Counterforce

Chapter Three

The arctic twilight glowed in ghostly iridescence as two Soviet submarines rounded a breakwater and entered Taliniskaia Bay. Leading the way was the smaller of the vessels. Sporting a streamlined hull, complete with a rounded bridge from which a variety of retractable aerials were extended, the attack sub Cheka was making one of its rare surface transits.

Following it, nearly one hundred meters off its stern, was the Vulkan.

Clearly dwarfing the attack sub in length and width, the Delta-class ship was almost twice as large. Characterized by a hunchbacked missile casing, located abaft the angular conning tower, the keeless submersible cut awkwardly through the choppy northern seas. Oblivious to the sickening, rolling pitch of the hull, the submariners inside knew that their home port was only minutes away.

It was at times like this that Petropavlovsk appeared extremely attractive. In reality, the city was an isolated, uncomfortable outpost, perched on the tip of the desolate Kamchatka peninsula. It was home to approximately 200,000 hardy inhabitants, the majority of whom were certainly not there by choice.

Pounded by bone-chilling, arctic temperatures, the northeastern Siberian settlement gained its importance as being home to the famed Seventh Squadron, where seventy-five percent of the Soviet Union’s Pacific Fleet subs were anchored.

Serving as reminders of their northerly position, a line of scarred icebreakers were the first ships visible as the subs proceeded into the harbor. All too soon the arctic pack ice would be inching its way down the peninsula, and the frustrating, tiring job of keeping an open sea lane would begin. With only a handful of open ports to choose from, this was a most important job. A fleet locked at its berths by ice would do the Rodina little good in times of need.

Petyr Valenko stood in an exposed opening cut into the forward section of the Vulkan’s sail. Standing next to him was his senior lieutenant, Vasili Leonov. Both were bundled in fur-lined oilskins. Even with the cover of those heavy coats, they shivered in the icy breeze.

“Just wait until it gets really cold,” mocked the captain as he readjusted his mittens and pulled his collar closer to his neck.

“Winter isn’t officially scheduled to arrive for a full month yet.”

“I’ll still take this frigid air over the stuffy confines of the sub’s interior, any day of the year,” Leonov reflected.

Valenko grinned shyly.

“You say that now, after being cooped up inside for over two months, but leave you outdoors in these conditions for an hour and you’ll soon be begging to come inside.”

As if to emphasize his observation, a biting northern gust hit them full in the face. Both men instantly turned their heads downwind in an attempt to escape its piercing effects.

“Who knows — perhaps orders sending us off to the Mediterranean are waiting in port. Wouldn’t you love a honeymoon under the balmy, tropic skies?”

The captain’s question produced an instant response from the senior lieutenant.

“As long as I’m honeymooning with my Natasha, I’ll take it anywhere on this planet. You see, I don’t plan to do much sightseeing! “

“No, I guess you don’t at that. So, you still have the nerve to go through with it?”

Leonov’s eyes gleamed.

“Since we last talked in the mess I haven’t thought of much else — except my official duty, that is.”

Valenko shook his head and grinned.

“Well, I wish you all the luck. As soon as we tie up at our pen you may consider yourself temporarily excused from duty.

I’ll complete the log myself.”

“Thank you. Captain!” Leonov said sincerely.

Eyes now focused on the rapidly approaching docks, Leonov seemed to be willing them forward. Valenko detached the waterproof intercom and began initiating the complex series of commands that would see them to their proper slot. After passing an anchored trio of Kotlin-class destroyers and a massive Kresta cruiser, the Vulkan began a broad, sweeping turn toward starboard. As they passed by the cruiser’s sharply angled bow, Valenko set his eyes on the low profile, concrete-roofed pens that the Seventh Squadron called home.

The Cheka could be seen inching its rounded hull into one of the slots closest to the open sea. The Vulkan’s berth was three dozen spaces down the line.

The majority of these pens were filled with older, Yankee-class and Hotel-class models. Though many of these ships had not been to sea in several months, each of them was fully fit for duty should the need arise.

Five minutes later, the first mooring line was being cinched onto the Vulkan’s forward capstan. After making certain that the ship was securely tied, Valenko made his way downstairs. The action there was furious, as the men hastily concluded their duties of buttoning down the sub. Not wanting to get in their way, Valenko proceeded immediately to his cabin.

Here he planned to begin work on the report that included a detailed review of the daily events of the last two months. No sooner had he sat at his tiny, wallmounted desk to begin this chore, when a knock sounded on his door.

“Come in,” he said with a touch of annoyance, then lightened as he set eyes on the grinning face of Stefan Kuzmin.

“Sir, I was just reaffirming our date for dinner. Is tomorrow evening at six o’clock all right?”

“That would be fine, Comrade. Where is this place of yours?”

Kuzmin blushed.

“I’m sorry. The address is 13 Gorshkov Boulevard. Our apartment is number 301.

Bring your appetite.”

“That, you can be certain of,” the captain said as he looked down at the blank legal pad that lay before him.

The which man alertly excused himself.

“Well, I won’t bother you any longer, sir. Besides, I’ve got a wife and six-month-old son to see. Good evening, Captain.”

With the blond-haired warrant officer’s exit, Valenko once again began organizing the series of notes that comprised the Vulkan’s informal log. It was his responsibility now to expand on these observations and create a final report. He was just getting through the first week of their patrol when another knock sounded.

