Men of War (2013) (13 page)

Karpov’s
eye met the other man’s where he perceived a steely coldness in the Captain, a
dark haired, grey eyed career officer, tall, with stiff bearing and a pallid
complexion.

“It
was a bit of a rough ride, Captain,” said Karpov.

“So
we hear.” Volkov continued to study the Captain, noting Karpov’s trim, well kept
uniform, his cap smartly in place and an air of sure authority about the man.
This one is a fighter, he thought. He’s another grey wolf, just as I am, and a
man to be reckoned with. He had read up on Karpov’s service history on the
plane, noting how quickly he had risen in the ranks to his post as Captain of
the fleet’s newest and finest warship. He knew that such a post would not be
given lightly, though he had heard more than one rumor about this man, that he
was mean and conniving, a bit of a back stabber at times, and driven by an
aggressive, restless energy. Those were qualities he understood easily enough,
for his own career in the Naval Intelligence arm had seen more than enough
infighting within the ranks before he secured his present position.

“Well,
gentlemen,” said Karpov, extending a hand to the still open citadel hatch.
“We’ll have more than enough time on the bridge tomorrow. I imagine you must be
tired after your flight. If you would care to accompany me to the officer’s
dining hall, we have prepared a light meal, a little
uzhin
,
and some refreshment.”

Uzhin
was the Russian third meal of the day, always
served well after six though it was lighter than the main meal,
obed
, served around 2:00pm.

“Thank
you, Captain,” said Kapustin. “That would be most welcome.”

Karpov
led the way, pausing and turning as the other men stepped through the hatch.
“You have the bridge, Mr. Rodenko.”

“Aye,
sir,” Rodenko echoed smartly, “Captain off the bridge.”

The
men reached the bottom of the stairs and continued down another ladder and then
through a long corridor before Karpov indicated they should turn left into the
officer’s dining hall.

“And
how is the damage control situation progressing, Captain?” Kapustin stepped
into the well warmed dining room, smiling as he handed off his fedora and
overcoat to an orderly, though he set his briefcase right beside his chair
where the orderly gestured that he should be seated, and the white coated
mishman
knew better than to touch it further.

“We
are making good progress,” said Karpov. “Thankfully the spare parts were in
inventory and our Chief Byko had had men up on the aft mast all day re-cabling
the Fregat system.”

“That
must have been a severe explosion when we lost the
Orel
.”

“It
was, sir. Unfortunately we lost a KA-40 and the KA-226 at the same time. You
may have seen the damage aft.”

“Not
yet,” said Kapustin, “but we will have a look in better light tomorrow.”

Karpov
gestured to the table, nicely set with white linen and silver, and full-stemmed
crystal for water and wine. There were appetizers, deviled eggs, accented with
marinated mushrooms, as well as a plate of small open-face
sardine-tomato-cucumber sandwiches. Both were sprinkled liberally with fresh
dill. A plate of black bread caught Kapustin’s eye, and he reached for a piece,
dipping it into the cold soup called
okroshka
, in a small bowl set on
his main dining plate.

“Please
help yourselves, gentlemen.” Karpov smiled as they settled in to begin the meal
while the orderlies poured water and wine. “We’ll have salads and
pierogies
,
and the main dish will be stuffed
halupkis
and Stroganoff with
Kasha
.

“I
see there was no damage to the galley,” said Volkov, and Karpov simply smiled,
not addressing the remark, but noting the veiled undertone to it that strayed towards
insolence.

“I
must tell you that we had come to believe the ship was lost in that incident,”
said Kapustin, buttering his bread. “This business with the ship’s computers,
tell me about it, Captain.”

“Well,
Director, I am not entirely sure of what actually happened to
Orel
. But
it was our assessment that there had been an explosion. Their Captain radioed
that they had a problem with one of their torpedoes. Apparently they mounted
the wrong warhead. Then came the detonation, and it was quite significant. Many
of our systems were affected, radar, sonar, communications, so we believed it
may have been an after-effect of a
nuclear
detonation.”

