Kirov (55 page)

Samsonov
looked over his shoulder, a surprised look on his face, but when he saw Karpov
fishing beneath his sea coat and drawing out his command level key, he realized
the Captain was deadly serious. His was not to question, nor to reason why. He
executed the order on reflex, announcing his system status in his deep
baritone, “Sir, MOS-III battery now active. The number ten silo seals are
broken and the missile is enabled. The coded switch set controller is in the ON
position, awaiting command level key entry.”

Karpov
looked at Orlov, seeing both fear and hesitation on his face, but he did not
delay an instant. It was now or never. He stepped forward into the command
information center and sat down at a chair to the right of Samsonov. With a
quick motion of his thumb he flipped up the plastic keyhole cover, inserted his
key, and turned it firmly to the right. The system went on with an audible tone
and Karpov quickly punched a keypad below, entering a five digit code. There
were ten squared windows to display the numerals entered, and his heart raced
as he hoped that Chief Martinov had indeed carried out his orders. He finished
entering the code that he had long ago committed to memory, pressed the
activate button, and held his breath, waiting. If the CSSC module had been set
to position one as he ordered, his code would be all that was required to
activate the missile warhead. If it remained at the default number two setting,
another command level key and code would be required now on the adjacent
module, but much to his relief the green activation light winked on with a low
beep. The warhead was active.

The
Captain exhaled, steadying himself mentally before he stood up. He turned,
clasping his arms behind his back. “Mister Rodenko,” he said, “are the enemy
surface action groups still bearing on our position?”

“Sir,
the initial group targeted by our Moskit-II barrage has slowed to a speed of
ten knots, all other contact groups still advancing at high speed.”

“Very
well…” Karpov gave Orlov one final look, but his chief said nothing. “Mister
Samsonov, on my order, and seconded by the order of acting Executive Officer
Orlov, I now authorize the use of nuclear weapons and instruct you to target
the American task force at position number
two
on your screen. Ignore
the destroyers. I want to strike their main battle fleet. You will launch the
MOS-III number ten missile on my command.”

Samsonov
leaned in over his screen, noting the surface action group contact positions
clearly labeled one through four, and selecting group number two. “Sir, weapon ready
and targeted. Awaiting second confirming order to authorize fire.” Samsonov
looked warily at Orlov, seeing the Chief nod his head.

Orlov
hesitated, ever so slightly. He had not counted on this. It was down to him
now. If he failed to second the Captain’s order, Samsonov would not fire. What
would Karpov do then? One look at Karpov’s face told him the Captain knew this
moment was coming; knew it would be Orlov’s choice that would set the missile
in motion. Was he being set up for the fall?

“Orlov?”
Karpov pressed him, his eyes widening with the tension of the moment.

“Very
well…” said Orlov in a low voice. “I second the Captain’s order.”

At
that moment the ship’s intercom crackled alive and Doctor Zolkin began speaking
to the crew.

“Fire.”
The Captain spoke the word in a calm, level voice. There was no emotion in it,
no regret or reluctance, and yet no hint of bravado either. And the word became
an order; the order became a reflex; the reflex became a signal; the signal
became a missile; the missile became death.

Chapter
32

Zero
Hour

Admiral
Volsky
hastened
down the narrow gangway with Fedorov in his wake, and as he passed through work
spaces crewmen smiled to see him up and about again, then stood stiffly to
attention, their arms snapping up in salute. He passed with a brief salute and
“as you were,” his face set and determined. Fedorov was quick to engineering
and three men came with an acetylene torch to easily cut off the padlock and
set the Admiral free.

Seconds
later the claxon alarm for battle stations jangled over the intercoms into
every deck of the ship. A deep horn blared, and Volsky knew what would follow,
the rush of missiles being ejected from their vertical launch tubes followed by
the roar of the rocket engines igniting to propel the lethal darts on their
way. Karpov was at war again on the bridge, and the Admiral quickened his pace,
his breath coming fast as he climbed the narrow ladder up to the bridge
citadel. Reaching the top he was surprised to see the hatch closed and sealed,
a watchman posted there.

“What
is this? Stand aside,
mishman
.”

The
man stood to attention, saluting.

“Open
that hatch!” The Admiral’s order was sharp and pointed.

“Sir,
the emergency watertight seals have been set from inside the citadel. I cannot
open the hatch, sir.”

Volsky’s
eyes flashed, and he immediately thumbed the intercom on the wall. “This is
Admiral Volsky, I am standing outside the main hatch. Release the watertight
seals and clear this hatch at once.”

The
roar of two more rockets firing split the air. Volsky repeated his command, yet
there was no answer from within. “What are they deaf in there? This is Admiral
Volsky. Open this hatch!”

The
wash of static was his only response, and the Admiral quickly surmised what was
happening. Karpov had disabled the intercom here as well. The Captain had
ordered emergency protocols and sealed off his bridge. If they would not hear
his command via the intercom, and the external hatches were most likely sealed
off as well. There was only one choice for him now.

“Those
fools,” he said. “You,” he pressed a finger into the
mishman’s
chest.
“Come with me.” The Admiral started down the ladder, his heavy soled shoes
thudding on the steps with each hurried footfall. The
mishman
came
behind him, a worried, anxious look on his face when he looked at Fedorov at
the bottom. He did not understand what was happening, but orders were orders
and this was the Admiral, so he followed.

Two
decks below Volsky heard Karpov’s voice on the ships intercom.
“All hands,
all hands. This is Captain Karpov speaking. I must inform you Admiral Volsky
remains incapacitated, and I have assumed full command of this ship. Stand to
action stations! Emergency protocols are now in force. We are engaging a large
surface action group of enemy vessels. The enemy is closing on our position and
I will defend this ship. I expect every man to do his duty. That is all.”

