Kirov II: Cauldron of Fire

piping and wire conduits that ran in cluttered runs along the roof had also been sheered to ribbons, and technicians were already at work there, cutting and replacing wire and nosing about in an electrical panel fuse box that was blackened with recent fire.

“How bad was it?” he asked a seaman where he worked.

The young man looked up at him, saluting when he saw Fedorov’s cap and shoulder insignia. Then he recognized the face, and half smiled in recognition. His eyes clouded over soon after. “There was a lot of shrapnel. We lost three men here,” he said: “Gorokhov, Kalinin and Pushkin. The rest weren’t too bad off. The starshina sent them to the sick bay twenty minutes ago.”

Fedorov knew one of the men well enough to take the news with a bit of a sting. He nodded, his features taut but controlled. “I’m off to see about them then,” he said.

“What was it, sir?” the seaman asked, his eyes wide.

“An aircraft of some sort. We haven’t sorted it out yet, but stand easy. Rodenko is on the watch and we are in no further jeopardy at the moment.”

“But what about the Admiral, sir? Is it true he was killed in the attack as they say?”

“Killed?” Fedorov tried to sound as if he knew what he was about, but the news shook him, and the look on his face could not conceal the emotion. “We have not heard that, seaman,” he said in a low voice, “but I will keep the ship informed. For now we can only carry on. As you were.”

Fedorov edged past the man into a long corridor and made his way quickly through the ranks toward sick bay. Along the way many men pressed him with questions, but he bid them to attend to their duties and hurried on, which did little to quell the anxiety that seemed to jangle the nerves of the whole ship’s crew now.

Killed? The thought of Volsky dead was leaden on him now. If that were so then it would all fall on his shoulders, the responsibility for commanding the entire ship and crew. In truth, he never wanted a command position, being content with his status as the ship’s navigator. Admiral Volsky had been a mentor, and almost a father to him. He listened to him, guided him, and was slowly easing him into his new role as Starpom these last days. He can’t be gone, thought Fedorov. He can’t! But if it were so he knew he would have to set an example for the others now. Volsky was the one great link that seemed to bind this crew together. They loved the man and would do anything for him, which is why Karpov’s betrayal and mutiny was doomed to fail from the moment he first planned it. But now…if the Admiral was gone…

What would the men think? They had been through a great deal these last days. Even the long, uneventful cruise across the Atlantic had filled them all with a sense of foreboding ever since they first made landfall on the Azores. Rumors quickly circulated that everyone was dead and there was nothing but burned out wreckage and fire scored bones left on the islands. When they finally entered the Mediterranean Sea and scouted north to Toulon and then down the coast of Italy, the men could finally see for themselves that the rumors were true. They had gathered in groups on the outer decks, clustering near the gunwales and railings to gawk at the destruction of Rome and Naples. It did little to improve morale. Were they the last survivors of a terrible war, they wondered? And what would become of them now?

At length Fedorov reached the sick bay, seeing two first class seamen leaving with a salute just as he arrived. One had a bandaged head and the other had his arm in a sling, but neither man looked seriously injured. He slipped through the hatch, catching a glimpse of three bodies shrouded in white sheets on the tables at the far end of the room. His heart leapt when he thought he might see the Admiral lying there but then Zolkin appeared from the next room with a wan smile. The bearded, bespectacled senior medical officer was a Captain of the second rank after his long career in the Russian Navy. He was, in fact, two ranks above Fedorov, though the medical branch was not in the operational arm of the service.

“Ah, Mister Fedorov. I was hoping to see you soon. They tell me that a plane strafed the ship? Is this so? I hope there was not any serious damage. As you can see we have already lost enough.” He gestured grimly to the three bodies.

“All is well—for the moment,” said Fedorov. “But what about the Admiral, doctor? The men tell me—”

“Don’t bother with what the men are saying,” said Zolkin. “Here I was just lecturing these last two to keep their composure and stop with all these preposterous rumors. One man says this, another one says that, and the next thing you know the Titanic is sinking off our starboard bow.” He was drying his hands with a clean white towel as he spoke, and Fedorov could not help but notice the blood stains on his medical apron.

First blood, he thought. The enemy, whoever they were this time, had finally put claws into the ship, and hurt us with an attack.

“Then the Admiral is alive?”

“Of course he’s alive—at least he was five minutes ago—but he’ll have one hell of a headache when he wakes up. He was struck by shrapnel when that plane came in on us. What in the world is going on, Fedorov? I thought we were clear of danger, floating around in some new nightmare of our own making. Now this! What has happened?”

“Admiral Volsky will recover?”

“Yes, he’s just in the next room. Leg wound and a superficial side wound, but he was apparently trying to climb the long maintenance ladder on the main tower and fell when we were fired on. What was that old man thinking by trying to climb that ladder at his age? The Admiral has been in fairly good health, but he is no spring chicken. Now he has a nasty weal on the side of his head, and probably a nice concussion for his trouble as well. But I’ve patched him up and he’ll be well enough in a few days.”

“We lost three men?”

“I’m afraid so. There was nothing I could do for them. They were dead before the rescue crews got them to me. Lucky for Volsky that a fire crew fetched a stretcher and got him in here safely. But what about my question. What’s going on out there?”

“We don’t know just yet.”

Fedorov was going to say he was as much in the dark as anyone else, but an inner voice reminded him that he needed to show more resolve now, and muster all the strength at his disposal. At that moment, the comm unit buzzed and Zolkin glanced at it over the rim of his round silver spectacles.

“Be my guest,” he gestured as he finished drying his hands. “It’s probably for you in any case, yes? I’ll get rid of this apron and tidy up.”

Fedorov reached for the handset and answered. It was Issak Nikolin, his radio man reporting on a signal. “It came in on the wireless bands, fairly weak but audible. Sounded like ship to ship traffic, sir. I recorded it, but it is in English. Something about an eagle.”

“An eagle?”

“Yes sir, but I think it’s something about a ship—they say it’s the fifth of the war now, at least I was able to hear that much. Then the signal cut loose and I lost it again.”

Fedorov thought hard for a moment. An eagle…a ship…the fifth of the war… Then his mind suddenly joined the three odd clues and he knew like a thunderclap what it was about, and where they were!

“Keep listening, Mister Nikolin. I’ll be on the bridge again shortly.”

Fedorov’s mind reeled with the sudden realization that had come to him. How could he be sure? How could he get confirmation?

“More bad news?” asked Zolkin as he tossed his soiled medical apron into a hamper. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Here, why don’t you sit down for a moment, Fedorov.”

“No time, Doctor. I’ve got too much on my back just now.”

Zolkin gave him an understanding look, and clasped him by the shoulder. “Yes, I can feel it,” he said with a wry smile. “Take your time, young Captain Lieutenant. Catch your breath and give yourself a moment. You’ve been under the spotlight all these last days in your new post, and that’s enough to unsettle most any man.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Fedorov nodded, and then lowered his voice. “I think something has slipped again. That was Nikolin with a fragment of radio traffic. I think I may know what has happened—where we are—and it gives me no cause for comfort. How soon before the Admiral might recover?”

“Hard to say. He’ll need at least a day before I allow you to pile your load on to his belly again. I’m afraid you’ll have to carry things for a while longer. Go and see to your business on the bridge, and if you can manage to get some sleep, that would be good as well. I see we have an unaccountable day, and my night’s sleep is gone as well, but I take it to have something to do with all the other scenes in this nightmare we’ve been living these last