“Fire now!” There was a strident edge to Karpov’s voice, and obvious fear. The alarm blared three sharp blasts for ASW operations as Orlov ran to the forward view screen, eyes straining through the haze to try and locate the torpedo wake. He could not see it, so the torpedo was not yet close.
“Shkval!” Karpov shouted. He was referring to the lethal VA-111 Shkval or Squall, a high speed, super- cavitating underwater rocket that had both active sonar and wake homing capabilities. It would eject from the ship’s side and seek out the incoming torpedo at speeds of over 200 knots if necessary.
“Firing now,” said Tasarov.
“Go to active sonar, you idiot,” the Captain said sharply. “How could you let a sub get this close?”
“I’m sorry, sir. It must have just been hovering beneath a thermal layer. I had nothing on my passive sonar. Nothing at all.”
“Find me this submarine!” Karpov pointed a finger at him.
“Aye sir!”
Tasarov was working his board feverishly, but the Shkval found the incoming torpedo first. It kept one eye on the home ship, and another on the incoming target, precisely calculating the speed necessary to intercept the torpedo at a safe distance. Tasarov pulled off his headset just before the weapon intercepted its target, destroying it with an audible explosion that sent seawater up in a column of spray about 2500 meters off their port bow. It would have been a close call if it were a fast, modern day torpedo, but it was a long shot for a WWII submarine. Whatever was out there, it was not in close if it fired at that range, which is probably why Tasarov could not hear it if it was quietly hovering on battery power.
The hollow ‘ping’ of the ship’s active sonar sang out in regular intervals, and with each pulse Karpov could feel his own pulse rising. There was nothing at sea he hated more than a submarine. It was not long before Tasarov had located a target.
“Con, sonar contact bearing four-five degrees at 4200 meters.”
The captain exhaled, obviously relieved to have found the spider in his cupboard. “Very well,” he said. “Kill it, Mister Tasarov. Kill it before they have a mind to fire at us again.” He turned to Orlov. “Those bastards!” he said. “They wave a line of ships in our face while they try to sneak up on us with a submarine.” This was obviously a German boat, he knew, yet in his mind he now lumped all his enemies into one bin, the British, Americans and Germans were one and the same to him. “Secure the bridge!” he pointed, and a mishman of the watch ran to set the inner security clamps on the main bridge hatch.
“Samsonov-ready on forward missile array. We’ll settle this business once and for all.”
Part XI
August 8, 1941
“If God does not exist, everything is permitted…Nothing is easier than to denounce the evildoer; nothing is more difficult than to understand him.”
Chapter 31
Admiral Volsky heard the swoosh of a weapon being launched, and the sound of its rocket igniting in the water. His years of experience immediately told him what had happened. Then he heard the distant thump of the explosion when the incoming torpedo was intercepted, felt the rippling vibration moments later. A German U-Boat, he thought! I knew we were bound to run into one sometime. We’ve cruised right up on the damn thing. It was probably just drifting, waiting like an eel in a cave for us to pass by. Yet from the sound of things, our VA-111 found the torpedo quickly enough. I’ve got to get to the bridge!
“Dmitri, it has been a wonderful stay,” he said. “But I think I had better take your advice and get to the bridge now.”
“I think so as well,” said the Doctor. He helped the Admiral out of bed thinking to assist him with his uniform.
“Don’t bother. I have pulled on that uniform every day for thirty years and I think I can manage it now. But if you would be so kind as to call the bridge on the intercom system and notify them that I am on my way, I think it may save a few lives. Perhaps Karpov will keep his head for a while.”
“Good idea.” Zolkin said as he went to the com-panel and thumbed a switch. He took hold of the soap bar shaped microphone, flicked the send button, and spoke in a satisfied tone of voice. “Con-this is Doctor Zolkin in the sick bay. I am re-certifying Admiral Volsky as fit for duty and I inform you that he is now on his way to the bridge. That is all.” He had not even noticed that the red activity light did not wink on when he engaged the unit. A moment later, when he went to the hatch to open it, the Admiral heard him grunting with exertion.
“What’s the matter, Dmitri? Are you getting old too?”
“The hatch is jammed. It does that at times. I should have an oil can in this place for all the good it would do me.” He pushed hard, surprised that the door would simply not budge. Volsky had just slipped on his jacket, complete with every decoration he had ever earned emblazoned on his chest. Gold gleamed from the insignia on his officer’s hat, shoulders, and the five thick stripes of his cuffs. He looked every bit the man he was, Admiral of the Fleet, King of the Northern Sea. As he reached for his cap the doctor’s exertion seemed odd to him. He looked over his shoulder, suddenly concerned, then went over to lend a hand.
“What kind of service do we get at this hotel?” he said jokingly, but when he tried the door he immediately knew something was wrong. He had run a thousand drills over the years, simulating every kind of emergency condition. His hand had run inspection over every hatch and hold on the ship. This door was locked. He could clearly hear the rattle of the emergency sealing bracket on the outside.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, his mind racing ahead down a long, impossible corridor of thought. “It’s been locked-from the outside!”
Zolkin looked at him, and their eyes immediately reflected what both men were thinking. “Karpov!” said the doctor. “I should have stuck a needle in that man and filled him with a 10 °CCs of sedative when I had him here!”
“The intercom-” Volsky pointed, moving quickly to reach for the microphone. “Engineering, this is Admiral Volsky in sick bay. Send two men with a spanner and metal cutter at once. Acknowledge…”
He waited, yet no sound returned. Then he looked at the intercom box, his eyes widening as he realized what had happened. There was no red light. It was dead.
It was just past 1800 hours and Fedorov heard the sudden alarm signaling battle stations again. The three sharp bursts signaled the ship to secure for anti-submarine warfare, and he heard the Shkval hunter killer torpedo fire soon after. He wanted to rush to the bridge, but realized he was still technically relieved of his post there. Then he remembered what Doctor Zolkin had whispered to him before he left sick bay…Come back for your prescription at 1800 hours.
At first he had been confused by the remark, for he was healthy and fit, and took no medication of any kind. But the look in the Doctor’s eye spoke volumes, and he knew Zolkin was inviting him to come see the Admiral again, perhaps to voice his concerns over the Captain’s rash engagements and share his perspectives on the history. With no battle station to man, he was suddenly eager to get to the sick bay as soon as he could.
