Chief Orlov, though he hoped Karpov would not pass the matter on to
the him.
Orlov
was a strong man, iron willed, and often too much of a disciplinarian when it came
to running the ship’s schedules and training exercises, meting out swift
punishment to any crewman who was lax in his duties. He was Karpov’s hard whip
when it came to discipline and firm handling of procedures on the ship. The
Chief was actually a Captain of the 3rd Rank, two rungs below Karpov, but stood
as “Chief of Operations” and was therefore simply called the “Chief” by the
men.
He
had fifteen years in the navy, most served by default because he never had the babki to do anything else, or so he claimed. The truth was, he was sent here after a
stint in prison when running with the criminal element known as the blatonoy ,
the purveyors of blat in its most extreme forms. A man needed a little
dough in life, the money to grease a few palms or open a few doors, like the
small dough cakes called babki the Russians delighted on and gifted one
another with at times. Orlov never made his big deal with the blatnoy ,
so he found himself in the navy, and then found that he enjoyed the rigors of
the service, and his position of authority there was better than any life he
could find ashore.
Where
Karpov was duplicitous, scheming and often indirect, Orlov was brutally
straightforward. He would have made a proper drill sergeant in the army, and
would often dress men down with a boisterous harangue when he found them easing
off in their duty. He enjoyed throwing his weight around, and his muscle stood
him in good stead when it came to matters of discipline. A good hard shove or a
slap on the back of the head were par for the course when Orlov got hot, and if
a man got him particularly angry things might go far worse.
The
men said Orlov’s father had done the same to him, with a hard “spare the rod,
spoil the child,” attitude. Orlov made no bones about it, even bragged about it
at times. “If my old man had found me doing something like that he would knock
some sense into my thick head right off,” he would say. And then he would
proceed to knock some sense into a junior midshipman just to illustrate the
point. The men feared him more than they respected him. They jumped to order
when Orlov growled, but there was no question that the Chief was disliked.
Orlov
bullied and cowed every crewman on the ship, save one, the steely sergeant of
the marine contingent, Kandemir Troyak, a Siberian Eskimo from the Chukchi
peninsula. He was a short, broad shouldered man, very stocky, yet all muscle. When
the Chief had first met the man he had tried to impose his will on Troyak as
well, bawling out an order with a derisive tone, and berating a member of the
marine rifle squad. The Sergeant had taken two quick steps, squaring off to the
big Chief and staring him right in the eye. “Sir,” Troyak had hissed out in his
low, threatening voice. “Discipline of the marine contingent is the responsibility
of the Sergeant Major.” He was so close to the chief that Orlov instinctively
took a step back. Troyak was, in fact, the Sergeant Major, and he was letting
the Chief know that he would not tolerate his usual brash and strong armed
methods where his men were concerned.
“Well,
see that it gets done then!” Orlov rejoined, his neck reddening, but the
Sergeant simply stood his ground, unmoving, an implacable silence about him
that left the Chief feeling most uncomfortable until he dismissed the matter,
looking around him quickly to spot a Maintenance Warrant Officer and wave him
down as he lugged a tool kit through a hatch.
“Hey, kudá namýlilsja? Where are you going with those, you idiot?” Orlov used
the incident as cover to extricate himself from the standoff with Troyak, and
he never bothered the Sergeant again. When he saw seaman Martok had turned his
head from a work bench, noticing the confrontation, he cuffed him hard on the
right ear and told him to
the him.
Orlov
was a strong man, iron willed, and often too much of a disciplinarian when it came
to running the ship’s schedules and training exercises, meting out swift
punishment to any crewman who was lax in his duties. He was Karpov’s hard whip
when it came to discipline and firm handling of procedures on the ship. The
Chief was actually a Captain of the 3rd Rank, two rungs below Karpov, but stood
as “Chief of Operations” and was therefore simply called the “Chief” by the
men.
He
had fifteen years in the navy, most served by default because he never had the babki to do anything else, or so he claimed. The truth was, he was sent here after a
stint in prison when running with the criminal element known as the blatonoy ,
the purveyors of blat in its most extreme forms. A man needed a little
dough in life, the money to grease a few palms or open a few doors, like the
small dough cakes called babki the Russians delighted on and gifted one
another with at times. Orlov never made his big deal with the blatnoy ,
so he found himself in the navy, and then found that he enjoyed the rigors of
the service, and his position of authority there was better than any life he
could find ashore.
Where
Karpov was duplicitous, scheming and often indirect, Orlov was brutally
straightforward. He would have made a proper drill sergeant in the army, and
would often dress men down with a boisterous harangue when he found them easing
off in their duty. He enjoyed throwing his weight around, and his muscle stood
him in good stead when it came to matters of discipline. A good hard shove or a
slap on the back of the head were par for the course when Orlov got hot, and if
a man got him particularly angry things might go far worse.
The
men said Orlov’s father had done the same to him, with a hard “spare the rod,
spoil the child,” attitude. Orlov made no bones about it, even bragged about it
at times. “If my old man had found me doing something like that he would knock
some sense into my thick head right off,” he would say. And then he would
proceed to knock some sense into a junior midshipman just to illustrate the
point. The men feared him more than they respected him. They jumped to order
when Orlov growled, but there was no question that the Chief was disliked.
Orlov
bullied and cowed every crewman on the ship, save one, the steely sergeant of
the marine contingent, Kandemir Troyak, a Siberian Eskimo from the Chukchi
peninsula. He was a short, broad shouldered man, very stocky, yet all muscle. When
the Chief had first met the man he had tried to impose his will on Troyak as
well, bawling out an order with a derisive tone, and berating a member of the
marine rifle squad. The Sergeant had taken two quick steps, squaring off to the
big Chief and staring him right in the eye. “Sir,” Troyak had hissed out in his
low, threatening voice. “Discipline of the marine contingent is the responsibility
of the Sergeant Major.” He was so close to the chief that Orlov instinctively
took a step back. Troyak was, in fact, the Sergeant Major, and he was letting
the Chief know that he would not tolerate his usual brash and strong armed
methods where his men were concerned.
“Well,
see that it gets done then!” Orlov rejoined, his neck reddening, but the
Sergeant simply stood his ground, unmoving, an implacable silence about him
that left the Chief feeling most uncomfortable until he dismissed the matter,
looking around him quickly to spot a Maintenance Warrant Officer and wave him
down as he lugged a tool kit through a hatch.
“Hey, kudá namýlilsja? Where are you going with those, you idiot?” Orlov used
the incident as cover to extricate himself from the standoff with Troyak, and
he never bothered the Sergeant again. When he saw seaman Martok had turned his
head from a work bench, noticing the confrontation, he cuffed him hard on the
right ear and told him to
Similar Books
