Red Star on the Sail

By Douglas E. Templin

Red Star on the Sail is a riveting pair of stories cleverly spun together by the author; packed with page-turning romance, thrills, spine-tingling adventure and espionage. Follow the path of a young California couple in search the sailboat of their dreams, and feel the problems arising in their marriage as plans to cruise the South Pacific become complicated and confused. Shiver in the midst of a bitter winter with an unruly Russian admiral, given command of his country's newest and most lethal nuclear submarine. Outbound with orders of ominous potential, America's CIA intervenes, throwing chaos at the commander, his wife and trusted executive officer. Become part of the characters' lives as they develop concurrently on opposite sides of the globe and take similar turns--while plotting and planning futures--laden with inevitable yet unexpected obstacles. What might occur, should their courses converge on the high seas?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 12, 2010
• ISBN: 9781449056599

Douglas E. Templin

His second novel; author, Doug Templin, a private investigator for two decades, and a marine business owner for as long;  canoed and fished the Au Sable.  Deeply affected by its beauty, isolation and the classic fishing it offered;  inspiration for the story bloomed.  It became the setting, into which he wove mystery, romance and enticing contact with the beyond.        Raised in the country, the author fly fished for the wary trout from boyhood, in native mountain streams northeast of Los Angeles and later, in the lakes, streams and rivers that abound in California’s High Sierra.   See his first book, Red Star on the Sail, an exciting sea story, available at your favorite bookstore or from Authorhouse.com

Book preview

Chapter 1

Severodvinsk, Russia

What in the…?

Lightning fast, a scythe from nowhere, the resounding slap smothered Captain Mikhail Cosmonov in a galaxy of grinning stars. So stunned he was from the sudden and unexpected impact, his mind whirled into momentary, balance-teetering blackness.

Dizzy…can’t focus. Knees…crumpling…may be finished. Thoughts stammered, halting an instinctive vocal response. Cosmonov’s eyes cracked open in time to see the back of Admiral Ivanovitch Darkotov’s right hand hissing past his face.

There was no time for analysis; he had no options. The Captain had to recover and recover fast. Flooded in disbelief, he wavered for an instant, resumed his motionless stance, and boldly faced his new commander with no further change in countenance, save the faint but perceptible twitch in his left eye.

Darkotov leered downward at Captain Cosmonov’s stumpy but powerful two-hundred-pound hulk. The Admiral stiffened, clicked his boots, and with a fiery glare, demanded composure from his humiliated counterpart. Attention, Mister Cosmonov…as you were, he bellowed

Chest out and eyes drilled forward again, Cosmonov’s entire body reacted reflexively, but words crying to be heard stayed deep within.

Darkotov detested the bitter Arctic wind and its prying fingers that drove snow flurries almost horizontally that day. Gritting teeth, he shivered from the cold. The shallow cleft in the center of his boxed chin was almost flattened. His lips had turned a waxy white. Leathery, sea-wrinkled skin draping loosely around his throat, shook as he breathed. His heavy mane of black hair, laced with dirty yellow-gray, hung dampened and shaggy below the margin of his fur cap, betraying fifty-six years of hard living and the stresses induced by a life of military toil.

Cosmonov couldn’t help but exact every detail as he worked to recover.

Mystified by his surprisingly impulsive action, Darkotov looked inward for answers. What came over me? Surely I detected signs of fleeting distraction in my comrade’s gaze. Were there facial expressions suggesting contemptuous wanderings? Did Cosmonov utter something only I could hear? He did! He slurred something beneath his breath. He must have. Was it just the fury of this infernal storm?

Horror-struck and likewise chilled almost beyond redemption, Darkotov’s select crew watched from four long columns overlooking the Admiral Antonov Vitchidock, a slate-gray nuclear submarine of gargantuan proportions, soon to be their new home. Its oversized Russian ensign crackled nosily on the stern staff, adding drama to the aftermath of the Admiral’s strange assault.

Young officers—chests puffed, almost bursting with pride despite the cold—filled most of the front line closest to the tattered wharf. Stone-still for the most part, occasional involuntary shaking broke their petrified poses. Heavy coats and upturned collars offered little respite from the swirls of wet snow which had begun to whiten shoulders. Medals dangling from their outer garments clinked like ice in crystal goblets at a formal dinner party.

Few of the enlisted seamen in the ranks behind the officers had ever served with the Admiral, but all were apprehensive from the ceremony’s beginning. There was no paucity of rumors touting Darkotov’s toughness around the training base, so they’d come prepared for the worst. Intimidated, yet acting as if they had ignored the slap, the men appeared almost frozen in their wool watch caps and bulky but inadequate midnight black dress uniforms. Not daring to break the spell with notable movement, the one hundred forty fear-filled statues stayed at full attention, enduring speech after speech as best they could.

Sevmash Shipyard’s newest launch, the Antonov Vitchidock signaled a roaring triumph for the remote, far-north waterfront city of Severodvinsk. Russia Federation’s largest and most lethal ballistic missile launcher was soon to be operational. This was the long-awaited day—a time for tributes, despite the delayed and arduous construction effort—the final commissioning ceremony preceding its entry into naval operations.

