Kirov k-1

by John Schettler

  When Marshall brought up the fact that the US was still technically neutral King bristled at the notion. “You tell that to John Reeves and the rest of his crew on Wasp,” he said.

  An hour later Roosevelt had drafted and issued a Presidential Order for the U.S. Navy to find and sink any and all hostile ships within 300 miles of the coast of Newfoundland. The Americans were edging ever closer to an open declaration of war, which was nothing more than a formality now. All FDR had to do was make sure Admiral King realized the British were out there as well, and that they were not hostile ships, in spite of the Admiral’s distaste for the ‘conniving limeys’ as he called them.

  As the clock ticked off the time, an unspoken Zero Hour loomed in the minds of every man involved, and that same clock was ticking aboard Kirov as well.

  Just as Karpov was pressing Orlov for his support, Zolkin and the Admiral were finishing up their conversation in the sick bay. “Don’t worry about Karpov,” he said. “If he starts another battle I’ll carry you up to the bridge myself.”

  “That man is dangerous,” said Volsky. “He claims to have only the interests of the ship and crew at heart, yet I feel there is something more there.”

  “I agree,” said Zolkin. “There is more to the man than meets the eye. He is brooding on something, scheming. You can see it in his body language, Leonid. But understand his situation. He is captain of the ship, but yet not captain as long as you are aboard.”

  “Professional jealousy?”

  “More than that. It is a kind of adverse reaction to higher authority. In my opinion he regards his own judgment as unassailable, and resents any interference. He may accord you the respect your rank deserves, but I think it is mere lip service and that he views you as an obstacle, or worse, as an interloper aboard a ship that is rightfully his. I have seen a thousand men like him over the years. It seems our Mother Russia breeds them in batches. Do you notice how he closes up physically whenever questioned? He folds his arms defensively. His eyes narrow, and his expressions clearly register impatience, resentment and even annoyance.”

  “The man has an ego, most certainly.”

  “You must be cautious with such a man. He can become a dangerous and unpredictable enemy.”

  “What are you suggesting, that Karpov might attempt to subvert my authority?”

  “Possibly. We are not operating under normal circumstances, my friend. Severomorsk is not a radio message away any longer. The entire chain of command aboard this ship derives from authority vested in men by a world that no longer even exists! The men are performing their duties. They say, yes sir; no sir; if I may, sir, but this is mere protocol, reflexive behavior on one level.”

  “I think I have earned the respect of these men many times over,” said Volsky.

  “That you have, and this is your strongest asset at the moment. Take off the stripes and uniforms and we are all just men, Leonid, and men do odd things in situations of extreme pressure. In Karpov’s case, they salute the rank, but I do not think they salute or admire the man. In your case I think the men genuinely love and respect you, and would follow you irrespective of your rank. You are “Papa Volsky,” the Grand Admiral of the Fleet. Some still hold you in awe, others see you as a father figure. Yet sometimes a father has a wayward and rebellious son, yes? This is Karpov. And when a man like Karpov feels threatened, he will seek allies before he acts.”

  “Aboard this ship?”

  “Where else? And you can make a very short list of the men most likely to see things his way.”

  Volsky was silent for a time, his face pained under those thick brows, eyes furrowed, distant, as if seeing some inward thing in a far off corner of his mind. “I’m getting old, Dmitri,” he said sullenly. “I thought I would finish out my days at home with my grandchildren on my knee and a nice garden. Now here I am with the fate of the world on my shoulders, and that home I imagine no longer even exists, just as you say. This is somewhere in the mind and soul of every man aboard this ship, and younger men are adventurous. They are hungry. They see the days ahead as something to be discovered, something gained, and not as something to be settled and given a proper balance, not as a place to find rest and ease of mind. They have not yet lived, and they are reaching, planning. Me? I am tired. I want to sit down under a palm tree with a good glass of wine and read. Yet I do not think any of us will find that island you spoke of once, with all the pretty Polynesian girls. Things are coming to a boiling point soon. We cannot sail about taking shots at any ship that comes near us. At some point this must resolve. It has to be settled.”

