B00DSDUWIQ EBOK (18 page)

“Thunder
Horse?
Yes, that one hurt
us.”

“At
least we got the damn sub, so they paid for that attack. The point I’m making is
that the gloves are coming off. The Chinese have already gone after our
satellites. The Russians and their proxies like Iran have hit strategic energy infrastructure
that we rely on wherever they can find it. This is no longer a gentleman’s war.
It’s time we get serious and let them know what they’re up against. It’s time we
pushed back—and hard.”

“Very
well….” Leyman looked from Ghortney to Lane. “Just what do you propose we do?”

“Hardkill
SEAD will begin the operation,” said Ghortney. “We’ll use the Tomahawk Land Attack
Cruise Missile and other similar assets off both surface and subsurface naval
units, and from aircraft as well.”

“Seed?”

Ghortney
spelled it for Leyman. “Suppression of Enemy Air Defense,” he explained. “We hit
their known SAM sites and radars. That clears the airspace for the second wave
that General Lane will be sending.”

“My
bombers are ready,” Lane said quickly. “We lead with the B-2 strike and take out
their satellite launching facilities. The B-1s can then be tasked against the
airfields they are now using to support operations against Taiwan. We can pound
them with more cruise missiles, smart bombs, and take those fields down in 24
hours. Then Admiral Ghortney might have something further to say about things.”

Ghortney
nodded. “The next task would be establishing air superiority over Taiwan. CVBG
Washington
is down for the count at the moment, but I’ve got
Nimitz
and
Eisenhower
ready to move west, and we’ll hold Tanner’s remaining assets in the
Washington
group as a reserve until Third fleet reinforces us. CVBG
Bush
is already
heading for Pearl Harbor. That will give us sufficient naval air power to restore
order in the skies over Taiwan, and once we do that, the Chinese will think
twice about the troops and equipment they’re loading on their amphibious shipping.
We need to move quickly, and hit hard if they begin cross channel operations.”

Reed
cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Admiral, but what about the DF-21s?”

“What
about them?”

“The
Chinese know their trump card is the ballistic missile. Look how they went to it
right at the outset when they tangled with the Japanese. You move those carriers
west and you might be looking at DF-21’s trying to make a clam chowder out of
your operational zone.”

Reed
had put his finger on the strategic crux of the matter. The aircraft carrier
had reigned supreme in naval strategy since it proved itself in the Second
World War. Now, for the first time, the threat of ballistic missiles was posing
a grave challenge to carrier dominance. Just as the capabilities of carrier launched
planes had ushered in the demise of the battleship, now ballistic missiles
threatened to dethrone the carrier.”

“Well,
Mister Reed,” Ghortney put it as straight as he could. “We’ll just have to see about
that, wont we. We’ll just have to pound those missile sites to dust as well.”

Chapter 18

“The
KA-226 is reporting in now, sir,” said
Rodenko. “We have good long range radar returns on the American battlegroups to
the south. It appears that they are bringing up another large flotilla.”

“Show
me.” Karpov leaned heavily on the rim of the radar panel as Rodenko pointed out
the contacts.

“I’ll
have the data transferred to the tactical board, sir. This looks like yet another
carrier task force—at least ten capital ships, and communications has intercepted
ship-to-ship radio traffic. Nikolin believes Admiral Halsey is commanding.”

“That
would agree with Fedorov’s books,” said Karpov.

“Yes,
well I’m reading 34 additional ships in this group. Add those to the units we are
already tracking and we are now facing no less than 60 enemy warships of various
types.”

“Nine
carriers, four battleships and three heavy cruisers,” said Karpov matter of factly.
“That is if the historical data is accurate. The rest are light cruisers and
destroyers.”

“We
have 62 SSMs, sir.” Rodenko’s eyes conveyed the obvious admonition. “That is not
enough conventional weaponry to effectively oppose a force of this size. And
those carriers will likely have hundreds of aircraft available.”

“Correct.”
Karpov was pacing now, thinking and considering his situation. It was shaping up
very much like those last frantic moments off the coast of Newfoundland when the
ship was faced with multiple enemy task groups. The weapons tally was no more
favorable then, and he had determined that stronger measures were necessary.
Why was he hesitating now?

“How
long before those ships might threaten us with another air strike?”

“The
Sprague group has been loitering about a hundred kilometers due east of Shikotan
Island, Captain. They could launch now, but radar returns show only modest combat
air patrols over that group. I believe they are waiting for the Halsey group,
which should reach strike position in about ninety minutes if we proceed on our
present course and speed. If we were to hold in place, make that three hours.”

Karpov’s
eyes narrowed. “Helm, port fifteen. Mister Nikolin, signal the flotilla to match
our movements. We will circle in place.”

“Aye,
sir.”

