Kirov

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.

He ran down the long narrow halls and corridors, up a ladder and onto the central deck where Zolkin held forth in his clinic. Usually there would be a line there, but not during battle stations. Fedorov huffed up to the door and pulled on the hatch, surprised to find it was shut tight. Then he heard a voice from the inside, somewhat cautious, yet insistent. It was the Doctor.

“Who is there?”

“It’s me, Doctor. Lieutenant Fedorov. You asked me to come at 1800 hours. If it is inconvenient, I can come another time.”

“Fedorov!” It was the Admiral’s voice. “Look at the emergency hatch latch on top. What do you see?”

Fedorov looked up, shocked to see a small metal padlock slipped through the machined holes in the metal flange to lock the bolt in place. He told the Admiral what he saw, and was ordered to fetch engineers at once with metal cutters or an acetylene torch. What was happening? His mind needed only a few seconds to piece the situation together. It was Karpov, he knew. Karpov and Orlov. They were taking the ship, and god only knew what mischief the Captain had in mind. He had to get to engineering as fast as he could.

Karpov had sealed off the bridge and posted a guard. He checked the hatch latches personally and thumbed off the intercom there to disable incoming calls through the hatch. There was nothing to preclude someone banging on the hatch with a wrench to get attention, but he could ignore it, and it would take time to force the hatch open, even for the ship’s engineers. Time was all he needed now. Tasarov found and killed the enemy submarine, and he realized it must have been a German U-boat.

In fact, it was the boat Fedorov had discussed with the Admiral, U-563, an early arrival with orders to join the Grönland wolfpack forming up south of Iceland, but the boat’s captain had seen something curious that led him astray. He spotted King George V and Repulse hastening west, saw them hit and burning, and came to believe that there must be other U-boats about. Eager to get into the action, he turned west. The British ships were hurt but not sunk, and then made off to the south, but U-563 kept on a course that eventually brought it very near another strange looking vessel, which he tried to engage with a badly planned long shot. He paid for that mistake with his life.

Now Karpov was taking final stock of the situation. He could see that the Americans were getting dangerously close to his ship, yet they did not seem to have very many heavy units in their task groups. He was more concerned about group three on Rodenko’s screen, with at least three battleships, or so he believed. What were the names of the ships? The King, the Prince, and another one. It did not matter. He would sink them all.

“I have been recording signal return characteristics on those units,” said Rodenko. King George V is there again, along with another ship that is nearly identical in its profile.”

“Churchill,” said Karpov, his eyes alight.

“Sir?” Rodenko did not understand what the Captain meant.

“Never mind, Lieutenant.” Karpov decided to engage the heavy British task force he presumed to be the British Home Fleet, ordering Samsonov to fire Moskit-II Sunburns in two missile salvos.

“What about group number one, sir?” Samsonov asked. “It is well inside ninety miles and closing.”

“Those are nothing more than destroyers,” said Karpov. “We’ll deal with them later. For now, target the British—this group.” The Captain pointed at Samsonov’s CIC screen and the weapons officer acknowledged with a deep “Aye, sir.”

The British were steaming with destroyers Icarus and Intrepid, and a screen of three cruisers, Suffolk, Nigeria, and Aurora. Behind them came the battleships King George V and Prince of Wales, with the battlecruiser Repulse at the rear. The missiles would come in on the starboard side of the task force, aiming for its heart.

The first two had been reprogrammed to cancel their terminal sea skimming run, and they plunged down at Prince of Wales, striking her amidships with a thunderous explosion. Her aft stack was blown clean away by one missile, which then went on into the sea in a rain of fire. The second plunged into the heart of the ship, the heavy warhead penetrating four decks and the fuel laden fuselage igniting an inferno at every level.

The next pair fell on Repulse, also from above, where the missiles easily penetrated the thin deck armor, less than two inches at the point of impact. Their heavy 450 kilogram warheads, and the extreme kinetic force behind them, saw both missiles plunge completely through the ship, blowing holes in her hull as they did so. Catastrophic flooding was underway almost immediately. Twenty eight of her forty-two boilers were destroyed in one massive explosion that killed half the engineering crew on the ship. The old battlecruiser floundered to one side, soon settling deep into the water as she began to sink. A massive column of smoke was ejected into the sky above her. Her time had come, but it was nigh at hand in any case, for just a little over four months later she would have met a similar fate, along with Prince of Wales, at the hands of Japanese pilots after having been transferred to the Pacific. The Japanese would not get their chance—with either ship.

Prince of Wales was also wounded and on fire, but still under her own power, with all guns unharmed and ready for action. Yet had the Prime Minister been aboard her at that moment, the Sunburns would have taken his life, striking within a few yards of the state room where he had been quartered. Thankfully, Churchill was hundreds of miles away by now on the cruiser Devonshire, speeding toward his rendezvous with Roosevelt at Argentia Bay.

The next four Sunburns were sea skimmers, again streaking in from the starboard side, and aimed at the vanguard of the British task force this time. One struck the cruiser Nigeria full amidships and blew through her armor causing serious damage. Two more went on through a gap in the formation and struck Prince of Wales, but her heavy fifteen inch main belt was enough protection to save her. The fires amidships, however, were far more severe, and her Captain, John Leach, gave the order to fall off in speed until she was well behind King George V, trailing in her wake near the stricken Repulse. The last of the four missiles struck the destroyer Icarus, which had been leading in the vanguard of the fleet. The damage there was so severe that the small destroyer capsized within fifteen minutes and was floundering in the swelling sea, which became a seething mix of fire and hissing steam as the hot metal hit the cold ocean waters when the ship started to sink.

Admiral Tovey’s Home Fleet had been struck a hard blow, decimated by a single barrage of Kirov’s powerful anti-ship missiles. Though King George V and Prince of Wales were still battle worthy, he knew he could not sail on and leave the stricken ships and crew of the Repulse to their fate. The Home Fleet slowed and circled to begin rescue and recovery operations at once while the damage control squads on Prince of Wales desperately fought her fires. If they could be controlled he fully intended to press on with his heavier battleships, though he could see now that even a screen of lighter cruisers and destroyers was of no benefit to him. It was coming down to armor now, he decided. This was a job for his fast battleships. But could he get them within range of the enemy before his ships were pummeled again by these infernal rockets? How many more did the enemy have?

Karpov knew none of this, hearing only that he had scored multiple hits, and determining that some must have caused severe damage when Rodenko reported that the speed of several targeted contacts had diminished considerably. Yet he had expended another eight of his precious Moskit-II Sunburn missiles to achieve these results, and now there were only twenty left in the ship’s inventory, the crews below already racing to reload the silos that had fired.

This will not do, he thought. This barrage had wounded the British, to be sure, but the blow was not fatal and the two American task forces to the south had not yet even been engaged. When Rodenko reported yet another contact, a new surface action group coming up from the south very near the British home fleet, the odds began to stack ever higher against him.

“Con, new contact, seven ships, fifteen kilometers southwest of original target.”

Seven more ships, thought Karpov. Seven more. He had twenty Moskit-IIs, ten MOS-IIIs and ten P-900 Cruise missiles left, just forty anti-ship missiles remaining. Once they were fired the ship’s power would be diminished considerably, and Kirov would have to rely on her 152 millimeter deck guns in any future ship to ship engagement, a circumstance that would allow the enemy to come within firing range as well. Her torpedoes were best suited to anti-submarine warfare, and they had already been attacked by one German U-boat. He would need them to counter that threat as well. This was no good. It was simply a matter of math now. He had all of forty missiles, and there were at least twenty-eight ships south of them now, all steaming north hoping to be the first to get within firing range for the vengeance that must surely be burning in the hearts of every man aboard.

Were there more behind them? Karpov’s eyes gleamed, reflecting the milky green phosphorescence of Rodenko’s radar returns as he leaned over that station in the darkened citadel. He stood up stiffly, looking for Orlov.

“Mister Orlov, I need you.”

The chief was at his side a moment later, his wool cap pulled down low on his forehead over gloomy eyes. “Look at Rodenko’s screen,” said Karpov. “We would have to expend most of our remaining missile inventory to put even one hit on each of those ships and, as we have seen, a single hit is not sufficient to disable their larger capital ships. We hit four of eight ships with our first barrage of eight missiles. Yet many remain active in that surface action group, still operational. I believe we must resort to stronger measures. Do you concur?”

