He shrugged inwardly, thinking what a long and grueling slog it would be. Things took time in Russia. Things were promised but seldom delivered in Russia. Things too often had a way of going wrong, just like this simple live fire exercise. Karpov had already started courting the favor of men like Rogatin back home, thinking to get in with the man and possibly skip a few chairs. For now, he was proud of his post here aboard Kirov, and determined to make the most of the opportunity. He was finally out of the ranks of junior officers, a man to be respected and reckoned with, or so he believed.
Yet Dostoevsky’s line about old habits was all too true where the Captain was concerned: ‘The second half of a man's life is made up of nothing but the habits he has acquired during the first half.’ Now that he had been made First Captain of the ship, he sometimes repeated the foibles and jaded manners of the old Gazprom executive class he had come from, bending the rules to suit him, and exercising more license than he might have done while jostling in the ranks for promotion. This was common all through the calcified power structures in Russia, from the police stations in every town, up through government at every level. Rank had its privileges. There would be nice thin layered blini with melted butter, jam and honey on the officer’s table in the morning for breakfast, but not for the rankers below. One had to do whatever was necessary to put honey on the table, he thought, but what to do about Volsky?
Just as in his university days, Karpov had been involved in more than one deception with senior officers standing as potential rivals on his career path. He took it upon himself to investigate personal matters in the lives of men he found threatening. He learned their habits and foibles, the state of their marriages and affairs, the bars or clubs they frequented, and he became a master of spreading those subtle, destructive lies, lozh, often wrapped in the more familiar gauze of vranyo—a wolf in sheep’s clothing, as it were.
Where lies would not serve, Karpov often feigned friendship by sending unusual gifts at odd hours and in unusual circumstances. Once, he had sent a bottle of fine French champagne to a rival officer on the day after his son had failed miserably in his crucial academy testing. He rubbed it in by pretending to apologize the next day, saying he was so certain the young many would pass that he believed the gift was well made. “Perhaps next semester,” he concluded. His message in these petty and often offensive capers was obvious, and they were one of many reasons why those beneath Karpov in the ranks had come to dislike him so much. For those above him, he reserved liberal praise and the most strict and proper decorum—until he set his mind on the post that particular officer occupied. After that, when a man became an obstacle, Karpov began a long and calculated campaign to subtly undermine him, a whisper here, a rumor there, a little vranyo, a little more lozh, an arranged embarrassing moment in the line of duty that would serve to cast doubt on his rival’s competency.
Once, in an exercise much like the one Kirov had planned for that very day, he had gone so far as to tamper with the towing line clamps for the target barges that would be towed by a rival captain. Then he insisted on a high speed maneuver that he knew would tax the compromised link until it gave way, leaving the barges scattered and adrift, and well out of proper position when the live fire exercise was scheduled to begin. His report on the matter was particularly critical of his rival, and he went so far as to joke about “Kutusov’s folly” in the ranks, cementing the mishap securely in the lore of the navy at the time.
When he received word that he had been made Kirov’s new Captain, he swelled with pride—until Volsky arrived. Now he saw the Admiral as an obstacle to his free reign here; someone he had to defer to out of respect to the man’s rank, though he often thought he knew better when it came to the machinations of running the ship.
The Captain always waited for the Admiral’s seat to cool before he finally settled into it to stand his command watch on the bridge. The residual warmth always made him uncomfortable, a reminder that there was someone else above him in rank on the ship; someone he had to answer to, that the ship was not truly his.
“Come about, Mr. Orlov,” he said to his Chief of Operations. “Port thirty.” Yet even as he gave the order he heard, or rather felt a distant heavy rumble, ominous and deep, like a great kettle drum being struck by a mighty hammer.
“What in god's name was that?” said the Captain. “That was no thunder.” There came a blinding white light, and Karpov saw his navigator, Fedorov, pulling off his headset, instinctively shielding his eyes. The searing light flashed and vanished, leaving the air alive with what looked like a hundred thousand fireflies all around the ship, strange luminescent particles that spun on the cold airs, whirling and dancing as they slowly faded to milky green. When it passed he instinctively looked out of the forward viewing panes, surprised to see that the ocean itself seemed to light up for miles in every direction with a strange phosphorescent color. Then the sea erupted in the distance, boiling up in a wild convulsion of sound and motion. The ship shuddered with the impact of a strong blast wave, rolling heavily.
