by Larry Bond
The car slowly rolled to a stop at the head of the far right-hand pier. A large gantry crane from the missile-loading wharf nearby loomed in the background like a giant arm reaching out from the shadows into the evening sky. On the left-hand side of the pier lay Severodvinsk, her sleek form barely discernible in the fading light. Petrov exited the car and bid his commanders a good evening. Borisov and Vidchenko congratulated him once again and then sped off toward home.
Walking slowly down the pier, Petrov savored the cool evening air and mentally prepared himself for the task ahead. All doubts were instantly banished as he approached his boat. He was the captain and he had to be the living embodiment of conviction and confidence, or at least appear that way. Acknowledging the sentry’s salute and greeting, Petrov bounded up the brow onto the submarine and quickly made his way toward the open hatch on the port side of the sail. Maneuvering around the forest of masts and antennas, he squeezed his way to the bridge access trunk hatch and climbed down the ladder.
Instead of jumping past the last few rungs, as was his habit, Petrov quietly finished his descent, turned around, and came face-to-face with a wall of men. There must have been over two dozen crewmen packed into the central command post, and in the very front were his starpom and his battle department commanders. All of them stared at him with an intense visage of anxious expectation. For a brief moment they just stood there, nobody moved or spoke—the only detectable sound being the sharp ticking of the mechanical clock on the bulkhead. The eerie silence was finally broken by the starpom with a single word.
“Well?”
“It must be bad news,” injected the engineering commander, Captain Second Rank Sergey Vladimirovich Lyachin, “otherwise he wouldn’t have tried to sneak back on board.”
“Shhh, give the Captain a chance to speak,” said someone in the back.
Recovering his composure, Petrov threw his cover on to the watch commander’s desk and slowly started to unbutton his uniform coat.
“What is the meaning of this mutinous congregation, Starpom?” growled Petrov with feigned sternness. “I feel like a dying animal facing a flock of ravenous vultures.”
“Nothing quite so sinister, my dear Captain,” replied Kalinin reassuringly. “But I do believe it would be unwise, sir, to further delay in telling these desperate men the judgment of the fleet acceptance board.”
“Hmmm, I see.”
With deliberate slowness, Petrov put his coat on the chair and reached for the main announcing system microphone. Pulling it toward him, he tried to project an image of fatigue and disappointment. The former wasn’t difficult but the latter took some doing; he wasn’t the best of actors. Hesitating, he let out an exasperated sigh and said, “Well, I guess it would be best if I got this unpleasant duty over with.
“Attention all hands, this is the Captain.” Petrov shifted about in an agitated manner as he spoke. “I have just recently returned from Northern Fleet Headquarters. As you know, the Fleet Commander held the formal acceptance board for our boat today. And as expected, the testimony by the inspecting officials labored long and hard on our deficiencies. I know you gave your all in trying to meet the considerable expectations placed upon you, but the weight of evidence against us was overwhelming.” Pausing, he looked around the room as pained expressions started to emerge on his men’s faces. Kalinin was frowning, eyeing his commander suspiciously.
“So, it is my reluctant duty to inform you that we barely squeaked by with a final grade of . . .” Yet another pause as he sucked the crew in for the kill. “. . . 4.5, a superior to excellent rating! Well done to you all!”
The shock-induced delayed reaction to the captain’s prank was priceless. Within the blink of an eye, the men in the central post went from complete dejection to absolute elation as the meaning of his words sank in. And then the cheering started.
Petrov watched with amusement as grown men, professional seamen, cheered and hollered as they jumped up and down, hugging each other and slapping one another’s backs. Kalinin leapt forward and eagerly grasped his captain’s hand. Shaking it vigorously he exclaimed, “Congratulations, sir! I knew we wouldn’t let you down.”
Releasing Petrov’s hand, the starpom then wagged his finger at him in an accusatory way, “With respect, sir, you are a cunning bastard! That was cruel to lead the crew on like that.”
“A last-minute inspiration, I can assure you. But that’s not what you’re objecting to, you’re just jealous that you didn’t get to do it yourself.”
“True,” replied Kalinin soberly, and then suddenly burst into laughter. Petrov, unable to maintain the casual façade any longer, also started laughing. Pointing toward the ladder that led down to the second deck the star-pom added, “Come, the rest of the crew will want to join in the festivities on the mess deck. The cooks have been slaving away since you left this morning and they have prepared a small celebration for everyone.”
“Excellent! I could use a little snack, and a drink. I wasn’t lying when I said the inspectors labored long and hard on our deficiencies.”
As Petrov meandered through the tightly packed mob toward the ladder, he was bombarded with words of congratulations and thanks, as well as the occasional pat on the back. Every few steps he would stop to shake someone’s hand, and a sea of humanity would begin to surround him. Impatiently, Kalinin literally towed his captain to the ladder well. One by one they filed down the constricted companionway and headed forward to the first compartment, where the majority of the living spaces were located.
