uncomfortably.
“Excuse me, Captain. Mount the number ten missile?”
“Correct,” said Karpov, his voice hard and controlled.
“But I will need permission from-”
“From the commander of the ship-yes, you are looking at him, Martinov. Have you not heard?” Karpov cut the man off quickly. “The Admiral is indisposed. He has been taken to sick bay and his condition remains in doubt. Get the wax out of your ears and listen once in a while. I have assumed full command and Orlov is now my Executive Officer. Shall I send him down to second this order? He will not be happy about it. Just get it done, Chief. But observe all proper weapons handling procedures and safety guidelines. Make certain your Coded Switch Set Controller is programmed appropriately to require a command level key insertion before operation. But given the circumstances, with the Admiral unable to perform his duties for the moment, we do not have time for the niceties of peacetime protocols. The setting should be fixed at position one.”
“I understand sir, but the default is position two, and I will need proper authorization to override that setting.” Two keys were normally required to activate the Coded Switch Set Controller (CSSC), which would receive an activation code for the warhead.
Karpov felt again that rising magma of anger, but he restrained himself. “This is not a peacetime environment, Martinov. This is war now, or do you think we’ve just been shooting off missiles to keep you busy here?”
Karpov’s just tapped him on the shoulder. “This is a direct order. Don’t worry. I am the only one responsible. Complete this by 18:00 hours, or there will be hell to pay. The same for the P-900s. Mount the number ten missile there as well.” The P-900 was the NATO coded SS-N-27B “Klub” missile, also called the “Sizzler” mounted on the bow, forward of the main Moskit-II battery. Unlike the faster hypersonic high altitude MOS-III, it was a subsonic land attack cruise missile, though its final stage of approach to the target was a Mach 3.0 low level run.
Karpov clapped the Chief on his shoulder again and walked quickly away, unwilling to engage the man further should he equivocate. He knew there was one final warhead for the Moskit-II Sunburn system, but decided to leave that in the magazine for the time being. One should always have a reserve.
Three warheads, he thought. Only three. That lump-head Martinov had better obey those orders. If it comes down to it and I need more firepower, those missiles had better be primed and ready. He knew he had just crossed a very dangerous line here. He felt it even as he gave Martinov that order. If Admiral Volsky got wind of this he could be relieved of command and face a court martial, without a doubt. Yet his own admonishment to Martinov returned to bolster him. This was war. The expediency of the moment was rare and unique. He must do what was necessary, in spite of Volsky’s orders to the contrary. If events proved him wrong he would face the consequences, but not without a fight.
He was out of his hole now, no longer a mouse, but something bigger-a rat set loose in the bowels of the ship, and he had wire to chew. Yes, he had wire to chew… He had won the battle within himself, or so he now believed. Next he had to win against Volsky. That accomplished, he could again take the fight to the British and Americans, and settle the matter once and for all.
With that in mind, and his business here finished, the Captain’s next stop was the crew’s quarters for Sergeant Troyak and his marines. The sound of his boots clapping hard on the deck as he walked bolstered him, recalling the image he had held in his mind of the honor guard marching proudly to meet with Roosevelt and Churchill. Now he wanted to sound out the stony Sergeant and see how he might react if it came to a real crisis aboard the ship.
“Good day, Sergeant.”
“Sir.” Troyak stood to attention, two of his marines in the room doing so as well.
“As you were. I only wanted to commend you on your performance at Jan Mayen. The information you gained was very useful.”
Troyak did not need the compliment, or want it, but he nodded thanking the Captain out of courtesy. The mission had been a simple reconnaissance; a quick in and out and nothing to take undue notice of.
“The situation is somewhat confounding for us all,” said Karpov. “Some of the officers may have difficulty understanding what has happened; finding a way to come to grips with it. They may react in unforeseen ways in the stress of battle. I trust you and your men will remain disciplined and clear headed at all times, as it may take a firm hand in the days ahead to keep the ship on an even keel.”
Troyak listened, his features expressionless. The Siberian Sergeant was a strong, rough-hewn man, and one not given to such considerations. The thought that he or his men would ever demonstrate a laxity of discipline was not possible as far as he was concerned. Kirov was a warship, and he was a leader of warriors. That was the end of it.
“I trust you understand me,” Karpov pressed.
“Sir, the squad is ready for action and every man is fit, and will do his duty.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Keep that in mind should I call on you. We have some difficult days ahead; difficult choices. Some will quail in the face of battle, but you and I will have to lead the way. Yes?” The Captain gave him a sidelong glance and the two men exchanged salutes before he went on his way.
Troyak thought that last remark was odd. You and I? Somehow he recoiled at the thought that Karpov would think he was a bird of the same feather as his marines. He allowed himself a derisive smile, then returned to his task of cleaning and oiling the assault rifle inventory.
Karpov would make one last stop. He had checked on everything that mattered, his weapons in the looming struggle he envisioned, in more ways than one. There was only one other thing he needed to do. He had promised Orlov he would deal with the problem Volsky presented, and a stop at the maintenance bay to review the recalibration of the missiles was the perfect cover. While he was there he took a pair of wire cutters and a few pad-locks. Then he made his way quietly to the sick bay, his heart suddenly pounding when he realized what he was about to do. Time to chew on the last wire…
This was the edge of the precipice, he knew. The orders he had given to Martinov could be rescinded, explained away. He could mouse his way out of that transgression if he chose to, and squirm through a crack in a floor board to reach the safety of his mouse hole again. Or could he? Something had changed in him. He was something bigger now, something darker, and more heedless of the cost he might incur if he took this next step. No one could prove he did this, came a voice, a reason, a last means of escape.
He could hear the voices of the Admiral and Zolkin within as he quietly moved the emergency lock bracket into place on the outside of the closed hatch, and slipped on the padlock. His hand was shaking, but he forced calm on himself. Then, with a quiet click, the lock was in place. Now he took the wire cutters, reaching high to get at the thick grey intercom cable above the hatch, which he cut with an unsteady hand. There was an audible snap when the wire was cut, and with it something snapped in his mind as well. Volsky was the last remnant of the authority that was given to them by older men in their dark blue coats, in an old system of power, all of them back in Severomorsk. Yet with one taut snap the last link to that was cut for him now. It was done. He had chewed through the last wire. His course was set now, for good or for ill.
He took a deep breath, listening, but the voices on the other side of the door kept on in their conversation. Volsky and the doctor were now locked up in the sick bay, and the Captain scurried away, his footfalls whisper soft and strangely light, glad that no member of the crew had seen him in the corridor.
Moments later he was back on the bridge again, two hours before Orlov’s watch was to end. He found the Chief and waved him over to the briefing room, closing the hatch there to keep their conversation private. The close confines of the room helped him to calm himself, like a dark quiet hiding hole.
“Volsky is awake,” he began, breathing heavily. He could feel a cold sheen of sweat on his brow, even in the chilly confines of the bridge. “The doctor is hovering over him like a mother hen, and he seems to be making a recovery. We don’t have much time, Orlov.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Volsky was not happy that we engaged the Americans. The man is getting soft and slow. He was talking about taking the ship out into the Atlantic. He doesn’t see the opportunity we have here.”
“Perhaps not,” said Orlov. “But what are you doing, Captain? You’ve been steering us south right into the thick of things. Had we turned east we could have avoided this engagement with the Americans.”
“What? Have you been sleeping with Fedorov now? Are you getting soft hearted on me as well? You, Orlov?”