“What is it?” Valenko asked with more than a bit of agitation.

The sweet scent of vanilla-soaked tobacco preceded Yuri Chuchkin’s entry.

“Sorry if I’m disturbing you, sir,” greeted the bearded weapons chief, “but I was just putting together a security roster of all those who will be staying aboard this evening.”

“Well, you can count me in there, Chief. I think it’s best if I finish up this log while the events are still clear in my mind. Who else is staying?”

Chuchkin pulled the stem of his pipe from his lips before answering.

“There’s myself, Chef Anatoly, the reactor team and the usual security detail. I thought you’d be interested to know that our good friend Ivan Novikov was one of the first to leave the ship. From the hurried way in which he was moving, our zampolit seemed to have a feather up his ass.”

Valenko chuckled.

“Bet you that he couldn’t wait to inform his superiors of the dangerous dissident currently at the helm of one of the Rodina’s most powerful weapons systems. I’ve had run-ins with his type before. He’ll get over it.”

“I hope so,” Chuchkin said.

“Otherwise, we’ll both end up on icebreaker duty in the Arctic Circle.”

“Don’t you worry. By the way, why are you staying aboard the Vulkan this evening? I’d have thought that you would like to be visiting your mother.”

Chuchkin put a match to his pipe’s bowl.

“That was the plan — until I received a call from logistics informing me to be ready to accept a new load of warheads first thing in the morning. Silly to drive all the way out to her dacha in Malka, only to return in a few hours’ time.”

“New warheads, you say?” the Captain asked.

“I didn’t know anything about such a change.”

Chuchkin cleared his throat.

“Only heard about them myself less than ten minutes ago. I’ll try to get wind of exactly what we’re taking on from the supply chief. That old Uzbek owes me a few favors. Are you going to be wanting dinner later?”

“Thanks, Comrade, but I think I’ll just pick up some cheese and crackers later this evening. I’ve got more than enough work to keep me busy well into the night.”

“Well, if you need anything, just give me a call.

Good night. Captain.”

“Good night. Chief.”

As his heavyset visitor backed out of the room and shut the door behind him, Valenko let out a sigh of relief. Free to return to his work, he stared down at the partially filled pad. Try as he could to return to his original flow of thought, his mind remained locked on a single observation the chief had left with him.

So … Ivan Novikov had been one of the first to leave for shore. Was the political officer still upset with that minor confrontation they had the other evening? Valenko couldn’t forget how the zampolit had hastily averted his eyes from the captain’s when they had passed each other a few hours earlier. Why, the man hadn’t even returned his simple greeting.

Valenko hadn’t thought their squabble was that serious.

It was more a silly misinterpreting of words than anything else.

Aware of the trouble Novikov could make if he decided to blow their confrontation into a major event, Valenko thought it best to include their spat in his log. A minor addendum would serve to explain what had happened at the fated komsomol meeting.

Certain that this would clear the air, the captain picked up his pen and once again immersed himself in a recreation of the patrol just completed.

The next day Valenko was still at his desk. Not even taking time for lunch, he diligently put the finishing touches on his report. When this was finally completed, he felt as if a great weight had been removed from his shoulders. He put the thick stack of legal sized sheets into a large packet. This pouch would then be messengered over to headquarters, where a squadron typist would get the challenge of converting his scrawled handwriting into legible copy. Quickly now, Valenko changed into a clean uniform, left his quarters and ascended the stairway to the forward entry hatch.

Outside, it was another frigid arctic day. Pulling the fur collar of his greatcoat tightly around his neck, Valenko breathed in the crisp, cool air. Barely lit by the low-rising sun, the sky was a deep blue, with a strata of high-flying, puffy white clouds blowing in from the northwest. Valenko returned the salute of the sentry positioned beside the gangplank and made his way on shore. He was unaccustomed to the feeling of solid ground beneath him and knew it would take a while to feel comfortable on pavement. After all, the constant pitching of the Vulkan’s deck had guided his steps for the past sixty days.

Before leaving the pen area completely, he turned to take a last look at his command. Moored securely to its berth, the Vulkan appeared a benign behemoth.

The sleek, black hull was beginning to show the effects of salt-water corrosion. Splotches of rusty primer could be clearly seen, undercoating the vessel’s stem, sail and deck areas. Even though the sub had been completely painted only this past summer, the harsh sea was already leaving its mark. Such was the nature of the element through which they traveled.

A small group of men could be seen gathered beside the humped casing set behind the sail. They were busy repairing a dock-borne loading gantry. Supervising this crew was the bearded, heavyset figure of Yuri Chuchkin. Complete with his faithful pipe between his lips, the weapons chief efficiently orchestrated his men’s actions. Feeling he was fortunate to have such an individual aboard, Valenko wondered how the morning’s activities had gone. Confident that Chuchkin could handle the loading of the new warheads without incident, the captain took a last look at the crimson hammer and sickle flying from the flagpole.

Like a newlywed leaving his bride, he reluctantly pivoted and hastily proceeded inland.

The wharf area buzzed with activity. Dozens of work crews were in evidence, bustling to and from the huge warehouses set up there. Lines of supply trucks cluttered the narrow streets as their drivers impatiently waited for the loading docks to clear. The hum of fork-lift trucks and diesel engines filled the air as Valenko continued down the cracked sidewalk.

