Silent Hunter

by Charles D. Taylor

  In the command post deep within the Pentagon, electronic devices aboard a satellite continued to record the scene. A large screen displayed the death throes of the little frigate and her crew with a clarity that froze the soul. Since the detonation of the first missile within her superstructure, not a word had been uttered by the assembled officers. The awesome split-second power of the cruise missile left them stunned. More than two hundred men had vanished before their eyes.

  The unanimous decision at this point was no different than the one made hours earlier in Moscow. There was no turning back.

  2

  LUCY REED WAS a perfect admiral’s wife. “One of a kind” was the cliché many of Andy’s seniors often used with a trace of envy. The overlying reason she understood her husband so well rested with the fact that she was a navy brat. When her father retired as an admiral, he chose to settle near Annapolis. It was there she met Andy. The old man had also been one of the early pioneers in submarines and that allowed her to understand what drew her soon-to-be husband to the boats.

  For as long as Lucy could remember, even before she ever attended her first day of school, moving had been a regular part of her life. New orders meant new friends, new schools, and a different part of the United States (sometimes even another country) to get accustomed to. Unlike her mother, she thrived on the vagabond life. She eventually became more independent than her big brothers. As she grew older, Lucy found that foreign languages came easily to her and she received good grades regardless of the language used in the classroom. It was easy to understand why she was the apple of her father’s eye. What the old man also appreciated was her ability to understand when he packed his bags to be away for long periods of time. Eventually, though, her mother grew more distant with each new set of orders. She dreaded the family’s making another move or her husband’s being away for an extended period. The result was that Lucy began to organize the others. By the time the children were ready to leave home, Lucy ran the family while Lucy’s mother drank. “Navy brat” had pleasant connotations when anyone referred to Lucy.

  When she married Andy Reed soon after his graduation from the academy, the young ensign was the envy of the men who knew Lucy’s father well. It was a marriage they all predicted would last because she understood the life. When Andy was accepted for sub school, it was predicted that Lucy would help to make his career. Not only was the navy life ingrained in her soul, she possessed that pert, fresh look—petite, short hair, constant smile, the consummate ensign’s wife.

  Near the end of his final day in Washington before taking command of Imperator’s screening group, Andy Reed called Lucy. “I’m going to be a little late, honey. . . and it looks like I might have to be gone for a while.” She paused momentarily to get rid of the catch in her voice. She’d been following the progress of negotiations with the Russians each day in the Post, and she knew the reports were too optimistic, hollow, without a sound basis. She sensed that her suspicions were correct the past few weeks whenever she discussed them with Andy. He’d been arriving home later each night recently and that made her even more skeptical about the news behind the headlines. “Gone a long time?” she responded.

  “Hard to tell. Could be. I really can’t be sure.”

  “Want me to pack a suitcase for you?” Lucy had always packed for her husband since the first day he’d gone to sea. There were times that he would be awakened in the middle of the night and would have gone with only the clothes on his back if she hadn’t prepared his suitcase for him.

  “That would be great, honey.”

  “Civilian clothes, too?”

  “No, just uniforms—mostly work type.”

  “I bought you some new work clothes last week. Couldn’t get the stains out of the old ones anymore. Or are you going to insist on a couple of sets of the old stuff?”

  “The old ones might be more comfortable, I guess.”

  “Off to sea again,” she stated flatly. “Okay, I know exactly what to pack, old fellow. Been doing it for years. How about dinner? Can you spare a couple of hours for the old lady before you’re off to see the wizard.”

  “You know I wouldn’t miss that.” Reed had missed exactly one dinner with his wife before any extended deployment and that had only been because she’d been rushed off to the hospital to give birth. When he returned home on that only night, he found a note containing the instructions for how long he should keep the meat loaf in the oven. The other kids had the table set when he arrived.

  “You want the same old Chateaubriand, or will you put up with some meat loaf and macaroni and cheese?” Teasing him with that same question was part of their pattern.

  “I’ll take the latter, if it’s all the same to you.” His answer never varied. It was his favorite dinner.

  “Sometime you’re going to surprise me and ask for the beef . . . and I won’t know what to do with it.” Her voice almost cracked again. Their conversation never failed to follow the same track whenever the time came for him to leave. But somehow this time seemed so different. She was scared. Too much was left unsaid, both by the papers and the government—and her husband could be trusted never to leak a word about what he was involved with at any time.

  “I’ll call when I’m ready to leave, hon. Don’t forget the jug of red.”

  “Never have yet.” Lucy hung up before she heard his last words. “Bye for now,” she whispered to herself. He would call just before he left the office; he always did. That was the signal to slip the meat loaf in the oven. Andy never had a drink before leaving for sea—just the bottle of wine they would share.

  Andy Reed smiled across the table and raised his wineglass in a toast to the woman he was sure looked no different than the day they were married. He could sense from the way Lucy had been talking that she knew he was going off for much more than an exercise. But she’d never cried or complained before. He knew she wouldn’t start now. “I think it should be noted that the finest meat loaf chef in the entire fifty states still holds her title. Since I can’t tell the whole world about it right now, would this simple compliment do?”

