Kirov (5 page)

Ambition
was one thing, duplicity and deception another. People soon came to realize
that Karpov’s ambition would always come in tandem with those darker elements.
Getting things done in the sloth of protocol and paperwork in Russia took time,
patience and more than a little conniving, he knew. After fifteen years coming
up through the ranks at Gazprom, Karpov was a master of the subtle art of lying,
a master of
lozh
, and he never blushed one minute for his behavior. Dostoevsky
had said it best when he asserted that among Russian intellectual classes,
transparent candor was an impossibility.

Karpov
was a perfect example of this, scheming, controlling, subtly aggressive, and
often shameless in the way he undermined his rivals. He had discovered that
popularity only took a man so far in life, particularly in Russia. Fear was an
equally compelling emotion for most people, a moral reference point any Russian
understood well enough, and Karpov knew how to stoke those fires of doubt in any
rival’s heart. He was indirect, yet ruthless and persistent. And in the end he
was successful. Some men stood aside just to be out of his crosshairs, others
opened doors for him just to be rid of the man and his constant harangue when
he engaged them. And wherever there was a vacuum that would take him higher in
the ranks, Karpov filled it with his considerable ego, and an intelligence and ambition
that saw him rise quickly, making his current position of First Captain in just
seven years.

With
many enemies and few friends, he had become a cold man, arrogant within the
hard shell of his own intelligence, and still preoccupied with details, rules,
schedules and lists, still the young schoolboy in the locker room or assistant
in the library. Now he shuffled the ship’s crew from one assignment to another,
granted and denied favor, chastened and ground upon his chiefs, but yet his
ruthless efficiency saw the ship as tightly wired as it had ever been.

They
had rendezvoused with the replenishment ship 10 hours ago and taken on
additional live ammunition to replace the rounds they would fire in these
exercises. They were up between Bear Island and Jan Mayen on a cold late summer
day, but they should be in a sheltered inlet where they could best ride out the
coming storm. No use running at sea in a force nine gale, which is exactly what
Rodenko, the ship’s radar man, had predicted over the next several hours.

His
mind drifted to the likely play of the hours ahead. They would ride out the
storm, then rendezvous with
Orel
off Jan Mayan and try again, if
Slava
managed to keep her targeting barges in line it would be a miracle. And as for
Kirov
,
what to do about all those extra missiles crated in the holds below? Chief
Martinov was taking far too long to store the munitions properly in the magazine.
The Russian maxim: ‘They pretend to pay us and we pretend to work’ was well
applied to that man. He would have to send Orlov down there to knock a few
heads together if he wanted the missiles all sorted out in the next eight
hours.

What
would Severomorsk say about the delay, he wondered? The Admiral already seemed
upset over the time lost by this mishap, and it led Karpov to believe that
Volsky was worried about something back home. What could it be, he wondered? A
personal matter? More likely it was something to do with ‘Old Suchkov,’ Chief
of the Navy. He was aging, ten years older than the Admiral, and well past retirement
age. Yet the old guard, as he called them, had been hanging on to power in the
hierarchy above.

Suchkov
was made Chief of the Navy in 2015, just six years ago, at the age of 68. Now,
at 74, his failing health would prevent him serving out the usual ten year term
at the post. Volsky was next in line, having come up through the mandatory
billets as commander of the Black Sea Fleet, then the Pacific Fleet, and
finally the Northern Fleet. If Suchkov retired, who would replace Volsky as
Fleet Admiral here? Most likely Rogatin. He had moved from Novorossiysk to
Murmansk two years ago, and now was comfortably installed as Suchkov’s Deputy
Chief of Staff.

The
Captain knew he was a long way from that chair. His normal route, after
finishing at least three years here aboard
Kirov
, would be to take on a Missile
Ship Division as Chief of Staff, then make Rear Admiral and take over
operations at a base like Severomorsk or Novorossiysk. He would need to collect
his medals, the Order of the Red Star, the Order for Service to the Homeland,
the Order of Military Merits, the Order of Courage. Once he lined up enough
color in the ribbons on his chest he could then begin the final approach to a
Fleet Admiral position, and he would finally have the power he deserved.