Orlov knew exactly what the Captain was asking him. He rubbed an eyebrow, his eyes uncertain. “What about the Admiral’s order?”

“What about it?” Karpov said in a hushed tone. “The old fool is still in sick bay, where he should have been all along.”

“There’ll be hell to pay if we resort to special warheads, Karpov.”

“From who? Are you losing your nerve? There will be hell to pay if we do not,” said Karpov. “The British will most likely stop to rescue survivors of any ship we may have struck, but they will be back after us again in little time. As for the Americans, they have not been persuaded by our last attack on their carrier group and something must be done to strengthen the lesson. One missile could do the work of twenty here. Do you agree?”

“There will be consequences, Captain. Severe consequences.” Punching a man in the face was one thing. Orlov did that a lot. But killing a man was quite another thing, and in spite of his checkered past, Orlov had never been a murderer. He had hurt men, sometimes badly, but never killed.

“Do you agree?” The Captain’s voice was harder now, more insistent. Orlov was his strongest ally and he wanted the comfort of a second command level officer to justify what he knew he would order, one way or another.

“We do not have to fight here,” Orlov suggested again with a nervous edge to his voice. “We could turn north and outrun any battleship they have. The Atlantic is a big ocean.”

Karpov was angry now. “Look, this will go on and on, Orlov. If not here we will face the same question again another time, in another battle, and each time we engage the enemy our missile inventory grows thinner and thinner. We must strike a decisive blow! We must convince them the power we possess is unassailable. We could take out a significant portion of their fleet here with a single warhead now, and all the less to bother us later. I will ask you one final time. Do you support my decision?”

Rodenko had been listening to everything the two men were saying, his eyes casting furtive glances at them as they spoke in hushed tones, their voices tense and strained. Karpov looked at his Chief one last time and said, “are you going to let them chase us off, Orlov, humiliate us as they will do for the next seventy years if we let them?”

Orlov shrugged, his eyes laden with anxiety. “Execute your attack, Captain. I’ll back you. But you had better be quick about it.” He looked at Rodenko, realizing the radar man had heard just a little too much in the heat of their discussion. “Keep your nose here, Rodenko.” he tapped the radar screen, as he opened his jacket, allowing a glimpse of the Glock pistol tucked away there.

Some fifty nautical miles to the south, the fast destroyers of Desron 7 under Captain J.L. Kauffman were racing north. The squadron was composed of eight destroyers some old, some new, just joining the fleet from shipyards all over the northeast from Maine to Massachusetts. Kauffman was aboard DD 431, the USS Plunkett and leading in division 13 with Benson, Mayo and Gleaves. Division 14 was on his right with DDs Madison, Lansdale, Jones and Hughes. Six of the small ships were the older Benson class, a little over 1600 tons. The last two were Gleaves class, much the same in design, yet fresh off the dock yards. An evolution of the older Sims class destroyers, the ships were two stackers with a unique new feature that separated the boiler from the engine room so that the ship could not be disabled by a single hit. It was a fast, durable design, capable of a whisker over 37 knots in trials, though top wartime speed would usually be in the range of 33 to 35 knots. And the ships had a range of nearly 6000 nautical miles on one load of fuel, which made them ideal for deployment to the Atlantic.

Now they were racing north through the choppy seas like a pack of hunting dogs sent to flush out prey. Little did they know that the dark panther they were stalking had teeth and claws to defend herself better than any ship in the world. Kirov was three times the size of these ships, though each destroyer carried nearly as many deck guns as the big Russian battlecruiser, with five 5 inch guns each. But their real teeth were the ten sleek 21 inch torpedoes on two quintuple racks amidships. The destroyer’s job was to rush in, fire their torpedo spread, then make smoke and withdraw, a determined harassment that could be deadly to any ship hit by one of their underwater lances.

Kauffman was eager to get into the fray that day. Everyone aboard was equally ready to avenge the loss of Wasp and deliver a sting to the enemy on the carrier’s behalf. The watchmen were out on the bridge, eyes straining through field glasses as the ships surged forward. Every man was at action stations hoping to be the first to fire at the Germans. They would get their wish soon enough.

As the evening progressed Desron 7 was running at high speed, closing on a distant grey horizon. They had seen strange contrails light up the sky there, and Kauffman followed them back to a single point on the horizon and steered his ships accordingly. Word was that the Germans had some slick new rocket weapon, and they had been lashing the Royal Navy pretty hard with it the last few days. Then came the attack on Wasp, and the Americans got a firsthand look at what these new weapons could do. Kauffman realized the danger ahead for them now. Destroyer Walke had taken a single hit from one of these rockets and was nearly blown in two, sinking in short order.

He saw six, then eight contrails streaking across the sky, as if some enraged monster had clawed the serried clouds with fitful anger. His hounds were racing on, hot with the scent of the enemy now, the first sign they had of the Germans at sea since one of his group had lobbed a depth charge at a Nazi U-boat some months ago, the very first action against hostile forces in the Atlantic by a U.S. Navy vessel. The Germans seemed to be firing at something, but the contrails were not approaching his ships. Perhaps he could sneak up on them before his task force was even noticed, he thought.

Piecing together sighting reports from PBYs out of Argentia, he reasoned that his ships were well inside a hundred miles south of where he suspected the enemy raider was cruising. Now they hurried to put on all possible speed, surging forward in the swelling seas, intent on battle. Their engines strained and their stacks belched out thick smoke as they surged ahead, making nearly 35 knots. With Kirov cruising at nearly top speed, the two groups were now approaching one another at over 75 miles per hour.

Desron 7 was closing in. While Karpov had engaged the British fleet, Kauffman’s destroyers ate up the distance as they pounded their way north, the bows of the small tin cans rising and falling, foredecks awash in the churning seas. Some thirty minutes elapsed while Karpov assessed damage to the British Home fleet and engaged in a discussion with Orlov over how to proceed. In that long interval the destroyers had come within 15 miles of the enemy, though they did not know it yet.

Five minutes later a watchman on DD-421, the Benson, spotted something darkening the distant horizon. He stared, wiping his field glasses clean again, and looking a long time. A shadow grew and thickened, resolving at last to the tall silhouette of a large fighting ship. There it was! He called down to the bridge with the news—enemy ship sighted, dead ahead!

Soon the signal lanterns were winking from ship to ship and battle ensigns rose on the halyards, the flags snapping in the stiff headwinds to signal line abreast for attack. Desron 7 had finally found the Germans, or so they believed. The eight ships spread out in a broad line, racing forward as the anxious crews manned their battle stations. What was out there that had given the Royal Navy such a problem? Any man that managed to crane his neck and squint out a look at the distant enemy ship had but one thought in his mind when he first saw Kirov—the devil to pay…

On they came, the crews tense at the swivel racks where five sleek 21 inch torpedoes were mounted on either side of the ships. Aboard Plunkett, Captain Kauffman knew he was taking a grave risk charging in broad daylight like this given all the scuttlebutt on this new German raider, but he wasn’t about to pass up this opportunity to even the score for Wasp. The Admirals had chewed the fat for some time over this, and turned his boys loose. Now he was going to attack and do his damndest to put a torpedo into the enemy, even if it cost him his ship.

Deep in the heart of the destroyer sat the old electro-mechanical Mark I fire control ‘computer,’ which was a bit of a misnomer given the modern day understanding of that word. Developed in the early 1930’s by the Ford Instrument Company, it was really something more like a massive finely tuned Swiss watch, a bulky, six foot long metal sided box, all of three feet wide and four feet tall. Inside it was a tightly packed menagerie of precision tooled components: gears, rods, balls and bearings, metal plates, drive shafts, couplings and differentials so tightly packed that you could barely insert a finger into the device, and no one who ever looked inside one could believe it was capable of achieving any unified purpose.

Yet the Mark I system was, indeed, an analog computer of sorts, and it was capable of interacting with both optical sighting and radar returns, along with information from gyroscopes, to calculate range, speed, and reach a predictive plot solution on a potential target to control the destroyer’s 5 inch deck guns. Benson had two turrets up front, with a single gun each, and three more aft. The guns could range out about ten miles, and so they were the first to fire in anger at the enemy ship, the rudimentary Mark I giving the orders and guiding the rounds in as best it could.

