Kirov (23 page)

Part V

Engagement

“…God
and the Devil are fighting there, and the battlefield is the heart of man.”

—Fyodor
Dostoevsky

Chapter
13

Kirov
sailed
east where
they loitered for some time to sort through the data and reach a conclusion. They
were huddled
around the video monitor in the officers wardroom for
another closed-door meeting to review the tape, and this time there could be no
possibility that NATO could have spoofed their cameras. Fedorov was zooming in
and pointing out features of the ships he had observed, and flipping through
pages of his copy of
Jane’s Fighting Ships
to show them similar images.

 Captain
Karpov could hardly believe his eyes, but it was clear to even him that these
were the same ships,
old
ships that should have been busted up in the
scrap yards years ago. He had a good look at the one they fired on, and it was
not a Type 45 modern British destroyer, which would have been more than twice
its size. At first he thought it might have been an older Type 42, but the
distinctive forward radar dome was entirely missing, and when Fedorov enhanced
his video he could clearly see this was an antiquated old tin-can destroyer
from an earlier era. Yet it was flying the Royal Navy ensign from its top mast
as it bravely charged at them. The destroyer even had the correct number on her
bow, number 40 identifying the ship as HMS
Anthony
, and he had seen it
with his own eyes. Then, as it wisely turned behind a smoke screen to run,
Karpov’s mind wheeled about in its wake, amazed, astounded, yet convinced at
last that he was now sailing in another world.

There
is something deep in the psyche of the Russian soul that believes that fate has
the power to unhinge any reality and make a shambles of the mighty. Russia had
seen the long dynasties of the Tsar crumble, the upheaval of a modern
revolution, the invasion and fire of war from the time of Napoleon to Hitler.
Though she emerged from World War II as one of the most powerful nations on
earth, the Iron Curtain crumbled and the Soviet Union fell into decline as
well. There was no government, no nation, that could escape the capricious
machinations of fate, or so it seemed from a Russian’s point of view. And
clearly this now applied to the ship itself. Fate had brought
Kirov
to a
new place, though it was an old time in an old world that had been little more
than a sad chapter in the history books for all of these men.

For
Karpov, however, is was something entirely new now. In one sweeping realization
the whole creaking, calcified power structure of the Russian Navy had just
collapsed like a badly made bridge. There was no longer anyone back in
Severomorsk as a check and balance on the decisions and actions of any man
aboard this ship. They answered only to their own inner compass now, or to the
cruel whim of fate, but the long rein of accountability, the game of fawning
and planning and currying favor with just the right men, that was gone now,
extinguished in one startling moment in the Captain’s mind. In its place came
that vague thrum of anxiety again.

Severomorsk
no longer had any say in the matter. They would never answer their plaintive
radio calls again. Fate had set him down on this sea of uncertainty, and now
his own personal fortune was in his own hands, or so he thought, with only one
man standing senior to him on the most powerful ship in the world.

He
turned to the Admiral, a glint in his eye. “What now?” he asked, eager and strangely
energized. Yet Volsky could perceive a darkness there, and a yawning ambition
that warned him to be cautious.

“We
must consider our situation carefully,” said the Admiral. “First off, this will
be difficult to explain to the crew. We have spent two days discussing it and
testing the proposition with one scenario after another, and only now do
we
begin to believe the impossible. There will be many among the crew who will not
accept this explanation any more than you did, Captain.”

“We
had to be certain,” Karpov said defensively as he folded his arms. Was the
Admiral calling him a bull headed ox? He overlooked the insult, and made
another suggestion. “You are correct, Admiral. At least for the foreseeable
future, I suggest we do not make a general announcement. The men will not
understand it, and it will be bad for morale. Orlov might convince them in time.”

 “Yes,
but we do not need to bully them,” the Admiral looked at Orlov, the strict
disciplinarian on the ship. “Cut them a little slack, as the Americans might
say. This is going to be a difficult adjustment for all of us. I am sure you
have all stopped a moment to consider the fact that our wives, our children,
our friends… They are all gone. Many have yet to be born! Perhaps they never
will be born. This will be a shock to the men when the realization hits home,
as it was to me when I first accepted the situation we so obviously find
ourselves in now. We need time to pull ourselves together. Perhaps you are
wise, Karpov, we must grieve it ourselves before it settles in to the bone;
give it time. What do you suggest, Doctor Zolkin?”

“I
could not have said it better, Admiral,” said the Doctor. “And we will likely
have many long days to dwell on the memory of those we once knew and loved back
home. If we do inform the men, we should do so gradually, perhaps in small
groups. But what you say is sadly true. We
have
no home. Yes, we are
sworn to protect and defend the
Rodina
, and that we can do with this
brave ship and crew, but we can never sail this vessel into Severomorsk to be
taken by the Soviet government as it stands now. The government that sent us
here was bad enough. But Stalin? That is a black hole I do not think any of us
might wish to return to.”

“Why
not?” said Karpov, immediately challenging the Doctor. It was a reflexive
comment. A part of him seemed to want to put the old world he knew back—to keep
the old power structures in place, any power structure that he could cling to
again instead of this awful void. None of the men knew anything real about
Stalin. He was just a name in one of Fedorov’s history books, and a dark shadow
from their past. As far as Karpov knew, Stalin left Russia as one of the most
powerful nations on earth. Her fall after that may have largely been due to the
corruption that grew in that shadow, and the fear and mistrust it bred at every
level of society. Why couldn’t they fight for Russia now, he thought?

“Think
of it, Captain. Ninety-nine percent of all the computing power now on earth is
right here on this ship. We have technology, weapons, capabilities that will
not be developed for nearly a century! Should this vessel fall into the wrong
hands…”

“Since
when is our homeland a place to be feared?” said Karpov.

