Kirov (45 page)

There
is an unwritten law among men who go to sea that binds each one in a silent
kinship. The essence of it is that they live or die at the whim of a force
greater than any man can sound or fathom, and that a man alone in the water was
every man among them in his place.

 Watching
that last man slip beneath smoky green-gray waves and die took the fire and
light of battle out of the eyes of the young
mishman
on the bridge. It
was a perceptible shift in the tone of the emotion they shared, and a sullen
silence came over them, perhaps as each one realized now that they had made a
mortal enemy of the two single powers that mutually ruled these seas, and that
from this point forward, their lot was to fight for their very survival, or to
die like the men they had seen on the video screen. And slowly, one by one,
they drifted away, back to their posts, keeping the last of their thoughts to
themselves the way a man keeps the review of each day he lives in the quiet
minutes before sleep takes him. Orlov noticed it, felt it as well, yet his only
way of understanding it was to channel the emotion into derisive anger.

“Those stupid bastards,” he said. “What did they think
they were doing launching those planes at us? What did they think we were
supposed to do, sit here and let them come in on us and put
our
balls in
the sea? No. They got what they damn well deserved, and I hope to god they
learned from it.”

The men glanced his way warily as he spoke, but no one
said anything, the echo of Fedorov’s warning still in their minds. It was not
as Orlov had told it, they knew. The Americans had no intention of attacking.
They were unarmed. They had no idea
Kirov
was even there, and not one of
them ever laid eyes on the enemy that had struck them down; butchered them with
weapons and capabilities they could not begin to comprehend. Somewhere in that
train of thought was a ripening seed of guilt, and each man sat with it, dealt
with it in his own way.

For Karpov, it was his to retreat to the silence of
command. With Orlov at his side, no one questioned him. So his mind was already
leaping past any notion of recrimination and on to the next evolution of his
maneuver to the south. Yes, he would have to explain his actions to the
Admiral, but he could claim, and justifiably so, that the Americans had struck
the first blow in launching those planes, just as Orlov had said.

Why was the engine room taking so long on the reactor
cooling problem, he wondered? The ship had been making no more than ten knots
throughout the whole engagement. He wanted to put on speed, and cruise south to
get into the most favorable position for the confrontation he knew was only a
matter of days and nautical miles ahead of them now. What was done, was done.
He would live with it and waste no time brooding over his fallen enemy.

Karpov knew he had taken a risk here. It was a feeling
that had come to him many times before when he had finally set his schemes and
plans in motion against a potential rival, because he knew he might fail. The
Americans were just another rung on the ladder he saw himself climbing, that
was all. Tomorrow was another day, and anything could happen. A man could never
be too careful, or too daring, he thought. Which would it be for him?

He had been careful most of his life. Careful planning,
patience and a lot of quiet suffering had brought him to this place. Now he had
finally done something daring, and he felt strangely light headed as he looked
at the battle damage assessment feed. This must be something akin to what Orlov
felt just after he punched a man in the face, he thought. It was a heady,
self-satisfied feeling of power. Somehow it quenched the smell of shame that
had dogged him all these many years, and it made him feel just a little bigger
than he was before.

Now he focused his thoughts on his munitions inventory,
and turned to Samsonov, asking him for an update.

“Sir, we have fired a total of 12 Moskit-IIs, 28 remain
in inventory. We have fired 16 S-300 SAMS, leaving a total of 48. We have fired
32 Klinok/Gauntlet SAMs, and 96 remain. Our Gatling guns have expended 5% of
available rounds. Our forward 100 millimeter cannon has expended six of one
thousand rounds. The 152 millimeter batteries and torpedoes are at full load,
as are the auxiliary ship-to-ship missiles.”

The Captain rubbed his hands together. Aside from his
Moskit anti-ship missiles, and the S-300s his inventory was near full, and not
one of the better 152mm deck guns had come into play as yet. He also had two more
SSM missile systems aboard, with ten missiles each.

“Did we receive additional missiles for the MOS-III
Starfires? And what about the cruise missiles?”

“No sir, neither of those weapon systems were scheduled
for test firing, and so they were not replenished. But we still have our
standard load of ten missiles for each of those two systems.”

Karpov thought about this in silence. Adding in those
last two weapons, he now had a total of 48 missiles capable of targeting and
hurting an enemy ship. His two primary air defense systems were still well
provisioned, but he would have to be economical in using his ship killers in
the days ahead. There was one other point he wanted to check.

“And what about our special warheads?”

Samsonov looked at him. “I’m sorry sir, that information
is not on my board. Only the Admiral is aware of our status for special
warheads on deployment.”

Correct, thought Karpov, and the Admiral will have a key
around his neck even as I have one around mine. “Thank you, Mister Samsonov,”
he said calmly.

His problem now was that it would require
both
keys, inserted into Samsonov’s Combat Information Display, to activate and fire
a nuclear warhead, at least if the default protocols were in place. If he wanted
to get his hands on that other key, now was the time to do it, while the
Admiral was indisposed. But how to present this in a way that would not cause
undo trouble with the crew? He knew their love and respect for Admiral Volsky
could become an insurmountable obstacle if it came to a confrontation over the
issue.

He considered his situation deeply. Orlov was with him
for the moment. Orlov loved a good bar fight, and he understood all too well
the effect of direct and bold action when it came to dealing with a problem. The
problem was not Orlov, he thought, it’s me! I’m the one still a little weak in
the knee over what I have just done, still a little worried at what the Admiral
might say and do when he learns of this.

He took comfort in the thought that Orlov seemed to back
his decisions, but would the fiery Chief waffle and recede into the background
should Volsky return to the bridge? What about the other officers? Rodenko
would answer to whomever held the watch on the main bridge. He thought he might
be able to rely on Samsonov, but clearly Fedorov was a weak sister, and Tasarov
seemed lost, as always, beneath his headphones, his mind in the depths of the
sea and concerned with little else. But what were they really thinking? A bit
of the old doubt and fear that had always bothered him in times of trouble like
this reasserted itself. But what was done, was done.

