Chapter 3

Mischa Yefremov and Svetlana stood together on the roof of the Northern Fleet Murmansk's Communications Centre staring out into the harbor. Mischa was puffing on a cigar, blowing clouds of blue smoke out into the fitful breeze. Svetlana tapped him on the back of the hand and asked if she could try it. Mischa handed it to her and she took a deep drag.

"My, goodness," she exclaimed, coughing. "It's strong!"

"You don't take the smoke down. You let it drift in, like so, and allow the flavors in the tobacco to release themselves through mouth, nose..." She stared back at him dubious.

The roof was flat and surrounded by a low concrete balustrade. A loom of cables emerged from below and ran up a mast, atop of which, was a variety of antennae. Out in the naval side of the harbor was a variety of vessels, some tied up to piers, while others bobbed, anchored to buoys in the low swell. There were few of the Northern Fleet's major units in port that day, but they saw about half a dozen BK Project 42 frigates, that were the mainstay of the Murmansk establishment in those days. Mischa concluded there were few, if any, warships still at sea, at least from the Port of Murmansk.

"I don't think we're going to get any reply," Svetlana said, sadly, looking back towards the steps leading down to the building. "If there was anyone out there, they should have sent something back before now."

"Not necessarily," Mischa replied. "Someone would need to have access to a short wave radio and be able to read morse code. Remember, survivors may be civilians. Also, we have time zones and such. We should keep at a week at least - around the clock if we can."

"Mischa, I think you're clutching at straws. Perhaps what we ought to do is accept we are the only humans left on Earth. We may be all there is to restart the population."

"Are you suggesting I should get you pregnant?"

"You may have already, Mischa."

"Let's hope not. One couple would not be sustainable, if what you say is true. How on Earth could I be a proper father at my age? If I've another 10 years left in me I'd be fortunate."

"You will live to be a hundred. You make love like a man half your age."

"Huh, you flatter me," he grinned. "If you'd known me then, you would have seen something."

"My darling, I wasn't born. Next November I shall be 23."

"23? Only, 23? My, goodness, I thought you must be older. It feels as if I've known you most of my life. I had no idea you were so young."

"Then, you couldn't have been looking very hard, Misch. Or maybe your eyes were not on my face?"

"Haha," he chuckled. "Maybe not always, my dear, but I'm looking into your face now." He leaned over and kissed her on the lips.

"What do you see?" she smiled.

"Beauty, promise..."

"And?"

"Sorrow," Mischa said, puzzled. He stared hard into her eyes until her face fell in surprise and uncertainty. "There's something else, I think," he said, softly.

"What?"

"Redemption."

"What? What on earth does that mean? Where did that come from?"

"I have absolutely no idea," he shrugged. "It was something I felt. I can't explain it."

"More of the famous Yefremov bullshit?" she teased.

"Yes, my dear, most probably," he laughed.

"I have a signal!" Cried Rostrimov, bounding up the steps. "Quick, everybody, come. Listen to this? We have communications!" Svetlana and Mischa followed after him quickly down the steps to the top floor of the building. They ran after him down the long corridor through the smashed double doors that read, 'Authorised Personnel Only - Security Area, ' and into the a large room humming with electronic equipment. "Here," Rostrimov called, excitedly. "Put on the headphones. It's from England!"

"England?" Mischa said, donning the headset. "Are you sure?"

"He said Wolverhampton. That's in England, isn't it?"

"Yes, somewhere near Birmingham." Mischa listened carefully for a while, looking up at Rostrimov, who was so excited he couldn't keep still. "It's a slow hand, isn't it? I'm too rusty with this. Rostrimov, tell me what he has said?"

"Here, I've written it down," he said, pushing a pad in front of his captain. "It is in English so I've written it all down as I heard it. Some I can't understand."

"I know English," Mischa declared. "It is the International language for civilian aviation. I also knew some Englishmen back in the war and they taught me some words. Let's see? He says his name is Michael Atherton and he is 17 years old. He lives in Wolverhampton by a, er, what is that word? That is 'store' or 'shop'. That means 'fish', but I don't know what this other word means, 'C-H-I-P-S. Look it up in the dictionary, Rostrimov."

