Kirov

by John Schettler

  The fifteen megaton tactical warhead was enough to wreak havoc on Task Force 16. Not a single ship would survive. All three screening destroyers would be sunk, along with both cruisers. Only the battleship Mississippi would remain afloat, heeled over and tossed in the violent seas, her crew senseless or wildly struggling to escape the watery coffin of the ship.

  Volsky had turned his key a second too late to stop the missile, but at least he had managed to transfer command operations to the aft battle bridge, foiling Karpov’s attempt to reset the system.

  When the main bridge went dark again, Karpov swore under his breath. Where was Troyak? He was supposed to have secured the aft citadel from any intrusion, yet Volsky was obviously there. Either he failed to reach the citadel in time, or he had deferred to the Admiral’s command. He had to find out where he was, and where he stood in the action that might now ensue. “Orlov!” he said quickly. “Get on the intercom and summon Sergeant Troyak. I want him up here with a squad of marines at once!” If Troyak complied it would mean he was still at large, and not under Volsky’s thumb. Would the Admiral have the foresight to assure he had Troyak under his command?

  Orlov went to the battery operated intercom and gave the order, so it was no surprise when the Captain soon heard a heavy footfalls on the ladder outside and a hard, clanking knock on the main bridge hatch. Somewhat relieved, Karpov went to the entrance, the red overhead emergency lighting reflecting in the eyes of every man on the bridge as they followed his shadow when he passed. He thumbed on the door intercom. “Troyak?”

  “Sir, Sergeant Troyak requesting entry to the bridge.”

  “Well done, Sergeant,” Karpov began, pleased that the Sergeant had come so quickly. He decided it was time for decisive action now. He would personally lead Troyak and his marines and re-take the battle bridge. Once he had the Admiral locked up again, he could finish the job and deal with the real problem at Argentia Bay. Roosevelt and Churchill were next on his list. If the fat Prime Minister had survived his barrage against the British, he would make sure that he would not escape the next missile. He had every intention of firing his second weapon of choice, the SS-N-27B Sizzler land attack cruise missile, and aiming it directly at Argentia Bay, using its nuclear warhead to incinerate everything there. But first, the Admiral…

  The Captain began flipping open the hatch seals and released the lock. It opened with a slight hiss as the NBC system had increased the air pressure on the bridge slightly when it was first secured as a countermeasure to chemical or biological weapons. Gloved hands pulled the hatch open and Karpov saw the dull gleam of red light on the cold metal of an assault rifle, pointed directly at his chest. Reflexively, he stepped back, and two marines leapt onto the bridge, weapons at the ready. Behind them came the steely figure of Sergeant Kandemir Troyak, his eyes narrow and cold; emotionless.

  “What are you doing, Troyak?” Karpov’s mind was a whirl. He suddenly realized what was happening and how he had stupidly compromised his position by not questioning Troyak further before he opened the hatch. How could he salvage the situation?

  “Put that weapon down, Sergeant. You were ordered to secure the aft battle bridge, and you must do so at once. The Admiral is delusional! He is indisposed. Can’t you see what has happened? He has fired a nuclear warhead!” Karpov knew exactly what had happened, knew why Troyak was here now, but he played out the only line he could think of, his eyes already looking to Orlov for support.

  Troyak looked at him with no emotion. Like the cold computer that had dismissed the Captain’s electronic appeal with prejudice, he, too, quietly ruled in favor of Admiral Volsky. “Sir, I regret that I cannot carry out that order and I must inform you that by order of the Fleet Admiral this bridge is now secured from further operations. All officers and crew will remain here until further notice. I must also request that you immediately surrender your command key.”

  “What? What are you saying? This is outrageous! I demand to see the Admiral at once!”

  Troyak just looked at the Captain, saying nothing, but the look on his face carried a clear and unmistakable message that could only be translated as: ‘Don’t fuck with me.’