  “Resolve to what, Leonid? What are you going to do?”

  “This business at Argentia Bay-the Atlantic Charter. Perhaps I can put some jam and honey on the table for the Russia that emerges from this war.”

  “How? You mean you intend to go there yourself and speak your mind with Roosevelt and Churchill after what Karpov has done?”

  “I considered it. Stalin was not invited, but they are bringing all their admirals and generals. I am Grand Admiral of the Russian Northern Fleet, or so you tell me.”

  “Yes, I tell you that, but can you tell that to Churchill and Roosevelt? This is risky, Leonid. Assuming you convince them of who and what we are; where we have come from-assuming they believe what you tell them, then would they not see you as a valuable asset?”

  “Of course, that was my hope.”

  “But think…If you were at war in our day, and had a man here who knew the history yet to come, every battle, every mistake made, would you not keep him close?”

  “You are suggesting I would be taken prisoner?”

  “That is a likely outcome should you place yourself in a situation where you cannot easily regain your freedom.”

  The Admiral considered this, nodding. “I had come to this reasoning myself some time ago,” he confessed. “But I just wanted to see what you might think of the prospect and I think you are correct. A visit with Churchill and Roosevelt sounds appealing, even exciting. But it would be most unwise. I gave it some thought, for a long time, perhaps too long.”

  “Is this why you have allowed the ship to remain on this course?” Zolkin questioned him further. “You were thinking of joining this meeting? I’m afraid that Karpov may have other thoughts about this situation. Mark my words-he intends a show of force, and if the Allies gather in strength, he will meet fire with fire. And so, old man, if you ever do want to sit under that palm tree and read, you had better get yourself back up to the bridge. I certify you as healthy and fit for duty. It’s Orlov’s watch now. Karpov has been prowling around below decks, but I think you should get there soon.”

  Volsky sighed. “I suppose you are right. I do feel much myself now. Thank you, Dmitri.”

  “And Admiral…Should you need an ally, you know you can count on me. I was not kidding when I told Karpov it was mine to certify the health and fitness of any man aboard-be it physical or mental health. If Karpov becomes a problem…”

  Volsky nodded silently. “Let us hope that he does not,” he said quietly.

  Trouble was brewing on the cold grey swells of the sea. Rodenko had a KA-40 up earlier to keep watch on the American task force withdrawing to the south. The ships turned southwest on a heading of 230 degrees, a course that would bring it round the cape of Newfoundland, and Orlov had carried out Karpov’s instructions, following on a parallel course to the north. Earlier, they had spotted a single aircraft on radar, tracking out from Newfoundland, and the Chief let it be. He did not want to bring the ship to action stations again and fire off a SAM for this one plane, or so he reasoned it. And all the better if it would keep the Admiral from trying to return to the bridge.

  Now that Karpov was here, Orlov was glad to hand over the watch. Orlov loved to second orders, but was a bit unsure of himself when it came to tactics in a battle situation at sea. If anything happened, he would rely on Samsonov, but Karpov was Captain for a reason. He knew what he was about, when to turn, when to shoot, how
fast to go.

  The Captain took stock of the situation and increased to 30 knots, his heart racing with the ship’s engines. How long before Volsky tried the door? When would the next stupid seaman slink off to sick bay to shirk his duty and find the hatch sealed? How much time did he have? A voice warned him again, plaintive and fearful, the squeak of the mouse within-he could still back out of this. He could rush below, pretend to discover the lock on the door and blame it on an unseen conspirator. He could launch the investigation himself, pretending to be Volsky’s friend and loyal ally all along. Only Orlov knew more, and the Chief would keep his mouth shut, wouldn’t he? He could deny the entire conversation with Martinov, or get to him first with a threat to make him pay dearly if he opened his mouth. How much time did he have?

