The Golden U-Boat

by Richard P. Henrick

  “I must admit that I’ve heard similar rumblings from other officers in your position, Captain. And at long last your superiors are starting to wake up and take notice. As we in the navy increasingly have to fight for our shrinking share of the Defense Ministry budget, ways are constantly being sought to trim the fat that already exists in the fleet. Several classified reports have already crossed my desk, that question the logic behind the Party statute requiring Zampolit’s on each and every one of the Rodina’s warships. Millions of rubles could be saved yearly if such a nonproductive position was eliminated.”

  “Why not just replace them with a videotape?” offered Milyutin.

  “That way we could still get our dose of Party indoctrination, without having to carry the extra weight of an additional crew member to take along.”

  Alexander thought about this for a moment.

  “That’s not a bad idea, Captain. Speeches could be taped in advance, and distributed to every ship in the fleet. They could even be shown to the crew at meal time. At least then the Party could be certain that their audience wouldn’t just sleep through the sessions. Why don’t I give it some further thought, and then perhaps I’ll put this suggestion in writing and send it on up the chain of command.”

  The Admiral looked on as the video monitor began filling with data relayed to them by the Lena’s fully automated sonar system. Grigori Milyutin quickly interpreted this information.

  “It seems that our brief excursion to periscope depth served to degrade the ship’s acoustic sensors.

  Our passive systems are just now coming back online.”

  “From the looks of those swells topside, I can see why our hydrophones were temporarily useless,” observed the veteran.

  “It’s good to have them back, though, because as we continue to approach our goal, we must be extra vigilant. NATO always has a ship or two in these waters, and since our mission’s success depends upon absolute stealth, we must continue on with the greatest of care.”

  “I’ve already cut our speed down substantially, Admiral. As far as NATO is concerned, the Lena is presently all but invisible to their sensors.”

  “And let’s keep it that way,” urged Alexander.

  “Now the hour is getting late, and I still have to put the finishing touches on my address to the Komsomol. Perhaps I’ll see you afterward.”

  “I’ll be right here,” said the Captain.

  Alexander stiffly turned for the aft hatchway. The Lends cramped confines were beginning to take its effects on his arthritic knees and ankles, which badly needed a proper stretching.

  “This is not an old man’s business,” he mumbled to himself as he painfully climbed down a steep ladder to the deck below. Politely nodding to the two officers who sat at the small wardroom table spooning in their borscht, he headed straight into his cabin.

  Just large enough to hold a cot, sink, and a bulkhead mounted desk, this stateroom belonged to the Lena’s Captain. Grigori Milyutin graciously surrendered it to the veteran, and was currently hot bunking with the sub’s senior lieutenant.

  Thankful for this space to himself, he sat down before the desk. Before him now was the partially filled legal pad that he had been working on earlier.

  Written here were the main points that he wished to convey during this evening’s speech.

  He planned to start off by giving a broad overview of the Soviet Navy’s ever expanding missions.

  He wanted to be certain to remind the young sailors that the Fleet had grown from a mere coastal defense force into a modern, oceangoing one in a matter of decades. To extend the influence of the USSR. well out into the sea, the Soviet Navy had five basic missions — strategic offense, maritime security, interdiction of sea lines of communication, support of ground forces, and the support of state policy. Since this last mission was the subject of tonight’s meeting, he would dwell on it extensively.

  In Alexander’s opinion, the Soviet Fleet didn’t have to be in a declared war to support the State’s policies. Not restricted by the sovereignty of airspace over land or by territorial rights, the fleet could sail where it pleased. Comprised of a variety of warships ranging from carriers, to cruisers, to submarines, the Fleet was a flexible, mobile force able to influence events in coastal countries by extending a military threat to any level, beginning with a mere show of military strength to the actual landing of forces ashore. A strong peacetime fleet was also necessary to assert Soviet rights on the high seas, to protect the interests of the Soviet merchant and fishing fleets, demonstrate support for client states, and most importantly, to inhibit Western military initiatives.

