Kirov (16 page)

“Now
then…” Zolkin cleared his voice. “On the other hand, let us take Captain
Karpov’s view that this is a psychological operation staged by NATO. Let us
assume the explosion was a new weapon of some kind, designed to disorient and
impair mental functioning. Who knows what they have come up with? A microwave
bomb? Who knows? Under this theory, we would have to assume that the video feed
was fed to us, in spite of your rigorous examination of that file. And we must
assume that all these radio transmissions are false. That means NATO would have
to be able to control the transmission of virtually every radio station on
earth, correct?”

“Nikolin
has monitored, London, Moscow, Oslo, New York, even Tokyo on shortwave bands. Every
single station is broadcasting old documentaries from the Second World War.”
Fedorov folded his arms, waiting.

“Correct,
unless NATO has some kind of electronic spoofing ship out there that is quietly
jamming normal radio bands and broadcasting this misinformation on all known
channels from that era. This, too, is a possibility.”

“What
about the Fulmar!” Fedorov said quickly. “Did they manufacture that as well?”

“Correct,”
said Zolkin. “You tell me these planes no longer exist, but what if this model
was rebuilt just for this exercise. Is it not odd that only this single plane
was sent against us from this British carrier task force? We have seen nothing
else.”

“But
why, Dmitri?” said the Admiral. “Surely this is a great deal of effort to toy
with us as you suggest.”

“If
they are testing a new weapon, some top secret black–ops gizmo, then in this
light we have an equally compelling scenario, yes? Perhaps they wish to observe
the effects of this weapon first hand, monitor our reaction. Yes, it would be
real psychological warfare on a much grander scale, and we are their guinea
pigs for this nefarious experiment.”

“What
about
Slava?”
asked Fedorov. “How could they make her disappear?”

“She
may have been intercepted, boarded, and escorted from the scene to reinforce
our confusion,” said Zolkin.

Admiral
Volsky looked at Fedorov, and back at the doctor. “Which is it, Dmitri? The
situation is insane under both scenarios. Boarded? That was a Russian cruiser—old,
but still armed and fully capable of defending herself. We would have seen her
missiles, detected some evidence of a battle, but there was nothing—only this
strange undersea explosion, and she was gone. Which am I to believe?”

“Take
your pick,” said Zolkin. “You must assume one scenario or the other, and then
act accordingly. Fedorov tells me the ship’s radar was amiss just after that
detonation. Perhaps there was a battle, but you could not detect it. In any
case, if the ship was displaced in time as a result of this explosion, and it
is indeed 1941, that will soon become apparent to anyone determined to test
that hypothesis with actions. If, on the other hand, this is an elaborate NATO ruse,
that can be tested by bold maneuvers as well, yes? You say there is a task
force out there? Then find it. Confront it. That will solve the issue one way
or another.” The doctor took a last sip of his tea and folded his hands,
smiling.

“It
certainly would,” said the Admiral. “Yet to do so would mean we would have to
sail within visual range of that surface action group. If things came to a
fight, it would not put us in a very good position. We noted 12 ships in the
enemy group.”

“Well,
if they are old British ships from the Second World War, what have you to worry
about?” Zolkin raised his hands.

“Pardon
me, sir,” said Fedorov. “I would not underestimate this British fleet, whether
it was from 1941 or the present. Those two carriers will have roughly thirty
planes each, so we might be facing simultaneous attack by sixty aircraft. And
those two heavy cruisers have eight big guns each that can range out to twelve
miles. We would have to be within that range to make a certain visual contact
in these weather conditions. I don't have to tell you what an eight inch diameter
shell might do to some of the equipment we have on board. Only the two command
citadels and reactor core areas are armored well enough to take such a hit and
possibly survive intact. Suppose it were to penetrate the forward hull and
ignite the missile fuel on our Moskit-IIs? Our armor there is only 80 to 100
millimeters thick, and an 8 inch shell can penetrate that easily enough. As
powerful as we may be, this ship is very vulnerable at close range like that.”

