Kirov

Chapter 28

The Cruiser Augusta and her escorts was running at flank speed, doubling up from the sedate 15 knots she had been steaming. Behind her, falling slowly behind, was the old battleship Arkansas. Two other cruisers and the fast destroyers of Desron 7 went ahead with Augusta. The President was in a hurry, and Arkansas would have to catch up as best she could.

Messages had come in from all quarters, the British Admiralty sharing intelligence, their Home Fleet coordinating the arrival of the Prime Minister, the American Task Force 16 withdrawing slowly back to St John’s Newfoundland bearing the survivors of TF-1. Captain Jerauld Wright aboard Mississippi had to be reined in to compel him to turn about. When he saw the wreckage of the Wasp and Vincennes he wanted to immediately steam north to deal with the German raider, but cooler heads prevailed.

Admiral King had directly ordered him to withdraw, and also radioed back to the Navy base at Long Island, NY and ordered all the now orphaned strike squadrons of CV Wasp to fly out to the airfields near Ship Harbor on Newfoundland. The place was rapidly becoming one of the most active military bases on the east coast, its numerous inlets to soon become anchorages for over twenty U.S. warships, with more still coming from home ports. The British had an equal force at sea. They were all just a day away now, the battle fleets eager to deliver their high ranking civilian and military officials to the secret conference, and then get quickly out to sea to hunt down this new German threat. Planes were up from Newfoundland’s Patrol Wing 7 flying PBY Catalinas and Mariners in Squadrons 71 and 72, keeping a wary eye to the north.

Admiral Ernest King was the sixty-three year old Commander of the Atlantic Fleet. “The King” or simply “Rey” to those closest to him, was an old battleship captain, he had served through WWI and even saw action as an observer on a few Royal Navy ships at that time. The experience made him somewhat suspicious and wary of the British, who clearly considered themselves the rightful masters of the Atlantic ocean, all other vessels sailing there by their leave. Yet, as the United States emerged as a strong naval power, she was still not fully ready to project real power into the Atlantic as Britain had done for decades the world over. The new bases leased to the U.S. by England in exchange for 50 old US destroyers had helped to give the Americans a means of better projecting that power, and Argentia was one such base.

After the first great war, King floundered with assignments administering the submarine fleet, and posts involving Naval aviation, receiving his qualifying wings in 1927. By June of 1930 he found himself assigned as Captain of “Lady Lex,” the aircraft carrier Lexington. He remained an opinionated man, somewhat surly and prone to anger, and his acerbic jousting with other hatbands saw him disliked by many of his colleagues, and had almost landed him in a graveyard post with the Navy’s General Board, a grey priesthood of aging officers who would sit around discussing policy and ship programs. One of the few allies he had in the service, Admiral Harold Stark, Chief of Naval Operations, thought he could serve better as the Commander of the Atlantic Fleet, and he appointed, some say “anointed,” King as such in late 1940.

Roosevelt once described King as “a man who shaved every morning with a blow torch,” his disposition and demeanor being so fiery and easily riled. Like the Army’s General Patton, the Admiral was of the opinion that when trouble came around “they send for the sons-of bitches,” as he put it indelicately. He was one of them. His first reaction to the news that Wasp had been sunk was to send Captain Wright on the Mississippi out to find the Germans and rip their heads off. It was his old friend and still senior Admiral Starke who had advised him to be cautious.

“The British say this raider can steam up at thirty knots or more, Rey,” said Starke. “Mississippi can push it at 23 knots if she’s lucky. This is work for fast cruisers—and for that matter, we’ve got the President here aboard one, and we need to get him safely off this ship.”

King reluctantly agreed, gave the order to pull back Task Force 16, but the old “son-of-a-bitch” wasn’t happy, and he let everyone around him know it. Earlier, he had given his destroyer captains orders to be aggressive at sea if they encountered German U-Boats, and he had also formulated numerous plans on how to deal with German surface raiders. He had even considered the Graf Zeppelin in his schemes, and directed that this ship would be fair game for cruisers and destroyers if ever encountered at sea.

Though he was leery of British intelligence on the matter, when he learned that the Royal Navy believed they were pursuing this German aircraft carrier he wanted to get there first. So he sent the fast destroyers of Desron 7 out ahead telling them to fuel up as fast as they could and take up a screening position off the cape of Newfoundland. And he told Captain Wright on the Mississippi to hover just behind that screen until other warships could augment his force for the hunt he was now determined to pursue in earnest.

“The only thing now,” he said “is whether we can get this bastard before the Brits do! If they catch and sink this ship first, they’ll crow about how they saved the U.S. Navy for the next hundred years. Well, I’m not going to stand for that. They come over here, hat in hand, and I’d like to drop this little trophy into their bag, courtesy of the United States Navy. Then we can get on with the real business of this war—the damn Japanese. If Roosevelt manages to get congress to declare war on Germany over this, then Tojo and his samurai brotherhood will fall right in line beside Hitler. That’s where the Navy’s fight will be in the end, not out here garrisoning Iceland and holding hands with Convoy Masters.”

Aboard Kirov, another “son-of-a-bitch” was angry as well. Karpov had a heated discussion with the Admiral, leaving sick bay unsatisfied, and quite unhappy. Volsky had been adamant that no nuclear warheads were to be mounted on any of the missiles except on his expressed order. The Captain had argued about it with him, implored him to see the logic of their situation, but he closed ranks with Zolkin and refused to listen. He gave him orders not to engage in any further combat, and even went so far as to threaten to remove him from the bridge watch if he persisted with these ideas, an insult that enraged the Captain to no end, particularly in front of the Doctor. All he had done was plead with the Admiral to allow the ship to mount the weapons in the event they needed them ready for quick action. But Volsky was adamant.

Karpov went to his quarters, stewing over the matter for some time, frustrated that he could not have simply collected the Admiral’s command key and passed it on to Orlov as he had hoped. And the Doctor was no help either. Zolkin was clearly running interference for the Admiral, supporting his arguments at every opportunity, and even going so far as to suggest that the Captain was overly stressed, a statement which Karpov vehemently refuted.

