Kirov II: Cauldron of Fire

obvious to them all.

Turing had a strange look on his face, set and determined. He had not heard about this second strike mission or the use of rockets until just this moment. Now his very worst suspicions were confirmed, at least in his own mind, but how could he broach the subject with the cream of Admiralty? These men were no-nonsense naval royalty. They had centuries of combined experience between them and were accustomed to having things nailed down with brass tacks and well in order at all times. Yet he could not remain silent. He had to say something.

“Well sir,” he said to Admiral Pound. “I must say that from my close examination of the photography in hand, I do not believe this ship is anything in the Italian naval inventory.”

Pound gave him a hard look. It was enough that he had ventured to contradict the First Sea Lord, but even more that he would suggest…What was he suggesting? “See here,” he began, somewhat perturbed. “Then you are telling me that this is not an Italian ship? It bloody well isn’t a German ship. That leaves us with something out of Toulon, and it would be quite a stretch of the imagination to believe the French would be at sea, and even more so with weapons described in that last communique from Malta.”

A remnant of the French Navy was still holed up in Toulon, and it included some rather formidable ships, including the battleships Dunkerque, Strasbourg, and Provence, and numerous cruisers and destroyers, some 57 surface ships and numerous subs, torpedo boats, sloops and auxiliaries.

Wake-Walker came in with another angle. “Could the Germans have gotten their hands on one of these French ships, and rigged her out with these new weapons? I dare say we haven’t kept a very close watch on the French Navy since Aboukir Bay.”

“Hut Four cannot confirm that,” said Turing, “and I can say definitively that we have not seen anything in the Enigma coding that would in any way lead us to that conclusion over at Hut Eight.”

Pound frowned at him. “I wish I could feel more reassured in hearing that, Professor Turing. After all, Bletchley Park had that same line concerning this Geronimo incident in the first place.”

Turing ignored the obvious barb in the remark, feeling that the discussion was sliding away towards conclusions that would lead the Royal Navy to make a grave error. He had come to a far different conclusion about this ship when he first saw the gun camera footage and, as he tried to muster the courage to express his feelings, he realized that it was very likely that he would be scapegoated for any further intelligence failure here. Kill the messenger. It was all too common, even with all the apparent chin chin civility of these men. He girded himself, then finally began to speak his mind.

“Admiral Pound,” he said flatly. “I have examined this photography very closely. The ship depicted is over eight hundred and twenty feet in length, and I estimate it to displace at least 30,000 tons or more. That is a hundred feet more than either Dunkerque or Strasburg from the French Navy, 60 feet longer than the Italian battleship Littorio, and the equal of our late departed HMS Hood. It has no visible armament above a few small deck guns, and yet it managed to bloody the nose of the entire Home Fleet: two carriers, three battleships, five cruisers and nine destroyers. Furthermore, it has demonstrated a speed in excess of thirty knots—faster than our most modern battleships of the line, and even some of our cruisers—yet it has no visible stacks, and has never been seen to be making steam of any kind, even in this latest photo…” He let that last bit dangle, his high voice somewhat strident as he realized he had let his passion for the point get the better of him.

Pound made no effort to suppress his anger now. “Preposterous!” he slapped his hand on the table, more than annoyed now with the truculence of this upstart professor. He had heard a few barbed rumors about the man—that he was eccentric, given to strange flights of fancy, and that he had other peculiar habits that Pound did not wish to entertain further in his mind. Now to have him make such statements in this room, before the highest ranking officers of the Royal Navy. Preposterous was not half a word for what he felt at the moment, and his face clearly exhibited his displeasure.

“Are you suggesting this latest photo is identical to the images we obtained a year ago—that the two ships are one and the same? Preposterous!”

Part V THE FIRST GATE

“Through me you pass into the city of woe: Through me you pass into eternal pain… All hope abandon, ye who enter here.”

~ Dante Alegeri

The Inferno, Canto III

Chapter 13

When Karpov entered the officer’s dining hall, the conversations seemed to hush, particularly at the far table where he saw the broad shoulders and telltale woolen cap of Orlov. The former Chief of Operations, now a mere Lieutenant in the Marine detachment, was seated with a clutch of young Starshini, one stripe Junior Lieutenants that been laughing together as the big man joked about something. Their sudden silence prompted Orlov to look over his shoulder, and as Karpov sat down, alone as always, he heard Orlov curse under his breath, “Mudak…” One of the other men at the table nudged him with a cautionary elbow, which prompted Orlov to say yet more—“Mne pohui!” he exclaimed, telling the man he didn’t give a fuck.

Karpov ignored them, eating in the heavy silence that filled the room, and trying to keep his mind on Fedorov’s last briefing, and what might lie ahead for them. But the awkward situation dragged him back to those last moments on the bridge as he struggled to complete the missile firing, and how Orlov had stood there in silence, doing and saying nothing when the bridge was compromised.

It felt so impossibly wrong now when he replayed the images in his mind. Orlov had agreed to back his decision, yet when it came to the moment, he let him drop into the stew without a second thought. On one level he felt betrayed, yet even more ashamed that he had ever thought to enlist the allegiance of an oaf like Orlov. Yet as he tried to muster a kernel of anger over what had happened, another voice within him whispered that he had been the one who opened the hatch when the Marines arrived, stupidly thinking they had come in response to his own orders, and not thinking that Volsky might have already regained control of the ship.

You were an idiot, he thought. You knew it would only be a matter of time before someone tried the door at sick bay and the Admiral was freed. And you knew he would reassert his authority over the ship at once. That’s why you locked yourself away in the bridge, and thought Orlov’s presence there at your side would be enough to keep the other officers in line. You wanted to fire your damn missile, and that you did, blowing the Americans to hell where they belonged. But one day you will join them there. Yes, one day you will sit at the table with every man you have put under the sea in all this insanity. Forget Orlov, he concluded. Blame yourself, and yes you are every bit the bastard he calls you under his breath, that and more.

In time Orlov let out an audible burp and stood to leave, a cup of coffee in hand as he moved toward the exit behind Karpov. The Captain realized something was wrong immediately, as officers always left their dishes at the table and they would be collected and cleaned by the rankers in the galley, and no one ever took anything out of the dining room. The silence thickened when Orlov deliberately drifted near Karpov’s table and then pretended to stumble.

“Watch your step!” Karpov said sharply, but it was obvious to everyone that Orlov had deliberately spilled his coffee on Karpov’s right shoulder, and even more obvious that he was going to get away with it.