  Rodenko’s voice reporting a new contact jangled his nerves, snapping him back to the moment at hand. Search radar reported what looked like another storm front on the horizon to the south. There were many ship contacts, all arrayed in a number of surface action groups, a storm of steel slowly moving north towards their position.

  “How many ships?” Karpov asked quickly.

  “Seven ships here in the American Task force that has been withdrawing, but they have turned now, Captain. They are now heading north. Then I count eight more ships here-the signal returns are smaller, weaker. I think these are destroyers like the one we encountered off Jan Mayen. Over here, another eight ships, a mixed force, most likely the British, and I think heavy units are present-most likely the ships we fired on earlier.”

  “They are setting up a picket line and they plan to sweep north and catch us like a fish in a net.” Karpov’s mind worked quickly. “Fedorov, can you confirm what these ships might be?”

  There was no answer, and Orlov spoke. “You sent Fedorov below, Captain. Tovarich is at navigation.”

  “Of course.” Karpov rubbed his chin.

  “How far away are these ships?” The Captain turned to his radar station where Rodenko was busy monitoring his screens.

  “150 to 200 kilometers, sir,” said Rodenko. “The number one group is a little closer, small contacts, probably American destroyers.

  “They are all moving north?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Orlov looked at him, his eyebrows raised, waiting on a decision from the Captain. Karpov seemed edgy, nervous, like a bow string that had been pulled back too far. The strain was obviously getting to him as well. The Captain looked exhausted now as he looked at Orlov.

  “Your thoughts, Mister Orlov?” He said that just loud enough for the bulk of the bridge crew to hear him, as if he wanted a second voice to back him now in the decision that was percolating to a boil in his mind. It was mere theater, Orlov knew. The Captain knew what he wanted to do, what he had been planning to do all along. He was just covering his tracks, that was all.

  “They are out in force today, Captain. And I think they are coming for us. At the moment we are cruising straight for the coast of Newfoundland. If they sweep up north they will herd us into the Sea of Labrador, and I think we both know there is no northwest passage.”

  “We are not going to be swept anywhere we do not intend to go,” said Karpov derisively.

  At that moment the motley Tasarov shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He stiffened, his eyes opening wide, listening intently on his sonar headphones as if he could not believe what he was hearing.

  “Con, sonar- torpedo in the water!”

  Karpov spun about, anger and shock on his face. “Where?”

  “Bearing… zero-nine-five and closing!”

  “Battle stations! Helm ahead full! Port thirty!” Karpov immediately shouted out an order for evasive maneuvers.

  “Ready on countermeasures,” said Tasarov.

  “Fire now!” There was a strident edge to Karpov’s voice, and obvious fear. The alarm blared three sharp blasts for ASW operations as Orlov ran to the forward view screen, eyes straining through the haze to try and locate the torpedo wake. He could not see it, so the torpedo was not yet close.

  “Shkval!” Karpov shouted. He was referring to the lethal VA-111 Shkval or Squall, a high speed, super-cavitating underwater rocket that had both active sonar and wake homing capabilities. It would eject from the ship’s side and seek out the incoming torpedo at speeds of over 200 knots if necessary.

  “Firing now,” said Tasarov.

  “Go to active sonar, you idiot,” the Captain said sharply. “How could you let a sub get this close?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. It must have just been hovering beneath a thermal layer. I had nothing on my passive sonar. Nothing at all.”

  “Find me this submarine!” Karpov pointed a finger at him.

  “Aye sir!”

  Tasarov was working his board feverishly, but the Shkval found the incoming torpedo first. It kept one eye on the home ship, and another on the incoming target, precisely calculating the speed necessary to intercept the torpedo at a safe distance. Tasarov pulled off his headset just before the weapon intercepted its target, destroying it with an audible explosion that sent seawater up in a column of spray about 2500 meters off their port bow. It would have been a close call if it were a fast, modern day torpedo, but it was a long shot for a WWII submarine. Whatever was out there, it was not in close if it fired at that range, which is probably why Tasarov could not hear it if it was quietly hovering on battery power.

