“But Admiral,” Kovalov said, “
“It’s summertime,” Zhigunov said, as if that solved the problem. “The ice won’t be a problem. And if it is,
Alexeyev glanced quickly at Kovalov, who was biting his lip as if trying to contain a further outburst.
“Sir, this route will take forever.” Alexeyev looked at Zhigunov, but knew this issue would be ignored as the previous ones had.
“We’re in no particular hurry, gentlemen,” Zhigunov said.
“If I may be so bold to ask,” Kovalov said, “whose idea was it to go this route?”
Zhigunov hesitated, but finally shook out another cigarette and lit it. “Our orders come directly from President Vostov himself.”
So, there could be no further argument, Alexeyev thought.
“Any other questions?” Zhigunov asked. “Any other thoughts about your orders?”
“Not from me,” Alexeyev said.
“Sergei?”
“None from me, Admiral,” Kovalov said slowly. Alexeyev could tell his friend was furious.
“Normally I’d invite you both to dinner, but I’ve been called to Moscow to go over our plans with the president,” Zhigunov said, standing and picking up his pad computer, then stubbing out his cigarette.
The meeting, obviously, was over, Alexeyev thought, standing and shaking Zhigunov’s hand. The admiral shook Kovalov’s hand and made a hasty exit from the room after turning off the display screen.
“Georgy,” Kovalov began. Alexeyev waved him off.
“Not here. Not now.”
“Lamb’s Valhalla then,” Kovalov said. Alexeyev nodded, then reached for his officers’ cap and coat.
Alexeyev and Kovalov smoked in silence in the Northern Fleet staff car, then climbed out at the club, instructing the driver to wait for them.
Once comfortable in their booth, the customary toast to fallen comrades complete, Kovalov looked at Alexeyev and said, “Even before we talk about this madness, I have to ask you, Georgy. There’s something wrong, perhaps even more troubling than these orders. Someone’s walked on your grave, yes? There’s something you’re not telling me. What is it?”
Alexeyev looked at Kovalov and nodded solemnly. “Something happened this morning, but I’m not sure I have the courage to tell you about it.”
“Courage? You? You were awarded the Medal for Military Valor First Class for the South Atlantic run.”
Alexeyev scoffed. “That award is for those who are victorious, not those who lose their ships in battle. To this day, I still don’t know the motivations of the admirals for giving me that.”
“Perhaps to communicate into your thick one-eyed skull that you are a courageous
“Maybe I wasted two torpedoes early in the fight,” he said.
“In countermeasure mode? Surely, had you not fired them, you would have gone down sooner. Georgy, what can I say to break your mood? This is a dangerous line of thinking.”
“Wait until you hear what I’m about to tell you,” Alexeyev said, draining his scotch and pouring more. Over the next few minutes, he told the tale of seeing Matveev in his apartment when he woke and the smell of her cigarettes. He tried to keep his voice level and even, but he could hear his voice trembling and his hands had started to shake, and by the end of the story he had that same shortness of breath he’d felt when Natalia came in. He concentrated on breathing deeply, trying to disguise his emotions by taking a deep pull of the scotch and refilling his glass, but his hand trembled and some of the liquid spilled on the table. Kovalov pretended not to notice.
The two men were silent for a long moment, Kovalov pouring out the remains of the bottle, then calling for the server to bring them a fresh one, two packs of his favorite cigarettes, and a new lighter. When she returned, Kovalov handed one pack and the lighter to Alexeyev. “Your bad habit is back, my friend. You’d best lay in a few cases of cigarettes before departure.” He hadn’t yet commented about the ghost from this morning.
“Sergei, do you think I’m crazy?”
