Kirov

by John Schettler

  The words burned him now, seared him, shamed him. He had finally found that ‘officer’ Dostoevsky had written about, the last man on the rungs of the ladder above him that he needed to topple in order to reach his goal, his rightful place, the place he should have earned long ago with all the intelligence, guile and skill he brought to the task. Now Severomorsk was gone, and so were any who might one day sit in judgment on him. Fate had delivered him to this moment, and so he went to the Admiral to see if he could get the man to do what was necessary, and if not, to bid him to step aside. But it was he that had stepped aside again, Vladimir Ivanovich Karpov, Captain of the First Rank. He felt useless, lost and humiliated by his own fear and inadequacy, and the only thing he could do to comfort himself was fashion these two things into hatred.

  It wasn’t Volsky he hated now, not Papa Volsky—not the amiable father that had endeared himself to his crew—not the man, but the Admiral. He was better than the man, or so Karpov believed of himself. It was just that the man had a uniform, that was all, and on that uniform there were stripes and stars that, when he looked upon his own cuff, were missing. Volsky was the whole of it in his mind just then, that whole stinking, creaking, drafty old house he had been living in all these forty years as a tired little mouse. “…I have been forty years listening to you through a crack in the floor…”

  There in that stark and bleak infirmary, he had finally faced off with a sick old man and come away defeated yet again, not by the man, he believed, but by the uniform he wore, by the stars and bars on his cuff. Yet that uniform was nothing more than the tired vestige of a nation and a system that no longer existed! The Admiral had even threatened to relieve him, to take from him everything he had labored and suffered for all these many years in his mouse-like existence, the few stripes he had had earned on his own. What, did he need yet more? Didn’t he have enough already?

  Karpov sat with that for a while, until that old, self-satisfied feeling of warm comfort settled over him again, calming his troubled mind. It was a stink, he knew, but one he had come to like after all these years. People grow accustomed to anything in time, and he had become familiar with the stench of his own shame.

  Here he sat, at a moment that might change the whole of his life, and not only his life, but the lives of every man aboard the ship, and the lives of all those many generations ahead that Fedorov so worried about, and yet he could not act. That was the last awful truth he had to face as he sat there in his mouse hole in the stench of his own shame, that his failure was now complete and it could not be any other way; that when it came to the final moment, he was not a man after all, but that sneaking, conniving mouse; that this was his fate, and there was no changing it. He could not become a real man, not now, not ever, because in the final analysis, he could not see or even imagine that real man he thought to become. He could not come out of his darkened hole and face the light that would clearly reveal the state of his own wretched condition, and so he turned away from it. Now when he looked, there was nothing there but his own shadow, a dark stain on the stark gray paint of the ship’s deck, stretching out before him when he walked the long empty passageways; nothing but the shadow of a man that he could never be.

  His clenched fist held all these thoughts as one last voice cried out within his troubled mind. He could do this. He still had time to act before Volsky returned to take the ship away from him again. Then the little doubts and fears returned in their well practiced chorus. Yes, he could do this, but then what? What after? What when the eyes of the crew were on him in the passages and crawlways of the ship—the other mice all gathered here in the kollectiv? The eyes would judge him, condemn him, weighted down with their notions of good and bad, right and wrong, justice and injustice. The more he thought about it, the more paralyzed he became, until he perceived, welling from within, a long restrained anger and rage surging up in him, like some deep, smoldering magma in his soul. He turned another well worn page and his eye fell on the only remedy Dostoevsky had devised for his dilemma … “Whether it's good or bad, it is sometimes very pleasant, too, to smash things…”

  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 th
eir 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!’