Chapter 2

Mischa climbed back on board the Petrovska and called Rostrimov together for a briefing. He noted the relief in the young man's eyes with the knowledge there were other people who had survived this strange catastrophe. Mischa produced a map of the Murmansk Oblast and spread it on the table in the tiny wardroom. With a marker he began to carefully circle the military facilities in the area.

"As you know," he began, "the Oblast is a major military area with many army, navy and air force bases all over. The army has about 250,000 troops in the area and that's not counting Strategic Forces and the KGB. Those are so secret even I don't know how many they are. Now, we have this woman at the exchange, here, and that means there must be others, perhaps, in small groups, all panicking, all fearful of what might have befallen. Logically, we have to assume there is little order among these survivors and administration has broken down. When people are frightened, Rostrimov, they may become desperate, irrational, with no direction or plan. Until we find some more senior officers, we have to assume we are it. When we go into town, we must think, act, and look like we are in control. When a man is in control of himself, then others will accept his authority. We have to expect some citizens or military to be armed and, Rostrimov - I must say this carefully. If you need to protect the people under your control, you must not hesitate to shoot anyone who constitutes a threat. We will take packs, clean ourselves up and put on our shore kit. We must look and act as good, Soviet Naval officers, understand?" Rostrimov nodded, gravely. "Now, have a shower and shave and clean up. We both look like shit as if we haven't slept for 4 days. We take food and supplies and break open the armory, get guns and ammunition. We'll then commandeer whatever transport we can find and find our Svetlana."

"Yes, sir," Rostrimov saluted, smartly.

"That's the ticket, Officer-Candidate," he smiled. "Forms, discipline, pride. These things will carry us through."

"Yes, sir. What happens, sir, when we get to the exchange?"

"We make our plans, Rostrimov. You see all these bases? We have the whole of the Northern Fleet, the Army, VVS as our personal resources if we have to. The Navy has powerful communications facilities and we can send out calls all the way to the Kremlin in Moscow. Someone, somewhere must be in charge. There are patrol planes parked on these airfields that can fly halfway around the world. All we need to do is establish contact, gather survivors together, organize, make plans. Rostrimov, you must understand we are not alone."

"No, sir."

"Good, lad. C'mon, let's get ship shape, shall we?"

Spurred into action, Rostrimov made for the showers, while Mischa gathered up as many charts and maps he thought he'd need. Next, he made for the food lockers and chose a suitable variety that could be stowed in their service packs without loading them down too much. He then went to the Captain's cabin and broke open the desk drawers until he found the ship's keys locked in a metal box. This he smashed open with a metal bar he fetched from the artisan's store, and found the keys to the ship's small armory. When Rostrimov emerged, drying his hair, with a clean shirt and uniform trousers, Mischa had selected 2 AKM assault rifles, spare magazines, 2 ammunition belts and was loading food into their packs. Leaving Rostrimov to finish the preparations, he went to the showers himself and quickly cleaned himself up. Thus fully equipped, they set forth to find some transport.

It wasn't long before they discovered a jeep parked in a locked compound by the wharf guardhouse. With the artisan's bar he'd kept with him for such a contingency, he broke the lock on the gate and jumped in the car. The keys were still in the ignition, typical of many a unit's runabout. They then set out for Gorky Street in the town, and their other known survivor, the frightened telephonist, Svetlana.

Gorky was the main thoroughfare and, as they drove up the broad street, they saw GAZ lorries, navy jeeps and little Molotova sedans parked as if their drivers were going about their normal, weekday business. Stores had their doors open expecting customers that would never come, and there was an elementary school with no children in the yard or classrooms. It was creepy and reminded Mischa of those model towns constructed for testing the effects of nuclear bombs. Rostrimov carefully scanned the surrounding buildings, his assault rifle at the ready, in case gangs of criminals were about to suddenly emerge and spray them with bullets. He reminded Mischa of a stagecoach shotgun of the old American West. Soon, they stopped outside the double doors of the Central Telephone Exchange and carefully scanned the windows.