  The hollow ‘ping’ of the ship’s active sonar sang out in regular intervals, and with each pulse Karpov could feel his own pulse rising. There was nothing at sea he hated more than a submarine. It was not long before Tasarov had located a target.

  “Con, sonar contact bearing four-five degrees at 4200 meters.”

  The captain exhaled, obviously relieved to have found the spider in his cupboard. “Very well,” he said. “Kill it, Mister Tasarov. Kill it before they have a mind to fire at us again.” He turned to Orlov. “Those bastards!” he said. “They wave a line of ships in our face while they try to sneak up on us with a submarine.” This was obviously a German boat, he knew, yet in his mind he now lumped all his enemies into one bin, the British, Americans and Germans were one and the same to him. “Secure the bridge!” he pointed, and a mishman of the watch ran to set the inner security clamps on the main bridge hatch.

  “Samsonov-ready on forward missile array. We’ll settle this business once and for all.”

  Part XI

  Zero Hour

  August 8, 1941

  “If God does not exist, everything is permitted…Nothing is easier than to denounce the evildoer; nothing is more difficult than to understand him.”

  — Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

  Chapter 31

  Admiral Volsky heard the swoosh of a weapon being launched, and the sound of its rocket igniting in the water. His years of experience immediately told him what had happened. Then he heard the distant thump of the explosion when the incoming torpedo was intercepted, felt the rippling vibration moments later. A German U-Boat, he thought! I knew we were bound to run into one sometime. We’ve cruised right up on the damn thing. It was probably just drifting, waiting like an eel in a cave for us to pass by. Yet from the sound of things, our VA-111 found the torpedo quickly enough. I’ve got to get to the bridge!

  “Dmitri, it has been a wonderful stay,” he said. “But I think I had better take your advice and get to the bridge now.”

  “I think so as well,” said the Doctor. He helped the Admiral out of bed thinking to assist him with his uniform.

  “Don’t bother. I have pulled on that uniform every day for thirty years and I think I can manage it now. But if you would be so kind as to call the bridge on the intercom system and notify them that I am on my way, I think it may save a few lives. Perhaps Karpov will keep his head for a while.”

  “Good idea.” Zolkin said as he went to the com-panel and thumbed a switch. He took hold of the soap bar shaped microphone, flicked the send button, and spoke in a satisfied tone of voice. “Co
n-this is Doctor Zolkin in the sick bay. I am re-certifying Admiral Volsky as fit for duty and I inform you that he is now on his way to the bridge. That is all.” He had not even noticed that the red activity light did not wink on when he engaged the unit. A moment later, when he went to the hatch to open it, the Admiral heard him grunting with exertion.

  “What’s the matter, Dmitri? Are you getting old too?”

  “The hatch is jammed. It does that at times. I should have an oil can in this place for all the good it would do me.” He pushed hard, surprised that the door would simply not budge. Volsky had just slipped on his jacket, complete with every decoration he had ever earned emblazoned on his chest. Gold gleamed from the insignia on his officer’s hat, shoulders, and the five thick stripes of his cuffs. He looked every bit the man he was, Admiral of the Fleet, King of the Northern Sea. As he reached for his cap the doctor’s exertion seemed odd to him. He looked over his shoulder, suddenly concerned, then went over to lend a hand.

  “What kind of service do we get at this hotel?” he said jokingly, but when he tried the door he immediately knew something was wrong. He had run a thousand drills over the years, simulating every kind of emergency condition. His hand had run inspection over every hatch and hold on the ship. This door was locked. He could clearly hear the rattle of the emergency sealing bracket on the outside.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” he said, his mind racing ahead down a long, impossible corridor of thought. “It’s been locked-from the outside!”

  Zolkin looked at him, and their eyes immediately reflected what both men were thinking. “Karpov!” said the doctor. “I should have stuck a needle in that man and filled him with a 10 °CCs of sedative when I had him here!”