Chapter 26
Fedorov slipped out of his quarters and made his way to the sick bay as fast as he could. Thankfully, there was no line outside the doctor’s office, and no chance Orlov would see him as he edged through the door, relieved to see Zolkin sitting at his desk.
“Yes, Mister Fedorov, how may I help you?”
“How is the Admiral, doctor?”
“Everyone wants to know how the Admiral is. Did you bring flowers? He is doing much better, but I have him sleeping in the next room.”
The navigator shifted uncomfortably, as if hesitating over what he wanted to say. Zolkin gave him a long look, seeing more there than met the eye. Yet he also noticed Fedorov had a bruise mark on his upper cheek, and stood up, walking around to the examination table.
“Over here,” he slapped the table with the palm of his hand, and Fedorov eased himself to a sitting position on the table.
“Where did you get this?” Zolkin nudged his chin to one side, reaching for some antiseptic and a gauze as he did so.
“It was nothing,” Fedorov said quietly.
“Oh, I think it was something more,” said the doctor. “I think it was Chief Orlov’s bad temper, yes?”
Fedorov sighed, nodding a quick affirmative. “You know what’s been happening since the Admiral fell ill,” he said. “The Captain…”
Zolkin gave him a long look, then dabbed the antiseptic on his cheek. “Karpov has been somewhat aggressive, it seems.”
“He’s made a terrible mistake,” said Fedorov, and he told the doctor what had happened on the bridge, how the American planes had simply been flying a transit mission, unarmed. “I tried to warn him-reason with him, but he had me relieved. Then he engaged the American task force as well. I fear there were very many casualties…”
At this Zolkin took pause, his manner more solemn, concern evident on his face. “It looks like the Captain didn’t like his cigar thrown out the window, and threw out the dog after it,” said Zolkin. He was referring to an old Russian tale, from Dostoevsky’s The Idiot, when the character of General Ivolgin claimed he had been berthed with a woman on a long train ride who complained about his cigar and threw it out the window. Ivolgin told his listener that he was so put off that he threw the woman’s dog out after the cigar in reprisal! The story was entirely fabricated, a perfect example of Russian vranyo, and the listener in Dostoevsky’s tale claimed he had read about a similar incident in a Belgian newspaper just days ago. In doing so he broke the time honored forms of vranyo by contradicting the liar, instead of quietly listening, straight faced and concerned.
Doctor Zolkin did not know how much was true and how much was manufactured in Fedorov’s tale, but he stayed in the role of the believing listener, then asked. “What ships did he fire on? Was it serious?”
“An aircraft carrier and several smaller escorts were leading the next convoy out to Iceland. They were not even aware of our presence, sir! He fired a full battery of Moskit-IIs. Didn’t you hear them when they launched?”
“I wouldn’t know a Moskit from a mosquito, Mister Fedorov. Everything this ship fires off sounds the same to me, and it’s all for killing one thing or another, so I pay no attention to it.”
“It’s not an exercise any more, Doctor. We’re not on maneuvers. Men died out there this morning, a great many I fear.”
Zolkin nodded, quiet for a moment before he said: “That’s the business of a warship. We spend billions of rubles to build them, pack them with men, missiles, guns and torpedoes, then put on these nice pressed uniforms and hats to make us feel better about the dirty business we’re up to. In the end, we are a shark, nothing more. This ship is a great white shark, and she has very sharp teeth. Do not be surprised, then, if it ends up doing exactly what a shark would do when the men commanding this ship become sharks themselves.”
Fedorov looked down, still upset. “Does the Admiral know?”
“He should never have stood that last night watch,” said Zolkin. “I suspect that, even when he was in his cabin, he was too busy reading your book to find time to sleep. The man was exhausted, and at his age he will not have the stamina to function as he should without sleep. At least I was able to see that he stayed here all day and got some much needed rest.”
“What happened to him?” Fedorov’s eyes were searching, worried.
“BPV. Benign Positional Vertigo. It will not be serious, and it will pass. Particles in the fluid of his inner ear went one way, the ship went the other. Throw in fatigue and stress and he had a case of sudden vertigo. It is not serious. Another day and I will have him back on his feet-but I want him to rest.” He held up a finger.
“I understand, sir…But doctor.”
“Yes, I knew there would be a ‘but doctor’… what is it Mister Fedorov?”
“The engagement today…The men are saying we have sunk an American carrier! They laugh and joke about it, as if we were on maneuvers. But this attack could have consequences we cannot even imagine now. It will enrage the Americans, just as the Japanese attack on them at Pearl Harbor roused them to anger, and look what happened? They built thirty aircraft carriers, another hundred smaller escort carriers, ten battleships, seventy cruisers, over 800 destroyers and escorts and 200 submarines, not to mention over 400,000 planes!
“They crushed the Japanese empire and practically incinerated their entire country with just a third of their war effort. And liberated half of Europe, and all of Asia in just four years. This is not the United States we know from our time, Doctor. This United States doesn't start with soft words and sanctions. They don’t move a battalion here, a brigade, a few planes, a carrier steaming offshore for a week or two. They won’t take ten years fighting a war like the US did in Iraq and Afghanistan and then leave with nothing in hand when they are done. No…This United States will stop at nothing to achieve its ends. And this war is like nothing we could possibly imagine. A hundred thousand will die on a bad weekend in this conflict. Karpov has stuck his hand into a beehive. We are one ship. How many missiles does he think we have?”
“You know your history well, Mister Fedorov.” The Doctor finished up with a little antiseptic ointment on his cheek. “I think it would be wise if you stay clear of Mister Orlov for a while. As for the Admiral, I'll have a little chat with him.”
“We need more than a little chat, Doctor. I'm afraid the Captain has his mind set on something involving the Atlantic Charter conference. It’s just a few days from now, and as soon as the ship's engines are certified for high- speed rotations again he will hasten on his way, and he will strike at anything in his path.”
Zolkin nodded gravely. ”What exactly is in his path?”
“At the moment, another US surface action group. The battleship Mississippi, two cruisers, five destroyers, and four transports. And behind them there will be much the same escorting their president to Argentia Bay. He will engage these ships if he spots them. We’re jamming all their radar frequencies now. They can’t see us, and he’ll shoot down any plane that comes near us. We can fire at five times their range and hit them before they even know we are here. It’s not warfare, doctor, it’s murder. Our only weakness is the fact that we have a limited weapons inventory, and I'm afraid that when our missiles begin to run low…”
The Doctor knew what Fedorov was angling toward. He scratched his chin, his head to one side as he thought. “I understand,” he said. “I'll do what I can, Mister Fedorov.”
“Thank you, sir. Anything you can do to get the Admiral back on his feet might help.”
Zolkin smiled. “That's what doctors are for. The admirals and captains and generals send men out to fight, and we doctors, we try to put them back together again when they fall apart. In the meantime, I suggest you get some sleep as well. The Chief Engineer was in here an hour ago. It may comfort you to know that I told him to take his time working on the engines. In fact I was rather insistent.” He winked at Fedorov again, removing in one gesture some of the loneliness and isolation the young navigator had carried on his shoulders for days now.
“Now then,” said the Doctor. “Sleep! Doctor’s orders! I will summon you to sick bay at 1800 hours for your prescription.”
“What prescription, sir?”
Zolkin just smiled, and Fedorov knew he had found an ally.
