Men of War

Chapter 7

8000 miles and nearly 80 years away another cruiser named Kirov was finally heading home. They had a long voyage, with plenty of time to make the ship as presentable as possible, and Damage Control Chief Byko was kept very busy. As they approached the port Admiral Volsky thought it best to make their presence known, recalling that there had been increasing tension in the Norwegian Sea even before the ship set out for those fateful live fire exercises long weeks ago.

They were followed much of the way home by the American submarine, and Tasarov kept a pair of good ears on the boat the whole while. Volsky had decided to swing north of Hokkaido, and it had been a strange feeling when Nikolin picked up Japanese radio traffic and put it on the speakers. It brought back memories of that harrowing cruise through the Coral Sea, but this was the Japan of 2021. The likes of Isokoru Yamamoto, and men like Hara, Iwabuchi, Hayashi, Sakamoto, and all the others they had faced and fought were now long gone. No D3A1 dive bombers or B3N2 torpedo planes would be darkening the skies as they approached, and it was a welcome relief.

Their submarine shadow left them as Kirov neared the Japanese mainland, but they noted the Americans now had an old reliable P-3 recon plane up from Misawa Air base to take over the duty. The ship waited until it sailed through the Soya Strait and entered the Sea of Japan before they radioed home on Sept 15th, already relieved that the headlines on the newspapers Fedorov had hidden away had not come to pass. The fuse had not been lit on the war to end all wars, but the powder keg of rising tensions was still a matter of some concern.

Once Admiral Volsky made their presence known, the Russians had their own air recon operation up within the hour, overflying the ship with an old TU-142 Tupolev maritime recon plane, the Bear F/J turboprop. It was escorted by a pair of Mig-31 fighters, which flew low and slow over Kirov’s bow, the crew waving and cheering as they came, the fighters tipping their wings in reply. The pride of the Russian Navy was coming home. Wounded and limping, Kirov was still the most formidable fighting surface ship in the fleet.

“We never thought about the impact the loss of the ship would have on the country,” said Karpov as they watched the planes roar past from the weather deck off the citadel.

“It would be as if the Americans lost one of their big carriers,” said Fedorov. “There’s a lot of national pride wrapped up in this ship.”

“Yes,” said Karpov dryly, “they’re going to love us for about a week. There will be marching bands, a lot of saluting and flag waving, then the questions come.” He realized that they were back in the same old calcified structure of the Navy again. Admiral Boris Abramov commanded here at the Pacific Fleet HQ, but Volsky was to have transferred in to relieve him after the live fire exercises. Kirov was also leaving the cold northern waters of the arctic for warmer climes here, as the Russians were getting ready to commission the second ship of her resurrected class, the Leonid Brezhnev, finally built out from the older Pytor Veliky to take over the mantle of the flagship of the Northern Fleet.

“The Admiral will be happy to hear that there is finally a ship bearing his name,” said Fedorov. “At least his first name.”

“I think he’ll soon have more on his mind that that. Yes, the questions will come soon. Do we have our answers ready, Fedorov?”

“We’ve done our best, Captain. Byko has re-metaled all the 20 millimeter round holes in the superstructure and painted them over good as new. The hull damage we can explain away easily enough as a kick from Orel when she exploded. I’m not as comfortable about the damage to the aft battle bridge, or even the file damage with our missing logs.”

They had decided to try and kill a couple of birds in one throw by saying a KA-40 had been aloft, hovering just above the ship when Orel blew up. The story was that the helo had plunged down onto the aft citadel, her weapons load igniting to cause the extensive damage there. To make it seem convincing, Byko had placed some of the old damaged KA-40 parts there, though they would largely claim that they had taken the long cruise to clean away the remainder of the wreckage. He kept these few mangled parts collected from the real accident on the aft deck as trophies, and hoped they would help explain away the total loss of the ship’s secondary command citadel.

As for the missing logs and data, they could not claim EMP damage as Fedorov first thought. Dobrynin told him that effect only could occur in the atmosphere, so instead they decided on a massive power surge that had damaged the ship’s systems and files. It was thin, but they hoped it would cover their tracks long enough to pass the inspection that was surely coming.

“How does it feel to be Captain of the First Rank again, Karpov?”

They had also thought it best to restore Karpov’s old rank and authority. Admiral Volsky said he had earned it many times over, and was quick to promote him once again. No mention was to be made of the ‘unfortunate incident,’ in the North Atlantic, a grace the Captain did not think he deserved, but one he was grateful for. The missing nuclear warhead would be a little more difficult to explain away, but Admiral Volsky told the men to say nothing of it, and said he would handle the matter personally.

As for Fedorov, he would stand as Captain of the Second Rank now, and the official Starpom under Karpov. He had no objection, saying he preferred it that way, as the two men had come to a very good understanding of one another, and cooperated well.

“I was not ready to take the ship when Volsky gave it to me,” said Fedorov. “I did my best, but thank God for you, Karpov. I don’t think I could have fought those battles as you did. The Admiral was correct when he said you were one of the very best.”

Karpov nodded, grateful for the praise, and hearing it now as sincere for the first time, not the fawning flattery he had been used to from other officers who wanted to get on his good side in the past. He was a new man now, though he knew it would probably be some time before others who knew him in the navy would see or realize that.