Passing through a section of the base reserved for administrative purposes, Valenko noticed an unusually high number of clean-up workers scattered outside the brick office complex. With brooms, rakes, hedge trimmers and even paint brushes in hand, these hard-working souls busily did their duty. Many of them were babushkas. These heavyset old women were most comfortable with cleaning; they seemed happy to be doing their day’s work for the Motherland and went about their chores industriously.

When Valenko crossed the central parade area he was surprised to find a construction unit in the midst of building a large wooden stage, complete with a huge stand of bench-type bleachers. Other workers were busy implanting several flagpoles in the ground.

It wasn’t until the captain reached the security checkpoint at the entrance to the facility that he found out what all this unusual activity was for.

“The base is preparing for the visits of both General Secretary Rodin and Admiral Sorokin, Captain,” advised the sentry.

“They will be arriving here at the end of the week.”

Valenko noticed how the young guard’s eyes focused on the gold submarine medallion pinned to his collar.

Having no need to explain his ignorance, Valenko nodded and signed the register that declared him officially off base.

Petropavlovsk was a sprawling community, comprised of the inevitable conglomeration of ugly, gray high-rise apartment buildings, and quaint, colorfully painted cottages. Spreading out roughly fanlike, with the naval base forming its eastern boundary, the city was known for its widely diverse population, few of whom were actually born there. As is the case with large military complexes throughout the world, Petropavlovsk’s unique position created a healthy business climate.

Dependent on the city for all types of supplies and services, the base’s personnel had developed a good relationship with the local civilians. Thus, Valenko encountered a variety of kind nods and greetings as he entered the city proper.

Shunning the line of taxis that waited outside the guard post, Valenko desired nothing better than a brisk, invigorating walk. The portion of town for which he was headed was less than a mile distant.

Turning to the left, he began his way down a six-lane paved thoroughfare packed with bicycles, automobiles and trucks of all sizes.

Since he was headed south now, the piercing north wind deflected off his back.

As he merged with the snaking line of commuter foot traffic, he marveled at the mixture of humanity that swirled around him.

High-cheeked Mongols and dark-eyed Tartars darted among swarthy Uzbeks and fair-skinned Great Russians. Every element of the Rodina’s diverse population seemed to be represented here. Bundled in thick fur coats and wraps of buckskin, ox hide and wool, the hearty population seemed unaware of the bone-freezing chill. To them, this was but another mild fall day in northeastern Siberia.

After passing a huge park filled with immense pine trees Valenko entered the first of the business districts. Here he decided to take one of the narrower side streets. Dozens of simple, one-story structures housed shops primarily set aside to sell foodstuffs. The window of one establishment catering to the fish trade was filled with a single, massive tuna, solidly frozen on a bed of shaved ice. In the shop next door, a bevy of headless, plucked chickens were on display.

It proved to be the intoxicating odor emanating from the next store that drew Valenko inside.

Since his youth, the local bakery had been Valenko’s favorite store to visit. Tugged along by the patient hand of his mother, he couldn’t help but enjoy the sweet, fragrant scent of freshly risen bread and baked pastries. And he still found this perfume irresistible.

Many fond memories rose in his consciousness as he examined the simple shop. Rows of crusty breads were prominently displayed. Some of the loaves were of the darkest brown, while others were created from the purest white flour. Beside this rack was a platter of what appeared to be freshly baked oatmeal cookies.

With his mouth watering, he stationed himself in the inevitable line of anxious consumers.

The wait didn’t appear to be that bad, and Valenko spent this time watching the bakers as they skillfully plied their trade. Utilizing flat, wooden pallets, they slid the uncooked loaves into the ovens, careful to remove any items that were sufficiently cooked. With his thoughts lost in this simple process, he was conveyed back to reality only by a persistent tugging on his right sleeve.

“Excuse me, young man,” greeted the robust, whitehaired babushka who stood in line behind him.

“I couldn’t help noticing that you carry no sack to place your purchases in.”

Suddenly aware of this fact, Valenko smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

“You are most correct. Comrade.

I’ve been at sea so long that I’ve forgotten what it takes to go shopping on land. I guess that means I can only take what I can presently eat.”

“Nonsense,” the old woman said firmly.

“You’re much too skinny already. Take this extra bag that I always carry in case a bargain comes my way.”

As she shoved a cotton-mesh string-bag into his hands, Valenko tried to protest. “I won’t hear of such a thing,” he pleaded.

To this, the babushka merely took a step back and shook her head wisely.

“Of course you will, brave sailor. You know, my husband was in the navy during the Great War. They say I lost my dearest to a German torpedo, somewhere in the North Atlantic.

Just a his sacrifice kept us free, so does your present service. Please do this tired old woman the honor of repaying her gratitude in this very small way.”

Touched by these words, Valenko relented. But his response was cut short as a brusque voice shouted out, “Next!”

Now with the means to transport it, the naval officer chose two loaves of black bread, two of rye and one white. He added to this three dozen oatmeal cookies. As the clerk began filling this last part of the order, the babushka’s voice once again screamed out.

“Not those cookies, young woman! Give him some from that fresh batch you just took out of the oven.

This man you serve is one of our honored heroes!”

Blushing with the compliment, Valenko looked on in amazement as the clerk emptied the cookies she had been loading and began replacing them with those from the upper tray. His astonishment was doubled when the clerk handed him his bag of treasures and then waved away his money.