Kaufman had the heat of battle on him. He signaled his destroyers to fire as soon as they had the range, and Benson, eager to be both the first to see and first to fight the enemy, opened fire at once. The charge of the tin-can destroyers had begun, eight ships abreast and closing on an ever darkening shadow the like of which they had never seen in their lives at sea, and would never see again.

Karpov breathed in deeply, as if he were taking in a new measure of strength. The choice was no longer his now, not his alone. He at least had one confederate in Orlov and what would happen next would happen eventually, he knew. This and a hundred other justifications ran through his mind. The tactical situation was perfect. He had the element of surprise. The enemy target was heavily concentrated. The weapon of choice was clearly indicated, and his math was infallible.

Samsonov interrupted him, his voice edged with urgency. “Sir, the number one contact on my screen is very close.” Rodenko had been distracted by the close proximity of the Captain and Orlov, his attention riveted to what they were saying to one another in tense, hushed voices. When he saw Orlov’s Glock pistol, his heart leapt to think what might be happening. What was the Captain doing?

A moment later a watch stander at the forward viewing panes call out in a loud voice: “Captain, we are being fired on!”

Karpov spun about, somewhat shocked, his gaze drawn out through the view ports to the gray sea, where he saw the unmistakable water plumes of shells landing some ways off, well short of the ship, yet Kirov was racing on, right into the range of the distant fire.

“Rodenko?”

“The number one surface action group, sir. American destroyers, I read eight ships, and they are fanning out in a line, range 20,000 meters and closing.”

“20,000 meters?” Karpov’s face reddened with anger. “How did they get so close? Have you been sleeping?” Then to Samsonov he said, “Return fire at once. No missiles. Use the forward deck guns and blow them out of the water.”

“Aye, sir!” There were only two gun mounts that could bear on the targets given Kirov’s present heading, her bow pointed directly at the enemy destroyers. One was the forward mounted 100mm battery, a single gun that they had first used to drive off the impudent British destroyer Anthony near Jan Mayen. Samsonov activated it, and fed in the initial targeting information. The second battery was the larger twin 152mm deck gun, with heavier rounds, nearly 6 inches in diameter, and with better range and accuracy. Both batteries began to engage, the crack, crack, crack of their rapid firing guns punctuated by the metallic clatter of the shell casings ejected from the turret. And the fire control computer that guided these rounds was not an oversized Swiss watch, but a fully integrated, state-of-the-art advanced digital computer, many orders of magnitude more powerful than the largely clunky mechanical Mark I system on the American destroyers.

Within milliseconds the computer had the range and six shells from the 152mm battery soon slammed into the Benson, pounding her with four direct hits on the foredeck and forward battery, destroying the gun there immediately. All the American destroyers replied with their two forward deck guns, outnumbering Kirov’s batteries by sixteen guns to three. The difference was the fire control systems. While the destroyers had yet to come into effective range for a chance at accurate fire, nearly all of Kirov’s rounds were finding targets, smashing into the lightly armored tin-cans as they boldly charged the raging bull before them.

“Hit on the lead destroyer!” said Samsonov.

“Good shooting,” Karpov returned. “Put the guns on full automatic. I want those ships chopped to pieces.”

Benson was hit by two more 152mm rounds, a large explosion amidships shaking the ship when the starboard torpedo mounts went up. Soon there was a raging fire, and thick black smoke. The ship that was first to see and first to fire on Kirov, was also first to die. The fire control system on Kirov responded to a new target command sent by Samsonov, and the gun shifted smoothly, ranged on the next target, and cracked out a series of eight rounds in four tightly controlled two round salvos.

DD Mayo was hit by six of the eight rounds, the other two near misses given the narrow beam of the ship. The 100mm forward deck gun had also ranged on Kaufman’s flagship, Plunkett, and struck her with three rounds in rapid succession. Jones was next in line, swamped by another eight rounds and set ablaze by Kirov’s radar guided 152mm battery. Then all the American ships seemed to be afire, with thick black smoke coming from every one. They were deliberately making smoke, but Karpov interpreted the sight as evidence his guns were making a swift end of the brash enemy.

The Captain took up his field glasses, watched a moment longer, then snapped them down, his lips tight, eyes gleaming with a smile. His guns would do the job well enough. All the American destroyers were firing back at him, but they were still short or wide of the mark. One round was a little too close for comfort, and Karpov ordered chaff countermeasures just in case the enemy had a radar set at a wavelength their jamming might not be effectively suppressing. Satisfied that the engagement was bending toward an inevitable result, he turned to Samsonov with new orders. Now he had bigger fish to fry.

“Mister Samsonov,” he said in a loud clear voice. “Activate the MOS-III missile battery, and enable CSSC module for the number ten missile.”

Samsonov looked over his shoulder, a surprised look on his face, but when he saw Karpov fishing beneath his sea coat and drawing out his command level key, he realized the Captain was deadly serious. His was not to question, nor to reason why. He executed the order on reflex, announcing his system status in his deep baritone, “Sir, MOS-III battery now active. The number ten silo seals are broken and the missile is enabled. The coded switch set controller is in the ON position, awaiting command level key entry.”

Karpov looked at Orlov, seeing both fear and hesitation on his face, but he did not delay an instant. It was now or never. He stepped forward into the command information center and sat down at a chair to the right of Samsonov. With a quick motion of his thumb he flipped up the plastic keyhole cover, inserted his key, and turned it firmly to the right. The system went on with an audible tone and Karpov quickly punched a keypad below, entering a five digit code. There were ten squared windows to display the numerals entered, and his heart raced as he hoped that Chief Martinov had indeed carried out his orders. He finished entering the code that he had long ago committed to memory, pressed the activate button, and held his breath, waiting. If the CSSC module had been set to position one as he ordered, his code would be all that was required to activate the missile warhead. If it remained at the default number two setting, another command level key and code would be required now on the adjacent module, but much to his relief the green activation light winked on with a low beep. The warhead was active.

The Captain exhaled, steadying himself mentally before he stood up. He turned, clasping his arms behind his back. “Mister Rodenko,” he said, “are the enemy surface action groups still bearing on our position?”

“Sir, the initial group targeted by our Moskit-II barrage has slowed to a speed of ten knots, all other contact groups still advancing at high speed.”

“Very well…” Karpov gave Orlov one final look, but his chief said nothing. “Mister Samsonov, on my order, and seconded by the order of acting Executive Officer Orlov, I now authorize the use of nuclear weapons and instruct you to target the American task force at position number two on your screen. Ignore the destroyers. I want to strike their main battle fleet. You will launch the MOS-III number ten missile on my command.”

Samsonov leaned in over his screen, noting the surface action group contact positions clearly labeled one through four, and selecting group number two. “Sir, weapon ready and targeted. Awaiting second confirming order to authorize fire.” Samsonov looked warily at Orlov, seeing the Chief nod his head.

Orlov hesitated, ever so slightly. He had not counted on this. It was down to him now. If he failed to second the Captain’s order, Samsonov would not fire. What would Karpov do then? One look at Karpov’s face told him the Captain knew this moment was coming; knew it would be Orlov’s choice that would set the missile in motion. Was he being set up for the fall?

“Orlov?” Karpov pressed him, his eyes widening with the tension of the moment.

“Very well…” said Orlov in a low voice. “I second the Captain’s order.”

At that moment the ship’s intercom crackled alive and Doctor Zolkin began speaking to the crew.

“Fire.” The Captain spoke the word in a calm, level voice. There was no emotion in it, no regret or reluctance, and yet no hint of bravado either. And the word became an order; the order became a reflex; the reflex became a signal; the signal became a missile; the missile became death.

Chapter 32

Admiral Volsky hastened down the narrow gangway with Fedorov in his wake, and as he passed through work spaces crewmen smiled to see him up and about again, then stood stiffly to attention, their arms snapping up in salute. He passed with a brief salute and “as you were,” his face set and determined. Fedorov was quick to engineering and three men came with an acetylene torch to easily cut off the padlock and set the Admiral free.

Seconds later the claxon alarm for battle stations jangled over the intercoms into every deck of the ship. A deep horn blared, and Volsky knew what would follow, the rush of missiles being ejected from their vertical launch tubes followed by the roar of the rocket engines igniting to propel the lethal darts on their way. Karpov was at war again on the bridge, and the Admiral quickened his pace, his breath coming fast as he climbed the narrow ladder up to the bridge citadel. Reaching the top he was surprised to see the hatch closed and sealed, a watchman posted there.