  She raised her glass, touching his gently, and they drank, looking into each other’s eyes. Another tradition. He emptied the last of the bottle in their glasses. “I’ll accept the compliment. Want me to send the recipe along so you can have it at sea?”

  “It wouldn’t be the same. No candlelight, no wine, different atmosphere somehow. And I don’t think we’ll be too excited about the menus.” He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “You know, you’ve been a good trooper for so long, I’m going to have to take you on a vacation soon.” He paused, then added, “Maybe we’re both getting a little old for these things. Think I ought to get out of this racket . . . maybe run a charter boat, or something like that?”

  “Who do you think you’re kidding? I may be on the other side of the fence, but I’ve been in this submarine business longer than you and I think I can put up with it a few more years. I still don’t ask questions and I learned to keep my mouth shut when I was a little girl. We navy broads are a tough group.” She stopped what she was saying and looked at him through the candles. “Now I don’t know why I was starting off like that. That’s the speech I give to the new wives every year.” She put a finger to her lips and stared back at him curiously.

  “You said that because it’s a normal reaction.” He reached over and took her hand. “Since you’ve been a little girl, you also have never asked where we’re going in our submarines. Your father couldn’t tell you, and I’ve never been able to either. And it seems to me that at a certain point in your life you ought to be able to either ask and get an answer . . . or go along, too. It’s getting a little tougher each time to tell you what a good trooper—I don’t even like that word—but you are. Believe me, I know what’s going through your head right now, and I wish I could say what I want to.”

  “What you’re going to do instead is make me cry. And I’ve never done that before.”

  “Let
’s do the dishes then. No one ever cries doing the dishes.”

  “I do—sometimes after you’re gone, I do.”

  “We should have had another bottle of wine,” he concluded uncertainly.

  “That really would have done it. Women always cry at times like this if they’ve had too much wine.” She blew out the candles. “I have no intention of crying now if I’ve been able to hold off for so many years. Let’s go to bed.”

  “I’ll help you with the dishes.”

  “The hell with the dishes. They’ve waited till morning before. Let’s go to bed. Do you need me to spell it out?” She laughed huskily. “You’ll be out of the house before anyone’s awake so we only have a couple of hours . . . and I plan to have you for some of that time myself. Remember that we have some other very pleasant traditions around this house that I don’t plan to let slip.” She reached her hand out to him. “Bedtime, my dear. Come on. I’ve never had to coax you before.”

  He took her hand. “Not tonight, either.”

  When Anna Chuikov married the young naval officer, Abram Danilov, in Sebastopol, she had been considered much too good for him. Her father had been a hero during the Great Patriotic War, and it was assumed that the general’s daughter would marry a rising army officer at least, if not a wealthy party official. She was everything that Abe Danilov wasn’t—tall, graceful, well educated, schooled in the arts, said to be the most beautiful girl in the new society struggling out of the ruins of Moscow after the war.

  No one, not even her parents, understood that Anna also had a mind of her own. When she chose to run away to Sebastopol and marry a young naval officer who served in the unknown world of submarines, her own family threatened to disown her. The general even had the dread KGB detain Danilov for hours, but that only set Anna’s mind more firmly.

  In the ensuing years, the general and his wife learned to accept their daughter’s husband. Chuikov even attempted to assert some influence to ensure timely promotions for the naval officer but, to his surprise, that wasn’t necessary. Abe Danilov was making it on his own. His mentor was Sergei Gorshkov, soon to be appointed commander in chief of the Soviet Fleet.

  While Abe Danilov was rising through the ranks, Anna was unknowingly cultivating the cultural and social strata that would ensure his rise to power. As the years passed, Anna Danilov grew from a lovely, young girl to a radiant woman.

  While the other senior officers took advantage of the privileges that came with power—the dachas, the cars, the mistresses—Abe Danilov remained faithful to his wife. He never forgot that he really didn’t deserve her when they first met, nor did he fool himself into believing that it was he alone who secured their position in the upper levels of party society. She was the source that kept him in touch with the real world beyond the power structure of the Kremlin. Her love nourished a spirit hidden deep under his military facade until there were two Abe Danilovs. The visible one had spent the past three days in the Kremlin devising a plan to destroy the American mystery submarine before it passed the North Pole. The invisible Abe Danilov had been driven to their city apartment where Anna was spending her final days. On the way, he ordered the driver to stop at one of the private stores reserved for the wealthy and powerful in Moscow. When he came out, the man behind the wheel was sure he had never seen so many beautiful flowers in wintertime Moscow, and certainly never roses like that.

  ‘They’re beautiful . . . so beautiful.”

  Her husband could not be sure whether the tears in her eyes reflected joy or pain.

  “But they cost so much, Abe,” she added reproachfully. The dark eyes that had danced into his heart more than thirty years ago still sparkled, though now they were red-rimmed and deep, and dark circles lay under them. Then, grimacing, she sat up in bed and smiled broadly, tilting her head to one side just as she had the first day he met her. “I should also say thank you. I can’t think of anything nicer, other than your being here. How . . . how long will you be able to stay?” she added hesitantly.