  He would end his speech by looking to the future.

  Alexander’s vision of twenty-first century civilization was one that increasingly looked to the sea for a variety of necessities. The oceans would provide fuel, food, minerals, and even living space to a world population that was rapidly outgrowing its available land space And to properly police and regulate these operations, the Rodina would rely on its Fleet like never before.

  Satisfied with this general outline, Alexander completed the sketch of his speech. He hoped to keep it as short as possible, and leave time for a question and answer period afterward.

  Since it appeared as if it was going to be a late night after all he decided that a little nap was in order.

  He downed two aspirin to help ease the pain that incessantly throbbed in his inflamed joints, slipped off his shoes and jacket, and laid down on the cot. Sleep was upon him almost immediately, and along with this slumber came a kaleidoscope of dreams.

  They started off with a train ride. He was a young soldier once again, being conveyed through the wooded countryside of his homeland along with his brother, Mikhail. An ear-shattering explosion suddenly filled the rail car that they were travelling in with smoke, and he remembered blindly reaching out in a desperate effort to locate his lost twin.

  In the blink of an eye, he was transferred to a flower-filled glen in the Ukraine. A babbling brook twisted through a thick stand of gnarled oaks, and as he approached the stream to quench his thirst, he spotted Katrina Orlovski sitting on the nearby bank on a blanket, unpacking a picnic lunch. Katrina looked positively radiant with her long red hair cascading smoothly over the white lace dress that she had sewed herself. Alexander called out to the love of his youth, but Katrina seemed completely deaf to his cries. Deciding then to ford the stream and surprise her, he stepped into the icy water and to his horror, found that the stream bed was formed out of quicksand. His frantic cries for help went unanswered as gradually he sank into the swampy morass. He could feel the icy water numb the skin of his neck and arms, as his legs, waist and torso were swallowed. Just when his chin was about to be pulled under water, his brother Mikhail appeared on the nearby shoreline.

  In a heartbeat, he was magically conveyed back to the smoke-filled rail car With flames licking the car’s wooden-slat walls, he continued his desperate search for his twin. His stinging eyes were all but useless, and like a blind man he extended his arms outward and groped into the smoldering flames. It was then his hand made contact. New hope filled his spirits as he grasped the hand that he had discovered veiled in the sooty haze and slowly pulled it forward. The face that accompanied this hand belonged to his brother, but how much Mikhail had changed! Gone was his wavy blond hair, smooth blemish less skin and vibrant blue eyes. From a young, handsome soldier he had been turned into a white-haired old man with wrinkled skin and dull gray eyes. It was as Alexander viewed the jagged scar that lined the entire left side of his twin’s face that he awoke.

  It took several confusing seconds for him to reorientate himself. With his heart still pounding away in his chest, he scanned the cramped confines of the stateroom as if seeing it for the very first time. All so gradually, elements of his recently concluded nightmare returned.

  A train … an explosion… his brother lost in the resulting smoke! And there also was lovely Katrina Olovski, the one and only love of his life.<
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  How very beautiful she had looked sitting there on the stream bank. Why he could still picture her long silky red hair and the white lace dress that she had made for their wedding day. But the fates would not allow it, and when the flood surged down from the mountains and swept his beloved away, lost also was his only hope for a wife and family.

  This nightmare had been a very real one, as was the scar that lined the entire left side of his brother’s face. And like the painful moment when he had heard that his Katrina was gone for all eternity, Alexander would never forget his first glance of his twin brother as he was carried off the rail car

  The war had been over for several weeks before he received the official notice informing him that Mikhail was still alive. Having long ago given up any hope of ever seeing his brother alive again, Alexander cried out in sheer joy. As one of the handful of survivors pulled out of the BergenBelsen concentration camp, Mikhail was being treated at a Red Cross hospital and would be sent back to the

  Soviet Union as soon as he was strong enough.

