Kirov k-1

by John Schettler

  Karpov listened, strait faced as any listener must when he heard preposterous nonsense masquerading as truth, like good, well-told vranyo over a drink at a bar. But this was no bar, and the Captain was in no mood for flights of fancy. “ Tufta, nonsense,” he said, breaking form and pointing at the screen. “Now you are hanging noodles from your ears, Fedorov. What are you saying, that they have dragged these ships out of mothball? Perhaps they are planning to use them for target practice just as we were with Slava. Go and chase the wind.” It was clear that the Captain thought he might have more success with that than with this outlandish analysis.

  “You don't understand,” said Fedorov. “I am not trying to fool you, Captain, or be glib here. That looks like an Illustrious class aircraft carrier.” He pointed at the screen, suddenly sure of what he was seeing. “It is most likely HMS Victorious, and she was sold off to the ship breakers for demolition in…” he squinted at his application, “1969.” Anton Fedorov was not lying, even if he believed his own eyes might be fooling him. He was a long time naval history buff with a particular interest in World War II. Now he was peering at the live video feed, shoulders hunched, his cap askew on a head full of thick brown hair, and he could not believe what his eyes were telling him. “That ship,” he pointed, “is even older! It looks like HMS Furious, sir, in service with the Royal Navy until 1948. You see? The typical island superstructure is completely missing. No one has designed anything like that for decades. Look at the way the forward edge of the flight deck is curved above that long, narrow bow. It’s the Furious. I’m certain of it, Captain.”

  Karpov was not persuaded “This is no time to be foolish, Fedorov. Talk sense! Don’t try to tell me these ships were dragged out of the shipping yards and put back in service. We may have to resort to such measures, but our fat capitalists here do not.”

  “No sir, I’m telling you these ships were scrapped — years ago! There is no way they could be put back in service.” Fedorov had a look of complete amazement on his face. “Good lord, what in the world is going on here?”

  Karpov just stared at him. “You’ve spent too many hours with your nose in those history books of yours, Lieutenant, and like any good liar you begin to believe your own vranyo. This is not possible. There has to be another explanation.” Karpov refused to believe what his navigator was telling him. These had to be modern British aircraft carriers, and he said as much. But Fedorov was quick to correct him.

  “With all due respect, sir, the only ship in the Royal Navy that might look anything like this carrier here,” he pointed, “would be their new HMS Queen Elizabeth. And look, sir, there’s not even any discernable island on that other carrier. There’s no modern British carrier in such a design. That has to be HMS Furious, sir. She was just a converted battlecruiser with a single deck running the full length of the hull.”

  “Nonsense,” said Karpov, shaking his head.

  “But sir, Queen Elizabeth is a full fleet sized carrier. 65,000 tons, and the ship we have on video is just a light carrier by comparison. Perhaps 22,000 tons. Queen Elizabeth is the newest addition to the British fleet, and her signature would be unmistakable to us on radar. We've already cataloged her ESM emissions long ago. And if that were Queen Elizabeth, the airspace above her would be well patrolled. Yet this fleet is moving in complete silence, with virtually no radio or radar emissions of any type. No air cover. These are simply not modern vessels, sir. I am certain of it.”

  Admiral Volsky was standing behind the two men, his eyes fixed on the view screen, his mind also struggling to comprehend what he was seeing and hearing. He liked Fedorov, and often talked with him about the old war, and he had come to respect the young man’s passion and knowledge on the subject. So instead of dismissing him, as Karpov clearly did, he pressed for more information. “Those other ships?” He asked, pointing at two sizable vessels steaming to either side of the two carriers.

  Fedorov squinted at the screen, then smiled, amazed, but certain of what he was seeing. “Admiral, those are two Kent class British cruisers, 14,000 tons full load. Look, those turrets there on the forward section are mounting heavy 8 inch guns. No ship has carried that kind of armament since the Second World War. In fact, the keels on those ships were laid down in the mid-1920s, and they mostly entered service by 1926. Many survived the war, but not a single one escaped the salvage yards, sir. The ships simply do not exist any longer.”

