Kirov (49 page)

“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 their 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!’

The
Captain knew that there could be no halfway measures now. They had engaged both
the British and American fleets. They would not encounter another friendly ship
at sea—not now not, not ever. He knew he was fully responsible for the choices
he made in the heat of action, but he could not see that he could have done
anything else. The British flung their ships and planes at him, fully intending
to find and sink
Kirov
if they could. The Captain, insofar as he saw
things, did what any competent officer would have done under the circumstances,
he defended himself, with all the skill and weaponry at his command. As he was
trying mightily to salvage that image of himself now, he used all his
considerable intelligence to defend his actions, no matter how skewed his logic
had become, or how much
vranyo
had subtly crept into his line of
thinking.

 With
Orlov at his side he might dispel that sense of harried isolation that had dogged
him up until now. In spite of his ambition, and his devious insistence in
getting his own way aboard the ship, Karpov had taken entirely too much on his
round narrow shoulders when he cut that last wire. He was beginning to feel the
weight of what he had done, and now he was looking for an ally, and a strong
right arm to back him up.

 “I
thought I could count on you, Orlov. Let us face the matter squarely and
decide.” He repeated all his old arguments, all the reasons he had ferreted out
in the dark safety of his mouse hole. “We are never going home again, and there
will be no one at Severomorsk to chasten us for anything we do here. We answer
to no one but ourselves now, understand? This is war and we are a ship of war,
with power to take history itself by the throat and choke it to death if we so
decide. But that will take a man, not a vacillating old Admiral with too many
stripes on his jacket cuff. Volsky’s day has come and gone. You and I? We have
many long years ahead of us, and the power to see that those years are very
agreeable. I need to know where you stand, Orlov. Are you a man, or are you
going to stand there like a school boy when Volsky returns to the bridge?”

“Without
a cat around the mice feel free.” Orlov stated the obvious, but all of this was
more than the simple license a man might take when he could, as any man might.
“Do you realize what you are saying?”

“Of
course I do. Volsky will reverse us at every turn, and all the while the
decisive moment slips away, or worse, our enemies will gather sufficient
strength to find and kill us all.”

“But
the junior officers—the crew. They worship that fat old man like a father. If
it comes down to a choice between the Admiral and you, Captain, I have little
doubt where most of the crew will stand.”

Karpov’s
face registered irritation with that, but he kept his emotions well controlled.
The Chief was repeating all the same doubts and fears he had sat with in his
hole, all the same tired reasons why he should stay there in the stench, and
remain a mouse.

“Look,
Orlov, neither of us will win a popularity contest here. Don’t think the crew
jumps when you growl because they love you either. They jump because they
recognize authority when they see it; strength; will power. They jump because
if they don’t it will be your boot in their ass, and the devil to pay. You know
why you are the Chief, Orlov, and it is not because you are so very smart, yes?
It is because you know how to clench a fist when the time comes for it, and you
know how to smash a man’s face if he bothers you.”

Orlov
smiled, nodding. “Volsky will be a problem,” he said, his voice even more
hushed now. “Perhaps Zolkin as well.” He hesitated, his eyes revealing his
uncertainty. He had seen power plays of this nature in the Russian underground,
that hard world of cut-throat men, loose confederations of gangs and bosses,
and he had seen more than one man toppled from his post, and more than one man
killed trying just what Karpov was proposing. But this was not the Russian
underground, it was a navy ship. This was mutiny…Yes, there was a special word
for this sort of thing, and there had not been a mutiny on a Russian ship for
decades, not since Sabin tried to take the frigate
Storozhevoy
to
Leningrad in 1975. He hung for that, and his second got all of eight hard years
in prison for his complicity. Orlov weighed the situation in his mind, and
realized it took more than one man to do what Karpov was proposing.