John Avery - Black Cobra

"Daily life was on a three-shift schedule,” Uri said. “On duty, maintenance, sleep. The first door on your right is the Captain’s Cabin, followed by the Sonar Room and a four-berth Officer’s Cabin. Only we officers had our own bunks. Enlisted men hot bunked.”

"What's hot bunked ?” Aaron said.

"Fifty four crewmen sharing 27 bunks located in the Electric Motor Room and the Aft Torpedo Room,” Uri said.

Aaron peeked into the various cabins, each with its own thin wood door. He was amazed by how small they all were — he’d been spoiled by the generous accommodations on the Cayman Jewel .

Uri pointed out a tiny conference room with enough space for about six officers tightly packed. “The last room, here in Compartment Two, is the Officer’s Ward Room,” he said. “A Zampolit, or Soviet Political Officer, was assigned to every submarine. He also quartered here in Compartment Two, near the Commander, and near to any meetings held here. Usually a Captain Third Rank, his sole task was enforcing adherence to Communist Party doctrine.”

They continued on, passing through the second watertight hatch and into Compartment Three.

“This is the Control Center,” Uri said. “The nerve center of the submarine.”

He pointed to a ladder a short distance away. “That’s the main ladder leading up to the fin hatch, the hatch to the bridge. It also leads to the periscope viewing compartment. The periscope was normally not accessible from here in the Control Room, but for safety reasons the conning tower is not open to tourists, so the attack periscope’s well was cut away to permit access at this level.”

Uri had taken that into consideration when calculating the team’s minimum manpower requirements.

Aaron looked up the ladder into the fin longingly.

“There in the corner is one of only two heads on board,” Uri said, pointing to a small open door in the corner of the Control Room. “Two toilets and one shower served 80 or so officers and enlisted men for up to three months at sea. Lingering in the head was considered a crime against humanity, and the men often used the ship’s flooded areas as convenient latrines.”

“Wow,” Aaron said, and then he followed Uri through the third watertight hatch into Compartment Four.

Uri showed Aaron the Radio Room and the Midshipmen’s Cabin. Next came the pantry and the tiny galley, a space barely large enough for two short cooks to stand. To Aaron the galley looked like an afterthought, which seemed weird, considering the importance of food.

“The chef and his assistants prepared four meals a day here,” Uri said. “Menus were chosen by the Supply Officer and the Chef a week in advance and approved by the Captain. The Captain and Supply Officer also tasted all meals served at dinner and supper to ensure they met the required standard. Officers down through seamen ate the same menu. Chefs were highly prized by submarine captains, because good food meant a happy crew, and Russian submariners enjoyed the best food in the Soviet Navy.

“A typical day would have been breakfast at 7:00, consisting of coffee, bread, cheese, eggs, sausage or bacon. Dinner, midday, was soup or borscht, meat with rice or noodles, or goulash, salad or vegetables. Dinner also included a half a glass of white wine, but they would have much preferred the officially banned vodka that the officers enjoyed. Supper came at around 6:00, with soup, meat with rice or noodles, a soft drink or juice, a chocolate bar, salted fish, tea, caviar, and fruit. Tea followed at 10:00, with cookies or pancakes or piroschki.”

“Piroschki?” Aaron said.

“It’s a type of pie,” Uri said. “Rations for three months were loaded on the boat at the beginning of a patrol, with all available space used for food storage. Officers dined in the Ward Room and the seamen on fold out tables in various corners of the boat. Food scraps were disposed of through a small tube in the galley which fired the refuse into the sea just like a torpedo.”

Aaron pictured schools of fish hanging out by the discharge tube, like underwater seagulls waiting for scraps.

They descended the small set of stairs leading to Compartment Five, the Machinery Control and Engine Rooms.

“Cobra has three Kolomna 2D24M Turbo Diesel Engines that produce 2,000 horsepower each,” Uri explained, “driving the submarine at up to 8 knots with a maximum range of 20,000 nautical miles. The diesels charge batteries that drive the electric motors in Compartment Six, and the boat can run on either — similar to how a hybrid automobile like the Prius operates. It is essentially the same thing — very quiet when running on battery power.”

They checked out Compartment Six, the Electric Motor Room, and then ducked through the last watertight hatch into Compartment Seven, the Aft Torpedo Room.

Uri wrapped up the tour by showing Aaron the four aft torpedo tubes and pointing out a few of the crew’s tiny shared berths.

“That was fascinating,” Aaron said. “It must be quite an adventure going underwater in one of these.”

“Trust me, it is,” Uri said. “Perhaps you’ll get a chance to dive in one yourself someday.”

“ That would be amazing,” Aaron said, thinking, Like that’ll ever happen. Only VIPs get those opportunities.

Uri pointed to a second set of tourist stairs leading out through the overhead bulkhead. “Those stairs lead up to the deck,” he said. “Why don’t you head out and take a look around the waterfront. San Diego’s really very beautiful.”

“I’ll do that,” Aaron said, and he meant it. This was his first and probably last time in San Diego, and he planned to take advantage of it.

They shook hands and Aaron started up the stairs.

“Don’t forget about the welcome party,” Uri said after him.

“Oh, I won’t,” Aaron said over his shoulder. He was still counting on meeting Ekatarina.

When Aaron emerged from the aft stairway, he was surprised to see that a construction crew had arrived and were busily erecting a large, white-plastic tent, no doubt intending to cover the submarine entirely. Must have to do with Jason’s restoration work , he thought, as he made his way through the debris.

As he stepped off Cobra’s gangway onto the dock, Aaron noticed a sign promoting the Maritime Museum of San Diego gift shop, and since it was located right next door, he decided to check it out.

The museum gift shop was stocked with books on sailing, local history, and folklore, along with nautically themed gifts, and beautifully framed photos of famous sailing ships and explorers.

Aaron couldn’t help but notice the cute brunette, about eighteen or nineteen, working behind the counter. She wore a baby-blue MMSD T-shirt, white yachting shorts, and a narrow belt that matched her top. When she reached for an item on a high shelf, the T-shirt tugged at her firm breasts, and Aaron found it impossible not to stare.

He stopped and pretended to look at some items in a glass case across the room from her.

“So, what brings you to the Maritime Museum?” the young woman asked, surprising him.

“Oh — hi,” he stammered, looking up. “I-I’m just here to see the Russian submarine.”

She glanced out the window and saw that construction of the tarpaulin was well under way. “I’m afraid Cobra’s going to be closed for maintenance for a couple of days.”

“Actually, I just finished a tour,” Aaron said.

“Oh, really?” the girl said.