Kirov

by John Schettler

  “Thank you, Mister Fedorov,” said Karpov, a touch of annoyance in his voice. “Yet I read in your own book that the Americans delivered a squadron of P-40 fighters to Iceland, yes?”

  “Correct, sir, but those planes have not even arrived yet—” Fedorov suddenly realized what the Captain had said. “Which book are you referring to, sir?”

  “Your Chronology of the War at Sea. The Admiral was good enough to share it with me, even if you were not.” Karpov covered his tracks a bit with the easy lie, though he realized he might be making a mistake here. He decided to sound out the young Lieutenant a bit and see if he could be useful.

  “What do you think about this secret meeting at sea, Fedorov, this Atlantic Charter?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re asking me, sir.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Fedorov. Don’t you see a fish on the hook when it’s right in front of you? This is an opportunity, is it not?”

  “An opportunity for what, sir?”

  “You heard the Admiral earlier. These men gathering for this meeting, they are the chief officers and leaders of the entire allied war effort. Think of it, Fedorov, what would have happened if the Germans rolled into Moscow and found old Stalin napping with all his major generals and field marshals as well? Wouldn’t that have been a prize?”

  “I suppose it would, sir.”

  “Then this situation is very interesting, yes?” The Captain glanced at Orlov as well. “ I think this is what the Admiral has been stewing about, what to do about it.” He looked at Fedorov again. “What would you do about it, Lieutenant?”

  Fedorov hesitated, nodding his head to one side. “Well… I’m not sure what the Admiral is considering, sir, but I would steer well clear of this area, and get safely out into the Atlantic.”

  Karpov raised his brows, eyes narrowing. It was what he expected. Fedorov had no stomach for the business at hand. He was another weak sister, just like Zolkin. His fawning over the Admiral was nothing to worry about, but he decided to press the Lieutenant further.

  “You would go out into the Atlantic? Why, Fedorov?”

  Fedorov was beginning to feel a bit manipulated. He had learned enough about Karpov to be very wary of the man, and he wondered why he would ask him these questions when all he had ever received from the Captain before was a veiled disdain.

  “This is a dangerous situation, sir,” Fedorov began. “With the President and Prime Minister at sea, the Americans and British will be very wary until they are both safely at their destinations. They already know about us—or at least they think that the Germans have another raider running the Denmark Strait, and that means they will be doubly on guard now. They know we are not the Tirpitz if they’ve bothered to check their intelligence and overfly Kiel. In that instance they know we are not Admiral Sheer as well. But they are coming, sir, with everything they can make seaworthy. This is the worst possible time for a German raider to appear. If we turned east soon we might not seem so threatening, particularly if we vanish. They can’t spot us on radar now, not with Rodenko jamming them. They’ve managed to keep a hold on us because we’ve kept to this heading. They can calculate our farthest on based on our estimated speed, so they assume we must still be in this narrow channel. But I would turn east, and soon, to throw them off the scent and get well out into the Atlantic.”

  “And if we persist on this heading?”

  “Then we may have more trouble than we need, sir. The Americans are out there too, and in force. They have three battleships, at least seven cruisers, twice that in destroyers, and an aircraft carrier in their Atlantic Fleet at the moment, and all these ships are presently at sea, gathering for this conference, and for the second relief convoy bound for Iceland—that’s the one delivering those planes you mentioned, sir.”

  Karpov considered all this, remembering what he had read in Fedorov’s book. The navigator had one thing correct, the situation ahead of them was, indeed, very dangerous. Ships were gathering from all compass headings, and all bound for this one place.

  “These American ships, would they attack us?”

  “I believe so, sir. The King doctrine is now in effect. The American Navy has authorization to engage any perceived threat, U-boat or surface raider, within a hundred miles of their ships.”

  “I see… and where is this meeting to be held, Fedorov?”

  “Argentia, Bay, sir, on the south cape of Newfoundland. We should get well away from this area, unless we want to end up fighting the whole Atlantic Fleet along with the British. The situation is very dangerous,” he repeated.

