ever believed in can hope to escape.”
~ William S. Burroughs
Chapter 25
At 18:00 hours Orlov got the word he had been waiting for. They wanted the KA-226 scout helo rigged for takeoff and mounted with the new Oko 901-M early warning radar panel. The Oko, or ‘Eye,’ was first deployed on the older KA-31 around the turn of the century, and the 901 model was a more compact panel that was mounted on the underside of the fuselage and could be deployed by the pilot to a assume a vertical position in flight. It would rotate slowly, and provided a 360° azimuthal coverage. The surveillance range against a fighter aircraft target was up to 150 kilometers, and for ships this range could extend to 200 kilometers.
Apparently someone on the bridge wanted to have a look around, he thought. When he heard the work order come down, he rushed to his quarters under the pretense that he was going to get the proper tools to rig the device, inwardly rubbing his hands together, and sure that this was his one last chance to do what he had planned.
Back in the helicopter bay below the flight deck he supervised the installation of the Oko panel, as he had many times in the past, occasionally taking a tool in hand and making adjustments. The two able seamen also assigned to his engineering detail pretty much wanted to stay out of his way, and no one said anything when he blustered about their sloppy work and claimed he was going to have to board the helo for the mission to make sure the damn thing deployed properly. He pointed a spanner at Ludvich, always finding a scapegoat first unless something really went wrong. Then he donned a flight jacket and helmet, muttering to himself as he boarded the helo. The pilot looked over his shoulder, surprised to see Orlov in the rear compartment.
“What are you doing, Lieutenant? There’s supposed to be a Marine guard aboard.”
“Don’t call me Lieutenant, Pratkin, you stupid oaf. Haven’t you heard? I’m in the Marines now, so get moving. Our baby faced Captain wanted this helo up ten minutes ago. If you want to make sure your damn radar panel deploys, be glad I’m here with my tools. Those idiots used the wrong control cables and I will have to work on it in flight. See?” He held up a fistful of tightly wound cabling, grinning balefully at the pilot, who just shook his head and radioed the aft helo con tower for permission to take off. Minutes later the KA-226 was aloft and heading south with orders to get some seventy to a hundred kilometers out and sweep the area for signs of a large enemy task force.
Fedorov was still on the bridge when Karpov arrived to begin his next shift. He was consulting with Kalinichev at radar and waved his first officer over.
“We turned on our planned heading of 200 degrees about thirty minutes ago, he said. The ship’s radar might pick up Force Z soon, but I need information now. I’ve sent the KA-226 up with an Oko panel and we’ll have a good look to the south. My best guess is that Force Z is some 225 kilometers southwest of our position now, and most likely approaching Oran. We should be getting some good signal returns from the helo in about twenty to thirty minutes.”
“What about the enemy carriers,” said Karpov. “Won’t they have fighters up?”
“Probably, but they won’t get a whiff of our KA-226. Remember, it’s also got good jamming equipment, and I had it re-tuned to include British aerial radar bandwidths six hours ago. The game is on now, Mister Karpov. We want to find and mark their position as soon as possible, and keep them in the dark about our whereabouts at the same time. If they do happen to spot a British fighter, they can easily avoid it, and that failing, they will have to shoot it down.”
The helo could mount interchangeable mission pods in the space that would normally be the rear cabin. This load out would include a thirty mm cannon and also air-to-air and light surface attack missiles. The Oko panel was mounted beneath this cabin and controlled by connecting utility cables. They waited while Nikolin monitored the routine signal feed from the helo, and routed it to the ship’s main radar systems. Kalinichev was also watching the progress of the helo on his air search radar.
“Tell them it looks like they are a little too far west,” he said over his shoulder, and Nikolin passed the message on a secure, encrypted radio channel. His voice was digitized, then encrypted for the transmission and decoded on the helo to play on the pilot’s speakers. Anyone who might manage to intercept the signal would just hear garbage.
“Command one to KA-226. You are too far west. Resume heading of one-eight-zero and deploy your panel for radar sweep—over.”