  “You are certain of this?”

  “Yes, sir, the three stacks amidships are unmistakable. I would know that silhouette anywhere.”

  “Then we are looking at a ghost fleet?” Karpov protested. “This is preposterous! I have heard a lot of guff in my day, Fedorov, but this tops it all. It's nonsense, I tell you.”

  “It's there,” said Admiral Volsky gesturing at the video. “Or are you suggesting the British are feeding us this video footage with some new electronic warfare gizmo?”

  Karpov raised his eyebrows, thinking a moment. “That may be possible, sir.” His eyes widened as he spoke, quick to latch on to anything that would allow him to fit what he was seeing into some understandable point of reference and dispel the illusion that Fedorov was spinning out. “This could all be part of some elaborate ruse, designed to confuse us. Some kind of electronic warfare, perhaps a NATO PSYOP. That strange explosion we experienced hours ago may have been the opening salvo.”

  Official deception was something Karpov could deal with much more easily. He presented the situation as a deliberate attempt by their enemies to deceive. Russians had been subjected to so many official lies over the years that they became almost incapable of recognizing truth. Their own language even used the same verb to describe coming and going, and so in that sense, a Russian never quite knew where he stood, or wither he was bound. Karpov heard Fedorov’s arguments, and deep inside he knew something was terribly wrong with the ships on the video feed, but he could not accept what the man was saying. A deliberate hoax, aimed as an attack, was the only thing that made sense to him now.

  “Orlov?” The Admiral wanted to know what his Chief of Operations thought, but Orlov looked as confused as anyone. He had idled with Fedorov at times, the two of them also sharing stories of the second war where both their grandfathers had served, but this was difficult to believe. “I don't know what to think, Admiral. But, as it is clearly impossible that the British could resurrect ships decommissioned and demolished decades ago, then we must give further thought to what the Captain suggests.”

  “Impossible, you say, yet this very ship has risen from the dead, has it not? Perhaps the British are refitting their old ships as well.”

  Karpov took a deep breath, stiffening, gratified that Orlov had again reinforced his position. “Enough of this game,” he said. “Where is Slava? Where is Orel? If this is a PSYOP then the British have gone too far! I recommend we hail this task force and demand immediate identification. This will put an end to this nonsense. These ships may be responsible for everything we have been dealing with here. Suppose they boarded Slava and have her under tow? That would be hijacking at sea, a clear international violation.”

  “A moment ago it was this submarine that was responsible for all of our problems,” said Admiral Volsky. “Now you suggest the British are running some elaborate psychological operation aimed at confusing us and rounding up the Russian Navy, ship by ship?”

  Karpov frowned, clearly unhappy with the Admiral’s remark, yet he persisted. “If they do not identify themselves under international protocols, then it is permitted to give fair warning and fire a shot across their bow, sir. Everything we have endured these last hours has been a clear provocation. It is time we let them know that the Russian Navy will not tolerate this nonsense.” He folded his arms, his anger apparent.

  Admiral Volsky sighed heavily as he thought the situation through. One thing he had learned in life was that things were seldom what they seemed at first take. A man had to test the truth he chose to believe, like he would test his footing on a lon
g icy road. The old Russian proverb came to mind here: ‘The church is near but the road is all ice; the tavern is far but I'll walk very carefully.’ It would be easy to go and sit in Karpov’s church rather than walk that long road to what Fedorov was telling him. Yet something told him, quietly, insistently, that this was no illusion foisted off on them by the British, and he had to walk that road slowly, minding his footing with every step he took here. He decided to test the situation and indulge his Captain.

  “Very well,” he said. “Mister Nikolin, I authorize you to break radio silence and hail this task force on all channels. Do so in English. Give their position, course, and speed as determined by our radar here, and request immediate identification under international protocols as the Captain suggests. Do not, give our identification unless I direct you to do so. Is that clear?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The tension only increased when their message was met with absolute silence. They waited, while Nikolin repeated his hail, ten times in all, but there was no response.

