — rather than trying to catch up,” he added nastily.
There was no point in discussing details with the admiral in that mood, Sergoff concluded, and returned to his careful plotting. There was no damned submarine with a draft of almost a hundred feet that was going to go charging through ice-clogged waters in depths that were sometimes only twenty feet below her keel!
Danilov moved about the room, a caged animal antagonizing each of his staff until he, himself, understood what he was doing: subconsciously blaming them for Anna’s illness. Then, gruffly, with just a tinge of apology in his voice, he remarked for all their benefit, “Enough. There is no point in all this. It is my fault that we are waiting here.” So he folded his huge arms across his chest. “Sergoff, we will have a staff meeting with the commanding officers, executive officers, and political officers of each submarine in twenty minutes at the officers’ mess alongside Seratov. All officers to be ready for sea.” They’d packed their duffels days before in anticipation of the great hunt. “And, Sergoff, have each commander prepared to get underway within twenty-four hours. I expect to arrive at our Chukchi Sea station at least a day before they get to the strait.”
Sergoff knew there was no real reason for one more briefing, but he also understood that Admiral Danilov grabbed at every opportunity to enhance morale in each operation he commanded. And this was to be the most vital of all. Seratov and the two other submarines would be instantly ready. None of their crews had been ashore for the past seventy-two hours. Their reactors had been on thirty-minute standby. Supplies had been replenished each day they remained at the pier waiting for the admiral’s orders. After so many hours of inaction, he decided Danilov was correct. Even if they’d allow the men off the submarines, there was little to do around the naval base at Polyarnyy except to get drunk. A pep talk would rekindle spirits that might have dwindled with the long wait.
When the ever alert Sergoff called for a sailor to take the admiral’s duffel to Seratov, Danilov refused. There was one key element to the start of every great adventure, and that was when Abe Danilov hoisted his seabag over his shoulder and carried it himself down the pier to the boat that would be his home during the cruise. There would be sailors who might disagree with him, but Danilov had prized that little bit of tradition since he boarded his first sub more than thirty years before.
When the admiral once again emerged from his tiny quarters behind the operations room, looking even more the bear in his greatcoat, he was smiling. The gruff voice was replaced by happy laughter as he led them into the freezing, snow-filled arctic night of Polyarnyy base, his seabag balanced on his shoulder with one hand. His voice howled beyond the ice crystals that snapped at their faces as they grudgingly followed their leader down the main street of the base and out to the pier.
Seratov’s outline hardened into evil, low sleekness as they waded through the soft, sculptured drifts. She would be Danilov’s flagship. Her sisters, partially hidden alongside, were Smolensk and Novgorod. Each of these submarines was known to run faster and dive deeper than any undersea craft yet designed. The term “hunter/killer” applied well to Danilov’s tiny armada.
A long, single story building along the pier served as both quarters and messing area for submarine officers in port. It was here that the admiral chose to give his inspirational talk to the officers who would sail with him. There was no doubt in any man’s mind about their mission. But the admiral had his own way of transmitting enthusiasm to his subordinates so they might react in a manner entirely satisfactory to him. It was much more than morale building. It was molding men to sacrifice more than they ever imagined in order to carry our their orders — in this case, Abe Danilov’s orders.
When the speeches were over and toasts had been drunk to their mission, Abe Danilov was the first one out the door, his duffel slung over his shoulder. He stepped out into the snowy night, feeling the wind drive the snow into his face, and led his men to their vessels. To each of them, this great bear of a man was the ideal leader for this mission.
Once Abe Danilov had unpacked his seabag and neatly stowed his gear as only he could do it, he lay back on his bunk and read Anna’s first letter carefully. It brought him back to his early days as a junior lieutenant in Sebastopol.
It was 1960. Anna Chuikov had run away to marry him, though her family, especially her father, did everything possible to stop her. The general even threatened to shoot anyone who helped them. They’d expected her to marry the son of someone important — a government official, or perhaps the son of a war hero — anyone but this man. General Chuikov was sure that Abe Danilov was a Jew’.
He took advantage of old contacts to send the KGB after the young naval officer.
Danilov’s submarine was tied up at the pier and he was on watch when they came. They appeared in civilian clothes but he knew who they were as they came down the dock because a friend at the gates had called to warn him. Even though he was watch officer on the quarterdeck, they simply stalked aboard, established his identity, then handcuffed him. One of the sailors ran for the captain, who was furious but could do nothing about it. Everyone feared the KGB for none had forgotten the violent purges of their NKVD forebears.
When Anna came down to the submarine at the end of the day, the captain explained that Danilov had been taken away. He was afraid to contact anyone, claiming he didn’t know anyone to call. Anna quietly asked him to take her to the building where the phones were because she wouldn’t have to wait in line if the captain of a submarine was there.
Her father raged. Her mother said later that she never remembered him that angry, even during the war. But Anna Chuikov had inherited her temper from her father. It was the first time she had ever talked to him like that, and she claimed later that if the general could have seen her face, he would have given in more quickly.
She often reminded her husband in the ensuing years that she never minded that the general didn’t want her to marry Danilov. That was Chuikov’s right. But the idea that he would send those horrible people to haul her fiancée away like a common thug was too much. She never knew what convinced the old man — maybe that she would never speak to him again, maybe that she threatened to kill herself The story mellowed so much over the years that eventually she wasn’t sure she ever said that. But the general finally gave in and Danilov was freed in a couple of hours.