Fiction

EnZi Part One Odesa Chapter 12 Poseidon

by Stanislav Dema
01/21/26
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Mood:

Unheilig - Halt mich

The weather was wonderful: not a cloud in the sky, almost a dead calm, only a light breeze caressing the fabric of the awning. The sun played softly with glimmers on the water, and for a minute it seemed to me that I was on a pleasure cruise during a vacation.

The "Poseidon" moved slowly but confidently—like an old ox harnessed to a Chumak cart. Behind us stretched a thin trail of smoke, the steam engine puffed rhythmically, and our small ship moved within sight of the shore, guided by Kostya’s firm hand.

David came out on deck—to breathe the air and admire the view. He was a typical Odessan: swarthy, cheerful, an agile lad one could rely on in a crucial moment. David smiled affably, walked over to the provisions chest, took out a bottle of water, and took several greedy gulps. Then he poured the remainder over his head, smoothed back his wet curls, and went back down—to conjure over the steam engine.

Petro stood on the forecastle all this time, scanning the horizon through binoculars. Something seemed to trouble him. Finally, he put the binoculars back in their case, walked up to Kostya, and said something quietly. A shadow of anxiety fell over the skipper's cheerful face. Kostya answered briefly, and I managed to hear only two words:

— Continue observation.

I was intrigued but decided not to ask questions.

Meanwhile, I examined our little ship with interest. It was a typical Black Sea shalanda—a flat-bottomed vessel with a wide, pot-bellied hull, created for fishing and coastal voyages. In former times they sailed under canvas, but now they were increasingly being equipped with low-power steam engines.

The "Poseidon" belonged to these humble laborers of the sea—wooden, reliable, simple, faithfully serving their owners for decades.

The shalanda was about eighteen meters long, with a displacement of just over thirty tons, and the steam engine had forty-five horsepower. This was enough to make nine or ten knots in good weather.

The vessel belonged to the "Goby" type—a design developed in Odesa back in the thirties, named after the round Black Sea goby, that legendary fish which became one of the symbols of Odesa cuisine.

But one detail in the shalanda’s appearance alerted me—an antenna stretched between two thin masts.

It was the first time I had seen a shalanda equipped with a radio station.

However, I decided not to show my surprise.

The sea breathed with the waves like a living creature. The "Poseidon" moved along the coast, unhurriedly, as if it knew the way itself. Coastal navigation had its laws: do not rush, do not venture into the open sea, and always keep land on the horizon.

We passed sandy beaches where rows of kurens and rare fishermen's huts appeared under the slopes, then passed Hrybivka, and further on—along the estuaries: the water in them was almost fresh and smelled of mire. David, our stoker, came up from the engine room to the deck from time to time to get some fresh air and exchange a few words with Petro. Then he would go down again, shovel coal into the furnace, and check the pressure in the boiler. His swarthy face glistened with sweat, and his eyes shone—he loved the sea like a brother.

The deck smelled of burnt coal, machine oil, and salt. Kostya stood at the tiller, leaning forward slightly, peering into the horizon. Petro busied himself repairing fishing nets. He worked quickly and skillfully—one could immediately sense that this man had been a fisherman since childhood. Finishing the work, he took the binoculars again and scanned the horizon. Something was clearly bothering him.

— Not far to Vylkove now, — said Kostya, glancing at his watch. — We’ll take fresh water there, and then—straight to Zmeiny. The sea is kind today. It will let us pass calmly.

I sat by the gunwale, leaning my back against some sacks, and looked at the shore—these were high clay cliffs with a narrow strip of beach. In places, they were cut by deep ravines, through which streams of water flowed into the sea during rains. This shore was the same as thousands of years ago when Jason saw it, passing through these places on his "Argo." Jason went for the Golden Fleece, and I—for the solution to a mystery. But I had a premonition that no lesser adventures awaited me.

Everything here breathed antiquity and peace. Somewhere behind remained noisy Odesa—its port, streets, and bazaars. Ahead—only the endless sky and a tiny patch of land lost in the sea.

