Karpov closed the book, and closed his eyes as well. What am I, he asked himself? Am I that mouse in my hole, or am I a man? Have I lived at all? He was suddenly done with the good or bad of things, not realizing at that moment the death of the very thing he had hoped to become-the death of the man struggling to be born within him. In his place there was something else now, something that could also act, willfully, with determination, with ruthless efficiency, but it was not a man. There was no moral compass guiding that thing, only the flight from pain, and the long restrained rage in his soul. Only that last line remained with him now, feeding a quiet inner rage that had been slowly gathering and smoking away the whole of his life. Yet he mistook it badly for the strength of purpose a man might have, unable to fathom how far from the truth his impulse actually was.
The Captain sat up abruptly and got out of the bed. He stood up on unsteady legs and calmed himself, looking at his sallow features in the mirror by the sink. Instinctively, he ran a hand through his thinning hair, and then opened the cabinet above the sink and took the small flask there to open it. There were many pleasures in life that a man might distract himself with to make the tooth ache of his own inadequacy go away. He took a sip of vodka to brace himself, and put the flask away. Then he put on his sheep’s wool Ushanka and straightened it on his head just the way he liked it, pulling sharply on the hem of his service jacket after he did so, just as the Admiral often did.
Time to creep out of his hole, he thought. He had things to do, people to check on, and he decided to put a few more stops on his agenda before he rested. He would go down to the missile magazines below decks and talk to that idiot, Chief Petty Officer Martinov. Then he needed to see Troyak…Yes, Troyak was essential. After that it was down to engineering for a little rooting around in the service bay. One last stop on his way back to the bridge would be the end of it-or rather the beginning of it all if he dared. He had no idea where things would lead after that. Nobody who dared to do a thing like the one he was contemplating ever did.
Fedorov would fret and worry and wonder what might happen in all the unlived days ahead. Fedorov would be possessed by right and wrong and paralyzed, as he had been just a single moment ago. What good would that do him? He expended all his mental energy to build a wall around his dusty old history books, and safeguard a distant future he would never live to see. What a fool he was! Fedorov had his mouse hole too.
As for Orlov? The chief would understand what he would soon be about, perhaps more than any other man aboard, and he would know the why of it. Orlov understood it instinctively, reflexively. He grasped it in his thick palm every time he had hold of a mishman by his scrubby little neck. He understood only too well what it was like to live with a toothache, and come to enjoy it after a while.
Chapter 29
“See to it that our Moskit-IIs are double checked for integrity, Chief Martinov, and reloaded in all silos where they have been expended,” Karpov ordered.
“We will have all silos full in an hour, sir.”
“See that you do.” Then the Captain lowered his voice, leaning in close to the chief so none of the other crewmen in the loading area would hear what he would say next. “And as for those five special warheads, make sure they are secure.”
“Five Captain? But we only received three.”
“Yes, of course. Three. I was thinking of another mission. Well for this mission we will need to have proper weapons selection for our forward mounted MOS-III system. Has missile number ten been double checked for readiness?” Karpov assumed there was one compatible warhead for each of his three surface-to-surface missile systems. The MOS-III was a high speed hypersonic missile, and the battery was arrayed in three vertical silos of three missiles each. The number ten missile was in a special silo, with control seals and extra protection. He wanted to be sure the warhead was there and not in inventory within the missile magazine.
The chief was one of the few men aboard ship other than Admiral Volsky who actually knew what the nuclear inventory was. The size and number of the warheads was kept in a sealed envelope, in a small vault that could be opened only by inserting both the Admiral's and the Captain’s keys. Yet the chief had to store the missiles and warheads securely on board, so he was obviously privy to the matter, yet sworn to say nothing whatsoever about the weapons. Under normal circumstances he would have never discussed the weapons with anyone, but the Captain, he assumed, was surely informed by now and knew what he was talking about. He shifted uncomfortably.
“Excuse me, Captain. Mount the number ten missile?”
“Correct,” said Karpov, his voice hard and controlled.
“But I will need permission from-”
“From the commander of the ship-yes, you are looking at him, Martinov. Have you not heard?” Karpov cut the man off quickly. “The Admiral is indisposed. He has been taken to sick bay and his condition remains in doubt. Get the wax out of your ears and listen once in a while. I have assumed full command and Orlov is now my Executive Officer. Shall I send him down to second this order? He will not be happy about it. Just get it done, Chief. But observe all proper weapons handling procedures and safety guidelines. Make certain your Coded Switch Set Controller is programmed appropriately to require a command level key insertion before operation. But given the circumstances, with the Admiral unable to perform his duties for the moment, we do not have time for the niceties of peacetime protocols. The setting should be fixed at position one.”
“I understand sir, but the default is position two, and I will need proper authorization to override that setting.” Two keys were normally required to activate the Coded Switch Set Controller (CSSC), which would receive an activation code for the warhead.
Karpov felt again that rising magma of anger, but he restrained himself. “This is not a peacetime environment, Martinov. This is war now, or do you think we’ve just been shooting off missiles to keep you busy here?”
