He caught the last half of a Clint Eastwood spaghetti Western in the wardroom, and by the time the film’s final frame faded, he was ready for bed. Sleep was quick in coming, with his food-induced dreams taking him on a hike into the Highlands of Scotland with Laurie, and a frightening visit to a pitch black tunnel whose walls seemed to be closing in on him.
He awoke seven hours later, with the urge to relieve himself his number one priority. To get to the head, he had to pass the wardroom, where he encountered the XO, hurriedly filling a mug with coffee.
“You got up just in time,” called the XO, who was clean-shaved and ready for work.
“We’ve got a sighting on the periscope that I think you’ll be interested in.”
“Just give me time for a pit stop, and I’ll be right with you,” replied Moore as he continued to the head.
The XO was faithfully waiting to escort him up to the control room. He found the compartment lit in red, and the captain anxiously huddled over the boat’s attack scope.
“Commander Moore’s here. Captain,” announced the XO.
Walden stepped back from the scope, and scanned the room until his gaze locked on Thomas Moore.
“Mr. Moore, please have a look,” offered Walden.
The investigator climbed onto the slightly elevated bridge and joined the captain beside the periscope. A neophyte at this business, he tentatively grabbed onto the scope’s twin handles and peered into the rubber lens coupling.
The dawn was breaking topside, and thankful that his night vision was intact, he spotted a surface ship floating in the distance.
“Use that left handle to increase the magnification if you’d like,” informed the captain.
Moore rotated the handle downwards, and the surface vessel seemed to jump into closer view. The ship had a pointed bow, with a sleek, modern superstructure and a single stack. He had seen a picture of this same boat only recently, while sorting through his notes, and knew that he was looking at a live shot of the Academician Petrowsky.
The captain’s voice lowered to a whisper.
“Did you get a look at those flags flying from her stern?”
With the amplified assistance of the scope, Moore spotted the crimson red hammer and sickle banner of the Soviet Navy blowing in the breeze beside the ship’s fantail. Next to it fluttered the blue and white insignia of the United Nations.
“Those flags sure make strange bedfellows,” said Moore as he backed away from the scope.
Walden lowered the periscope, then turned to address Moore.
“Now that we’ve made it to our destination, I believe that you’re supposed to be calling the shots, Commander. How do you want to proceed?”
Moore had been dreading this moment, and he had to clear his throat before being able to express himself.
“Captain, I’m going to need to board that vessel. Can we contact her?”
“She’s as close as a call on our underwater telephone,” answered Walden.
“Things would sure go a lot smoother if I knew her name.”
“It’s the Academician Petrovsky,” Moore said without missing a beat.
Impressed with the investigator’s knowledge, Walden reached up to the ceiling and pulled down a coiled cord, which was attached to a large hand-held microphone.
Walden placed this device to his lips and spoke out clearly.
“Academician Petrovsky, this is the American warship, USS Hyman G. Rickover. Do you read me, over?”
Walden had to repeat this message three more times, before a somewhat scratchy response resounded through the intercom speakers.
“This is the Academician Petrovsky. What nature of vessel are you?”
Walden didn’t look all that happy as he responded.
We’re a nuclear-powered attack submarine, positioned beneath the water three thousand yards off your port bow.”
“One moment, please,” said the amplified voice with a hint of excitement.
“I must get my superior officer.”
“Two minutes passed before another voice projected from the intercom speakers.
“This is Senior Lieutenant Viktor Ilyich Alexandrov at your service, Comrade.
To whom do I have the honor of speaking?”
“This is Captain John Walden of the USS Hyman G. Rickover.”
“And how can I help you, Captain Walden?” asked the Russian.
Walden looked at Moore for help, and the investigator alertly pulled out his notebook and scribbled out an appropriate response for the captain.
“Senior Lieutenant Alexandrov, one of my crew members, Commander Thomas Moore, would like permission to board your ship to speak to the U.N. observer team.”
“Such a surprise request is highly irregular. Captain,” retorted Alexandrov.
“And before I can approve it, I must clear it with my superior. Admiral Igor Valerian.”
“Very well. Senior Lieutenant. We’ll await your reply.”
Walden stowed away the microphone and looked the investigator straight in the eyes.
“Commander, I believe I’m long overdue for that briefing that you’ve been promising me.”
“That you are. Captain,” returned Moore.
“And you’ll have it, right after you get me on that ship.”
It took ten minutes before the intercom speakers once again crackled alive.
“Captain Walden, this is Senior Lieutenant Alexandrov. In the spirit of peaceful coexistence that underscores our current mission, Commander Moore’s request has been approved.
Please surface at once, and we’ll send out a boat to initiate the transfer.”
Moore’s relief was instantaneous, and he hurried down to his bunk to prepare himself. A quarter of an hour later, he was climbing up the Rickover’s forward access trunk.
The sun was breaking the eastern horizon as Moore approached the sailors gathered on the sub’s deck.
One of these was the captain, who took Moore aside and pointed towards the small, wooden gig headed towards them from the direction of the Academician Petrovsky.
“About how long will you be needing over there?” questioned Walden.
“I shouldn’t be gone more than an hour. Captain.”
“Very well, Mr. Moore. We’ll wait for you topside.
Don’t hesitate to call us if you should run into any lengthy delays.”
“Will do. Captain.”
Still not certain what he’d be encountering aboard the Russian ship, Moore tried his best to look as confident as possible. Because the sea was almost dead flat, the transfer over to the gig took place without incident, and the investigator soon found himself surrounded by four brawny Russian sailors, wearing blue-and white striped tunics. It was evident that none of them spoke English, and because Moore’s Russian was equally limited, the short voyage took place in utter silence.
He boarded the Academician Petrovsky by way of a ladder. Waiting for him on the deck was an immaculately uniformed Russian naval officer, and a heavyset, ruddy-cheeked, middle-aged fellow, dressed in a baggy seersucker suit. It was this portly fellow who stepped forward and initiated the introductions.
“Good day. Commander Moore. I’m Dr. Harlan Sorkin. On behalf of the United Nations, I’d like to welcome you aboard Academician Petrovsky. May I introduce Senior Lieutenant Alexandrov, our host vessel’s executive officer.”
Moore politely nodded towards the Russian, noting that Dr. Sorkin’s accent indicated that he was most likely either from Australia or New Zealand.
“Dr. Sorkin,” said Moore in an easygoing, informal tone of voice.
“I’m sorry to drop in on you like this, but I’ve been sent to check on your team’s comfort and on the adequacy of this vessel to provide support for the habitat.”
“You have nothing to worry about on either account, Commander,” returned the doctor.
“The Academician Petrovsky has provided us with all the comforts of home, and it’s been the ideal support ship for our program.”