  Fighting the impulse to go to this hospital and see his twin with his own eyes, Alexander anxiously waited for the next notice. It came three weeks later, along with the time, date and train number on which Mikhail would be arriving.

  Kiev had never looked so beautiful as on that early summer morning in 1945 when Alexander made his way to the town’s train station. A carnival atmosphere prevailed here as thousands of others waited for their loved ones. The train had originated in Berlin, and was packed with returning soldiers.

  There was many a tender moment as husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, kissed, hugged and cried, overcome with joy and relief.

  It took over an hour for this riotous scene to calm itself, and only when the platform was cleared were the wounded unloaded. First came those with crutches and canes. When Mikhail wasn’t spotted in this sad group, he was forced to wait until the stretchers were all carried out. There were over a hundred altogether, and Alexander had to go down the entire line twice before finally finding his brother.

  Actually, it had been the other way around. Because if it wasn’t for Mikhail’s eyes lighting up like they did when his twin passed, Alexander would never have recognized him. Though only four years had gone by since they were separated on that fated August day, Mikhail had aged tenfold. Gaunt and almost skeletal in appearance, Mikhail was speechless as his brother embraced him. There were tears of joy running down his bony cheeks as Alexander pulled back and took his first close look at his twin. It was then he spotted the jagged scar that stretched from Mikhail’s graying temple to his beard stub bled chin.

  Oblivious to the fact that his blond hair was now almost completely white and that even the color of his eyes had faded, Alexander reached under the sheet and picked up his brother in his arms. He was as light as a child, his once muscular frame no more. But that made no difference to Alexander, who proceeded to carry his brother all the way home.

  From that day onward, Alexander centered his entire life around getting his brother well once more. It was difficult at first. Mikhail’s starved body was weak, and he seemed to always have a cold or bronchitis. But Alexander persisted. He did whatever was necessary to find Mikhail nourishing foods, even going so far as giving his twin his own portion when food was in short supply. He also made certain to get his brother out in the fresh air whenever possible. Slowly but surely this therapy worked.

  Color returned to his once pallid cheeks, and he even began to gain weight again.

  It took over a year for his body to recover. But even then there was a sallowness to his skin that never seemed to go away, and of course there were mental scars that Alexander could never begin to heal, or for that matter, even fathom.

  Mikhail didn’t talk much about his experiences in the death camp, but it was obvious that something hideous had taken place within the confines of that barbed-wire hell that had changed him forever. Serious and sober, Mikhail no longer knew what it was to laugh and have fun. He seemed to have been vaulted to another level of consciousness, far away from that of the mundane world.

  Alexander worried that this morbid state of mind would destroy his brother, the hatred eating him up from the inside like a malignant cancer. A prominent psychiatrist was brought in, and it was this figure who suggested that Mikhail refocus this rage on an outside object. All this was taking place during the time of the infamous Nuremberg trials, and the newspapers were filled with stories telling of Nazis who had fled to Africa and South America to escape the hand of justice. When a Soviet commission was formed to investigate these reports, Alexander saw the perfect opportunity to test the doctor’s theory.

  A quick trip to Moscow resulted in Alexander securing his brother a position in this commission.

  And when Mikhail was told of this, for the very first time in over a year, his face broke out in a broad smile.

  Little did Alexander ever realize that Mikhail would proceed to devote the rest of his life to this cause. Even today, over four and a half decades after the war’s conclusion, Mikhail was still out there on the trail of the Nazi beast.

  He currently operated under the auspices of the KGB. There were many in Moscow who called his work a wasted effort, while others said that Mikhail was merely insane. Yet all of these critics were silenced time and again as Mikhail brought Nazi war criminals to justice from far corners of the globe.

  Only last year, when Mikhail had returned from a three month stint in the Amazon, Alexander had asked him if he was ready to retire. His brother looked at him as if he were crazy.

  “This is no ordinary job that I’m involved with,” explained Mikhail passionately, “It is a lifetime quest!”