The Captain sat in his bunk, a nervous frustration keeping him from sleep, which he dearly needed now. Chastened by the Admiral, his old doubts and fears began to re-emerge. It was clear to him that the brief window of command he had enjoyed was closing, and that Volsky would soon be casting his considerable shadow on the bridge again. The tension of these last hours had been hard on him, in spite of his resolve to do what he believed he must in the situation. If he could just get a few hours sleep while Orlov held the watch, he could clear his head a bit.

Restless, and discontented, he took a book from his cabin and lay down on the bunk to read. It was an old favorite, Dostoevsky’s Notes from the Underground, the same book he had quoted to Fedorov on the bridge earlier. He opened it, flipping through the pages, and his eye fell on a segment he had bookmarked many years ago when he last read the book in earnest.

Dostoevsky had been talking about the injustice of life, and the cruelty of fate, comparing man to a pantry mouse thirsting for just a little revenge.

He paused, an ashen, disconsolate look on his face. Here he was, tucked away in his mouse hole. He knew what he wanted to do, what he should do, and yet, he had done exactly what Dostoevsky said. He had worked himself up with questions, and reasons and doubts, that same fatal brew that so confounds the mouse in every man’s heart. He was ashamed of himself for not being stronger than he was. What was all his conniving and planning and bluster for if, in the end, he could not be a man instead of this confused little mouse? His tired eyes strayed again over the well worn text, and the words scolded him, leaping off the tattered pages of the book that he had read so many times.

That was the story of his life, thought Karpov. He had sulked in his mouse hole, and slipped out in the dark to steal one man’s cheese and another’s bread. And yes, he had oh so carefully avoided all the mouse traps, dodged the hard coiled springs that might snap down on his tail and catch him, particularly after Gazprom. He had crept about the big drafty old mansion that his country had become for forty years, and brought pain and suffering to more than one rival in all that time. All it had brought him was this aching sense of isolation and doubt when things came right down to this last awful moment when he suffered the final humiliation, dressed down by Volsky like that, right in front of the Doctor! Now he knew that all these years he had indeed been a mouse, and not a man. When it came down to the pitting of his will against that of a man like Volsky, here he was in his mouse hole again, reading books.

He flipped ahead, noting a passage he had underlined where Dostoevsky’s character had described his inability to enact the vengeance he had spoken of on a fellow officer and rival.

The words burned him now, seared him, shamed him. He had finally found that ‘officer’ Dostoevsky had written about, the last man on the rungs of the ladder above him that he needed to topple in order to reach his goal, his rightful place, the place he should have earned long ago with all the intelligence, guile and skill he brought to the task. Now Severomorsk was gone, and so were any who might one day sit in judgment on him. Fate had delivered him to this moment, and so he went to the Admiral to see if he could get the man to do what was necessary, and if not, to bid him to step aside. But it was he that had stepped aside again, Vladimir Ivanovich Karpov, Captain of the First Rank. He felt useless, lost and humiliated by his own fear and inadequacy, and the only thing he could do to comfort himself was fashion these two things into hatred.

It wasn’t Volsky he hated now, not Papa Volsky—not the amiable father that had endeared himself to his crew—not the man, but the Admiral. He was better than the man, or so Karpov believed of himself. It was just that the man had a uniform, that was all, and on that uniform there were stripes and stars that, when he looked upon his own cuff, were missing. Volsky was the whole of it in his mind just then, that whole stinking, creaking, drafty old house he had been living in all these forty years as a tired little mouse. “…I have been forty years listening to you through a crack in the floor…”

There in that stark and bleak infirmary, he had finally faced off with a sick old man and come away defeated yet again, not by the man, he believed, but by the uniform he wore, by the stars and bars on his cuff. Yet that uniform was nothing more than the tired vestige of a nation and a system that no longer existed! The Admiral had even threatened to relieve him, to take from him everything he had labored and suffered for all these many years in his mouse-like existence, the few stripes he had had earned on his own. What, did he need yet more? Didn’t he have enough already?

Karpov sat with that for a while, until that old, self-satisfied feeling of warm comfort settled over him again, calming his troubled mind. It was a stink, he knew, but one he had come to like after all these years. People grow accustomed to anything in time, and he had become familiar with the stench of his own shame.

Here he sat, at a moment that might change the whole of his life, and not only his life, but the lives of every man aboard the ship, and the lives of all those many generations ahead that Fedorov so worried about, and yet he could not act. That was the last awful truth he had to face as he sat there in his mouse hole in the stench of his own shame, that his failure was now complete and it could not be any other way; that when it came to the final moment, he was not a man after all, but that sneaking, conniving mouse; that this was his fate, and there was no changing it. He could not become a real man, not now, not ever, because in the final analysis, he could not see or even imagine that real man he thought to become. He could not come out of his darkened hole and face the light that would clearly reveal the state of his own wretched condition, and so he turned away from it. Now when he looked, there was nothing there but his own shadow, a dark stain on the stark gray paint of the ship’s deck, stretching out before him when he walked the long empty passageways; nothing but the shadow of a man that he could never be.

His clenched fist held all these thoughts as one last voice cried out within his troubled mind. He could do this. He still had time to act before Volsky returned to take the ship away from him again. Then the little doubts and fears returned in their well practiced chorus. Yes, he could do this, but then what? What after? What when the eyes of the crew were on him in the passages and crawlways of the ship—the other mice all gathered here in the kollectiv? The eyes would judge him, condemn him, weighted down with their notions of good and bad, right and wrong, justice and injustice. The more he thought about it, the more paralyzed he became, until he perceived, welling from within, a long restrained anger and rage surging up in him, like some deep, smoldering magma in his soul. He turned another well worn page and his eye fell on the only remedy Dostoevsky had devised for his dilemma… “Whether it’s good or bad, it is sometimes very pleasant, too, to smash things…”

Karpov closed the book, and closed his eyes as well. What am I, he asked himself? Am I that mouse in my hole, or am I a man? Have I lived at all? He was suddenly done with the good or bad of things, not realizing at that moment the death of the very thing he had hoped to become—the death of the man struggling to be born within him. In his place there was something else now, something that could also act, willfully, with determination, with ruthless efficiency, but it was not a man. There was no moral compass guiding that thing, only the flight from pain, and the long restrained rage in his soul. Only that last line remained with him now, feeding a quiet inner rage that had been slowly gathering and smoking away the whole of his life. Yet he mistook it badly for the strength of purpose a man might have, unable to fathom how far from the truth his impulse actually was.