Christened almost a year before, the 565’ Borey class nuclear sub, hull number one in this highly advanced series, was to have seen active duty in June. But completion dragged to early November and the first serious freeze grinned with a vengeance. Across the bay to the south of the shipyard, the white-blanketed landscape looked bleak; buckled icy fringes trimmed the water’s edge. Sailing orders were long overdue, and, to the frustration of all, winter had slipped in the shoes of Indian summer with little warning.

Still churning with workers inside her mammoth carcass, the Vitchidock lay gracefully and low in the smelly, brackish backwater of the inner harbor, a crowded estuary all but clogged with old tires, wood scraps, undulating waves of plastic, and other carelessly discarded detritus. Standing proudly above it—a huge floating cigar with dorsal fin—the submarine dwarfed rotting and rusted hulks of many smaller, duty-torn sister submarines awaiting major overhaul or demolition, afloat at various angles nearby. It seemed to all in attendance that the new hatchling was being readied just to spite its older counterparts.

Shadows had grown long at the Sevmash facility, Russia’s secreted but cluttered and terribly outdated nuclear submarine construction center. Distracted after the blow to Cosmonov, and concerned to complete the program while the short daylight lasted, Darkotov looked over the Captain’s shoulders toward the cavernous, two-tone gray plant building beyond the assembled crowd. It embarrassed him; could have been the façade of a deserted ghost town business district in an American western movie, he thought. He gagged from the pale cocoa smoke spewing from its crumbling, charcoal stained brick stacks, and felt ashamed at myriad signs of budgetary woes: Scores of broken windows, smelly pools of black oil, peeling paint, and limitless piles of undiscarded waste. The sprawling, decrepit structure, filled with antiquated machinery, barely hinted such a high-tech weapon could have been born there.

For a few moments after the Admiral’s indiscretion, an eerie and timeless still prevailed. Watches could have stopped. The two officers—equally shocked—said not a word for too long, each glaring at the other as though something physical might occur. But Cosmonov, who was to serve as the Vitchidock’s Executive Officer, knew better, and kept himself in strict, disciplined control.

He’d seen his new commander do this before to enlisted men, even an officer or two—sometimes deserved, mostly undeserved—never imagining himself the subject of such untagged abuse. The strike at his face was unforgivable, yet such a move was Darkotov’s prerogative. The Admiral was notorious for it and he’d never been seriously disciplined for such antics. Retaliation under the circumstances would have been career-ending, prompting the chagrined man to remain steadfast as he sought rationale for the incident, and strained for composure.

The Admiral leaned close to the Captain, breaching the safe margin of space top-level officers did not normally cross, certainly before the public. Darkotov’s broad nose flared; his breath reeked of the pungent Cuban cigars he smoked. The whites of his eyes were still streaked pink from too much vodka the previous night. He squinted tightly again—always a bad sign—and stretched his mouth to a sardonic grin, while his tongue involuntarily flipped back and forth. Biting his lower lip to maintain control, Darkotov’s sinister stare remained unbroken, until, after a worrisome pause, he turned slowly to the sub and then back again, too close to his subservient’s face.

Laughing loudly for all to hear, heartily if not convincingly, Darkotov broke his rigid stance, and reached out with both hands to embrace the still-startled Captain. The grip on Cosmonov’s neck was tight, but the Admiral’s frown soon relaxed, and his hands did the same. Cosmonov nearly collapsed until Darkotov exclaimed to his relief, It will be a handsome treat to serve on this fine vessel with my devoted confidante, and superbly qualified comrade. They had been trusted friends since childhood, growing up on adjoining collective farms in Ukraine. Do not be alarmed. We’ve always been rough together. Yes, since boyhood we have continually rivaled. Firm horseplay is hardly uncommon between us. My Captain, I think, might have been somewhat inattentive. Were you not, Mister Cosmonov?

Cosmonov boiling with anger, knew a reply to be inappropriate. Lips pursed, eyes glazed—frozen straight ahead—he swallowed imperceptibly, and said not a word.

It looked as if Darkotov would continue, but appearing embarrassed, the Admiral fell silent again. He grimaced momentarily and thought of ways to extricate himself from this labyrinthine dead-end. It could be opportune, he thought, to embellish the high points of Cosmonov’s service record…a perfect distraction. Regretting his indiscretion had made overt accolades necessary, the gesture did placate some, albeit not the Captain, who racked up the incident as a regrettably intolerable validation of the long-standing jealousy that often overrode their relationship.

Cosmonov shifted his stare, looked deeply at his commander, and remembered the day, decades before, when, as young lads, they had played Cossack warriors in the loft of the Admiral’s family barn, each with pitchfork in hand. Cosmonov became angry, and unintentionally struck Darkotov, hard, with the heavy fork handle, slamming his friend’s head against the old rusted pulley used to draw equipment and hay bales from wagons below.