Karpov gripped the side arms of his chair to steady himself, and everyone on the bridge braced for further impact, one man thrown from his seat near the helm, his eyes wide with fear and astonishment. The strident welter of sound subsided, resolving to an eerie sharp cellophane crackle that hung in the air like a wave of heavy static electricity. Then there came a low descending vroom, the sound falling through three octaves as if it had been sucked into a black hole and devoured.
Stunned and amazed, every member of the bridge crew seemed frozen, their faces twisted into expressions of numbed, painful shock. Then Karpov’s high, sharp voice broke the silence as he barked out in order.
“Action stations! We are under attack!”
Chapter 3
Admiral Volsky was halfway to his cabin when the ship lurched with the sudden motion, lights in the gangway winking and dimming. He heard the strange descending sound as he braced himself against the bulkhead, eyes wide with surprise, yet something deep within chided him, telling him he should have been more alert. The vague disquiet that had befuddled him earlier was now a jangling surge of adrenaline. An instant later every nerve in his body seemed to tingle with warning, as if a thousand needles had pierced his flesh. The feeling passed quickly, however, and he steadied himself, turning about at once and heading back toward the command bridge as fast as his heavy legs would carry him.
As he approached the citadel he saw the look on the guard’s face there by the hatch, registering shock and anxiety. But the instant the man saw the Admiral, he seemed to straighten with newfound resolve, saluting crisply, an expression of relief brightening in his eyes.
Volsky nodded to the man as he passed through the hatch and into the citadel where he could hear Karpov shouting at the helmsman to put on speed. Thirty years at sea told him the ship was already in a sharp turn, as if maneuvering to avoid the track of an oncoming missile or torpedo.
“What is happening?” he shouted, his deep voice loud and commanding.
“Admiral on the bridge!” Chief Orlov's voice cut through the bedlam and all eyes turned to the graying command officer, waiting. The Admiral knew that he must appear decisive, in control, no matter how bewildered he himself was at the moment. He tugged sharply on the lower hem of his jacket, adjusting the tilt of his cap as he strode to the center of the bridge. Karpov slipped out of his chair, saluting to acknowledge the Admiral's presence, and reported.
“An explosion of some kind, sir. Massive!”
“Aboard ship?”
“No, sir. It seemed to be an undersea detonation, of considerable size. Look at the ocean! I believe we may be under attack, and I have ordered the ship to take high-speed evasive maneuvers.”
At action stations the primary overhead lighting was dimmed and the bridge was wreathed in shadow, bathed with red emergency lighting and alight with the glow of many screens and consoles. Volsky looked out through the forward view panes, astonished to see the luminescent radianc
e of the sea all around them, as if some deep underwater energy source was emanating from the ocean floor. The flat panel digital screen mounted high on one wall to his left also showed the same scene, though the image was checkered with interference, the blocks of digital information disassembling and reassembling as the system worked to tune and display a clear signal and image. He immediately turned to Grigori Rodenko, his chief radar man.
“Rodenko?” It was clear that he wanted an immediate report from his CIC, the Combat Information Center, positioned on the right quarter of the citadel. There sat his three gods of war, Rodenko on radar and sensors, Tasarov on Anti-Submarine Warfare, and Samsonov on Combat Systems. They were already hard at work, leaning forward to note readings on their screens, and making adjustments to fine tune the data they were receiving. Rodenko turned to the admiral, a bemused look on his face.
“Nothing, sir. I read no contacts of any kind. But there is heavy interference.”
“Jamming signatures?”
“No sir. Too chaotic. Too widespread. It’s spread out over the entire bandwidth. We may have just experienced a severe EMP burst. System integrity appears normal but I'm initiating diagnostics to confirm.”