He
shrugged inwardly, thinking what a long and grueling slog it would be. Things
took time in Russia. Things were promised but seldom delivered in Russia.
Things too often had a way of going wrong, just like this simple live fire
exercise. Karpov had already started courting the favor of men like Rogatin
back home, thinking to get in with the man and possibly skip a few chairs. For
now, he was proud of his post here aboard
Kirov
, and determined to make
the most of the opportunity. He was finally out of the ranks of junior
officers, a man to be respected and reckoned with, or so he believed.

Yet
Dostoevsky’s line about old habits was all too true where the Captain was
concerned
: ‘The second half of a man's life is made up of nothing but the
habits he has acquired during the first half.’
Now that he had been made First
Captain of the ship, he sometimes repeated the foibles and jaded manners of the
old Gazprom executive class he had come from, bending the rules to suit him,
and exercising more license than he might have done while jostling in the ranks
for promotion. This was common all through the calcified power structures in
Russia, from the police stations in every town, up through government at every
level. Rank had its privileges. There would be nice thin layered blini with
melted butter, jam and honey on the officer’s table in the morning for
breakfast, but not for the rankers below. One had to do whatever was necessary
to put honey on the table, he thought, but what to do about Volsky?

Just
as in his university days, Karpov had been involved in more than one deception
with senior officers standing as potential rivals on his career path. He took
it upon himself to investigate personal matters in the lives of men he found
threatening. He learned their habits and foibles, the state of their marriages
and affairs, the bars or clubs they frequented, and he became a master of
spreading those subtle, destructive lies,
lozh,
often wrapped in the
more familiar gauze of
vranyo
—a wolf in sheep’s clothing, as it were.

Where
lies would not serve, Karpov often feigned friendship by sending unusual gifts
at odd hours and in unusual circumstances. Once, he had sent a bottle of fine
French champagne to a rival officer on the day
after
his son had failed
miserably in his crucial academy testing. He rubbed it in by pretending to
apologize the next day, saying he was so certain the young many would pass that
he believed the gift was well made. “Perhaps next semester,” he concluded. His
message in these petty and often offensive capers was obvious, and they were
one of many reasons why those beneath Karpov in the ranks had come to dislike
him so much. For those above him, he reserved liberal praise and the most
strict and proper decorum—until he set his mind on the post that particular officer
occupied. After that, when a man became an obstacle, Karpov began a long and
calculated campaign to subtly undermine him, a whisper here, a rumor there, a
little
vranyo
, a little more
lozh
, an arranged embarrassing
moment in the line of duty that would serve to cast doubt on his rival’s
competency.

Once,
in an exercise much like the one
Kirov
had planned for that very day, he
had gone so far as to tamper with the towing line clamps for the target barges
that would be towed by a rival captain. Then he insisted on a high speed
maneuver that he knew would tax the compromised link until it gave way, leaving
the barges scattered and adrift, and well out of proper position when the live
fire exercise was scheduled to begin. His report on the matter was particularly
critical of his rival, and he went so far as to joke about “Kutusov’s folly” in
the ranks, cementing the mishap securely in the lore of the navy at the time.

When
he received word that he had been made
Kirov’s
new Captain, he swelled
with pride—until Volsky arrived. Now he saw the Admiral as an obstacle to his
free reign here; someone he had to defer to out of respect to the man’s rank,
though he often thought he knew better when it came to the machinations of
running the ship.

The
Captain always waited for the Admiral’s seat to cool before he finally settled
into it to stand his command watch on the bridge. The residual warmth always
made him uncomfortable, a reminder that there was someone else above him in
rank on the ship; someone he had to answer to, that the ship was not truly his.

