two and three, each group with a naval officer and a driver. Hardly unexpected, of course. Both men were amazed that they were being allowed onto so sensitive a base at all.
"A pity that your president did not allow a team of American officers to observe this," the escort went on.
"Yeah, I have to agree with you there, Captain," Flynn nodded. It would have made a much better story. As it was, a Swede and an Indian officer, neither a submariner, had gotten a closer look at what the reporters called the "cement ceremony," and reported somberly afterward that, yes, cement had been poured into each missile launch tube on the two submarines. Flynn had timed the length of each pour, and would do some checking when he got back. What was the volume of a missile tube? How much cement to fill it? How long to pour the cement? "Even so, Captain, you must agree that the American response to your country's negotiating position has been extremely positive."
Through all this, William Calloway kept his peace and stared out the car's window. He'd covered the Falkland Islands War for his wire service, and spent a lot of time with the Royal Navy, both afloat and in naval shipyards watching preparations for sending the Queen's fleet south. They were now passing by the piers and work areas for a number of surface warships. Something was wrong here, but he couldn't quite pin it down. What Flynn did not know was that his colleague often worked informally for the British Secret Intelligence Service. Never in a sensitive capacity--the man was a correspondent, not a spy--but like most reporters he was a shrewd, observant man, careful to note things that editors would never allow to clutter up a story. He didn't even know who the station chief in Moscow was, but he could report on this to a friend in Her Majesty's embassy. The data would find its way to the right person.
"So what does our English friend think of Soviet shipyards?" the captain inquired with a broad smile.
"Far more modern than ours," Calloway replied. "And I gather you don't have dockyard unions, Captain?"
The officer laughed. "We have no need for unions in the Soviet Union. Here the workers already own everything." That was the standard Party line, both reporters noted. Of course.
"Are you a submarine officer?" the Englishman inquired.
"No!" the captain exclaimed. A hearty laugh. Russians are big on laughs when they want to be, Flynn thought. "I come from the steppes. I like blue sky and broad horizons. I have great respect for my comrades on submarines, but I have no wish to join them."
"My feelings exactly, Captain," Calloway agreed. "We elderly Brits like our parks and gardens. What sort of sailor are you?"
"I have shore assignment now, but my last ship was Leonid Brezhnev, icebreaker. We do some survey work, and also make a way for merchant ships along the Arctic Coast to the Pacific."
"That must be a demanding job," Calloway said. "And a dangerous one." Keep talking, old boy ...
"It demands caution, yes, but we Russians are accustomed to cold and ice. It is a proud task to aid the economic growth of your country."
"I could never be a sailor," Calloway went on. He saw a curious look in Flynn's eyes: The hell you couldn't ... "Too much work, even when you're in port. Like now. Are your shipyards always this busy?"
"Ah, this is not busy," the captain said without much thought.
The man from Reuters nodded. The ships were cluttered, but there was not that much obvious activity. Not so many people moving about. Many cranes were still. Trucks were parked. But the surface warships and auxiliaries were cluttered as if ... He checked his watch. Three-thirty in the afternoon. The workday was hardly over. "A great day for East-West detente," he said to cover his feelings. "A great story for Pat and me to tell our readers."
"This is good." The captain smiled again. "It is time we had real peace."
The correspondents were back in Moscow four hours later, after the usual uncomfortable ride on an Aeroflot jet with its Torquemada seats. The two reporters walked to Flynn's car--Calloway's was still hors de combat with mechanical problems. He grumbled at having gotten a Soviet car instead of bringing his Morris over with him. Bloody impossible to get parts.
"A good story today, Patrick?"
"You bet. But I wish we'd been able to snap a picture or two." They were promised Sovfoto