“Most
unsettling,” said Kapustin. “Well, we have read your report, and that of
Admiral Volsky as well. While I may question his decision to continue the
ship’s mission under those circumstances, I will accept it for the moment.”

“I
must say, sir,” said Karpov. “The Admiral was considering all his options at
that moment, and given the political situation we also considered that
Orel
may have been lost to hostile action, possibly by a NATO submarine. So we acted
on that scenario first after a meeting of the senior officers.”

“Who
was in that meeting, if I may ask?” Kapustin leaned back as the second course
of potato and prune
pierogies
was brought out, his eye straying to the
dish.

“The
Admiral, myself and Operation’s Chief Orlov.”

“Yet
Orlov is not presently listed in the ship’s compliment.”

“No,
sir. I’m afraid he went aft to supervise the situation on the helo deck, and
was lost in the secondary explosion when the KA-40s caught fire.”

“I
see…” Kapustin reached for a
Pierogi
. “Well these
look good. Be sure to count the pits if you get a prune to watch your luck.”

“Not
much of that on this ship, it seems,” said Volkov again, with just enough of an
edge to it that Karpov decided he would let the man know who he was dealing
with here.

“Well,
Captain Volkov,” he began with a gesture to the other man’s soup bowl. “I see
you have a taste for the
okroshka.
There are many things best served
cold like that. Pickled cucumbers, Olivje potato salad, some good
Salo
bacon, salami and cheese, herring and caviar, and one
thing more—my favorite.”

“And
what is that?” Volkov met his eye.

“Why,
revenge,” Karpov smiled. “And some good vodka and beer.” He picked up a small
open faced sandwich, dilled sardines on thin rye, and took a bite.

* * *

Mishman
Ilya
Garin stared at the test-bed monitor, watching
the flux readings closely. His prompt readings looked safe, and the rod
interchange procedure was progressing slowly, approaching the half way mark
when Markov would spell him on the watch. Chief engineer Dobrynin was down the
hall looking over readings obtained by the electron microscope they had used to
make a close inspection of Rod-25 as it was slowly lowered into position.

They
were actually working on a low grade KLT-40 naval propulsion reactor that had
been built as a backup for the floating nuclear power station barge
Akademik
Lomonosov
,
deployed in the Kamchatka Peninsula region since 2016. The Russians thought a
movable power facility would be useful in the region, and the design was so
reliable that in 2018 they set up the reserve reactor as a test-bed facility in
the Primorskiy Engineering Center. The KLT-40 was similar to the reactors used
aboard
Kirov
, which paired two small pressurized water reactors using
enriched U-234. Some models for commercial power generation might have as many
as sixty-six control rods above the reactor vessel head, but this smaller
test-bed model had only twelve, and much less power.

Dobrynin
was quietly running the same typical rod replacement routine, while conducting
a general scan of Rod-25 for any sign of corrosion, or flaw. He had mounted the
rod in the central test position, in the middle of a circle of the remaining
twelve rods. So today the control rod that would stand as relief pitcher for
Kirov’s
starting rotation of twenty-four rods per reactor, was now actually Rod-13 in this
minor league game. All told, this test-bed facility reactor might produce ten
percent or less of the power
Kirov’s
plant generated, a good safe
environment to see if they could detect any anomalies with the makeup of the
rod itself under real working conditions.

Markov
came in with a folded magazine under his arm and tapped Garin on the shoulder
as he took his seat at the monitor station. “Lunch
Ilya
,”
he said. “And then when you finish, Dobrynin wants you to collate the
inspection results.”

“More
charts and tables,” said Garin. “What are we supposed to be looking for,
Markov?”

“Don’t
ask me. We just read the monitors. Let the Chief worry about it.”

“He
is worried,” Garin thumbed over his shoulder to the long corridor behind the
doorway out. “The Admiral was here all morning with him, and now more reports.”

“It’s
the damn inspection,” said Markov. “They say Kapustin is going over everything
with a white glove. They’re interviewing lots of crew members too, even
matoc
level.”

“Lucky
for us we don’t know anything, eh?” Garin said glibly. “What are you reading?”