“What about Dobrynin?” asked Karpov. “What about this business with the reactors? They will have to perform that maintenance procedure again one day soon. What then, Fedorov? Will the ship vanish again?”

“Admiral Volsky and I had a long discussion with the engineers about it. When we reach harbor he is going to have Rod-25 removed for replacement, and he says he can run some tests and then arrange to have it stored in a very safe place.”

“You still believe that control rod had something to do with it?”

“Who knows? But it was the only common denominator in all the displacement events. Each time it happened, Rod-25 was the wild card in the deck. Dobrynin is going to go over it with a microscope to see if he can make any sense of it. In the meantime, we can only hope Kirov stays put.”

“Agreed,” said Karpov with a solemn nod. “Do you think they learned anything about us?”

“About the ship? Our time in the past? Well the British certainly learned enough, and the Japanese got some hard lessons too.”

“They’ve had almost eighty years to try and figure out what happened, Fedorov. That’s a very long time. That little chat the Admiral had with the British may have revealed more than we think, and I will tell you another little secret—what the British learned in 1942 the GRU and KGB learned soon after.”

That thought darkened the moment, for Fedorov had worried about it for some time. “So far I haven’t found any clean references on the Internet now that we have satellite traffic again. A lot of vague references, but nothing solid. We’re ‘Raider X’ to some, ‘enemy action’ to others, but I’ll keep looking when we make port.”

“They will most likely send out the Varyag to welcome us home. That cruiser has been the flagship here, and now we hold sway, old king Kirov, that is if the navy can find the money to patch us back up again. Believe me, Suchkov will not be happy when he learns of the damage to the ship.”

“We’ll have to let Admiral Volsky handle that, but don’t be surprised if you find yourself at sea again soon, Captain. We aren’t out of the woods yet. China could make that play for Taiwan at any time, and then what? Then they’ll want every ship in the harbor trimmed for action as soon as possible.”

“It’s going to be very difficult, Fedorov. I mean, knowing what happened—what could happen so easily again. It may not be my hand on the trigger this time, but there are too many others like me in the navy…too many others like the man I once was. Knowing that this world could all blow up and go to hell again any moment will not be easy, particularly if the other side gets pushy. And if they do find us at sea again, and come at us in anger, then I may have no choice but to become that other man, that man of war I was back then. Can we avoid it?”

“That will be hard to say. We can’t disclose anything about what we’ve learned, at least not directly. All we can do is be men instead of machines if they ever send us out here again. We’ve learned some hard lessons, but yes, we are still men of war—not just you, Captain. All of us.”

“A crash course!”

“Yes… Well, if they do get Kirov operational again, do you think they will give the ship back to you, Captain?”

“I suppose that will depend on how the investigation goes.”

“Investigation?”

“Certainly… The questions. The Naval Inspectorate will have men here in black suits in no time. The Grand Inquisitor will pay us a visit. They did the same to Christ on his return—showered him with reverence for a week, and then started the trial. Karpov was referring to the famous parable by Dostoyevsky, The Grand Inquisitor, which saw Christ tried and condemned yet again after his second coming. Kirov, the presumed savior of the fleet, was resurrected and now coming home again, but he had little doubt that she would fare any better than the Son of God. “They’ll be a week or two going over the ship, most likely interviewing every man aboard.”

“We talked to the men, in small groups. There’s a lot of comradery among the crew, and a real spirit of elan now that we’ve come through the fire and reached safe waters again.”

“Someone is likely to slip up and say something stupid.” Karpov held up a warning finger. “Of course if anyone told the truth they would be thought insane, and laughed off the ship. But it isn’t the big truth I’m worried about. It’s the little lie. Believe me Fedorov, I was a liar long before I was ever a Captain in this Navy, and a damn good one. I’m not worried about myself, or the senior officers, but some damn matoc from the fifth deck is likely to be asked a question and let something slip.” Karpov acted out a brief interrogation now.

“So tell me how the aft citadel was damaged again, Gavrilov? Oh, that happened when we were hit by that plane, sir. You mean the helicopter? The KA-40? Oh, yes sir. Of course, sir.”

Fedorov nodded, his lips pursed as he considered that there were over 700 men that would have to hold to the same story for their lozh to stand up under any scrutiny.

“All it will take is three or four slips like that before some little prick in the Inspectorate gets a hair up his ass about it. I can tamp some of it down if it starts to flare up. You know me. I can throw my rank around pretty good. But if they get real curious, things could take a different direction. If that happens I think they will beach every last one of us.”

“You mean you might lose the ship?”

“Very likely, but I must tell you that it will not be so much of a loss in my mind now. I’m tired, Fedorov, tired of missiles, and the rank and file of the navy and all the rest of it. I think I may retire soon, after all this blows over, assuming we still have a world left here. Then they can say or do anything they want.”

Fedorov was quiet for some time, thinking, until the Captain prodded him again. “What about you?”

“I know what you are saying, Captain. I was a navigator. Yes, I love military history but, in truth, I’m not a fighting man. It hurt to know I was killing men in those engagements. A lot of men died, and I’ve seen all I think I ever want to know about battle at sea. But on the other side of it, if we stay in the service, the Admiral, you, myself, then we might have some power to prevent the war we know is coming.”

“You think we could prevent it from ever happening?”

