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The bus driver, with eyes bulging, motioned for them to sit. They sat on a bench seat across from the driver and immediately began to nod off. They were totally exhausted. The other passengers stared in disbelief, while holding their noses. They mumbled disparagingly in Russian about this sorry cluster of humanity. It truly was a once-in-a-lifetime sight.

The bus made frequent stops. At each stop, the Whormkovdovskivichykchevs rocked forward, then backward—but remained sound asleep.

The number of passengers dwindled, until only the four scruffy Gubxermnians remained. After a steep downhill low-gear ride, the driver brought the bus to an exceptionally rough stop, and opened and shut the door a couple of times. It was the final stop. The Whormkovdovskivichykchevs did not stir. The driver got up out of the driver’s seat, and cautiously shook Ruddy’s shoulder. Some crustaceans fell from Ruddy’s hair. The driver quickly withdrew his hand. Ruddy stirred and awoke with a slight jerk, which caused some dried beans to fall from his beard.

The driver motioned for them to get off the bus. Not a word was uttered, as they gathered their pitiful belongings and left the bus. The bus turned around and left them standing in the drizzle.

Ruddy surveyed the situation. They were in a place with a lot of small wooden buildings all crowded together, bordering a dark street. There was a strange, smoky smell. A couple of dreary street lamps failed to sufficiently light the area. The street was very narrow and seemed to end about a block away. Beyond that, Ruddy thought he could see water: a massive body of water that stretched to the dark horizon.

Ruddy led the family to a nearby doorway. This got them out of the rain. They huddled together tightly, caulked together by the crud that covered them. They quickly escaped their misery, as they fell into the deep sleep that consumed them earlier on their bus ride.

They were awakened an hour into their anesthesia by little Butty’s wake-up call: “Gelovdj akmnecofd hq xojkm akkncdfo hqojknm.” (“Come, we go now. Come, go, we hurry.”) Ruddy and Layzee were not happy. Even baby Swetty protested,” Yeea yep yep yee yeeah!” But they remembered what happened the last time they didn’t listen to the little Captain.

Butty, holding Ruddy’s hand, led them down the dark, drizzly street as fast as his little legs could go. Ruddy now saw what was at the end of the street: water you could not see across, with many big, dark shapes afloat, some of which were docked next to large steel structures.

The area was lit much better. There was a very wide road of concrete that paralleled the shore, with many stacks of big boxes, and many big machines, mostly parked in orderly rows. The sight intimidated Ruddy. Butty, however, kept them in the shadows, as he led them on a path parallel to the shore. The area seemed deserted, except for brightly lit little shacks every 100 yards or so. The shacks were almost all glass, with one or two men inside. The men were neatly dressed, all alike, with white steel hats and something ominous slung on their shoulders. A platform extended from the shacks to large, dark shapes parked in the water.

Ruddy and Layzee were beginning to feel foolish following their little four-year-old firstborn into such a complicated and scary situation. However, Butty led on and they followed, moving cautiously from shadow to shadow.

Butty stopped suddenly and turned the family toward an isolated glass shack almost at the end of the wide concrete complex. Ruddy and Layzee were hesitant. Butty silently tugged them. As they came out of the shadows, Ruddy noticed there were three men in the shack, all with those ominous things slung on their shoulders. The family followed Butty behind a large stack of boxes about 30 yards from the shack. They waited about 15 minutes. Two of the men left the shack and took a walk. The family waited in dead silence for another 15 minutes, waiting for the little Captain’s orders. The remaining man in the shack was now sitting. He was drinking from a bottle. It looked like water. He was thirsty—real thirsty. Soon he was tired. His head fell forward. The sling slipped off his shoulder. They heard the clank of steel on the concrete as it fell to the floor. He didn’t stir. He was out cold. Butty was tugging, and they followed. Ruddy thought to himself, “Vkjnojo dssewb sxkx dtjp?” (“Are we fools?”) But they continued to rush in. “Dmqu chvvk aytgx pj?” (“What are we rushing into?”) Ruddy wondered. They silently passed the shack. The bowed head was still bowed. His bottle of “water” was spilled in his lap.