  “You are certain they are hearing us?” asked the Admiral.

  “I'm broadcasting across the entire band,” said Nikolin. “They heard us alright, unless they are also suffering the effects of that explosion.”

  “It did take us several hours before systems returned to normal,” said Orlov.

  “I disagree,” said Karpov, his lips tight with obvious frustration. “Their silence is just another way to goad us, keep us in the dark.” Once you have told your lie, Karpov knew, silence was then your best friend. “I recommend stronger action, Admiral. We should engage missile radars and then see if they are willing to comply with international law and identify themselves.”

  Admiral Volsky’s features were grave and drawn. He seemed very weary, his eyes closing for a time as he considered what his volatile captain was suggesting. To paint the contact with active targeting radars would certainly escalate the situation, yet if he did so they may have to reply in kind. That, at least, would give them verifiable ESM signatures on those ships, and they would learn, once and for all, whether this video feed was valid or some product of NATO engineering and counterintelligence operations.

  Against his better instincts, he had already broken radio silence himself, clearly revealing his position. If he escalated it was likely his ship would soon be lit up with active radars as well. If something had slipped…If this was a war situation, then he could be making a grave mistake by being so accommodating to the enemy. With political tensions winding ever tighter, discretion was wise here. He clasped his hands behind his back, rocking his heavy frame back and forth, shifting his weight as he considered, then stilled himself, turning to Samsonov.

  “Come to condition one readiness on the number three forward missile array and activate targeting radars for that system.” He was ordering his CIC Chief to activate his P-900 cruise missiles, an array of ten subsonic sea-skimmers on the forward most section of the ship, very near the bow. In effect, he would be calling the enemies bluff, challenging their silence with a sharp push on the shoulder, letting them know he was fully prepared to take further action if they did not comply. Yet something within him whispered extreme caution. The situation was still a muddle of unanswered questions. Samsonov, like a note played on a well tuned keyboard, was quick to respond, activating his targeting radars and engaging the surface contact with an active signal.

  “Mr. Nikolin,” said the Admiral. “Please repeat your hail.”

  The tension was palpable on the bridge of Kirov when Rodenko reported a new and worrisome development. “Con, radar contact, airborne at 37 kilometers, south by southwest, and bearing on our position. Multiple contacts now! I read five…now six contacts, all airborne.”

  “They are launching!” said Karpov. “I warned as much, Admiral. This is a NATO carrier task force after all. Recommend we come to full battle readiness. Prepare to oppose incoming air attack.” He turned to Fedorov, eying him darkly. “There’s your carrier air operations,” he said. “They were lying in wait. Playing possum!” Karpov was, of course, going to see the goblins he had conjured up in his own mind. From his point of view, the enemy was doing exactly what he would have done. They were simply springing a well laid trap, nothing more, nothing less.

  Samsonov looked over his shoulder and Admiral Volsky noted how his hand was poised over the alert readiness alarm. The ship was already at action stations, but full alert would send the crew scrambling to a heightened level of preparedness.

  “Speed?” The Admiral wanted to know what he was dealing with. Was this a missile barrage or a flight of strike aircraft as Karpov warned?

  “Very slow, sir.” Rodenko watched his readings closely for a moment, realizing the gravity of the situation. If these were missiles the ship had but minutes, even seconds to respond. He wanted to make certain he was interpreting all the data accurately, and he hoped his systems were fully recovered from the anomaly they had experienced. His system showed no identifiable missile types inbound. Was it correct? All this passed in the barest moment within his mind, then he gave his best judgment.

  “One contact inbound on our position…five contacts appear to be orbiting the surface group. These are aircraft, sir. Not missiles. I repeat. This is not a missile barrage.”