“We’ve already kept it from starting when it was supposed to. If we stay in the service for a while we could at least keep our hand on the tiller and try to steer things away from conflict.”

“True,” said Karpov. “We would have some authority, particularly if they do end up giving us Kirov back again. If war does come, and starts here in the Pacific as we discovered, then they will look to this ship to lead out the fleet. It would be hard to go if that should happen, but just as hard to stay behind, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do. But there is one other thing we have to worry about. There’s a lot we have yet to learn about the world we’re coming back to. Things have changed, Captain. There was no Pearl Harbor attack, no Battle of Midway, but the war ended much the same, only no Hiroshima or Nagasaki this time. I haven’t had time to look over everything after WWII, but I’m sure we’ll learn that quite a lot of furniture has been moved around. We may even find that key officers have been shuffled about in the navy. The world still looks the same. I’ll bet you that all the pieces of that old puzzle are still here, but they may be in a different order now, and the new picture may be a little unsettling.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well suppose a man takes his leave, rushes home, and finds his house was sold years ago and is occupied by strangers. If the big things can change, then the details can change along with them. We have no idea what we’re really going to find here.”

“I never quite thought of it that way,” said Karpov. “And I suppose we never will find out what happened to Orlov, will we? Is that in your research, Fedorov? Would it not be funny to see his face glaring at you from one of your old WWII photo books?”

“I’ve thought about that a good long time,” Fedorov frowned. “Orlov wasn’t likely to do the world much good. I suppose he might have used his general knowledge of the future to some advantage, but he wasn’t an educated man. He could probably know that the Americans landed on the moon first, but could not tell you when or very much else about it.”

“That’s a blessing,” said Karpov. “Orlov’s ignorance may end up preventing a lot of grief, but something tells me his temper is going to cause trouble, one way or another. He’s cagey, Fedorov. It wasn’t all brawn and bad temper, and he will think himself more than he really is, a wolf in the fold, if you will.”

“Well… Now that we speak of this, I did find something that was a bit unsettling when I went over the ship’s library computers. Someone made a big download a few weeks ago, and they didn’t know enough to cover their tracks in the data logs.”

Karpov’s eyes narrowed. “Orlov?”

“Perhaps. Would he be that selfish and foolish to take something back with him?”

“Take what?”

“Who knows. Maybe he loaded data onto a cell phone or a pad device. He obviously planned his escape very well.”

Karpov’s eyes widened with sudden recollection. “His jacket!”

Fedorov didn’t understand and the Captain explained.

“He had a Computer Jacket, just like the Marines use for special operations. I remember him talking about how he liked it because he could listen to things on his earbuds while making the rounds, news, music, that sort of thing.”

“I can’t say I like the sound of this,” Fedorov had a very disheartened look on his face now.

“Don’t be surprised, Fedorov. You had better check the history very closely when we make port if Orlov downloaded data into that jacket.”

“I plan to do exactly that, though I’m not sure what good it will do at this point. Whatever Orlov ended up doing, it’s all over and done with now. He would have to be dead by now. It’s history. But we will be living in the world he helped build the moment we set foot off this ship. Yet if Orlov had that jacket with him, we could learn that more things have changed than I expected. Its very existence in the past would have to cause a major aberration. Computer circuitry found in the 1940s could change a great deal!”

“Now you have me wondering what else has changed.” Karpov had a distant, empty look on his face. “But even if they did find it, they wouldn’t know what it was, Fedorov.”

“Oh, there were some very clever men back then, Captain. I would not be so sure. This is very disturbing news.” He gazed at the distant land form of Primorskiy Province as it reached south to Vladivostok. “We’ll make port in the next few hours. We will soon see the peak of Eagle’s Nest Hill and the shores of Golden Horn Bay. Count on both still being there. But who knows whether they still have that old WWII Soviet sub on display at the Naval Museum, or if the Oceanarium was still built here in the city.”

“I won’t miss either one, but the food at Zolotoy Drakon was always good, and so was the sushi at the Yamato Bar on Okeanskiy Prospekt.”

They both smiled at that. “Yamato Sushi Bar?” said Fedorov. “I guess the legend lives on after all, even if the ship is now on the bottom of the sea. At least we didn’t put it there.”

“Oh, but I tried very hard to sink that ship.” Karpov wagged a finger at him. “It was a tough old warthog, that one.”

Fedorov looked at his watch. “About three more hours. Then I suppose we learn whether home is still there for us, and what kind of a world we are living in now.”

Chapter 8

Vladivostok was one of only four major ports serving the vast expanse of the Russian Republic. Sometimes referred to as the San Francisco of Mother Russia, the city is located at the tip of a long peninsula, clustered on the fringes of the beautiful Amursky Bay, where long new elegant bridges connected the isthmus to Frunzenskiy Island to the south and formed a kind of Golden Gate of their own where ships pass beneath them to eventually enter the “Golden Horn Harbor.” And like San Francisco, it also had a thriving and fast growing Chinese community mixed in with the city’s 700,000 residents, their shops and restaurants creating little china towns here and there near the harbor district.

Like many cities in Russia, it suffered from pollution, a reputation for corruption, and a struggling economy that saw over 25 % of its citizens living below the poverty line. Those who could get jobs in the industrial sector there would often wait long months for a meager paycheck, and others became self-styled tour guides serving a slowly growing tourism industry. That said, the city and its vital port remained a crucial strategic hub for Russia in the 21st century, and the Pacific Fleet still berthed its guided missile cruisers, destroyers and submarines in the region, though all too few.