“Just
a magazine.” He slid the magazine Garin’s way, open to an article where the
headline read: ‘British Remember Fallen in Agreement Gone Bad.’

“Well,
keep your eyes on the monitors, Markov. You can read your magazine in the break
room. Yes?”

“Go
and eat,
Ilya
. I’ll see you in another hour.”

It
was actually going to be a good deal longer. Garin went down the long corridor
past the inspection room where Dobrynin was working, and into the cafeteria for
his meal break. Half way through his sandwich there was a noticeable flutter in
the overhead lighting. He looked up, saw a neon bulb winking fitfully, and gave
it no more thought. A little over an hour later he finished his tea and went
back down the hallway, sticking his head into the inspection room to tell
Dobrynin he was going back to relieve Markov.

“Very
good, Mister Garin. How’s the food tonight?”

“It’s
very tasty, sir. Good rye bread. You should try it.”

“When
I have finished looking over these readouts.”

“Markov
says you want me to collate the data again?”

“If
you would be so kind, Mister Garin.”

Garin
looked at his watch. “The cycle is nearly over now, sir. Any problems?”

“We
won’t know until we get all the data from the scan. But you can commence your
shutdown sequence now. Number twenty-five has already been withdrawn and the
original twelve apostles seem to be praying quietly. Move in the remaining 12
rods now and commence shutdown. Markov can take his meal break.”

“Yes,
sir. I’ll get right down there.”

Garin
slipped out the door, and ran down the hall to the reactor room, inserting his
key card for entry and waiting until he had a green access light. He pushed
open the door, thinking the room seemed a bit dim, and heard it close behind
him.

“Markov,
your turn,” he said. “The bread is pretty good tonight, but not before we run
the shutdown sequence. Then I’ll have to spend another two hours collating the
data from the scan.”

He
walked into the control room, thinking it seemed oddly strange. Then he
realized what was wrong. His coat was missing from the wall rack. There was
nothing on the monitor desk, not the book he had been reading, the empty tea
cup or his pen. Markov’s magazine was gone as well. In fact the
chairs
were missing. What was going on here?

“Markov?”

Garin
leaned around to look behind the monitor station, but there was no sign of the
other man. Where was he? Dobrynin would have a fit if he found out Markov had
left his shift early. There was no restroom in the test-bed monitoring station,
but perhaps he drank too much tea and had to run out. He could understand him
taking the book and magazine, but the chairs? It made no sense. The Chief was
going to skin him alive. Human eyes had to be on the monitors at all times
during any part of a core maintenance procedure, and he shook his head, looking
at the monitors with relief when he saw no warning lights.

Stupid
Markov, he thought. He’ll get himself into some real trouble if I tell the
Chief he left his station. What’s he doing with the chairs? Then he reached up
and toggled the switches to initiate a full system shutdown, concluding the
test. Another set of twelve more rods would descend into the reactor vessel,
stilling down the fission to a very low level prior to final shutdown.

The
wall intercom buzzed, and he walked over to it and thumbed the call button.
“Reactor Testing Room, Mishman Garin speaking.”

“Garin?
Have Markov come in here with his clipboard before he takes his meal break.”
It was Chief Dobrynin.

Garin
looked around…the clipboard was also gone. “Sir,” he began. “Markov is no
longer here, and the clipboard is missing. He must have taken it with him.” He
hated to be a snitch, but it had to be said. “He was not here when I arrived to
relieve him, Chief.”

“Not
there? I’ll fry him in oil! Where is he, that good for nothing… Never mind,
Garin. Just complete the shutdown sequence. I’ll be there in a few minutes. If
I find him in the head I’ll flush his own stupid head down the toilet!”

“One
more thing, sir…” Garin bit the bullet and made his report. “The chairs are
missing. Both of them, sir.” He felt stupid as well, but what else could he
say?

“The
chairs are missing?”

The
chairs were missing, the clipboard was gone. Garin’s jacket was no longer on
the wall rack, the book and magazine were gone, and Markov’s tea was missing
too.
Markov
was missing, and it would be the last that any man alive on
earth that day would ever see of him.