The helo was too far west for a good reason, or a bad one depending on whose perspective you took in the matter. Orlov had been sitting in the back compartment, and drinking from a flask as they moved south. He waited patiently, until the helo was about a hundred kilometers out, then took a long swig on his flask and pulled out his pistol.
“Are you ready back there, Lieutenant? It’s time to deploy the radar panel.”
“I told you not to call me Lieutenant,” Orlov growled. “Am I ready?” Orlov grinned. “Oh yes, I’m ready. Are you ready, Pratkin?” And without a second thought he pulled the trigger and put a bullet right through Pratkin’s head. The pilot slumped forward, and for a moment the helo danced wildly in the sky, but Orlov quickly scrambled into the co-pilot seat up front and seized the controls. He had taken some rudimentary flight training on the KA-226 years ago, as he often was tasked as a mission leader when the Marines would deploy on the chopper. Now he struggled to remember what he had to do to stabilize the helo and get it moving where he wanted it to go.
Orlov managed to gain control before the aircraft got a mind of its own, and he nudged it into a slow turn to the west, and put on speed. Then he picked up the auxiliary microphone from the flight instrument panel and sent Nikolin back a message of his own. “I’m sorry, sir, but I won’t be deploying your damn radar today. You lose, Nikolin.” He shut the system down, laughing. Then he looked over at the limp body of the pilot, saw the blood oozing from the bullet hole in his head, and laughed again. “What do you say we take a little vacation, Pratkin? Because that’s the last either one of us are ever going to see of that stinking ship and crew.”
He suddenly remembered something very important, and reached down to turn off his transponder and activate all his jamming gear at full power. The last thing he wanted now was a visit from one of Kirov’s lethal surface to air missiles.
Back on the bridge Nikolin had a shocked expression on his face. He looked for Fedorov and reported. “Sir…that was Orlov on the radio just now, and he says they cannot deploy the radar panel.”
“Orlov? He wasn’t assigned to that mission. He was just supposed to lead the rigging and load out. What’s he doing on that helo?” He shook his head, looking at Karpov and seeing his eyes narrow with suspicion.
“Tell them to report. What is the trouble with the radar panel?”
“I can't, sir. I've lost all telemetry. It looks like he switched off his transponder. The whole band is garbled now.”
“Garbled?”
Kalinichev saw the telemetry feed terminate on his board and also immediately recognized the jamming signatures clouding his screen. “He switched on his jamming pods, sir, I can't see him any longer.”
“What was his last recorded heading?” asked Fedorov quickly.
“It looked like he turned west sir. That's all I was able to get before the signal clouded over.”
Fedorov looked at Karpov and saw that his suspicion had become a flash of anger now. “That bastard,” he said. “What in God's name does he think he's doing?”
“Are you saying he did this deliberately?” Fedorov was stunned. He knew Orlov was an irascible and cantankerous officer, unruly and undisciplined, yes, and downright disrespectful at times, but this was more than he ever expected from him.
“If he’s heading west he's making for the Spanish coast,” said Karpov. “I should've known he was up to no good! Do you realize he actually assaulted me outside the officer’s mess yesterday? The man is insane!”
“He assaulted you
?”
“Yes, a good punch in the ribs. I suppose he thought I had it coming, and perhaps I did. He didn’t like being stuck down there in the engineering bay. I think we have a renegade on our hands, Fedorov. I don't think he has any intention of returning to the ship.”
“But… He can't take the helo like this! What in the world is he trying to do? Where could he possibly be going?”
“Spain,” Karpov said flatly. “It's the only neutral land close enough, and with his jammers running full out like this he knows we can't see him or shoot him down. That lunatic is planning to take that helicopter and land there.”
“That's crazy,” said Fedorov, and his mind was awhirl with the consequences of what could happen if the helicopter were to be taken by the authorities there. “Do you realize what this means? We'll have to go after him, Karpov. We can't let him do this. That technology must not fall into the hands of any other living soul.”
