Kirov (11 page)

“That
will teach them a thing or two,” he said, clapping Samsonov on the shoulder.
The weapons officer was the kind of man Orlov understood and respected, one
who’s training and disposition would see him solving any perceived problem with
something in the ship’s considerable weapons inventory. It was as if the Chief
inherently understood Samsonov, and saw him as a kind of protégé.

Yet
Samsonov’s boards were clean of distinguishable ESM data as well, Orlov noted.
Whatever was out there, it did not conform to any of the signatures for known
Western combat vessels. There were no active radars ranging on them, which was
another reason why he believed the Admiral had hesitated to take further
action. In spite of Karpov's frenetic energy, the Chief was beginning to feel
that this was not a planned strike mission after all. What commander worth his
salt would make such an approach? Then something else occurred to him and he
spoke his mind.

“Perhaps
these ships are here to investigate very same incident we have been involved
with,” he suggested. “They may have detected this explosion, and dispatched a
task force to the area for further information.”

Admiral
Volsky nodded, his eyes grave and serious now. “And so we must be very
cautious, gentlemen. Very, very cautious. You all know that we can ill afford
another incident where NATO forces are concerned.” He leaned heavily on the
word incident, a not so veiled reference to the loss of the destroyer
Admiral
Levchenko
in the Mediterranean the previous year when she was maneuvering
at high speed and collided with a NATO cruiser in bad weather. “Mister
Samsonov, no active combat radars will be locked on Red Wolf Two until we have
further information as to their intentions, is that clear?”

“Aye,
aye, sir.” Samsonov's deep basso confirmed the Admiral's order. The big, broad
shouldered man sat easily in his chair, radiating confidence that one might
expect from one in his position. He sat at the business end of the most
powerful surface combatant in the Russian Navy, and oceangoing gladiator. His
short cropped hair, chiseled features, and burly muscularity fit the image
well. Samsonov was a warrior, and eager to fight. Though he could not know then
just how busy he would be in the hours and days ahead.

Chapter
6

When
the video
feed
from the KA-40 finally reached Rodenko's combat information center, the
situation took a sudden and very unexpected turn. If Admiral Volsky thought he
was perplexed before, this latest news was completely confounding. It seemed
that every attempt they made to clarify the situation only seemed to muddy the
waters around them, presenting impossible circumstances that they struggled to
understand.

The
ship’s navigator, Fedorov, was keenly interested in the images on the screen,
yet his face registered obvious disbelief and surprise. He reached into his
pocket and pulled out a smart phone, swiping at the screen to activate an
application. Moments later he was comparing images from the helo video feed to
the photos he had stored on his cell phone, a bemused look on his face.

“Those
are British ships,” he began, hesitating somewhat. “But they are clearly not
modern vessels. I have the entire database of Royal Navy ships back to the year
1900 right here.” He hefted his cell phone and showed them the application.
“These ships are antiquated… Old World War II class vessels.”

Karpov
listened, strait faced as any listener must when he heard preposterous nonsense
masquerading as truth, like good, well-told
vranyo
over a drink at a bar.
But this was no bar, and the Captain was in no mood for flights of fancy. “
Tuftá,
nonsense,” he said, breaking form and pointing at the screen. “Now you are
hanging noodles from your ears, Fedorov. What are you saying, that they have
dragged these ships out of mothball? Perhaps they are planning to use them for
target practice just as we were with
Slava.
Go and chase the wind.”
It
was clear that the Captain thought he might have more success with that than
with this outlandish analysis.

“You
don't understand,” said Fedorov. “I am not trying to fool you, Captain, or be
glib here. That looks like an
Illustrious
class aircraft carrier.” He
pointed at the screen, suddenly sure of what he was seeing. “It is most likely
HMS
Victorious
, and she was sold off to the ship breakers for demolition
in…” he squinted at his application, “1969.” Anton Fedorov was not lying, even
if he believed his own eyes might be fooling him. He was a long time naval history
buff with a particular interest in World War II. Now he was peering at the live
video feed, shoulders hunched, his cap askew on a head full of thick brown
hair, and he could not believe what his eyes were telling him. “That ship,” he
pointed, “is even older! It looks like HMS
Furious
, sir, in service with
the Royal Navy until 1948. You see? The typical island superstructure is completely
missing. No one has designed anything like that for decades. Look at the way
the forward edge of the flight deck is curved above that long, narrow bow. It’s
the
Furious
. I’m certain of it, Captain.”

Karpov
was not persuaded “This is no time to be foolish, Fedorov. Talk sense! Don’t
try to tell me these ships were dragged out of the shipping yards and put back
in service. We may have to resort to such measures, but our fat capitalists
here do not.”

“No
sir, I’m telling you these ships were
scrapped
—years ago! There is no
way they could be put back in service.” Fedorov had a look of complete
amazement on his face. “Good lord, what in the world is going on here?”

Karpov
just stared at him. “You’ve spent too many hours with your nose in those
history books of yours, Lieutenant, and like any good liar you begin to believe
your own
vranyo.
This is not possible. There has to be another
explanation.” Karpov refused to believe what his navigator was telling him.
These had to be modern British aircraft carriers, and he said as much. But
Fedorov was quick to correct him.

“With
all due respect, sir, the only ship in the Royal Navy that might look anything
like this carrier here,” he pointed, “would be their new HMS
Queen Elizabeth
.
And look, sir, there’s not even any discernable island on that other carrier.
There’s no modern British carrier in such a design. That has to be HMS
Furious
,
sir. She was just a converted battlecruiser with a single deck running the full
length of the hull.”

“Nonsense,”
said Karpov, shaking his head.