Any protest on his part was deflected by a firm tug on his coat sleeve.

“You deserve only the best,” offered the proud babushka.

“Now, go enjoy the hospitality that awaits you in our humble city.”

Knowing nothing better to do but kiss the old lady on each cheek, Valenko grasped the mesh bag after thanking the bakery clerk once again. He left to a chorus of kind grins from those in the line behind.

Once out on the street, a feeling of great inner warmth possessed him.

So, his sacrifice was appreciated after all! Fumbling for one of the cherished oatmeal cookies, he became filled with renewed conviction.

When serving one’s country, a soldier too often forgets his true purpose. The gun between civilians and the military really wasn’t that great after all. Convinced of this fact, he proceeded with a light step, careful to meet the admiring stares of all those he passed.

He was well into his third cookie when a particularly frigid blast of wind sent him reeling. A cold, dark shadow permanently veiled the heavens, and Valenko realized that the short Siberian day was already drawing to a close. Conscious of the passing hour, he knew that there was still one more stop he would have to make before continuing on to Stefan Kuzmin’s apartment.

Though he had never shopped in this particular establishment before, he had admired its colorful display windows on several past visits. To reach this spot, he was forced to cross Leninsky Prospekt, one of the cities busiest thoroughfares. The tangle of traffic that he had encountered outside of the base seemed tame compared to the jam of vehicles he now faced.

This scene proved that even such isolated cities as Petropavlovsk had their version of the infamous rush hour.

Faced with a seemingly infinite line of trucks, buses and cars, Valenko took his place at the corner with a handful of other pedestrians. Only when the light finally changed in their favor did they dare try to cross. Protected by the two thick white lines of the crosswalk, they bravely moved forward across the eight traffic lanes.

Chilled and anxious to reach his final destination, Valenko led the way. The majority of those who followed were babushkas and children.

Taking it for granted that he had the proper right of way, the young naval officer hurried to the opposite curb. All seemed clear, when a large black van suddenly shot from the line of stopped traffic. So quick was its approach that Valenko only saw it at the last moment.

Spying the vehicle out of the corner of his eye, he could hardly believe it when the driver failed to hit his brakes. The fool was actually accelerating! Was the idiot blind?

For a fraction of a second, Valenko faltered. Standing in the middle of the roadway, with the van hurtling toward him, he could go either backward or forward. Standing where he was would only gain him death.

Just as the van’s bright lights hit him full in the eyes, he chose the direction in which he had been initially moving. Like a ponderous nightmare, he did all that he could to sprint to the safety of the beckoning curb Fighting his leaden, cold limbs, he summoned that reservoir of strength each of us holds for just such do-or-die emergencies. With long, fluid strides, Valenko leaped toward the safety of the sidewalk.

A chorus of blaring horns and shocked screams supported this superhuman effort.

Only when he was firmly behind the safety of the steel signal light did he turn his head and check the van’s progress. Just as he did so, the black vehicle whisked by him, only inches away. It appeared as if the madman had been intentionally trying to run him down! Unable to catch sight of the driver or the license number, Valenko felt fortunate just to be alive.

Sucking in his breath, he looked up as the van disappeared around the corner and the other pedestrians caught up with him.

“Do you believe that fool?” cried a shocked babushka.

“The total idiots they allow on the roads nowadays. Just the other day a limousine almost ran me down on this exact same corner.”

“Are you all right. Comrade?” offered a fragile, grayhaired old man, who held onto a packed mesh bag much like Valenko’s.

“Where is the militia when you really need them?”

Thanking the elder for his concern, Valenko offered an explanation.

“I guess I was in such a hurry to cross that I failed to see the van miss the light. I’ll have to be extra cautious next time.”

“That’s something each of us needs in abundance these days,” returned the old-timer.

“The dangers of living in a modern city are just tremendous. You take care, young man.”

Accepting this fatherly advice, Valenko pushed on.

As he began his way down the street he desired, he passed by the babushka who was still animatedly conversing with herself.

“That limousine missed me by only inches. Probably some high-brow Party chief was inside, late for a date with his mistress. These days an individual life just means nothing. Now, in the old days, how different things were…”

The old woman’s words soon faded as he quickened his pace. Upon rounding the next corner, he found himself sliding uncontrollably on a patch of thick ice.

Awkwardly, he caught his balance. Life on land is more dangerous than it is 1,000 meters beneath the sea, Valenko thought. He finally saw the brightly lit windows of the shop he was looking for, less than a quarter of a kilometer distant. He breathed a sigh of relief only upon being certain that the doors to the Pushkin Toy Store were definitely open for business.

Gorshkov Street was located near the large park Valenko had passed on his way from the base. He knew it well, for it was home to a number of naval personnel, especially those with families. Dominated by a dozen rather ugly steel high-rises, the street offered both excellent access to the port facilities and to Petropavlovsk’s central park.

By the time he reached number thirteen, Valenko was anxious to gain respite from the biting cold. With numbed feet and hands, he gratefully ducked into the main hallway of the building. Here, relief was almost instantaneous. Luxuriating in the warmth, he was greeted by a wrinkle-faced duty woman.

“Good evening, young man. Can I help you?”

Valenko spotted the woman. She was seated behind a tiny, cluttered desk beside the elevator.

“Yes, Comrade, I’m here to visit the Kuzmins.”