The Captain sat up abruptly and got out of the bed. He stood up on unsteady legs and calmed himself, looking at his sallow features in the mirror by the sink. Instinctively, he ran a hand through his thinning hair, and then opened the cabinet above the sink and took the small flask there to open it. There were many pleasures in life that a man might distract himself with to make the tooth ache of his own inadequacy go away. He took a sip of vodka to brace himself, and put the flask away. Then he put on his sheep’s wool Ushanka and straightened it on his head just the way he liked it, pulling sharply on the hem of his service jacket after he did so, just as the Admiral often did.

Time to creep out of his hole, he thought. He had things to do, people to check on, and he decided to put a few more stops on his agenda before he rested. He would go down to the missile magazines below decks and talk to that idiot, Chief Petty Officer Martinov. Then he needed to see Troyak…Yes, Troyak was essential. After that it was down to engineering for a little rooting around in the service bay. One last stop on his way back to the bridge would be the end of it—or rather the beginning of it all if he dared. He had no idea where things would lead after that. Nobody who dared to do a thing like the one he was contemplating ever did.

Fedorov would fret and worry and wonder what might happen in all the unlived days ahead. Fedorov would be possessed by right and wrong and paralyzed, as he had been just a single moment ago. What good would that do him? He expended all his mental energy to build a wall around his dusty old history books, and safeguard a distant future he would never live to see. What a fool he was! Fedorov had his mouse hole too.

As for Orlov? The chief would understand what he would soon be about, perhaps more than any other man aboard, and he would know the why of it. Orlov understood it instinctively, reflexively. He grasped it in his thick palm every time he had hold of a mishman by his scrubby little neck. He understood only too well what it was like to live with a toothache, and come to enjoy it after a while.

Chapter 29

“See to it that our Moskit-IIs are double checked for integrity, Chief Martinov, and reloaded in all silos where they have been expended,” Karpov ordered.

“We will have all silos full in an hour, sir.”

“See that you do.” Then the Captain lowered his voice, leaning in close to the chief so none of the other crewmen in the loading area would hear what he would say next. “And as for those five special warheads, make sure they are secure.”

“Five Captain? But we only received three.”

“Yes, of course. Three. I was thinking of another mission. Well for this mission we will need to have proper weapons selection for our forward mounted MOS-III system. Has missile number ten been double checked for readiness?” Karpov assumed there was one compatible warhead for each of his three surface-to-surface missile systems. The MOS-III was a high speed hypersonic missile, and the battery was arrayed in three vertical silos of three missiles each. The number ten missile was in a special silo, with control seals and extra protection. He wanted to be sure the warhead was there and not in inventory within the missile magazine.

The chief was one of the few men aboard ship other than Admiral Volsky who actually knew what the nuclear inventory was. The size and number of the warheads was kept in a sealed envelope, in a small vault that could be opened only by inserting both the Admiral’s and the Captain’s keys. Yet the chief had to store the missiles and warheads securely on board, so he was obviously privy to the matter, yet sworn to say nothing whatsoever about the weapons. Under normal circumstances he would have never discussed the weapons with anyone, but the Captain, he assumed, was surely informed by now and knew what he was talking about. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Excuse me, Captain. Mount the number ten missile?”

“Correct,” said Karpov, his voice hard and controlled.

“But I will need permission from—”

“From the commander of the ship—yes, you are looking at him, Martinov. Have you not heard?” Karpov cut the man off quickly. “The Admiral is indisposed. He has been taken to sick bay and his condition remains in doubt. Get the wax out of your ears and listen once in a while. I have assumed full command and Orlov is now my Executive Officer. Shall I send him down to second this order? He will not be happy about it. Just get it done, Chief. But observe all proper weapons handling procedures and safety guidelines. Make certain your Coded Switch Set Controller is programmed appropriately to require a command level key insertion before operation. But given the circumstances, with the Admiral unable to perform his duties for the moment, we do not have time for the niceties of peacetime protocols. The setting should be fixed at position one.”

“I understand sir, but the default is position two, and I will need proper authorization to override that setting.” Two keys were normally required to activate the Coded Switch Set Controller (CSSC), which would receive an activation code for the warhead.

Karpov felt again that rising magma of anger, but he restrained himself. “This is not a peacetime environment, Martinov. This is war now, or do you think we’ve just been shooting off missiles to keep you busy here?”

Karpov’s just tapped him on the shoulder. “This is a direct order. Don’t worry. I am the only one responsible. Complete this by 18:00 hours, or there will be hell to pay. The same for the P-900s. Mount the number ten missile there as well.” The P-900 was the NATO coded SS-N-27B “Klub” missile, also called the “Sizzler” mounted on the bow, forward of the main Moskit-II battery. Unlike the faster hypersonic high altitude MOS-III, it was a subsonic land attack cruise missile, though its final stage of approach to the target was a Mach 3.0 low level run.

Karpov clapped the Chief on his shoulder again and walked quickly away, unwilling to engage the man further should he equivocate. He knew there was one final warhead for the Moskit-II Sunburn system, but decided to leave that in the magazine for the time being. One should always have a reserve.

Three warheads, he thought. Only three. That lump-head Martinov had better obey those orders. If it comes down to it and I need more firepower, those missiles had better be primed and ready. He knew he had just crossed a very dangerous line here. He felt it even as he gave Martinov that order. If Admiral Volsky got wind of this he could be relieved of command and face a court martial, without a doubt. Yet his own admonishment to Martinov returned to bolster him. This was war. The expediency of the moment was rare and unique. He must do what was necessary, in spite of Volsky’s orders to the contrary. If events proved him wrong he would face the consequences, but not without a fight.