  “Orlov?” The Captain looked for his ally and co-conspirator, who stood with his arms folded, a disgusted look on his face. The Operations Chief took one look at Troyak, perhaps the only other man on the ship that he found in any way intimidating, and then at Karpov where he stood pointing at the marine Sergeant with a pained expression on his face. His thoughts strayed to the pistol tucked into this beltline, but there were five marines here now, each with a fully automatic weapon. The Captain seemed a small and pathetic thing before the imposing girth of the Sergeant, a Siberian Eskimo, short, squat, yet broad shouldered and powerfully muscled, his thick legs planted wide, his hand firm on his weapon.

  The situation had changed now from one where the authority flowed from the protocols of rank and command structure to one where muscle and steel held sway. It was a world Orlov knew well, for he often used his own brawn to intimidate and harass the crew, imposing his surly will on any whom he found to be remiss in their duties. But Troyak was an unmovable rock, he knew. He stood there in full battle array, a black Kevlar body shield covering his broad chest, combat helmet pulled low on his forehead, weapon at hand and those dark slits of eyes watching, waiting, yet revealing nothing.

  Orlov looked at the Captain and said: “Consequences, Karpov. Consequences.”

  “Nonsense!” Karpov strode over to the CIC, reaching for his command key with the intent of making a coded request for dual control of the ship’s systems. The ship’s guns were still firing at the American destroyers, fully automatic, as the tension on the bridge wound to the breaking point.

  “Sir,” said Troyak, coldly. “I must request that you surrender your command key at once.”

  The Captain ignored him, seating himself before the command module, his key in hand. Troyak moved so quickly that even Orlov was stunned at the man’s speed. He took three brisk steps, and placed the muzzle of his assault rifle directly against the Captain’s head. A second later his hand was on Karpov’s, gripping it like a cold metal clamp.

  Karpov yelled and the key slipped from his squashed hand, snatched up in one sharp movement by the marine sergeant, who then jerked his arm back and snapped the thin beaded metal chain that secured the key around Karpov’s neck. The Captain grimaced, clasping his hand where the sergeant had gripped it, and then rubbing the side of his neck.

  “Your pardon, sir,” said Troyak, stepping back into a position where he could easily see every station on the bridge. He handed the key to one of his marines. “Take this to the Admiral,” he said. Then he resumed his position with his back to the far bulkhead, stolid, implacable and silent, as if nothing had happened.

  The marine stepped through the hatch, quickly on his way to the battle bridge with a silver message that would tell the Admiral the ship was finally secure. At that moment, a mishman near the forward viewing screen called out. “The ocean!” he exclaimed. “Look at the sea!”

  Karpov turned, a pained expression still on his face, and looked out towards the distant horizon. “You will pay for this insult,” he said, pointing at Troyak, but his gaze was soon riveted to the great white cloud in the distance, looming over the gray horizon and clearly visible as it broiled up into the atmosphere. He knew the ship was much too far from the epicenter of the detonation to suffer any ill effects, but he did see a large swelling wave rolling towards them, the leading edge of the tsunami generated by the blast wave. It was still near 40 feet high at this range, but Kirov was a big ship, 900 feet in length and with a good beam. She rode it well, rising up and then surging back down into the sea again as the battlecruiser slid into the deep trough, her bow awash with fuming white seawater.

  The American destroyers did not fare so well. Two were swamped, the others forced to maneuver quickly to turn their bows into the wave, where they still floundered in the chaotic sea. But the great wave had
one side benefit—its water helped quash the many raging fires aboard the destroyers as they struggled forward through the smoke of battle.

  The mishman continued to point, however, and Karpov got up and stepped closer to the view screen, peering through the thick shatter proof glass and squinting as the external wipers sloshed back and forth to clear the spray of seawater. To his amazement, the ocean was rippled with a phosphorescent tide, an eerie glow of quavering green and gold.

  “What in God’s name is going on?”

  Everyone just stared at the scene in silence.

  Chapter 33

  Admiral Volsky braced himself against a bulkhead when the ship rolled with the great wave. Karpov! That fool had fired a nuclear warhead against his expressed order. God only knows what he has done now, he thought. His mind raced, as he tried to get a grip on the tactical situation.