  “This is a war, Fedorov, or haven’t you noticed. The British nearly put a torpedo into us not too long ago. That won’t happen again, but the point is, they have already decided the matter, haven’t they? Unless we run out into the Atlantic and hide, as you suggest, we’re going to run into these ships on this heading.”

  “It’s not just that, sir,” said Fedorov, his eyes troubled now, and somewhat anxious. When he spoke of the Royal Navy, quoting the names of ships, talking about their speed and guns, he was completely in his element, a master of the information he was relating. But now he seemed to be feeling his way forward, unsure of what he was saying.

  “We could change things…” he hesitated, then tried to finish his thought. “It’s like the Doctor said earlier, sir. Every plane we shoot down has a pilot and every ship we engage has a crew. These are not great men, I suppose. They are just like us, enlisted men and officers out to do their duty as best they can. But those that survive this war may have children, and that goes on into the future, all the way to our day and beyond. I can’t tell you that any of them might matter in our world, but some might. Everything we do here is having some effect on that history, and we cannot know what the outcome might be. As for Churchill and Roosevelt—these are great men; this we know. And should anything happen to them….” He did not quite know how to finish.

  Karpov was somewhat surprised. Fedorov had been thinking about this from more than one angle, he realized. He was considering possible consequences of their actions here, worried about the future he knew, the history of all the days from this day forward to the year 2021, and then all the unknown days that might lay ahead. This was what he was most worried about, his precious history. Kirov could render all his books invalid in one mighty blow. Didn’t the Lieutenant see that? Yes, he did see that, but instead of seeing opportunity here, he wallowed in fear. Fedorov was afraid, that was all. Every man had something to anchor him in this world of uncertainty. For Fedorov it was his history books. He found his comfort in the stolid, unchanging facts there, and now things were changing, spinning wildly off in a new direction, becoming something altogether new, and Fedorov was afraid of it.

  “You worry too much, Fedorov. Did it ever occur to you that we could become great men too?” Karpov looked at his navigator with the question. “Did it ever occur to you that this ship is here for a reason? You don’t want your history bothered, yes, I understand this. But to quote Dostoevsky: ‘Do you expect me to ‘accept fate obediently as it is, once and for all, and stifle everything in myself?’ A man must be ready to act, not just sit meekly and accept his fate like so many do back home. After all… Men are men, and not piano keys. Yes, I have read some books too, Mister Fedorov. I too, studied at the university. Don’t look so surprised.”

  A silence intervened, and then Fedorov said: “Yes sir, you are correct. I am worried about the history—very much so. It was a long dark road we walked after this war, through Stalin, Khrushchev, and Brezhnev. They were men too, some say great men, yet I do not think you will find very many back home too eager to see such men back in power again. There were times when our nation strayed very close to annihilation under their leadership. And if what you say is true, and we are here for some reason, I can only hope it may be achieved without walking in the their shadow.”

  “How long do we blame Stalin, Khrushchev and Brezhnev for our woes, Fedorov? One day we must come to blame ourselves
for what we have become. It has been a long time since the old Soviet system collapsed. What we’ve made of the country since then has been none of Brezhnev’s doing. But the Americans and British? Yes, they’ve made our lives a living hell, have they not? So I choose to blame them for the moment.”

  “I do not say this is entirely Russia’s fault, sir. Your points at the briefing were heard by all of us. Yes, we are here, and we must do something. That is agreed. I was only suggesting that you should consult with the Admiral, sir, and—”

  “That is none of your concern, Fedorov. And this discussion is pointless. Attend to your charts now.” Karpov had learned all he needed to know from the Navigator. He gave him a stern look. “You have become just a bit too brash, Fedorov. Watch your mouth, eh? Just because we both have one stripe and one star on our cuff does not mean that you have license here.” He pointed to the floor of the bridge.

  The cuff insignia for a junior Lieutenant and a Captain of the First Rank did indeed look very similar, only the thickness of the stripe differentiated them, Karpov’s being twice the width. “If you ever do want to thicken up that stripe on your cuff, Lieutenant, then you had better thicken up your skin first. Now busy yourself and plot me a heading to this anchorage at Newfoundland, and let me worry about the British and Americans.”

