Kirov (36 page)

He
had time to get down to sick bay and see the doctor before returning to brief
Karpov and leave him with instructions indicating his intentions for the next day.
The Admiral wanted to run south by southwest for the warmer green waters of the
Atlantic. He roused himself to go but, as he slipped off his chair, he felt a
queasy dizziness, uncommon for man with sea legs of stone over all these thirty
years.

“I
must be getting old,” he said to Orlov. Then the entire bridge seemed to roll
in his vision, spinning wildly. He swayed, instinctively reaching for the arm
of his command chair to try and steady himself. Orlov saw him losing his
balance, and ran quickly to his side.

“Are
you all right, Admiral?” The Chief took his arm, helping to steady him, but
could see a glazed look in Volsky's eyes, which seemed to jerk this way and
that, unable to focus. Then the Admiral started to fall.

Orlov
shouted, and two Yeomen ran quickly to render assistance. “Call the doctor,”
said Orlov. “Better yet, go and fetch a stretcher and we will take him to sick
bay ourselves.”

Volsky's
eyes were open, yet he said nothing, clearly distressed by a severe attack of
what seemed like vertigo. The lights above him, the milky green glow of the
radar and combat stations, all blended with the faces of the men as they leaned
over him, and he closed his eyes to fight off the nausea. At that moment the
quiet fear he had dredged up earlier returned to harry him again. What if
something had changed? The sharp bow of his ship had been knifing through the
history for days now, shredding one seemingly unalterable fact after another.
What if the future had changed enough to touch his own life? What was happening
to him?

Orlov
was up at the ship’s intercom as four men arrived with a stretcher and began to
take the Admiral below. “Captain Karpov to the bridge please. I repeat, Captain
Karpov to the bridge.” Then he turned to Rodenko. “You have the bridge, Mister
Rodenko. The Captain will be here in a moment. I'm going below with the
Admiral.”

He
followed after the men as they worked their way through the rear hatch to the
bridge, down the long narrow gangway, and struggled to carry the heavy man
through a floor hatch and down a steep ladder to the decks below. Along the
way, curious crewman looked on with concern and anxiety apparent in their eyes.
Orlov waved them aside, yelling at them to return to their posts and mind their
own affairs, which of course did nothing to improve the situation. Yet Orlov
knew only one way in dealing with the men, a strong hand and a hot temper.

When
Captain Karpov heard the intercom message, he was just finishing up a breakfast
in the officer’s mess of boiled eggs, fresh dark bread with
tvorog
, a
soft curd cheese, and strong hot tea. He passed on the unusual serving of
Sirniki
,
a pan fried dough offering with cheddar cheese, milk and sugar. Someone was
making sure the officers had a few comfort foods on the menu given the trying
circumstances of the last days. Perhaps he would catch a good
blini
with
sour cream and jam later, but for now he was still musing over the information
he had read in Fedorov’s book.

Now
he understood fully the scope and nature of the events surrounding this week in
the history of the war. He made careful note of the dispositions of ships prior
to this day, thought at length about this Atlantic Charter, an event of
enormous significance that was now no more than a three day cruise to the
South. The British prime minister, the American president, and the chief
officers of all three services on both sides would be present. It was an
opportunity that would seldom ever present itself to a military commander, a
gathering of crows he might fell with one well placed shot. Yet how could he
convince the Admiral to take the necessary action and use the power at his
disposal in a decisive way?

Now
he hurried to the bridge, brushing past curious crewman who wondered what was
happening as he went. When he reached the forward bridge citadel a
mishman
announced his arrival.

“Captain
on the bridge!”

“As
you were.” He immediately saw that Orlov was gone, and his eyes went to the
next senior officer. “What is our status Mister Rodenko?” The Captain wasted
little time, walking immediately to Rodenko's radar station to check on
developments.

