rating posted in the conning tower as his and the OOD’s talker. They were perfectly capable of dodging whales and sea ice without Nikolai looking over their shoulders. The problem in engineering was more important for him to deal with.
First, however, he wanted to go over the plans for tomorrow. Spy or no spy aboard, the scientific expedition had to run smoothly or his career would end up in deeper shit than it already was.
“Dispatches, Kapitan ,” Starshina Borovsky said crisply, handing him a single piece of paper.
“Thank you,” Nikolai said just a shade sardonically. “Dispatches” was a rather glorious word for the routine two-line weather report diviziya command deigned to send them each day. It wasn’t like they were on an autonomous military patrol, forbidden to contact headquarters except for rare encrypted radio bursts. As long as they were transiting, the scientists were free to use their satellite phones and laptops, and even the crew was allowed to e-mail home whenever they liked. No, officially, Ostrov was simply being ignored. Which actually suited Nikolai just fine. It worked both ways.
He approached the chart table and greeted the navigator, a man he hadn’t sailed with before. “How goes our progress, Praporshchik Zubkin?”
“Cold, straight, and normal, Kapitan ,” Konstantin Zubkin reported with a crooked grin.
Nikolai chuckled at the reference. Obviously Zubkin had spent time on a torpedo post. Or possibly he’d heard Nikolai was a film buff who’d seen every submarine movie ever made at least five times. “Hot, straight, and normal” was American sub-speak for a torpedo running true to its target. But today, the open hatch to the top of the sail was keeping the central post temps more Arctic than tropical—thus the paraphrase.
“When do we reach the first study area?” he asked.
“Just before oh-eight-hundred tomorrow, sir.”
Zubkin produced a set of detailed maps of the ocean floor—rather, as detailed as it got, which was to say filled with masses of blank spots—proceeding from their current position along their charted course going east then north to Attu Island.
Their projected route would take them over the edge—metaphorically speaking—of the Asian continental shelf and the Kuril-Kamchatka Trench into the topmost corner of the Pacific, then over the Miezi Seamount and past the international date line, and finally to Attu. Attu was the last American island on the very tip of the Aleutian chain, the westernmost official bit of American soil, or the easternmost, depending on whom you asked and whether they took a traditional view of the international date line as 180º longitude or acknowledged the zig and zag imposed upon it to keep the Aleutians all on the same day.
Zubkin spread the charts on the light table, then brought out a transparent overlay and put it over the chart. “These are the research stops proposed by Professor Sundesvall for tomorrow.”
Nikolai knew there was a strong southward drift in the ocean current to compensate against, so hitting such small targets was not quite as simple as it sounded. It took constant adjusting by the helmsman. “Foresee any problems with getting to them?”
“Nyet, Kapitan.” Zubkin indicated a red X marking the last stop. “There are some large rock outcroppings and natural obstructions here as we approach Attu, but if we stay on the surface we should be fine. The UUVs should have smooth flying both days. No bad weather or rough currents predicted for tomorrow.”
“Very well, Praporshchik Zubkin, plot a course for tomorrow’s evolution and run it past Professor Sundesvall before reporting to me.”
“Da, Kapitan.” A hesitant look shadowed his face.
“Was there something else?”
“Well, we were just wondering, sir. Will there be a ceremony?”
Nikolai blinked. “Ceremony?”
“We’ll be crossing the Arctic Circle on this patrol. And the international date line as well, nyet ?”
“Ah.”
First, however, he wanted to go over the plans for tomorrow. Spy or no spy aboard, the scientific expedition had to run smoothly or his career would end up in deeper shit than it already was.
“Dispatches, Kapitan ,” Starshina Borovsky said crisply, handing him a single piece of paper.
“Thank you,” Nikolai said just a shade sardonically. “Dispatches” was a rather glorious word for the routine two-line weather report diviziya command deigned to send them each day. It wasn’t like they were on an autonomous military patrol, forbidden to contact headquarters except for rare encrypted radio bursts. As long as they were transiting, the scientists were free to use their satellite phones and laptops, and even the crew was allowed to e-mail home whenever they liked. No, officially, Ostrov was simply being ignored. Which actually suited Nikolai just fine. It worked both ways.
He approached the chart table and greeted the navigator, a man he hadn’t sailed with before. “How goes our progress, Praporshchik Zubkin?”
“Cold, straight, and normal, Kapitan ,” Konstantin Zubkin reported with a crooked grin.
Nikolai chuckled at the reference. Obviously Zubkin had spent time on a torpedo post. Or possibly he’d heard Nikolai was a film buff who’d seen every submarine movie ever made at least five times. “Hot, straight, and normal” was American sub-speak for a torpedo running true to its target. But today, the open hatch to the top of the sail was keeping the central post temps more Arctic than tropical—thus the paraphrase.
“When do we reach the first study area?” he asked.
“Just before oh-eight-hundred tomorrow, sir.”
Zubkin produced a set of detailed maps of the ocean floor—rather, as detailed as it got, which was to say filled with masses of blank spots—proceeding from their current position along their charted course going east then north to Attu Island.
Their projected route would take them over the edge—metaphorically speaking—of the Asian continental shelf and the Kuril-Kamchatka Trench into the topmost corner of the Pacific, then over the Miezi Seamount and past the international date line, and finally to Attu. Attu was the last American island on the very tip of the Aleutian chain, the westernmost official bit of American soil, or the easternmost, depending on whom you asked and whether they took a traditional view of the international date line as 180º longitude or acknowledged the zig and zag imposed upon it to keep the Aleutians all on the same day.
Zubkin spread the charts on the light table, then brought out a transparent overlay and put it over the chart. “These are the research stops proposed by Professor Sundesvall for tomorrow.”
Nikolai knew there was a strong southward drift in the ocean current to compensate against, so hitting such small targets was not quite as simple as it sounded. It took constant adjusting by the helmsman. “Foresee any problems with getting to them?”
“Nyet, Kapitan.” Zubkin indicated a red X marking the last stop. “There are some large rock outcroppings and natural obstructions here as we approach Attu, but if we stay on the surface we should be fine. The UUVs should have smooth flying both days. No bad weather or rough currents predicted for tomorrow.”
“Very well, Praporshchik Zubkin, plot a course for tomorrow’s evolution and run it past Professor Sundesvall before reporting to me.”
“Da, Kapitan.” A hesitant look shadowed his face.
“Was there something else?”
“Well, we were just wondering, sir. Will there be a ceremony?”
Nikolai blinked. “Ceremony?”
“We’ll be crossing the Arctic Circle on this patrol. And the international date line as well, nyet ?”
“Ah.”
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