lasers, vanishing into the guts of the ship. The sound that followed was clear and unmistakable, a rattling grind of metal on metal. It was as if the light had suddenly found shape and form, and become a liquid fire, then hard iron as it finally bit into the ship.
They felt heavy rounds shudder against the armored citadel and sheer through the lattice of more delicate antenna domes above them. Then the deep growl of the plane’s engines diminished, fading off the starboard side of the ship. Fedorov turned and saw everyone on the bridge staring at him, some with expressions of shock and others with fear and amazement. His mind was racing as he struggled to make sense of what he had just experienced.
“Did you see that?” Tasarov was pointing to the spot where the searing light had lanced through the bridge and vanished into the deck plates, but there was no sign of damage there at all.
Fedorov could not answer him. He knew he had to do something, take military action to secure the safety of the ship, but what should he do? He was trained as a navigator. He had never gone to combat schools, though his instincts were good and his judgment usually sound, he had no real reflex for battle at sea. He removed his cap for a moment, running the sleeve of his jacket over his brow where a cold sweat had settled. They were all waiting, watching him now, and he struggled to remember how Admiral Volsky would act in a similar situation, and how Karpov would maneuver the ship in the heat of an engagement.
“Rodenko,” he said haltingly. “Look to your screen. Are we tracking that aircraft?”
“There was nothing on my readout earlier, sir, but yes, I can see him now, just barely. The signal is very weak and I still have a lot of clutter, but he’s moving off to the south—fading in and out. I don’t think he’s coming around again.”
“Tasarov—anything?” Fedorov wanted to know what was happening beneath them as well. The first rule, he remembered, was to assess their immediate situation and get as clear a picture as possible of the battle space around them. He had seen Karpov do this on exercise many times, and so he did the same, checking the ship’s eyes and ears, and letting the unanswerable questions go for the moment.
Tasarov fitted his headset more snuggly, closing his eyes. Then he blinked and checked his sensor screens as well. “Nothing sir,” he said. “The sea is calm. I have no transients—but I have no range either. Something is wrong, sir.”
“Helm, come around. Fifteen degrees to port.”
“Port fifteen, sir and coming about on a heading of 210.”
Change your heading, he thought. Good. He had seen Karpov do this as well to throw any stalking enemy off the scent, the most rudimentary of evasive maneuvers. As the ship came around on the new heading the tension subsided somewhat, and then Fedorov looked to his radio man. “Mr. Nikolin,” he said calmly. “Please activate the Tin Man display and do a full pan of our forward and rear arcs.” If the sensors had not seen the plane, he thought, what else might they have missed?
“Aye, sir.” Nikolin toggled his display to activate HD video camera systems for optical data feed to a hi-res flat panel monitor on the bridge. These systems stood on the forward and aft towers to give the bridge a real time 360 degree video view of the surrounding area. The feed came in, with mild breakup due to the residual static that still seemed to be affecting all the equipment on the bridge, but Fedorov could see that the image showed a clear, calm sea, with no sign of any visual contact on any heading. Yet it was broad daylight now! The scene seemed to astound the junior bridge crew members, who watched the screen with large round eyes, looking at the images and then at Fedorov to note his reaction. Light streamed in through their forward view panes, chasing the soft glow of their night lighting away. Fedorov blinked, amazed, but composed himself to try and set an example for the men.
“You’ve had an easy life these last ten days or so, Mr. Nikolin,” said Fedorov. “Now would you kindly do a full search of the entire radio band. Scan everything, AM, FM, wireless and short wave bands as well, and please notify me of anything you receive.”
“Aye, sir.” The young
“Mr. Samsonov,” he said coolly. “Your report, please.”
Samsonov swallowed hard, his thick features uncertain for a moment, then launched himself into a standard status check report, his voice deep and clear. “Sir,” he began, “I have nothing on my board by way of an active contact, and no systems are engaged at this time. The aircraft which made that strafing run has vanished, as least that is what my systems indicate. My board notes two fire control radar systems reporting red with full malfunction—both on the forward MR-90 systems, and I have one yellow light on the S-300 system as well.”
There was apparently damage to the ship’s medium range air defense guidance radar sets for the “Klinok” (Blade) surface to air missile package, the ship’s primary AA defense for threats at medium ranges between thirty and 90 kilometers. NATO planners once referred to it as the “Gauntlet” system due to its lethal efficiency, and the system aboard
“Anything more?”
“All three main SSM systems report green sir. We have full fire control and I have spun up one silo to full battle readiness for each system.” The ship’s real teeth, the lethal ship to ship missile batteries beneath their hatches on the long foredeck, were as sharp as ever.
“Very well,” Fedorov nodded, remembering that the Admiral would often use that same expression after receiving a report. And for that matter he assumed as well the familiar stance that Volsky would adopt while he took stock of a tactical situation on the bridge, arms clasped behind him, chin high and a observant eye to the seas around them—mid-day seas, with the sun glistening of the low wave caps and high in the sky. He had watched the old man with much admiration many times from his former post at the navigation station, and he took heart to know that the Admiral was on his way at this very moment, collecting his thoughts for the report he would soon be asked to give himself. But minutes passed and Volsky did not appear. Time stretched on and he stood there, not knowing what to do next.
A low tone sounded and Fedorov walked quickly to the comm-receiver near the Admiral’s chair to answer. “Executive Officer Fedorov here,” he said, eager to hear the voice of Admiral Volsky again in return, but instead it was Dr. Zolkin in the infirmary.
Fedorov hesitated briefly, wondering. Then he marshaled his courage and spoke up, trying to keep his voice clear and level. “Very well, Doctor. I need to run down damage reports, but I’ll see what I can do.”
As he slipped the receiver back into its holder he had a sinking feeling that he knew why the Admiral had not yet reached the bridge.
Chapter 3
Lingering near the Admiral’s chair Fedorov realized that he might soon be sitting there in a way he had never fully imagined, or even desired. Yet the urgency of the moment pulled at him. He could still hear claxons sounding and knew there was a fire below decks. The damage control parties were scrambling to douse the flames, and when he looked out the forward view pane he could see a column of thick black smoke rising past
Chief Byko called up to the bridge to report the full extent of the damage, which seemed remarkably light given the sound and fury of the attack they had just endured. One of the lifeboats on the port side had been riddled with machinegun fire and set ablaze. Heavier rounds had piled into the main superstructure, some penetrating to the outermost compartments in the interior of the ship, where three seamen lost their lives and seven more were