Karpov’s just tapped him on the shoulder. “This is a direct order. Don’t worry. I am the only one responsible. Complete this by 18:00 hours, or there will be hell to pay. The same for the P-900s. Mount the number ten missile there as well.” The P-900 was the NATO coded SS-N-27B “Klub” missile, also called the “Sizzler” mounted on the bow, forward of the main Moskit-II battery. Unlike the faster hypersonic high altitude MOS-III, it was a subsonic land attack cruise missile, though its final stage of approach to the target was a Mach 3.0 low level run.
Karpov clapped the Chief on his shoulder again and walked quickly away, unwilling to engage the man further should he equivocate. He knew there was one final warhead for the Moskit-II Sunburn system, but decided to leave that in the magazine for the time being. One should always have a reserve.
Three warheads, he thought. Only three. That lump-head Martinov had better obey those orders. If it comes down to it and I need more firepower, those missiles had better be primed and ready. He knew he had just crossed a very dangerous line here. He felt it even as he gave Martinov that order. If Admiral Volsky got wind of this he could be relieved of command and face a court martial, without a doubt. Yet his own admonishment to Martinov returned to bolster him. This was war. The expediency of the moment was rare and unique. He must do what was necessary, in spite of Volsky’s orders to the contrary. If events proved him wrong he would face the consequences, but not without a fight.
He was out of his hole now, no longer a mouse, but something bigger-a rat set loose in the bowels of the ship, and he had wire to chew. Yes, he had wire to chew… He had won the battle within himself, or so he now believed. Next he had to win against Volsky. That accomplished, he could again take the fight to the British and Americans, and settle the matter once and for all.
With that in mind, and his business here finished, the Captain’s next stop was the crew’s quarters for Sergeant Troyak and his marines. The sound of his boots clapping hard on the deck as he walked bolstered him, recalling the image he had held in his mind of the honor guard marching
proudly to meet with Roosevelt and Churchill. Now he wanted to sound out the stony Sergeant and see how he might react if it came to a real crisis aboard the ship.
“Good day, Sergeant.”
“Sir.” Troyak stood to attention, two of his marines in the room doing so as well.
“As you were. I only wanted to commend you on your performance at Jan Mayen. The information you gained was very useful.”
Troyak did not need the compliment, or want it, but he nodded thanking the Captain out of courtesy. The mission had been a simple reconnaissance; a quick in and out and nothing to take undue notice of.
“The situation is somewhat confounding for us all,” said Karpov. “Some of the officers may have difficulty understanding what has happened; finding a way to come to grips with it. They may react in unforeseen ways in the stress of battle. I trust you and your men will remain disciplined and clear headed at all times, as it may take a firm hand in the days ahead to keep the ship on an even keel.”
Troyak listened, his features expressionless. The Siberian Sergeant was a strong, rough-hewn man, and one not given to such considerations. The thought that he or his men would ever demonstrate a laxity of discipline was not possible as far as he was concerned. Kirov was a warship, and he was a leader of warriors. That was the end of it.
“I trust you understand me,” Karpov pressed.
“Sir, the squad is ready for action and every man is fit, and will do his duty.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Keep that in mind should I call on you. We have some difficult days ahead; difficult choices. Some will quail in the face of battle, but you and I will have to lead the way. Yes?” The Captain gave him a sidelong glance and the two men exchanged salutes before he went on his way.
Troyak thought that last remark was odd. You and I? Somehow he recoiled at the thought that Karpov would think he was a bird of the same feather as his marines. He allowed himself a derisive smile, then returned to his task of cleaning and oiling the assault rifle inventory.
Karpov would make one last stop. He had checked on everything that mattered, his weapons in the looming struggle he envisioned, in more ways than one. There was only one other thing he needed to do. He had promised Orlov he would deal with the problem Volsky presented, and a stop at the maintenance bay to review the recalibration of the missiles was the perfect cover. While he was there he took a pair of wire cutters and a few pad-locks. Then he made his way quietly to the sick bay, his heart suddenly pounding when he realized what he was about to do. Time to chew on the last wire…
This was the edge of the precipice, he knew. The orders he had given to Martinov could be rescinded, explained away. He could mouse his way out of that transgression if he chose to, and squirm through a crack in a floor board to reach the safety of his mouse hole again. Or could he? Something had changed in him. He was something bigger now, something darker, and more heedless of the cost he might incur if he took this next step. No one could prove he did this, came a voice, a reason, a last means of escape.
He could hear the voices of the Admiral and Zolkin within as he quietly moved the emergency lock bracket into place on the outside of the closed hatch, and slipped on the padlock. His hand was shaking, but he forced calm on himself. Then, with a quiet click, the lock was in place. Now he took the wire cutters, reaching high to get at the thick grey intercom cable above the hatch, which he cut with an unsteady hand. There was an audible snap when the wire was cut, and with it something snapped in his mind as well. Volsky was the last remnant of the authority that was given to them by older men in their dark blue coats, in an old system of power, all of them back in Severomorsk. Yet with one taut snap the last link to that was cut for him now. It was done. He had chewed through the last wire. His course was set now, for good or for ill.