“I don't think we'll find him easily sir,” said Karpov. “Not in the short run. Look at your map. That's fairly hilly country north and west of Cartagena. He could set down anywhere in those mountains, and it might take us days to find him. He's obviously planned this very well. Who knows what he is going to do? Perhaps the lunatic doesn't even know himself.”
Fedorov was deeply concerned now. This was something totally unexpected, that one insane moment in the flow of events that could simply not be predicted no matter how carefully he had planned his course to the south. All he could think about was what effect this would have on all the history from this point forward. If Orlov survived, how might he changed things? He knew he was not an educated man, yet Orlov knew enough to cause real havoc if the information about days yet to come would ever be believed by anyone he encountered. Believed and acted upon…
Yet worse than this was the presence of the helicopter itself here in the middle of World War II. No matter how skillfully Orlov set it down, perhaps on some remote hilltop, one day it would be found and that discovery would have a dramatic and incalculable effect on the history. He lowered his head confused, angry, and frustrated. It was hard enough trying to learn how to command the ship when he had never been trained for such a position. He relied on the support of the Admiral, Captain Karpov, and his good officers here on the bridge. All it takes is one bad apple, he thought, and Orlov was as sour as they came. Why didn't he see it sooner? The man should've been left locked up in the brig. After the fire and incident with the KA-40 he thought Orlov might have a chance at redeeming himself, just as Karpov had. Now all that had gone to hell in one unpredictable moment, and how in the world could he possibly fix things this time? Where in all of his history books would you find a solution this time?
“I have an idea, sir.” Kalinichev spoke up. “I'm very aware of the signatures his ECM pods are going to put out. I think I can follow them, sir.”
“You mean you can still track him?”
“Not exactly sir, but what I can do is get a good estimate on the signal strength of this interference and isolate it to determine the source. I know what waveforms to look for because I helped program that system. I think I can get at least a general idea of his location.”
“How close?” Karpov was at his side at once.
“I won't be able to pinpoint it but I can get it within… several hundred meters.” Kalinichev was guessing, but neither Fedorov nor Karpov would know any different. Now Karpov turned and made a suggestion.
“Think submarine here, Mister Fedorov. We don't know exactly where he is, but we get enough of a signal to know approximately where he is. We know where he won't go, certainly not out to sea. And at this moment he is still in a range of our S-300 SAM system. If Kalinichev can get a close enough fix on his location, then a barrage of three or four missiles might have a chance of knocking him down before he reaches the coastline. If we can do that, then he goes into the sea and no one is likely to find it, or ever know about it.”
Fedorov's eyes widened. He had to do something, and this was as good a plan as any he could've possibly devised. Then he remembered what he had told Karpov about the jammers just a few moments ago. “Kalinichev!” he said excitedly. “Can you isolate on the 150 to 176 MHz bands? Can you fine those wavelengths and home in on the source?”
“Well yes, sir, but we don’t usually jam those wavelengths,”
“We do now! Find them if you can. Karpov! Get your missiles ready!” He didn't hesitate a moment. If there is any way possible that they could shoot this helicopter down, he had to act at once.
Karpov was only too happy to oblige. He gave orders to activate the S-300s and told Kalinichev to manually feed his best possible estimate of the helicopter’s present and predicted position to the CIC. He knew they would be taking a long shot, like a destroyer lobbing depth charges into the sea where they thought a submarine might be hiding. They were going to take a proverbial shot in the dark, but the S-300s had a very wide shrapnel dispersion pattern. If he fired three to five missiles he might just saturate the area with enough metal to hit this target. He knew they had very few missiles to waste, but something in him also understood what had spooked Fedorov so deeply about this incident. Beyond that, something else want to throw a punch back at the man in a way that he never could do with his own fist. Kirov would punch back for him, and three tense minutes later he gave the order to fire.
