sharks-torpedo retriever

On Benefits of Smoking
(From Eduard Ovechkin’s “Sharks of Steel”
https://legal-alien.ru/akuly-iz-stali/glava-ii/o-polze-kureniya)

Once upon a time our totally nuclear division got themselves a torpedo retriever boat. I don’t really know how she was acquired in the first place and where she ended up afterwards, so I’ll omit these details as unimportant. Torpedo retriever mostly had been rusting at the pier for a year or two and set sail exactly once. Well, can’t call that exactly “setting sail”...  But here’s the whole story.
By that time she had been rusting away unneeded for about a half a year. The ship’s looks weren’t exactly decent anyway: the hardships of naval service roughed her up real good. One couldn’t really guess it was a combat vessel underneath all that rust. Just some small boat standing on a pier, so what? But on one of the line-ups dedicated, as you may guess, to some celebration or the other, our strategic nuclear submarine division was tasked with the important mission: prepare the torpedo retriever for sailing and complete a training mission. Oh, so that’s a torpedo retriever, huh.
What does completing any combat mission start with? Well, appearance of course. While on a mission you can mess up or even fuck things up real bad but you still must look like a hussar in the ballroom. Such is the navy law. Normally ships are painted a very specific fifty-first shade of grey, but at the time Northern Fleet couldn’t get any; they found silver paint instead. Eh, will be all shiny to boot, the honchos probably thought.
And so the whole torpedo retriever was covered in silver, from foremast head end cup all the way down to Barentsevo sea. I don’t know if there were any vampires in Nerpichya but they’ve definitely disappeared after that. The ship instantly acquired an unofficial moniker “Silver One”. Though our seamen, bored and burdened with insatiable craving for the beautiful, got them some blacking, sneaked up at night and painted “Buffy” on the hull. Dumbasses, really. Buffy’s a girl [all ships have male gender in Russian]. Should’ve consulted the officers at least, would’ve learned that “Van Helsing” was a better fit. Would’ve also not get the TR boat seamen offended. Because they had for some reason. And kept calling ours jerks and bonkheads while hanging over the water and wiping the blacking off the hull.  Our guys eagerly beat themselves in the chest and swore to the Motherland it wasn’t them, like, it’s all those rats from shore base’s fault.  They even offered to tear their telniks and steal their breakfast bratwurst.

Finally the ship got some of her equipment repaired while the officers wasted a ton of paper for the reports. Now was the time for the final quest: the search for the diesel oil. The honchos didn’t think too long and found some on our sub, in the diesel generators’ tanks. Electromechs’ chief officer call our chief of the mechanicals:
“Slavik, ya need to pour some diesel oil for the TR boat.”
“What for?”
“For our Motherland’s greater good, Slavik, what else?”
Our electromech chief officer was a good man, no questions, but after working in HQ for quite some time had lost some technical knowledge, having replaced it with the knowledge of various bulletins and regulations. So Slavik calmly explains:
“‘San ‘Sanych, the fuel jettison system is absent by design here. Only the reception system, no jettison.”
“Slava, forchrissake! You’re an officer(oh yeah!)! Think of something! Assemble a makeshift from the junk, Idunno! (Ohhhh yeaaah!)”
Overly agitated by the “youreanofficer” and “makeshiftjunk” keywords, Slava keeps explaining:
“The fuel in the tanks is replaced with the seawater upon usage. Fuel level is very low, and I can’t say for sure what I’m gonna pour them: fuel, emulsion or seawater. And we have absolutely no way of knowing! What engine type do they have? What fuel types are accepted?”
“Slava, you’re fuckin’ killin’ me with the horseshit you spew. The DivCom’s order is ‘pour the fuel’!”
“Oh yeah? And who’s gonna be responsible? Will it be DivCom?”
“I’ll be responsible, Slava, personally!”
“Then, ‘San ‘Sanych, please make an effort to come aboard our sub and write the order in the ship’s logbook.”
Chief officer arrived three minutes later all overly offended by such a display of a grave distrust between fine gentlemen. After making the note in the logbook he left.
All five second crew officers dragged fifteen meters of fuel system schematics    into the Central, unfolded them into three layers and started crawling over, pointing their fingers here and there into valves and flanges while swearing and calling each other ignorant idiots.
Finally the makeshift schematics is born. Using fire hoses and duct tape (I don’t remember who invented it but we really must fin him and decorate him the Hero of Russia for not letting the fleet fall apart in the nineties). The device is assembled, everyone’s having a smoke all quite happy with themselves.
“How’s it going, Slava?”
“Tell’em to suck, ‘San ‘Sanych.”
“Watch that shithole of a mouth of yours, Vyacheslav, you don’t discuss orders!”
“I meant everything’s ready so they can come and suck some fuel, not the stuff you’ve thought.”
The TR boat officers came and sucked something from the tanks. Aaaand it’s all fun and party of course. The whole division watched the ship setting sail, only the orchestra and fireworks.  They’ve set off at around 5pm. I’ve just started my watch.
So yeah, I’ve started the watch, had my dinner, stayed on watch some more, drank some coffee and at around 9pm climbed out to get some fresh air and have a smoke. As I look at our bay I almost swear aloud: holy molly, there’s our Van Helsing right in the middle of Nerpichya bay absolutely still, about 500 meter away. And flailing at me with the whole crew’s telniks. I rubbed my eyes and she still was there. I’ve smoked a cigarette and she still was there. After that I called our comms officer.
“Call this Flying Dutchman or something.”
He tried: they’re not responding at all. Meanwhile they’ve put their tallest seaman (170cm) to do some morning exercises. Kidding of course, he’s semaphoring Mayday. Sending them “no worries, cavalry’s coming” signal, then I go down, call the division duty officer and, with the stern voice like in the movies, I report:
“Observing TR boat number so-and-so 500 meters ahead port side.”
“What are you, all drunk out there? Eduard, our TR should be shooting the shit out of the enemies of the Revolution for 2 hours straight already in Motovsky Bay.”
“Dunno,” I reply, “but I have a suspicion the enemies are loitering around the bay with their shit intact, because I still observe the TR boat 500 meters port side flailing at me with the whole crew’s undies..”
“Wait, are you serious?”
I offendedly breath into the receiver. Do I look like a comic or something to you?..
“Eduard, can you contact them?”
“Exactly how, dare I ask? They don’t respond over the radio and our sub doesn’t have a single Jesus to walk on water.”
“Okay, coming.”
So he ran over. Now he’s running around the helipad and shouting:
“FUUUUCK! THAT’S OUR TORPEDO RETRIEVERRRR!”
Well what do you think I told you?
“Fuuuck, so much for a peaceful watch!”
Well, I for one gonna drill a hole for the new medal no less. Of course the TR boat was soon towed back, then the usual stuff: ambulances, fire trucks, HQ brass, MPs. Gathered everyone and started <s>fucking</s> investigating. Well you can easily guess the root cause:  the diesel engine got really offended with the shit they’ve given it instead of fuel. It’s a dumb piece of iron and isn’t taught to complete mission because the order tells it so. Same goes for the rest of the equipment.
As for the enemies of the Revolution, they came by later too. Clawing at our hull and asking about our total negligence and what about the shooting the shit out of them part.    No one replied to them, of course. We’re not allowed to anyway.