“I’ve never seen someone sweat so much in my entire life,” added Yuri Sosnovo.
“I swear, by the time that political officer finished his briefing, that handkerchief of his was dripping wet, along with the entire collar of his shirt. I remember thinking at the time that what I’d like to do with my cyanide pill was to shove it up his fat ass.”
This observation produced a loud snicker from the mouth of Tanya OIovski, who had been in the midst of replacing a circuit board.
“Go ahead and laugh all you want, comrade,” replied the chief engineer with a smirk.
“But if that zampolit still on board the Ladoga, you’ll be sharing my sentiments soon enough.”
This statement was punctuated by the deep voice of Oleg Zagorsk.
“We’ve got a submerged sonar contact, Captain. Range three thousand meters, bearing three zero-zero.”
Mikhail looked down at his chart, his glance centered on the small red star he had drawn halfway between the Orkney and Shetland Islands.
“I’ll bet my pension that’s the Ladoga,” he said as he reached for the underwater telephone.
A quick call confirmed this fact, and the crew scrambled to prepare Sea Devil for the intricate docking procedure that would now follow. With a minimum of trouble the Sea Devil was guided into the forwardmost of the two semi-recessed deck wells set abaft the Ladoga’s sail. After securing the mini sub operational systems, the diving lock was utilized to transfer the crew down into the attack sub’s interior.
Waiting for them at the bottom of the ladder was a tall, bald-headed officer whose immaculate uniform was bedecked with an assortment of colorful campaign ribbons. At this smooth-faced veteran’s side was a corpulent individual with deep brown eyes and dark bushy eyebrows. Constantly kept busy mopping his forehead and jowls with a sweat-stained handkerchief, the Ladoga’s Zampolit stiffly projected his scratchy voice in greeting.
“On behalf of the entire crew, welcome aboard the Ladoga, comrades.”
“Yes indeed,” added the attack sub’s Captain, who directed his next remark to Sea Devil’s CO.
“And a special welcome home to you, Captain Borisov. It’s good to be of service to you once again.”
“Thank you, Captain Zinyagin,” replied Mikhail.
“It’s hard to believe how much time has passed since our last meeting. Why it seems that we were just cruising past the straits of Gibraltar together.”
“That it does,” returned Captain Dmitri Zinyagin with a sigh.
“Yet I’m certain that all of us have traveled far and wide in the meantime. Would you like to join us in the wardroom? I was just about to join our zampolit here in convening the boat’s biweekly Komsomol meeting.”
“I’m certain that you would find our discussion today most inspiring, Captain Borisov,” added the portly political officer.
“During this meeting both the captain and myself will be offering our ten rules for effective naval leadership. Perhaps you’d like to share with the members of the Ladoga’s young communist club your own philosophies on this matter?”
Briefly meeting his chief engineer’s brooding gaze, Mikhail replied.
“Though this offer sounds most tempting, I must humbly refuse. As you well know, we are in the midst of a challenging operation, and since our stay on the Ladoga will be brief, I think it’s best if we spend our time getting settled in our quarters and resting.”
“That’s only understandable, comrade,” retorted Captain Zinyagin.
“There’ll be time enough for us to share our command philosophies upon your return. And surely at that time your crew will join in as well. It’s always refreshing to hear what the Spetsnaz has on its mind in regard to the principles of leadership.
“Now enough of this chatter. Captain Borisov, if you’ll just follow us, we’ll guide you down to the quarters we’ve chosen for you. I hope you don’t mind, but on this cruise we’re a bit cramped, and you’ll be sharing a stateroom with our senior lieutenant. The rest of your crew has been allotted berthing space in the forward torpedo compartment.”
Mikhail was quick to speak up.
“If it’s okay with you, Captain, I’d rather bunk with my shipmates.”
Astounded by this, Dmitri Zinyagin protested.
“Surely you can’t be serious, Captain. I’m certain you’ll be much more comfortable sharing the senior lieutenant’s cabin.”
“It’s not a matter of comfort,” replied the blond haired Spetsnaz officer firmly.
“Aboard Sea Devil we have learned to function as a tight-knit team, and since any disruption of this unit weakens the bonds of trust that weld us together, I’d prefer remaining with my shipmates during the duration of our transit.”
“As you wish comrade,” said the Ladoga’s CO coldly.
“I’ll have our Michman show you and your crew down to your quarters.”
Conscious of the zampolifs intense, beady-eyed stare, Mikhail nodded and gratefully followed the sub’s warrant officer, who efficiently materialized to escort them to the torpedo room. Their living quarters turned out to be nothing but mattress like pallets that had been laid directly on top of the torpedo storage racks. With not even a curtain for privacy, Sea DeviFs crew made the best of the circumstances.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” offered the moustached chief engineer.
“I’d much rather have these torpedoes for company than this vessel’s senior officer complement.
Those two were as impertinent as they were during our last visit here.”
Tanya Olovski sat cross-legged on her spongy mattress and offered her own observations.
“I see what you mean about the zampolit. During the whole time he visited with us, not once did his sweat break. That poor fellow must go through one uniform after the other.”
“I once knew a fellow with the same problem back in the taiga,” reflected Oleg Zagorsk.
“Not only did he sweat like a mule, but he had horrible body odor as well. Our village elder said that he was possessed by a fiery demon, and he gave him a potion to drink to drive out the spirits.”
“Did it work?” quizzed Tanya.
“He died horribly two days later,” returned the serious Siberian.
“I bet the enlisted crew of the Ladoga wish they had some of that potion to give to their present captain and zampolit,” said Yuri with a grin.
“I can just imagine what it would be like serving under those two.”
“You’d better behave, Comrade Sosnovo, or during your next fitness report, I’ll recommend a transfer for you to this ship.”
“Oh, please, Captain, not that!” pleaded the chief engineer as he knelt down in front of his CO and raised his hands in mock supplication.
As his shipmates roared in laughter at the Ukrainian’s antics, a young seaman guardedly poked his head up over the torpedo rack and shyly cleared his throat.
“Excuse me, comrades, but is it true that you are really Spetsnaz?”
Mikhail Borisov sat up straight and answered in his deepest, authoritative tone.
“As a matter of fact, it is, lad. And just whom do we have the honor of addressing?”
The red-cheeked enlisted man sheepishly replied, “I am torpedo-mate third class Vasili Buchara, sir.”
“Seaman Buchara, I am Captain Borisov of the 3rd Spetsnaz brigade, and these are my shipmates. You know, I once knew a fellow by the name of Buchara. I met him in basic training, and if I’m not mistaken, I believe he was an Uzbek.”
“So am I!” eagerly volunteered the seaman.
“Why, I was born on the shores of the Aral Sea.”
Pretending to be impressed with this revelation, Mikhail replied, “The Aral Sea, you say? That’s certainly beautiful country. Now how can we be of service to you, lad?”