One Slava Class cruiser, the Varyag, would now bow and yield its crown as the Pacific Fleet’s Flagship to the newly arriving battlecruiser Kirov. There were a few aging destroyers, four in the old Udaloy Class, three Delta III submarines, an old Oscar, five Akula’s and even some rusting Kilo class diesel subs tied off at the wharfs and piers of the submarine base at Pavlovskoye, south of Fokino where the Naval Headquarters had been located. One new sub, the sleek new nuclear attack submarine Kazan was perhaps the most formidable boat assigned to the undersea fleet based there. It was hidden in the old underground submarine pens that had been dug through the north cape of Pavlovshoye Bay.

The navy rolled out the red carpet for Kirov when the big battlecruiser arrived, just as Karpov said it would. There were honor guards, a marching band, a flag ceremony and a lot of military rituals. Admiral Volsky had the entire ship’s compliment out in their dress whites, and he played up the ceremony for all it was worth. Yet through it all there was a kind of reserved shock when the other sailors and officers assembled on the quays saw the damage the ship had sustained. Kirov was missing her Top Mast radar sets, there was a raw gash on the aft quarter, and obvious damage to the superstructure behind the secondary mast where fresh paint and a canvass tarp now hid the worst of the wreckage inflicted by Hayashi’s D3A1 dive bomber.

The rumor that the ship had endured these insults when Orel blew up on sea trials provided little comfort, as it spoke only to the continued incompetence of the service, still struggling to reach the lofty goal set in 2011 of building 100 new ships before 2020. Most of these were to be smaller frigates, corvettes, and new submarines, accounting for about seventy of the planned additions. The remaining thirty would see some real new teeth put into the fleet, including two new nuclear aircraft carriers that had been planned, though neither had been completed. The fleet still had little reliable seaborne air power, and therefore could never hope to fulfill the long held Russian dream of becoming a real blue water navy.

China went shopping and bought up most of the older Soviet era light carriers. Kiev was now a floating hotel, and Minsk an amusement park. The second Kuznetsov class hull, named Varyag before it was sold to the Chinese, was now the Liaoning, the ship once fated to die at the hands of an American submarine in the growing squabble over Taiwan, as least insofar as one Australian newspaper had it. Russia’s only fleet carrier to speak of was this ship’s elder brother, Admiral Kuznetsov, which had also been moved east when the Russians had been quietly informed that China was planning a ‘major operation’ in the near future.

One relatively new frigate with the all new carbon fiber superstructure and stealth design had been assigned to the Pacific Fleet, the Admiral Golovko, laid down in 2012. Two more were expected soon. The Project 21956 destroyers were also still largely incomplete, though one such ship, now named the Orlan, or Sea Eagle, was proudly berthed at Vladivostok next to the new arrival.

Kirov was given a proverbial ‘wide berth’ off the concrete docks near Korabelnaya Street. Admiral Volsky knew, as Karpov had warned, that the Naval Inspectorate would be arriving within days, so he huddled with his Chief Engineer Dobrynin to see what could be done about the reactor control rod they now suspected as the cause of the strange displacement the ship had experienced—Rod-25.

“What can we do with it, Dobrynin? Can we risk leaving it here on the ship?”

“If we do, sir, then what might happen the next time we have to do rod maintenance?”

“Yes, it would be most disturbing if the ship were to suddenly disappear again while berthed in the harbor! Can it be removed safely? Stored somewhere?”

“That would take some doing, Admiral, but it might be transferred to the Primorskiy Engineering Center across the bay. We have a diagnostic rod test-bed facility there, and I could study it more closely. We would put it in a radiation safe container, then barge it across the bay to the commercial pier and truck it up the hill to the center.”

“I will cut the orders,” Volsky said quickly. “Anything you need will be provided. But I want this to seem routine. I want to avoid calling undue attention.”

“I understand, sir. I can just write up a standard rod replacement order—not unusual at all after a long cruise like this. In fact, I may have to replace rods five and seven as well. I can ask for a new spare to fill in for Rod-25. It is nothing unusual.”

“Good, Dobrynin. Get the damn thing off the ship as soon as possible, then, eh?”

“I’ll have it moved tomorrow, sir.”

“Perfect… But I think we should have a man there at all times, to keep watch on it. You know how things get shuffled around from one place to another. Someone comes in looking for something and things get moved. Some enterprising supply clerk looking for spare parts comes in and sends the damn thing off to another ship.”

“We wouldn’t want that to happen, sir.”

“Precisely. So leave a man there—on my orders. If anyone questions you tell them that this comes directly from me. That should take care of it. One advantage of carrying all this extra weight is that you get to throw it around once in a while.”

“That’s what Admirals are for, sir. I’ll put two men on it.”

Pavel Kamenski looked up from his book, staring over the rim of his reading glasses when he heard the commotion on the stairs. It was Alexi, his grandson, racing up the steps and shouting for him with that edge of eagerness in his voice that promised discovery.

“Grandpa! Grandpa! It’s here!”

Alexi ran in, all of twelve, his knees bare between long white socks and plain brown shorts, for the weather had been uncommonly warm that week in Vladivostok. He rushed in, eyes gleaming, cheeks red with his haste. “It’s here!”

