Leonov’s sour facial expression lightened noticeably.
“If you only knew the extent of her beauty, Comrade. Not only is she the most attractive girl I have ever met, but she’s intelligent and a pleasure to be with, also.”
“Sounds serious,” Valenko observed while chewing on a crust of bread.
“Does she realize what being tied down to a submariner would mean? For half the year her bed would be empty.”
“Natasha’s father is an old navy man himself,” Leonov said animatedly.
“During the Great War he sailed with none other than Admiral Sorokin.”
“You don’t say,” Valenko commented as he finished off the last of the cabbage rolls. Picking up his mug of tea, he looked the lovelorn officer in the eye.
“Marry her, Vasili. I may not always be right, but I’m never wrong about these matters. Tie the knot when we’re home next week. Start yourself a family.
I’ll envy you all the way to the altar.”
Hearing just the words he wanted, the senior lieutenant attempted a smile.
“I was afraid that we hadn’t known each long enough. We only saw one another less than three weeks.”
“That’s longer than many,” the captain returned.
“Go with your instincts. Comrade. Life is much too short for procrastination.”
Sipping his tea contendedly, Valenko could see his advice hit home.
Like a new man, the senior lieutenant pushed his chair away from the table and stood triumphantly.
“I feel better already. Captain. You’re right — I must go with my instincts. If Natasha will have me, we’ll get married at once. I’d be a fool if I thought that I could live without her. How blind I’ve been!”
Checking his watch, Leonov prepared to exit.
“I’m afraid that I’m due up in the control room now. I can’t thank you enough for your advice. Comrade. I should have come to you much earlier.”
The senior officer pivoted smartly and left the mess whistling a tune from the Nutcracker. Petyr Valenko watched him take his leave and stifled a chuckle. Here he was — a godfather and a matchmaker all in the same day. His purpose in the Rodina’s navy never failed to amaze him.
After finishing his tea, the captain was preparing to get up and exit himself when a high-pitched, raspy voice greeted him.
“Good evening. Captain. I’m pleased to see that you’re the first one here for this week’s komsomol meeting. It’s been much too long since you’ve given us the honor of your presence.”
These shrill words came from Ivan Novikov, the Vulkan’s zampolit. Not stopping to hear Valenko’s response, the short, skinny political officer proceeded hastily across the mess. Reaching the room’s far corner, he took up a position before a large, wallmounted poster of Vladimir Ilich Lenin and began setting up a small lectern.
To Valenko, Novikov always seemed to be puttering around. His constant need to be moving about made the captain nervous. Of course, his very standing as Zampolit was cause for tension in itself. As the only officer aboard who could directly undermine the captain’s authority (in the interests of the Party), Ivan Novikov answered to his own chain of command.
Fortunately, the two had yet to seriously tangle.
Valenko knew that he was lucky. Many were the tale of political officers who constantly poked their noses into ships’ line functions.
One good thing about Novikov was that he was satisfied merely to direct the crew’s ideological indoctrination and to monitor their political reliability. Propulsion systems, navigational problems and electronic components were of little interest to him. Consigned to making the best of the situation, the captain decided he had better keep up his front of affability. Arming himself with his best diplomatic smile, he crossed the mess to confront the zampolit directly.
“Good evening to you. Comrade. Actually, I was just finishing off a late supper. I stood a double watch today and didn’t realize that the time was flying by so quickly.”
Holding back a forced yawn, Valenko hinted again.
“I’ll be taking another midnight watch, so I’d better be thinking about getting some rest.”
Novikov’s head jerked up.
“Oh, Captain, you disappoint me. Must you leave already? At least stay for the first half of the meeting. Attendance has been a bit of a problem lately and your presence will be greatly appreciated. And besides, this evening our topic is far from being an ideological one. We will be discussing nuclear warfare strategy.”
From the pleading tone of Novikov’s voice, Valenko knew he would have trouble getting out of this one.
His dilemma was exacerbated as the first of the komsomol members began to arrive. Quietly, they took their seats at the tables while the zampolit continued readying his notes.
Membership in the komsomol, the official Party club, was quite voluntary. It was said to be advantageous for a seaman, or even an officer, for that matter, to attend such meetings. Having the solid support of the party could never hurt come promotion time.
Valenko turned around and noticed that several junior lieutenants had arrived. He nodded politely as their eyes lit up upon identifying him.
The majority of the other dozen participants came from the noncommissioned ranks. Unwillingly, Valenko took a seat at the table nearest the lectern. He watched the zampolit continue his frantic preparations, and couldn’t help but compare Novikov’s coloring and facial structure with the representation of the founder of socialism tacked to the wall behind him. Fighting back another yawn, Valenko tried not to think about the comforting shelter of his mattress — when a sweet, familiar odor met his nostrils. The captain swiveled around to see the grinning red face of Yuri Chuchkin.
The bearded, heavyset weapons chief, whose habitual, battered briar pipe lay between his clenched lips, slid into the seat beside him.
“Why Captain Valenko, I’m certainly surprised to see you at this friendly little soiree.”
“You should talk. Comrade,” Valenko retorted.
“I didn’t know that they let the likes of you into the komsomol. What is this Party coming to?”
Chuchkin let out a deep laugh and the captain was instantly infected by his joviality. The happy-go-lucky weapons chief, who reminded him of the mythical Father Frost, always had that effect on him. His presence would serve to make the evening that much more tolerable.
Valenko fought to control his mirth and moved over to again query the newcomer.
“By the way, what are you doing here. Comrade Chuchkin?”
Chuchkin took a deep draw on his pipe and released a stream of vanilla-scented smoke.
“Why, Captain, didn’t you check your ticket stub? I’m tonight’s guest speaker.”
Again Chuchkin roared with laughter. This time the sharp report of a gavel striking wood redirected their attention to the lectern. All merriment came to an instant end as the Vulkan’s zampolit coldly greeted them.
“Good evening, Comrades. Welcome to tonight’s weekly komsomol meeting.
I see a few new faces out there this evening. It’s always good to have newcomers.
The Party shall take note.
“I’m certain that all of you have spotted two esteemed members of our officer corps here tonight.
Captain Valenko, all of us are aware of your tight schedule. To give us the honor of your presence is a testament to the great principles of the party that bring us all together.”
As Valenko nodded in response to his introduction. Novikov continued.
“Tonight, we won’t be exploring the lofty theoretical principles that underlay the Rodina’s political composition. Rather, we will be discussing much more practical matters. Our country’s nuclear war-fighting ability is the deterrent that allows the Motherland to grow and prosper. Without it, the imperialists would run rampant through our countryside, spreading their tired doctrine of decadence and greed.