Cold Choices

A sinister amusement rose in Petrov as he tried to imagine how his poor starpom would take the news of the radical change in their plans. As the ship’s executive officer, Captain Second Rank Vasiliy Sergeyevich Kalinin would have to oversee all of the preparations. A master planner with a hyperactive sense of responsibility, Kalinin was an indispensable asset to Petrov and the boat. Unfortunately, his regimented personality didn’t take change very well. No, Vasiliy will not be amused by his captain’s news.

Petrov was gently pushed back in his seat as the car started climbing up the hilly approaches to the coast. As the vehicle crested the top of the ridge, he could see the submarine base below with its piers arrayed in a rough semicircle and a number of large bluish black objects nestled alongside. The sun was already well down on the horizon and the bright red and orange twilight made the submarines look even more spectral. The sheer beauty of the moment was soon shattered as the run-down and dilapidated gray buildings of the base came into view. Most of the buildings along the main road were apartments for the submarine crews and their families. It angered Petrov to see some of the finest men in the navy and their families live in such squalor. But there was nothing he could do but suppress the image. Dwelling on the unpleasantness of living on the Kola Peninsula only led one to drink. This was the escape of choice in Russia, especially for those who lived above the Arctic Circle, where there was no sunlight for months during the frigid winters.

The car slowly rolled to a stop at the head of the far right-hand pier. A large gantry crane from the missile- loading wharf nearby loomed in the background like a giant arm reaching out from the shadows into the evening sky. On the left-hand side of the pier lay Severodvinsk, her sleek form barely discernible in the fading light. Petrov exited the car and bid his commanders a good evening. Borisov and Vidchenko congratulated him once again and then sped off toward home.

Walking slowly down the pier, Petrov savored the cool evening air and mentally prepared himself for the task ahead. All doubts were instantly banished as he approached his boat. He was the captain and he had to be the living embodiment of conviction and confidence, or at least appear that way. Acknowledging the sentry’s salute and greeting, Petrov bounded up the brow onto the submarine and quickly made his way toward the open hatch on the port side of the sail. Maneuvering around the forest of masts and antennas, he squeezed his way to the bridge access trunk hatch and climbed down the ladder.

Instead of jumping past the last few rungs, as was his habit, Petrov quietly finished his descent, turned around, and came face-to-face with a wall of men. There must have been over two dozen crewmen packed into the central command post, and in the very front were his starpom and his battle department commanders. All of them stared at him with an intense visage of anxious expectation. For a brief moment they just stood there, nobody moved or spoke — the only detectable sound being the sharp ticking of the mechanical clock on the bulkhead. The eerie silence was finally broken by the starpom with a single word.

“Well?”

“It must be bad news,” injected the engineering commander, Captain Second Rank Sergey Vladimirovich Lyachin, “otherwise he wouldn’t have tried to sneak back on board.”

“Shhh, give the Captain a chance to speak,” said someone in the back.

Recovering his composure, Petrov threw his cover on to the watch commander’s desk and slowly started to unbutton his uniform coat.

“What is the meaning of this mutinous congregation, Starpom?” growled Petrov with feigned sternness. “I feel like a dying animal facing a flock of ravenous vultures.”

“Nothing quite so sinister, my dear Captain,” replied Kalinin reassuringly. “But I do believe it would be unwise, sir, to further delay in telling these desperate men the judgment of the fleet acceptance board.”

“Hmmm, I see.”

With deliberate slowness, Petrov put his coat on the chair and reached for the main announcing system microphone. Pulling it toward him, he tried to project an image of fatigue and disappointment. The former wasn’t difficult but the latter took some doing; he wasn’t the best of actors. Hesitating, he let out an exasperated sigh and said, “Well, I guess it would be best if I got this unpleasant duty over with.

“Attention all hands, this is the Captain.” Petrov shifted about in an agitated manner as he spoke. “I have just recently returned from Northern Fleet Headquarters. As you know, the Fleet Commander held the formal acceptance board for our boat today. And as expected, the testimony by the inspecting officials labored long and hard on our deficiencies. I know you gave your all in trying to meet the considerable expectations placed upon you, but the weight of evidence against us was overwhelming.” Pausing, he looked around the room as pained expressions started to emerge on his men’s faces. Kalinin was frowning, eyeing his commander suspiciously.

“So, it is my reluctant duty to inform you that we barely squeaked by with a final grade of. ” Yet another pause as he sucked the crew in for the kill. “. 4.5, a superior to excellent rating! Well done to you all!”

The shock-induced delayed reaction to the captain’s prank was priceless. Within the blink of an eye, the men in the central post went from complete dejection to absolute elation as the meaning of his words sank in. And then the cheering started.

Petrov watched with amusement as grown men, professional seamen, cheered and hollered as they jumped up and down, hugging each other and slapping one another’s backs. Kalinin leapt forward and eagerly grasped his captain’s hand. Shaking it vigorously he exclaimed, “Congratulations, sir! I knew we wouldn’t let you down.”

Releasing Petrov’s hand, the starpom then wagged his finger at him in an accusatory way, “With respect, sir, you are a cunning bastard! That was cruel to lead the crew on like that.”

“A last-minute inspiration, I can assure you. But that’s not what you’re objecting to, you’re just jealous that you didn’t get to do it yourself.”

“True,” replied Kalinin soberly, and then suddenly burst into laughter. Petrov, unable to maintain the casual facade any longer, also started laughing. Pointing toward the ladder that led down to the second deck the star-pom added, “Come, the rest of the crew will want to join in the festivities on the mess deck. The cooks have been slaving away since you left this morning and they have prepared a small celebration for everyone.”

“Excellent! I could use a little snack, and a drink. I wasn’t lying when I said the inspectors labored long and hard on our deficiencies.”

As Petrov meandered through the tightly packed mob toward the ladder, he was bombarded with words of congratulations and thanks, as well as the occasional pat on the back. Every few steps he would stop to shake someone’s hand, and a sea of humanity would begin to surround him. Impatiently, Kalinin literally towed his captain to the ladder well. One by one they filed down the constricted companionway and headed forward to the first compartment, where the majority of the living spaces were located.

Even though Severodvinsk was one of the largest nuclear-powered attack submarines in the world, displacing 11,500 tons when submerged, open space was still hard to come by. The passageways were very narrow. Only one man could walk down one comfortably, and they were flanked on both sides by yellow-painted electrical panels, electronic cabinets, fans, pumps, and other miscellaneous equipment. Occasionally a piece of machinery intruded into the walking area, often at the ankle or head level, and would painfully announce its presence to the unwary traveler. The procession to the mess deck was by necessity one long single-file line. As he approached the circular watertight door between the two compartments, Petrov heard someone yell, “Stand by!” The incredible smell of fresh baked goods wafted in the air.

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