At the end of the platform on which they tiptoed furtively was a long, pointy, dark shape. It was huge, many times larger than their “boxcar.” It wallowed quietly in the black water. They dared not to speak. Ruddy and Layzee were terrified. Everything before them was an unknown. There was a tall column in the middle of the long, pointy shape. At the bottom of the tall column there was an opening from which a muted red glow emanated. Butty led the way up the gangplank and onto this strange thing. It was very, very long and kind of…Ruddy whispered, “Xaovtndov jzchqevjv dpxppmsh yzndirk xng.” (“Round and pointy like a big turd.”) Layzee managed a nervous smile. They followed Butty into the red glow and down a long, steel ladder, which presented quite a challenge, with Ruddy’s big burlap bag and Layzee’s overstuffed satchel, and little Swetty swinging contentedly from Mom’s left tit. As they made their strenuous descent, they could hear raucous laughter in the forward section of the thing, followed by loud singing in the strange language (Russian) they had heard from the beasts. It was a birthday song for their Captain: “Happy birthday, dear Captain Cherybuoyska….” in a very slurred Russian.

The Whormkovdovskivichykchevs had no idea what was going on, except that the voices sounded happy and maybe “jvavotcrkd” (“crazy”). The merriment covered up any sounds Ruddy and family (Swetty got the hiccups) may have made descending the steel ladder. They were sweating and panting when they finally stepped on the steel floor. Butty gave them no time to catch their breath as he quickly headed down a long hall in the opposite direction of the lively party. Butty passed a dozen doorways before he selected one at the end of the hallway. They entered the room and gently closed the door behind them. The room was small. There were four bunks hanging from facing walls, many mysterious pipes and cables crisscrossing the ceiling and walls, and there was a small sink with a faucet that barely dribbled. A switch next to the door turned on the only light: a dim, very ugly fluorescent, recessed in the ceiling. Ruddy was a little taken aback by the room: “Cshevv mqdxor gcbuyj hnn dnvut.” (“Room with many guts show.”)

They flopped on the lower bunks, Ruddy with the snuggling Butty in one, while Layzee, cradling the human leech, leaned back in the other.

Sleep came immediately. It had been a long night, from the boxcar to this room with “guts.” Ruddy and Layzee were too beat to discuss just how absurd, how unbelievable all this was. Ruddy slid into a deep, near-death sleep. He heard the distant strains of what they had heard that night months ago in their little log-and-mud home, “Ain’t that a shame….” It was a sound-only dream.

Ruddy woke up with a start. There were strange sounds, whistles, horns, a repetitious beeping and a very serious, deep voice precisely repeating the same words over and over. They had no way of knowing how long they had slept. They couldn’t see out. Was it still night or was it daylight? Layzee stood up and nearly fell. They were moving. Their little room was rocking back and forth, the same way their train did when it was rolling at full speed. Ruddy wondered, “Gdy Lnbbjv nfpssz cfltjdk hfi kvewj?” (“Did Butty lead us into the belly of a whale?”)

Layzee borrowed Ruddy’s knife and opened a can of beans, and they ate voraciously for the first time in more than 24 hours. Ruddy and Layzee’s teeth were black, bordered by a thick green plaque. In Gubxermn, goat jerky kept the teeth white and the gums healthy. They ran out of goat jerky early in the journey. They emptied the 32-ounce can of beans in less than a minute. Butty made a hasty announcement: “Xbdj ldujujo dmka cux ym.” (“I have hurry to poop.”) Ruddy quickly scanned the small space: the floor was steel; he couldn’t make a slit trench like he did in the boxcar; there were no windows to throw it out; they couldn’t just poop and pee in a corner on the floor—with the way the room was rocking it would roll all over the place. Butty was touching cloth. He saw the puzzled look on Ruddy’s face, and then he had a brilliant idea. Butty grabbed the empty bean can and squatted over the three-and-a-half-inch diameter opening. Bullseye. Butty’s perfectly aimed bomb rattled the tin can on the steel floor. Ruddy was very impressed: “Azjtoxx tjgwp wqw hnvco gf, yttn dwsxv ydxzcpg vjj krto kxwnh ftlji.” (“Our little Captain has found the answer. We will poop and pee in the empty bean cans.”)

There was much activity beyond their walls. They listened uneasily to people scurrying about, shouting angrily, and slamming heavy steel doors; and there was a constant purr accompanied by a disturbing vibration. Ruddy was able to loosely judge the length of a day by the repetition of horns and loud announcements which seemed to be the same at the beginning of all the activity, probably every 24 hours, he guessed.

For eight days (Ruddy’s crude estimate was close) the Whormkovdovskivichykchevs sat and listened and tried to picture what was going on outside their big steel door. Each day they ate, with filthy fingers, one 32-ounce can of beans, and tried to catch a sip of water from the pathetic, drizzly faucet. They pooped and peed in the empty bean cans. Ruddy figured three poops and three pees per can. He tamped down over-filled cans with what was left of his goatskin boots.