“Which
is why Captain Karpov wants to take the ship up behind Jan Mayen, putting the
island between us and this enemy task force. From there we can fire our fast
missile barrages with much greater effect. It's a much stronger defensive
position.”

“Yes,
yes,”
said the Doctor. “Assuming this is 1941, your point is well taken,
Mister Fedorov. But if it is still a late summer day in 2021, then we may find
the enemy surface action group is no more than one or two NATO picket ships
with these electronic spoofing devices broadcasting a false radar contact along
with their dummy radio and video feeds. As I said before, bold action in either
case, will settle the matter one way or the other. You have no choice, Admiral.
You will eventually have to close with this task force and discover the truth.”

“That
may not be necessary,” said Fedorov quietly.

The
Admiral looked at him, waiting. “You have another idea Lieutenant Fedorov?”

“Well,
sir, now that you mention Jan Mayen, there’s a weather station there, and we’re
heading that way even as we speak. I thought about this after we lost satellite
GPS, so I switched to Loran–C, as there is a big antenna on the island, or at
least there was one after 1960. That was down too when I tried to get a signal.
Yet there still should be a meteorological station there. It was burned down when
the war started, but the Germans never occupied the island, and men were back
with a small Norwegian military detachment in 1941 to restore the weather
station and set up a coastal radio relay outfit there. In our day there’s a
four man team there year round at Metten, or the Met as we call it. So all we
have to do is send a helo with a few men to see who’s home. Surely they can’t
hide all those modern prefab buildings and other facilities on the island. If
we find them we will know this is 2021, as it should be. If we do not…”

The
Admiral smiled broadly, looking at the doctor, who laughed, nodding his head. “There
you are, Admiral,” he said. “I certify your navigator as sane and fit for duty!”

The
Admiral stood up, clasping his Lieutenant on the shoulder. “Fedorov,” he said. “You’re
a genius! Return to your post now, but say nothing of this to the Captain. I’ll
be along shortly…Oh yes, may I borrow your book for a while?” He held up the
volume Fedorov had shared with him.

“Certainly,
sir!”

When
the Lieutenant
had left them, Admiral Volsky sat quietly with his old
friend again, briefly flipping through a few pages of the book Fedorov had
given him. “An enterprising young officer,” he said of his navigator.

“That
he is, Leonid.”

The
Admiral looked up at the doctor, saying nothing for a moment. “Tell me, Dmitri.
What do you really think?”

Zolkin
thought for a moment, then spoke in a quiet, serious tone. “Karpov is probably
correct,” he said. “I argued Fedorov’s point as well as I could, but I’m not so
sure I can get my mind around his ideas just yet. You have to admit, it would
be an amazing development, yes? Think of it my friend…You would be commanding
the most powerful ship in the world if Fedorov’s story was true. The only catch
is this…” The Admiral noted the gleam in Doctor Zolkin’s eye as his friend gave
him a hard look. “Who’s side would you be on in this war? That book there,” he
pointed, “would tell you everything you need to know about the war at sea. Russia
and Britain were allies in 1941, but by 2021, things have taken a different
course.”

The
Admiral raised his eyebrows, smiling, yet his eyes held that distant look
again, as if his thoughts were wandering with all the lost souls that had ever
sailed these seas. The doctor could see that the question had a profound effect
on his friend, kindling a state of mind that the Russians called
toska
.
There was no English equivalent for the word. It’s meaning was something akin
to “forlorn sadness,” a melancholia born of the interminable winters and harsh
conditions of life in Russia, and a deep longing to be somewhere else, in a
place of comfort and warmth where the challenges of life were replaced with
quiet and safety. Yet more than this,
toska
touched upon some inner
hidden spiritual anguish of the soul, like that old ache in the Admiral’s tooth
that warned him of bad weather. It was a restless anxiety in one sense, and a deep
inner yearning in another.

