Kilo Class am-2

by Patrick Robinson

  America’s KH-III satellite photographed the barges as they set off from Nizhny. George Morris had pictures of the Kilos in his hand at Fort Meade within two hours. Admiral Morgan called Coronado, and Admiral Bergstrom himself hit the start button for Operation Northern Wedding at 2122 Pacific time. The SEALs would depart St. Petersburg on the Russian tour ship Yuri Andropov at 0800 on the morning of June 7.

  That meant an additional two-day wait for Rick Hunter and his team. While they settled down to the mind-numbing boredom of life in a commercial hotel in Russia, the Tolkach barges cleared the partly elegant thirteenth-century city of Nizhny, with its population of one and a quarter million, and its belief that it stands as Russia’s third capital.

  Captain Volkov settled into a speed of five knots and led the way slowly upriver past the dark-green forests that stretch all along the right bank, forming the heart of the central Volga timber-growing industry. The sight of the three jet black submarines being ferried along the river brought local people out by the dozens, and they watched the Kilos pass by, along the lonely, wide stretch of the river that leads to Jurevec. The Volga begins to narrow here, passing first through the picturesque nineteenth-century artists’ colony near Plyos, where white houses built like Swiss chalets cluster along the riverbank. It then passes the neoclassical town of Kostroma, to which Czar Nicholas II pleaded unsuccessfully to be exiled, and where Tolstoy was a frequent visitor.

  The submarines ran nonstop past the city of Jaroslav, with its ghastly chemical factory, placed with typical Russian flair so close to the old-world bourgeois charm of the town itself.

  At 2200 on the night of June 7 they swept past the hundred-foot-high statue of a female warrior, which guards the entrance to the waters of the Rybinsk Reservoir. They were more or less halfway between Nizhny and the center of Lake Onega now, a distance of five hundred miles. Captain Volkov pressed on into the night, occasionally speaking by phone to his son, who was up in the bow wheelhouse, three hundred yards for’ard. The Russian Navy guards patrolled through the night, walking back and forth with Slavic doggedness.

  The 9,500-ton tour ship Yuri Andropov was named in honor of the one-time head of the KGB, who presided, briefly, over the Soviet Empire in the early 1980s after the death of Leonid Brezhnev.

  The ship was packed. The suites on the uppermost deck, of which there were two, were greatly sought after. They were newly designed and built, each comprising two bedrooms with en-suite bathrooms, and a small salon between them. They were much superior to the ten old single-bedroom suites they had replaced, and much more expensive.

  Four Americans occupied these suites. In number 400 was seventy-six-year-old Boris Andrews, and his brother-in-law Sten Nichols, who was one year younger, both from Bloomington, in the southern suburbs of Minneapolis. In 401 resided Andre Maklov, a seventy-eight-year-old diabetic from White Bear Lake, St. Paul, and his roommate, the bearded Tomas Rabovitz, a somewhat youthful seventy-four-year-old from Coon Rapids, north of Minneapolis.

  All four knew each other and had saved for many months to make the trip, each of them having once had distant ancestors from European North Russia. They were all in reasonably good health except for Mr. Andrews, who would soon require a hip replacement. He presently walked with the aid of a cane and used painkillers to deaden the endless hurt at the top of his right leg.

  The four had shared the cost of a nurse to accompany them back to the land of their forefathers. She was accommodated separately on deck two. Her duties were to attend them throughout the trip, and to ensure that none of them were left alone for too long. Her name was Edith Dubranin. She was fifty-two and also had some Russian ancestry, although she had never before traveled outside the United States. Edith was a stern, no-nonsense kind of a lady who had spent much of her career as a staff nurse in a Chicago hospital. She was five feet tall, fair skinned with obviously dyed blonde hair. In her new job as nurse-companion she wore a gray skirt with a white jacket and favored formality.

  She addressed her four charges as Mr. Andrews, Mr. Nichols, Mr. Maklov, and Mr. Rabovitz. She would attend to their laundry, arrange for their various medications, and accompany them to the dining room, where she would eat with them and deal personally with the waitresses. The table was for five only.

