clearly impossible that the British could resurrect ships decommissioned and demolished decades ago, then we must give further thought to what the Captain suggests.”
“Impossible, you say, yet this very ship has risen from the dead, has it not? Perhaps the British are refitting their old ships as well.”
Karpov took a deep breath, stiffening, gratified that Orlov had again reinforced his position. “Enough of this game,” he said. “Where is Slava? Where is Orel? If this is a PSYOP then the British have gone too far! I recommend we hail this task force and demand immediate identification. This will put an end to this nonsense. These ships may be responsible for everything we have been dealing with here. Suppose they boarded Slava and have her under tow? That would be hijacking at sea, a clear international violation.”
“A moment ago it was this submarine that was responsible for all of our problems,” said Admiral Volsky. “Now you suggest the British are running some elaborate psychological operation aimed at confusing us and rounding up the Russian Navy, ship by ship?”
Karpov frowned, clearly unhappy with the Admiral’s remark, yet he persisted. “If they do not identify themselves under international protocols, then it is permitted to give fair warning and fire a shot across their bow, sir. Everything we have endured these last hours has been a clear provocation. It is time we let them know that the Russian Navy will not tolerate this nonsense.” He folded his arms, his anger apparent.
Admiral Volsky sighed heavily as he thought the situation through. One thing he had learned in life was that things were seldom what they seemed at first take. A man had to test the truth he chose to believe, like he would test his footing on a long icy road. The old Russian proverb came to mind here: ‘The church is near but the road is all ice; the tavern is far but I'll walk very carefully.’ It would be easy to go and sit in Karpov’s church rather than walk that long road to what Fedorov was telling him. Yet something told him, quietly, insistently, that this was no illusion foisted off on them by the British, and he had to walk that road slowly, minding his footing with every step he took here. He decided to test the situation and indulge his Captain.
“Very well,” he said. “Mister Nikolin, I authorize you to break radio silence and hail this task force on all channels. Do so in English. Give their position, course, and speed as determined by our radar here, and request immediate identification under international protocols as the Captain suggests. Do not, give our identification unless I direct you to do so. Is that clear?”
“Aye, sir.”
The tension only increased when their message was met with absolute silence. They waited, while Nikolin repeated his hail, ten times in all, but there was no response.
“You are certain they are hearing us?” asked the Admiral.
“I'm broadcasting across the entire band,” said Nikolin. “They heard us alright, unless they are also suffering the effects of that explosion.”
“It did take us several hours before systems returned to normal,” said Orlov.
“I disagree,” said Karpov, his lips tight with obvious frustration. “Their silence is just another way to goad us, keep us in the dark.” Once you have told your lie, Karpov knew, silence was then your best friend. “I recommend stronger action, Admiral. We should engage missile radars and then see if they are willing to comply with international law and identify themselves.”
Admiral Volsky’s features were grave and drawn. He seemed very weary, his eyes closing for a time as he considered what his volatile captain was suggesting. To paint the contact with active targeting radars would certainly escalate the situation, yet if he did so they may have to reply in kind. That, at least, would give them verifiable ESM signatures on those ships, and they would learn, once and for all, whether this video feed was valid or some product of NATO engineering and counterintelligence operations.
Against his better instincts, he had already broken radio silence himself, clearly revealing his position. If he escalated it was likely his ship would soon be lit up with active radars as well. If something had slipped…If this was a war situation, then he could be making a grave mistake by being so accommodating to the enemy. With political tensions winding ever tighter, discretion was wise here. He clasped his hands behind his back, rocking his heavy frame back and forth, shifting his weight as he considered, then stilled himself, turning to Samsonov.
“Come to condition one readiness on the number three forward missile array and activate targeting radars for that system.” He was ordering his CIC Chief to activate his P-900 cruise missiles, an array of ten subsonic sea- skimmers on the forward most section of the ship, very near the bow. In effect, he would be calling the enemies bluff, challenging their silence with a sharp push on the shoulder, letting them know he was fully prepared to take further action if they did not comply. Yet something within him whispered extreme caution. The situation was still a muddle of unanswered questions. Samsonov, like a note played on a well tuned keyboard, was quick to respond, activating his targeting radars and engaging the surface contact with an active signal.