“The
Admiral was taken ill, sir. Chief Orlov has gone below.” He continued briefing
the Captain as to the status of the contacts he had been tracking both to the
north and east of them now. Karpov was not happy to hear of this new surface contact,
particularly when he saw that it was already inside the 200 mile range circle, and
still closing on his ship.

“What
are those ships?”

“They
have been identified as British battleships,” said Rodenko. “Fedorov can tell
you more, sir”

“Mister
Fedorov?”

“Battleship
King George V
, and battlecruiser
Repulse
, sir. We had a look at
them with a KA-40 on infrared last night. I recognized the silhouettes. Those
contacts to the northwest are two heavy cruisers, and behind us, the shadowing
force built around those British carriers is still following, but there has
been no air activity, sir.”

“I
can't believe the Admiral allowed these heavy ships to come so close! What is
the range of the guns on those battleships?”

“Sir?
No more than 30,000 yards. Perhaps twenty-eight kilometers at best. They are
well over 160 kilometers away now, and pose no threat. I believe the Admiral's
intention was to—”

“Thank
you Mister Fedorov, you need not inform me of the Admiral's intentions. I will
discuss the matter with him myself.”

Karpov
reached up adjusting the fit of his black sheep’s wool Ushanka, and slowly
walked to the command chair to seat himself. It promised to be another cold
day, and he had on a warm, black leather jacket as well. His eyes narrowed with
thought. It was just as the Admiral had warned him. These British were like a
dogs after a cat. They were vectoring in ships from three compass headings now,
and these two battleships were maneuvering to block their path to the south. What
was marshalling beyond the range of
Kirov's
sensors?

“Fedorov.
This other battleship, the Prince, where would it be located now?

“You
mean
Prince Of Wales
, sir? That ship was scheduled to leave Scapa Flow
on August 5th, tomorrow, sir. She was due to arrive in Newfoundland on the 9th,
and considering that the British would most likely route her to the south, she will
probably be somewhere off the north coast of Ireland tomorrow.” Somehow the
question made Fedorov just a little uneasy. That was the ship carrying
Churchill. Why was the Captain asking about it? In fact, how did he even know
about it? He was fairly certain Karpov knew little or nothing about the
composition of the Royal Navy at this time.

Karpov
rubbed his chin, thinking. “Somewhere off the coast of Ireland,” he said aloud,
“and carrying that grumpy old bulldog Churchill.”

“Sir?”

“Never
mind, Fedorov.” Karpov chided himself for voicing his thoughts, yet the
situation was very interesting. All he had to do was come around to a heading
of one-three-five and he would very likely find the ship without much
difficulty.

“What
is our present heading?”

“Sir,
the ship is presently steering 202 degrees, south by southwest. Speed 25
knots.”

He
thought about the prospect for a time, but discarded the option. It would mean
deviating from the course the Admiral had set, and he already knew where this
ship was heading in any case.

At
that moment Orlov returned, his eyes wide, a little breathless after having
climbed up from the lower decks again. He immediately noticed Karpov.

“Good
morning, Captain. I must report that the Admiral is indisposed.” He raised his
eyebrows, giving Karpov a knowing look. “He was taken with a bad fit of
vertigo, and Doctor Zolkin has decided he must sleep. He has given the Admiral
a sedative and is keeping him under observation in the sick bay until further
notice. It appears you have the con, sir.” He smiled.

“Very
well,” said Karpov. “I'm assuming full command of the vessel until such time as
the Doctor recertifies Admiral Volsky as fit for duty.” He made the statement
loud enough for every man on the bridge to hear, settling comfortably into the
command chair with Orlov at his side. Then to Orlov he said in a lower voice:
“What do you make of these British battleships creeping up on us like this?”

“I
don't like it, sir,” said Orlov. “I believe the Admiral thought to simply run
past them to the south. Fedorov doesn't think they can catch us or get within
range. But we should maintain good speed.”

Fedorov
looked over his shoulder warily at the Captain, a worried look on his face. He
had assured Admiral Volsky that if they kept on this heading they would be able
to outmaneuver the British battleships when they cleared the Cape of Greenland,
keeping well outside their firing range.