Darkotov’s hand showed dripping blood as he swiped it across the impact site. Older by four years and much stronger at thirteen, young Ivan stared in disbelief at the crimson smudge. Frightened at the bleeding, he raged, pushed Cosmonov to the loft’s edge and over the side, to a vacant horse stall below. Darkotov jumped down, pitchfork extended. At the last moment, he plunged his weapon deep into the straw, inches from Cosmonov’s head. He whispered with conviction, I should have killed you, Mikie. I could have pushed this fork through your neck. You cut my head, you worthless peasant. I should kill you now.

That day still rang harshly in Cosmonov’s memory. He could not forget the hurtful insult—a serious threat—and wondered if the Admiral remembered his sudden rage back then, as they continued peering at one another before the astonished crowd. Silence swept the ranks. All remained at full attention, but every eye was wired cautiously on the two senior officers.

Darkotov’s chest heaved with several quick breaths. Solemnly, he spoke to himself again, while his grimace paled. What else can I say to masquerade this provocative moment? I can’t retrieve my hand. I did hit him. The damned Cosmonov is well liked by his officers…has their uncompromising trust. Look at him…pompously flat belly…coal-black hair, greased down so slick…not a stitch of gray. Will he ever need glasses? Why should he get all the women?

An unforgiving series of frigid gusts and a brisk though tinny band number gave the Admiral precious time, a welcome opportunity to cover his outburst. Men, I love this fine officer as I do my own family, he finally boomed when the music ended. He rubbed icy gloves together and gestured toward Cosmonov. Later, you’ll understand our playfulness. You must understand; the Captain and I could be spatting brothers for all you know. Isn’t that right Comrade?

Cosmonov was speechless. Perfunctory salutes were exchanged.

The scar above Darkotov’s right eyebrow from the childhood incident still pulsed with reminding anger while he continued his demanding introspection. From where did my madness come? What the hell caused me to impart the indignation my old pal must have felt, and the consternation I could see in the expressions of every crewmember standing here? Christ! What have I done? This could bring a reprimand. Did I see a button off center? Is he not clean-shaven? His pistol…was it unclean? The man is always polished, and so perfectly in every corner—just to spite me, I suppose—such a cocky upstart. Darkotov’s budding guilt screamed irrepressibly.

Shy at heart, the Admiral was glad visibility of the crew was impeded by a glint of sunshine peeking beneath the low-hanging clouds, and the thick glasses he had been forced to use since his last cruise. He’d finally admitted that he could no longer see road signs at a distance, nor read nautical charts without a hand lens.

His wife, Alana, had prodded him to see the eye specialist. Loath to do so at her suggestion, Darkotov relented only to stop the nagging.

He reflected how deeply he loved and needed Alana, despite the lack of affection she had shown in recent months. In a passing moment, he pictured his much younger spouse, bathing before him, then alighting, and stretching in the tub before drying herself. Usually for his benefit, it was her signal they would soon make love. But that message had quit flashing in recent months.

The crackled concrete pavement, slick with dirty, crusted ice had turned the Admiral’s feet numb, snapping him from the straying notions; his toes were immobile, and his hands shook when he spoke. Despite the cold, words flew loudly and confidently in usual Darkotov fashion, a combination of his strong and raspy monotone voice, and the uncontrollable volume of the scratchy PA system. He flung phony though politically correct platitudes favoring the shipyard workers, coming close to smirking at the huddled group of them seated patiently in the ramshackle bleachers behind the crew. Their poor work product, he had continually lamented in previous months, resulted in far too many first-round systems test failures, and a painfully endless train of quality control complaints.

Declining morale brought on by the Federation’s financial crisis should have been blamed, for Darkotov knew that in some trade circles, shipyard people were not paid for weeks, even months on several occasions. They’d gone on strike because of it and were compensated at least twice with food in lieu of cash. Contrary to usual, insensitive upper-level military protocol, the Admiral often found himself empathetic, and frequently spoke out about their welfare.

He thanked the workers repeatedly for their efforts, and the way they had persevered; brushed accumulating snow from his drooping mustache, and wrinkled his forehead as he lied. Nervously, Darkotov removed and carelessly wiped his glasses, looked at the crowd for as much unaided eye contact as possible, then replaced the thick lenses to continue.

Admiral Darkotov viewed his country’s near-exhausted military budget and the lag in technology with deep contempt and sorrow, and as great risks to the reliable development and production of sophisticated weapons systems and competitive military ships. Soviet Russia’s fall in 1991 and the ensuing decay of its military prowess still frightened him. He had little respect for Boris Yeltsin, but considered Gorbachev somewhat heroic, attributing economic support for Russia a product of his world diplomatic efforts, especially with the U.S.

Standing there in the abysmal weather, the Admiral worried over President Putin’s recent gestures suggesting military cooperation with China. Would he be forced some day, to blend with such an alliance? Maybe that had precipitated his lash-out. Life in the navy had certainly been unsettling, hardly predictable, since the President’s installation in March of 2000. A former KGB Secret Service agent, Putin tended to be secretive, if not aloof. He acted whimsically, and rarely showed enough respect for Russia’s military forces. His apathy toward decorated senior officers infuriated Darkotov.