Some of the days they ate two cans of beans to get more can space for their droppings. Ruddy reached into his big burlap sack and grabbed a bunch of paper for the family to wipe on. It was a healthy wad of US thousand dollar bills. Little Butty got a kick out of it—“Xgir nhdoee tlkyj ezmq,” (“Look, I dirty man make face poop,”)—with all due respect to Grover Cleveland. Layzee scraped the worst off little Swetty with several bills folded together. Mom used them like a putty knife. Swetty didn’t complain. Ruddy layered their movements in the cans with used thousand dollar bills. It was all very orderly. However, after just two days of can pooping, the smell became horrendous. It made their eyes water; and as the stockpile of poop-packed cans grew day by day, the resulting methane gas affected their equilibrium. Ruddy lost his balance while squatting over a can and made quite a disgusting mess. The methane gas presented an extremely dangerous situation. A spark would have blown the Whormkovdovskivichykchevs to bits, along with the whole “big thing” and all the strange-talking people.

The million megaton smell from the festering poop cans began to filter out of the Whormkovdovskivichykchevs’ room through the vent system. The Russian sailors started to blame each other. Some fights broke out. Morale suffered. (But no one person could fart that bad!)

Finally, Captain Cherybuoyski, nearly gagging over the intercom, ordered an immediate ship-wide search. “I want to get to the bottom of this,” he said, trying to infuse a little levity (in Russian). An anonymous sailor from somewhere out of the captain’s view one-upped the pun with “It’s a shitty situation” (also in Russian).

It didn’t take long to close in on the nucleus of the wretched stink.

Seven elite Russian submariners armed with pistols stood ready outside the door. Captain Cherybuoyski arrived with a master key.

Inside, the Whormkovdovskivichykchevs huddled tightly in the middle of the tiny room, expecting the worst. They had turned off the light. It was dark except for a dull tan glow that emanated from behind them from the poop cans corner. The cans were bubbling over onto one another, threatening to cause a chain reaction. The room was beastly hot. The smell was so bad it had become a squall, swirling around them. They could feel it ruffling their tattered clothing and coating their sweaty faces with fecal flakes.

They heard the key turn the dead bolt, and the door was pulled open. The gush of putrid poop gas blew the Captain’s hat off and caused two of the elite submariners to puke. The stream of light from the hallway spotlighted the huddled, mangy family. The sight was other worldly. Three sailors ran away down the corridor. One sailor that stayed shot himself in the foot. The Captain froze.

Ruddy, after four seconds of standstill silence, said, “Usxpqa Rwoczzk almnm rxolqzo.” (“USA rock roll we and go.”)

Captain Cherybuoyski, for a moment, entertained the thought they had somehow come from the Mariana Trench, which the submarine was above at the time (by six miles). The Captain chastised himself with “No, that’s fucking nuts” (in Russian).

The Captain moved cautiously to Ruddy and Layzee and clasped their sticky hands. Captain Cherybuoyski winced as he shook Ruddy’s hand. “Holy shit, he’s got a grip like a gorilla.” He then noticed that the filthy, raggedy young woman held a tiny ragamuffin to her silty tit. One of the other sailors lifted up Butty, and a hard turd rolled out of the little guy’s pants leg.

For six straight days all hands took their turn. It was a major cleanup for the crew of the St. Petersburg, the most sophisticated, most powerful nuclear submarine the Russian Republic had ever put to sea. It kept a very low profile wherever in the oceans of the world it glided. How did little Butty know?

Ruddy’s cleanup had become a hot topic among the crew. Those involved said his beard weighed 15 pounds. They found a nest of mice in it, surviving on stray beans and boogers. The shower crew wore their chemical warfare suits. They said Ruddy had dingleberries the size of golf balls. Ruddy was shaved and showered over and over until he was squeaky clean. His teeth were power washed by ship’s maintenance. Layzee and the children were tended to by three lady sailors wearing large rubber aprons. They had to soak Layzee three days. It was quite a sight to see, with Swetty refusing to let go, floating in a tub full of suds, tit-tethered to her mother.

They all were issued new clean clothes. Russian navy issue. They felt good. The food was strange to them, but delicious. They ate like there was no tomorrow.