He was out of his hole now, no longer a mouse, but something bigger—a rat set loose in the bowels of the ship, and he had wire to chew. Yes, he had wire to chew… He had won the battle within himself, or so he now believed. Next he had to win against Volsky. That accomplished, he could again take the fight to the British and Americans, and settle the matter once and for all.

With that in mind, and his business here finished, the Captain’s next stop was the crew’s quarters for Sergeant Troyak and his marines. The sound of his boots clapping hard on the deck as he walked bolstered him, recalling the image he had held in his mind of the honor guard marching proudly to meet with Roosevelt and Churchill. Now he wanted to sound out the stony Sergeant and see how he might react if it came to a real crisis aboard the ship.

“Good day, Sergeant.”

“Sir.” Troyak stood to attention, two of his marines in the room doing so as well.

“As you were. I only wanted to commend you on your performance at Jan Mayen. The information you gained was very useful.”

Troyak did not need the compliment, or want it, but he nodded thanking the Captain out of courtesy. The mission had been a simple reconnaissance; a quick in and out and nothing to take undue notice of.

“The situation is somewhat confounding for us all,” said Karpov. “Some of the officers may have difficulty understanding what has happened; finding a way to come to grips with it. They may react in unforeseen ways in the stress of battle. I trust you and your men will remain disciplined and clear headed at all times, as it may take a firm hand in the days ahead to keep the ship on an even keel.”

Troyak listened, his features expressionless. The Siberian Sergeant was a strong, rough-hewn man, and one not given to such considerations. The thought that he or his men would ever demonstrate a laxity of discipline was not possible as far as he was concerned. Kirov was a warship, and he was a leader of warriors. That was the end of it.

“I trust you understand me,” Karpov pressed.

“Sir, the squad is ready for action and every man is fit, and will do his duty.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. Keep that in mind should I call on you. We have some difficult days ahead; difficult choices. Some will quail in the face of battle, but you and I will have to lead the way. Yes?” The Captain gave him a sidelong glance and the two men exchanged salutes before he went on his way.

Troyak thought that last remark was odd. You and I? Somehow he recoiled at the thought that Karpov would think he was a bird of the same feather as his marines. He allowed himself a derisive smile, then returned to his task of cleaning and oiling the assault rifle inventory.

Karpov would make one last stop. He had checked on everything that mattered, his weapons in the looming struggle he envisioned, in more ways than one. There was only one other thing he needed to do. He had promised Orlov he would deal with the problem Volsky presented, and a stop at the maintenance bay to review the recalibration of the missiles was the perfect cover. While he was there he took a pair of wire cutters and a few pad-locks. Then he made his way quietly to the sick bay, his heart suddenly pounding when he realized what he was about to do. Time to chew on the last wire…

This was the edge of the precipice, he knew. The orders he had given to Martinov could be rescinded, explained away. He could mouse his way out of that transgression if he chose to, and squirm through a crack in a floor board to reach the safety of his mouse hole again. Or could he? Something had changed in him. He was something bigger now, something darker, and more heedless of the cost he might incur if he took this next step. No one could prove he did this, came a voice, a reason, a last means of escape.

He could hear the voices of the Admiral and Zolkin within as he quietly moved the emergency lock bracket into place on the outside of the closed hatch, and slipped on the padlock. His hand was shaking, but he forced calm on himself. Then, with a quiet click, the lock was in place. Now he took the wire cutters, reaching high to get at the thick grey intercom cable above the hatch, which he cut with an unsteady hand. There was an audible snap when the wire was cut, and with it something snapped in his mind as well. Volsky was the last remnant of the authority that was given to them by older men in their dark blue coats, in an old system of power, all of them back in Severomorsk. Yet with one taut snap the last link to that was cut for him now. It was done. He had chewed through the last wire. His course was set now, for good or for ill.

He took a deep breath, listening, but the voices on the other side of the door kept on in their conversation. Volsky and the doctor were now locked up in the sick bay, and the Captain scurried away, his footfalls whisper soft and strangely light, glad that no member of the crew had seen him in the corridor.

Moments later he was back on the bridge again, two hours before Orlov’s watch was to end. He found the Chief and waved him over to the briefing room, closing the hatch there to keep their conversation private. The close confines of the room helped him to calm himself, like a dark quiet hiding hole.

“Volsky is awake,” he began, breathing heavily. He could feel a cold sheen of sweat on his brow, even in the chilly confines of the bridge. “The doctor is hovering over him like a mother hen, and he seems to be making a recovery. We don’t have much time, Orlov.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Volsky was not happy that we engaged the Americans. The man is getting soft and slow. He was talking about taking the ship out into the Atlantic. He doesn’t see the opportunity we have here.”

“Perhaps not,” said Orlov. “But what are you doing, Captain? You’ve been steering us south right into the thick of things. Had we turned east we could have avoided this engagement with the Americans.”

“What? Have you been sleeping with Fedorov now? Are you getting soft hearted on me as well? You, Orlov?”

“You misunderstand me,” said the Chief. “We hit them very hard and they will be angry now. We must realize that there will be consequences for this.”

“You are sounding like Volsky now.” Karpov was not happy. He folded his arms. Then wagged his finger at the Chief. “Look, Orlov. Little thieves are hanged, yes? But the big ones escape.” He was referring to an old Russian proverb that went roughly: ‘take three kopecks and hang, but take fifty and be praised!’

The Captain knew that there could be no halfway measures now. They had engaged both the British and American fleets. They would not encounter another friendly ship at sea—not now not, not ever. He knew he was fully responsible for the choices he made in the heat of action, but he could not see that he could have done anything else. The British flung their ships and planes at him, fully intending to find and sink Kirov if they could. The Captain, insofar as he saw things, did what any competent officer would have done under the circumstances, he defended himself, with all the skill and weaponry at his command. As he was trying mightily to salvage that image of himself now, he used all his considerable intelligence to defend his actions, no matter how skewed his logic had become, or how much vranyo had subtly crept into his line of thinking.