“Incapacitated?”
Volsky shook his head, his anger building as he hurried along as fast as his
thick legs would carry him down passageway. Pushing through a wardroom he
looked quickly at the men there, seeing them up and fetching their heavy coats
and life preservers. He quickly matched faces to skill sets in his mind.
“Velichko, Gromenko, Kalinichev—follow me. Kosovich, go to the Marine Quarters
and tell Sergeant Troyak to come to the aft citadel with a rifle squad.”

Volsky
was collecting officers and heading for the aft citadel, a secondary bridge
below decks, sometimes called the “battle bridge,” that would serve as an
auxiliary command center for the ship in the event the main bridge was damaged
or otherwise out of action. It had control stations for every main element of
the ship, including a combat information center, helm station, communications,
radar and sonar; and it was also protected by an armored shell of 200mm Kevlar
coated hardened steel armor, just as the main bridge. It was even served by the
Tin Man optical sighting equipment mounted on the forward watch decks. Signals
and HD video from the devices would feed directly to the aft battle bridge as
well.

The
men were shocked to see the Admiral, yet pleased. They were up and in his wake
immediately, and along the way the Admiral collared Fedorov and gave him an another
order. “Go to the sick bay again and fetch the doctor with his medical bag,” he
said. “Then come to the aft citadel as soon as possible.” To Velichko he said:
“You go and tell Chief Engineer Dobrynin to report to me at once. Then get
Chief Martinov in ordinance as well. I want them both. Quickly now!”

They
pressed on through narrow passages, the red combat lighting casting a ruddy hue
on the lime green walls and thick bundled cables that carried the pulse of all
the electronics on the ship, connecting radars, computers, control consoles.
Volsky had counted four missile launches and two more roared away just as
stepped up through the last hatch to the outer deck of the battle bridge. He
looked up, surprised. There stood Sergeant Troyak and a squad of armed marines.

~
~ ~

112
miles
or 180
kilometers to the south, the American Task Force 16 had run far enough. Some
time ago, the group had slowed to make a graceful wide turn, coming about to
face the pursuing enemy with all hands at battle stations. The four transports
had long since taken on the wounded and other survivors of TF-1, and hurried on
south, escorted by two destroyers. The rest of the force reformed around the TF
flagship captained by Jerauld Wright on the old battleship
Mississippi
.

Once
she had been called a super-dreadnought, “a great modern battleship,” or so
read the notation in Popular Mechanics in 1936. The battleship was commissioned
in 1917, the largest ship in the navy at the time at 32,000 tons, and hailed as
“one of the world’s mightiest ships.” Many before her had made that same claim,
the mighty
Hood
, the mighty
Bismarck
, and many after her would do
so as well.

By
1941, however, she was a throwback to an earlier day, much like the older Royal
Navy battlewagons still slogging along as they put in useful service escorting
convoys. She had a cluttered, unkempt look about her, with dark slate colored
superstructure in a paint scheme called ‘North Atlantic Gray’ that gave her a
brooding appearance and lent her the nickname ‘The Pirate Ship’ to those who
saw her from afar. But to her own crew she was more affectionately known as ‘The
Missy.’ Her superstructure and turret sides were festooned with hanging oval
shaped life rafts and her forecastle was broken by metal sided tiers where open
topped AA gun batteries were mounted, including the then state-of-the-art
quadruple 1.1s.

For
serious business, the ship carried four big turrets, paired fore and aft with
three 14 inch guns each, though there had not been much use for them thus far
in her career.

The
old battleship stood as the core of Task Force 16, out with new orders to find
and kill any hostile ship within 300 miles of the coast of Newfoundland.
Captain Wright received a message indicating that Kaufman’s destroyers in
Desron
7
were already charging in to get at the enemy, and he was elated. He thumbed
the switch on his ship’s intercom. “Now hear this,” he said in a loud clear
voice. “We’ve seen our transports safely off some time ago, and now we have
orders to find this enemy ship that bushwhacked the
Wasp
. It looks like
Desron
7
already has the scent, and we’re going after those bastards … Is
Mississippi
ready?”

“Aye,
Aye,
sir!”
said every man on the bridge, and they could hear the echoes
of the very same response all through the ship below, from a over a thousand
other officers and men. Her twelve 14 inch guns and fourteen 5 inch guns were
primed and loaded. Every hand aboard was standing to at a weapon or other
action station, their faces set and grim. The big ship’s engines were thrumming
as she labored along at her top speed of 21 knots, her sharp bow cutting into
the sea.

Mississippi
was ready.

~
~ ~

Admiral
Volsky
Stepped
boldly up to the guarded hatch where Troyak stood with his men. His mind
considered the possibility that Karpov had posted these men here, but he
discarded the thought. It would not matter. He knew Troyak all too well.

“That
was quick moving,” said the Admiral. “I only gave the order for you to report
here minutes ago.”

“Sir,
I was ordered here by Captain and told no one was to enter the Aft Citadel.”

“The
Captain is industrious today,” said Volsky. “Fortunately, I am an
Admiral
.
Stand aside, Sergeant. You men there—open that hatch,” he said in a clear
voice. As he expected, Troyak immediately complied. His men cleared the entrance
way; two marines threw the hatch open and then stood by at attention. The Sergeant
had been posted here with a squad, and here he was, yet ready to do the bidding
of any senior officer on the scene. The Admiral of the Fleet was before him,
and he stood sharply to attention, saluting. The man was obviously not
incapacitated, as Karpov had told him. Seeing was believing.

Volsky
stepped up and through the hatch, a train of young junior officers following
behind him. As he did so Fedorov came running down the long passage with Doctor
Zolkin. The men gathered in the battle bridge, a single watch stander there jumping
up to attention when they entered.