Trying to interrogate the family was ridiculous. The Captain and his aides and the computers tried every language known to man, and all they could get out of Ruddy and Layzee was “Usqov rwococmk ankjoxc vzxoxzeolo.” (“US roll we of A go.”) Ruddy tried very hard to give the Captain what he wanted, but it was futile.

The Whormkovdovskivichykchevs, in turn, learned they were in a submarine, many hundreds of feet underwater. They learned where the toilets were and how to use them. (Ruddy still preferred a slit trench, if given a choice.) They watched color television every night with the crew, but there was no “Ain’t that a shame….” Ruddy tried to explain his quest to crew members, but they could not comprehend his passion.
CHAPTER SIX

The sweetest Russian

The Captain had a problem. He knew he was in deep shit with these people on his hands. If it was reported that they had walked onto the most dangerous, most secret weapon in the Russian arsenal unnoticed and took up residence from Nakhodka to the Philippine Sea in a room 20 feet from the most sophisticated nuclear reactor ever devised, Cherybuoyski’s ass would be hung out to dry. The Captain visibly shook when he suddenly realized they could have found access to buttons and keys that are capable of destroying half the world: “Oh, shit!” (in Russian).

Captain Cherybuoyski shared his concerns with his executive officer, Lieutenant Yuren Mushkarkus. The two veteran officers conferred in hushed tones (in Russian). The details of how the family got on board had been mostly treated as top secret. The crew knew they were on board, of course, but only the captain and his top aides knew the scary way they got on board.

Lieutenant Mushkarkus had an idea. “Ruddy, the father, kept repeating over and over in a very mumbo-jumbo way that they’re on their way to the USA. It was a bunch of gibberish, but going to the USA kept coming up—”

The captain interrupted, “Yeah, so what?”

The lieutenant continued, “We could deliver them, like we rescued them or—”

“No, no, no!” the captain gasped. “If we get within 200 miles of the US, we’ll be on TV.”

A pregnant pause.

The captain leaned forward: “However, I’ve got a thought. Are there any US subs in our vicinity?” The lieutenant went to the computer. The captain smiled. “It’s a wild idea, but it just—”

The lieutenant interrupted. “Sir, there’s five in our vicinity.”

The captain sat up straight. “Lay ’em on me.”

The lieutenant read from the computer. “The closest is the USS Peoria, heading south out of the East China Sea.”

“Who is the commander?” the captain asked.

The lieutenant quickly replied, “Captain Hardley Sweeterhayd.”

“Don’t know him. Go on.”

“The USS Deadwood, heading south from Balikpapan, Borneo.”

“Hell, I know where Balikpapan is. Who’s the captain?”

“Captain Bacon Tnm.”

“No. Next.”

“The USS Road Apple. They’re just south of Iwo Jima, heading west, commanded by Captain Nomore Knubcupper.”

“Hmm, I’ve heard of him, but I don’t know him. Anybody else?”

“Yessir. Two more. The USS Show Low. A new boat. Commanded by Captain Torchy Bellikil. They’re heading east into the Java Sea.”

“Torchy?”

“First woman submariner to be awarded the Navy Cross.”

“I’m happy for her. What else you got?”

“One more, for now. But I can dig deeper.”

“Naw, screw it. It was probably a dumb idea. Let’s see the last one.”

“The USS Hoboken, heading west. They’re just north of Wake Island.”

“Holy shit!” Captain Cherybuoyski jumped up, knocking over his glass of cabbage juice. “That’s fucking fantastic. That’s Jab Nad’s ship, and he owes me. I pulled his fish out of the mud off New Guinea a few years ago. He had a little drinking problem. Get him on a secure line. I don’t want anyone listening in on this one.”

The call went through quickly. It was video call. Cherybuoyski saw the stocky redheaded Yank pop onto the 40-inch high-definition screen. In English, Captain Cherybuoyski greeted the Yank in his most friendly tone.

“Hi, Jab. How they hangin’?”

Jab laughed. “Cherry, it’s good to see you. You’re not stuck in that old trench, are ya?” They both laughed heartily. Captain Cherybuoyski explained his very complicated situation and how he would love to see this pathetic family “reach America.”

Jab replied, “Why, Cherry, you’re the nicest, or I should say the sweetest Russian I know.”

The Russian captain became serious. “C’mon, Jab. I’m wading in some mighty deep dung here.”

Jab adopted a serious, commander-like attitude: “Captain, my man here has already worked it out. We will meet up 25 miles dead west of Guam. You will receive exact coordinates in 30 minutes. ETA, 48 hours from—check your watch—0900. Check. Okay. We will prepare for a jet-powered rubber raft transfer. Bring me a jug of your mom’s cabbage juice, Cherry.”