  “To Argentia Bay, sir?”

  “Correct.”

  Fedorov knew exactly what was on the Captain’s mind now, and he wisely said nothing more, his eyes worried as he bent to his navigation to plug in some numbers on the long range weather radar screen.

  The Captain settled into his chair, flashing a grin at his Chief of the boat. “Listen, Orlov,” he said quietly. “We have business here, and a chance to make some rather interesting decisions. The Americans and British want to have this secret little meeting, but they don’t invite their newfound friends in Russia. They will plot how best to lay down the law after this war, and leave us out of it. All we are supposed to do is bleed away the lives of ten million or more and defeat Germany for them while they pay us off with a few trucks, spam, and powdered eggs in their Lend-Lease program. Does that sound fair to you?”

  Orlov smiled. “Not at all, Captain.”

  “Then perhaps we can get a better deal for Russia if we pay a little visit to this secret hideaway in Newfoundland. Before we do so, however, we will need to watch our backs. I cannot have these British battleships creeping up on us, nor will I tolerate the continued harassment of these carriers. I want to put unholy fear into the British before we sit at the negotiating table.” He planted his finger firmly on the arm of his chair. “Then we deal from a position of strength,” he said emphatically.

  Orlov nodded, casting a glance at the other crewmen on the bridge. “Yet we should be a little careful, sir,” he advised. “Fedorov has a point. Perhaps you should discuss this with Volsky.”

  “Careful? Volsky is sedated; asleep. Who knows how long he will be under? So the matter is for us to decide, you and I. We are the senior officers in command now. Yes, we must by cautious, yet firm,” Karpov agreed. “But I’ll be damned if we’ll turn tail and run out into the Atlantic as our young Navigator suggests.”

  He lowered his voice further so that only Orlov could hear him. “Listen to me, Orlov… We’re never going to see the future we shape with our actions here. How do we get back there? So we will never know what the consequences of our actions will be, nor will anyone else alive today. We can guess, conjecture, have long discussions with Mister Fedorov about it, but in the end, this is our reality now and we had better get used to the fact that this is the world we’re living in, as impossible as it seems. At this moment, that world is tearing itself apart with this war. There will be winners, and there will be losers. That is the case in every game, yes? I intend to be one of the winners, and with this ship we can make sure that happens, and make certain that we do not become one of the scraps the Allies fight over when they finally do defeat Germany and Japan.”

  Orlov nodded, but remembered something the Captain himself had argued at the first briefing. “You see a couple of heads of cabbage on the cutting board and you want to chop it while you can.” Orlov was thinking in terms of profit or loss here. There was no mistaking who’s heads were on the cutting board. He knew the Captain was talking about Churchill and Roosevelt now.

  “Look, you said it yourself, Karpov. The British and Americans win this war. Russia too! So what are you going to do, attack them? Then who’s side are we on? And why should they deal with us further?”

  In the tough world of the Russian criminal underground Orlov had come from, one had to pick his friends and enemies very carefully. “Everybody serves a boss,” he continued. “Which side will we be on in a few years if we sink half the British and American navies? You don’t hit somebody in the face unless he disagrees with you. The same goes here. Talk first, and if no one listens, then take stronger measures.”

  “Look, we didn’t throw the first punch, Orlov.” The Captain handed him back his own image. “You saw what those planes were up to. What? Was I suppose to sit here negotiating on the radio while those torpedo planes came in on us?”

  “Of course not, but this business…this secret meeting. I think this is something different. If you sail down there we’re bound to run into all these ships Fedorov is talking about. Then what?”

  “We don’t have to get too close,” Karpov whispered. “What is the range of our cruise missiles? Well over 300 kilometers.” He answered his own question. “We’ve got the weapons, and I intend to use them to best effect.”

  “Every weapon, Captain?” Orlov had a serious look on his face, realizing what Karpov was saying now.