Noon came. The sun rose to its zenith and scorched mercilessly.

Petro relieved Kostya at the tiller and took over the watch. Kostya, stretching, went into the deckhouse. Something clattered there, the sound of dishes was heard, and soon he appeared on deck with a saucepan and a kerosene stove.

He folded down a small shelf by the gunwale, placed the stove on it, and secured it with latches so it wouldn't slide off. Then he went into the deckhouse again and returned with a fire extinguisher.

— We’re going to make lunch, — he announced. I looked at the fire extinguisher, and surprise must have been reflected on my face.

Kostya smiled: — Ah, this… safety regulations. — He was slightly embarrassed. — You understand, we are the generation that caught the war. Used to over-insuring.

He lit the stove; the flame hissed. He poured water into the saucepan, waited for it to boil, and poured in the macaroni.

— Spaghetti? — I was surprised. — An unusual choice for an Odesa fisherman?

Kostya laughed, blushed, and answered with pride: — Well, it’s simple here: my father is a Karaite, and my mother is Italian. So spaghetti is a family business for us. Mom makes it better than anyone in Odesa.

While Kostya set the table, I took out my supplies—bread, vegetables, bryndza, smoked chicken. Kostya brought a bowl from the deckhouse, cut fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, added the bryndza, poured olive oil over it, and said: — And now—Greek salad, Odesa style.

When the spaghetti was ready, he drained it in a colander, then boiled shrimp in the same saucepan. An incredible smell of the sea and garlic filled the air, mixing with the aroma of spices. Kostya looked at the sauce the shopkeeper had given me and said joyfully: — An excellent choice! This is Mendelssohn's sauce—just what is needed for pasta.

— Here, Monsieur Étienne, — said Kostya, smiling, — today we have a lunch like in paradise.

The lunch was truly magnificent. After eating, Kostya sighed, looked at the sea, and added: — If you had come to my home, I would have treated you to wine made by my Italian grandfather. But at sea, alcohol is taboo. So now it will be my signature Odesa coffee.

He replaced the saucepan with a pot-bellied, soot-blackened cezve, threw in ground coffee, sugar, and some spices. Soon foam appeared, and fragrant steam rose above the stove.

We drank coffee with tahini halva, sitting right on the deck, leaning against the warm gunwale.

The sea was serene, glimmers of light played on the waves, and everything around seemed so kind and eternal. At that moment, it seemed to me that the earth had truly turned into paradise.

— Just don’t tell me your mother makes the halva too, — I said.

— No, my Karaite grandfather makes the halva, — replied Kostya with a serious face. And we both laughed.

The "Poseidon" was approaching Vylkove when it happened. Petro once again took the binoculars, began observation, and shouted excitedly:

— That’s it, I see it! Kostya, look.

Kostya secured the tiller and walked over to Petro. He took the binoculars, looked, and said:

— Yes, you are right, that’s her.

Kostya frowned and threw out briefly:

— Petro, deploy the radio station. We will report to the Coast Guard.

Petro swiftly headed into the deckhouse. Inside it was cramped, but everything was arranged with extreme rationality: on the port side—a chart table, next to it—a wooden crate with the radio station, on top—a coiled cable and headset.

Petro dropped to one knee, opened the crate, and pulled out a heavy metal container labeled "Maritime Radio Station, Type RM-9." From the lower compartment, he took out a battery, checked the contacts, and connected the power cable. The control lamp flared with a dim amber light.

He opened the side cover of the case and inserted the antenna cable plug—the one that led to the external antenna stretched between the masts. Then he checked the connection and turned on the power. The deckhouse immediately hissed and crackled—the familiar noise of the ether. Petro deftly put on the headphones, screwed the microphone to the mount, tuned the frequency, and pressed the tangent.

— "Sargan", "Sargan", I am "Poseidon", over.

A light crackle came from the speaker, then the operator's voice—young, calm, a bit distant from radio interference:

— "Poseidon", I hear you. "Sargan" receiving. Go ahead.

