Kirov (52 page)

Volsky
sighed. “I suppose you are right. I do feel much myself now. Thank you,
Dmitri.”

“And
Admiral…Should you need an ally, you know you can count on me. I was not
kidding when I told Karpov it was mine to certify the health and fitness of any
man aboard—be it physical or mental health. If Karpov becomes a problem…”

Volsky
nodded silently. “Let us hope that he does not,” he said quietly.

~
~ ~

Trouble
was brewing on the cold grey
swells of the sea. Rodenko had a KA-40 up earlier to keep watch on the American
task force withdrawing to the south. The ships turned southwest on a heading of
230 degrees, a course that would bring it round the cape of Newfoundland, and
Orlov had carried out Karpov’s instructions, following on a parallel course to
the north. Earlier, they had spotted a single aircraft on radar, tracking out
from Newfoundland, and the Chief let it be. He did not want to bring the ship
to action stations again and fire off a SAM for this one plane, or so he
reasoned it. And all the better if it would keep the Admiral from trying to
return to the bridge.

Now
that Karpov was here, Orlov was glad to hand over the watch. Orlov loved to
second orders, but was a bit unsure of himself when it came to tactics in a
battle situation at sea. If anything happened, he would rely on Samsonov, but
Karpov was Captain for a reason. He knew what he was about, when to turn, when
to shoot, how fast to go.

The
Captain took stock of the situation and increased to 30 knots, his heart racing
with the ship’s engines. How long before Volsky tried the door? When would the
next stupid seaman slink off to sick bay to shirk his duty and find the hatch
sealed? How much time did he have? A voice warned him again, plaintive and
fearful, the squeak of the mouse within—he could still back out of this. He
could rush below, pretend to discover the lock on the door and blame it on an
unseen conspirator. He could launch the investigation himself, pretending to be
Volsky’s friend and loyal ally all along. Only Orlov knew more, and the Chief
would keep his mouth shut, wouldn’t he? He could deny the entire conversation
with Martinov, or get to him first with a threat to make him pay dearly if he
opened his mouth. How much time did he have?

 Rodenko’s
voice reporting a new contact jangled his nerves, snapping him back to the
moment at hand. Search radar reported what looked like another storm front on
the horizon to the south. There were many ship contacts, all arrayed in a
number of surface action groups, a storm of steel slowly moving north towards
their position.

“How
many ships?” Karpov asked quickly.

“Seven
ships here in the American Task force that has been withdrawing, but they have
turned now, Captain. They are now heading north. Then I count eight more ships
here—the signal returns are smaller, weaker. I think these are destroyers like
the one we encountered off Jan Mayen. Over here, another eight ships, a mixed
force, most likely the British, and I think heavy units are present—most likely
the ships we fired on earlier.”

“They
are setting up a picket line and they plan to sweep north and catch us like a
fish in a net.” Karpov’s mind worked quickly. “Fedorov, can you confirm what
these ships might be?”

There
was no answer, and Orlov spoke. “You sent Fedorov below, Captain. Tovarich is at
navigation.”

“Of
course.” Karpov rubbed his chin.

“How
far away are these ships?” The Captain turned to his radar station where
Rodenko was busy monitoring his screens.

“150
to 200 kilometers, sir,” said Rodenko. “The number one group is a little closer,
small contacts, probably American destroyers.

“They
are all moving north?”

“Yes,
sir.”

Orlov
looked at him, his eyebrows raised, waiting on a decision from the Captain.
Karpov seemed edgy, nervous, like a bow string that had been pulled back too
far. The strain was obviously getting to him as well. The Captain looked
exhausted now as he looked at Orlov.

“Your
thoughts, Mister Orlov?” He said that just loud enough for the bulk of the
bridge crew to hear him, as if he wanted a second voice to back him now in the
decision that was percolating to a boil in his mind. It was mere theater, Orlov
knew. The Captain knew what he wanted to do, what he had been planning to do
all along. He was just covering his tracks, that was all.

“They
are out in force today, Captain. And I think they are coming for us. At the moment
we are cruising straight for the coast of Newfoundland. If they sweep up north
they will herd us into the Sea of Labrador, and I think we both know there is
no northwest passage.”

“We
are not going to be swept anywhere we do not intend to go,” said Karpov
derisively.

At
that moment the motley Tasarov shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He stiffened,
his eyes opening wide, listening intently on his sonar headphones as if he
could not believe what he was hearing.

“Con,
sonar—
torpedo in the water!”

Karpov
spun about, anger and shock on his face. “Where?”

“Bearing…
zero-nine-five and closing!”

“Battle
stations! Helm ahead full! Port thirty!” Karpov immediately shouted out an
order for evasive maneuvers.

“Ready
on countermeasures,” said Tasarov.

“Fire
now!” There was a strident edge to Karpov’s voice, and obvious fear. The alarm
blared three sharp blasts for ASW operations as Orlov ran to the forward view screen,
eyes straining through the haze to try and locate the torpedo wake. He could
not see it, so the torpedo was not yet close.

“Shkval!”
Karpov shouted. He was referring
to the lethal VA-111
Shkval
or Squall, a high speed, super-cavitating
underwater rocket that had both active sonar and wake homing capabilities. It
would eject from the ship’s side and seek out the incoming torpedo at speeds of
over 200 knots if necessary.

“Firing
now,” said Tasarov.

“Go
to active sonar, you idiot,” the Captain said sharply. “How could you let a sub
get this close?”

“I’m
sorry, sir. It must have just been hovering beneath a thermal layer. I had
nothing on my passive sonar. Nothing at all.”

“Find
me this submarine!” Karpov pointed a finger at him.

“Aye
sir!”