Though an uncommonly loyal, dedicated, and committed career man, the Admiral viewed Russia as hanging on the precipice of potential military failure. Unconscious glimpses at so many neglected assets barely floating in the icy bay brought that to a quick reality. He’d harbored fears and suffered nightmares that this might even be his last mission.

"I must apologize to all of Russia for the long delay in completing the Admiral Antonov Vitchidock, Darkotov continued, back at the microphone with renewed vigor. He blamed the sub’s high technology, not the slow moving, financially decrepit government, following the lead of former party officials who had alluded likewise while speaking at the launching almost a year before. I wish to extend my unending gratitude to the Federation—to our comrade designers—for creating this monster of destruction I am to command. He turned toward the harbor and spoke reverently to the sub. Truly, you are Russian shipbuilding’s finest achievement. The Admiral brushed his pewter mustache in another moment of feigned deliberation; clouds of vapor streamed forward from nose and mouth, and he regained his breath to smile obligingly. Indeed, Antonov Vitichidock, you are a rare beauty, the answer to my dreams—yes, the final height in my military service."

No details were tendered through continuing rhetoric, but he spoke of a forthcoming mission that would demand committed service at sea for six to eight months. It is to be of great strategic importance. Lenin, himself, would be proud of our incredible achievement in technological development, proud of this moment, the top-drawer crew I have been permitted to select, and the duties we’re to perform. He had no idea where they were to go at that moment, and left that blank, for mission directives were still in planning.

Spinal columns in the lines stiffened, and, despite forbidding conditions, sweat oozed beneath each man’s bulky clothing when Darkotov stressed in conclusion that his orders would be the last word, always. Any failure to follow rules of engagement, for any reason, will bring a non-negotiable charge of treason, carrying life imprisonment or death as the penalty. There can be no life-threatening errors deep below the surface, with the destructive power we have packed inside. He growled the words menacingly.

Not a sound but cautious, shallow breathing emitted from the listeners as he couched final words in another forced smile. "Good fortune to you men. May the spirit of the sea be with all of us throughout our forthcoming tasks. The Vitchidock shall honorably serve the Federation of Russia. May she carry those of us aboard her with safety and security. Certainly, you may be assured, I will do my best for you."

The granite-solid, bull-necked Admiral, taller than so many standing there, turned toward the darkening silhouette of the submarine in a quick about face. He saluted the Russian flag that still snapped like gunfire. A harsh command echoed for all to do the same. Moaning gusts swept over the crowd. An officer’s hat flew wildly into the bay like a frightened bird, but Darkotov failed to notice. Salutes held to their brows for ten seconds, the crew dropped hands swiftly, without a rustle, and the brass band played. All but quilted by the growing howl of the breeze, the bleary Russian National Anthem filled more awkward space.

Darkotov hesitated as though he would say more, but burdened with second thoughts, thanked the audience in conclusion, released his grip on the mike, and scowled to one of the chiefs, Make ready for inspection.

Turning his head to divert the stinging sleet, though looking the tough, unaffected, and seasoned submariner he was; the Admiral shuffled slowly along his crew’s ranks, exchanging salutes here and there. Breaking routine with an occasional curt and disinterested introduction, he moved more gracefully, almost catlike, toward Cosmonov once again.

Thinking the worst, as his superior assumed an indifferent stare and stopped before him, the Captain’s mind raced like the Volga River in spring flood. Oh, no…no, he screamed inside. My God! What’s he going to do now? Will he fire his pistol as he did in the Bering Sea, next to that poor, damned engineer’s head?

Cosmonov was on that cruise several years before. He had borne witness to the events leading to the incident, and its regrettable aftermath.

The day was a horror. Departing from strict mission directives, Darkotov had ordered the sub to the surface, solely to dress down the frightened man, and to make him a harsh example for an innocent but slightly subversive remark he’d made. While the two stood alone on the dripping foredeck, Darkotov yanked his pearl-handled Glock pistol from its holster. He cocked and fired it inches from the young officer’s temple while lecturing on the art of minding orders. Cosmonov heard the shots from below, thinking a killing had taken place, until the trembling, sobbing man struggled down the ladder from the sail—crestfallen and frightened beyond redemption.

Far from orthodox, the Admiral succeeded in setting a stern illustration to all aboard for the remainder of that voyage. There were no more such incidents. The engineer, though, never recovered from the scare, and quietly left the service.

Cosmonov’s face still throbbed from the earlier blow, and the frigid tempest made it no easier to ignore. He knew he had blushed to bright rose from embarrassment, and surmised even more reddening at the impact site. Though glaring straight across the dock, he could not avoid seeing Darkotov drop his hand to the same Glock pistol, loaded as always, but a small strap containing it. The Admiral massaged the holster, and clutched the butt of the gun with elbow bent, as if prepared to draw. A noxious cloud of diesel fumes from the shipyard compressor drifted through the gathering, muffling the crowd in sooty mist. Darkotov coughed and recanted with an about face.

The Captain came far too close to voicing concerns that swirled inside. You did that to taunt me, to put me in a place I don’t deserve. If you even suggest drawing that gun, I’ll leap upon you with everything I’ve got. This public disgrace will never be excused. You’ve overstepped bounds, Ivan…you senile sonofabitch.