“Well then, sir, first I’ll need to have your name.

Are they expecting you?”

Making the most of her lowly position of authority, she eyed the newcomer suspiciously while readying her notebook.

“I’m Captain Valenko, and yes — the Kuzmins’ are expecting me.”

“Ah, an officer no less,” observed the old-timer as she carefully wrote this information down.

“Well, enjoy yourself. They are certainly a lovely family.”

As he approached the elevator, the duty woman again spoke out.

“I’m afraid that lift won’t be doing you much good. It hasn’t worked properly since the day it was installed. The stairs are right here to your left” Expecting as much, Valenko found the stairway and began his way up to the third floor. The effects of the biting cold had completely dissipated by the time he reached the door marked 301. He knocked and, almost immediately, the door swung open.

“Captain Valenko?” greeted a tall, attractive young woman, whose exotic, almond-shaped eyes instantly held his stare.

Almost shyly, Valenko nodded.

“That’s me. You must be Galina. And all this time I thought Stefan was bragging about your beauty.”

Guiding a strand of long black hair behind her ear, she responded with a slight blush.

“Actually, I’m Ivana, Galina’s sister. Does the compliment still stand, though?”

“Of course it does,” Valenko said, but his smile revealed a hint of embarrassment.

As she beckoned him inside, he quickly took in the apartment’s cramped yet cozy ambience. Serving as a combined living and dining area, the room he entered featured a large sofa, with two stuffed chairs filling the far corner and a fully set dinner table placed before them. Several tasteful landscapes were hung on the walla, while a familiar, haunting symphony echoed from the radio.

“That’s Borodin, isn’t it?” he asked as he allowed himself to be led toward the couch.

“Actually, it’s his Symphony Number Two in B minor,” Ivana returned matter-of factly “Ah, In the Steppes of Central Asia,” Valenko continued fondly.

“It’s been much too long since I’ve heard this piece. As a youth, it was my very favorite.”

“As it was mine,” revealed his escort, who stood beside him while he took a seat.

“In my opinion, very few composers have captured the spirit of the Motherland as well as Alexander Borodin.”

He nodded in agreement.

“When I was a lad, my father would put this record on the victrola and I would lie there and picture myself riding with the Tartar horsemen.”

“To me it has always been the song of the untouched woods and mountains,” Ivana countered.

“Even on the coldest of nights, I can listen to this piece and instantly transform myself deep into the spring oak wood.”

A particularly haunting melody emanated from the speakers, and both listeners silently soaked it in. It was Valenko who broke the spell.

“You know, Stefan didn’t mention anything about having other guests present. Where is he, by the way?”

“I’m sorry,” Ivana said.

“Both proud parents are busy preparing little Nikolai for his first formal dinner party. Actually, Stefan didn’t even know that I would be here. I was offered a break in my studies, and took this chance to help my sister out while Stefan was at sea.”

“And where are you attending school?”

“At the Institute of Music in Kiev,” answered Ivana.

“If all goes well, I should be teaching by next spring.”

“That is a most admirable profession. I didn’t realize that I was sitting here discussing Borodin with an expert.”

His remark caused a broad smile to cross Ivana’s face. Taking in her natural, innocent beauty, Valenko found his attraction growing.

Something in the way she met his attentive stare reflected a mutual feeling.

The unexpected cries of a baby sounded, and they both turned in time to see Stefan Kuzmin enter from the adjoining bedroom. Nestled proudly in his arms was a squirming, blond-haired infant, dressed in a navy blue sailor’s suit.

“Good evening, Captain,” Stefan said excitedly.

“I hope we haven’t kept you too long.”

“Nonsense,” said Valenko as he rose from the comfortable couch.

“Ivana was being a perfectly charming hostess.”

Following Stefan was a thin, attractive woman.

There could be no doubt as to her identity. Except for a rather short hair style, her deepset dark eyes and other exotic features were an exact match of the woman who stood beside him.

Stefan Kuzmin gathered them all together and began the introductions.

“Galina, at long last you’re to meet the man I’ve told you so much about, our illustrious Captain Valenko.”

“That’s Petyr to all of you,” Valenko instructed. He greeted Galina with a hug and a kiss on each cheek.

“This meeting has been most anticipated by me, also,” he added.

“Your husband is very proud of you, and rightfully so.”

A high-pitched whine of protest followed, and Kuzmin lifted the bundle he had been carefully holding.

“No, little fellow, we haven’t forgotten you. Nikolai Petrovich Kuzmin, meet your esteemed godfather.”

Stefan handed his son to Valenko, who cradled him a bit awkwardly at first. “Don’t be afraid, he won’t break,” Galina advised.

Not accustomed to handling such a fragile, valuable load, Valenko was a bit uncomfortable. It was only after meeting the youngster’s pale blue, inquisitive stare that his apprehensions eased. When the youngster’s face lit up with a happy grin and the little fellow cooed a gurgling welcome, the captain instantly relaxed. By the time the first bottle of champagne was opened and the appetizers served, the two were well on the way to becoming the best of pals. Their friendship was sealed when Valenko reached down into his mesh sack and removed a long, rectangular box wrapped in bright red paper. The lad had a great time tearing the wrapping off, but needed his mother’s expert hands to remove the gray plastic, cylindrical object securely packed inside of an inner box.