Captain Cherybuoyski replied, now in Russian, “Thank you, my dear friend. You’re saving my ass.” Jab sent a kiss goodbye and the screen went black.

Forty-eight hours later, at 0900, both subs surfaced, like two blue whales about to mate. They were exactly on the schedule, 100 yards apart, 25 miles dead west of Guam.

It was a bright, breezy morning in the Philippine Sea. The two subs slowly edged closer together, starboard to port. When they reached 30 yards apart, Ruddy and family appeared on the deck of the St. Petersburg. The raft was lowered into the water. Captain Cherybuoyski and three crewmen carefully helped the family into the rolling raft. All would accompany the Whormkovdovskivichykchevs to the USS Hoboken. Cherry was taking no chances. The raft, powered by jets, made the crossing smartly. Six of the Hoboken crew were waiting. They quickly and carefully brought the family on deck, along with their odd baggage. Jab was there to greet Ruddy, Layzee and Butty, and to give a little pat on Swetty’s noggin’. Captain Jab quickly jerked his hand back when he realized that Swetty was nursing. They were each given a small American flag and hustled below.

Captain Jab welcomed Captain Cherybuoyski on board. They saluted, then hugged and kissed, Russian style. Cherry had brought the cabbage juice with him. Jab invited him in for a “short snort,” but Cherry said, “Thanks, old friend, but I must hustle my ass back and get over to the Indian Ocean.”

Jab smiled. “Ah, yes, it’s beautiful this time of the year.”

Captain Cherybuoyski handed Jab all the info they could get out of the Whormkovdovskivichykchevs. “It’s not much, Jab. I really feel sorry for the poor boogers.”

Jab helped Cherry back into the raft. “Don’t worry, Cherry. We’ll take good care of them.” The two captains saluted farewell. Jab and crew waited until the raft reached the St. Petersburg and all was secure. There was a salute and a loud cheer from both crews, and down the hatches they went. Both subs disappeared in a matter of seconds.

Now, the Whormkovdovskivichykchevs were Captain Jab Nad’s problem.

After the Hoboken was underway, Captain Nads wasted no time. The mess served the family a hearty lunch of hamburgers, french fries, fruit juice and chocolate sundaes. Butty asked, “Hjw bbfhw xyzztmhu kwts?” (“Any have beans you?”) Otherwise, they were very impressed with their first USA meal.

The Whormkovdovskivichykchevs were bunked in a room similar in size to their accommodations on the St. Petersburg. These quarters, however, had a bathroom with a sink with faucets that gushed with clean water, and their own shower and a toilet (Butty thought the bean cans were more fun). Captain Nads wanted them to be really comfortable: “I sure as hell don’t want one of them wandering into the nuke room looking for the pooper.”

They replaced their Russian Navy-issue clothes with US Navy stylings.

Ensign Margot Frostacelli was assigned to Layzee and Swetty, to make sure mother and baby were treated with extra-special care.

In the captain’s quarters, Jab Nads sat with his trusted command, plus some exceptional junior-grade officers and seaman the captain had personally selected. They were all seated at a table strewn with documents containing Cherybuoyski’s info on the Whormkovdovskivichykchevs (which was a lot of gibberish, except for the mangled references to the US).

Jab was thinking out loud. “We’ve got 33 days before we reach port of call. We have to keep these folks busy or they will go goofy—”

Ensign Margot interrupted. “Sir, I’ll make sure they keep their quarters squared away every day—”

The old Chief Warrant Officer Krankschaftud cut in, “Well, gee whiz, that’ll kill about ten minutes.”

Seaman Newter Kolcoky, from the officers’ mess, raised his hand. “Well, sir, we still have a bag of toys left from Operation Santa last Christmas for the little boy—I mean Butty. And the Sudan kids preferred our burritos.”

Captain Jab went for the idea. “Newter, dish him one or two every day or so. Keep him interested. Handle it. You’re in charge.” Checking off his list, Jab made a note: “Seaman Newter Kolcoky: toys.”

Newter beamed. “Aye, aye, sir.” Newter poured a cup of coffee for Lieutenant Bobby Aguascalientes, who scratched his beard and started to build an idea, “Y’know, the language thing is one hell of a problem. According to the Russians, these folks speak a language not known to the civilized world. So, instead of trying to figure out what they’re saying, why don’t we teach them English?”