As the Admiral moved on through the ranks, Cosmonov’s rattled mind began a dizzying replay—every second of the afternoon’s events leading up to the incident.

Commissioning formalities had begun at noon, more than two hours before. The Admiral’s uneasiness was evident from the start, Cosmonov reflected, as he had watched him approach. Darkotov stopped sharply in front of him, looking provoked, if not strangely furious. Fidgeting back and forth, and thrashing arms to keep warm, his superior audibly cursed the conditions, and raised his left eyebrow noticeably above the other. Cosmonov knew the sign; it spelled forthcoming outbursts. The Admiral’s lips stretched into a sneer; he arched his back, and peered quizzically into the soul of his sidekick for so many years.

Cosmonov held his ground and looked stiffly forward. A better-looking man by comparison, with clear and honest, coffee eyes, protuberant ears, and slightly puffy nose reddened from the icy wind and years of vodka excesses, he peripherally scrutinized the Admiral’s every twitch. Absolutely motionless, the Captain felt the sear of his senior’s critical look. Then he met it with an admitted glare of his own, joined, he had to admit in retrospect, by a rush of envy. His ebony hair flushed with perspiration as thoughts raced toward fear. Silent chatter filed his head, just before the slap. Why didn’t I situate myself in the center, the right flank, anywhere I might have been bypassed? Does Ivan plan to make a spectacle of me? Am I the goddamned scapegoat for the day?

Feeling a deep love stemming from their boyhood years together, Cosmonov could not help up-churning a concomitant and long-simmering distaste for the man who stood before him at that moment. His view of the sub’s sail and dusk-blackened hull further fumed his sentiments. Dreading that his thoughts might have shown, he tried to disconnect.

Cosmonov had risen through the same lower military ranks as the Admiral and he was similarly educated. Darkotov’s political savoir-faire, however, his higher-class upbringing, and self-serving abuse of power had carried him to a superior position—a very prestigious one at that—Supreme Commandant, Russia Federation Submarine Service. Darkotov ranked many notches above the Captain, who’d shared nearly identical service as a submariner.

Serving with the Admiral again was soon to be a reality, but he harbored deepening concerns that he might have appeared apprehensive. Three years before, Cosmonov was assigned as Darkotov’s XO on the ballistic missile submarine, Admiral R. Chechov. After that duty, Darkotov attended Advanced Nuclear School, Federation War College, finally studying Chinese language in Moscow to prepare for a rise in rank, and the new appointment.

On the quiet, and with trusted higher-ups, Cosmonov strongly objected, though the ranting fell on disinterested ears. His subservient XO appointment came forth while Darkotov again became his commander. He never stopped wondering if the Admiral had heard of his intrusions and, whether, some day, there might be retribution. Darkotov was hardly one to overlook an opportunity for redress.

Captain Cosmonov, considered appealing by the ladies, pumped weights whenever time permitted, and he jogged at least twelve kilometers through the streets of Severodvinsk in the dark chill of each morning. Over the preceding twelve weeks, he’d toned up to properly fill his new uniform for the commissioning. The Captain knew he’d not be wearing parade dress again for some time, and longed to look more fit than his superior, if not as tightly muscled as the younger men at attention behind him. Cutting back on evening vodka shots in his musty apartment, and the volumes of fatty food usually downed for lunch and dinner, he’d succeeded in trimming his pudgy frame to near athletic proportions.

He recalled while his mind further wandered, having nervously viewed himself in the mirror while dressing that morning before the ceremony. He’d pounded his tough and rippled gut, boasting how strong he appeared for his fifty-two years. Not bad for an older officer; not bad, he’d bellowed, tucking his shirt in a perfect gig line with trouser zipper. I’m no fool, and I’m still all man, too—unlike the stinking Ivan whose machismo rarely visits him—despite the youthful beauty of a wife whose affections he does not deserve. He remembered studying the deepening lines of his face, its pasty color the product of so much classroom study, working below decks for the entire summer, and no leave to the Black Sea. He’d sorely missed annual R & R at Sevastopol—his favorite getaway spot—lovely women, warm sun, good food, and inviting beaches.

Disapprovingly that morning, Cosmonov picked at the mole on his right cheek, blaming it for his lack of success at finding a mate. He’d found himself uncomfortably self-conscious since the death of his loyal wife, the mother of Ivana—his grown daughter—whom he loved beyond his ability to express. Damn the old age; damn it! Curse the separation from my baby girl. Damn the Russian Navy and the intrusive Federation, he’d irreverently grumbled while combing his hair back to uncover the upper margins of his ears.

Insensibly irritated after the slap, chagrined, and busy with his musings, Cosmonov disregarded most of Darkotov’s rambling monologue. He tuned out everything but the oily wind waves slapping a rhythmic cadence against the Vitchidock’s ribbed deck, from which the sail extended almost four stories above, its only embellishment the large Russian star brightly emblazoned in red on its midsection. He envied the lieutenant–insulated from the dockside proceedings—who stood watch alone at the bridge top, a mere speck on its charcoal profile.

