Voyage of the Devilfish

“Sir, I had wanted to talk to you about, well, about what you are doing aboard. You’ve practically taken over this ship, aborting my sea-trials agenda without letting me brief the crew on what we’re doing, giving direct orders to my officers, threatening my Security Warrant Officer, transmitting messages from my control compartment without my signature, assigning maintenance schedules to the Communications Officer. Sir, I am the captain of this vessel, these orders should come through me…” He had run out of steam, and was furious with himself. It sounded like a plea for Novskoyy to give him back the ship please? sir? Novskoyy seemed to have barely heard. “Whatever you like, Vlasenko. Now you’ll excuse me, I have some matters to attend to. By the way, I’ve instructed the Deck Officer to use the topsounder and find the nearest polynya. We will be surfacing as soon as there is thin ice overhead.” Vlasenko stared. What was Novskoyy doing? An order to surface along with his demand that the radio sets be fully functional…? Vlasenko started to protest but Novskoyy cut him off.

“Captain, shut the door behind you and set the lock, if you please.”

He hadn’t so much as looked at Vlasenko’s face as he said it, his eyes focused on the far bulkhead. Without further word the admiral began to unlock his safe again as Vlasenko moved out, locking the stateroom door behind him. In his stateroom Vlasenko again thought of the spare key to the captain’s — Novskoyy’s — stateroom. It was in the First Officer’s safe, and the combination was set so that it would be easy to remember — his graduation date from the Marshal Grechko Higher Naval School of Underwater Navigation: right to zero five, left twice to twenty-eight, right again to sixty-eight. The small safe opened, and at the gottorn was an envelope with a single key. The key to the captain’s stateroom. No question in Vlasenko’s mind now— after what he had seen… or rather not seen… he had to get in and find out what Novskoyy was up to. Admiral Novskoyy stared at the room’s door after Captain Vlasenko left, eventually shrugged and returned to his study of the deployment of his submarines. They would dictate the disarmament of the U.S. Dictate and if necessary force… Excitement, exhilaration over the plan now moving to fruition mingled with a wash of exhaustion. It was a heady feeling, one he had not known since twenty years ago when the USS Stingray went to the bottom…

Vlasenko sat at the polished oak foldout table, hating his situation, being deprived of his ship. He had been with the Kaliningrad through its five years of construction, since the first beam of structural titanium had arrived from the west by railcar. He was there when the beam was rolled into a ring, at the first hoop of framing, when the keel had been laid. He had watched the gigantic hull grow, module by module, deck by deck. And every day of those five years he had waited for the moment when she would submerge under the waves, with Vlasenko in command. He had devoted thirty years of his life to the Navy, almost all of them at sea. He had never married, never made love to a woman, unless you counted the Severomorsk and Vladivostok prostitutes. When he died his name would die with him. He had given it all up for the submarine force. Not to be Novskoyy’s errand boy.

Vlasenko shut his eyes, let his mind wander, hoping it would somehow take him away from the pain. Instead, it returned to the epicenter of the hurt. Clear as day he saw himself some twenty-five years earlier, the day he had pulled in on that run under the ice, the run when Novskoyy had shot and destroyed the American attack submarine… It was December of 1973. It had been blowing wet snow the entire ride in. The waves were violent, spraying cold seawater onto the shivering officers and men on the bridge, coating them with its gritty salt. At the time a senior lieutenant, Yuri Vlasenko had been Deck Officer. Normally he would have been proud to drive the new attack submarine into the Polyarnyy piers, but this time he was exhausted and overcome by a deep unease. As the Leningrad’s lines were thrown over to the men on the pier, a long black Zil limousine drove up to their berth. Twin red flags fluttered on the fenders, each flag displaying five stars — the limo of Fleet Admiral Konalev, commander of the entire Red Banner Northern Fleet. The car skidded to a halt on the icecoated pier, and Vlasenko put down the bullhorn, the line handlers having finished securing the ship. He called down to the control room to have nuclear control parallel into shorepower and shutdown the reactor. Captain Novskoyy looked ready to leave the bridge. Vlasenko decided to speak his mind, cautiously.

“Captain…” Vlasenko began. Captain Novskoyy frowned. “What is it, Vlasenko? The admiral is waiting for my report.”