“Didn’t hurt his career any, not that I saw, Captain,” Vlasenko said. “He may be only a captain second rank, but he’s in command of the Yasen-M boat Voronezh.”
“You know why, right? That asshole Novikov is the adopted son of Admiral Gennady Zhigunov, and Zhigunov is married to the daughter of the Minister of Defense. So. Connections.”
“You said there was more?” Vlasenko prompted.
“That asshole Novikov is pretty much the reason I’m divorced.”
Irina Trusov stared at him. “Really, sir?”
Orlov poured another vodka. “After the board of inquiry, he apparently decided to strike for me where it hurt. While I was on an under-ice run in the Arctic Ocean, that asshole Novikov was busy chatting up and seducing my wife.”
The room went silent, almost as if someone had let all the air out of the room. Orlov looked up from his glass and shook his head. “Yeah, and the story doesn’t have a happy ending, not for either of us.”
“What do you mean, Captain?” Trusov put her hand briefly on Orlov’s sleeve, a gesture of empathy.
“She left me for him,” Orlov said. “And that asshole Novikov was stupid enough to fall for her, just like I did. And would you believe it? She did the same thing to him that she did to me, not even a full year later. His next Barents Sea exercise, she ended up in the bed of the captain of the Kazan.”
“Mother of God,” Vlasenko said. “That woman certainly has a thing for submarine commanders.”
Orlov pulled out his phone and selected a photo of his former wife and passed it to Vlasenko, who handed it to Sukolov — who whistled — who handed it to Dobryvnik, then to Trusov.
“She could be a movie star,” Trusov said, impressed.
The woman in the photo was a platinum bombshell blonde with deep blue eyes, puffy red lips, a small upturned nose; she was slender but with an enormous chest and mile-long legs. She looked like she stepped right off one of those graphics that graced the noses of the bombers of the Great Patriotic War.
“She stopped traffic everywhere she went. It was stupid of me to marry her. Stupider still for that asshole Novikov to fall in love with her.”
“Damn,” Vlasenko said. “Now I feel sorry for both of you.”
“I didn’t mean to turn the evening into a downer,” Orlov said, standing. “I’ll close out the tab. You guys finish without me. I’ll find a cab back to the boat.”
On the cab ride back to the port facility, Orlov leaned his head against the window, berating himself for spilling his sad life story to his officers. For the thousandth time, he cursed the day he met Natalia.
And for the ten thousandth time, he cursed that asshole Novikov. Orlov wondered where that asshole Novikov was at that moment. Probably speeding at full ahead, reactor circulating pumps at fast speed, leaving the Arabian Sea and entering the Gulf of Oman, making his 8300 nautical mile passage from the Northern Fleet Kola base at Zapadnaya Litsa through the Suez Canal look like a breeze compared to Orlov’s 8100 mile run from Rybachiy in the Kamchatka peninsula. The thought of that asshole Novikov entering the Gulf of Oman ahead of them made Orlov sick. As the cab arrived at the pier, Captain First Rank Yuri Orlov, Navy of the Russian Republic and captain of the frontline nuclear fast attack submarine Novosibirsk, opened the door and vomited what seemed like gallons.
16
Captain Second Rank Boris Novikov climbed the four steps from the conning tower interior to the bridge of the Yasen-M-class submarine Voronezh. The ship was anchored in the southbound convoy waiting area a few miles north of Port Said, the northern mouth of the Suez Canal. The route plan had Voronezh passing surfaced through the canal over a week ago, but all traffic had been suddenly held up for reasons unknown. Instead of 97 ships a day going through, half of them southbound, those vessels had all piled up, filling the southbound convoy waiting area until the new arrivals were forced to steam in slow circles, burning their fuel and annoying their crews.
Novikov lifted the satellite phone from his belt and stared at it for a moment, knowing it was prohibited for personal use, but unable to help himself. He dialed the number, her number, a number he’d had memorized since the day she’d given it to him, what seemed half a lifetime ago.
The voice that came over the connection was beautiful, Novikov thought, sweet and soprano, her tongue caressing the consonants, her throat wrapping around the vowels, more musical than an opera singer, but unfortunately, the voice was a recording.
“You have reached Natalia Orlov, and I am so very sorry I am unable to connect with you live, but if you’ll leave me your message, I promise I will call you back at my very earliest opportunity, and until then, may God and all his angels be with you.”
He’d gotten that stupid recording for the last eight days, ever since the Suez Canal shut down. That recording constantly promising she’d call back, a false promise for certain. And she’d kept that foul name Orlov, as if to toss it in his face. Novikov knew she hadn’t gone back to that pud-thumper Orlov. And he doubted she was still seeing Alexeyev, the captain of the Kazan. And if not, where was she? What was she doing? She’d made noises about leaving Murmansk and going back to Moscow, but even so, her phone should have worked.
Novikov decided to leave yet another message. “Natalia, it’s me, Boris. If this number is unfamiliar, that’s because it’s a secure satellite phone. I’m halfway through a voyage and delayed, so I thought I would call you and tell you again how I feel about you. Natalia, I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I miss you so much—”
The first officer just had to pick that very moment to intrude on his space in the upper conning tower.
Novikov clicked off the connection, hoping Captain Second Rank Anastasia Isakova hadn’t heard much of his message. It was unmistakably not an official call, and his whispering romance into a goddamned Navy satphone would not sit well with the crew. Or with the bosses. With an effort to control his expression, he turned to face the first officer.
“Madam First,” he said.
Isakova stepped up to the upper conning tower platform, binoculars hanging from a strap around her neck. The slender brunette was wearing her blue at-sea coveralls with the high-vis stripes, the belt of the one-piece garment tied snugly around her small waist, making her breasts seem bigger. Her hips were narrow, her legs thin, leaving her seeming top-heavy. Her hair was cut ultra-short, giving her a pixie look. Some men liked that, Novikov thought, but she seemed less feminine than he liked. Not like the nightclub singer body of Natalia. Dammit, he thought, could he have one thought to himself without Natalia invading his mind?
“Captain. I came up to talk to you and take a look around. Do you mind?”