  On the first morning Edith had walked her charges slowly around the ship for some exercise after breakfast, watching the banks of the wide Neva River slip by during the thirty-eight-mile trip to Lake Ladoga. Mr. Andrews, a big, stooped man made smaller by the pain in his hip, said very little, except to Mr. Nichols, but Edith Dubranin seemed to strike up rather serious conversations with Mr. Rabovitz. Mr. Maklov, who also walked very slowly, seemed quickly exhausted by two strolls around the upper deck.

  The nurse arranged for a steward to make sure there were always five deck chairs placed outside the two suites in the small private area reserved for the passengers who had paid the most.

  Late in the afternoon the party of elderly midwesterners made their first contact with the outside world when the senior officer on the ship, Colonel Borsov, called to pay his respects, in impeccable English, to his most valued passengers. Like all such men on these tour boats, he would have been obviously ex-military, even without the formality of his rank, by which he announced himself.

  Old Mr. Andrews made the introductions and explained to the ship’s commissar, in an infirm voice, how much they were enjoying the lake. He also mentioned that it was wonderful to be back in Russia four generations after his folks had left for the United States back in the nineteenth century. Colonel Borsov asked where the Andrews family was from originally and smiled when he was told, “Right up there in Archangel, on the White Sea.”

  “Then we are from opposite ends of Russia,” the Colonel replied. “My family is from the Ukraine — like President Leonid Brezhnev.”

  “Well, you are a very nice, polite man,” chimed in Mr. Maklov, brushing his white mustache upward with the back of his right index finger. “And I think you should run for president as well.”

  This brought a smile to the face of the Colonel, who replied, “Not of Russia, nor of the Ukraine, Mr. Maklov. But perhaps one day of this shipping line.”

  “Good luck to you, Colonel,” Mr. Andrews said. “A bit of ambition never hurt no one.”

  “That’s right,” added old Mr. Maklov. “When you’re young, that’s the name of the game. And if I hadn’t shown some of it when I started out in insurance, I wouldn’t be where I am today.”

  “And the Yuri Andropov would be the poorer for it,” said the Colonel, gallantly. “By the way, have you been to see the little museum we have dedicated to Mr. Andropov, down on deck two. No?…Well, you should. I know you will find it interesting. He came from central Russia, along the Volga, you know? He was a great man, a lover of American jazz, who died too young.” He did not mention that Mr. Andropov was also a Communist ideological hard liner, who had been a ruthless head of the KGB. Neither would the museum.

  “Well, we’ll certainly make a point of doing that before dinner,” said Mr. Andrews. “And we appreciate you visiting with us.”

  When the Colonel left, Miss Dubranin walked with him and thanked him for making it such an enjoyable afternoon. “They will be so proud that you came to talk to them, Colonel. They are such lovely old gentlemen, it’s a real pity that walking is so difficult for Mr. Andrews and Mr. Maklov. But they are both very uncomplaining.”

  “I was glad to come up and see them, Miss Dubranin. What line of business were they in back in the United States?”

  “Well, Mr. Andrews had a business distributing spare parts for automobiles. Mr. Maklov was an insurance agent. I think Mr. Nichols at one point worked for Mr. Andrews, and Mr. Rabovitz was some kind of a retail buyer for a clothing store in Minneapolis, Minnesota.”

  “Men from the heart of the Western capitalist system, eh?” said Colonel Borsov.

  “I suspect you will all be getting used to it before long,” replied the nurse.

&nbs
p; “No doubt,” said the Colonel. “No doubt. But I must continue with my calls, and I hope we may speak again before too long.”

  Miss Dubranin watched him descend to the lower deck, and she walked back and sat down once more. “Very nice,” she said, carefully.

  A little later, on their way to the second shift, in the horseshoe-shaped dining room, they walked slowly past the museum and looked at the pictures of the late General Secretary of the Communist Party…pictures of him in his birthplace, Rybinsk; pictures of him in the Kremlin; pictures of him in Naval uniform, taking the salute at the Naval Academy in Rybinsk. Yuri Andropov, who died in 1984, before the full horror of the Soviet Union’s collapsed economy became known. Andropov, one of the very last of the Communist old guard, a blinkered man who thought until the day he died that another idealist from the Volga, Ilyich Lenin, may yet be proved right.

