“He reminds me of a village chief that I once heard of, who had his subjects wait on him as if he were the Czar. He never did care a damn about the average worker, until one of them snuck into his cabin one day and decapitated him.”
Tanya Olovski remarked while mopping up her gravy with a poppy-seed roll.
“I think that Yuri has a good point, especially when applied to the Ladoga. Never have I felt a boat with so much inner tension on it.
Have you noticed how the officers order around the enlisted personnel as if they were cattle? I feel it’s true that a captain is the one who’s responsible for establishing a vessel’s morale. And on this ship, there’s something seriously amiss. A first step to reestablishing normality is for Captain Zinyagin to recognize that he has a serious problem and then to address it by opening himself up to the feelings of his subordinates.”
“One good thing that I can say about the Ladoga is the quality of this food,” said Mikhail, who thought it well to change the subject.
“I’ve seen the boat’s limited storage and preparation facilities, and that cook of theirs must be a real magician. Why, this beef is as tender as a loving mother’s heart.”
“If only we had a decent-sized mess on Sea Devil. Then I’d cook you up a potful of Ukrainian borscht that would quickly put this meal to shame,” offered Yuri Sosnovo.
“Speaking of Sea Devil, I think it’s wise for all of us to eat hearty this evening. We will be deploying shortly, and this could be our last full meal in some time,” said Mikhail.
A period of introspective silence followed as the mini-sub’s crew dug into their food with renewed vigor.
They were well into their desserts when the young Uzbekian seaman who had introduced himself in the torpedo room earlier shyly left his table and approached them.
“Excuse me, comrades, I couldn’t help but notice you over here, and I wanted to take this opportunity to say hello once again.”
“That’s most cordial of you, sailor,” replied Mikhail.
“Pull up a chair and join us.”
Torpedo mate third class Vasili Buchara humbly shook his head that he couldn’t.
“I’m afraid that I have to get back to my watch, sir. But thanks for the offer. I just wanted to let all of you know what an inspiration it’s been meeting you. I have greatly admired the Spetsnaz from afar since I was a little boy, and talking with you has given me a new goal to work for. No matter how long it takes, I’m not going to rest until I too can join the proud ranks of the motherland’s special forces.”
Mikhail caught the glances of his crewmates and smiled warmly.
“That’s excellent news, comrade. The Spetsnaz is always looking for new blood, and from what I’ve seen of you, I’d say that your chances were excellent of gaining entrance to our training program.
Have you brought up your interest to the Ladoga’s political officer as yet?”
“Oh no, sir. I wouldn’t dare bother the ship’s zampolit with such an insignificant concern.”
“Nonsense,” retorted Mikhail.
“As political officer, it’s his duty to assist you with your military future. So if you don’t want to be in that stuffy torpedo room for the rest of your life, speak up, lad! A candidate for the Spetsnaz has to have a mind of his own, and not be afraid to show some initiative.”
“I’ll do so at the first opportunity, sir. And perhaps the next time our paths cross, I too will be wearing the fabled striped tunic and red beret.”
“Good luck to you, lad,” offered the veteran, who watched the young sailor leave the mess with an expectant grin turning the corners of his mouth.
“I just hope that the zampolit doesn’t hang him from the yardarm for asking for that admissions application,” reflected Yuri Sosnovo.
“If he does, he’ll have to answer to me upon our return,” shot back Sea Devil’s CO.
“Now the hour’s getting late, and all too soon we’ll be deploying. So get some rest while you can. I’ll join you as soon as I finish going over our final launch coordinates with Captain Zinyagin.”
While leaving the mess deck, Mikhail noticed the almost reverential stares he drew from the other enlisted men who had been eating there. He imagined that the young Uzbek had already told his shipmates all about the fabled Spetsnaz warriors who shared this voyage with them. With a polite nod, the blond commando acknowledged their interest and slipped through the forward hatchway.
A ladder took him up two decks to where the command spaces were situated. The corridors here were packed with snaking cables and pipes. It was as he passed by the closed doors of the radio room that a young seaman intercepted Mikhail with his right index finger pressed to his lips.
“Please be absolutely certain to proceed as quietly as possible, sir,” he whispered.
“The captain has just ordered a state of ultra quiet.”
As this seaman hurriedly made his way aft to spread the message to the rest of the crew, Mikhail continued traveling in the opposite direction. When he finally made it to the Ladoga’s attack center, he found the ship’s captain and zampolit huddled over the seated sonar operator. Illuminated as it was by red lights to protect the crew’s night vision, the compartment had an atmosphere that was noticeably tense. Mikhail reached the sonar station just in time to hear the sub’s captain.
“Is it still approaching, Comrade Zitomir?”
The sonar operator wore bulky headphones and had his stare locked on the repeater screen as he answered.
“Affirmative, Captain. They’ll be almost directly on top of us any moment now.”
His flabby jowls glistening with sweat, the concerned zampolit voiced himself.
“Perhaps we should reverse course and wait for a more opportune moment to transit the channel.”
The captain, who noticed that Mikhail Borisov had just joined them, responded to his political officer’s suggestion with a disgusted shake of his head.
“If only we had that luxury, Comrade Zampolit. It’s imperative that we get our esteemed passengers to their dropoff point by six p.m. And that leaves us little time for tarrying.
Surely a British Leander-class frigate shouldn’t be much of a match for a vessel the likes of the Ladoga.
What do you think, Captain Borisov?”
“Under normal circumstances, the Ladoga’s stealth capabilities should effectively mask us from such a platform,” returned Mikhail.
“Thus we should be fine as long as our ultra quiet state is not compromised.”
“And as long as I’m at this helm, it won’t be!” retorted Dmitri Zinyagin.
“I still think we should take a more cautious approach to this transit,” countered the perspiration soaked political officer.
“Of all the choke points we have to pass through, this channel is the narrowest.”
Mikhail knew that the zampolit was referring to the North Channel. Less than 20 kilometers wide, it separated the northeastern tip of Ireland from Scotland’s Mull of Kintyre.
“Comrade Tartarov, I’ve heard enough out of you!” spat Captain Zinyagin.
“You will refrain from further comment regarding my tactical decisions, or I will have you removed from this attack center!”
Fear momentarily clouded the bloodshot eyes of the political officer as he humbly nodded in obedience to this command. Seconds later, a distant, high-pitched whine could be heard in the hushed compartment. The sonar chief identified it.
“I’m picking up strong surface cavitation topside, Captain. It’s the Leander, all right, and it’s going to pass right over us!”
Mikhail listened breathlessly as the signature of the frigate’s propellers rose to an almost earsplitting whine. This was accompanined by a distinctive hollow pinging sound that every submariner learned both to respect and fear.