“Why, it’s a submarine!” Galina exclaimed as Nikolai eagerly placed its conical hull into his toothless mouth.

“Don’t worry, the people at Pushkin’s say that it’s supposedly child-proof,” Valenko said.

“It’s even guaranteed to crash dive in the bathtub, or your money back.”

“She doesn’t look like one of ours. Skipper,” Kuzmin reflected.

“It better not be,” the captain retorted.

“Only the greedy Americans would be so foolish as to allow the Japanese to make representations of their latest nuclear craft for children to play with.”

“Now, that’s enough submarine talk!” Galina said forcefully.

“Tonight I would like nothing better than to keep the conversation as far away from your duty as possible. Have you tried the pickled beets as yet?

Ivana prepared them from our mother’s own recipe.”

Taking the hint, Valenko picked up a cocktail fork, speared one of the beets, and chewed it down.

“Very tasty. Tell me, ladies, is your mother a good cook?”

“The best,” Ivana answered.

“Even with her limited supply and budget. Mother could put together a week’s meals and never serve you the same thing twice.”

Galina continued.

“It’s a wonder we’re both not tat as hogs. Breads and pastries were her specialty.”

Suddenly reminded, Valenko reached forward and picked up his cotton sack.

“Earlier in the day, I’m afraid I got carried away in the local bakery.

Do you think that you could put these loaves to use? With me, they’ll only go stale.”

He handed the bread to Galina, who checked their composition and beamed.

“This is an absolute treasure!

Are you certain that you want to give them up?”

Valenko waved away her objection.

“Believe it or not, all I wanted was an oatmeal cookie anyway. You know, the clerk there didn’t even want to take my money. Since when are naval personnel treated so specially here?”

“You must have gotten lucky,” observed Galina.

“Most of the townspeople only want our rubles. Half of the time, all we hear is their constant grumbling that we are the cause of the city’s pollution and traffic problems. As if Petropavlovsk would be the city it is without the navy’s presence. Why, it would just be a backward Siberian outpost without us.”

The captain consumed another sip of champagne before answering.

“You are probably right. I have been here for several years longer than yourselves and I have watched the city grow as the navy’s presence has continually increased. Yet, I could have sworn that I was picking up a new spirit here today. I’ve never encountered so many friendly strangers before.”

“Perhaps they’re on their best behavior because of the General Secretary’s visit,” Galina reckoned.

“One thing we know is that the cleaning crews have sure been out in force.”

“I couldn’t help but notice such crews at the base, also,” Kuzmin reflected.

“They’re painting everything that doesn’t move.”

“You know, Galina may have hit upon something,” Ivana said.

“Viktor Rodin’s visit here may have opened the townspeople’s eyes.

Surely they realize how important the navy is to them now. The eyes of the entire world will be focused on Petropavlovsk solely because of this facility’s existence. By the way as members of the armed forces, what do you think of the upcoming summit meeting?”

Kuzmin looked blankly at his captain; it was obvious that neither of them knew what she was talking about. Ivana realized this and continued.

“I’ve forgotten where you’ve been for the last two months! In a nutshell, about five weeks ago the new American President, Robert Palmer, invited Viktor Rodin to meet with him in Los Angeles. The supposed subject of this summit is the instantaneous freezing of all new strategic missile systems, and the creation of a concrete timetable for the gradual elimination of those nuclear warheads already in service.”

“Most impressive,” Valenko said thoughtfully.

Kuzmin shook his head in disgust. “If you ask me, it sounds like more imperialist propaganda. Whenever their presidents take office, the first thing they inevitably do is throw the standard olive branch toward the Soviet Union. They may talk peace, but I guarantee you that work on their MX missiles and Star Wars platforms will go on, regardless.”

“I beg to differ with you, dear brother-in-law. This may have been the case in the 1960’s or 70’s, but today a new generation of leaders guides both countries. All over the world, the people cry out for peace. Ridiculously high military budgets have broken the economies of too many nations, and the average citizen has had enough.

“Our General Secretary has voiced his own frustrations.

Though he has only been in office a few months more than the new U.S. President, his unprecedented actions are already changing the direction of the Motherland. For the first time ever, defense spending has actually decreased, while consumer expenditures are on the rise.”

“It sounds to me like we’re asking for trouble,” Kuzmin mumbled.

Ivana reacted instantly to this.

“That is precisely the paranoid thinking that has gotten us into this mess! We don’t need any more nuclear bombs; neither do the Americans.

Their people are just as tired of the arms race as ours. Don’t forget that Robert Palmer ran on a strong anti-military platform. No U.S. President since Reagan has ever won so decisively.

Just give these two dynamic young leaders a chance to meet eye-to-eye.

They’ll come up with something constructive.”

Impressed with Ivana’s thoughts, Valenko’s attraction to her intensified.

“I see that somebody has been doing their political-science homework.

For the sake of little Nikolai here, I hope that your optimistic view of world affairs comes to pass, Ivana. Until it does, Stefan and I can only do what we do best to insure this fragile peace.”

“Anyone ready for dinner?” Galina asked.

Not hearing a word of protest, she picked up the baby and led the way into the dining area.

Valenko was positively ravenous by the time they sat down at the table.

The varied platters of food that soon followed didn’t disappoint him in the least. The conversation was of a much lighter nature as they plowed into their borscht. The rich beet soup was another favored recipe of the girls’ mother. Valenko found that a spoonful of sour cream perfectly accented the tart, sweet broth. Stefan Kuzmin made certain that the champagne continued to flow. They were well into their third bottle by the time the main course was brought out.

