“You misunderstand me,” said the Chief. “We hit them very hard and they will be angry now. We must realize that there will be consequences for this.”
“You are sounding like Volsky now.” Karpov was not happy. He folded his arms. Then wagged his finger at the Chief. “Look, Orlov. Little thieves are hanged, yes? But the big ones escape.” He was referring to an old Russian proverb that went roughly: ‘take three kopecks and hang, but take fifty and be praised!’
The Captain knew that there could be no halfway measures now. They had engaged both the British and American fleets. They would not encounter another friendly ship at sea-not now not, not ever. He knew he was fully responsible for the choices he made in the heat of action, but he could not see that he could have done anything else. The British flung their ships and planes at him, fully intending to find and sink Kirov if they could. The Captain, insofar as he saw things, did what any competent officer would have done under the circumstances, he defended himself, with all the skill and weaponry at his command. As he was trying mightily to salvage that image of himself now, he used all his considerable intelligence to defend his actions, no matter how skewed his logic had become, or how much vranyo had subtly crept into his line of thinking.
With Orlov at his side he might dispel that sense of harried isolation that had dogged him up until now. In spite of his ambition, and his devious insistence in getting his own way aboard the ship, Karpov had taken entirely too much on his round narrow shoulders when he cut that last wire. He was beginning to feel the weight of what he had done, and now he was looking for an ally, and a strong right arm to back him up.
“I thought I could count on you, Orlov. Let us face the matter squarely and decide.” He repeated all his old arguments, all the reasons he had ferreted out in the dark safety of his mouse hole. “We are never going home again, and there will be no one at Severomorsk to chasten us for anything we do here. We answer to no one but ourselves now, understand? This is war and we are a ship of war, with power to take history itself by the throat and choke it to death if we so decide. But that will take a man, not a vacillating old Admiral with too many stripes on his jacket cuff. Volsky’s day has come and gone. You and I? We have many long years ahead of us, and the power to see that those years are very agreeable. I need to know where you stand, Orlov. Are you a man, or are you going to stand there like a school boy when Volsky returns to the bridge?”
“Without a cat around the mice feel free.” Orlov stated the obvious, but all of this was more than the simple license a man might take when he could, as any man might. “Do you realize what you are saying?”
“Of course I do. Volsky will reverse us at every turn, and all the while the decisive moment slips away, or worse, our enemies will gather sufficient strength to find and kill us all.”
“But the junior officers-the crew. They worship that fat old man like a father. If it comes down to a choice between the Admiral and you, Captain, I have little doubt where most of the crew will stand.”
Karpov’s face registered irritation with that, but he kept his emotions well controlled. The Chief was repeating all the same doubts and fears he had sat with in his hole, all the same tired reasons why he should stay there in the stench, and remain a mouse.
“Look, Orlov, neither of us will win a popularity contest here. Don’t think the crew jumps when you growl because they love you either. They jump because they recognize authority when they see it; strength; will power. They jump because if they don’t it will be your boot in their ass, and the devil to pay. You know why you are the Chief, Orlov, and it is not because you are so very smart, yes? It is because you know how to clench a fist when the time comes for it, and you know how to smash a man’s face if he bothers you.”
Orlov smiled, nodding. “Volsky will be a problem,” he said, his voice even more hushed now. “Perhaps Zolkin as well.” He hesitated, his eyes revealing his uncertainty. He had seen power plays of this nature in the Russian underground, that hard world of cut-throat men, loose confederations of gangs and bosses, and he had seen more than one man toppled from his post, and more than one man killed trying just what Karpov was proposing. But this was not the Russian underground, it was a navy ship. This was mutiny…Yes, there was a special word for this sort of thing, and there had not been a mutiny on a Russian ship for decades, not since Sabin tried to take the frigate Storozhevoy to Leningrad in 1975. He hung for that, and his second got all of eight hard years in prison for his complicity. Orlov weighed the situation in his mind, and realized it took more than one man to do what Karpov was proposing.