He took a deep breath, listening, but the voices on the other side of the door kept on in their conversation. Volsky and the doctor were now locked up in the sick bay, and the Captain scurried away, his footfalls whisper soft and strangely light, glad that no member of the crew had seen him in the corridor.
Moments later he was back on the bridge again, two hours before Orlov’s watch was to end. He found the Chief and waved him over to the briefing room, closing the hatch there to keep their conversation private. The close confines of the room helped him to calm himself, like a dark quiet hiding hole.
“Volsky is awake,” he began, breathing heavily. He could feel a cold sheen of sweat on his brow, even in the chilly confines of the bridge. “The doctor is hovering over him like a mother hen, and he seems to be making a recovery. We don’t have much time, Orlov.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Volsky was not happy that we engaged the Americans. The man is getting soft and slow. He was talking about taking the ship out into the Atlantic. He doesn’t see the opportunity we have here.”
“Perhaps not,” said Orlov. “But what are you doing, Captain? You’ve been steering us south right into the thick of things. Had we turned east we could have avoided this engagement with the Americans.”
“What? Have you been sleeping with Fedorov now? Are you getting soft hearted on me as well? You, Orlov?”
“You misunderstand me,” said the Chief. “We hit them very hard and they will be angry now. We must realize that there will be consequences for this.”
“You are sounding like Volsky now.” Karpov was not happy. He folded his arms. Then wagged his finger at the Chief. “Look, Orlov. Little thieves are hanged, yes? But the big ones escape.” He was referring to an old Russian proverb that went roughly: ‘take three kopecks and hang, but take fifty and be praised!’
The Captain knew that there could be no halfway measures now. They had engaged both the British and American fleets. They would not encounter another friendly ship at sea-not now not, not ever. He knew he was fully responsible for the choices he made in the heat of action, but he could not see that he could have done anything else. The British flung their ships and planes at him, fully intending to find and sink Kirov if they could. The Captain, insofar as he saw things, did what any competent officer would have done under the circumstances, he defended himself, with all the skill and weaponry at his command. As he was trying mightily to salvage that image of himself now, he used all his considerable intelligence to defend his actions, no matter how skewed his logic had become, or how much vranyo had subtly crept into his line of thinking.
With Orlov at his side he might dispel that sense of harried isolation that had dogged him up until now. In spite of his ambition, and his devious insistence in getting his own way aboard the ship, Karpov had taken entirely too much on his round narrow shoulders when he cut that last wire. He was beginning to feel the weight of what he had done, and now he was looking for an ally, and a strong right arm to back him up.
“I thought I could count on you, Orlov. Let us face the matter squarely and decide.” He repeated all his old arguments, all the reasons he had ferreted out in the dark safety of his mouse hole. “We are never going home again, and there will be no one at Severomorsk to chasten us for anything we do here. We answer to no one but ourselves now, understand? This is war and we are a ship of war, with power to take history itself by the throat and choke it to death if we so decide. But that will take a man, not a vacillating old Admiral with too many stripes on his jacket cuff. Volsky’s day has come and gone. You and I? We have many long years ahead of us, and the power to see that those years are very agreeable. I need to know where you stand, Orlov. Are you a man, or are you going to stand there like a school boy when Volsky returns to the bridge?”
“Without a cat around the mice feel free.” Orlov stated the obvious, but all of this was more than the simple license a man might take when he could, as any man might. “Do you realize what you are saying?”
“Of course I do. Volsky will reverse us at every turn, and all the while the decisive moment slips away, or worse, our enemies will gather sufficient strength to find and kill us a
ll.”
“But the junior officers-the crew. They worship that fat old man like a father. If it comes down to a choice between the Admiral and you, Captain, I have little doubt where most of the crew will stand.”
Karpov’s face registered irritation with that, but he kept his emotions well controlled. The Chief was repeating all the same doubts and fears he had sat with in his hole, all the same tired reasons why he should stay there in the stench, and remain a mouse.
“Look, Orlov, neither of us will win a popularity contest here. Don’t think the crew jumps when you growl because they love you either. They jump because they recognize authority when they see it; strength; will power. They jump because if they don’t it will be your boot in their ass, and the devil to pay. You know why you are the Chief, Orlov, and it is not because you are so very smart, yes? It is because you know how to clench a fist when the time comes for it, and you know how to smash a man’s face if he bothers you.”
Orlov smiled, nodding. “Volsky will be a problem,” he said, his voice even more hushed now. “Perhaps Zolkin as well.” He hesitated, his eyes revealing his uncertainty. He had seen power plays of this nature in the Russian underground, that hard world of cut-throat men, loose confederations of gangs and bosses, and he had seen more than one man toppled from his post, and more than one man killed trying just what Karpov was proposing. But this was not the Russian underground, it was a navy ship. This was mutiny…Yes, there was a special word for this sort of thing, and there had not been a mutiny on a Russian ship for decades, not since Sabin tried to take the frigate Storozhevoy to Leningrad in 1975. He hung for that, and his second got all of eight hard years in prison for his complicity. Orlov weighed the situation in his mind, and realized it took more than one man to do what Karpov was proposing.
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