Never had beef stroganoff tasted so delicious. Presented on a platter of wide egg noodles, the meat was tender enough to cut with a fork.

Served alongside was a bowl filled with steamed carrots and string beans. It had been much too long since the submariners had tasted fresh vegetables, and the two men joyfully indulged themselves. A cup of strong black coffee and a slice of spicy apple tart completed the feast. All through the meal, little Nikolai sat in his wooden highchair, content with his bottle and the company surrounding him. By dessert’s end, the lad was fast asleep.

While the girls began clearing the table, Stefan volunteered to put the baby to bed. Valenko accompanied him into the apartment’s only apparent bedroom.

With barely enough room for their own double mattress and a single vanity, they had just managed to squeeze a crib up against the far wall. As he watched the proud papa kiss his son lightly on the cheek and then tuck him in, Valenko found new respect for his warrant officer. Stefan Kuzmin had certainly done well for himself. In such an environment, Nikolai couldn’t help but grow into a fine young man.

He held this thought as he seated himself in one of the two chairs set on either end of the couch. The girls were still busy in the kitchen as Stefan rummaged through an antique wooden cabinet and extracted a large bottle and four crystal glasses.

“I hope you have left some room for this cherry brandy. Galina brought it back from Kiev after her last visit.”

“Stefan, I don’t know where I’m going to put it-but pour away.

Comrade.”

Both men were totally at ease as Kuzmin raised his glass in a toast. “To my son’s godfather — may Nikolai grow up in his likeness.”

Not to be outdone, Valenko took a sip of the potent liquor and then offered his own toast. “To my new friends. May health and happiness haunt these walls always.”

This time, after the sips were consumed, both men sat back. A moment of contemplative silence passed before Kuzmin anxiously caught Valenko’s eye.

“There’s something that I think you should know about. Captain. Chief Chuchkin called here earlier, asking if I knew the whereabouts of Senior Lieutenant Leonov. When I explained that I supposed he was with his fiance, the Chief clued me in on some disturbing news. It seems that Comrade Leonov’s girlfriend defected to the U.S. last month with a Western journalist she had been having an affair with. Several of the crew are currently scouring the city to see how Leonov is taking the news.”

Valenko winced.

“That is a most tragic tale, Stefan, in more ways than one. You see, it was my big mouth that urged Vasili to ask the girl to marry him during this shore leave. The poor guy must be heartbroken!”

“If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll be drowning his sorrows in a bottle of vodka.”

“I hope that’s the extent of it,” Valenko said.

“Leonov’s an intelligent fellow, but a little too sensitive. A tragedy Like this could knock him completely off balance.”

“To the extent of suicide?” Kuzmin asked.

“You never know. Comrade. No pain can be as great as that generated between a man and a woman. I’ve seen many a brave officer not think twice about risking his life during a patrol, yet simply break apart upon our return after having a spat with his loved one.

Sometimes I think that’s one of the main reasons I’ve decided to remain a bachelor all my years.”

“Perhaps I should volunteer my own services in tracking Vasili down,” Kuzmin offered.

Valenko’s response was firm.

“Stay home with your wife and son, Comrade. These things have a way of working themselves out.”

Lifting his glass, Valenko finished off the fiery spirits. While Kuzmin refilled their glasses, the captain silently cursed himself for getting involved with his senior lieutenant’s love life. He had only been trying to do good. Why did these things always have a way of backfiring? His gloomy contemplations were interrupted by the arrival of the girls.

“Hey, you two, why the long faces?” Galina asked.

“I bet you’ve been talking about work again.”

“You’ve caught us out, dear,” Kuzmin answered meekly.

“We promise there will be no more shop talk.”

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep that pledge,” Galina responded.

“Now, is the kitchen detail going to have to sit here and just watch you drink that fine Ukrainian brandy?”

“I’m sorry, ladies.” Stefan immediately began filling the two empty glasses. While he did so, Ivana nestled herself into that portion of the couch that was situated beside Valenko’s chair.

“You wouldn’t believe the scene that’s visible outside the kitchen window,” Ivana said.

“I’ve never seen the snow fall so thickly before.”

“Just what we need tonight, a blizzard,” Valenko said gloomily.

“Our company isn’t that bad, is it Captain?”

Ivana’s question was delivered with such innocent spontaneity that Valenko broke out of his sullen mood. As the brandy glasses were passed around, he made the first toast. “To good food, good friends, and a world filled with peace and understanding.”

The brandy was sampled, and while Stefan and Galina discussed Nikolai’s feeding schedule, Ivana initiated a conversation with Valenko.

“The trials of parenthood. Actually, little Nikolai is an angel. The dear practically sleeps through the night now.”

“I’m certain that Galina appreciates all your help.

Have you two always been this close?”

Ivana hesitated a bit before answering.

“As the little sister, I was always quite jealous of Galina.

We’ve had our share of spats, but nothing too serious.

During school I didn’t have much to do with her, except to borrow clothes and make-up. And before long she was married, and here we are the very best of friends.”

“That’s the way it should be,” Valenko remarked, while stifling a yawn.