“What is this? Stand aside, mishman.”

The man stood to attention, saluting.

“Open that hatch!” The Admiral’s order was sharp and pointed.

“Sir, the emergency watertight seals have been set from inside the citadel. I cannot open the hatch, sir.”

Volsky’s eyes flashed, and he immediately thumbed the intercom on the wall. “This is Admiral Volsky, I am standing outside the main hatch. Release the watertight seals and clear this hatch at once.”

The roar of two more rockets firing split the air. Volsky repeated his command, yet there was no answer from within. “What are they deaf in there? This is Admiral Volsky. Open this hatch!”

The wash of static was his only response, and the Admiral quickly surmised what was happening. Karpov had disabled the intercom here as well. The Captain had ordered emergency protocols and sealed off his bridge. If they would not hear his command via the intercom, and the external hatches were most likely sealed off as well. There was only one choice for him now.

“Those fools,” he said. “You,” he pressed a finger into the mishman’s chest. “Come with me.” The Admiral started down the ladder, his heavy soled shoes thudding on the steps with each hurried footfall. The mishman came behind him, a worried, anxious look on his face when he looked at Fedorov at the bottom. He did not understand what was happening, but orders were orders and this was the Admiral, so he followed.

Two decks below Volsky heard Karpov’s voice on the ships intercom. “All hands, all hands. This is Captain Karpov speaking. I must inform you Admiral Volsky remains incapacitated, and I have assumed full command of this ship. Stand to action stations! Emergency protocols are now in force. We are engaging a large surface action group of enemy vessels. The enemy is closing on our position and I will defend this ship. I expect every man to do his duty. That is all.”

“Incapacitated?” Volsky shook his head, his anger building as he hurried along as fast as his thick legs would carry him down passageway. Pushing through a wardroom he looked quickly at the men there, seeing them up and fetching their heavy coats and life preservers. He quickly matched faces to skill sets in his mind. “Velichko, Gromenko, Kalinichev—follow me. Kosovich, go to the Marine Quarters and tell Sergeant Troyak to come to the aft citadel with a rifle squad.”

Volsky was collecting officers and heading for the aft citadel, a secondary bridge below decks, sometimes called the “battle bridge,” that would serve as an auxiliary command center for the ship in the event the main bridge was damaged or otherwise out of action. It had control stations for every main element of the ship, including a combat information center, helm station, communications, radar and sonar; and it was also protected by an armored shell of 200mm Kevlar coated hardened steel armor, just as the main bridge. It was even served by the Tin Man optical sighting equipment mounted on the forward watch decks. Signals and HD video from the devices would feed directly to the aft battle bridge as well.

The men were shocked to see the Admiral, yet pleased. They were up and in his wake immediately, and along the way the Admiral collared Fedorov and gave him an another order. “Go to the sick bay again and fetch the doctor with his medical bag,” he said. “Then come to the aft citadel as soon as possible.” To Velichko he said: “You go and tell Chief Engineer Dobrynin to report to me at once. Then get Chief Martinov in ordinance as well. I want them both. Quickly now!”

They pressed on through narrow passages, the red combat lighting casting a ruddy hue on the lime green walls and thick bundled cables that carried the pulse of all the electronics on the ship, connecting radars, computers, control consoles. Volsky had counted four missile launches and two more roared away just as stepped up through the last hatch to the outer deck of the battle bridge. He looked up, surprised. There stood Sergeant Troyak and a squad of armed marines.

112 miles or 180 kilometers to the south, the American Task Force 16 had run far enough. Some time ago, the group had slowed to make a graceful wide turn, coming about to face the pursuing enemy with all hands at battle stations. The four transports had long since taken on the wounded and other survivors of TF-1, and hurried on south, escorted by two destroyers. The rest of the force reformed around the TF flagship captained by Jerauld Wright on the old battleship Mississippi.

Once she had been called a super-dreadnought, “a great modern battleship,” or so read the notation in Popular Mechanics in 1936. The battleship was commissioned in 1917, the largest ship in the navy at the time at 32,000 tons, and hailed as “one of the world’s mightiest ships.” Many before her had made that same claim, the mighty Hood, the mighty Bismarck, and many after her would do so as well.

By 1941, however, she was a throwback to an earlier day, much like the older Royal Navy battlewagons still slogging along as they put in useful service escorting convoys. She had a cluttered, unkempt look about her, with dark slate colored superstructure in a paint scheme called ‘North Atlantic Gray’ that gave her a brooding appearance and lent her the nickname ‘The Pirate Ship’ to those who saw her from afar. But to her own crew she was more affectionately known as ‘The Missy.’ Her superstructure and turret sides were festooned with hanging oval shaped life rafts and her forecastle was broken by metal sided tiers where open topped AA gun batteries were mounted, including the then state-of-the-art quadruple 1.1s.

For serious business, the ship carried four big turrets, paired fore and aft with three 14 inch guns each, though there had not been much use for them thus far in her career.

The old battleship stood as the core of Task Force 16, out with new orders to find and kill any hostile ship within 300 miles of the coast of Newfoundland. Captain Wright received a message indicating that Kaufman’s destroyers in Desron 7 were already charging in to get at the enemy, and he was elated. He thumbed the switch on his ship’s intercom. “Now hear this,” he said in a loud clear voice. “We’ve seen our transports safely off some time ago, and now we have orders to find this enemy ship that bushwhacked the Wasp. It looks like Desron 7 already has the scent, and we’re going after those bastards… Is Mississippi ready?”

“Aye, Aye, sir!” said every man on the bridge, and they could hear the echoes of the very same response all through the ship below, from a over a thousand other officers and men. Her twelve 14 inch guns and fourteen 5 inch guns were primed and loaded. Every hand aboard was standing to at a weapon or other action station, their faces set and grim. The big ship’s engines were thrumming as she labored along at her top speed of 21 knots, her sharp bow cutting into the sea.

Mississippi was ready.

Admiral Volsky Stepped boldly up to the guarded hatch where Troyak stood with his men. His mind considered the possibility that Karpov had posted these men here, but he discarded the thought. It would not matter. He knew Troyak all too well.

“That was quick moving,” said the Admiral. “I only gave the order for you to report here minutes ago.”

“Sir, I was ordered here by Captain and told no one was to enter the Aft Citadel.”

“The Captain is industrious today,” said Volsky. “Fortunately, I am an Admiral. Stand aside, Sergeant. You men there—open that hatch,” he said in a clear voice. As he expected, Troyak immediately complied. His men cleared the entrance way; two marines threw the hatch open and then stood by at attention. The Sergeant had been posted here with a squad, and here he was, yet ready to do the bidding of any senior officer on the scene. The Admiral of the Fleet was before him, and he stood sharply to attention, saluting. The man was obviously not incapacitated, as Karpov had told him. Seeing was believing.

Volsky stepped up and through the hatch, a train of young junior officers following behind him. As he did so Fedorov came running down the long passage with Doctor Zolkin. The men gathered in the battle bridge, a single watch stander there jumping up to attention when they entered.

“Admiral on the bridge,” said Fedorov when he pushed through the hatch. The sharp staccato of the forward deck guns added a measure of urgency. Kirov was firing at something, which meant the enemy ships were closer than the Admiral believed.

Volsky looked back at Fedorov, and winked. “Sergeant Troyak,” said the Admiral. “Post two marines here and secure this hatch. Then take the remainder of your squad to the main bridge and force entry. Wait for the engineers, if necessary, but you are to secure the main bridge and hold every man there until further notice. Under no circumstances is Captain Karpov to insert his command key into any system on the bridge. Understood?”

“Sir!” Troyak barked out an order in his Siberian dialect, and his men rippled into action.

The Admiral straightened his cap, briefly surveyed the battle bridge, and then turned to the group of young officers he had collected. “Velichko—sonar; Kalinichev—radar; Gromenko—CIC; Kosovich—helm; Fedorov—navigation. He looked and saw that Lieutenant Nikolin had joined his group, just coming off leave, and graciously waved him to his post at communications. “Gentlemen, take your posts.” And to the other yeoman and midshipmen that had followed his column, drifting in from quarters and non essential duty stations he said: “Any man trained may take a station. The rest return to your regular duty posts.” The men moved eagerly to monitors, three filing into the Combat Information Center to join Gromenko where he sat before a dark, lifeless monitor set.