“But
sir,
Queen Elizabeth
is a full fleet sized carrier. 65,000 tons, and the
ship we have on video is just a light carrier by comparison. Perhaps 22,000
tons.
Queen Elizabeth
is the newest addition to the British fleet, and
her signature would be unmistakable to us on radar. We've already cataloged her
ESM emissions long ago. And if that were
Queen Elizabeth
, the airspace
above her would be well patrolled. Yet this fleet is moving in complete
silence, with virtually no radio or radar emissions of any type. No air cover.
These are simply
not
modern vessels, sir. I am certain of it.”

Admiral
Volsky was standing behind the two men, his eyes fixed on the view screen, his
mind also struggling to comprehend what he was seeing and hearing. He liked
Fedorov, and often talked with him about the old war, and he had come to
respect the young man’s passion and knowledge on the subject. So instead of
dismissing him, as Karpov clearly did, he pressed for more information. “Those
other ships?” He asked, pointing at two sizable vessels steaming to either side
of the two carriers.

Fedorov
squinted at the screen, then smiled, amazed, but certain of what he was seeing.
“Admiral, those are two
Kent
class British cruisers, 14,000 tons full
load. Look, those turrets there on the forward section are mounting heavy 8
inch guns. No ship has carried that kind of armament since the Second World
War. In fact, the keels on those ships were laid down in the mid-1920s, and
they mostly entered service by 1926. Many survived the war, but not a single
one escaped the salvage yards, sir. The ships simply do not
exist
any
longer.”

“You
are certain of this?”

“Yes,
sir, the three stacks amidships are unmistakable. I would know that silhouette
anywhere.”

“Then
we are looking at a ghost fleet?” Karpov protested. “This is preposterous! I
have heard a lot of guff in my day, Fedorov, but this tops it all. It's
nonsense, I tell you.”

“It's
there,” said Admiral Volsky gesturing at the video. “Or are you suggesting the
British are feeding us this video footage with some new electronic warfare
gizmo?”

Karpov
raised his eyebrows, thinking a moment. “That may be possible, sir.” His eyes
widened as he spoke, quick to latch on to anything that would allow him to fit
what he was seeing into some understandable point of reference and dispel the
illusion that Fedorov was spinning out. “This could all be part of some
elaborate ruse, designed to confuse us. Some kind of electronic warfare,
perhaps a NATO PSYOP. That strange explosion we experienced hours ago may have
been the opening salvo.”

Official
deception was something Karpov could deal with much more easily. He presented
the situation as a deliberate attempt by their enemies to deceive. Russians had
been subjected to so many official lies over the years that they became almost
incapable of recognizing truth. Their own language even used the same verb to
describe coming and going, and so in that sense, a Russian never quite knew
where he stood, or wither he was bound. Karpov heard Fedorov’s arguments, and
deep inside he knew something was terribly wrong with the ships on the video
feed, but he could not accept what the man was saying. A deliberate hoax, aimed
as an attack, was the only thing that made sense to him now.

“Orlov?”
The Admiral wanted to know what his Chief of Operations thought, but Orlov
looked as confused as anyone. He had idled with Fedorov at times, the two of
them also sharing stories of the second war where both their grandfathers had
served, but this was difficult to believe. “I don't know what to think,
Admiral. But, as it is clearly impossible that the British could resurrect
ships decommissioned and demolished decades ago, then we must give further
thought to what the Captain suggests.”

“Impossible,
you say, yet this very ship has risen from the dead, has it not? Perhaps the
British are refitting their old ships as well.”

Karpov
took a deep breath, stiffening, gratified that Orlov had again reinforced his position.
“Enough of this game,” he said. “Where is
Slava?
Where is
Orel?
If this is a PSYOP then the British have gone too far! I recommend we hail this
task force and demand immediate identification. This will put an end to this
nonsense. These ships may be responsible for everything we have been dealing
with here. Suppose they boarded
Slava
and have her under tow? That would
be hijacking at sea, a clear international violation.”

“A
moment ago it was this submarine that was responsible for all of our problems,”
said Admiral Volsky. “Now you suggest the British are running some elaborate
psychological operation aimed at confusing us and rounding up the Russian Navy,
ship by ship?”

Karpov
frowned, clearly unhappy with the Admiral’s remark, yet he persisted. “If they
do not identify themselves under international protocols, then it is permitted
to give fair warning and fire a shot across their bow, sir. Everything we have
endured these last hours has been a clear provocation. It is time we let them
know that the Russian Navy will not tolerate this nonsense.” He folded his
arms, his anger apparent.

Admiral
Volsky sighed heavily as he thought the situation through. One thing he had
learned in life was that things were seldom what they seemed at first take. A
man had to test the truth he chose to believe, like he would test his footing
on a long icy road. The old Russian proverb came to mind here: ‘The church is
near but the road is all ice; the tavern is far but I'll walk very carefully.’
It would be easy to go and sit in Karpov’s church rather than walk that long
road to what Fedorov was telling him. Yet something told him, quietly,
insistently, that this was no illusion foisted off on them by the British, and
he had to walk that road slowly, minding his footing with every step he took
here. He decided to test the situation and indulge his Captain.

“Very
well,” he said. “Mister Nikolin, I authorize you to break radio silence and
hail this task force on all channels. Do so in English. Give their position,
course, and speed as determined by our radar here, and request immediate
identification under international protocols as the Captain suggests. Do
not
,
give our identification unless I direct you to do so. Is that clear?”

“Aye,
sir.”

The
tension only increased when their message was met with absolute silence. They
waited, while Nikolin repeated his hail, ten times in all, but there was no
response.

“You
are certain they are hearing us?” asked the Admiral.