  “When necessary,” said Karpov. “But for now, let us settle the matter at hand and deal with the Royal Navy. If we stay on this course we’ll need to discourage further pursuit. Remember, this is the course the Admiral has set for the ship. It’s his responsibility. All I am doing is making sure we get there in one piece. Are you with me?”

  Orlov hesitated, ever so slightly. He noticed how Karpov talked about great men out of one side of his mouth, and then how he foisted off responsibility for his actions on the Admiral out of the other side. It was not that he didn’t agree with Karpov. If it were up to him he’d stick a fat fist in anyone’s face he disagreed with. Yet there were limits, he thought. How far was the Captain willing to go?

  “Very well,” he said at last. “But just remember, Captain. You must eat the porridge you cook. And not just you. There are over seven hundred men on this ship.”

  Part VIII

  Man Of War

  “A man like the major must always have somebody to oppress, something to take away from somebody, somebody to deprive of his rights, in short, an opportunity to wreak havoc…”

  —Fyodor Dostoevsky

  Memoirs From the House of the Dead

  Chapter 22

  Karpov stood on the bridge, stiffly alert, yet with a taut, almost strained manner, like a watch spring that had been wound too tight. He had thought about the situation long enough. If he was ever to get to the place he saw himself going in his mind, the first step was necessary, compulsory. It was not a question of morals for him—it never was. Nor did he bother with useless speculation as Fedorov might, wondering where each round of his air defense Gatling guns was going, and which man’s heart it might rend open, spilling his life’s blood out as if it were no more than sludge in a gutter.

  These considerations did not figure in the intricate workings of his mind at that moment. He was Captain of a ship of war now, and he looked at the situation from the perspective of simple tactics and strategy. He knew where the enemy was, and what his forces were composed of. Yet the enemy knew nothing of him. He could see the stumbling advance of his foe on Rodenko’s radar screens, illuminated by the clock-like sweep of the scan, round and round, pulsing out the position, course and speed of the British ships. He watched their steady approach on one side, where the British Home Flee
t hastened to block his exit from the Denmark Strait, and on the other side where the chastened but dogged carrier group still followed him into that icy passage, intent on marking his shadow and blocking any possible return by the route he came. It was as if two men met in a crowded street, and one had to give way to the other to allow either to pass. Who would give way first?

  The enemy was executing a well practiced drill as they smoothly vectored in the assets of the Royal Navy to find and destroy his ship. They had cut their teeth early on in 1940 when they hunted down the Graff Spee, and then learned from the mistakes made in chasing the Admiral Sheer. They had limited the effectiveness of Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, eventually bottling them up in a French port to suffer the ignominy of nightly bombing raids. Then, by the time the Germans sent out their most formidable gladiator, the Bismarck, the Royal Navy had honed its skills to a fine art, like the well oiled mechanisms of a machine.

  Kirov, however, was something altogether different. Yes, his ship was a mechanical wonder as well; a metal shark, sleek, fast and dangerous. The enemy had not even taken the measure of his ship, but they would soon learn more than they might ever hope to know. And just as the British set their ships out in hot pursuit, war machines that would not hesitate for one moment to fling their bombs, shells and torpedoes at him, so he, too, would be equally heartless. It was not merely a simple ship of war he commanded now, but time and fate itself, and Karpov was at the helm of both as he contemplated the action that was about to ensue at his command.

  There was an odd reciprocity about war, he thought. One side goes tick, and the other goes tock. One drumbeat followed the next, in an inevitable cascade of escalation that ended in violence of the highest order, controlled rage, unrestrained anger made kinetic in the application of finely honed weapons of war. What was it Doctor Zolkin had said about it? The missiles were mindless, and gave not the slightest thought or feeling as they did their job. They were simple mechanisms, action and reaction, cause and effect. But war was the greater mechanism they all served, and man was the watchmaker of that clock. Why else were they all here aboard Kirov; why else were the British out there in their cold gray ships, their bows chopping into the sea as they surged forward in the chase?