  “What a total asshole,” murmured Andre Maklov.

  And with that, the four old gentlemen and their nurse made their prolonged way to dinner, Mr. Andrews’s limp becoming noticeably worse. Two of their fellow passengers, both elderly ladies, smiled sympathetically as they passed. It was the natural telepathy of the elderly, a smile of shared anguish at the passing of middle age and the onset of twilight.

  That evening they stood on deck with many other passengers and watched the distant shores of Lake Ladoga as the ship wended its way to the lake’s north end, where they would stop to see the islands. By 2200 the ship had cut its speed almost to zero for the night.

  Tomorrow they would sail close to the islands before turning south, making a slow ninety-mile run down to the estuary of the Svir River. A hundred miles farther up the river would bring them to the port of Voznesene in the southwest corner of Lake Onega. They were scheduled to arrive there in the early morning hours of June 9 and would anchor for the night in the lake’s sheltered southern waters.

  They would spend that day running north to the island of Kizhi to see the spectacular wooden churches, and would then steam down to an anchorage among the islands that dominate the central part of the lake north of Petrozavodsk. On the morning of June 10 they would set off for the Green Stop at the northwest corner of Onega.

  During this time the four gentlemen from Minnesota quietly made themselves known to a variety of passengers. They never shared their table but would sit up in the little bar at the stern of the ship, sipping coffee and the occasional glass of Armenian brandy, listening appreciatively to the Russian songs that invariably broke out when sufficient vodka had been consumed. They befriended the young blond-haired steward, Pieter, who served during the afternoon and early evening. He liked talking to old Mr. Andrews about the secondhand American car he one day hoped to buy, though Mr. Andrews never seemed to say much himself.

  Nurse Dubranin always awakened her men at 0630. She attended to their laundry and organized clean clothes. By 0800 the party from the Midwest had emerged from their two suites for breakfast. June 10, however, was an early morning. All five were out on deck before dawn as they cleared their anchorage off Kurgenicy and set off at a low speed for the main north-south channel, which lay to the northeast. The Captain spent much of the day cruising along the lovely western shoreline, which was dotted with remote farmlands.

  In the late morning, the Yuri Andropov began to speed up, running straight for the Green Stop, which she would make by 1830 in the evening. They spotted Captain Volkov’s convoy, at 1252 about a mile ahead, driving slowly along the deep central channel. Traffic on the route had been unusually light during the last few days, but there were still five large freighters trying to pass the Tolkach barges.

  The Andropov was not forced to wait in line with the freighters and overhauled the barges effortlessly. Nurse Dubranin and her four employers were out on deck to see the truly astonishing sight of three Kilo Class Russian submarines being carried across the lake and up to the White Sea on the biggest transporters any of the assembled passengers had ever seen.

  The ship’s broadcast network pointed out that this was not an unusual sight. The barges were traveling the regular summer route for new Russian Navy ships that had been built, or undergone a refit, in the famous Red Sormovo Yards at Nizhny Novgorod on the Volga River. The Soviet Navy had been using these inland waterways for more than half a century to move warships around. Not, of course, in the winter, the female guide explained, because these northern waters were frozen solid from October to April.

  She added that it was a testimony to the immense foresight of the Communist leaders who had constructed these “matchless” throughways, which joined rivers, lakes, and oceans together, through the canals. She also mentioned that the Russian water transport system, engineered for major shipping, was unequaled anywhere in the Western world. She left out the part about the thousands and thousands of deaths that had occurred among the enslaved labor force that built the Berlomorski-Baltic Canal.

  The Andropov slipped past the Kilos, and both Mr. Andrews and Mr. Maklov noted the presence of three guards on the barges, all of whom waved cheerfully at the passengers while the Captains sounded the ships’ horns in greeting. Mr. Nichols and Mr. Rabovitz were speechless at the size of the two submarines, each two and a half thousand tons, high on the deck of the nine-hundred-foot Tolkach.