“Just a moment, my good young man. What is here?”

“Kirov! It’s back Grandpa. It was all on the television a moment ago. Kirov is in the harbor! Can we go see it, Grandpa? Let’s go and see it, please?”

“Kirov? Here?”

“It was on the news. They say it wasn’t sunk after all, Grandpa—just on a mission, that’s all. And now it’s home again, and here! Can we go see it?”

Alexi was no different than millions of other young boys at that age. He had cut his teeth on plastic dinosaurs, slowly graduating to toy soldiers, and spent long hours playing with them in the dirt with his friends, developing some strange calculus wherein a triceratops could be traded for two machine gunners and a sniper, or one tank. In time he slowly traded off his herd of dinos to the younger boys, and built the root and stem of a Motor Rifle Division in their place. When he got a few years older he left these behind and moved on to model building. At Christmas he might be seen slowly flying his model Mig-31 fighter about the house, turning it this way and that in his hand as the plane banked to avoid decorations on the tree, and then swooped on Tamiko, the cat.

At eleven he had taken to reading stories of great battles at sea, and building models of his favorite ships. He had a model of the old German battleship Bismarck, and one of the famous Japanese battleship Yamato, the biggest of them all. He also had a big Shchuka-B type nuclear attack submarine, the boat NATO now called Akula. But of all his models, Kirov was his favorite, and he had spent long hours watching it sail the seas of his imagination, and thinking that one day he might join the navy himself, and become its captain.

“Who would win?” he had asked his Grandpa one day. “Could Bismarck have a chance against Yamato? I don’t think it could, Grandpa. It only has eight guns, and they aren’t quite as big.”

“I suppose you are right in that, Alexi. They were both very tough ships, but I think the Yamato, yes. It would win.”

“But what about Kirov? It could beat them both together, right Grandpa?”

“I would hope so. But look at those tiny guns on Kirov. How could it have a chance?” Kamenski had teased the boy, knowing he would soon explain about the missiles he had so lovingly installed beneath the removable forward deck cover. He was not disappointed. Alexi had pried the plastic deck open to reveal the innards of the model ship, pointing to the tips of the missiles in their canisters of eight, like deadly eggs all lined up in a basket.

“Don’t forget these,” the boy admonished. “They can fly—and very fast too! They can hit Yamato from way over there. The boy had pointed across the room to the corner where Tamiko was sleeping in a favorite spot by the heating vent on the carpet, oblivious to the world and mindless of anything that had to do with battleships.

“Yamato’s guns are big, but they can’t fire that far. And Kirov has these radars. It can find the Yamato, even if I took it downstairs to my bedroom.”

“Even in your room? Well in that case, Alexi, Kirov would certainly win.” Even a boy of twelve could deduce what Karpov had so clearly demonstrated in the Pacific.

“Let’s go this afternoon, Grandpa! Can we?”

Kamenski agreed, sending Alexi running off and down the steps to tell his mother, and then the old man quietly set his book down on the reading desk, a strange look in his eye. He got up, very slowly and walked to his voluminous library wall, squinting through his spectacles as he looked for a book, his finger running over the spines as he searched. There it was, The Chronology of the Naval War At Sea, 1939–1945, Russian Edition. He pulled it out, very slowly, as if there was some old, unfinished business within the volume that he was reluctant to revisit.

His weathered hand flipped through the well worn pages, as he squinted to see the dates for the year 1941. He saw his carefully underlined passage, with notes penciled into the margin. The date leading the passage was: 22 July — 4 Aug, Arctic, in dark bold type. The narrative began: “British carrier raid on Kirkenes and Petsamo cancelled when aircraft spot a lone ship in the Arctic Sea north of Jan Mayen.” It was the first appearance of a ship that the history had come to call “Raider X,” presumed to be a German heavy cruiser, and one using experimental naval rockets as its primary weaponry. It had been pursued and eventually sunk by British and American forces… Or was it? He puckered his eyes, reading the thinly scrawled notation he had written in the margin… “See also 23 Aug-1 Sep Atlantic.”

Kamenski flipped the pages to those dates and began reading:

‘Following reports received by commercial traffic at sea the British auxiliary cruisers Circassia from Freetown and the Canadian auxiliary cruiser Prince David from Halifax are ordered to intercept at the suspected meeting point a German auxiliary cruiser and a blockade-runner in the central Atlantic. On its way, Prince David sights an unknown vessel and reports it as a possible cruiser of the Admiral Hipper class. This leads to a big search operation.’

The old man ran his finger down the long column, noting how both the British and American forces in the region had scrambled to intercept this sighting. The British Battleship Rodney was immediately alerted, and joined with the American carrier Task Group 2.6 to hunt for the ship. Planes off the carrier Yorktown soon reported several merchant ships in the search zone, and then suddenly confirmed the sighting of a warship described again as a “possible Hipper class cruiser.”

A second US Task Group quickly formed around the carrier Long Island to expand the search zone. The British dispatched Force F with the carrier Eagle and the cruisers Dorsetshire and Newcastle, and pulled the battleship Revenge off of convoy duty, with three more fast cruisers. In all, the combined Anglo-US forces amounted to three carriers two battleships, twelve cruisers and twenty destroyers. But the suspected ship seemed to simply vanish again, and the Admiralty received good aerial photos of Brest to assure themselves that Scharnhorst, Gneisenau and Prince Eugen were all still quietly sleeping in their berths. Days later, however, a US coast Guard cutter, Alexander Hamilton, again raised the alarm with a report of a Hipper class cruiser near Newfoundland.

