dead. He was free, drifting in this sublime white mist, as if a second life had come to him. He was completely reborn—a demigod falling from the skies to a world unprepared for the power he might one day wield. Yes, he knew in that fleeting instant that he
He drifted down and down, and then he realized that he was still well out to sea and probably headed for a long slog in the water. This wasn’t over yet. He pulled the tab on the life preserver embedded in his flight jacket and inflated it with a dry hiss. It would probably keep him afloat, but night was at hand and it would be much colder in the water. He had nothing to eat or drink, the pistol in his jacket pocket being the only other thing he had managed to hold onto in those wild moments before he leapt. Then he remembered that this parachute could be steered, and he began to work the harness, gliding it gently toward the land he could see to the west, wrapped in a purple haze of twilight.
As he descended he could suddenly see that the ocean was not empty below him. There was a flotilla of small fishing boats on the water, their bows pointed west toward the small ports and villages that undoubtedly dotted the coastline there, and he whispered thanks, hopeful that someone would see him go into the water and come to his aid.
That was what eventually happened, but it wasn’t until he had been pulled from the sea like a big wet fish and was sprawled out on the wooden deck of the fishing boat that he felt that thrum of hope again, and realized his old life might really be behind him. He had been in the water for an hour before the boat drew near and saw his arms waving and heard his hoarse, deep shouts in the gloaming dark.
Now he sat, tired and drenched, his wool cap still pulled low on his forehead. He smiled and spoke to them gratefully. “Spasibo!” He said, thanking the three clueless brown eyed men staring at him. “Za druzhbu myezhdu narodami!—To friendship between nations!”
The men did not understand a word he said, of course, and Orlov spoke no other language but his native Russian, but his manner and the look on his face communicated his gratitude, and they all nodded, smiling. The heavy set man in the middle of the three spoke back to him. “Bienvenidos a bordo!”
The Spaniards had seen and heard the explosions in the sky, and saw the slow descent of his parachute. It was not all that unusual an event. There was a war on, though thankfully Spain had managed to stay out of it. They had seen Italian bombers flying in from their far bases to try and bomb Gibraltar in the past, and at first they presumed this was some hapless Italian pilot, but Orlov’s appearance and language set them off that assumption. Perhaps German, or Eastern European, they thought. Polish soldiers sometimes fought for the British now. In any case, he was a man in need and they helped him below to get out of his wet clothes and get some welcome food into him. When they saw his pistol they gave it a second look, but then went about their business as normal, not wanting to provoke and trouble with this big man. Perhaps he was a commando, they thought. He certainly wore a uniform, and he looked threatening as well. The heavy set man was speaking to him, though Orlov simply nodded and smiled.
“Tenga cuidado, amigo mio. Si las autoridades descubren que eres un soldado, van a arrestar y detener a usted por la duracion de la guerra. Tenga cuidado.”
Orlov realized he was going to hear a lot of this unintelligible speech for a while, but for now the sound of another human voice was welcome, and he needed only one thing from these men—a little food, some dry clothing, and a few hours to sleep while the boat put in to shore. He was living in a new world now, and though he had nothing of value he could use for money, and little idea where he even was, he knew that he would have no trouble getting what he wanted, or where he wanted, in the long run.
Yes, he thought. This is going to be very interesting. There would be good food, and drink, and women. He knew that no one on
Fedorov gave some fleeting consideration to sending out their remaining KA-40 to confirm the kill and see if Orlov might have survived, but Karpov convinced him it would be fruitless.
“We’ll only waste more time and aviation fuel. It was bad enough that this incident cost so much as it is. Nothing could survive that barrage. All five missiles detonated on the target. He’s gone, and I say good riddance. Now we must turn our attention to what lies ahead. If we send up the KA-40 it should be to find these British ships you are worried about.”
Fedorov hesitated. He did not want to risk losing their last helicopter, and decided to just hold to their planned course. He had little doubt that they would soon see Force Z on their long range radar, and said as much.
“You have the bridge, Mister Karpov. I’ll inform Admiral Volsky of what occurred and then take a few hours rest. Run steady on this course for another two hours, then come right to course two-two-five southwest.”
He went below, his heart heavy, and reluctant to be the bearer of yet more gloomy news for the Admiral. When he reached sick bay he found that Volsky was asleep in the back room, and so he left the news with Doctor Zolkin.
“Don’t take it too hard,” said the Doctor. “Men like Orlov have a way of making their own fate, and their own misery. If it is any comfort to you, I will say you did the right thing. The Admiral gave a standing order that none of our weapons or equipment were to fall into enemy hands. You prevented that, at great cost, but it was wise to do so in any case.”
“At first I thought Orlov might survive,” he said, and then I felt even worse for wishing him dead.”
“I know, I know. He was no friend of yours, but your conscience still bothers you. That is only because you are a good man, Fedorov. There was another man on that helicopter, Yes? I don’t think Orlov was as kind to him. That makes nine now. Nine men dead in this business. At least I don’t have to put these last two into the sea. Remember that this was none of your doing, and look to what you must do now to keep us safe.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
He left without much sense of consolation in spite of Zolkin’s words. He still felt responsible for everything that had happened thus far, for all those nine dead men, even though he knew he was being hard on himself to do so. This was the dark shadow of command, he thought, the other side of the pride and excitement he felt that first time on the bridge. It weighed on him, every last ounce of it, and the responsibility seemed a crushing burden now, not just for the ship and crew, but for the history he had been stubbornly trying to defend. But how do you save tomorrow, he thought? Everything was once so certain; so predictable. Then those Italian battleships appeared from nowhere, and he could never feel safe or content with all the knowledge he had stuffed in his brain again.
As he walked to his cabin he was still harried by a strange, unaccountable feeling that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. It was more than Orlov’s betrayal and blind stupidity, and more than his death or the loss of the helicopter. It was something deeper, a great yawning uncertainty that overshadowed his every step now. It was a profound sense of misgiving and dread that he simply could not chase from his mind.
He reached his cabin and lay down on his bunk, staring up at the ceiling and trying to see just where it was that he had made some great but unseen mistake. He needed rest, but sleep would not come to him, and as he lay there the nagging question returned to his mind again.
What if he’s alive, he thought to himself? Oh God, spare the world from this man if you will. Find a place in heaven for him and get him there soon. For if you do not he will surely find a place for himself in hell—for himself and how many others?
Chapter 27
When Fedorov returned to the Bridge three hours later Karpov reported all was well, and they now had a clear surface contact to their southwest.