Tasarov
was working his board feverishly, but the
Shkval
found the incoming
torpedo first. It kept one eye on the home ship, and another on the incoming
target, precisely calculating the speed necessary to intercept the torpedo at a
safe distance. Tasarov pulled off his headset just before the weapon
intercepted its target, destroying it with an audible explosion that sent
seawater up in a column of spray about 2500 meters off their port bow. It would
have been a close call if it were a fast, modern day torpedo, but it was a long
shot for a WWII submarine. Whatever was out there, it was not in close if it
fired at that range, which is probably why Tasarov could not hear it if it was
quietly hovering on battery power.

The
hollow ‘ping’ of the ship’s active sonar sang out in regular intervals, and with
each pulse Karpov could feel his own pulse rising. There was nothing at sea he
hated more than a submarine. It was not long before Tasarov had located a
target.

“Con,
sonar contact bearing four-five degrees at 4200 meters.”

The
captain exhaled, obviously relieved to have found the spider in his cupboard. “Very
well,” he said. “Kill it, Mister Tasarov. Kill it before they have a mind to
fire at us again.” He turned to Orlov. “Those bastards!” he said. “They wave a
line of ships in our face while they try to sneak up on us with a submarine.”
This was obviously a German boat, he knew, yet in his mind he now lumped all
his enemies into one bin, the British, Americans and Germans were one and the
same to him. “Secure the bridge!” he pointed, and a
mishman
of the watch
ran to set the inner security clamps on the main bridge hatch.

“Samsonov—ready
on forward missile array. We’ll settle this business once and for all.”

Part XI

Zero Hour

August 8, 1941

 “If God does not exist,
everything is permitted…Nothing is easier than to denounce the evildoer;
nothing is more difficult than to understand him.”

—Fyodor Dostoevsky
The Brothers Karamazov

Chapter
31

Admiral
Volsky
heard the swoosh
of a weapon being launched, and the sound of its rocket igniting in the water. His
years of experience immediately told him what had happened. Then he heard the distant
thump of the explosion when the incoming torpedo was intercepted, felt the
rippling vibration moments later. A German U-Boat, he thought! I knew we were
bound to run into one sometime. We’ve cruised right up on the damn thing. It
was probably just drifting, waiting like an eel in a cave for us to pass by.
Yet from the sound of things, our VA-111 found the torpedo quickly enough. I’ve
got to get to the bridge!

“Dmitri,
it has been a wonderful stay,” he said. “But I think I had better take your
advice and get to the bridge now.”

“I
think so as well,” said the Doctor. He helped the Admiral out of bed thinking
to assist him with his uniform.

“Don’t
bother. I have pulled on that uniform every day for thirty years and I think I
can manage it now. But if you would be so kind as to call the bridge on the
intercom system and notify them that I am on my way, I think it may save a few
lives. Perhaps Karpov will keep his head for a while.”

“Good
idea.” Zolkin said as he went to the com-panel and thumbed a switch. He took
hold of the soap bar shaped microphone, flicked the send button, and spoke in a
satisfied tone of voice. “Con—this is Doctor Zolkin in the sick bay. I am
re-certifying Admiral Volsky as fit for duty and I inform you that he is now on
his way to the bridge. That is all.” He had not even noticed that the red
activity light did not wink on when he engaged the unit. A moment later, when
he went to the hatch to open it, the Admiral heard him grunting with exertion.

“What’s
the matter, Dmitri? Are you getting old too?”

“The
hatch is jammed. It does that at times. I should have an oil can in this place
for all the good it would do me.” He pushed hard, surprised that the door would
simply not budge. Volsky had just slipped on his jacket, complete with every
decoration he had ever earned emblazoned on his chest. Gold gleamed from the
insignia on his officer’s hat, shoulders, and the five thick stripes of his
cuffs. He looked every bit the man he was, Admiral of the Fleet, King of the
Northern Sea. As he reached for his cap the doctor’s exertion seemed odd to him.
He looked over his shoulder, suddenly concerned, then went over to lend a hand.

“What
kind of service do we get at this hotel?” he said jokingly, but when he tried
the door he immediately knew something was wrong. He had run a thousand drills
over the years, simulating every kind of emergency condition. His hand had run
inspection over every hatch and hold on the ship. This door was locked. He
could clearly hear the rattle of the emergency sealing bracket on the outside.

“Well
I’ll be damned,” he said, his mind racing ahead down a long, impossible corridor
of thought. “It’s been locked—from the outside!”

Zolkin
looked at him, and their eyes immediately reflected what both men were
thinking. “Karpov!” said the doctor. “I should have stuck a needle in that man
and filled him with a 100CCs of sedative when I had him here!”

“The
intercom—” Volsky pointed, moving quickly to reach for the microphone. “Engineering,
this is Admiral Volsky in sick bay. Send two men with a spanner and metal
cutter at once. Acknowledge…”

He
waited, yet no sound returned. Then he looked at the intercom box, his eyes
widening as he realized what had happened. There was no red light. It was dead.

~
~ ~

It
was just
past
1800 hours and Fedorov heard the sudden alarm signaling battle stations again.
The three sharp bursts signaled the ship to secure for anti-submarine warfare,
and he heard the
Shkval
hunter killer torpedo fire soon after. He wanted
to rush to the bridge, but realized he was still technically relieved of his
post there. Then he remembered what Doctor Zolkin had whispered to him before
he left sick bay…Come back for your prescription at 1800 hours.

At
first he had been confused by the remark, for he was healthy and fit, and took
no medication of any kind. But the look in the Doctor’s eye spoke volumes, and
he knew Zolkin was inviting him to come see the Admiral again, perhaps to voice
his concerns over the Captain’s rash engagements and share his perspectives on
the history. With no battle station to man, he was suddenly eager to get to the
sick bay as soon as he could.