“New warheads, you say?” the Captain asked.
“I didn’t know anything about such a change.”
Chuchkin cleared his throat.
“Only heard about them myself less than ten minutes ago. I’ll try to get wind of exactly what we’re taking on from the supply chief. That old Uzbek owes me a few favors. Are you going to be wanting dinner later?”
“Thanks, Comrade, but I think I’ll just pick up some cheese and crackers later this evening. I’ve got more than enough work to keep me busy well into the night.”
“Well, if you need anything, just give me a call.
Good night. Captain.”
“Good night. Chief.”
As his heavyset visitor backed out of the room and shut the door behind him, Valenko let out a sigh of relief. Free to return to his work, he stared down at the partially filled pad. Try as he could to return to his original flow of thought, his mind remained locked on a single observation the chief had left with him.
So … Ivan Novikov had been one of the first to leave for shore. Was the political officer still upset with that minor confrontation they had the other evening? Valenko couldn’t forget how the zampolit had hastily averted his eyes from the captain’s when they had passed each other a few hours earlier. Why, the man hadn’t even returned his simple greeting.
Valenko hadn’t thought their squabble was that serious.
It was more a silly misinterpreting of words than anything else.
Aware of the trouble Novikov could make if he decided to blow their confrontation into a major event, Valenko thought it best to include their spat in his log. A minor addendum would serve to explain what had happened at the fated komsomol meeting.
Certain that this would clear the air, the captain picked up his pen and once again immersed himself in a recreation of the patrol just completed.
The next day Valenko was still at his desk. Not even taking time for lunch, he diligently put the finishing touches on his report. When this was finally completed, he felt as if a great weight had been removed from his shoulders. He put the thick stack of legal sized sheets into a large packet. This pouch would then be messengered over to headquarters, where a squadron typist would get the challenge of converting his scrawled handwriting into legible copy. Quickly now, Valenko changed into a clean uniform, left his quarters and ascended the stairway to the forward entry hatch.
Outside, it was another frigid arctic day. Pulling the fur collar of his greatcoat tightly around his neck, Valenko breathed in the crisp, cool air. Barely lit by the low-rising sun, the sky was a deep blue, with a strata of high-flying, puffy white clouds blowing in from the northwest. Valenko returned the salute of the sentry positioned beside the gangplank and made his way on shore. He was unaccustomed to the feeling of solid ground beneath him and knew it would take a while to feel comfortable on pavement. After all, the constant pitching of the Vulkan’s deck had guided his steps for the past sixty days.
Before leaving the pen area completely, he turned to take a last look at his command. Moored securely to its berth, the Vulkan appeared a benign behemoth.
The sleek, black hull was beginning to show the effects of salt-water corrosion. Splotches of rusty primer could be clearly seen, undercoating the vessel’s stem, sail and deck areas. Even though the sub had been completely painted only this past summer, the harsh sea was already leaving its mark. Such was the nature of the element through which they traveled.
A small group of men could be seen gathered beside the humped casing set behind the sail. They were busy repairing a dock-borne loading gantry. Supervising this crew was the bearded, heavyset figure of Yuri Chuchkin. Complete with his faithful pipe between his lips, the weapons chief efficiently orchestrated his men’s actions. Feeling he was fortunate to have such an individual aboard, Valenko wondered how the morning’s activities had gone. Confident that Chuchkin could handle the loading of the new warheads without incident, the captain took a last look at the crimson hammer and sickle flying from the flagpole.
Like a newlywed leaving his bride, he reluctantly pivoted and hastily proceeded inland.
The wharf area buzzed with activity. Dozens of work crews were in evidence, bustling to and from the huge warehouses set up there. Lines of supply trucks cluttered the narrow streets as their drivers impatiently waited for the loading docks to clear. The hum of fork-lift trucks and diesel engines filled the air as Valenko continued down the cracked sidewalk.
Passing through a section of the base reserved for administrative purposes, Valenko noticed an unusually high number of clean-up workers scattered outside the brick office complex. With brooms, rakes, hedge trimmers and even paint brushes in hand, these hard-working souls busily did their duty. Many of them were babushkas. These heavyset old women were most comfortable with cleaning; they seemed happy to be doing their day’s work for the Motherland and went about their chores industriously.
When Valenko crossed the central parade area he was surprised to find a construction unit in the midst of building a large wooden stage, complete with a huge stand of bench-type bleachers. Other workers were busy implanting several flagpoles in the ground.
It wasn’t until the captain reached the security checkpoint at the entrance to the facility that he found out what all this unusual activity was for.
“The base is preparing for the visits of both General Secretary Rodin and Admiral Sorokin, Captain,” advised the sentry.
“They will be arriving here at the end of the week.”
Valenko noticed how the young guard’s eyes focused on the gold submarine medallion pinned to his collar.
Having no need to explain his ignorance, Valenko nodded and signed the register that declared him officially off base.
Petropavlovsk was a sprawling community, comprised of the inevitable conglomeration of ugly, gray high-rise apartment buildings, and quaint, colorfully painted cottages. Spreading out roughly fanlike, with the naval base forming its eastern boundary, the city was known for its widely diverse population, few of whom were actually born there. As is the case with large military complexes throughout the world, Petropavlovsk’s unique position created a healthy business climate.
Dependent on the city for all types of supplies and services, the base’s personnel had developed a good relationship with the local civilians. Thus, Valenko encountered a variety of kind nods and greetings as he entered the city proper.
Shunning the line of taxis that waited outside the guard post, Valenko desired nothing better than a brisk, invigorating walk. The portion of town for which he was headed was less than a mile distant.
Turning to the left, he began his way down a six-lane paved thoroughfare packed with bicycles, automobiles and trucks of all sizes.
Since he was headed south now, the piercing north wind deflected off his back.
As he merged with the snaking line of commuter foot traffic, he marveled at the mixture of humanity that swirled around him.
High-cheeked Mongols and dark-eyed Tartars darted among swarthy Uzbeks and fair-skinned Great Russians. Every element of the Rodina’s diverse population seemed to be represented here. Bundled in thick fur coats and wraps of buckskin, ox hide and wool, the hearty population seemed unaware of the bone-freezing chill. To them, this was but another mild fall day in northeastern Siberia.
After passing a huge park filled with immense pine trees Valenko entered the first of the business districts. Here he decided to take one of the narrower side streets. Dozens of simple, one-story structures housed shops primarily set aside to sell foodstuffs. The window of one establishment catering to the fish trade was filled with a single, massive tuna, solidly frozen on a bed of shaved ice. In the shop next door, a bevy of headless, plucked chickens were on display.