The
order seemed to ease the tension a bit on the bridge, and Rodenko was relieved that
the Captain seemed to want to buy himself a little more time to consider the
situation. Karpov appeared ill at ease, however, as if the weight of the decision
was heavy on him now.

“They
are not making the mistake Captain Tanner did in 2021,” said Karpov.

“Sir?”

“Tanner
tried to take us on single handedly. The Americans had another carrier approaching,
the
Nimitz
, named for the Admiral commanding their fleet in this
timeframe. Tanner came in alone and he paid for it, just as this Sprague group
would have paid a high price if they pressed that last attack against us.”

“But
they called that attack off and consolidated,” said Rodenko. “Now they present us
with a much stronger force.”

Karpov
was pacing. “Get hold of
Orlan
and
Golovko
,” he said to Nikolin again.
“Ask Yeltsin and Ryakhin if they can join me for a conference in thirty minutes
aboard
Kirov
.” Then he turned to sonar. “Mister Tasarov—keep a sharp
ear. I want the KA-40 up on ASW patrol and coordinating with
Golovko
. No
surprises please.”

“Aye,
sir. Our immediate zone of operations is clear and I am monitoring the situation
closely.”

“Good
man… Rodenko, you have the bridge.”

Karpov
stepped toward the aft hatch, his eye catching the red emergency lighting and manual
lock switch as he did so, and a thrum of anxiety rose in his stomach. The
memory of that moment when he had opened the hatch and saw the dull gleam of
that light on the barrel of an assault rifle pointed at his chest returned to
him. The stalwart figure of Sergeant Troyak standing in the hatch opening… the
cold, emotionless eyes of the Siberian Marine, the feel of his hand like iron
on his own when Troyak took his missile key…The humiliation that followed seared
him again as he recalled what happened. The image of Orlov’s face as he looked
at him, a quiet sneer of disgust in his eyes, and the last words the Chief
spoke to him…
“Consequences, Karpov. Consequences…
” And all the while
the sound of
Kirov’s
deck guns cracked in the air like a snapping whip,
salvo after salvo. Then the sight of that distant mushroom cloud blossoming up
on the horizon, and with it the realization of what he had done.

Karpov
lowered his head, stepping quickly through the hatch, his face clouded and troubled.

“Captain
off the bridge!”

He
was down the ladder and heading aft, his footsteps leading him on past the officer’s
mess, where another memory clawed at him. Orlov…He remembered how the big Chief
had deliberately spilled coffee on his table, and his surprise in seeing him
there as he left the officer’s mess. It was the last time he had spoken to
Orlov, and his hand moved involuntarily to his side where the Chief had buried
a fist in his gut.

Hot
anger colored the Captain’s cheeks as he walked, quickly turning right to reach
his quarters. He closed the door with a hard shove, taking off his Captain’s hat
and wiping the damp sheen of perspiration from his forehead. Without thinking
he went to a cabinet and took out a bottle of Vodka and a shot glass, sitting
down at his desk with a hard thump as he hit the chair.

A
dejected cold feeling surrounded him. He took a sip and then tipped the shot quickly
down, breathing hard with the fire of the liquor on his throat. The taste of
the Vodka triggered yet another memory of that drink he had with Admiral Volsky
in the brig. He had been sullen and disrespectful, calling the Admiral an old
man to his face and prompting him to fist the table top in anger. He could hear
Volsky’s anger, well justified…

“You
are talking to the Admiral of the Northern Fleet!”

 Karpov’s
own voice sounded thin and strident in return, and laden with resignation.

“Admiral
of the fleet? What fleet is this you presume to command now, comrade? We are one
ship, lost at sea, and lost in eternity. God only knows where we are now, but I
can assure you, the fleet is long gone, and there is no one back home in Severomorsk
waiting for us to return either. It’s all gone, Volsky. Gone! Understand that
and you have your fat fist around the heart of it. If you want to understand what
I did you need only open your hand and look at it. All we had left was this
ship, Admiral, and no one else seemed to have backbone enough to defend it. If
I had not taken command it is very likely that we would all be at the bottom of
the sea now—have you considered that?”

Yes,
he was considering it even now as he poured a second shot. It was all
gone—Severomorsk and the Northern Fleet; Vladivostok and the Pacific Fleet—all
gone. He was the new fleet commander, the proud remnant of all that was
probably left of Russian Navy in the Pacific. That same logic sat like ice in
his stomach. If the old life was gone then this was all he had—all any of them
had—these three ships and the men he commanded. They could change the entire
history of the world if they wished. They were the most powerful men on the
earth at this moment. He had said as much to Volsky that day in the Brig.
“I
had my hand on the throat of time itself and I let it slip from my grasp. Don’t
you understand what we could have done with this ship?”

 Now
he stared at Fedorov’s well worn book on his desktop. Fedorov, pure hearted Fedorov.
There was a man with a conscience, eh? Karpov recalled the glassy look in
Fedorov’s eyes as he stared at the burning wreck they had made of the battleship
Yamato
, and realized what he had done, and he remembered what he had
said to him in consolation… “
It will get easier.”