  “Cease fire on those deck guns!” said Volsky. “Shut them down.” Then to Fedorov he said: “Can you examine Mister Kalinichev’s radar and tell me what I am looking at?”

  Fedorov moved quickly, the Admiral coming to his side as both men hovered over Kalinichev at Radar 1. “Sir, I read four surface action groups. That is the coast of Newfoundland. The first is close in to our position, probably smaller destroyers of Desron 7 we were engaging with our forward batteries. The second group was probably hit by our warhead. Not much left it now, sir, as you can see. That smudge there must be the detonation. Groups three and four would most likely be Royal Navy units. It looks like the Captain fired a conventional missile barrage at group four earlier—most likely a collection of the forces that have been pursuing us this far, sir. That would be the British Home Fleet, probably commanded by Admiral Tovey. They were hit, but that group is still reading six viable surface contacts.”

  The Admiral nodded, his face drawn and serious. “And the number three contact?”

  “It’s track shows it arriving from the southeast, sir. This can only be Force H under Admiral Somerville from Gibraltar.”

  “Gibraltar?” Volsky raised his heavy brows. “You were correct about these British. They have put to sea with everything they have. Will there be an aircraft carrier there?”

  “Aye, sir. The Ark Royal. She probably has two or three squadrons aboard, with veteran pilots.”

  “And Group two?”

  My guess is that it was composed of the ships that were originally bound for Iceland. The Americans were escorting the second of many relief convoys to reinforce their garrison there. That group was probably Task Force 16, built around the battleship Mississippi. There were two cruisers and five destroyers escorting four transports, but we only read one ship there now. Probably the battleship. It’s the only ship that might have had the armor to survive intact, but I wouldn’t want to be aboard her now, sir. The detonation was very close and there would have been an enormous shock and base surge of ocean water from the explosion of our warhead.”

  Volsky nodded. “How close are those destroyers?”

  “I read five contacts still afloat there, sir,” said Fedorov. “Desron 7 was the large destroyer escort accompanying Task Force 19 en route to Argentia Bay. Their speed has fallen off with the blast wave and tsunami shaking them up pretty badly. The range looks to be over 10,000 meters now. We’re still making 30 knots. I doubt if they’ll get any closer if we turn away.”

  “Range 12,000 meters now and increasing,” said Kalinichev, to be exact.

  The Admiral sighed heavily, his eyes troubled. “Karpov has more than likely put another two or three thousand men into the sea.”

  “Mississippi had over a thousand aboard,” said Fedorov. “Cruiser Quincy had another eight hundred. She was supposed to be sunk a year and a day from now, on August 9th 1942 at the battle of Salvo Island off Guadalcanal. But I’m afraid the Japanese will be denied, sir. The other cruiser, Wichita, served with distinction in both the Atlantic and Pacific, and survived the war.”

  “But not this war,” said Volsky. “Another eight hundred men gone there…” He rubbed his forehead as Doctor Zolkin watched him closely.

  “Very well. Helm, come about, take us north, away from those destroyers. I want to pay a visit to Mister Karpov and resume command from the main bridge. Thank you gentlemen,” he said to his young junior officers. “I may be calling you to duty on the main bridge as well after I have sorted this mess through. Mister Fedorov, Doctor Zolkin, would you both accompany me, please?”

  They stepped through the hatch, then the Admiral peeked back at his men and said: “You have the bridge, Mister Gromenko. But don’t get trigger happy, please.”

  “Aye, sir.” Gromenko smiled. It was the first time in his career that he had official control of a fighting ship. He assigned his station to another petty officer and stepped ever so quietly to the command chair. He looked at it for a moment, thinking, then sat quietly down, a look of profound satisfaction on his young face, and a gleam of joy in his eyes.

  Admiral Volsky made his way forward through the interior of the ship, thinking hard about the situation. “Karpov has dropped a nuclear bomb on the Americans,” he said sullenly. “I had hoped to open negotiations with the aim of paying a visit to Mister Roosevelt and Mister Churchill, but I don’t think we will have much of a warm welcome after this. That idiot of a Captain must have killed over five thousand men in the last few days! What was he thinking?”