With Orlov at his side he might dispel that sense of harried isolation that had dogged him up until now. In spite of his ambition, and his devious insistence in getting his own way aboard the ship, Karpov had taken entirely too much on his round narrow shoulders when he cut that last wire. He was beginning to feel the weight of what he had done, and now he was looking for an ally, and a strong right arm to back him up.

“I thought I could count on you, Orlov. Let us face the matter squarely and decide.” He repeated all his old arguments, all the reasons he had ferreted out in the dark safety of his mouse hole. “We are never going home again, and there will be no one at Severomorsk to chasten us for anything we do here. We answer to no one but ourselves now, understand? This is war and we are a ship of war, with power to take history itself by the throat and choke it to death if we so decide. But that will take a man, not a vacillating old Admiral with too many stripes on his jacket cuff. Volsky’s day has come and gone. You and I? We have many long years ahead of us, and the power to see that those years are very agreeable. I need to know where you stand, Orlov. Are you a man, or are you going to stand there like a school boy when Volsky returns to the bridge?”

“Without a cat around the mice feel free.” Orlov stated the obvious, but all of this was more than the simple license a man might take when he could, as any man might. “Do you realize what you are saying?”

“Of course I do. Volsky will reverse us at every turn, and all the while the decisive moment slips away, or worse, our enemies will gather sufficient strength to find and kill us all.”

“But the junior officers—the crew. They worship that fat old man like a father. If it comes down to a choice between the Admiral and you, Captain, I have little doubt where most of the crew will stand.”

Karpov’s face registered irritation with that, but he kept his emotions well controlled. The Chief was repeating all the same doubts and fears he had sat with in his hole, all the same tired reasons why he should stay there in the stench, and remain a mouse.

“Look, Orlov, neither of us will win a popularity contest here. Don’t think the crew jumps when you growl because they love you either. They jump because they recognize authority when they see it; strength; will power. They jump because if they don’t it will be your boot in their ass, and the devil to pay. You know why you are the Chief, Orlov, and it is not because you are so very smart, yes? It is because you know how to clench a fist when the time comes for it, and you know how to smash a man’s face if he bothers you.”

Orlov smiled, nodding. “Volsky will be a problem,” he said, his voice even more hushed now. “Perhaps Zolkin as well.” He hesitated, his eyes revealing his uncertainty. He had seen power plays of this nature in the Russian underground, that hard world of cut-throat men, loose confederations of gangs and bosses, and he had seen more than one man toppled from his post, and more than one man killed trying just what Karpov was proposing. But this was not the Russian underground, it was a navy ship. This was mutiny…Yes, there was a special word for this sort of thing, and there had not been a mutiny on a Russian ship for decades, not since Sabin tried to take the frigate Storozhevoy to Leningrad in 1975. He hung for that, and his second got all of eight hard years in prison for his complicity. Orlov weighed the situation in his mind, and realized it took more than one man to do what Karpov was proposing.

“What will you do with them,” he asked flatly. “You can’t kill them. Kill Volsky and you’ll have to watch your back for the rest of your life on this ship. The crew love that man for a reason, Karpov. He’s not just any boss. They won’t like it, believe me, and some will have the guts to do something about it when they realize what you have done.”

“That’s where you come in. Who’s going to back you down, Orlov? Don’t worry, they won’t be harmed, of course not. Nobody is talking about killing anyone here—except the British and Americans. They are the enemy, Orlov. Keep your mind in the right place and just leave Volsky and Zolkin to me,” he finished, deciding to say nothing more about what he had already done. When the Captain perceived that Orlov still had reservations, he played out his last card. “I have spoken with Troyak,” he whispered. “He and his men are ready should we need to call on them.”

“You got Troyak to actually speak?” Orlov forced a half hearted smile. “He will support you? You are sure of this?”

“Troyak is not a child. He knows an order when he hears one. He will do his duty. And I also spoke with Martinov in the weapons bay. He is with us as well. The Captain stretched the truth on both accounts, just a little vranyo, and he did so with great skill and no qualms whatsoever. In his mind Martinov was with him because he ordered it—Troyak as well. They would do what he told them to do, if he could just keep Volsky out of the picture for the next few crucial hours or days. After that, they might relent, and reach an arrangement, but by then his business would be concluded.

“Martinov? That bumbling idiot? All he does is root about counting his missiles and warheads. What good will he do us?”

“Don’t be stupid. He knows where the special warheads are stored, and I had a talk with him this afternoon. Our forward missile bays will have a little more sting in the number ten launch tubes.”

“You ordered him to mount—”

Karpov held up a finger, silencing the Chief, and the two men gave the door a sidelong glance. The Chief suddenly realized that this was no longer a simple discussion, Karpov had already acted! The Captain had stepped over a clear red line, violating a direct order from the Admiral.

“But Volsky gave us a direct order,” he rasped.

“If you want to eat fish, you have to get in the water, Chief. Volsky is indisposed. I am in command now, and I rescinded that order on my own authority as Captain of this ship. I just need to know if you are ready to stand with me when things come to a head—because they will come to a head, Orlov, and very soon. Otherwise you and I will have to stand here twiddling our thumbs, and saying ‘yes sir,’ and ‘excuse me sir’ while Volsky runs the ship. How long will that go on? What is he going to do if he takes the ship east? The crucial moment is here and now. The next three days will be the heart of it. We either act now, or the moment slips from our grasp. We have Martinov. We have Troyak and his marines, and there are others, Orlov. Don’t think I am the only one fed up with Volsky’s vacillation. There are men on this ship, are you one of them?”

He was lying now. This was not the gentle boast of vranyo. It was not mere stretching and bending of the truth. No, this was lozh, pure and simple; a straight-faced lie, and Karpov told it with all the skill and duplicity he had cultivated so well over the years. “We can smash the enemy, here and now, once and for all, and then no one will be able to bother us again. Come on, Orlov. You can’t sit on two chairs. What’s it going to be here? We can smash them! Are you ready?”