“Yes,
they are dangerously close even now, in my opinion. And look at these other contacts
to the northeast. The British persist, they will have to be taught a lesson. We
are not to be trifled with.”

Chapter
21

 
“Con,
radar
airborne contact bearing twenty-two degrees northeast. I read three, now
six contacts dispersing on a line approximately 170 kilometers north of us,
incoming at speed 180kph.”

The
Captain leaned on the arm of his chair, swiveling toward Rodenko as he did so.
“Well, well, well,“ he said. “It appears the British did not pay attention in
class yesterday. We may have to repeat the lesson, yes?”

“But
only six planes,” said Orlov. “Nothing to really worry about.”

“Who
knows what is behind those six?” said Karpov. “I will tell you one thing, there
is a carrier behind them. Two carriers, am I not correct, Mister Fedorov?”

“Yes
sir,” said the navigator. “We believe
Victorious
and
Furious
are
still in that task force shadowing us.”

“Very
well. Those ships could have taken on fresh squadrons from Iceland by now.
Mister Orlov, bring the ship to condition three readiness. Speed 30 knots.”

“Aye
sir.” Orlov went to a panel and sounded the alert, sending the crew to
condition three, one state below full battle readiness. “The ship is at 30
knots,” he confirmed.

“But
sir,” said Fedorov, “those are most likely radar pickets. There were no torpedo
strike aircraft on Iceland. We’ve been jamming their radars and they are probably
trying to get a wide-angle look at us on a broader front. We decimated their
strike planes yesterday. Those are probably nothing more than Fulmar fighters
equipped with type 279 radar. Rodenko has recalibrated his equipment and—”

“Thank
you, Mister Fedorov,” said Karpov, a touch of annoyance in his voice. “Yet I
read in your own book that the Americans delivered a squadron of P-40 fighters
to Iceland, yes?”

“Correct,
sir, but those planes have not even arrived yet—” Fedorov suddenly realized
what the Captain had said. “Which book are you referring to, sir?”

“Your
Chronology of the War at Sea.
The Admiral was good enough to share it
with me, even if you were not.” Karpov covered his tracks a bit with the easy
lie, though he realized he might be making a mistake here. He decided to sound
out the young Lieutenant a bit and see if he could be useful.

“What
do you think about this secret meeting at sea, Fedorov, this Atlantic Charter?”

“I’m
not sure what you’re asking me, sir.”

“Don’t
be stupid, Fedorov. Don’t you see a fish on the hook when it’s right in front
of you? This is an opportunity, is it not?”

“An
opportunity for what, sir?”

“You
heard the Admiral earlier. These men gathering for this meeting, they are the
chief officers and leaders of the entire allied war effort. Think of it,
Fedorov, what would have happened if the Germans rolled into Moscow and found
old Stalin napping with all his major generals and field marshals as well?
Wouldn’t that have been a prize?”

“I
suppose it would, sir.”

“Then
this situation is very interesting, yes?” The Captain glanced at Orlov as well.
“ I think this is what the Admiral has been stewing about, what to do about
it.” He looked at Fedorov again. “What would
you
do about it,
Lieutenant?”

Fedorov
hesitated, nodding his head to one side. “Well… I’m not sure what the Admiral
is considering, sir, but I would steer well clear of this area, and get safely
out into the Atlantic.”

Karpov
raised his brows, eyes narrowing. It was what he expected. Fedorov had no
stomach for the business at hand. He was another weak sister, just like Zolkin.
His fawning over the Admiral was nothing to worry about, but he decided to
press the Lieutenant further.

“You
would go out into the Atlantic? Why, Fedorov?”

Fedorov
was beginning to feel a bit manipulated. He had learned enough about Karpov to
be very wary of the man, and he wondered why he would ask him these questions
when all he had ever received from the Captain before was a veiled disdain.