“Well,”
said Volsky at last. “Thanks to Mister Fedorov, we’ll know where we stand soon
enough, Dmitri. I’m off to the bridge to get that helicopter over to Jan Mayen.
I’ll keep you advised. We should know what is happening in a few hours.”

Chapter 9

Karpov
was pacing
restlessly
on the bridge seemingly impatient over something, and occasionally peering
through his field glasses at the rising seas ahead. He put the ship into
passive mode, stilling the active radar sweeps the ship was blasting the enemy
surface action group with and slipping quietly away to the west. He recovered
one KA-40, leaving the second in his wake to keep a lookout for the undersea
contact that had disappeared. The last thing he wanted was a stealthy American
attack submarine creeping up on him. It would be all of 15 hours before he had
the ship where he wanted it, assuming he kept on at just 20 knots.

For
the moment they saw no further sign of enemy aircraft, though the sight of that
old prop-driven plane had been somewhat of a shock to him. Perhaps NATO had deployed
a new type of small spotting plane with a turbo prop engine, he thought. Yet
they had seen no sign of an orbiting enemy AWAC surveillance plane on their
scopes. Unless NATO had managed to completely mask their signals, these two
enemy carriers were being quite devious. There should have been a vivid
radio-electronic signature around a carrier action group like this—if there
really were carriers there. He still suspected that the video footage had been
fed to them by NATO PSYOP elements—disinformation, nothing more. He had a mind
to turn at any moment and send in a barrage of twenty Sunburns that would wreak
havoc on this surface action group, no matter what was there. That would teach
them to play with fire, he thought.

The
Admiral was below decks resting, and Karpov was glad to have freedom of action
on his bridge now. Orlov was still sitting with Samsonov, joking with the burly
weapon’s chief, and he had the ship’s crew at condition three, standing down
from full action stations to try and relieve the tension on the ship. The crew
was still largely in the dark as to what had happened. They all were.
Eventually something would have to be said about it to quash the mess hall
rumors that were sure to be spreading from deck to deck even now. Were they are
war? The crew had a right to know.

The
Captain was considering taking a few hours leave and turning the bridge over to
Orlov when Rodenko noted a change in the surface contact he was tracking.

“Two
ships are breaking off from the main body, and bearing on an intercept course
for our plotted position, Captain,” he said. Karpov was at his side
immediately.

“Show
me.”

“Here,
sir,” Rodenko pointed to his screen. “I make that two ships heading north
at…twenty-two knots. If they keep on that heading, sir, they will be moving to
a position just south of Jan Mayen.”

“Their
ability to track us is better than we thought,” said Karpov.

“Unless
they deduced what our most likely maneuver would be, sir. This could simply be
a radar picket to screen the main body. It continues to move east at 15 knots,
toward Norway.”

Karpov’s
eyes narrowed.

“Where
will they be when we reach our intended position?”

Rodenko
pressed several switches, and the screen displayed with a new predictive plot. “About
here, sir,” he said. “Looks like they want to get some range from us. They
obviously know where we are heading.”

“That
would be typical of a carrier force,” said Karpov. The carrier group would want
to stand off and use the range of its aircraft to strike from a distance. In
close, the reaction time to defend against
Kirov’s
fast missiles would
dwindle to minutes.

“What
about the weather, Rodenko? What about that storm?”

“The
front is there, sir. Out of the Northeast now. Odd that the winds shifted so
dramatically. I was tracking it out of the northwest before that detonation. It
seems to have weakened somewhat as well. I make it no more than force five
winds. There’s been no signal from the Met on Jan Mayen so I don’t have their
readings yet.”

The
weather might be a factor in the enemy’s planning as well, thought Karpov. All
weather aircraft could launch and use that front to screen their approach. Then
again, the carriers might just wait until the front passed their position
before they would launch. He had to be ready for either contingency.