What was the Admiral’s status? How much time did he have
before Volsky would be back on his feet? Could he reason with the Admiral; explain
the situation to him properly? Could he force him to see the opportunity they
now had before them? He could insist on the use of nuclear weapons all he
wanted, but what if the Admiral refused?

Karpov was still frustrated and troubled. Yes, it felt
good to sit in the Captain’s chair just now, without Volsky’s shadow over him,
contradicting him, lashing him with one question after another. But all of this
was risky. He felt the awkward glare of the overhead lights on him now,
flinching. When in battle, the bridge was folded in shadows, with only the red
gleam of the battle station lighting on, blood red lights that pulsed with
warning, and yet seemed a comfort to him.

His mind wandered over the many possibilities ahead of
him now. What if the Admiral were permanently disabled? As First Captain of the
ship he would then be senior officer. There were two other Captains aboard, as
both Doctor Zolkin and Orlov technically held the rank of Captain, though they
were both of the second and third rating, and below him in the chain of
command. Orlov was presently designated Chief of Operations. Karpov could
declare an emergency and appoint Orlov as his
Starpom
, his number one, bypassing
Zolkin easily enough. The other Lieutenants, of every rank and stripe, would
have no choice but to fall in line. If necessary, he could call on Sergeant
Troyak and his Marine detachment to impose his will. Yet if it came to a
contest of authority with the Admiral, what would Troyak do? Volsky was not
just any admiral, he was Admiral of the Fleet, one big star and four stripes
above Karpov’s present rank as First Captain.

He decided he needed to get below decks for a while and
take the measure of the ship and crew. Like a mouse stealing out into a dark,
drafty house, he needed to skulk about a bit to size up his prospects. He knew
where the cheese was. Could he get to it this time? He wanted to check on
engineering first, then visit the Doctor to see about Volsky. On the way back
he would have a brief chat with Troyak as well.

Chapter
27

August
6, 1941

The
American Task Force 16
was steaming south with the four transports out in front this time, followed by
the larger escorts which hoped to screen the cargo ships from any further
attack. Behind them,
Kirov
crept slowly south in their wake, like a lone
wolf tracking a herd of water buffalo. Along the way she sailed right over the
seas where
Wasp
had burned and sank, along with
Vincennes
and
Walke
.
Many of the crew were out on the main sea deck, leaning over the railings and
peering out of hatches to look at the flotsam and dark slicks of burning oil
there. Bodies still floated in the water, some having drifted out of the stricken
ships below, a macabre scene that left the living in a sullen silence, tinged
with a measure of guilt. For many it was their first real combat action, and
their first personal glimpse of the consequences of war.

200
miles to the southeast, Admiral Tovey had been joined by the cruisers of Force
P and Vian’s Force K. Wake-Walker was aboard
Suffolk
, with
Devonshire
at his side winking out his arrival on the ship’s lanterns. His two cruisers
and five of his eight destroyers had refueled in Reykjavík and were ready for
action. The two carriers had been sent home to Scapa Flow with an escort of
three destroyers. Vian’s cruisers,
Nigeria
and
Aurora
had rendezvoused
with an oiler just south of Iceland and topped off what they could before
hurrying south to join the party. After these ships finally arrived, Tovey
turned south, steaming out to pick up one more lost sheep, the
Prince of
Wales.
When the watchmen saw her on radar, and the lookouts finally spotted
her looming dead ahead, the Admiral sighed with relief.

“Well,
it’s beginning to feel like I’ve a fleet to command here after all,” he said to
Brind. Now he had two good battleships, along with
Repulse
, wounded but
still battle worthy. The addition of four cruisers enabled him to screen these
ships, and he then placed his five destroyers further out, as a picket line
against U-boats and a means of sending him early warning if the German raider
launched those infernal rockets again. They were now dead in the middle of the
North Atlantic, half way between Ireland and Newfoundland.

Some
500 miles south of him, Admiral Somerville was out in Force H with another
sizable battle group. Tovey planned to link up with him in two days time, just
off the tip of Newfoundland. He would add the battleship
Nelson
,
battlecruiser
Renown
, four more cruisers and the veteran carrier
Ark
Royal
to the cards he could play. Together this would be the largest battle
fleet England had assembled in any one place since Jutland in the First World
War. Then, once he had the Prime Minister safely ashore, he would turn north
and settle accounts with the Germans.

“Let
them try to fling their fireworks at the whole of the Royal Navy,” he said, his
spirits renewed and the light of battle in his eyes.

“The
Americans will be there as well, sir,” said Brind. “Admiralty reports that
their Admiral King has ordered the Atlantic Fleet to full battle readiness. They’ve
even put out word to summon another aircraft carrier, the
Yorktown
, and
the battleship
Texas
from their maneuvers in the Caribbean. It will give
them damn near as many heavy ships and cruisers as we’ll have, sir.”

Tovey
smiled. “Think of it, Brind. The Prime Minister is set to make his pitch to
Roosevelt in the hopes of getting the Yanks in on our side. Then Jerry comes
along with
Graf Zeppelin
and sticks his thumb in the pie! Can’t you see
it now? Imagine both our fleets steaming shoulder to shoulder in the mightiest
armada the world has ever seen. This business with
Graf Zeppelin
is the
least of it, a mere nuisance. The main thing will be the photos of this grand
Allied fleet scouring the seas, delivering just retribution on our enemies. It
will give Herr Hitler fits, and let him know just exactly who he is trifling
with now. We’re not alone any longer. This is going to change everything.”