Spider webs of straining dock lines likewise stole his attentions: groaning, and creaking in sharp counterpoint as the sub rose and fell with the swollen surge. Deep inside, generators hummed hypnotically, powered with steam heated by the mighty nuclear reactors already in full operation. He’d focused, too, on the submarine’s running lights when they flashed on with the creeping afternoon darkness.

The Captain would miss Severodvinsk, a relatively apolitical and friendly city. Hardly more than a support system for the local fishing fleet, ice breakers and nuclear submarine construction, he considered, while watching Darkotov early in his presentation, it had been a welcome change to spend time there while working aboard the sub. He quivered, though, with unleashed eagerness for sea duty. Knowing the Admiral felt similarly—Cosmonov rationalized silently—that same anxiety might have provoked the assault.

Nonetheless, flaming mad, his jaw pounding in pain, the Captain remained aloof from Darkotov’s presentation. Relieved when the order of dismissal brought him to his senses, he lingered until the yard cleared, gazing aimlessly toward the western horizon, as low-slung clouds turned dappled backs on the departing crowd. Just past 1500 hours, dusk overtook the shipyard with the arrival of polar night.

Following the ceremony, the Admiral and Cosmonov found themselves alone on the dock, the dim glare of pale orange flood lamps barely lighting their faces through the emergent blackness and thickening mist. Darkotov seemed disturbed. He withdrew two prized Cubans from the engraved silver case always buried in his coat pocket, offering one to his comrade who peered at him quizzically. The Captain cautiously reached for the moist cigar, smelled it, but said nothing. They lit up, inhaled deeply several times, and were soon surrounded by bluish plumes of warm, tart smoke.

Cosmonov finally broke the quiet. Ivan, what the hell is eating you? Do you know what you’ve done? You acted crazy. I say that as your friend, not to you as my commanding officer. What in the Blessed Virgin Mary’s name was it about? You might have broken my damned jaw.

"Very wise of you to qualify the remark, Mikie. I’m without patience tonight. I must confess; I’m truly sorry for the slap. It was not called for. As my friend, I ask you to overlook it. I was about to give you a hearty pat on the neck but my arm…shot out…out…like a piston. I could feel the sudden anger, but at you? Why? Why you, Mikie? I…I…don’t know. I’m torn inside…so very hurt. Alana has said she’d be gone when we return from this mission. She wouldn’t talk further…offered me no hope. There was no time to discuss it. No…no negotiating…nothing, my friend. She bathed before me, but…but…she had no desire.

That lovely body…long legs…her golden hair, the Admiral continued, her smile…soft skin…the deep kisses. Might they be gone forever? What am I to do? Oh, I’ll see her again when I go to St. Petersburg for final orders, but I’ve little faith. He shrugged, drew deeply on the cigar, held it, exhaled, and coughed lightly. A whimper ensued. Stealing tears soaked through sifted snow clinging to his cheeks.

What’s this all about? Is Ivan going over the edge? Could Alana really leave him? Worse, might he retaliate against her? Cosmonov was provoked with the implications but remained mute as more silent queries came forth. The cigar dangled from the left corner of his mouth. He closed his teeth, then his lips tightly around it, as if to keep it warm. Unsympathetic, still angry and questioning his superior’s competence at that moment, the Captain extended a gloved hand, patted Darkotov’s shoulder, and then tugged it impatiently. Good night Comrade. I shall go for dinner, Cosmonov whispered. He nodded and strode into the oncoming flurries toward the parking lot.

The Captain swore loudly, slammed his car door after lunging inside, and drove to Primorsky Restaurant in the center of town to mask his consternation with a meal. Tonight, by God, I’ll have my drinks, he said. Bemoaning en route, the prospect of six months or more in tight quarters with the Admiral, it was the first time in his navy life he’d felt squeamish about their close association.

Alone—troubled by the Captain’s abrupt departure—Darkotov trudged to the dock’s edge, and looked painfully at the sub. A deep sigh reminded him of the consolation it offered. His world was there; it was his security…his new life. The outside steel carcass, bolstered by an equally resilient inner hull, would withstand incredible pressures at depths exceeding four hundred meters. Forward speeds, when submerged, engineers had assured him, could top forty knots.

About to become pregnant with twenty intercontinental ballistic missiles carrying nuclear warheads, a bevy of high-technology torpedoes, and surface-to-air missiles, the Admiral Antonov Vitchidock was his to command. He tingled with a surge of power that momentarily boosted his morose state. Against his woman of fifteen years, though, he regretted that he was comparatively without strength. Staring into the blackness, in the safety of solitude, he stretched his arms into the air, threw his head back and called, What the hell am I to do? This is my life. Is this very best I can do with it? His gaze fell to the black water below the wharf and he wept quietly.

Cosmonov sat alone in his usual corner booth. Though dark and smoky in the restaurant, he blew out the candle on the table for more privacy. He asked for the first two vodkas to be heated, to thaw his icy state. What the hell, if the Japanese can do it with sake, why not us Russians, with our vodka? Cosmonov asked the young waitress with a terse smile. She ignored the query with an indifferent shoulder shrug. The local stuff was good and stiff, and he warmed, a glowing swoon soon traversing his cheeks like his favorite Ukraine sunrise in spring.