The building featured thirties utilitarian architecture like virtually every Government building in the whole of the Soviet Union. The windows betrayed no signs of life and Mischa wondered whether they'd been fooled. Perhaps, this Svetlana had been used to entice them into a trap where they were going to be set upon by a gang of desperadoes? He told Rostrimov to be on alert, and, together, they slowly ascended the steps up to the building. The doors were unlocked and opened into a stuccoed foyer featuring a vacant reception desk behind a glass window. Stairs led upstairs to left and right of reception - Mischa chose the left, and crept up, listening attentively for any signs of movement. The stairs ended on the first floor corridor studded with anonymous doors. Mischa chose the first one and found an office and desk. On the wall was an old poster of Lenin, left arm outstretched, appealing to a crowd of soldiers, sailors and workers. In the background was a stylized Kremlin with an ill proportioned red star radiating shafts of sunlight. There was an inscription appealing to the Soviet people to build Socialism, but Mischa didn't bother reading it - he'd seen such things aplenty most of his life. He briefly looked out the window, before going to the desk drawers. Opening the top one, he took out a box of the finest Cuban cigars. Taking them all, he tossed one to Rostrimov. Walking to the only other piece of furniture, a wooden filing cabinet, he, again, opened the top drawer and pulled out a bottle of rum and two glasses. He set them on the desk and poured two generous belts into the glasses.

"How does an administrator of a telephone exchange get his hands on such luxuries?" Rostrimov asked, tossing down the rum.

"KGB," Mischa replied.

"Ah!" the young man, sighed. "They would be in charge here, of course!"

"Of, course," Mischa agreed, raising his eyebrows, knowingly. "Come, let's check out the rest of the place. The operations room must be somewhere down the hall."

Three of the next doors opened out to more offices. The fourth looked more promising - it was a double barn door arrangement with a small shelf on the lower half. Mischa opened the top half of the left one. They were greeted with rows of exchange boards below which, were partitioned desktops with a high chair before each. Headphones were careful clipped to a holder before each board, and a microphone stand stood on each desk. There was little doubt this was the heart of the exchange and would normally feature dozens of operators connecting calls.

"Svetlana?" Mischa called through the open door. "Are you there?" There was no immediate answer, and he glanced at Rostrimov to let him know to be on the lookout for trouble. "Svetlana?" he called again.

Eventually, a woman's voice called back. "Who is it, please?" she called. Her voice echoed all around the cavernous room, and Mischa wasn't sure where it was coming from.

"Captain Yefremov, madam. We talked earlier on the phone."

"Oh, is it you? You said you were coming straight away. You were so long. I heard you come up the stairs. I wasn't sure it was really you."

"Well, you can come out, now, Svetlana. We are Naval officers - you can trust us."

Mischa detected movement off to the left and a squeaking as if a desk or some such item of furniture was being moved out of the way across the hard, polished wooden floor. Small footsteps came towards them, warily, as if someone was trying not to make any noise. Around behind the first of the rows of switch boards, a slim figure emerged,, carrying a Tokarev pistol across her chest. She was shaking in fear, looked drawn and exhausted, with lank, blond hair cascading raggedly about her shoulders. She wore a grey smock, drawn tightly around her waist after the fashion of the times. Beneath, her blue skirt hung modestly down to her ankles. She looked into the faces of the two men confronting her, and decided she was in safe hands. Tears of relief welled up in her eyes, and, although she did her best to control herself, she eventually fell to her knees, sobbing bitterly. Mischa gently took the Tokarev from her hands - the model of pistol had no safety catch and he was worried it could go off accidentally. He laid it carefully on a desk after checking the chamber was empty.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking up at the two men. "I thought ... I thought I was the only one. I didn't know ... I have not seen ... There's no-one, no-one..."

"There, there, Svetlana. You are safe, now. We have food. Perhaps you're hungry? Shall we go to the cafeteria and have some lunch? It looks like you could do with a good meal and a little pick-me-up." Rostrimov looked at his boss askance and remembered the bottle of rum from the administrators office. No doubt Mischa had slipped it into his pocket. Rostrimov remembered with a grin the stories he had told back on the Petrovska of the petty thieving that went on during the war. He felt the cigar in his breast pocket and grinned again. He felt fortunate that it was Captain Yefremov who had been the only other survivor from the crew of the patrol ship.

Svetlana led them to the staff cafeteria - a room of industrial proportions. There would be upwards of sixty tables, each carefully positioned with four steel framed chairs. The wooden varnished floor was scrubbed so clean you could see your face in the shine. Along one wall was a servery with glass cabinets and a row of stainless steel containers. There was little food - some dry salad and a few loaves of stale, black molasses bread. Mischa pulled back a chair for Svetlana before extracting some of their food supplies from his pack. He laid out some cuts of beef, fresh bread, honey and a block of soft lard Russians liked to smear their thick, dark bread with. Pulling out the rum bottle, he had Rostrimov fetch some glasses and poured them all belts. Svetlana took hers neat, tossing the fiery spirit back in one gulp. Slamming the glass back on the table, Mischa refilled it, cautioning her to have something to eat. He pushed some of the bread in front of her and ordered her to have it.

"You told me you're married and your husband is on submarines? he asked her. She nodded, munching on a slice of bread. "Is he at sea or in port?"