Volsky strode over to the CIC where a central module held a receptacle for command key interface. He scanned the room, smiling when he saw Doctor Zolkin. “If you please, Doctor,” and Zolkin came to his side.

The Admiral flipped an overhead switch activating the ship’s intercom. “Doctor, if you would be so kind as to inform the ship’s crew that I am well and certified for duty.”

“My pleasure, sir,” said Zolkin. He found the microphone on the intercom and began to speak. “Now hear this, this is Doctor Zolkin speaking. Admiral Volsky has returned to his post, and I hereby certify him as fit for duty and commander of the ship. That is all.” Even as he finished they could hear the sound of crew members cheering below decks. The crew had been justifiably edgy under Karpov. They did their duty, complied with orders, yet the taut, strained effort of the man did not inspire confidence. Volsky, on the other hand, was loved by every man aboard. Ever since he had taken ill, the crew had been restless, uncertain, worried. It was hard enough for them to comprehend what had happened to the ship. Many still refused to believe it, yet with Volsky at the helm, they had some stable point of reference, and eagerly moved to their posts.

Even as Doctor Zolkin returned the small round microphone to its cradle on the intercom station, they heard yet another warning claxon, followed by the swish of a missile ejection and a solid fuel rocket booster igniting. To Volsky the sound was unmistakable. It was a MOS-III Starfire, one of the fastest and most lethal missiles in the world.

“I’m afraid the niceties will have to wait,” he said quickly, pulling out his command key and hastening to insert it in the module. The interface lit up and displayed the five LED windows for his code, which he entered as fast as his thick finger could poke out the digits.

When the missile jetted away it began to gain altitude and accelerate at a frightful pace. Mid-way to its target, some 112 kilometers to the south, it would reach the mind-numbing speed of Mach 8.0. He had 45 seconds before it would devour that distance.

The code was entered, and the Admiral punched a red button labeled ‘COMMAND OVERRIDE.’ Recognizing the Admiral’s key, a second series of LEDs lit up, this time displaying his name and rank: VOLSKY, LEONID, FLEET ADM, LEVEL 1 COMMAND — ENGAGE?”

There were two buttons, YES and NO, and Volsky answered in the affirmative. When he pushed that last button there was an agonizing ten second delay during which the Starfire traveled over twenty-seven kilometers. Then all the systems of the battle bridge lit up, the screens coming to life, radars displaying contact data, weapons systems noting status and active ordinance en route to target. Gromenko took one look at his screen and could not believe what he was seeing. “Admiral, that was the MOS-III system—the number ten missile!” It was even now well past mid course and burning its way down to the designated target. There were ten seconds remaining.

“Abort the missile, Mister Gromenko,” said Volsky, but at that moment the power wavered, winked off briefly, then back on. Volsky knew what had happened, his face calm and resolved. When the battle bridge went active the systems on the main bridge had all gone dark. Karpov must have realized what was happening and rushed to the emergency reset. He was attempting to regain control of the ship’s systems even as Gromenko pressed the missile abort, and that brief interval of chaos, where two computer systems wrestled for control of the energy pulsing through cables and wires all over the ship, was enough to interfere with the abort action—almost enough.

The missile received a pulsing command to interrupt its programmed flight path and nose down into the sea. Its engines cut off abruptly, but it was still moving at an incredible rate of speed. Three seconds later it would again be sent a renewed order to abort as Gromenko frantically pushed the button on his panel, this time to disable its warhead…but when the signal arrived the missile was not there. Two seconds earlier it had plunged into the sea, some 500 meters short of its intended impact point, and ignited.

Aboard DD Plunkett, Captain Kaufman was desperately shouting orders to his helmsman to zigzag his ship forward into the teeth of the enemy gunfire. The maneuver was futile, as the enemy guns were not trained and fired by men with optical sighting. A computer had hold of them now in the hard electronic grip of its radar. Lasers also targeted his ships for an added measure of accuracy. His ship was hit and on fire, as were Benson, Mayo, Jones, Gleaves and Hughes, and all eight destroyers of Desron 7 were now making smoke in an attempt to mask their brave charge and get within torpedo firing range, though the smoke did nothing whatsoever to deter Kirov’s gunfire. Kaufman suddenly saw what he first thought to be lightning on the horizon, then a bright wash of white smoke and fire coming from the distant enemy vessel. At first his heart leapt with the thought that one of his destroyers has scored a direct hit on the enemy with a 5 inch deck gun, but he was only seeing the smoke and ignition of the lethal MOS-III Starfire as it first launched.

Something moved with terrible speed, a small fire in its wake, and a long yellow tail fading to russet orange as it sped off to the east of his position. He took heart for a moment, thinking TF 16 must be pressing in from the east. Then, a long minute later, the sky itself seemed to ignite with light and fire, as if a massive thunderbolt had struck the sea, flung down by an unseen angry god. The light was so bright that he flinched, turning his head away and instinctively holding up a hand to shield his eyes. What in God’s name were the Germans firing now?

On the main bridge Karpov smiled inwardly when he heard the Starfire eject an ignite its motors. As it rocketed away he allowed himself the barest edge of an upturned lip in a restrained grin. Yet the enemy destroyers came to mind again, and he decided to bring more guns to bear.

“Helm, starboard thirty and come about on three-one-five! Samsonov, bring the two aft 152mm batteries on line and stop those destroyers!”

Desron 7 was still bravely charging through the smoke and fire, blooded but undaunted, and closing on torpedo firing range. Kirov came about in a tight turn, her aft deck guns now blazing away as she did so, pulsing out shells at an alarming rate of fire. A few seconds later, however, the systems on the bridge all winked, fluttered, and then went dark. Only the dim red overhead battle lights remained on.

“That bastard!” Karpov immediately knew what had happened. The Admiral was loose and on the secondary battle bridge, a feature unique to Kirov, and unlike any other ship in the world. He rushed to a wall panel, flipping open the clear plastic casing for the emergency reset. There would be no time to re-enter his command key and request dual control by code. He had to insure the telemetry link to the missile remained intact, and he only needed a few seconds. The ‘Fire and Forget’ guidance system on the MOS-III was disabled when the nuclear warhead was mounted. It required a command link to the mother ship, the last vestige of restraint as a fail-safe on the use of nuclear weapons. Kirov held the ever extending electronic rein on the weapon, with one last chance to pull back and hold it in check.

Karpov pulled heavily on the reset switch, yanking it down into the ON position and seeing the immediate surge of battery backup power enliven the command systems on his bridge, but it was the barest flutter. Somewhere, deep within the ship, another computer sat as judge and jury on the matter.

It was the Admiral’s ignition key that had initiated operations on the ship when he first stepped aboard and took over official command for the scheduled missile trials, and though Karpov’s command key had successfully ordered the missile fire, it was the Admiral’s key that was now activating the secondary systems on the battle bridge, and that command postdated the former. The computer saw the reset request when Karpov threw his switch, yet it endowed Volsky’s keyed command as a new and superseding order, dismissing Karpov’s plaintive action with prejudice. It closed the switches that would feed power to the main bridge, which remained dark, and it would stay that way until a second valid command key was inserted and a request for dual operations was properly coded and approved. Yet Karpov’s desperate attempt to wrest control from the Admiral had been enough to impede the abort command….

The Starfire fell into the sea, and the momentum of the missile took it over a hundred feet beneath the water before the 15 kiloton warhead exploded and sent a massive wall of white seawater blasting up thousands of feet into the sky. It was considered a small tactical nuclear warhead in Kirov’s day, but was roughly the size of the weapons the Americans would drop on Hiroshima and Nagasaki this very same week, just four years later. It fell just ahead of Task Force 16 where the Mississippi lumbered forward into the battle, and the leading destroyer Captains quailed at what they saw.

Upon detonation the weapon ignited to a blast wave of highly compressed superheated gas and vapor, which propelled millions of cubic feet of water straight up in an immense geyser. Enormous fists of seawater surged out from this central core, rising and then slowly falling, as if hammering down to smash anything that remained on the sea. Then the base of the geyser thickened as a huge surge of water radiated out in all directions, a wall of seething ocean hundreds of feet high that rolled away from the detonation like a colossal pyroclastic flow from a volcanic eruption. Above this, a steaming cloud spread out until it encompassed a width of nearly five kilometers.