  Doctor Zolkin spoke up. “I believe he thought he could alter the course of events, Admiral. He may have had a mind to visit this conference as well, but not as an ally of Britain and the United States, nor even as an equal neutral party purporting to represent the Soviet Union. He may argue that his combat actions were forced upon him by the enemy, but we shall see.”

  “I warned him not to fire on the Americans, sir,” said Fedorov. “I told him those planes were unarmed, and the carrier no threat, but he had me relieved and sent below. He would not listen to reason, sir.”

  “The question now is what do we do?” said Zolkin. “Are you going to continue this war, Admiral?”

  “Good question,” said Volsky. “Perhaps it will be foolish for us to proceed. What’s done is done, and we have likely already had a profound impact on the course of events. If the Americans and British still believe we are a German ship, then Karpov’s attack will likely fill them with dread, yet with equal rage. They may assume that Germany has also been working on a nuclear weapons program, and has managed to deploy a workable weapon. In fact, they may see this as the test run, perhaps assume that the Germans intend to strike America itself with nuclear weapons. The situation is spinning wildly out of control here. The Germans will deny it, of course, and claim they never even had a ship at sea. But I think the Allies will believe the evidence of their own astonished eyes, and the watery graveyard of five thousand American sailors will ignite a fire worse than the Japanese attack at Pearl Harbor did.”

  “I agree, sir,” said Fedorov. “They will be intimidated, but they will not yield, at least not now. It would take the destruction of both London and New York, before they would ever contemplate surrender to Germany, and even that may not be enough.”

  “You are correct, Mister Fedorov. And with this in mind it may be best if we turn east into the Atlantic and disappear. It would be foolish of me to think that I could reason with either Churchill or Roosevelt after this. We can make 32 knots, faster than any of their battleships, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I think we could cruise safely enough through to the South Atlantic, avoiding further engagement as far as possible. Our presence here is an offense to history. I cannot begin to think what the consequences will be. There will be many lives we cut short before their time, and yet, if these events prompt America to declare war on Germany at this time, there will be many lives we may have spared at Pearl Harbor.”

  “It’s likely the Americans will come into the war with a vengeance, sir,” said Fedorov. “I don’t think we can count on Soviet troops getting to the Rhine first a
fter this. As for the Japanese, they may think twice about their daring plan to sail six aircraft carriers across the Pacific to attack Pearl Harbor. The Americans will be on a full wartime footing there within days. They won’t leave their Pacific Fleet sitting there like fat ducks in a line.”

  “Who can know these things?” said Zolkin.

  “I am beginning to long for that tropical island, Dmitri,” said the Admiral.

  At that moment they heard Kalinichev’s voice over the ship’s intercom. “Con, Radar to Admiral Volsky. We are reading a large group of air contacts, forty planes, range 100 kilometers and inbound on our position.”

  “That has to be off the Ark Royal, sir,” said Fedorov.

  Volsky shook his head. “Hurry on, gentlemen. We must get to the main bridge.”

  They arrived to find Karpov yammering at Rodenko, waving his arms at Samsonov, berating Troyak in a loud, annoyed voice. The Admiral stepped through the hatch, and the Doctor had the pleasure of announcing him.

  “Admiral on the bridge!” He shouted over the Captain’s strained voice, looking pointedly at Karpov.

  Troyak saluted crisply. Karpov turned, his eyes glowing red in the darkness, and said: “What in God's name are you doing? We are in battle! You have disabled the bridge at a critical time and put us all at risk!”

  “Shut up, Captain Karpov!” Volsky's voice was as blunt as he could make it. The Admiral strode quickly into the combat information center, drew out his key, and inserted it into the command module. He turned the key, entered his code, and restored command level operations to the main bridge. Seconds later the main lights fluttered on, equipment rebooting quickly with the hum of many computer screens and consoles. Gromenko’s brief stint as battle bridge commander was over.