Under the Ice

“You know, I was talking to Chief Koslov earlier, and he was telling me that he worked for Aeroflot two years before enlisting in the navy. One of his jobs was to replace the cockpit voice-recorder tapes.

Did you know that the latest models are designed to fit into a machine as small as this one?”

There was a devilish look in the senior lieutenant’s eyes, and Sergei responded, “If I get your drift, I gather you’d like me to open the safe and listen to the tape. Am I correct?”

Viktor smiled, and Sergei was quick to add.

“Don’t you think such a move on my part is a little rash, comrade? After all, the admiral will be done with his meeting eventually; we can surely wait until then.”

“Come on, Sergei,” urged his old friend.

“You know those Komsomol meetings can last for hours on end. And besides, if this tape really is so important, I think that it’s in the best interest of the Motherland to listen to it at once. As for the seriousness of such an infraction, how can you get reprimanded for breaking into your own safe? After all, you’re still the captain of this ship, and nothing it contains should be held back from you.”

This argument hit home, and Sergei took a deep breath and reflected.

“I must admit that your proposal is most tempting, Viktor,” he finally said.

“But could I make sense out of the tape’s contents even if I heard it?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” returned the grinning senior lieutenant as he handed his shipmate the portable recorder.

“You have a listen, while I stand guard outside.

Driven by insatiable curiosity and a desire to express his dominion over every square centimeter of his vessel, Sergei Markova accepted his roommate’s challenge.

Once a week like clockwork, the Zampolit of the Neva called together the ship’s Party members for a meeting of the Komsomol. At this time, issues were discussed in a forum like environment, issues that touched upon the past, present, and future direction of Soviet Communism.

When Konstantin Zinyagin had learned that they would have a distinguished guest on this patrol, he’d made certain to prepare a stimulating agenda for the Admiral of the Fleet’s behalf. With over a dozen seamen packed into the enlisted men’s mess hall, the Zampolit took a second to reintroduce Mikhail Kharkov, who sat in the front row of chairs. The admiral had promised to give a special presentation on the role of the Navy as an instrument of State policy, and Zinyagin opened the meeting with a brief speech of his own.

However, the Political Officer’s “cursory” introduction had already turned into a forty-five minute discourse on the history of the Soviet Navy, from its inception as a limited coastal fleet to its current worldwide status. Utilizing a variety of charts that he had prepared himself, Zinyagin stood at the rostrum that had a picture of Lenin tacked to it’s front.

With his clipped beard, mustache, full brows, and piercing dark eyes, Zinyagin looked remarkably like the founding father of Socialism, though this was as far as the physical similarity went.

The Zampolit was in the midst of explaining the current state of the modern Soviet Navy, and his scratchy high-pitched voice whined on with a monotonous sameness. “… So you see, the Soviet leadership has at long last awakened to the all-important value of a powerful Fleet. Beyond its use in war, our Navy can be used to support our friends in times of crisis. The great mobility of our fleet and its flexibility in the event that limited military conflicts are indeed brewing permit it to have an influence on coastal countries, and to employ and extend a military threat to any level, beginning with a show of military strength and ending with the actual landing of forces….”

As the Zampolit continued to ramble on, his white-haired guest began to fidget. Mikhail Kharkov had heard this same speech time after time, and he found himself in no mood to sit through it once again. His back and legs hurt after his long ordeal on the ice, and besides, there was still important work to be done back in his cabin.

Though the black box was securely locked away in the safe in his quarters, it still had to be opened and the switch of tapes made. Only after the original had been destroyed would he be able to relax completely.

And since the Zampolit showed no signs of bringing his remarks to an end, the weary veteran had no choice but to take matters into his own hands.

It was as the Political Officer briefly halted to display a chart showing the current composition of the fleet, that Mikhail loudly cleared his throat and stood.

“Pardon me, Comrade Zampolit. But I must take this opportunity to regretfully excuse myself.

Though I find your well-researched observations most astute, my physically demanding journey on the ice is finally catching up with me. This old body needs rest, and though I was looking forward to this meeting to share my own thoughts with your members, I’m going to have to take my leave early.”