Thinking the Germans might be trying to sneak back to home ports, the US quickly dispatched a new Task Group from Reykjavik built around the battleship New Mexico to block the Denmark Strait. Yet nothing was found, and the watch slowly faded away.

But not Kamenski’s watch. He had been fascinated by these odd reports in the narrative, and spent much time ferreting them out. His next notation in the margin led him on to the odd “incident” in the Mediterranean at the conclusion of the Malta relief Operation Pedestal a year later. The British covering force with battleships Rodney and Nelson had engaged another mysterious ship, presumed to be a French battlecruiser out of Toulon…

But Kamenski knew for a fact that it had not been a French battlecruiser, for his father had once been involved with Soviet naval intelligence, and Kamenski had once been a boy just like Alexi, enamored by the sleek lines and threatening battlements of warships. One day his father told him something, well after he had retired from his service, and it always stuck in Kamenski’s mind. He had been reading this very book, for it was given to him by his father, and the man had come to this very passage and shook his head with a wry smile. “That was no French ship,” Kamenski remembered him saying. “We had a man there, on that very coast, and he saw the whole thing. No, it wasn’t a French battlecruiser, so you can figure out what it really was, eh Pavel?” But his father would say nothing more about it.

Pavel Kamenski had taken up that challenge, joining the intelligence services and quietly perusing the mystery that had begun with the odd appearance of “Raider X.” He had followed the trail for many years, through libraries, books and old dusty files, staring at grainy photos in black and white—the last one being taken by a seaplane out of Milne Bay that had photographed another strange ship in the Coral Sea.

Kamenski closed the book, but he carried it with him to his reading desk, and set it down next to a cold cup of tea. Now he shuffled slowly over to the table by the easy chair where Alexi’s mother, his own daughter Elena, would always leave the morning newspaper. He picked it up, the headline bold and strong, with a photo of a big ship in the harbor and crowds of jubilant people. It read simply:

Chapter 9

The car pulled up along the wide concrete quay a few days later, well after sunset. The dim street lamps cast a wan light over the dull gray wharf, but out on the bay the lights of the city shimmered on the calm water. The rear door opened and a man stepped out, wearing a long dark overcoat and a black fedora hat. He carried a thick brief case, and was followed by another man in a long gray overcoat before the car drove quietly off. The two men stood for a moment, staring up at the high battlements of the heavy guided missile cruiser Kirov where the ship rode at anchor, tied off to the long quay and now served by a floating pier off the starboard side where several grey metal gangways climbed up to the ship’s main deck.

The man with the briefcase was Gerasim Kapustin, Chief of the Naval Inspectorate, and fresh from the airport and a long flight from Moscow. The taller uniformed man was Captain Ivan Volkov, Russian Naval Intelligence, and the two stood for some time, their eyes searching the long, sharp contours of the ship, with Volkov occasionally pointing at something. They noted the canvass tarps draped over the wound to Kirov’s aft quarter, and the area that had once been her reserve battle bridge. Kapustin’s eyes strayed along the tall main mast, up to note the missing radar antenna there.

With a shrug the Chief picked up his briefcase and started for the nearest gangway. They were met by a Marine Guard, who saluted, noted their identification, and then opened the gate to admit them to the ship. Their footfalls on the long metal gangway had an ominous clatter as they went, and the Marine waited a few moments before he picked up a phone from the gateway call box and rang up the bridge.

“Gate two,” he said in a low voice. “They are here.”

“Very well. Thank you, Corporal.” It was the voice of Captain Vladimir Karpov.

Ten minutes later Karpov turned to greet the two men as they stepped onto the bridge. He walked forward extending a hand. “Welcome aboard, Director…Captain.”

Karpov had never met either man, and the Director removed his hat to reveal a crop of curly grey, hair fringing an otherwise balding head, with sharp blue eyes, and a well managed mustache and beard. He looked the part, a careful minded professor of a man accustomed to long hours at a desk pouring over charts, tables, reports and computer screens. The other man was taller, a grey wolf, colder and more aloof.

“Things appear well in order here,” said Kapustin.

“Although from the look of things that cannot be said of the ship in general,” put in Volkov.

Karpov’s eye met the other man’s where he perceived a steely coldness in the Captain, a dark haired, grey eyed career officer, tall, with stiff bearing and a pallid complexion.

“It was a bit of a rough ride, Captain,” said Karpov.

“So we hear.” Volkov continued to study the Captain, noting Karpov’s trim, well kept uniform, his cap smartly in place and an air of sure authority about the man. This one is a fighter, he thought. He’s another grey wolf, just as I am, and a man to be reckoned with. He had read up on Karpov’s service history on the plane, noting how quickly he had risen in the ranks to his post as Captain of the fleet’s newest and finest warship. He knew that such a post would not be given lightly, though he had heard more than one rumor about this man, that he was mean and conniving, a bit of a back stabber at times, and driven by an aggressive, restless energy. Those were qualities he understood easily enough, for his own career in the Naval Intelligence arm had seen more than enough infighting within the ranks before he secured his present position.