The Chief thought for a moment, looking Karpov directly in the eye, and neither man blinked. Then he opened his jacket and angled his body to show the Captain a sleek, grey automatic pistol tucked into his belt line. “Yes, I am ready, boss, and so is Comrade Glock,” he said darkly. Then Orlov gave the Captain a hard look. “But tell me, Karpov. What are you going to do? What is your plan? Are you going to pay a visit to this secret little meeting with Churchill and Roosevelt?”

Karpov took a long breath. Something shifted inside him now, easing the burden he had dragged through the ship from one station to another. He was no longer alone. It was not just his fate on the line. Orlov was Orlov after all. He had seen trouble looming and already prepared for it. Why did he ever doubt it?

A deadly calm settled over him now, stilling the last plaintive inner voice of warning. Yes, he was going to smash things, but at least now he had a hammer in the strong right arm of his Operations Chief.

“We are going to do a little more than that, I’m afraid,” said Karpov. “Yes, Volsky was talking about this secret meeting between Roosevelt and Churchill. Perhaps he thinks he can go there and negotiate, but that is like trying to divide the pelt of a bear before you have killed him. We are going to kill the bear first, Orlov—you, me, and Comrade Glock.”

Chapter 30

Secrecy was soon found to be in short supply. Too many men had seen the attack on Wasp, or heard about it, or suffered from it, and one of them was a civilian reporter aboard Mississippi sent out to cover the occupation of Iceland. Somehow, word on the attack leaked out, passing from pilot, to able seaman, and over cables and airwaves to eventually reach the U.S. The headline in the New York Times that day, August 7th, was bold and pointed.

The article referenced some of the events that had transpired, though it was noticeably fuzzy as to where the attack had happened, what German raider had attacked, and even more vague on just when the president would convene this emergency session of congress and in fact where the president even was.

Reporters quickly stormed the White House briefing room, but were held at bay and given no further information. The president was consulting with his Joint Chiefs of Staff, it was said, but nothing more was revealed, particularly the fact the Roosevelt was not even in the country, and was quietly slipping into Ship Harbor in Argentia Bay aboard Augusta by the evening of that same day.

Aboard King George V, Admiral Tovey was listening to a shortwave radio broadcast out of New York when Brind came in from the radio room, a decoded signal in hand and a puzzled expression on his face.

“I’m afraid I’ve given you some bad advice, Admiral,” he began. “Admiralty says they’ve spotted the Graf Zeppelin near Stettin.” The implications were obvious, and he said nothing more.

Tovey rubbed his brow, troubled. “The cat is out of the bag,” he said. “The story had leaked out to the press and the Americans are outraged. It’s to be expected, I suppose, but we still have no idea what this ship is, and that I find difficult to swallow.”

“Well, an American PBY out of Reykjavík spotted the German ship a few days ago, sir, and they got some photos.”

“Photos? It’s bloody well about time. What do they show?”

“I’m afraid the song is the same, sir. Bletchley Park says it’s a large cruiser, very large, probably a battlecruiser in size. They were able to spot a crewman on a foredeck and worked out the scale. The damn thing is all of 900 feet long, and nearly a hundred feet abeam.”

“My god, what a monster. That’s a bigger ship than King George V. In fact, it’s bigger than anything in the fleet. It’s even longer than the Bismarck!”

“Yet no sign of anything but a few small secondary guns, and a curiously empty foredeck covered with a series of what looks to be cargo hatches. Given what we’ve learned about this ship’s capabilities, they’ve come round to the conclusion that these rockets must be stored there; possibly brought up on deck for launching, or even fired from below decks through these ports.”

“Amazing,” said Tovey. “I knew the Germans were developing a weapon of this nature, but all our intelligence indicated it was to be an air dropped bomb.”

“Yes,” Brind nodded. “The Fritz-X, or so the boys at BP call it. That was also mentioned in the Admiralty report.” He glanced at his signal and read: “Consider Naval deployment of guided Fritz type ordinance or possibly more advanced Henschel Hs 293 guided rocket.”

The Henschel 293 was a development led by the brilliant mathematician and aircraft designer Herbert Wagner, Germany’s answer to the Bletchley Park genius of Alan Turing. Wagner, along with notable physicists Schrödinger, Heisenberg, and designer Wernher von Braun had been involved in the development and testing of new German wonder weapons for some time. The Fritz-X radio controlled glide bomb had been in development since 1938, and the Henschel 293 was a new approach that was intended for use against British convoys. The Germans were already building training and refit bases for the rocket at Cognac and Bordeaux on the south Atlantic coast of France, in addition to numerous facilities around Hamburg and Kiel, and bases at Bergamo and Foggia in Italy. It began as a glide bomb, like the Fritz, then migrated into a liquid fueled rocket. As far as Bletchley Park knew, however, it was still in the testing phase, unless this was to be its coming out party, a deadly ship mounted version that could strike with alarming accuracy and power.

That was the one thing that still bewildered the British intelligence arms. How could the Germans have achieved this level of accuracy and range on the weapon? Everything they had been able to learn about the program indicated that it still relied on a human operator, a man able to see the target and aim or guide the missile in flight. And much of its expected range was delivered by the aircraft that carried it, large German bombers. It’s actual range after firing was very limited, yet this was contradicted by every report gathered thus far from the ships that had been targeted. There had been no sign of any German aircraft near the targets. The reports from ships at sea indicated that the enemy was seeing and targeting them from well beyond the range of optical or even long range radar detection!

Eventually they came round again to the initial sighting of airborne contacts near the German ship in the first days of the encounter. It was then suggested that the Germans might be launching sea planes of the type often carried by cruisers and battleships, and then using these as platforms to spot and vector the weapons in. Bletchley Park suggested they had only to fire the rockets in the general heading of the target, and perhaps the Germans had then rigged some kind of homing device, even a small radar set in the nose of the missile, that would enable it to hit with such precision. It was a remarkably accurate assessment, but equally shocking to think the Germans had made these advances while similar Allied programs remained at rudimentary levels of development.

“We thought that from the very first,” said Brind. “But I’ll be damned. None of our pilots have managed to get a look at these German planes…except for that odd report we got from the weather station on Jan Mayen.”