“What
do you know of Josef Stalin, Captain? I mean you no disrespect, but consider what
would Stalin do, right now, this very day, if he could command this ship in battle?”

“He
would most likely rename it at once,” quipped Volsky. The one time hero of the
revolution, Sergey Kirov, did not survive Stalin’s purges after opposing his
policies in the politburo.

“True
Admiral,” said Zolkin. “But how would he stop the Germans as they close in on
Moscow, choking off the nation’s breath, smothering her, killing and raping and
leveling whole cities as they come? Do you think he would hesitate for one
moment to unleash the arsenal of nuclear weapons we have aboard? We sit here, with
the hindsight of history as our guide, and we tell ourselves not to worry,
Russia wins the war, one way or another. Yet a man like Stalin will not see
things in this light. He will want to use this ship for any expediency that
comes to mind, and he will be as ruthless and merciless as we all know he was.
How many died at his command in the next few years? Give him this ship and he
will destroy Germany first, yes, but god only knows what else he will do when
he is finished.”

They
were all silent, the gravity of their situation finally becoming apparent to
them. The agony of the Great Patriotic War was not something any of them
understood on a personal level. Even the oldest man aboard the ship, the
Admiral himself, had been born in the year 1957. The Second World War was just
a dark gray story of generals and armor, old black and white photographs and
lines on maps. They knew nothing of the terror, the horror of war. The six
rounds of 100mm ammunition
Kirov
had just lobbed at the oncoming British
destroyer was one of the few times a Russian naval vessel had actually fired in
anger in nearly a decade! They had trifled with a few Somali pirates, using a
few rounds of their close in defense Gatling guns, but the ship had never once
employed its formidable missiles in real combat.

 “Yes,”
said Admiral Volsky, “God only knows. It is clear to me that we cannot simply
sail home to Severomorsk, as tempting as that prospect might be. There is no
way we could make certain that the technology and weaponry on this ship could
be kept from the hands of a man like Stalin, short of destroying the ship
outright first.”

“We
might consider that,” Doctor Zolkin suggested lightly. “Suppose we find some
nice Pacific island, well south of the conflict there, and then off-load just a
few weapons and all our supplies before scuttling the ship.”

“Are
you insane?” said Karpov sharply.

“I’m
a psychiatrist, Captain, at least grant me some latitude here. We don’t just
have Stalin to worry about in considering the things we have on this ship. We
have the British and Americans too! What would they do if the ship, or any of
the technology we have aboard, were to fall into their hands?”

“Some
say the Germans aboard
Bismarck
scuttled the ship to prevent the British
from towing her off and discovering the secret of her hull design,” said
Fedorov.

“Exactly,”
said the Doctor. “This ship must not fall into enemy hands. Period. And I am
afraid that given the knowledge we have of the history of these years in
Russia, Stalin will have to be considered an enemy as well. Do you agree,
Admiral?”

“You
make a good point, Doctor,” said the Admiral. “We must not allow either side to
gain possession of the technology we have, let alone the weapons. Yet if I
understand what Mister Fedorov was trying to tell us earlier, we may soon be in
a fight for our very lives. Mister Rodenko tells me the main body of the fleet
we were tracking yesterday has halted its eastward progression and reversed
course. It seems that the word is getting out, one way or another, that there
is something dangerous prowling the waters of the Arctic sea. We may have to
move south soon.”

“My
guess is that they will be as confused as we were at first,” said Fedorov. “In
fact, they will logically conclude we are a German ship. So far they have seen
nothing of the weaponry and capabilities we truly possess. We fired all of six
rounds of what would be considered a small secondary gun mount on any ship of
this day. But we
look
threatening. This is a big ship, as large as any
typical battleship the British put to sea in the Second World War. They've
spotted us, that much is certain, and it's likely the phones are already
ringing in the Admiralty with the news that a big German battlecruiser is at
large again. And believe me, Admiral, Captain Karpov, the Royal Navy will stop
at nothing to hunt us down, just as they did with
Bismarck
. This
destroyer was no match for us, but their fleet has many more powerful ships,
and they will use them all.”

“It
may come to that,” said Karpov, “but I assure you, if the Royal Navy wishes to
tangle with this ship they will pay a terrible price. We may have to
sink
them all.”

“You
had best think on that a while, Captain, and let us keep our Ivans bundled up,”
said the Doctor. He was referring to Ivan the Terrible, the brutal Tsar who had
become legendary for his cruelty, and a distant forerunner to men like Josef
Stalin. The mindset was deep in the Russian psyche, and it was said that every
man had his “Crazy Ivan” under three woolen shirts, something he hid deep within
himself in the normal discourse of life, and sometimes put to sleep with vodka,
but a demon to keep a careful watch on lest it be given free rein and devour
his soul. Zolkin continued.

“Before
we worry what Stalin might do with this ship, it may be wise to consider what
we
are going to do with it,” said Zolkin. “Every ship we strike will kill living,
breathing men, yes? These are not merely machines we war on now. Some of these
men may have died in this war, as that was their fate, but there will be others
that will have survived it. Yet when you unleash your missiles they will give
no thought to that. They will not think of sons or daughters yet to be born, or
tears in a mother’s eyes. No, they are killing machines, and they will do the
job with lethal efficiency, as certain as the ticking of a clock. But we do not
need to be so heartless. So we must do that thinking for them, and well
before
we press the launch button to send them on their way. Suppose you kill a man
tomorrow who survived this war? You take from him what God and Fate gave in
another time, the time we came from. And once you do that you cannot easily
give back what you have taken. Who knows what the consequences might be?”