“Well, gentlemen,” said Karpov, extending a hand to the still open citadel hatch. “We’ll have more than enough time on the bridge tomorrow. I imagine you must be tired after your flight. If you would care to accompany me to the officer’s dining hall, we have prepared a light meal, a little uzhin, and some refreshment.”

Uzhin was the Russian third meal of the day, always served well after six though it was lighter than the main meal, obed, served around 2:00pm.

“Thank you, Captain,” said Kapustin. “That would be most welcome.”

Karpov led the way, pausing and turning as the other men stepped through the hatch. “You have the bridge, Mr. Rodenko.”

“Aye, sir,” Rodenko echoed smartly, “Captain off the bridge.”

The men reached the bottom of the stairs and continued down another ladder and then through a long corridor before Karpov indicated they should turn left into the officer’s dining hall.

“And how is the damage control situation progressing, Captain?” Kapustin stepped into the well warmed dining room, smiling as he handed off his fedora and overcoat to an orderly, though he set his briefcase right beside his chair where the orderly gestured that he should be seated, and the white coated mishman knew better than to touch it further.

“We are making good progress,” said Karpov. “Thankfully the spare parts were in inventory and our Chief Byko had had men up on the aft mast all day re-cabling the Fregat system.”

“That must have been a severe explosion when we lost the Orel.”

“It was, sir. Unfortunately we lost a KA-40 and the KA-226 at the same time. You may have seen the damage aft.”

“Not yet,” said Kapustin, “but we will have a look in better light tomorrow.”

Karpov gestured to the table, nicely set with white linen and silver, and full-stemmed crystal for water and wine. There were appetizers, deviled eggs, accented with marinated mushrooms, as well as a plate of small open-face sardine-tomato-cucumber sandwiches. Both were sprinkled liberally with fresh dill. A plate of black bread caught Kapustin’s eye, and he reached for a piece, dipping it into the cold soup called okroshka, in a small bowl set on his main dining plate.

“Please help yourselves, gentlemen.” Karpov smiled as they settled in to begin the meal while the orderlies poured water and wine. “We’ll have salads and pierogies, and the main dish will be stuffed halupkis and Stroganoff with Kasha.

“I see there was no damage to the galley,” said Volkov, and Karpov simply smiled, not addressing the remark, but noting the veiled undertone to it that strayed towards insolence.

“I must tell you that we had come to believe the ship was lost in that incident,” said Kapustin, buttering his bread. “This business with the ship’s computers, tell me about it, Captain.”

“Well, Director, I am not entirely sure of what actually happened to Orel. But it was our assessment that there had been an explosion. Their Captain radioed that they had a problem with one of their torpedoes. Apparently they mounted the wrong warhead. Then came the detonation, and it was quite significant. Many of our systems were affected, radar, sonar, communications, so we believed it may have been an after-effect of a nuclear detonation.”

“Most unsettling,” said Kapustin. “Well, we have read your report, and that of Admiral Volsky as well. While I may question his decision to continue the ship’s mission under those circumstances, I will accept it for the moment.”

“I must say, sir,” said Karpov. “The Admiral was considering all his options at that moment, and given the political situation we also considered that Orel may have been lost to hostile action, possibly by a NATO submarine. So we acted on that scenario first after a meeting of the senior officers.”

“Who was in that meeting, if I may ask?” Kapustin leaned back as the second course of potato and prune pierogies was brought out, his eye straying to the dish.

“The Admiral, myself and Operation’s Chief Orlov.”

“Yet Orlov is not presently listed in the ship’s compliment.”

“No, sir. I’m afraid he went aft to supervise the situation on the helo deck, and was lost in the secondary explosion when the KA-40s caught fire.”

“I see…” Kapustin reached for a Pierogi. “Well these look good. Be sure to count the pits if you get a prune to watch your luck.”

“Not much of that on this ship, it seems,” said Volkov again, with just enough of an edge to it that Karpov decided he would let the man know who he was dealing with here.

“Well, Captain Volkov,” he began with a gesture to the other man’s soup bowl. “I see you have a taste for the okroshka. There are many things best served cold like that. Pickled cucumbers, Olivje potato salad, some good Salo bacon, salami and cheese, herring and caviar, and one thing more—my favorite.”

“And what is that?” Volkov met his eye.

“Why, revenge,” Karpov smiled. “And some good vodka and beer.” He picked up a small open faced sandwich, dilled sardines on thin rye, and took a bite.

Mishman Ilya Garin stared at the test-bed monitor, watching the flux readings closely. His prompt readings looked safe, and the rod interchange procedure was progressing slowly, approaching the half way mark when Markov would spell him on the watch. Chief engineer Dobrynin was down the hall looking over readings obtained by the electron microscope they had used to make a close inspection of Rod-25 as it was slowly lowered into position.

They were actually working on a low grade KLT-40 naval propulsion reactor that had been built as a backup for the floating nuclear power station barge Akademik Lomonosov, deployed in the Kamchatka Peninsula region since 2016. The Russians thought a movable power facility would be useful in the region, and the design was so reliable that in 2018 they set up the reserve reactor as a test-bed facility in the Primorskiy Engineering Center. The KLT-40 was similar to the reactors used aboard Kirov, which paired two small pressurized water reactors using enriched U-234. Some models for commercial power generation might have as many as sixty-six control rods above the reactor vessel head, but this smaller test-bed model had only twelve, and much less power.