“EMP burst?” said Karpov sharply. “Initiate immediate NBC protocols!” Chief Orlov immediately repeated his order, a crewman stiffly palming a control toggle and sending a shrill alarm throughout the ship to rig for defense against potential nuclear, biological, or chemical attack. Already at action stations for the exercise, the crew would now take additional measures, screening all ports, securing all hatches, donning protective gear in the event of an attack by exotic weaponry.
Yet Admiral Volsky could see that this was clearly unnecessary. An EMP burst would have had far more grievous effects upon ship systems, and he could see his primary command and control facilities were still softly aglow in the dim emergency lighting of the bridge. The ship seemed to have full power, was maneuvering smartly, and was responding to commands in terms of its sensitive electrical nervous system. He could only assume that this had not been an EMP burst, which would have knocked down a good number of ship systems, potentially frying circuitry in all but the most hardened and well protected equipment.
“Belay that order,” he corrected the Captain. “I see no evidence of damage due to electromagnetic pulse. Signal resume standard action stations,” he said to Chief Orlov, and the surly chief nodded, snapping a quick hand gesture at the signalman who immediately sounded the all clear.
The Admiral glanced sharply at his Captain, then stepped up and into his chair and settled into the still warm seat, assuming full command. Karpov gave him an embarrassed look, a flash of anger hidden in his eyes, but said nothing.
“Tasarov?” The Admiral swiveled his chair to face his ASW Chief, Alexi Tasarov. The Captain was hovering near that station, tense and alert.
“The same, sir. No acoustic or sonic contact on passive systems. Intense noise on all passive sensors. And we just churned up the seas pretty badly with this maneuver. There’s a great deal of interference. I can’t read a thing under these conditions.”
“What about the Orel?”
Tasarov hesitated briefly, looking at his screens and adjusting his headset. “No, sir. I have no fix on her position. Her Target Motion Analysis track is void now.”
“An enemy submarine,” said Karpov. “This is how they work, Admiral. The bastards slink up on you in the dark. Tasarov, are you sure you hear nothing?”
“Not with this interference and the screw noise, Captain.”
The Admiral could see that Karpov was very agitated. He was already convinced this was a deliberate attack, and a stealthy NATO submarine was plying the waters of his mind, even if Tasarov could not hear it. He turn to his ASW man again. “Do you recommend anti-submarine procedures based on this information. Mister Tasarov?”
“I cannot report or confirm any hostile contact on passive sonar, Admiral. But the Captain may have a point, sir. That was a very strange emission after the explosion. I can’t be certain my systems are functioning properly until we do a full diagnostic. Under the circumstances, we may have been targeted by a nuclear armed torpedo, yet I heard nothing in the water, sir.”
Volsky’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, his brow set, lips pursed with some inner conclusion. “Prepare to go to active sonar,” he said quietly. And then to his communications officer he said: “Contact Orel at once.”
“But Admiral,” Karpov said again. “That will reveal our position! If this was a nuclear armed torpedo attack—”
“Then we would not be discussing it,” the Admiral countered. “Reveal our position? You think NATO will have overlooked us cruising about these last three days? They’ve had surveillance planes over us every day now. And if they did attack us, are their targeting systems all suddenly faulty? Bring the ship back on our original heading. Steer 225 degrees southwest,” he said to his helmsman now, clearly annoyed. Karpov may have been a good businessman, he thought, but he has certainly misjudged this situation. Volsky did not think this was a torpedo attack, nuclear or otherwise, but active sonar might help him find Rudnikov’s submarine.
“Orel does not respond to hails, sir.”
“Active sonar,” said the admiral. “Reacquire Orel at once.”
“Aye, sir.” The pinging pulse of the sonar punctuated the tense silence on the bridge as Admiral Volsky waited. Three pings, four, seven… The time seemed to stretch interminably, yet Tasarov remained silent, hunched over his station with intense concentration, listening with his eyes closed for a time, then blinking as he peered at his phosphorescent view screens. Karpov seemed to be listening with him, his eyes moving furtively from the ASW sonar screens to the forward view panes, and there was fear there, Volsky noted. He had seen this before in his new Captain. Karpov hated submarines, and when they drilled in ASW warfare tactics he always seemed particularly taut and on edge.