Petro spoke clearly, measuredly, like a man who had been on the air more than once:

— "Sargan", observing a suspicious object. Looks like a submarine periscope. Proceeding on a parallel course, distance—up to 17 cables, holding course for Vylkove. Presumably, the object has been shadowing us since the mouth of the Sukhyi Lyman. Over.

For a few seconds, only the crackle of the ether was audible. Then the operator asked again:

— "Poseidon", repeat message. Did you say—submarine? Clarify target type. Over.

Petro took a deep breath, looked at Kostya—he nodded.

— Affirmative, submarine. Visually—periscope and snorkel. Distinctive construction, no other type like it exists. This is a "U-boot, Type 18"—the newest steam-turbine boat with RTP. Over.

A heavy silence hung in the ether. Then the operator replied—in a different tone now, more collected, with a slight rasp:

— Copy, "Poseidon". Maintain course, do not change direction, and do not signal. We are dispatching a patrol boat to check the quadrant. Out.

Petro took off the headset, turned to Kostya:

— Receipt confirmed. Boat is already being sent.

— Excellent, — replied Kostya, wiping sweat from his forehead with his palm.

I stood at the entrance to the deckhouse, amazed by the events unfolding before me. It all looked like a scene from a spy novel, but no one looked confused—the crew acted calmly, cohesively, as if this were a routine matter for them. I decided not to interfere and simply watch.

After some time, the alarm subsided.

The Coast Guard confirmed by radio that the boat had gone out to search, and we should pause our voyage for a while until the situation in the water area cleared up. A few hours passed, and we were given the go-ahead to continue the voyage.

We entered the Danube Delta and soon docked at the pier in Vylkove.

There we replenished fresh water supplies, loaded sacks of coal, accepted additional mail, and when everything was ready, Kostya gave the command to cast off.

The steam engine puffed rhythmically again, and "Poseidon" set a course for Snake Island.

We left the delta closer to evening. Behind remained the narrow channels, the smell of reeds, and the quiet whistles of tugboats pushing barges. The shore gradually disappeared into the haze, and soon the horizon became clear—only sea and sky merging into a single line.

The sea here was different—dark, deep, with a steady wave lazily rolling from afar. The "Poseidon" moved confidently, swaying slightly, as if listening to the depths. Kostya stood at the tiller, before him—the binnacle: a low brass cabinet where a compass card swayed in the depths, and three small lamps flickered on a small panel on top.

— The shore is no longer visible, — said Petro. — Time to switch on "Ariadne."

He went down into the deckhouse. There, under the chart table, stood a small metal box—the radio direction finder "Pelengator-12M." On the front panel—three lamps: red, green, and white, and a toggle switch activating the repeater.

Petro turned on the power, the device came to life: a transformer hummed inside, the radio ether hissed. A few seconds later, a rhythmic "beep... beep... beep..." was heard in the headphones—the call sign of the radio beacon "Ariadne," installed on Snake Island.

He turned the tuning knob slightly, the signal became stronger, cleaner. A white light lit up on the panel—with a steady, calm glow.

— Got it, caught the beam! — he said, and pride sounded in his voice.

Kostya, without being distracted from the helm, asked:

— Repeater on?

— Already working. All signals are duplicated on your binnacle. White—course correct, if we go right—green starts blinking, if left—red. The faster it blinks—the greater the deviation.

— I know, but regulations are regulations, thanks for the briefing, — Kostya answered briefly.

Now he glanced at the instrument from time to time. The white lamp burned calmly—the "Poseidon" was moving exactly along the beam. Sometimes a slight deviation from the course made the light tremble, but a second later everything stabilized, and the white radiance leveled out again—as if the sea itself guided them to the target.

Kostya smiled silently, looking at the steadily burning white lamp.

— It's simple, — he said quietly. — The main thing is to follow the beam.

The "Poseidon" went into the open sea, following an invisible beam—like a thin thread stretched across the endless expanse.