“You mean that helicopter report?” Even the word sounded odd to Tovey, let alone the concept of a plane without wings. Yet ideas about helicopters had been around since the time of Leonardo da Vinci, and he admitted to the possibility that the Germans had again stolen a march on them and put such an aircraft into service.

Tovey sighed. “First we get news that Tirpitz is on the loose, then Bletchley Park tells us it’s Admiral Scheer, then we think this ship is Graf Zeppelin, and now this… We’ve run out of German ships, Brind. What do we call this one? We don’t miss something on the order of a new ship design. I can excuse the rest. These rockets could have been developed in underground facilities, and kept very hush, hush. But a ship? To have anything like this at sea now the Germans would have had to lay her keel years ago, and you and I both know they only have so many dock yards capable of building a cruiser class ship.”

Brind was clearly perplexed. “There were two ships originally planned in that German carrier program, sir. Ship “B” was contracted, but her hull was never completed. The Germans halted construction on that one and scrapped her just after the war began in September of 1939. We’ve had some inkling they might be trying to convert a cruiser or even a civilian ocean liner to a carrier, but these photos put an end to that speculation. The odd thing is that there hasn’t been a whisper out of Berlin about this business either, sir. You would think they would crow about their engagement with us, or perhaps make some statement regarding this attack on the US task force. I may be climbing out on a limb here, and I apologize for leading you up the bridle path about Graf Zeppelin….”

“Don’t worry about that, Brind. Speak your mind, man.”

“Well sir, this might not be a German ship at all…”

Events were running on, as the ships, American, British and from parts unknown plied through the sea on courses that all seemed to be converging on Newfoundland. The British were worried that the raider would simply turn east and head out into the Atlantic, but a small fishing trawler out of Newfoundland spotted a lone ship on a course due south of the location where Wasp had sunk. Apparently this German captain seemed convinced of his invulnerability, and came boldly on, albeit at a more cautious rate. The trawler estimated the contact speed at twenty knots.

At the time Tovey was some 225 miles to the south, and the American Task Force 16 was 150 miles northwest of his position. Somerville was an equal distance south, and the three forces, steaming for Newfoundland, formed a slowly compressing wall of steel as their courses converged. Then a further report came in from the PBY: amazingly, the enemy ship changed course in a direction no one expected, not east or southeast into the Atlantic, but southwest on a heading that would put it off the coast of Newfoundland in another twenty four hours.

“The gall of that ship,” Tovey exclaimed. “Do they think the Royal Navy has just turned tail and run home?”

“More than likely they’ve got other ideas,” said Brind. “They may have even got wind of this secret meeting.”

“What could they possibly be up to with that heading?” Tovey shook his head.

“It could be a fuel situation,” Brind suggested. “Perhaps they have a tanker hidden away that the Americans failed to spot. The weather has been somewhat grim. Then again…If they do know about the Prime Minister’s meeting, that ship is on a course that will put it in firing range of Argentia Bay given the range of these rockets.”

Tovey raised his eyebrows at that. “Damn,” he said. “Could the Germans have known about this meeting all along? I only learned the details but a few days ago.”

“True, sir, but there it is. The raider would be here tomorrow morning if it holds its present course and speed.” Brind pointed to the map off the northeast cape of Newfoundland. He took up a pair of calipers and neatly drew a circle. “That’s the range we’ve observed on these rockets.” The arc of fire covered the whole of Argentia Bay.

“We’ll have to do something about this, Brind. We can’t very well have Jerry taking pot shots at the Prime Minister, can we? Look here… If we put out the word and make all the speed we can, perhaps we can cover that coastline and herd this raider into the Sea of Labrador. All we have to do is form a line and then sweep north.” Tovey moved his arm, as if stroking a tennis ball and knocking the German ship halfway to Greenland. “We’ve enough ships to cover well over 200 miles. We’ve got her now, Brind. She’s stickling her neck out with this maneuver, and right into our jaws of steel.”

The Admiral could see an opportunity here, and he immediately asked the Prime Minister if he would consider transferring to a fast cruiser, and sail on ahead, well screened and protected by all the ships now gathering in the region. That way he could keep Prince of Wales in hand for the battle he hoped was just hours away now.

Churchill, balked, at first, hoping to stay at sea for the action. “Giving me the bums rush, Admiral?” he complained. “I was hoping to actually see you get your teeth into this German ship.” He was eventually persuaded that this would be most unwise, and the early arrival of the Americans and FDR at Argentia proved a sufficient lure. That decided, the Prime Minister was ferried over to the cruiser Devonshire and, thankfully, Admiral Pound went along as well. Tovey detached three destroyers with them, Echo in the van, and Eclipse and Escapade to either side. Designated Task Force C, the group sped away at all of 34 knots, hastening on toward their fateful rendezvous at Argentia Bay.

This allowed Tovey to take the rest of Home Fleet, including Prince of Wales, northwest on a course that would eventually put him just east of the American Task Force 16. Being informed of the American order of battle, he reasoned that together they would then have sixteen ships, including three battleships, a battlecruiser, five cruisers and seven destroyers—a wall of steel stretching from the coast of Newfoundland some 200 miles out to sea, in a good position to find and smother this enemy raider when they turned north.

That was not all. With FDR safely ashore, the Americans were now free to reinforce their fleet with the addition of the battleships New York, Arkansas, three or four fast cruisers and double that number of destroyers in Desron 7. Admiral Starke convinced King that this was, indeed, a job for the cruisers.

“Leave the battleships behind,” he suggested. We can use their AA guns to beef up air defense in the bay here in the event the Germans try lobbing some of these new glide bombs and rockets our way.” He also wanted FDR in the best armored ships he had, and the cruisers and destroyers had the speed required for a hunt at sea. He put it in terms King quickly understood and embraced. “Release the hounds, Rey. Let’s get the dogs out after this bastard and run it down. The old battleships will just get in the way and, if need be, you’ve got Mississippi out there already, though I suggest you make her the goalie in this game.”