The
echo of Fedorov’s response was still fresh in his mind
…“I’m not sure I want it
to,”
the young Captain told him, and Karpov knew what he meant. It never really
does get easier, he knew, not for a man with any shred of feeling in his heart.

Now
Fedorov was out looking for Orlov, lost in the past even as he was. But he had one
thing with him that Karpov found missing, that last thing at the bottom of Pandora’s
jar. Fedorov had hope. He knew that Volsky and Dobrynin were feverishly working
out his plan with the
Anatoly Alexandrov
to try and bring him home
again.

That’s
why I feel the way I do now, thought Karpov. There’s no
hope
, no one is looking
for us. In fact, they probably have no idea what even happened to us. Who knows
whether or not that letter I sent ever got through to Volsky?

Yet
the more he thought of Fedorov, the more he wondered. He was supposed to get back
to the year 1942. If he made it, and carried out his mission, that should all
be over by now. If Dobrynin had somehow managed to rescue him, Fedorov would be
safely home, back in the year 2021. Would the war still be raging there, or did
he find a way to put an end to it?

Karpov
shook his head, unwilling to believe that Orlov could have done anything to cause
the war. He saw how it unfolded like a fan, how it was meant to be, in spite of
what they read in that newspaper and the respite they won when he stayed
Samsonov’s hand in the Combat Information Center and spared the American submarine
Key West.
Now he imagined Fedorov returning to the same bleak world of
ash and cinder that they had seen on every shore they visited. He imagined the
Anatoly
Alexandrov
sitting there in the Caspian Sea, fifteen kilometers off shore,
a solitary island of metal, men, and hope. They would have put out patrols with
anything they had available. They would have sent men to the naval base at
Kaspiysk. What did they find there if they ever made it back? Was the world
safe and sound, or just another lump of coal?

Something
told him Fedorov was in for a real surprise, because no matter what Orlov did, or
failed to do, he was not the last of the Mohicans any longer. No. That honor would
fall to Captain Vladimir Karpov.

I
wanted this, he thought. I dreamed of a situation like this, where I could take
hold of fate itself by the throat and choke it to death if I chose to. And now I
have that in my power once again! Rodenko is correct. The math becomes the brutal
reality of the matter. Sixty enemy ships…Sixty two missiles. We put eight
missiles and two torpedoes into
Yamato
…

Yet
now I could win this battle with just one or two punches—a few missiles with warheads
that could take out Halsey’s entire fleet. I would use another MOS-III, a second
Starfire
to put bookends on this whole charade, just as I did before.
That is the sound tactical decision now—why am I hesitating?

The
voice of Dr. Zolkin played out in his mind now, speaking last as they huddled in
the sick bay trying to decided what to do when the ship appeared in the
Tyrrhenian Sea.
“You have all been discussing what we might do, what we are
capable of doing, and yes, what the consequences may be in the end, but speak
now to what we should do…”
The implication of some moral element in the
decision was obvious.
“Yes, we can smash our way through these ships, and
blacken Malta or Gibraltar if we so decide, but should we? Simply to secure our
own lives and fate? How many will die if we attempt this?”

How
many will die?

The
Second World War was finally over, but the world had not seen the fire of Atomic
weapons again…until Vladimir Karpov appeared to remind them of just what he had
done once before. My God, he thought, thinking of the report Nikolin gave him a
few minutes earlier. He had monitored the American radio calls and determined
that the missiles they fired had struck a carrier—the
Wasp
, the very
same ship I sunk in the North Atlantic! They built another one, and probably
named it in honor of the first. Fate and time put the damn ship in front of me
again and, lo and behold, what did I do? Now here I am ready to annihilate
Halsey and all the rest of them, just as they are planning the same fate for me.
We can crush them like insects…
“But should we? Simply to secure our own
lives and fate? How many will die if we attempt this?”

Even
as he asked the question he knew the answer. He could hear it in the echo of his
own pledge to Volsky before he was given a second chance by the Admiral…
“I swear
to you—here and now… I know what I did, and why, and that is over now. I know I
deserve nothing but your contempt, but give me this chance and I will not fail
you again—ever.”

The
Captain caught a glimpse of himself in his shaving mirror, sitting there on the
desk. He saw the pain and confusion on his own face, and knew he was far from decided
on this matter. A second chance….
“If there is any shred of honor left in
you, Karpov, I will give you this one chance to find it again.
” Volsky had
given him that. He treated him with respect—treated him like a man, and Karpov
swelled with pride at the recollection of the Admiral’s praise when they finally
made it through the storm and sailed home again. The eyes of every man on the
bridge were on him when he belayed the order to fire on
Key West,
and he
was every man on the ship at that moment—all of them.