They watched, their eyes transfixed by the phosphorescent glow of the radar screen which received the missile telemetry feedback and clearly tracked the outgoing salvo of five precious S-300 missiles. Their speed was incredible, and they quickly overtook the spot on the scope where Kalinichev had made his best guess as to the location of the jamming source. It was very near the coast, and Fedorov bit his lip, hating what they had to do, yet hoping against hope that it would work. Because if it didn’t work, he thought; if that man vanishes into the midst of the Spanish countryside in 1942, then God only knows what kind of havoc the head and darkened heart of Gennadi Orlov might visit upon the world.
Chapter 26
Five missiles roared from the forward deck of Kirov, the deadly S-300s, capable of Mach 6 speed out to a range of 150 kilometers. They had been aimed at a location Kalinichev had selected at the most likely source of the intense radar jamming, with a focus on any signal emanating at 176MHz or lower as Fedorov suggested. As they fired Karpov realized they had yet another option and he shouted to the tactical officer over the deafening sound of the missile engines.
“Activate the secondary infrared terminal seekers on those missiles!” If they got anywhere near a good target, the missiles could also find it by other means. The five steel fingers reached out from the ship, like a mailed gauntlet clawing the sky as they went.
On the KA-226, Orlov saw the missile warning indicator and he knew he might have only seconds to live. “Bastards!” he shouted, and grabbed the safety parachute harness, knowing he had to get out of the helo at once if he was to survive. He had it on in fifteen seconds, frantically clawing at the release on the side hatch and grunting hard as he dragged it open. Thirty seconds—he was poised at the edge, feeling the hard wash of the overhead rotor and the cool evening air on his face. In that brief interval the missiles accelerated to their top speed and were already over thirty kilometers from the ship, closing fast.
His heart leapt with fear and adrenaline when he looked down. The helo might normally cruise at 1000 meters but they had climbed much higher for the planned radar sweep and were up over 4000 meters. He jumped, battered by the rushing wind, his big frame tumbling and soon falling all of sixty meters per second in freefall. Would he get far enough away before the missiles found their target? He prayed to all gods and demons that he would.
Karpov clenched his fist with jubilation when he saw the telemetry signal go white, indicating a hit. “Got him!” he shouted. The missiles had found their target. The jamming signatures Kalinichev had been monitoring immediately cut off, and now they could clearly see the detonation site of the attack on the radar
scope, very close to the coast line northwest of Cartagena. “We got the bastard!”
He looked at Fedorov, who had a grim expression on his face, his eyes dark and searching. “Are you certain?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Karpov. “Nothing could survive that. Five S-300s? It was a high price to pay for that scumbag, not to mention the loss of another helicopter.”
Fedorov nodded, thinking for a moment, then quietly said: “Goodbye, Mister Orlov….” The others remained silent, something uncomfortable in the moment. They all knew the irascible Chief, and each one held some memory of their interaction with him. None among them had been close to the man, and many had felt his rude temperament and brutish ways, yet there was something in the way that Fedorov said that, and it pulled some undefined emotion from them, perhaps pity, perhaps regret, or a sense of waste, and in some way they felt diminished with his loss, and beset by a vague notion of dread, though no man would mourn him. But their emotion was misplaced…
Orlov fell a long kilometer before he groped for the parachute release, his unshielded eyes puckered near shut by the cold wind. He pulled hard, his body shaken when the chute deployed to brake his fall and he shouted, releasing the tension, ecstatic that he had managed to get out of the helo in one piece. Then he saw them, the five fingers of doom emerging from a low white cloud and moving at an impossible rate of speed towards his general location. The helo had flown on, cruising at 360 Kph for those last twenty seconds, moving two kilometers off. He had fallen over another kilometer and was now far enough away from the target to be relatively safe from the exploding shrapnel.
Four of the five missiles had locked on to the helo, the verdict of their infrared modules guiding them mercilessly in on its big heat signature. The last S-300 took passing note of another small heat signature hovering near and well below the target. In a few split seconds its missile mind considered what to do, then dismissed the object as a parachuting thermal decoy and joined its comrades, a majority opinion of five now. Seconds later the missiles ripped the evening sky apart with one explosion after another, and the KA-226 was obliterated.
Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) Page 25