"I don't know," she replied. "They don't tell us such things. I only see him when he's on furlough."

"Ah, Strategic Forces?" he nodded. "They are very secretive about their operations. It must be hard on you wives to have your husbands away for so long a time. See, I have a good job. I get to go back home every day, or couple of days. Not for me cooped up on those underwater tin cans for weeks on end. I have the greatest respect for submariners - very dedicated, very brave men, all."

"In some ways, I'm glad he wasn't here when this, this, thing happened. I like to think he has survived like you have and, soon, he will come into the harbor with his shipmates. If he has gone, I don't want to know. I don't want to know where all of them have gone. Perhaps, we are the lucky ones?"

"Perhaps, Svetlana," Mischa smiled. "Perhaps, everything was just like the old church used to say, and the chosen have all been taken away into heaven? Just, perhaps, Svetlana, Rostrimov, you and me are the sinful who have been left behind to mend our ways? When we have done whatever we should have done, or didn't do, the Christian God will wave whatever magic wand, or whatever he does, and we all ascend upwards to..."

"Where?" Rostrimov asked, curiously.

"The clouds, heaven, paradise, who knows?" he shrugged.

"You believe that?" Rostrimov asked, surprised.

"If you'd asked me before we landed back on the Petrovska I would've answered, emphatically, no. Now, well, what answers do we have that doesn't involve the metaphysical, religion, Gods and paradise? You come up with a more rational explanation to all of this and I'll believe it. Until then, I'm open to the irrational, or anything. At this point, I don't care how stupid it sounds."

"You said back at the ship that we needed to make some plans?" Rostrimov continued. "Captain, what should we do, now?"

"I think we should all get some shut eye. You look like shit, and, my dear, with all due respect, you look like you could do with a good night's sleep. I take it you haven't slept much these last four days?"

"No," Svetlana replied. "The town is so quiet. Every time the breeze blows a shutter loose from some window, somewhere, I hear it as if it's in the room and I wake. I dream, dream gangs of criminals are going to sneak into my apartment and do, do, things to me, I can't talk about, horrible things. Who's to stop them, the concierge? There is no-one but me in the building - in the whole street. I took that pistol from the supervisor's desk and kept it by me under the pillow, so..."

"Hmm, you're lucky you didn't shoot yourself in the head," Mischa told her.

"I know about guns," Svetlana replied, sharply. "I am in the Militsya - I train every weekend at the range."

"Ah! I'm sorry, Svetlana, I didn't mean to..."

"Please, I am sorry for, for being, ah ... I am so jumpy. I am so happy to see you. I thought if no-one comes before the week is out I would take my own life. It would be unbearable to be the only one left."

"But you're not," Mischa told her, kindly, taking her hand. "We must decide which apartment we are going to use. Mine is comfortable, but down near the base. Rostrimov, you have digs in town?"

"Cadet barracks on base. I haven't had the time to find better quarters in town."

"And you wouldn't until you at least make Senior Lieutenant. Svetlana, you have a place nearby, you said?"

"A block away. It's small, two rooms and a kitchenette, but I have a divan in the living room and a spare mattress. The heating is still on and I have power and gas. It's just like everyday, except there are no people."

"Don't dwell on it, my dear," Mischa told her, squeezing her hand. "Your apartment it is, then, if you don't mind strange men in your living room?"

"No!" she said, quickly, and blushed. "I mean, I'd be glad of the company. To have someone about..."

"That's settled, then. Come, let's pack up and get out of here. Rostrimov, go behind the servery and grab some coffee and whatever else you think we could use."

"Are you sure that's all right?" Svetlana asked.

"Military requisitioning," Mischa smiled. "I'll gladly be court-martialed as soon as we find someone to charge me. Until we're told otherwise by someone higher up, I'm in charge, and I order you, Rostrimov, to steal whatever we need."

"Yes, sir!" Rostrimov grinned.

"Just don't enjoy it too much," he said, sternly.

"No, sir!" Rostrimov flushed, abashed.

Svetlana led them out the building and down the street. They passed a small, empty, park surrounded by a wrought iron fence. In it, was a small memorial to the siege of Murmansk during the war, when most of the town was reduced to ruins and fully a third of the population was killed in Luftwaffe bombing raids. There was a small statue of a soldier with bayoneted rifle looking resolute, a small mother and child at his feet, and a plaque depicting a ludicrously over gunned warship of the Northern Fleet. Mischa had seen it many times and he'd noted no mention of the Navy's Interceptor Eskadrons. To be written out of the history when it was inconvenient to some bigwig was something they all had to accept, he mused. But, a little of the resolve written all over the soldier's face was something they would all need in the days ahead, he thought.