King agreed that this was a much better plan, and so the venerable WWI battleships New York, the “Lady Broadway,” and Arkansas, “Old Arky,” hove to in Argentia Bay, with FDR and all the remaining brass eagerly awaiting the arrival of Churchill. The fast cruisers left hours later, Brooklyn, Nashville, Augusta, and Tuscaloosa, all eager to get out to sea and into the hunt. There was an empty berth back home where Vincennes once anchored, and they had a score to settle.

When Marshall brought up the fact that the US was still technically neutral King bristled at the notion. “You tell that to John Reeves and the rest of his crew on Wasp,” he said.

An hour later Roosevelt had drafted and issued a Presidential Order for the U.S. Navy to find and sink any and all hostile ships within 300 miles of the coast of Newfoundland. The Americans were edging ever closer to an open declaration of war, which was nothing more than a formality now. All FDR had to do was make sure Admiral King realized the British were out there as well, and that they were not hostile ships, in spite of the Admiral’s distaste for the ‘conniving limeys’ as he called them.

As the clock ticked off the time, an unspoken Zero Hour loomed in the minds of every man involved, and that same clock was ticking aboard Kirov as well.

Just as Karpov was pressing Orlov for his support, Zolkin and the Admiral were finishing up their conversation in the sick bay. “Don’t worry about Karpov,” he said. “If he starts another battle I’ll carry you up to the bridge myself.”

“That man is dangerous,” said Volsky. “He claims to have only the interests of the ship and crew at heart, yet I feel there is something more there.”

“I agree,” said Zolkin. “There is more to the man than meets the eye. He is brooding on something, scheming. You can see it in his body language, Leonid. But understand his situation. He is captain of the ship, but yet not captain as long as you are aboard.”

“Professional jealousy?”

“More than that. It is a kind of adverse reaction to higher authority. In my opinion he regards his own judgment as unassailable, and resents any interference. He may accord you the respect your rank deserves, but I think it is mere lip service and that he views you as an obstacle, or worse, as an interloper aboard a ship that is rightfully his. I have seen a thousand men like him over the years. It seems our Mother Russia breeds them in batches. Do you notice how he closes up physically whenever questioned? He folds his arms defensively. His eyes narrow, and his expressions clearly register impatience, resentment and even annoyance.”

“The man has an ego, most certainly.”

“You must be cautious with such a man. He can become a dangerous and unpredictable enemy.”

“What are you suggesting, that Karpov might attempt to subvert my authority?”

“Possibly. We are not operating under normal circumstances, my friend. Severomorsk is not a radio message away any longer. The entire chain of command aboard this ship derives from authority vested in men by a world that no longer even exists! The men are performing their duties. They say, yes sir; no sir; if I may, sir, but this is mere protocol, reflexive behavior on one level.”

“I think I have earned the respect of these men many times over,” said Volsky.

“That you have, and this is your strongest asset at the moment. Take off the stripes and uniforms and we are all just men, Leonid, and men do odd things in situations of extreme pressure. In Karpov’s case, they salute the rank, but I do not think they salute or admire the man. In your case I think the men genuinely love and respect you, and would follow you irrespective of your rank. You are “Papa Volsky,” the Grand Admiral of the Fleet. Some still hold you in awe, others see you as a father figure. Yet sometimes a father has a wayward and rebellious son, yes? This is Karpov. And when a man like Karpov feels threatened, he will seek allies before he acts.”

“Aboard this ship?”

“Where else? And you can make a very short list of the men most likely to see things his way.”

Volsky was silent for a time, his face pained under those thick brows, eyes furrowed, distant, as if seeing some inward thing in a far off corner of his mind. “I’m getting old, Dmitri,” he said sullenly. “I thought I would finish out my days at home with my grandchildren on my knee and a nice garden. Now here I am with the fate of the world on my shoulders, and that home I imagine no longer even exists, just as you say. This is somewhere in the mind and soul of every man aboard this ship, and younger men are adventurous. They are hungry. They see the days ahead as something to be discovered, something gained, and not as something to be settled and given a proper balance, not as a place to find rest and ease of mind. They have not yet lived, and they are reaching, planning. Me? I am tired. I want to sit down under a palm tree with a good glass of wine and read. Yet I do not think any of us will find that island you spoke of once, with all the pretty Polynesian girls. Things are coming to a boiling point soon. We cannot sail about taking shots at any ship that comes near us. At some point this must resolve. It has to be settled.”

“Resolve to what, Leonid? What are you going to do?”

“This business at Argentia Bay—the Atlantic Charter. Perhaps I can put some jam and honey on the table for the Russia that emerges from this war.”

“How? You mean you intend to go there yourself and speak your mind with Roosevelt and Churchill after what Karpov has done?”

“I considered it. Stalin was not invited, but they are bringing all their admirals and generals. I am Grand Admiral of the Russian Northern Fleet, or so you tell me.”

“Yes, I tell you that, but can you tell that to Churchill and Roosevelt? This is risky, Leonid. Assuming you convince them of who and what we are; where we have come from—assuming they believe what you tell them, then would they not see you as a valuable asset?”

“Of course, that was my hope.”

“But think… If you were at war in our day, and had a man here who knew the history yet to come, every battle, every mistake made, would you not keep him close?”

“You are suggesting I would be taken prisoner?”

“That is a likely outcome should you place yourself in a situation where you cannot easily regain your freedom.”

The Admiral considered this, nodding. “I had come to this reasoning myself some time ago,” he confessed. “But I just wanted to see what you might think of the prospect and I think you are correct. A visit with Churchill and Roosevelt sounds appealing, even exciting. But it would be most unwise. I gave it some thought, for a long time, perhaps too long.”

“Is this why you have allowed the ship to remain on this course?” Zolkin questioned him further. “You were thinking of joining this meeting? I’m afraid that Karpov may have other thoughts about this situation. Mark my words—he intends a show of force, and if the Allies gather in strength, he will meet fire with fire. And so, old man, if you ever do want to sit under that palm tree and read, you had better get yourself back up to the bridge. I certify you as healthy and fit for duty. It’s Orlov’s watch now. Karpov has been prowling around below decks, but I think you should get there soon.”

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.”