I was hit in the face by my commanding officer today. Do you know what that’s like…struck…pounded with a powerful hand in front of your crew, and a grandstand full of shocked, disbelieving civilians? Cosmonov slurred to the disinterested waitress while she noisily cleared dishes from the table. She blinked nervously without reply, and sauntered to the kitchen, returning with another double-vodka, complements of the house, for dessert. Just the prompt Cosmonov needed; he ordered more. Four shots later, his head dropped to the checkered tablecloth, and he mumbled aimlessly of the afternoon’s incident. He could not forgive Darkotov. Is he no longer my friend? Can we ever be close again? That sonofabitch! I will get even. Someday I’ll break him.

Ushered out at closing, he staggered to his car, unlocked the driver’s door and loudly cursed the Admiral. You’ve gone too far this time. You bastard! You sorry bastard! I’ll level the playing field. Cosmonov damned his luck and drove north the half kilometer to his temporary apartment, where he drank himself to sleep.

Chapter 2

Newport Beach, California

My dear Shell,

I woke up early and took a bike ride along the bay front. You were still asleep when I returned. While scanning the paper, I stumbled on an ad for a Sea Witch ketch, called the yacht broker, and thought I’d stop by for a quick peek. If you arise before I’m back, I love you, and can’t wait to look into your dreamy eyes when we have coffee together this lovely Saturday morning.

Be home soon.

Love, Mark

Shelly Clover grinned as she rolled to Mark’s side of the bed, swept the long, blonde hair from her face, and, realizing his absence, discovered the note taped to his pillow. Prying open sleepy, faded sapphire eyes, she read the scribbling several times. With a tepid rush, she fell back heavily, arms flailing as though of rubber.

They had made honeymoon love in the midst of night and the glow of fulfillment still nurtured. She loved him beyond measure—his childlike excitability over small things—and felt valued when he took time to write like this. Shelly locked her arms around Mark’s pillow, and dropped back to sleep, her nakedness exposed to the creeping fingers of the morning sun poking through the bedroom’s French windows. They had opened the drapes on retiring, to mind the moon, and feel the warmth of the morning sunrise when it came, a ritual never forgotten on weekends through their twelve-year marriage.

Not shy of unbound energy, dark-tanned and youthful looking, Mark sported a perfect braces-as-a-teenager smile, prominent nose, and honest, walnut eyes. Excitedly caught in the busy, demanding corporate struggle, he worked at Softstuff.com, a fast-growing Internet company filling three floors of a newer high-rise in Newport Beach, California, where he and Shelly made their home near the harbor waterfront.

Completely absorbed in his job, he admired Shelly’s willingness to re-examine goals and the means she employed to reach them. But he wasn’t yet ready for such reconciliation himself. Mark lost many weekends and much evening time from his wife and sometimes felt imprisoned by all of it. For a plug nickel, he always joked, he’d damn it all, slam the door on where he had been, and take off on a sailboat, cruising to limitless, unplanned tropical destinations. Such a dramatic step had always seemed the perfect means of moving their lives onward.

Mark’s quest for a right and proper vessel to fashion the escape originated shortly after meeting Shelly. Their mutual passion for sailing quickly focused on the long-term goal of a large boat. In the interim, they found a fourteen-foot day sailor, which they pitched in and bought together. For years, many a fire-skied sunset found the two alone on the bay, arm in arm, ghosting back to their slip in almost imperceptible cats’ paws, nursing a bottle of Merlot, and exchanging soft talk. Shelly savored those times more than the rail-down, washtub afternoons chasing dolphins in the open ocean off Laguna Beach, so much more favored by her mate. She warmed inside, though, watching him try to get the most of the boat in such conditions, and knew she’d become a better sailor for it.

Laughing giddily while rolling to her back, to her surprise Shelly said aloud, Those were testosterone times: Chasing beer cans, cockpit cushions, and clothing spreading out like an oil slick…capsizing in the balmy water. Rough sails led them both to increased passions for a more stable vessel, one they could lean on with the gusts, and keep driving.

Shelly knew sailboats and she knew computers, qualities that immediately endured her to Mark. A graduate in software design engineering and programming at the apogee of its heated development, she’d worked at breakneck pace for a dozen firms after college. She retained in her memory and very patriotically so, complex circuitry used to program the tracks of several ground-to-air missile designs, even guidance systems for an ICBM prototype in development.

That work was burdened with a deep and ominous responsibility. Tiring of problems with her conscience as a contributor to the manufacture of horrific war tools, Shelly finally opted out, turning her talents toward video game design. Competition within that business, though, stemmed from fired-up kids, fresh out of college, or even high school. It was nearly impossible to keep up the work pace young coworkers craved, and still have sufficient energy to maintain a healthy relationship. Returning to college at night to obtain her credential, she landed a job with the local school district, teaching third grade. The new job was far more fulfilling. A better person from the change, she offered Mark welcome assurance that she was less married to her career than she had been.