  “And when will this quest end?” asked Alexander.

  His brother answered bluntly.

  “Either when I’m dead, or after I’ve succeeded in destroying Werewolf.”

  It was at that moment that Alexander realized what was driving his twin so. Werewolf, the code name for a powerful Neo-Nazi group that supposedly had members in America, Europe, South America and Japan. Yet it wasn’t necessarily the group itself that Mikhail was after, but the man who was Werewolf’s self-proclaimed leader — Otto Koch, the same SS officer who had stolen the gold that they had been escorting to Leningrad — the same SS officer who had condemned Mikhail to the living hell of BergenBelsen.

  Every morning for the past five decades, Mikhail had only to look into the mirror to be reminded of the day when Otto Koch first came into his life.

  Even as Alexander lay there in the stateroom of the Alfa class submarine, his twin brother was out there, somewhere in the world, devoting his every effort to bringing this demon to justice. There could be no more noble cause than this, and Alexander could only wish his brother every success in his efforts.

  Having all but forgotten the nightmare that had triggered these vibrant impressions, the old veteran nervously jumped when a firm knock sounded on the cabin’s shut door, accompanied by a scratchy voice.

  “Admiral Kuznetsov, it’s Felix Bucharin. I hope you haven’t forgotten, but it’s time for the Komsomol meeting.”

  Called thusly back to duty, Alexander replied.

  “I hear you, Comrade Zampolit. If you’ll just give me a few more minutes to get my things together, I’ll be with you presently.”

  A familiar pain throbbed in the veteran’s aching joints as he struggled to sit up. He managed to limp over to the wash basin where he washed his face in a stream of icy cold water. This served to waken him completely, and as he dried his face with a rough linen towel his thoughts were already redirecting themselves to the speech that he would soon be giving.

  Chapter Ten

  Petty Officer First Class Joe Carter sat in the Cheyenne’s mess toying with his turkey stew. Seated opposite him, Senior Seaman Sam Tabor was digging into his bowl of stew with an appetite.

  “Darn it, Tabor,” said Carter as he pushed away his partially eaten plate of chow.

  “Don
’t you ever get sick of this turkey stuff?”

  The brawny mechanic answered without even bothering to swallow down the mouthful of food he was eating.

  “I like it, Joe.”

  “You eat anything they put in front of you,” observed Carter.

  “First it’s turkey patties, and now it’s turkey stew. I’m craving for a nice juicy, medium rare steak, or maybe some crispy fried chicken and gravy. Now that’s real food that sticks to a guys ribs.”

  Joe Carter tried a spoonful of yogurt and spat it out disgustedly.

  “Jesus, Mallott’s even getting funny with our desserts. I want some pie or a big hot fudge sundae with peppermint ice cream.”

  Carter’s dinner companion shovelled up his remaining stew and mopped up the plate with his roll.

  “Aren’t you hip, Joe? This is some of that new health food. Why it’s guaranteed to put five extra years on your life.”

  Carter sneered.

  “Man, if I wanted to live forever,

  I sure wouldn’t have signed onto a nuclear submarine.

  As for this health food crap, my grandpa’s ninety-five years old and that guy’s in better shape than half the bozos on this boat. Why he even drives himself to work everyday. And do you think that he eats turkey burgers and yogurt? Hell, no way. Old grand pop puts away a pound of bacon a week, has two eggs fried in butter every morning, and especially enjoys his fried catfish, pork chops and chitlins.”

  “I don’t know, Joe,” returned the skeptical mechanic.

  “My wife gets one of those health magazines and from what I read it sure sounds to me like diet plays an important role in living longer. Your grandfather must be a rare exception.”

  “Hell, Tabor, if you believed half the things you read in those health books you wouldn’t eat red meat because of the hormones, fish because of the pollution, and fruits and vegetables because of all that bug spray that’s put on them. Why they say that even the water’s poison, and as far as the air’s concerned, you’d better not breath it for long.”