Kirov III: Pacific Storm

he strode quietly towards the aft briefing room. “Mister Karpov,” he said curtly.

Karpov turned and saw it was clear that Volsky wanted to speak with him in private. His heart leapt, and he immediately knew what this must be about, but he steeled himself, and followed the Admiral to the briefing room. Volsky shut the hatch, folding his arms.

“Do you recall a conversation we had in the sick bay some weeks ago when I gave you a direct order that none of the nuclear warheads were to be mounted on missiles?”

“You’ve spoken with Martinov,” said Karpov.

“I have.”

“Sir, it must have been obvious to you that I countermanded that order when I fired that MOS-III.”

“Disobeyed that order, Karpov. Don’t mince words here.”

“Very well, I will not argue the point, and yes, I ordered Martinov to mount two warheads, one on the MOS- III and one on a P-900 cruise missile. I think I have given you reason enough as to why I did this. I do not say I am correct to have disregarded your order, but there it is.”

“Damn right,” said Volsky, clearly upset. “Yes, I was well aware of this transgression, at least insofar as the MOS-III was concerned, but so were you, Karpov. And all these weeks the second warhead has been sitting on missile number 10 in the P-900 bays, and you said nothing!”

Karpov breathed deeply, his chin raising, then clenched his jaw, silent for a time. He looked down. “It would be just like me to say I assumed that you discovered the warhead earlier, and had it removed,” he began in a low voice. “But that would be a bowl of lozh, just another lie from the man I was back then, and it would seem so right to me to serve it up to you. I would have seasoned it with reasons and arguments and justifications. But I will not lie to you now, Admiral. I remembered what I had done when we began using the P-900 missiles in the Med. I wondered if the warhead was still there, but did nothing more about it. It’s been in the back of my mind, and I must say that I haven’t given up the thought of what we might do with it. I was just hinting about it with Fedorov. He seems to think we could run afoul of a large air/sea battle in the Coral Sea, with many more ships and planes to contend with than we have missiles for. I’m sorry, sir. I should have brought the matter up with you.”

Volsky looked at him for some time, then he nodded. “Very well… I am going to tell you I did not have that warhead removed, as insane as that now sounds. It’s still there, Captain, on the number ten missile, so have a care if we have to use cruise missiles again. The system has been reset to require two keys before it is used, however. I have one around my neck, and Fedorov has the other.”

“As it should be, sir.”

“Yes, as it should be, the commanding officer and his Starpom make any decision as to the deployment of tactical nuclear weapons. But we are in a combat zone now, and the hole in the roof of the aft battle bridge has made that painfully apparent, not to mention the line of men waiting for Doctor Zolkin. I have already suffered combat injuries myself, and spent a good deal of time with Zolkin in the sick bay. So it has occurred to me that it is entirely possible that we may be hit again before we find safe waters, and also possible that key officers might die. You understand?”

“I do, sir.”

“In that event the normal protocols of rank will still apply. Should I be killed in action, Fedorov will immediately advance from Starpom to Captain of the ship, and you will immediately advance to Starpom as his Executive Officer. In fact, those are your presumed ranks whenever I am not on the bridge. The two of you performed ably in the Med, your cooperation was exemplary. You asked me to give you a chance and I did so. I will not say that I have been in any way disappointed with your performance, but I wonder, Karpov…Is there any remnant of that old man still alive in you?” He gave his Captain a searching look.

Karpov met his gaze, unflinching. “A man may never purge himself entirely of his bad habits and faults, Admiral, or fully atone for his sins. But if he is a man, he can control himself and do what is right. This you have taught me well enough.”

“No, Karpov,” Volsky poked a fat finger on the other man’s shoulder. “That you learned on your own.” He smiled, obvious absolution in his eyes now.

“I tell you this because it may happen, by one circumstance or another, that you find a missile key around your neck again one day. Then you will have to decide what you have learned or failed to learn, particularly if I am no longer here to weigh in on the matter with this substantial belly of mine.”

Karpov smiled, relieved by the tack the Admiral had taken. What could have been another bitter argument, a scolding, retribution and the revisiting of that dark old stench of shame, had instead become something more akin to a discussion a father might have with a son, and one he had every hope for. Karpov appreciated Volsky more than ever now, and realized why he was so loved by the men.

“I would hope to find the courage to be half the man you are, sir, if I ever do find that key around my neck again.”

“Yes…” said Volsky. “If God dies, then we see how the angels fare. In some sense that is true for all of us now in this God forsaken world.” And he said nothing more. The distant rumble of thunder told them that they were being fired on again. Volsky opened the hatch, and the two men stepped out onto the bridge in time to see four tall geysers rise from the sea, directly abreast of the ship, though a thousand meters off their port side.

“Port fifteen,” said Fedorov turning the ship towards the enemy rounds. He looked over his shoulder at Karpov and Volsky. “I believe they have finally found the range, Admiral.”

Volsky nodded. “It is time we do something about it then,” and he looked at one of his archangels, Michael with his gleaming sword. “Mister Karpov…”

~ ~ ~

Captain Iwabuchi saw the first missile easily enough. He had been watching through his field glasses, eying the tall silhouette of the enemy ship ahead, still far away, but a real and tangible thing now, not the stuff of legends and lore. Mizuchi was a battleship, of that much he was certain. And as powerful as they were, any ship might die. He had every mind to kill this one, and avenge the loss of Haguro, not to mention Hara’s planes and pilots.

His pursuit squadron had closed to about 28,000 yards, still a long shot for his guns, but within their effective range. Nachi was 500 meters off his starboard side, and Myoko an equal distance off his port side, the three ships in line abreast, now charging at Kirishima’s top speed. He had assembled his war demons on the bridge with him: gunnery officer Koshino, and secondary battery commander Ikeda. Supply officer Kobayashi was on the battle bridge, marking off rounds fired. Flood control officer Kyshichi Yoshino was also standing by the voice tubes in the event the ship took any serious hit requiring his attention. His Executive Officer, Koro Ono, was standing by the helmsman, ready to maneuver the ship.

Then they saw the first rocket, and Iwabuchi finally knew what Captain Kiyota aboard Nachi had been talking about. He had called it Raiju, the thunder beast that falls from the sky, the lightning wolf that haunted children’s dreams back in the homeland on stormy nights. A good name for it, he thought, what speed!

Then the missile came at his ship like an arrow, his eyes widening as it roared in to strike his forward turret dead on, exploding in a massive brilliant orange and black fireball. The ship rocked with the blow, metal shrapnel flaying the tall pagoda superstructure, and shattering one window on the bridge. It was as if the gods had hurled metal brimstone at his ship, and when the main explosion finally cleared he could see that the forward turret had been jarred half off its barbette, one gun canted upward by the concussion. The turret itself had a large blackened indentation there by the twisted gun barrel, the place where the hard tip of the warhead must have struck.

Now fires fed by excess jet fuel broke out on the forward deck all around the turret, and he knew the heat there must have killed every man inside. One shot, one hit, but with what? This was no anti-aircraft rocket! This was a demon from the blackest of all hells set loose on him. Raiju was not word enough for it. His face reddened, anger surging.

“Return fire!” he yelled, watching the guns of the number two turret train and then belch their own fire and brimstone at the distant enemy ship, their concussion helping to snuff out fires on the forward deck, so great was the blast wave of the guns.

Spotters on the high main mast of the pagoda watched the rounds hit, slightly long, their blue dyed