  “I’m here. I’m finished with my work. Tomorrow, very early, I have to fly to Murmansk, but I have nowhere else to go before then.”

  “That’s wonderful . . . so wonderful,” she concluded wistfully. “I’ve been looking forward to having you to myself for an evening.” Then she remembered, “Oh, but there’s so little in the kitchen to eat, Abe. You know, I have no appetite now. So, when Natalya comes in to help me, I tell her not to bring anything. It just goes to waste.” He knew she wasn’t eating. Though the drugs for cancer had bloated her body, her nose and cheekbones stood out in sharp contrast to the once elegant face. Her arms and hands were skinny, the flesh hanging in folds. She said that when she ate, the food didn’t taste good. And more often now, she couldn’t hold it down.

  “Well, now, you have nothing to worry about as far as food is concerned,” he beamed. “I made another stop on the way. Tonight, I prepare the dinner. I have a bottle of the best vodka—I know you won’t have any,” he added quickly, “but some for me and some for Natalya tomorrow since she’s managed to drink what I left last time—then I have smoked sturgeon and salmon and caviar, and”—he smiled, patting her hand—“some of that trout you used to enjoy so much—”

  She interrupted him with a sad smile, placing her hand on top of his. “If I were the type who believed in prayer, I would thank whatever god I was praying to that Abe Danilov was my husband.” She raised her hands to his face and drew him to her, kissing him gently on the lips. She pulled away, almost as if she had been stung, for she realized how cold her own lips must feel to him. But he knew why she had drawn back. It wasn’t the first time. He leaned forward, this time holding her face in both hands, and kissed her tenderly.

  “There, that’s more like a husband and wife should kiss,” he said, rising and holding out his hands. “Now, let me help you get up. If we’re going to have such a fine meal, you have to put on that new robe I bought you the last time. I’ll help you comb your hair, and you can fix up your face.”

  In his last few visits, a ritual had evolved and Anna accepted it once she understood that he was not revolted by what she had become. There was no difference in his love. He treated her in the same manner, remembered the same personal quirks they both had laughed or complained about over the years. Whenever she claimed that a nurse should be helping her, Danilov’s reply was always the same: “I hope that if our lives had been reversed, if it was me who lay in that bed, that you would go to the vodka shop for me, and buy all the little treats I always loved, and hold my hand when I was in pain.” And Anna understood there was no effort in his love.

  There was a small couch in the other room and he settled her there, wrapping a blanket around her legs. “Would you like me to lay out the fish now?”

  “Not yet.” She shook her head, the mere thought of the food sending a shiver down her spine. She truly appreciated the gesture to serve her needs but she also knew that he needed some time. She could recognize the exhaustion in his eyes. “Pour yourself some of that good vodka and tell me what you will be doing next. Then we can dine.” She forced a smile.

  Danilov had been prepared for her response. That, too, had been the same as before. He extracted the bottle from the small freezer that had been given to him because of his rank. He’d placed a snifter in the freezer at the same time and it became opaque on the outside when he set it on the table. Anna reached out slowly and with one finger etched a smile through the frost, exactly as she had done the last few times. He poured a few ounces in the glass and lifted it in her direction. “To you, my dear Anna . . . for your smile . . . and to us. I’ll be able to stay longer when I return from this trip.” He drained the glass, exhaling powerfully, feeling the frozen liquid burrowing down through his chest.

  “How long?” She managed to hold traces of her smile but could feel it fading with that same old nagging fear . . . fear that she might not still be here when he returned.

  “No more than ten days. Certainly no longer than that if
everything goes right, and I have no reason to think it won’t.”

  Her smile widened. She was sure she could last that long. There was no chance she would be as strong when he returned, but she wanted desperately to be waiting, just as she had each time in the past. Her excitement would bring a resurgence of strength whenever an officer would stop by to assure her that Admiral Danilov had called to tell her when she could expect him. Sometimes, they were old men who still revered the memory of her father, the general. Other times, there were younger naval officers who would go out of their way anytime for Admiral Danilov. They would stop by with a message, then stay to chat. Even one of the political officers, now an admiral himself, would stop by to visit her because he had once served under her husband.

  Ten days! She could make it through ten more days! She had already written nine letters for him. While he slept that night, she would finish the tenth.

  After three more glasses of vodka, he carefully laid out the foods he had selected. He placed the salmon, trout, caviar, and sturgeon neatly around a large platter to emphasize the colors and the textures, much as she had shown him so many years before. There were thin slices of the black bread made with cocoa that Anna treasured, and a variety of foreign crackers, and some cheeses radiating aromas that still managed to tickle her nose. Then he poured ice-cold champagne into crystal glasses. Anna remarked that she could have done no better herself.

  He prepared a plate for her containing tastes of each of the delicacies and set it on her lap with a linen napkin so that she would not have to lean forward. Then he brought her glass to her, balancing it on a tray that he’d fashioned to hold firmly to the arm of the couch by her right hand. This all had become a ritual once she became too ill to venture outside.