“What will you do with them,” he asked flatly. “You can’t kill them. Kill Volsky and you’ll have to watch your back for the rest of your life on this ship. The crew love that man for a reason, Karpov. He’s not just any boss. They won’t like it, believe me, and some will have the guts to do something about it when they realize what you have done.”
“That’s where you come in. Who’s going to back you down, Orlov? Don’t worry, they won’t be harmed, of course not. Nobody is talking about killing anyone here-except the British and Americans. They are the enemy, Orlov. Keep your mind in the right place and just leave Volsky and Zolkin to me,” he finished, deciding to say nothing more about what he had already done. When the Captain perceived that Orlov still had reservations, he played out his last card. “I have spoken with Troyak,” he whispered. “He and his men are ready should we need to call on them.”
“You got Troyak to actually speak?” Orlov forced a half hearted smile. “He will support you? You are sure of this?”
“Troyak is not a child. He knows an order when he hears one. He will do his duty. And I also spoke with Martinov in the weapons bay. He is with us as well. The Captain stretched the truth on both accounts, just a little vranyo, and he did so with great skill and no qualms whatsoever. In his mind Martinov was with him because he ordered it-Troyak as well. They would do what he told them to do, if he could just keep Volsky out of the picture for the next few crucial hours or days. After that, they might relent, and reach an arrangement, but by then his business would be concluded.
“Martinov? That bumbling idiot? All he does is root about counting his missiles and warheads. What good will he do us?”
“Don’t be stupid. He knows where the special warheads are stored, and I had a talk with him this afternoon. Our forward missile bays will have a little more sting in the number ten launch tubes.”
“You ordered him to mount-”
Karpov held up a finger, silencing the Chief, and the two men gave the door a sidelong glance. The Chief suddenly realized that this was no longer a simple discussion, Karpov had already acted! The Captain had stepped over a clear red line, violating a direct order from the Admiral.
“But Volsky gave us a direct order,” he rasped.
“If you want to eat fish, you have to get in the water, Chief. Volsky is indisposed. I am in command now, and I rescinded that order on my own authority as Captain of this ship. I just need to know if you are ready to stand with me when things come to a head-because they will come to a head, Orlov, and very soon. Otherwise you and I will have to stand here twiddling our thumbs, and saying ‘yes sir,’ and ‘excuse me sir’ while Volsky runs the ship. How long will that go on? What is he going to do if he takes the ship east? The crucial moment is here and now. The next three days will be the heart of it. We either act now, or the moment slips from our grasp. We have Martinov. We have Troyak and his marines, and there are others, Orlov. Don’t think I am the only one fed up with Volsky’s vacillation. There are men on this ship, are you one of them?”
He was lying now. This was not the gentle boast of vranyo. It was not mere stretching and bending of the truth. No, this was lozh, pure and simple; a straight-faced lie, and Karpov told it with all the skill and duplicity he had cultivated so well over the years. “We can smash the enemy, here and now, once and for all, and then no one will be able to bother us again. Come on, Orlov. You can’t sit on two chairs. What’s it going to be here? We can smash them! Are you ready?”
The Chief thought for a moment, looking Karpov directly in the eye, and neither man blinked. Then he opened his jacket and angled his body to show the Captain a sleek, grey automatic pistol tucked into his belt line. “Yes, I am ready, boss, and so is Comrade Glock,” he said darkly. Then Orlov gave the Captain a hard look. “But tell me, Karpov. What are you going to do? What is your plan? Are you going to pay a visit to this secret little meeting with Churchill and Roosevelt?”
Karpov took a long breath. Something shifted inside him now, easing the burden he had dragged through the ship from one station to another. He was no longer alone. It was not just his fate on the line. Orlov was Orlov after all. He had seen trouble looming and already prepared for it. Why did he ever doubt it?
A deadly calm settled over him now, stilling the last plaintive inner voice of warning. Yes, he was going to smash things, but at least now he had a hammer in the strong right arm of his Operations Chief.
“We are going to do a little more than that, I’m afraid,” said Karpov. “Yes, Volsky was talking about this