“Mr. Nikolin,” said the Admiral. “Please repeat your hail.”
The tension was palpable on the bridge of Kirov when Rodenko reported a new and worrisome development. “Con, radar contact, airborne at 37 kilometers, south by southwest, and bearing on our position. Multiple contacts now! I read five…now six contacts, all airborne.”
“They are launching!” said Karpov. “I warned as much, Admiral. This is a NATO carrier task force after all. Recommend we come to full battle readiness. Prepare to oppose incoming air attack.” He turned to Fedorov, eying him darkly. “There’s your carrier air operations,” he said. “They were lying in wait. Playing possum!” Karpov was, of course, going to see the goblins he had conjured up in his own mind. From his point of view, the enemy was doing exactly what he would have done. They were simply springing a well laid trap, nothing more, nothing less.
Samsonov looked over his shoulder and Admiral Volsky noted how his hand was poised over the alert readiness alarm. The ship was already at action stations, but full alert would send the crew scrambling to a heightened level of preparedness.
“Speed?” The Admiral wanted to know what he was dealing with. Was this a missile barrage or a flight of strike aircraft as Karpov warned?
“Very slow, sir.” Rodenko watched his readings closely for a moment, realizing the gravity of the situation. If these were missiles the ship had but minutes, even seconds to respond. He wanted to make certain he was interpreting all the data accurately, and he hoped his systems were fully recovered from the anomaly they had experienced. His system showed no identifiable missile types inbound. Was it correct? All this passed in the barest moment within his mind, then he gave his best judgment.
“One contact inbound on our position…five contacts appear to be orbiting the surface group. These are aircraft, sir. Not missiles. I repeat. This is not a missile barrage.”
“How long before the inbound contact reaches us?” The game of cat and mouse between Russian and NATO forces had been ongoing for decades now. Both sides had been conducting active maneuvers in Norwegian Sea in recent years, each closely monitoring the activities of the other, and this could be nothing more than another overly curious NATO surface action group sent here to nose about his business, or perhaps, as Orlov suggested, they were merely investigating the anomaly Kirov herself had encountered.
“Inbound contact speed… 180 KPH, approximate,” said Rodenko. “Perhaps a Harrier jump jet, sir, or possibly a helicopter. It's certainly not an F-35 at that speed.” He was referring to the F-35 Lightning II, a stealthy, supersonic joint strike fighter rumored to be slated for deployment on the newest British carrier, Queen Elizabeth. “Inbound contact will be over us in 10 minutes, sir.”
“What about our KA-40?”
“It is already inbound as well, 10 kilometers out now. Probably already visible on the horizon.”
“Mister Nikolin,” said the Admiral. “Instruct the KA-40 to move due west away from our position. Designate this incoming plane as Red Wolf Three. They are to lock their air defense missile systems onto this contact, and hold fire pending further notification. Repeat, weapons tight.” The Admiral turned to Samsonov next. “Mister Samsonov activate primary air defense systems array and lock radar on contact. Weapons tight. The SA-N-92 system, if you please.” He was activating his medium range “Gauntlet” air defense missiles.
“Weapons tight, Admiral?” There was a derisive tone to Karpov's voice. “You're going to let them overfly us?” An over-flight would be standard operating procedure for any NATO task force. The plane would sweep gracefully by, the pilot thumbing his nose at the Russians as he passed. Sometimes they would launch emergency flares as mock weapons to rub in the fact that they could just as easily have launched live munitions. It had happened a thousand times before, largely without incident, but the circumstances here were quite different and the Admiral knew it. The fact that both Orel and Slava were still missing weighed heavily in the equation.
Karpov's wide eyed look of astonishment communicated his feelings on the matter transparently. Volsky knew
