When the system was found to be malfunctioning, Kuzmin immediately volunteered to have a look at it.
The senior officer of the deck agreed to this and a suitable sailor was assigned to take over Kuzmin’s post at the sonar console.
His trusty tool box at his side, the which man squeezed into the cramped compartment where the recording device was stored — between the control room and the sub’s bow. The storage cell was packed with various electronic components. Most of this equipment was directly connected to the monitors in the control room. Kuzmin wondered how many of the Vulkan’s senior officers even knew that such a receptacle existed.
The warrant officer hooked an electric lantern onto the handle of a vacant storage bracket. The console that he wished to examine lay immediately below.
Awkwardly, he went down to his knees. He opened the tool box and removed a set of screwdrivers, then located the metal container where the sonar recorder was stashed. He determined the proper screw size and, after selecting the appropriate tool, began unloosening the metal cover plate Once this was accomplished, he began his work in earnest. The device was designed like a large cassette recorder.
After confirming that the unit was getting a proper electrical charge, Kuzmin checked the recording heads and then removed the circuitry panel. A tedious test of each individual circuit followed. When this operation failed to show any negative results, he reinserted the panel and took a second to doublecheck his previous work. From all that he could see, the system should be operating perfectly. On a whim, he decided to check the cassette tape himself. He pulled the thin plastic container off its spools and only then spotted the apparent cause of the malfunction.
Somehow, the permanent tape itself had broken.
Dismantling the cassette to resplice the tape would be a most difficult job. Though he never knew of such a component to fail, Kuzmin was confident that he could soon get the whole unit going once again.
Cramped and hot, he decided to work on’re splicing the cassette under more comfortable conditions. He pocketed the tape, resealed the recorder, stood, and carefully backed his way out of the narrow cell.
As he entered the adjoining hallway, four soft electronic chimes issued from the sub’s public-address system.
Spurred by the familiar tones, he checked his watch and reaffirmed the completion of yet another work shift.
For four precious hours he would be officially on his own. Conscious of a noisy gurgling in his stomach, he decided that his first stop would be the mess hall.
There would be plenty of time to complete his current project after dinner and a sound nap.
The galley area was two floors below. Kuzmin anxiously descended a pair of metal stairwells and turned toward the vessel’s stern. After passing that section of the sub reserved for the enlisted men’s living quarters, he ducked through an open hatchway and turned into the dining hall.
Being one of the first men there allowed him to miss the long lines that accompanied each meal shift. He picked up a tray and silverware, then proceeded over to the cafeteria-style serving area. Kuzmin nodded to the potbellied figure who stood behind two sweaty conscripts who were busy ladling out portions.
“Hello, Comrade Irkutsk. How is the world treating you today?”
Chef Anatoly responded heavily to the which mans greeting.
“As usual, I find myself fighting a losing battle. The little food that is fit to serve gets burned by these imbeciles who have the nerve to call themselves cooks. You should just see today’s waste! It’s going to be the sharks who dine well this evening.”
Kuzmin grinned in response to his typical complaint.
“As always, you seem to find a way to feed us most adequately. Comrade.
What’s today’s bill of fare?”
Anatoly answered while wiping his hands on his spotted apron.
“Sausage a la Baikal, Siberian cabbage and pickled beets. There will be some nice hot rye bread out shortly. You would have had it now, but my assistants here burned the first dozen loaves. Only minutes ago the smoke was so thick that I thought I’d have to call out the fire brigade.”
Kuzmin accepted a steaming plateful of food and sniffed at its aroma approvingly.
“Well, it sure appears tasty to me. Once more. Chef, it looks like you’ve accomplished miracles.”
“Enjoy yourself. Comrade. Of all those present, it can be said that you are one who has truly earned today’s food. Not like the shirkers I get stuck with.”
Nodding at this unexpected compliment, Kuzmin picked up his tray and turned to find a table. From the center of the large room, a single diner waved to him. Surprised to find the sonar chief well into his meal, Kuzmin joined him.
“How did you manage to get down here so quickly?” the which man asked.
Lev Zinyakin swallowed a mouthful of sausage and said, “You had to be there to believe it, Stefan. Five full minutes before the change of shifts was scheduled, who relieves me, but our own Vasili Leonov.”
Kuzmin looked startled.
“You mean to say that our esteemed Senior Lieutenant actually took over your watch so that you could break early?”
“As Karl Marx is my witness, so it was. If you ask me, it was the zampolit who put the idea in his head.
Do you know that Novikov was actually smiling as he made the rounds of the control room? I even heard him tell a joke or two.”
“Now that is something,” Kuzmin said. He cut into his sausage and decided to let it cool a bit before eating.
“I wonder what’s gotten into those two?
Perhaps today’s a national holiday that we’ve forgotten about.”
“I doubt that. Although, to see our zampolit smiling is reason for a holiday in itself.” After consuming a bite of cabbage, he continued.
“As usual, poor heartbroken Vasili didn’t have much to say as he strapped on the sensor headphones. What followed, though, was most out of the ordinary. Old Novikov himself patted me on the back and complimented me on the splendid job that I was doing. Then ‘the zampolit ordered me to ‘refresh myself,” as he so tactfully put it.
Needless to say, I almost fell over in shock. You can be certain that I got out of there as quickly as possible, before they changed their minds.” “Most amazing,” Kuzmin mused as he began to go to work on his beets.
“I wonder if the Captain had something to do with it. With this unexpected patrol and all, I’ve never seen morale so low before. The least the officers can do is be civil.”
“That’s a thought,” Zinyakin replied.
“Although I doubt that even Petyr Valenko could cause a smile to cross our zampolit’s face if his heart wasn’t in it.”
“Heart?” the which man quizzed playfully.
“Since when has our political officer been outfitted with such a human organ?”
Both men laughed and looked up admiringly when one of the cooks dropped off a loaf of fresh rye bread at their table. Kuzmin ripped off the heel, soaked it in gravy, and consumed a healthy bite.
“There is nothing like Chef Anatoly’s sausage a la Baikal,” he sincerely observed.
After tearing off a hunk of bread for himself, the sonar chief added, “You know, I have it from a good authority that Comrade Irkutsk has a secret source for the sausage’s stuffing.”
“What’s that?”
Relishing the moment, Zinyakin grinned.
“My spies tell me that our dear chef stuffs the sausage skins with the remains of those unlucky cooks who have burned their limits on past patrols. Tonight we are probably dining on a poor departed seaman who hailed from the Lake Baikal region. Thus, this recipe’s name.”