“Being an only child, I wish I could have experienced such a relationship, but it was not to be.” He paused, and then said, “I hate to be a spoilsport, but I think I’d better be getting on my way. Paperwork kept me awake most of last night, and all that good food and drink have drained me completely.”

Ivana covered a yawn herself.

“I guess I’m ready to turn in also. Hold on, and you can walk me downstairs to the apartment I’m staying in.”

“I thought that you were staying here.”

“I was, but with Stefan’s return I just didn’t feel comfortable. This place is crowded enough as it is.

Fortunately, one of their bachelor neighbors is also a submariner and he’s currently out to sea. Galina got the keys from him for just such circumstances.”

“What’s this about somebody wanting to leave?”

Stefan said animatedly.

“Are you certain that you don’t want one more brandy for the road?”

Valenko stood and the others joined him.

“I’m afraid not. Comrade. I can’t tell you what a marvelous evening it has been. I haven’t had such a good time in years.”

“Well, it was a pleasure having you,” answered Galina.

“Please feel free to make our home yours whenever you so wish.”

Kuzmin nodded.

“With that blizzard blowing outdoors, you’re welcomed to spend the night here. I can personally attest to the comfort of this sofa for sleeping.”

“The snows don’t bother me, Comrade. In a way, I kind of look forward to walking in the white stuff once again.”

“If you change your mind after you poke your head outside, just come back and knock,” Galina offered sincerely.

Coats, gloves and hats were produced, and soon Valenko and Ivana found themselves alone in the hallway. Only when they reached the stairs did the naval officer feel the total effects of the alcohol he had consumed. Slightly dizzy, he halted a moment to tightly grasp the shiny wooden bannister. His escort was in no better shape as she stumbled up beside him.

When Ivana hiccuped loudly the two broke up in a seizure of uncontrollable laughter.

“Some example we are to the children of the Motherland,” Valenko slurred.

“A naval officer and a teacher-to-be so potted they can’t even walk down a flight of stairs.”

“Speak for yourself. Captain,” Ivana retorted.

“Didn’t you know that it’s a scientific fact that women can hold their liquor much better than men?”

Emphasizing this statement with another hiccup, Ivana shakily began to walk down the stairs. Her progress appeared steady until she faltered just as she reached the second floor landing. Keeping her from stumbling was a pair of strong, alert hands. Without a word passing between them, Valenko angled his head down and kissed her full on the lips. A vibrant shock of longing jumped back and forth between them.

Impossible to ignore, this heart pounding, instinctive urge was stimulated by passions too-long contained.

“You don’t really want to be alone tonight, do you sailor?” Ivana muttered breathlessly.

Valenko answered with another long, electrifying kiss. No more words were spoken as Ivana took his hand and led him to her apartment.

Somehow, they managed to get the door unlocked.

Inside it was warm and dark. Neither bothered with switching on lights. Valenko allowed himself to be led by the hand onto a large mattress that lay against the far wall.

Needless clothing was tossed to the floor as they both scurried for the cover of the bed’s thick, cotton comforter.

Another passionate shock flared as their naked bodies touched and intertwined. Savoring the moment, Valenko allowed his hands to explore those exciting features he had watched all evening. With lips still pressed and tongues probing, his fingers traced the soft yet firm flesh of her breasts. Budlike nipples beckoned to be aroused. With an expert, gentle touch, he did so. Only after leaving them erect and stiff, did he continue his wandering.

A creamy smooth, flat belly led to a pair of tight, squirming hips.

Massaging the inner sides of her thighs, a line of goose bumps urged his exploration ever on. The pressure of her lips intensified as his fingers delicately probed the recesses of her womanhood.

She needed little priming, for he found these depths wet and hot.

Reaching out with her own hands, Ivana traced the hairy, solid surface of her lover’s chest. Her frantic exploration didn’t stop until she found her mate stiff and ready. Knowing full well that she was about to be taken by more man than she had ever encountered before, she trembled inwardly. Valenko felt this vibration and knew that the time was right for fulfillment.

Sliding on top of her, he cupped his hands under her buttocks and, with a single plunge of his hips, found his mark. A passionate moan escaped from Ivana’s lips as he pushed himself forward and gave her his all.

For a fleeting second, neither party moved.

Valenko relished the feel of their initial merger, as the slow grinding of Ivana’s hips led him on.

Deliberately slow, he pulled himself back so that his shaft’s lips hovered outside the folds of her moist channel. This was followed by another plunge downward.

Valenko gradually increased the speed of his rhythm.

Assured by his gentleness, yet clearly awed by his size, Ivana hungrily matched his strokes. Loosened by his penetration, she wrapped her legs around his hips and increased her pumping. All too soon this stroke became a frenzy, and a quivering warmth began rising deep within her.

Again she moaned and found herself begging him to take her deeper. Just as he shoved himself to his limit, a fiery, ecstatic warmth shot upward from the pit of Ivana’s loins.

Aware of his mate’s rousing climax, Valenko abandoned all self-control and joined her. At their moment of climax, their lips again became one. He knew then that their coupling had been most right.

Warm, soothed and satisfied, his new love snuggled up beside him. He was grateful that she didn’t need any words to express her satisfaction. As he lay there with Ivana securely in his arms, Valenko was suddenly aware of the distinct, fierce howl of gusting winds outside. Cognizant that he had made the correct choice, he hugged her gently, and within minutes matched the slow, even breaths of her deep slumber exactly.