The battleship Mississippi and the rest of the ships in Task Force 16 would face surging waves from the first atomic weapon ever detonated on planet Earth. The lead destroyers were swamped by the massive wall of water, tossed up and about like bits of broken wood, so much flotsam on the raging seas. The massive tsunami smashed into cruisers Quincy and Wichita, snapping the former in half and rolling the latter over beneath a million of tons of water, dragging her crushed and mangled hull and superstructure beneath the waves. Lastly, trailing some distance behind the screen of five ships, Mississippi was ready to meet her fate.

Captain Wright stared in awe at the gigantic column of water, 1500 feet in height, its walls 200 feet thick at the base of the eruption. Then the much smaller tsunami generated by the detonation careened over his ship, smashing into the battleship and rolling her completely over on her starboard side. It was as if a hurricane blast of wind and sea water had been conjured out of thin air and sent roiling down upon the ship from heaven above. That was not too far from the truth.

The fifteen megaton tactical warhead was enough to wreak havoc on Task Force 16. Not a single ship would survive. All three screening destroyers would be sunk, along with both cruisers. Only the battleship Mississippi would remain afloat, heeled over and tossed in the violent seas, her crew senseless or wildly struggling to escape the watery coffin of the ship.

Volsky had turned his key a second too late to stop the missile, but at least he had managed to transfer command operations to the aft battle bridge, foiling Karpov’s attempt to reset the system.

When the main bridge went dark again, Karpov swore under his breath. Where was Troyak? He was supposed to have secured the aft citadel from any intrusion, yet Volsky was obviously there. Either he failed to reach the citadel in time, or he had deferred to the Admiral’s command. He had to find out where he was, and where he stood in the action that might now ensue. “Orlov!” he said quickly. “Get on the intercom and summon Sergeant Troyak. I want him up here with a squad of marines at once!” If Troyak complied it would mean he was still at large, and not under Volsky’s thumb. Would the Admiral have the foresight to assure he had Troyak under his command?

Orlov went to the battery operated intercom and gave the order, so it was no surprise when the Captain soon heard a heavy footfalls on the ladder outside and a hard, clanking knock on the main bridge hatch. Somewhat relieved, Karpov went to the entrance, the red overhead emergency lighting reflecting in the eyes of every man on the bridge as they followed his shadow when he passed. He thumbed on the door intercom. “Troyak?”

“Sir, Sergeant Troyak requesting entry to the bridge.”

“Well done, Sergeant,” Karpov began, pleased that the Sergeant had come so quickly. He decided it was time for decisive action now. He would personally lead Troyak and his marines and re-take the battle bridge. Once he had the Admiral locked up again, he could finish the job and deal with the real problem at Argentia Bay. Roosevelt and Churchill were next on his list. If the fat Prime Minister had survived his barrage against the British, he would make sure that he would not escape the next missile. He had every intention of firing his second weapon of choice, the SS-N-27B Sizzler land attack cruise missile, and aiming it directly at Argentia Bay, using its nuclear warhead to incinerate everything there. But first, the Admiral…

The Captain began flipping open the hatch seals and released the lock. It opened with a slight hiss as the NBC system had increased the air pressure on the bridge slightly when it was first secured as a countermeasure to chemical or biological weapons. Gloved hands pulled the hatch open and Karpov saw the dull gleam of red light on the cold metal of an assault rifle, pointed directly at his chest. Reflexively, he stepped back, and two marines leapt onto the bridge, weapons at the ready. Behind them came the steely figure of Sergeant Kandemir Troyak, his eyes narrow and cold; emotionless.

“What are you doing, Troyak?” Karpov’s mind was a whirl. He suddenly realized what was happening and how he had stupidly compromised his position by not questioning Troyak further before he opened the hatch. How could he salvage the situation?

“Put that weapon down, Sergeant. You were ordered to secure the aft battle bridge, and you must do so at once. The Admiral is delusional! He is indisposed. Can’t you see what has happened? He has fired a nuclear warhead!” Karpov knew exactly what had happened, knew why Troyak was here now, but he played out the only line he could think of, his eyes already looking to Orlov for support.

Troyak looked at him with no emotion. Like the cold computer that had dismissed the Captain’s electronic appeal with prejudice, he, too, quietly ruled in favor of Admiral Volsky. “Sir, I regret that I cannot carry out that order and I must inform you that by order of the Fleet Admiral this bridge is now secured from further operations. All officers and crew will remain here until further notice. I must also request that you immediately surrender your command key.”

“What? What are you saying? This is outrageous! I demand to see the Admiral at once!”

Troyak just looked at the Captain, saying nothing, but the look on his face carried a clear and unmistakable message that could only be translated as: ‘Don’t fuck with me.’

“Orlov?” The Captain looked for his ally and co-conspirator, who stood with his arms folded, a disgusted look on his face. The Operations Chief took one look at Troyak, perhaps the only other man on the ship that he found in any way intimidating, and then at Karpov where he stood pointing at the marine Sergeant with a pained expression on his face. His thoughts strayed to the pistol tucked into this beltline, but there were five marines here now, each with a fully automatic weapon. The Captain seemed a small and pathetic thing before the imposing girth of the Sergeant, a Siberian Eskimo, short, squat, yet broad shouldered and powerfully muscled, his thick legs planted wide, his hand firm on his weapon.

The situation had changed now from one where the authority flowed from the protocols of rank and command structure to one where muscle and steel held sway. It was a world Orlov knew well, for he often used his own brawn to intimidate and harass the crew, imposing his surly will on any whom he found to be remiss in their duties. But Troyak was an unmovable rock, he knew. He stood there in full battle array, a black Kevlar body shield covering his broad chest, combat helmet pulled low on his forehead, weapon at hand and those dark slits of eyes watching, waiting, yet revealing nothing.

Orlov looked at the Captain and said: “Consequences, Karpov. Consequences.”

“Nonsense!” Karpov strode over to the CIC, reaching for his command key with the intent of making a coded request for dual control of the ship’s systems. The ship’s guns were still firing at the American destroyers, fully automatic, as the tension on the bridge wound to the breaking point.

“Sir,” said Troyak, coldly. “I must request that you surrender your command key at once.”

The Captain ignored him, seating himself before the command module, his key in hand. Troyak moved so quickly that even Orlov was stunned at the man’s speed. He took three brisk steps, and placed the muzzle of his assault rifle directly against the Captain’s head. A second later his hand was on Karpov’s, gripping it like a cold metal clamp.

Karpov yelled and the key slipped from his squashed hand, snatched up in one sharp movement by the marine sergeant, who then jerked his arm back and snapped the thin beaded metal chain that secured the key around Karpov’s neck. The Captain grimaced, clasping his hand where the sergeant had gripped it, and then rubbing the side of his neck.

“Your pardon, sir,” said Troyak, stepping back into a position where he could easily see every station on the bridge. He handed the key to one of his marines. “Take this to the Admiral,” he said. Then he resumed his position with his back to the far bulkhead, stolid, implacable and silent, as if nothing had happened.

The marine stepped through the hatch, quickly on his way to the battle bridge with a silver message that would tell the Admiral the ship was finally secure. At that moment, a mishman near the forward viewing screen called out. “The ocean!” he exclaimed. “Look at the sea!”

Karpov turned, a pained expression still on his face, and looked out towards the distant horizon. “You will pay for this insult,” he said, pointing at Troyak, but his gaze was soon riveted to the great white cloud in the distance, looming over the gray horizon and clearly visible as it broiled up into the atmosphere. He knew the ship was much too far from the epicenter of the detonation to suffer any ill effects, but he did see a large swelling wave rolling towards them, the leading edge of the tsunami generated by the blast wave. It was still near 40 feet high at this range, but Kirov was a big ship, 900 feet in length and with a good beam. She rode it well, rising up and then surging back down into the sea again as the battlecruiser slid into the deep trough, her bow awash with fuming white seawater.

The American destroyers did not fare so well. Two were swamped, the others forced to maneuver quickly to turn their bows into the wave, where they still floundered in the chaotic sea. But the great wave had one side benefit—its water helped quash the many raging fires aboard the destroyers as they struggled forward through the smoke of battle.