Even though Severodvinsk was one of the largest nuclear-powered attack submarines in the world, displacing 11,500 tons when submerged, open space was still hard to come by. The passageways were very narrow. Only one man could walk down one comfortably, and they were flanked on both sides by yellow-painted electrical panels, electronic cabinets, fans, pumps, and other miscellaneous equipment. Occasionally a piece of machinery intruded into the walking area, often at the ankle or head level, and would painfully announce its presence to the unwary traveler. The procession to the mess deck was by necessity one long single-file line. As he approached the circular watertight door between the two compartments, Petrov heard someone yell, “Stand by!” The incredible smell of fresh baked goods wafted in the air.
With his stomach growling in response to the delicious aroma, Petrov expertly ducked through the hatch and eagerly strode into the crew’s mess. As he entered, he saw that the space was literally packed with the rest of his men. Immediately the crew came to attention and yelled out in unison, “Hoorah, Petrov!”
Momentarily stunned by their cheer, Petrov staggered a little as he walked over and shook hands with his most junior crew members. Before he could completely regain his bearings, Kalinin delivered the coup de grace by gently turning him around. The sight made Petrov gasp audibly.
Before him lay an incredible array of food. Stuffed chebureki, a Crimean lamb pie; roast suckling pig; baked codfish in aspic; pelmeni, stuffed dumplings in a beef broth; radish salad; pickled mushrooms; caviar; and an assortment of breads, cakes, and cookies adorned two tables. The banquet was worthy of a tzar and must have cost a small fortune.
“As I mentioned earlier,” gloated Kalinin, “the cooks have been slaving away all day.”
“My God, Vasiliy,” Petrov whispered. “Do I even want to know where ...”
“No sir, you do not. But I can assure you that most of it was obtained legally.” The mischievous twinkle in the starpom’s eyes eliminated any possible doubts his words might have raised. Then with a far more serious tone he said, “Everyone contributed to this little celebration. It’s our way of showing gratitude for the miraculous way you held this boat, and us, together during the certification process.”
“I ... I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, a normal human being would say thank you. But it would appear your throat requires some lubrication to utter such a simple phrase,” taunted Kalinin as he handed Petrov a shot glass full of vodka. Tur
ning back toward the crew, Kalinin raised his glass and said, “A toast to the Captain and crew of the Severodvinsk. May the Americans rue the day they run into us! Nostrovia!’
“Nostrovia!” shouted all in response, clinked glasses with his neighbor and threw the fiery liquid down their throats. A large number of “ahh”s signaled the crew’s approval.
“Comrades,’ Petrov announced using his best command voice. “I cannot begin to express my appreciation for your dedicated service to this boat, the fleet, and the motherland. You have, from the very beginning, always performed above and beyond what was demanded of you. And, much has been demanded.” Petrov paused momentarily as he fought to maintain his composure. “I could not have asked for a better crew and I am honored and proud to be your Captain. As a team, we have done wonders and I thank you all for your efforts. I also want to pass on Vice Admiral Kokurin’s personal compliments for a job well done. He was most impressed with your performance.”
As Petrov spoke, several of the mess stewards had quickly moved about and refilled everyone’s glasses. Raising his toward his shipmates, Petrov offered another toast. “To the officers and crew of this fine submarine. To your continued good health and success in all your future endeavors. Nostrovia!”
Once again the men collectively replied, “Nostrovia!”
Finishing his drink, Kalinin set his glass down on a nearby table. Then lifting his arms to the assembly, he declared, “And now my comrades-in-arms, let the feast begin!”
The enthusiastic cheer reverberated sharply off the bulkheads. And as quickly as it came, it was replaced by the clinking of china plates and silverware as the crew helped themselves to the delectable morsels. Kalinin handed his captain a plate piled high with chebureki, mushrooms, caviar, and bread smothered in butter. Petrov thanked him as he reached eagerly for the loaded dish and began to devour the lamb pie. The taste was incredible.
After forty-five minutes, and more food than he should have eaten, Petrov snatched a cup of hot tea and motioned for Kalinin to follow him. Even though the party was technically in Petrov’s honor, it was hard for a crew to really celebrate with the two senior officers in close company. And the sooner he broke the news to his starpom about their orders, the sooner Kalinin would get over his tantrum and get to work. Quietly, the two slipped their way out of the crew’s mess and headed for the captain’s stateroom one deck up.
“Thank you again, Vasiliy. That was a very pleasant surprise,” said Petrov as he entered his stateroom and offered Kalinin a chair at the small work-table.
“Actually, it really was the crew’s idea,” remarked Kalinin as he plopped himself down in the seat. “They just didn’t know how to covertly organize such an event. Fortunately, that happens to be my specialty.”
“So I have noticed. Remind me to forward your resume to the FSB. You’d fit right in with that secretive state organ,” teased Petrov as he opened the locked briefcase and took out his orders.