"Ah, it means 'Pieces of something' like wood fragments after you have carved something."

"So he lives by a store that sells fish and wood fragments? That can't be right. Anyway, let's see. He wakes one morning and he is the only one in the street. His neighbor is 'Radio Ham.' What has a ham to do with radios, Rostrimov? This doesn't make sense. You have written this down wrong."

"Mischa, he's doing his best," Svetlana chided. "You are being too hard on him." Mischa flushed angrily at being chided in front of a subordinate by Svetlana. He glared at her. She glared back and, eventually, he collected himself and went back to the notepad.

"He learns a little morse code from this ham," Mischa continued, looking up at his companions and grinning. "He has manual in front of him and he's sending maydays out in the hope someone will come. We all know what that feels like," he said to the others. "So, let's see. His sister didn't come home from school and, he says, his father is, ah, engineer on the railway. He, he, um, ah, he does not live with them. So, he lives with a mother and sister and his father has moved out. It seems you've had quite a conversation with this boy, Rostrimov."

"I could not tell him much," Rostrimov said. "My English is not very good."

"You did fine, Rostrimov," Svetlana grinned at him.

"Svetlana?" Mischa leaned back, gritting his teeth. "We will have a conversation, soon, about when it is appropriate for you to intervene between me and my subordinate officer."

"What?" she, flared. "How dare you speak to me like that. Like a fucking child. Get that broomstick out of your backside and smell the wind. Who around here is going to care that you are some big shot officer in a fancy uniform? I love you more than life itself, but sometimes, Mishki, you can be an insufferable prick!"

"What? What did you say?" Mischa said, shaking. Rostrimov looked from one to the other and slowly backed further away - shock written all over his face.

"What? What?" Svetlana looked back between the two, confused. "What did I say? I don't remember. What, what's going on?"

"I, I..." Mischa was struck dumb. He put his hands to his face and rubbed. Pulling them away, he looked back at her. "What you said. It was as if ... I don't understand. No-one has called me 'Mishki since ... How, on earth did you ... Um, we have known each other for a day, yet, you say such a thing? There is something in what you said that reminds me of someone, long ago."

"A woman?" Svetlana asked, her eyes moistening, her voice frail and uncertain.

"Yes, a woman. A woman I loved more than life itself. A woman I could never have, nor ever will have..." His voice trailed away.

"What was her name?" Svetlana asked, barely audibly, her mouth dry.

"I, I, don't remember, now. It was so long ago. It was maybe thirty years ago or more. Back in the twenties. I was moving around a lot in those days. I had a job in an arms factory in Tula. She was the daughter of the local party boss. I was not good enough for his daughter, you see? He got me fired and sent away. Told me if I ever came back he'd have me arrested and shot. Never saw her again - don't know what happened to her. Then I was a pilot and I just kind of forced her out of my mind. You have to move on, you see? Have a plan, and move on. If I hadn't done that I would've gone mad. Such things teach you discipline, I guess," he shrugged.

"Mishki?"

"Don't call me that, Svetlana. I, I can't bear it."

"You love her, still, Mischa," Svetlana stated as a matter of fact. "And that is a beautiful thing. To have loved her all this time, yet knowing you could not be together? You must have suffered in your heart for thirty years. Mischa, I'm so sorry. I would never hurt you."

"I know," he murmured. He sat thinking long and hard for an uncomfortable period of time. "Okay!" he said, with a start. "You're right, Svetlana. I am being a prick. I am sorry for snapping at you. Rostrimov, you did do well translating this lad's message ... C'mon, now, let's see what further information we can find out, shall we?"

"Yes, sir, sure," replied Rostrimov, looking at his boss uncertainly.

"Are you all right, Mischa?" Svetlana asked, furrowing her brow.

"Fine, never better!" he told her, up beat and a little too normal. "Now, this message. Get on the key, Rostrimov, and ask him this - 'How many others?' he scribbled down the morse on the notepad. "Tap that out and see what he says?"

