Larry Bond - Cold Choices

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. Turning 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.