The mishman continued to point, however, and Karpov got up and stepped closer to the view screen, peering through the thick shatter proof glass and squinting as the external wipers sloshed back and forth to clear the spray of seawater. To his amazement, the ocean was rippled with a phosphorescent tide, an eerie glow of quavering green and gold.

“What in God’s name is going on?”

Everyone just stared at the scene in silence.

Chapter 33

Admiral Volsky braced himself against a bulkhead when the ship rolled with the great wave. Karpov! That fool had fired a nuclear warhead against his expressed order. God only knows what he has done now, he thought. His mind raced, as he tried to get a grip on the tactical situation.

“Cease fire on those deck guns!” said Volsky. “Shut them down.” Then to Fedorov he said: “Can you examine Mister Kalinichev’s radar and tell me what I am looking at?”

Fedorov moved quickly, the Admiral coming to his side as both men hovered over Kalinichev at Radar 1. “Sir, I read four surface action groups. That is the coast of Newfoundland. The first is close in to our position, probably smaller destroyers of Desron 7 we were engaging with our forward batteries. The second group was probably hit by our warhead. Not much left it now, sir, as you can see. That smudge there must be the detonation. Groups three and four would most likely be Royal Navy units. It looks like the Captain fired a conventional missile barrage at group four earlier—most likely a collection of the forces that have been pursuing us this far, sir. That would be the British Home Fleet, probably commanded by Admiral Tovey. They were hit, but that group is still reading six viable surface contacts.”

The Admiral nodded, his face drawn and serious. “And the number three contact?”

“It’s track shows it arriving from the southeast, sir. This can only be Force H under Admiral Somerville from Gibraltar.”

“Gibraltar?” Volsky raised his heavy brows. “You were correct about these British. They have put to sea with everything they have. Will there be an aircraft carrier there?”

“Aye, sir. The Ark Royal. She probably has two or three squadrons aboard, with veteran pilots.”

“And Group two?”

My guess is that it was composed of the ships that were originally bound for Iceland. The Americans were escorting the second of many relief convoys to reinforce their garrison there. That group was probably Task Force 16, built around the battleship Mississippi. There were two cruisers and five destroyers escorting four transports, but we only read one ship there now. Probably the battleship. It’s the only ship that might have had the armor to survive intact, but I wouldn’t want to be aboard her now, sir. The detonation was very close and there would have been an enormous shock and base surge of ocean water from the explosion of our warhead.”

Volsky nodded. “How close are those destroyers?”

“I read five contacts still afloat there, sir,” said Fedorov. “Desron 7 was the large destroyer escort accompanying Task Force 19 en route to Argentia Bay. Their speed has fallen off with the blast wave and tsunami shaking them up pretty badly. The range looks to be over 10,000 meters now. We’re still making 30 knots. I doubt if they’ll get any closer if we turn away.”

“Range 12,000 meters now and increasing,” said Kalinichev, to be exact.

The Admiral sighed heavily, his eyes troubled. “Karpov has more than likely put another two or three thousand men into the sea.”

“Mississippi had over a thousand aboard,” said Fedorov. “Cruiser Quincy had another eight hundred. She was supposed to be sunk a year and a day from now, on August 9th 1942 at the battle of Salvo Island off Guadalcanal. But I’m afraid the Japanese will be denied, sir. The other cruiser, Wichita, served with distinction in both the Atlantic and Pacific, and survived the war.”

“But not this war,” said Volsky. “Another eight hundred men gone there…” He rubbed his forehead as Doctor Zolkin watched him closely.

“Very well. Helm, come about, take us north, away from those destroyers. I want to pay a visit to Mister Karpov and resume command from the main bridge. Thank you gentlemen,” he said to his young junior officers. “I may be calling you to duty on the main bridge as well after I have sorted this mess through. Mister Fedorov, Doctor Zolkin, would you both accompany me, please?”

They stepped through the hatch, then the Admiral peeked back at his men and said: “You have the bridge, Mister Gromenko. But don’t get trigger happy, please.”

“Aye, sir.” Gromenko smiled. It was the first time in his career that he had official control of a fighting ship. He assigned his station to another petty officer and stepped ever so quietly to the command chair. He looked at it for a moment, thinking, then sat quietly down, a look of profound satisfaction on his young face, and a gleam of joy in his eyes.

Admiral Volsky made his way forward through the interior of the ship, thinking hard about the situation. “Karpov has dropped a nuclear bomb on the Americans,” he said sullenly. “I had hoped to open negotiations with the aim of paying a visit to Mister Roosevelt and Mister Churchill, but I don’t think we will have much of a warm welcome after this. That idiot of a Captain must have killed over five thousand men in the last few days! What was he thinking?”

Doctor Zolkin spoke up. “I believe he thought he could alter the course of events, Admiral. He may have had a mind to visit this conference as well, but not as an ally of Britain and the United States, nor even as an equal neutral party purporting to represent the Soviet Union. He may argue that his combat actions were forced upon him by the enemy, but we shall see.”

“I warned him not to fire on the Americans, sir,” said Fedorov. “I told him those planes were unarmed, and the carrier no threat, but he had me relieved and sent below. He would not listen to reason, sir.”

“The question now is what do we do?” said Zolkin. “Are you going to continue this war, Admiral?”

“Good question,” said Volsky. “Perhaps it will be foolish for us to proceed. What’s done is done, and we have likely already had a profound impact on the course of events. If the Americans and British still believe we are a German ship, then Karpov’s attack will likely fill them with dread, yet with equal rage. They may assume that Germany has also been working on a nuclear weapons program, and has managed to deploy a workable weapon. In fact, they may see this as the test run, perhaps assume that the Germans intend to strike America itself with nuclear weapons. The situation is spinning wildly out of control here. The Germans will deny it, of course, and claim they never even had a ship at sea. But I think the Allies will believe the evidence of their own astonished eyes, and the watery graveyard of five thousand American sailors will ignite a fire worse than the Japanese attack at Pearl Harbor did.”

“I agree, sir,” said Fedorov. “They will be intimidated, but they will not yield, at least not now. It would take the destruction of both London and New York, before they would ever contemplate surrender to Germany, and even that may not be enough.”

“You are correct, Mister Fedorov. And with this in mind it may be best if we turn east into the Atlantic and disappear. It would be foolish of me to think that I could reason with either Churchill or Roosevelt after this. We can make 32 knots, faster than any of their battleships, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I think we could cruise safely enough through to the South Atlantic, avoiding further engagement as far as possible. Our presence here is an offense to history. I cannot begin to think what the consequences will be. There will be many lives we cut short before their time, and yet, if these events prompt America to declare war on Germany at this time, there will be many lives we may have spared at Pearl Harbor.”

“It’s likely the Americans will come into the war with a vengeance, sir,” said Fedorov. “I don’t think we can count on Soviet troops getting to the Rhine first after this. As for the Japanese, they may think twice about their daring plan to sail six aircraft carriers across the Pacific to attack Pearl Harbor. The Americans will be on a full wartime footing there within days. They won’t leave their Pacific Fleet sitting there like fat ducks in a line.”

“Who can know these things?” said Zolkin.

“I am beginning to long for that tropical island, Dmitri,” said the Admiral.

At that moment they heard Kalinichev’s voice over the ship’s intercom. “Con, Radar to Admiral Volsky. We are reading a large group of air contacts, forty planes, range 100 kilometers and inbound on our position.”

“That has to be off the Ark Royal, sir,” said Fedorov.

Volsky shook his head. “Hurry on, gentlemen. We must get to the main bridge.”

They arrived to find Karpov yammering at Rodenko, waving his arms at Samsonov, berating Troyak in a loud, annoyed voice. The Admiral stepped through the hatch, and the Doctor had the pleasure of announcing him.

“Admiral on the bridge!” He shouted over the Captain’s strained voice, looking pointedly at Karpov.

Troyak saluted crisply. Karpov turned, his eyes glowing red in the darkness, and said: “What in God’s name are you doing? We are in battle! You have disabled the bridge at a critical time and put us all at risk!”