There was no contact anywhere on Tasarov’s scope, and nothing was discernable in the chaotic data stream he was monitoring now. The ocean around them played like the devil’s symphony, a muddle of odd noise and disorganized signal patterns, at least insofar as his equipment was concerned. Yet he knew his information was no more reliable now than the systems that provided it. Clearly there had been some kind of undersea explosion, and the damage may not yet be fully evident if the ship’s systems were affected. Orel had been cruising off their starboard bow, at roughly 20,000 yards and close enough for him to detect her on either his passive or active systems. Yet she was gone.
“I have no reliable readings, sir,” said Tarasov.
“I concur, Admiral,” said Rodenko. The radar man had a perplexed look on his face. “There’s nothing within thirty nautical miles of us. Nothing on any of my systems at all.”
“You have no reading on the Slava?” The Admiral was referring to the old cruiser that had been towing their targeting barges some thirty nautical miles south of their position.
“I have no acquisitions whatsoever, sir. This is crazy, I can't even read the weather front that I was monitoring any longer! It was moving south at nearly thirty kilometers per hour, but there is nothing on my screen now. We must have sustained significant damage. I will switch to phased array and continue the search.”
Volsky’s eye was immediately drawn to the barometer, where he saw, to his great surprise, that the pressure had elevated considerably. He frowned, his thick features registering disbelief. And yet, the tooth that had been bothering him had quieted down, and he could feel the difference in the environment around him. The weather had changed, and decidedly so.
His gaze was drawn to the forward view pane where he noted the seas, which had once been swelling up with the rising wind, had also calmed. The strange luminescent glow still rippled from the depths of the water, an eerie phosphorescent green. Seeing that the digital screens had settled down, he gave an order to display the various arcs of view on the monitors.
“Pan the Tin Men,” he said cal
mly, his eyes fixed on the big screen to his left.
He was referring to the odd looking equipment mounted on Kirov’s two forward watch decks called the ‘Tin Men’ by the crew, because they looked much like two great metal robots standing their solitary watch. Each Tin Man mounted the HD cameras and optical sensors necessary to provide high resolution views for every arc of the ship to the flat panel monitors in the ship’s command center. Rodenko toggled switches on his console and outside the ship the steely figures slowly rotated to pan and display the sea all around the ship.
Admiral Volsky was amazed as he stared at the screen. The ocean rippled with the same odd luminescence in all directions, as if Kirov herself was the source of the energy affecting the sea. The choppy swells had calmed, and there was an unnatural stillness over the scene. In the distance, he perceived what looked like a low bank of gray white fog.
“How can this be?” he said, more to himself than anyone else. He slipped off his chair walking slowly up to the forward view panes and staring at the glowing water and distant horizon ahead, his eyes unwilling to trust the images on the screen. He was looking for the obvious signs of an undersea nuclear explosion, yet it is what he did not see that disturbed him most.
Ten minutes ago they had force five winds and rising seas, yet now the ocean was still and calm, almost glassy smooth. The long forward bow of the ship stretched out before him, its sharp prow cutting smoothly through the jade green water, and yes, that was fog ahead, thick, gray-white fog in a misty rolling cloud bank right across his intended course.
His first appreciation of the situation was that there had been an accident aboard Orel, just as it was said there had been an accident aboard the Kursk, the last doomed sub of her class. Rudnikov had reported trouble with one of his torpedoes, and he thought it had detonated. The Orel would have been cruising at no more than 200 feet depth, and if a 15 kiloton nuclear warhead had indeed detonated he should be seeing a vast spray dome forming at the water surface, a rising gas bubble, and a great chimney of violence pluming up from the depths of the sea. That weapon was on the same scale as the bomb the Americans had dropped on Hiroshima. Yet he saw nothing, just as the Rodenko saw nothing on his radar screens, just as Tasarov heard nothing on his sonar.
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