“Please, sir, bite your tongue,” Kalinin shot back vehemently as the smile vanished from his face. The mere mention of the Federal Security Service, the heir to the KGB, even in jest, was enough to make the starpom a little edgy. During the submarine’s fitting out, deals had been struck with certain shipyard personnel to keep things moving along. While trivial in nature, some were less than legal. The FSB had never met a minor charge that couldn’t be constructed into a heinous crime if it suited them. During Vladimir Putin’s presidency, the FSB had grown considerably in power and prestige.
Sensing that he had stepped over the line with his attempted humor, Petrov quickly apologized. “I’m sorry, Vasiliy. That was a bad joke.”
“Actually, sir,” replied Kalinin with a renewed grin, “it was a dreadful one. But I’m assuming you didn’t drag me away from the party just to threaten me. I take it there was some discussions after the acceptance board that will affect us, yes?”
“Correct,” said Petrov as he sat down opposite Kalinin. “Vice Admiral Kokurin asked the eskadra and diviziya commanders and myself to stay behind after the formal board to discuss some changes to our schedule.”
“Awwww,” wailed Kalinin as he ran his fingers through his hair. “How long of a delay this time?”
“No, Vasiliy. There won’t be another delay,” countered Petrov calmly. “Quite the opposite in fact, they want us to accelerate our schedule.”
The confused expression on the starpom’s face almost made Petrov smile. It wasn’t often that he caught this man by surprise. But in his defense, the claim that they were going to increase the tempo of their preparations would be incredible to any officer in the Russian Navy given the slothlike pace of the last ten years.
“Accelerate?” repeated Kalinin as be wrestled with the idea. “By how much?”
“We have three weeks,” responded Petrov matter-of-factly.
With a sigh of relief, Kalinin sat up and appeared relaxed. “Three weeks, eh? I think we can we can do that.” He paused momentarily, mentally going over the predeployment checklist.
The unexpectedly calm response by his second-in-command left Petrov somewhat disappointed. Where was the more colorful reaction that should have occurred? They hadn’t drunk that much vodka at the party to tranquilize his starpom’s legendary temper.
“Yes, sir, we can do it,” said Kalinin with confidence. “I can trim three weeks off our schedule with only minor inconvenience.”
The naïveté of the remark, coupled with an ill-timed sip, almost caused Petrov to choke. Half coughing, half laughing, with tea dripping on the table, Petrov urgently reached for a napkin and wiped his mouth and nose.
“Are you all right, sir?” asked Kalinin, a combination of surprise and concern on his face.
“I will be fine, Vasiliy,” rasped Petrov hoarsely as he cleared the last of the tea from his windpipe. “But I’m afraid you misunderstood me. We aren’t cutting our schedule by three weeks, we only have three weeks.”
“What?” whispered Kalinin in utter disbelief.
“The Fleet Commander has issued orders for us to sail on the twenty-ninth of this month. We have twenty-one days to get ready.” If anyone had been walking outside of the captain’s stateroom at that moment, they would have sworn a polar bear was inside.
“Three weeks! What do those self-serving bureaucratic jackasses think we are? Magicians? How in God’s name do they expect me to compress all of this into three weeks?” Kalinin picked up the copy of the schedule he had given Petrov and waved it about wildly as he ranted. “Those damned fools don’t have the faintest clue as to what it takes to bring a submarine into service!”
Petrov sat there quietly as the starpom vented his frustrations. Even though Kalinin’s words were insubordinate, his statements were accurate and showed an excellent grasp of fleet procedures and politics.
Petrov knew the trick to handling men like Kalinin was to allow them to say what they needed to, without fear of retribution, and let them get it out of their system. Afterward, they would move heaven and earth to accomplish an impossible task. Trust and an understanding ear went a long way toward harnessing the dedication and boundless energy of these men. It also encouraged a fierce loyalty that was infectious throughout the crew. Properly managed, such a crew could do unbelievable things.
The tirade lasted for only a few minutes. As Kalinin began to wind down, Petrov gestured for him to take his seat and said, “Calm yourself, Vasiliy. It’s not quite as bad as it sounds.”
“Not quite as bad!?!” replied Kalinin incredulously. “Sir, you know just as well as I that we are nowhere near ready to go on combat patrol. There are just too many things that have to be done. Three weeks is simply not enough.”
“Then we defer those tasks that are irrelevant to this particular mission,” Petrov responded firmly. “I also have both Borisov’s and Vidchenko’s assurances that we will have the highest priority to assist us in our preparations.”
“Sir, with all due respect, we have been the navy’s top priority for
the last several years and I don’t think I need to remind you of what we had to do to just get out of the shipyard, or how long it took us!”
“I thought the same as you originally, but there is an important distinction that we both have missed.”
“What is that?”
“While in the shipyard, we were under the fleet’s jurisdiction but only peripherally. Remember, any request we made was sent to the Main Navy Staff via the manufacturing representative at the shipyard. The Northern Fleet staff was only informed of our requirements. They never approved them.”