“Shut up, Captain Karpov!” Volsky’s voice was as blunt as he could make it. The Admiral strode quickly into the combat information center, drew out his key, and inserted it into the command module. He turned the key, entered his code, and restored command level operations to the main bridge. Seconds later the main lights fluttered on, equipment rebooting quickly with the hum of many computer screens and consoles. Gromenko’s brief stint as battle bridge commander was over.

The Admiral looked at Karpov, a disgusted expression on his face, and anger in his eyes. “Mister Karpov, you are relieved.”

“What are you going to do, Admiral? You have no justification to remove me from command! I was carrying out my lawful responsibility. I was defending the ship as I saw best. Mister Orlov concurred with my decisions. Ask him!”

“Mister Orlov is relieved as well,” said Volsky. “Lawful responsibility? Just what law were you abiding by, Captain, the law of the jungle? You are both under arrest. Sergeant Troyak—you will escort the Captain and Chief Operations Officer to their quarters and place two armed guards outside their door. They are to remain there until further notice. If any man here wishes to join them, let them stand now and be relieved of his duty as well.”

There was complete silence on the bridge. Karpov’s face was a mix of anguish and restrained rage. “You old fool,” he said. “What do you know? Can’t you see that we are under attack? You will get this ship destroyed with your blubbering equivocation. Don’t you see the opportunity we have here now?”

“Sergeant Troyak!”

The Sergeant moved quickly, waving at his men, and they took a firm hold on both Orlov and Karpov, pushing them toward the hatch. Orlov sneered, but otherwise offered no resistance. A marine found his weapon and removed it with a smirk, pleased to finally put one over on the bullying Chief. Karpov looked back at the Admiral and fired off one last missile. “This is not over Admiral. You will regret this decision, I promise you!” It was a useless boast, and Karpov knew it.

When the Captain had been removed Volsky took a moment to look at every man that remained on the bridge, coming to a quiet inner assessment. They looked at him, with mute admiration, and a touch of shame on their faces, and no one spoke. He could see that they had done nothing more than obey the orders of his lunatic Captain. There was no hint of conspiracy here. All this had been Karpov’s doing, and Orlov was the devil’s only apprentice. He thought he could rely on the rest of his bridge crew, and so he left them at their posts.

“I am going to assume that you are all innocent of complicity in this mutiny unless subsequent investigation proves otherwise,” he said quietly, almost like a pained father would speak to his wayward, but much loved children when they misbehaved. Then it occurred to him that the ship needed a second in command. He needed a new Starpom, an Executive Officer to replace Karpov. Without hesitation he turned to Fedorov at his navigation post.

“Mister Fedorov,” he said quietly. “You are hereby promoted two grades to the rank of Captain Lieutenant, and I now designate you as Starpom, my First Officer. You may leave navigation in the able hands of Mister Tovarich for now.”

Fedorov’s eyes widened with surprise. It might have taken him another year to make Senior Lieutenant, and then another year or two at that post before he made Captain Lieutenant. He smiled, his eyes clearly expressing his thanks. “Thank you, sir. I am honored to serve.”

For the first time he cast his gaze out through the forward view screen, suddenly shocked to see the conditions outside. The ocean water all around them had that same strange hue and glow they had seen before, just after the accident aboard Orel. The wave sets seemed oddly disturbed, rippling away from the ship in all directions, as if Kirov was exerting some strange magnetic effect on the sea itself. What was happening?

The Admiral reached for his intercom microphone. “Flag bridge to engineering,” he said. “Anything unusual Dobrynin?”

There was a brief delay before the Chief responded. “Yes, sir. I’ve got those flux readings again—the same as before. Can we slow down?”

“I’ll do what I can, Chief.”

At that moment he heard a strange sound, and turned, surprised to see the Doctor’s cat Gretchko, who had come all the way through the ship looking for his caretaker, and now stood near the open hatch to the main bridge mewing loudly.

Volsky smiled, looking at the Doctor. “Well, I see the crew is now fully assembled. Helmsman, steady on a heading of fifteen degrees north, and ahead two thirds. I think it best we get out of these waters as soon as possible.”

But the green soup they were in only seemed to deepen, the odd glow of the sea more redolent, until all the systems on the bridge were struck again by a wave of static and interference that crackled through the wires and over the screens of every station. Volsky felt it again, that prickling sensation of needles all through his body, and his hair seemed to stand on end. His first thought was that they were experiencing some odd effects radiating from the detonation, but it soon passed and the ship seemed to settle down, though the water around them still glowed with an ominous hue of green that rippled and shimmered all around them, radiating outward from the ship in all directions.

The Admiral settled into his command chair, and Gretchko the cat ran over and leapt up into his lap, purring contentedly.

“You have a message for the Admiral, Gretchko?” said the Doctor, reaching over to pet the cat on his head.

“Radar,” said Volsky. “Give me an update on those airborne contacts.” Volsky was already thinking he might yet have one more battle on his hands, more blood as well.

Rodenko was quiet for a moment, adjusting his consul, and looking at screens to the right and left of him as if he was trying to confirm something. “Sir,” he began. “I have no airborne contacts. There is nothing on my screen at all now. I’ve switched from rotating pulse Doppler on the main mast to Phased-Array, and still no contacts, sir.”

“Nothing? You have no reading on the surface action groups we were tracking?”

“No sir. Those destroyers that were chasing us are gone as well. I can read the coast of Newfoundland, so my system is processing signal returns, but I see no surface or airborne contacts of any kind. In fact, I can no longer read the detonation site. There should be a clearly visible column of steam and water vapor there, but there is no signal return. We just experienced another odd electronic flux, so the systems may have been compromised as before. It’s easy to process a signal return on a distant landform, but ships at sea, at this range, and in a post nuclear environment, may be difficult.”

“For both Doppler and Phased-Array systems? You are suggesting they are still out there but we cannot see them? Perhaps you are correct, Rodenko, but much more than the radar was compromised the last time we saw the ocean in this condition.”

Volsky looked at the ceiling mounted flat panel screen for his rear facing HD video system where a third ‘Tin Man’ stood a watch. The ship was pointed away from the detonation site, and he had to rely on his cameras to see if the mushroom from the 15 Kiloton warhead was still visible, particularly on infrared. The signal was unsteady, breaking up in the characteristic mottled digital squares. He sighed. “I miss analog,” he said. “With analog at least you got a picture, even if it was cloudy or full of fuzz. But this digital nonsense? It’s either pristine, or not there at all.” Then he decided on the obvious.

“Mister Fedorov,” he said calmly. “You are fond of rushing out on to the watch deck to look for planes, yes? Please take the Captain’s field glasses and do so now to see if you find anything out there that belongs in a museum. And while you are at it, let me know if you can still spot the detonation mushroom from the warhead the Captain fired. It should still be visible to the southeast.” When in doubt, there was always the comforting reassurance of the human eye to weigh in on the question.

Fedorov had the field glasses and was out on the watch deck for some time before he poked his head back through the hatch. “Nothing, Admiral,” he said with a smile. “No sign of the detonation at all. The horizon is clear and calm. I don’t think Rodenko is experiencing a system failure, sir. The ship appears to be in order, and the helm is responding, just as before.”

“Yes”, said Volsky, “But where are we steering her now, Mister Fedorov? The last time we slipped seventy years!” Volsky shrugged. There was nothing more to be done. The sudden disappearance of the opposing ships and planes had a vacant, hollow warning in it, and the vanishing mushroom cloud was worse than the rapid change in the weather the last time they had experienced these strange events. Something was clearly wrong, and he did not think it was the ship’s radar system.

“Mister Tasarov,” he said. “Do you have sonar readings on the surface action groups we were tracking?”

“No sir. The passive systems were all fouled up when our warhead detonated, but I can’t even read that disturbance any longer. I think we are too far off for active sonar to re-acquire, but we could try that, sir.”

“No, I don’t think that will be necessary,” said the Admiral. “Something tells me those ships and planes are not there any longer. But then again, perhaps they are… They seem to have vanished, but I think that is what they will say of us in time.”

Fedorov nodded his head, understanding what the Admiral was hinting at. “Well, sir,” he said. “We’re alive and well. The ship is sound, and in time we’ll discover what has happened, just as before.”

“Quite right, Number One,” said Volsky. “In time. We are obviously here, somewhere, and in spite of the color this still looks to be the Atlantic ocean. We have the who, what and where of things firmly in hand. The only question now is when.”

“Yes, sir,” said Fedorov, “and why.”