Dobrynin was quietly running the same typical rod replacement routine, while conducting a general scan of Rod-25 for any sign of corrosion, or flaw. He had mounted the rod in the central test position, in the middle of a circle of the remaining twelve rods. So today the control rod that would stand as relief pitcher for Kirov’s starting rotation of twenty-four rods per reactor, was now actually Rod-13 in this minor league game. All told, this test-bed facility reactor might produce ten percent or less of the power Kirov’s plant generated, a good safe environment to see if they could detect any anomalies with the makeup of the rod itself under real working conditions.

Markov came in with a folded magazine under his arm and tapped Garin on the shoulder as he took his seat at the monitor station. “Lunch Ilya,” he said. “And then when you finish, Dobrynin wants you to collate the inspection results.”

“More charts and tables,” said Garin. “What are we supposed to be looking for, Markov?”

“Don’t ask me. We just read the monitors. Let the Chief worry about it.”

“He is worried,” Garin thumbed over his shoulder to the long corridor behind the doorway out. “The Admiral was here all morning with him, and now more reports.”

“It’s the damn inspection,” said Markov. “They say Kapustin is going over everything with a white glove. They’re interviewing lots of crew members too, even matoc level.”

“Lucky for us we don’t know anything, eh?” Garin said glibly. “What are you reading?”

“Just a magazine.” He slid the magazine Garin’s way, open to an article where the headline read: ‘British Remember Fallen in Agreement Gone Bad.’

“Well, keep your eyes on the monitors, Markov. You can read your magazine in the break room. Yes?”

“Go and eat, Ilya. I’ll see you in another hour.”

It was actually going to be a good deal longer. Garin went down the long corridor past the inspection room where Dobrynin was working, and into the cafeteria for his meal break. Half way through his sandwich there was a noticeable flutter in the overhead lighting. He looked up, saw a neon bulb winking fitfully, and gave it no more thought. A little over an hour later he finished his tea and went back down the hallway, sticking his head into the inspection room to tell Dobrynin he was going back to relieve Markov.

“Very good, Mister Garin. How’s the food tonight?”

“It’s very tasty, sir. Good rye bread. You should try it.”

“When I have finished looking over these readouts.”

“Markov says you want me to collate the data again?”

“If you would be so kind, Mister Garin.”

Garin looked at his watch. “The cycle is nearly over now, sir. Any problems?”

“We won’t know until we get all the data from the scan. But you can commence your shutdown sequence now. Number twenty-five has already been withdrawn and the original twelve apostles seem to be praying quietly. Move in the remaining 12 rods now and commence shutdown. Markov can take his meal break.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get right down there.”

Garin slipped out the door, and ran down the hall to the reactor room, inserting his key card for entry and waiting until he had a green access light. He pushed open the door, thinking the room seemed a bit dim, and heard it close behind him.

“Markov, your turn,” he said. “The bread is pretty good tonight, but not before we run the shutdown sequence. Then I’ll have to spend another two hours collating the data from the scan.”

He walked into the control room, thinking it seemed oddly strange. Then he realized what was wrong. His coat was missing from the wall rack. There was nothing on the monitor desk, not the book he had been reading, the empty tea cup or his pen. Markov’s magazine was gone as well. In fact the chairs were missing. What was going on here?

“Markov?”

Garin leaned around to look behind the monitor station, but there was no sign of the other man. Where was he? Dobrynin would have a fit if he found out Markov had left his shift early. There was no restroom in the test-bed monitoring station, but perhaps he drank too much tea and had to run out. He could understand him taking the book and magazine, but the chairs? It made no sense. The Chief was going to skin him alive. Human eyes had to be on the monitors at all times during any part of a core maintenance procedure, and he shook his head, looking at the monitors with relief when he saw no warning lights.

Stupid Markov, he thought. He’ll get himself into some real trouble if I tell the Chief he left his station. What’s he doing with the chairs? Then he reached up and toggled the switches to initiate a full system shutdown, concluding the test. Another set of twelve more rods would descend into the reactor vessel, stilling down the fission to a very low level prior to final shutdown.

The wall intercom buzzed, and he walked over to it and thumbed the call button. “Reactor Testing Room, Mishman Garin speaking.”

“Garin? Have Markov come in here with his clipboard before he takes his meal break.” It was Chief Dobrynin.

Garin looked around… the clipboard was also gone. “Sir,” he began. “Markov is no longer here, and the clipboard is missing. He must have taken it with him.” He hated to be a snitch, but it had to be said. “He was not here when I arrived to relieve him, Chief.”

“Not there? I’ll fry him in oil! Where is he, that good for nothing… Never mind, Garin. Just complete the shutdown sequence. I’ll be there in a few minutes. If I find him in the head I’ll flush his own stupid head down the toilet!”

“One more thing, sir…” Garin bit the bullet and made his report. “The chairs are missing. Both of them, sir.” He felt stupid as well, but what else could he say?

“The chairs are missing?”

The chairs were missing, the clipboard was gone. Garin’s jacket was no longer on the wall rack, the book and magazine were gone, and Markov’s tea was missing too. Markov was missing, and it would be the last that any man alive on earth that day would ever see of him.