Kirov (57 page)

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?”