Shelly glanced outside, and thought how nice it would be to spend time on the water on such a lazy day. Reminiscing over sailboat racing experiences in college, she dreamily placed herself on a windy bay, and, as if on the water, felt tension on the small boat’s helm, begging the bow to windward, as she imagined forcing it downwind a bit. The boat leaped ahead, breaking wave crests into curtains of clear lace with the familiar and rhythmic, swish, swish, swish, to which she’d become so attached. Visions of warm spray washing her forehead prompted a fast relapse into morning slumber.

Hooked on sailing since a child growing up on the bay front, Shelly spent early days crewing with her father, coastal cruising, and racing on the yacht club circuit. Skills were honed in her teens. She proved a venerable competitor when first-place finishes became routine. While enjoying the feel of solo sailing—the complete control—she cherished Mark’s company when they sailed together on friends’ boats.

Jovial, eager and strong, Mark accepted the rough jobs at sea: Handling huge spinnakers, grinding sheet winches, and final clean up. His enthusiasm was a constant source of jest. Competing in tension-filled conditions, Mark was a daring and envied tactician to have aboard. He knew race rules verbatim, and was never afraid to barge through a parking lot of boats in a blow, knowing he had the right of way. Mark was smart, quick on his feet, easy to trust, and sweetly arrogant at times, easily endearing himself to those with whom he worked or played.

Shelly’s hands fell softly upon her breasts. She lay awake once again, thinking of his love of sailing, and Mark astride her, moaning softly as they’d joined in ecstatic climax. He could be loud, giddy, and so sensual, she reflected, as her fingers found nipples as erect as they had been with his caressing in the night. Relaxed became the understatement of her elation. She had to admit how nice it was to enjoy the early hour, completely alone in the quiet, touching thoughts so effortlessly.

Glancing at the stack of boating magazines in disarray on the floor beside the bed, Shelly smiled. Mark had read them incessantly for years—an endless flow of articles—cruising Mexico, the Caribbean, Mediterranean, South Pacific, Australia, New Zealand, and New England. Seriously beckoned by them all, he was driven, if not compelled, to move their lives in that direction, and was ever on the search for the right boat in which to do it.

At his urging, the two attended sailing seminars and travelogues. Through the preceding year, they’d studied celestial navigation, opening to the mysterious use of moon, planets, sun, and stars for guidance on the open sea. Shelly received the higher grade, with her superior prowess in math, and proudly kept the certificate pinned on their kitchen bulletin board as a reminder. Mark affectionately referred to her as his personal Bowditch, after the famous American navigator. By the score, sailing and cruising courses whetted appetites to find the perfect boat, and to leave at the earliest opportunity.

Mark’s note filled her mind again. She dropped her head with a dimpled grin, clasped the yellow paper to her chest, and reverted to a shallow snooze. The antique walnut armoire next to the bed winked at the bursting blooms of climbing roses on the deck railing outside, and brilliant yellow footprints snaked through the room as the sun topped the garden fence.

Mark slid his blue Porsche Speedster to a quick stop in the marina parking lot and jumped out, in his eagerness forgetting the keys. Tall and agile, his sun-bleached hair, slender build, and bubbling expression belied his forty-two years, the touch of gray in his sideburns causing but an occasional tinge of humility. Without that, he thought, he’d look years younger.

Josh Goslin, the seller’s broker, was waiting by the marina gate, leaning against the white-washed wood fence on the seawall like a bored cowboy.

This is an Angelman-designed Sea Witch, isn’t it? Mark queried loudly, breaking Goslin’s spell from across the lot.

You bet it is! I’ve known the old girl through three owners. One of the best around—built in Denmark, it was. Just got the listing.

Mark pictured several of the thirty-six footers he’d inspected in recent years, whose misrepresented conditions had been God-awful. He hoped this broker was not just another slick boat pusher incapable of judging quality.

The Clovers wanted a good boat. A heavy wooden vessel was a must, and this class was their first choice. It would be well cared for, and, importantly, not worn from extensive cruising. That was just what he and Shelly intended to do, once the right one was found. He had already formed pretty pictures through Goslin’s embellishments on the phone that morning, but, feeling childishly vulnerable, Mark remained apprehensive. Disappointment might ensue again, too early in the weekend.

It could have been a sacrifice, not being with Shelly. He’d missed running fingers from her toes to her silken backside—he loved that part of her—then along her twitching spine until she purred. Tanned like him, she was enviably shapely for her thirty-eight years, and uncommonly lovely. Full and soft—her lips could deliver unending, wet morning kisses—never failing to jumpstart his day.

Pausing before reaching the gate, he surveyed the dock through the maze of sailboat spars and rigs that clanked and rocked in the morning zephyrs. His quest ceased when he spotted the varnished masts, capped with sparkling white-painted tops, gracefully raked back in unmistakable Angelman style. His pulse pounded; he hurdled over the planter bed to introduce himself to Goslin, and while he led, the two clomped down the ramp for his first view.

There she was: Sea Mist, her name artfully hand carved in the light boards, letters gilded in bristling gold leaf, twitching slightly from the wake of a passing powerboat. He had hardly