  The four men and their nurse spent the afternoon resting. At 1800 they went to watch their final approach to the Green Stop, peering out at the sunlit shore on the port side as the Captain slid up to the jetty, reversed his engines, and came to a halt in the shallows. The waving summer grasses brushed the side of the ship.

  Nurse Dubranin walked back to the stern and stared back down the lake, marveling at its translucent light, a light that would scarcely fade throughout the long night ahead, a light that all summer long creates the White Nights up here in the northerly reaches of Russia. Never had she seen such bright water. A group of seagulls swimming on the surface were lit by a light so pure, at an angle so oblique, that the water had turned, literally, into a mirror; the reflections were as sharp and focused as the birds themselves.

  She saw that the submarines were left far behind, and she watched the lines being secured before walking back to rejoin her gentlemen — just as the big gangway was lowered out of the hull, across the grass and reeds to form an easy bridge to the dirt road beyond. She could see passengers walking out to investigate the territory. A small army of traders awaited them, their trestle tables set with local wares — filigree silver, wood carvings, jewelry of all types, antiques, little paintings of the area, and pots of jam. Right here was capitalism taking firm roots.

  Along the road fifty yards to the left was a small farmhouse, which had been converted into a café-bar. The hand-painted lettering on the sign said: WELCOME INN. And on the timbered counter there were three brass samovars full of steaming tea, plus two large coffeepots, and various bottles of brandy and liqueurs.

  Farther along the road at least six buildings were under construction, presumably shops that would cater to the foreigners who were eager to spend money on Russian souvenirs.

  The ship’s broadcast system announced that the crew would prepare a barbecue on the shore that evening. Passengers were welcome to picnic or to eat on the ship. There would be a small charge for those wishing to sit at tables set up by local people in the field adjoining the Welcome Inn.

  Nurse Dubranin quickly paid ten dollars for a five-dollar table on the edge of the field and placed a reserved sign on it. As her gentlemen prepared to leave the ship at 1930, they took one final walk on deck along the starboard side. They walked more slowly than usual because, less than one mile off their beam slightly for’ard, were the two giant Tolkach freighters, anchored now with their cargo of submarines, lit by the still-bright western sunlight, their hulls stark against the distant horizon. K-6, K-7, and K-8.

  Boris Andrews nodded slowly, and the group then walked away without a word, eager now for the grilled steak and baked potato with butter and sour cream that awaited them on shore. They would al
so be sure to eat plenty of Russian cheese and black bread with hot coffee. For their night would be long.

  Dinner was over, but by 2200 the sky was still light above the western flatlands, and the fireball of the sun could still be seen above the endless horizon, casting a pinkish light on the long waters of the lake. The winds were from the southwest, warm and light. Sipping coffee while awaiting the midnight shadows, the little group from the Midwest watched the Russian crew attempt to make money.

  Stewards, bearing little envelopes, mingled with the passengers, requesting tips for the less public members of the staff — the cooks, the galley staff, and the maids. The tips were not expected to be high, just a little something, a dollar or so from the wealthy folk from the West for the underprivileged Russian workers. The envelopes would be collected on the way back to the ship. By 2230 Boris had five of them in his pocket.

  Fifteen minutes later, with fifty or more passengers still sitting in the warm field, sipping brandy at their tables, Nurse Dubranin rather ostentatiously stood up and announced that she was taking her men for a short evening walk along the dirt road. Then, she added, addressing the people at the next table, an edge of asperity creeping into her voice, that she would insist they go to bed. “They have all drunk quite sufficient of that brandy, or whatever it is.”

  There were two or three cries of “C’mon, Edith, let the guys have a few laughs…they’re on vacation, right?” But the nurse from Chicago was having none of it. She bossily told them to follow her out of the drinking area, and to breathe deeply, especially Mr. Nichols, who occasionally suffered from asthma.

  They set off along the road, heading slowly north. Boris Andrews could be seen limping painfully at the rear of the group. “Poor old guy,” said a Texan at the next table. “She shoulda left him alone. He was having a good time.”