Much later, Mischa and Svetlana lay in bed together in her little apartment on Gorky Street. She picked at the hairs on his chest, while he ran his fingers gently through her hair. Rostrimov, had gone to his 'other' apartment down the hall to sleep - the one with the kidskin rugs.

"You were so much more passionate, tonight, Mischa. You excite me in ways I've never felt before," she whispered.

"You are so beautiful," He told her. "Your eyes are like dark jewels."

"I, know," she chuckled. "You've told me that before. You must think of something new to say."

"Really? I don't remember."

"Today, I think I saw you naked for the first time. I saw you without your uniform. I saw you without 'navy' stamped all over your body. Mischa, today, I saw you as a man and not as an officer in the navy. A man who has loved, loves still, and also worthy of loving."

"What is that twaddle, Svetlana? You accuse me of trotting out lines of random poetry and self-serving sayings for every occasion?"

"Ha! So, anyway, are we going to England?"

"Not, sure. We will need to see what aircraft are available, then figure out where we can land in England. Often, the AV-MF have a Tu-95 based at Kandalashka on what we used to call, 'short loans.' Naval Aviation spread them around every so often to confuse Western intelligence. They may send one to Arkangelisk, then Noril'sk over in Northern Siberia. It's standard dispersal procedure in the event of war. It's so Western bombers don't knock them all out by bombing the one place. If there's a TU-95, there, then we will have no problem getting to England. It's good for over 15,000 kilometers if you go easy on the power."

"England is, how far?" she asked, furrowing her brow.

"Oh, only about 2000 as the crow flies. That's not our problem. The TU-95 is a big plane with a wide wingspan. You could only get it in at major airports. I would not attempt to land one on anything less than 2000 metres of clear runway. Preferably, it should be a military airbase somewhere near Birmingham. That would be ideal."

"What if they have anti-aircraft defenses? Won't they shoot us down if we fly into their airspace?"

"Assuming they have some kind of functioning military, I suppose. They may assume we're making a sneak attack. In peacetime, they'd send up fighters to escort us away. After this Event, who knows?"

Svetlana stroked her hand down and grasped him softly. "Hmm, sneak attack?" she cooed. "You recover well for an old man."

"We old men know how to please a lady," he told her, running his hand over her bare bottom and between her legs. "It seems it's not only me who recovers quickly."

"Oh, Mishki," she gasped. "Love me again." She reached for him and he rolled over between her legs. She kissed him furiously, thrusting against him, pushing him in further and further. "Don't ever leave me, again.!"

Mischa pulled back and looked into her face, puzzled. She pulled his face back and silenced him with kisses. Growling, he heaved against her as all the while she gasped and moaned out her pleasure.

The Tupolev Tu-95 had first flown only a few years before around 1954. It's thin, cylindrical, polished metal fuselage betrayed it's lineage right back to Russian copies of the American Boeing B-29 'Superfortress.' It's thin, swept back, long wings drooped down at rest and four, massive turboprop engines surmounted by equally huge, co-axial, contra-rotating, propellors, were mounted along the leading edges. Teams of Russian and German engineers, the latter captured after the war and persuaded by whatever means to assist, developed the engine arrangement at the Ivchenko OKB in the early 50s. At over 180 tons full load, it was the heaviest aircraft Russian aviation technology had ever put into the air up to that time. The '95 was destined to have a long service life and variants are going still. It was, and still is, the fastest, four engine turbo prop aircraft in the world. Designed, first, as a transatlantic bomber able to carry atomic weapons to America and back, it's impressive range was something of a sensation when first revealed. It also spurred the Americans to develop supersonic fighters of the 'century series' to protect themselves. The '95's engines could be throttled right back giving the aircraft 'loiter and linger' capability that proved ideal for maritime surveillance. The Tu-96RT surveillance variant became iconic during the Cold War as the visible symbol of the Soviet Union's global reach as Western interceptors frequently encountered them over the North Sea and elsewhere. The '95 is a very noisy aircraft and the deep growling of its propellors was enough to send shivers down the spines of those hearing them overhead.