  “How long before the inbound contact reaches us?” The game of cat and mouse between Russian and NATO forces had been ongoing for decades now. Both sides had been conducting active maneuvers in Norwegian Sea in recent years, each closely monitoring the activities of the other, and this could be nothing more than another overly curious NATO surface action group sent here to nose about his business, or perhaps, as Orlov suggested, they were merely investigating the anomaly Kirov herself had encountered.

  “Inbound contact speed… 180 KPH, approximate,” said Rodenko. “Perhaps a Harrier jump jet, sir, or possibly a helicopter. It's certainly not an F-35 at that speed.” He was referring to the F-35 Lightning II, a stealthy, supersonic joint strike fighter rumored to be slated for deployment on the newest British carrier, Queen Elizabeth. “Inbound contact will be over us in 10 minutes, sir.”

  “What about our KA-40?”

  “It is already inbound as well, 10 kilometers out now. Probably already visible on the horizon.”

  “Mister Nikolin,” said the Admiral. “Instruct the KA-40 to move due west away from our position. Designate this incoming plane as Red Wolf Three. They are to lock their air defense missile systems onto this contact, and hold fire pending further notification. Repeat, weapons tight.” The Admiral turned to Samsonov next. “Mister Samsonov activate primary air defense systems array and lock radar on contact. Weapons tight. The SA-N-92 system, if you please.” He was activating his medium range “Gauntlet” air defense missiles.

  “Weapons tight, Admiral?” There was a derisive tone to Karpov's voice. “You're going to let them overfly us?” An over-flight would be standard operating procedure for any NATO task force. The plane would sweep gracefully by, the pilot thumbing his nose at the Russians as he passed. Sometimes they would launch emergency flares as mock weapons to rub in the fact that they could just as easily have launched live munitions. It had happened a thousand times before, largely without incident, but the circumstances here were quite different and the Admiral knew it. The fact that both Orel and Slava were still missing weighed heavily in the equation.

  Karpov's wide eyed look of astonishment communicated his feelings on the matter transparently. Volsky knew that if the Captain had his way, this plane would be destroyed in a heartbeat. But he also knew that if he were to destroy the target, the enemy task force may be compelled to reply in kind, and he would soon find himself engaging ten to twelve NATO ships. If Karpov was correct, and this was a deception, then those ships were not old British carriers and cruisers, either. They would be lethal, modern ships like his own.

  At that moment Nikolin noticed something on his radio band monitor and listened briefly. He had hold of the signal from London they had been wa
iting for, the BBC News broadcast at the top of the hour, regular as rain in these cold Arctic waters. Yet what he heard made no sense.

  “BBC news broadcast, sir, but it's very odd.”

  The Admiral was eager for any more information he could get. “Let me hear it,” he said.

  “Admiral,” Karpov protested. “We have no more than seven or eight minutes now!”

  Volsky raised his hand, quieting the man as he listened. The signal seemed faint and weak, and it was like nothing he had heard in recent years.

  “…Vice Admiral Somerville successfully reinforced the embattled Island of Malta, when a powerful force steamed from Gibraltar to deliver much-needed supplies. President Roosevelt announced this week that all Japanese assets in the United States would be frozen, and he has suspended formal relations with Japan. On the East front, German panzers under the General Guderian have reached Smolensk, further increasing the threat to Moscow, and the Red Army announced it has begun a counterattack near Leningrad. This is the BBC, 28 July, 1941. Details of these and other events will be presented later in the broadcast…”

  Four sonorous notes of Beethoven's fifth Symphony sounded, and Fedorov's eyes widened as he listened, recognizing the famous allied V for victory call sign that was used in tandem with that musical motif throughout WWII.

  “You mean to say this documentary business continues?” said the Admiral. “This is not the regularly scheduled live news broadcast?”

  Fedorov spoke up, realizing that what he was about to say sounded incredulous, but needing to voice the opinion in any case. “Sir, we have clear video of the approaching task force. They are World War II era ships! And we are hearing a news broadcast from 1941… In fact that's all that has been on the radio band for the last three hours.” He made no further conclusion, thinking it more than enough to simply link these two pieces of the puzzle together.