“Come
about, Mr. Orlov,” he said to his Chief of Operations. “Port thirty.” Yet even
as he gave the order he heard, or rather felt a distant heavy rumble, ominous
and deep, like a great kettle drum being struck by a mighty hammer.

“What
in god's name was that?” said the Captain. “That was no thunder.” There came a
blinding white light, and Karpov saw his navigator, Fedorov, pulling off his
headset, instinctively shielding his eyes. The searing light flashed and
vanished, leaving the air alive with what looked like a hundred thousand
fireflies all around the ship, strange luminescent particles that spun on the
cold airs, whirling and dancing as they slowly faded to milky green. When it
passed he instinctively looked out of the forward viewing panes, surprised to
see that the ocean itself seemed to light up for miles in every direction with
a strange phosphorescent color. Then the sea erupted in the distance, boiling
up in a wild convulsion of sound and motion. The ship shuddered with the impact
of a strong blast wave, rolling heavily.

Karpov
gripped the side arms of his chair to steady himself, and everyone on the
bridge braced for further impact, one man thrown from his seat near the helm,
his eyes wide with fear and astonishment. The strident welter of sound
subsided, resolving to an eerie sharp cellophane crackle that hung in the air
like a wave of heavy static electricity. Then there came a low descending
vroom, the sound falling through three octaves as if it had been sucked into a
black hole and devoured.

Stunned
and amazed, every member of the bridge crew seemed frozen, their faces twisted
into expressions of numbed, painful shock. Then Karpov’s high, sharp voice
broke the silence as he barked out in order.

“Action
stations! We are under attack!”

Chapter
3

Admiral
Volsky
was
halfway to his cabin when the ship lurched with the sudden motion, lights in the
gangway winking and dimming. He heard the strange descending sound as he braced
himself against the bulkhead, eyes wide with surprise, yet something deep within
chided him, telling him he should have been more alert. The vague disquiet that
had befuddled him earlier was now a jangling surge of adrenaline. An instant
later every nerve in his body seemed to tingle with warning, as if a thousand
needles had pierced his flesh. The feeling passed quickly, however, and he
steadied himself, turning about at once and heading back toward the command
bridge as fast as his heavy legs would carry him.

As
he approached the citadel he saw the look on the guard’s face there by the
hatch, registering shock and anxiety. But the instant the man saw the Admiral,
he seemed to straighten with newfound resolve, saluting crisply, an expression
of relief brightening in his eyes.

Volsky
nodded to the man as he passed through the hatch and into the citadel where he
could hear Karpov shouting at the helmsman to put on speed. Thirty years at sea
told him the ship was already in a sharp turn, as if maneuvering to avoid the
track of an oncoming missile or torpedo.

“What
is happening?” he shouted, his deep voice loud and commanding.

“Admiral
on the bridge!” Chief Orlov's voice cut through the bedlam and all eyes turned
to the graying command officer, waiting. The Admiral knew that he must appear
decisive, in control, no matter how bewildered he himself was at the moment. He
tugged sharply on the lower hem of his jacket, adjusting the tilt of his cap as
he strode to the center of the bridge. Karpov slipped out of his chair,
saluting to acknowledge the Admiral's presence, and reported.

“An
explosion of some kind, sir. Massive!”

“Aboard
ship?”

“No,
sir. It seemed to be an undersea detonation, of considerable size. Look at the
ocean! I believe we may be under attack, and I have ordered the ship to take
high-speed evasive maneuvers.”

At
action stations the primary overhead lighting was dimmed and the bridge was
wreathed in shadow, bathed with red emergency lighting and alight with the glow
of many screens and consoles. Volsky looked out through the forward view panes,
astonished to see the luminescent radiance of the sea all around them, as if
some deep underwater energy source was emanating from the ocean floor. The flat
panel digital screen mounted high on one wall to his left also showed the same
scene, though the image was checkered with interference, the blocks of digital
information disassembling and reassembling as the system worked to tune and
display a clear signal and image. He immediately turned to Grigori Rodenko, his
chief radar man.