shells at an alarming rate of fire. A few seconds later, however, the systems on the bridge all winked, fluttered, and then went dark. Only the dim red overhead battle lights remained on.
“That bastard!” Karpov immediately knew what had happened. The Admiral was loose and on the secondary battle bridge, a feature unique to Kirov, and unlike any other ship in the world. He rushed to a wall panel, flipping open the clear plastic casing for the emergency reset. There would be no time to re-enter his command key and request dual control by code. He had to insure the telemetry link to the missile remained intact, and he only needed a few seconds. The ‘Fire and Forget’ guidance system on the MOS-III was disabled when the nuclear warhead was mounted. It required a command link to the mother ship, the last vestige of restraint as a fail-safe on the use of nuclear weapons. Kirov held the ever extending electronic rein on the weapon, with one last chance to pull back and hold it in check.
Karpov pulled heavily on the reset switch, yanking it down into the ON position and seeing the immediate surge of battery backup power enliven the command systems on his bridge, but it was the barest flutter. Somewhere, deep within the ship, another computer sat as judge and jury on the matter.
It was the Admiral’s ignition key that had initiated operations on the ship when he first stepped aboard and took over official command for the scheduled missile trials, and though Karpov’s command key had successfully ordered the missile fire, it was the Admiral’s key that was now activating the secondary systems on the battle bridge, and that command postdated the former. The computer saw the reset request when Karpov threw his switch, yet it endowed Volsky’s keyed command as a new and superseding order, dismissing Karpov’s plaintive action with prejudice. It closed the switches that would feed power to the main bridge, which remained dark, and it would stay that way until a second valid command key was inserted and a request for dual operations was properly coded and approved. Yet Karpov’s desperate attempt to wrest control from the Admiral had been enough to impede the abort command…
The Starfire fell into the sea, and the momentum of the missile took it over a hundred feet beneath the water before the 15 kiloton warhead exploded and sent a massive wall of white seawater blasting up thousands of feet into the sky. It was considered a small tactical nuclear warhead in Kirov’s day, but was roughly the size of the weapons the Americans would drop on Hiroshima and Nagasaki this very same week, just four years later. It fell just ahead of Task Force 16 where the Mississippi lumbered forward into the battle, and the leading destroyer Captains quailed at what they saw.
Upon detonation the weapon ignited to a blast wave of highly compressed superheated gas and vapor, which propelled millions of cubic feet of water straight up in an immense geyser. Enormous fists of seawater surged out from this central core, rising and then slowly falling, as if hammering down to smash anything that remained on the sea. Then the base of the geyser thickened as a huge surge of water radiated out in all directions, a wall of seething ocean hundreds of feet high that rolled away from the detonation like a colossal pyroclastic flow from a volcanic eruption. Above this, a steaming cloud spread out until it encompassed a width of nearly five kilometers.
The battleship Mississippi and the rest of the ships in Task Force 16 would face surging waves from the first atomic weapon ever detonated on planet Earth. The lead destroyers were swamped by the massive wall of water, tossed up and about like bits of broken wood, so much flotsam on the raging seas. The massive tsunami smashed into cruisers Quincy and Wichita, snapping the former in half and rolling the latter over beneath a million of tons of water, dragging her crushed and mangled hull and superstructure beneath the waves. Lastly, trailing some distance behind the screen of five ships, Mississippi was ready to meet her fate.
Captain Wright stared in awe at the gigantic column of water, 1500 feet in height, its walls 200 feet thick at the base of the eruption. Then the much smaller tsunami generated by the detonation careened over his ship, smashing into the battleship and rolling her completely over on her starboard side. It was as if a hurricane blast of wind and sea water had been conjured out of thin air and sent roiling down upon the ship from heaven above. That was not too far from the truth.
The fifteen megaton tactical warhead was enough to wreak havoc on Task Force 16. Not a single ship would survive. All three screening destroyers would be sunk, along with both cruisers. Only the battleship Mississippi would remain afloat, heeled over and tossed in the violent seas, her crew senseless or wildly struggling to escape the watery coffin of the ship.
Volsky had turned his key a second too late to stop the missile, but at least he had managed to transfer command operations to the aft battle bridge, foiling Karpov’s attempt to reset the system.
When the main bridge went dark again, Karpov swore under his breath. Where was Troyak? He was supposed to have secured the aft citadel from any intrusion, yet Volsky was obviously there. Either he failed to reach the citadel in time, or he had deferred to the Admiral’s command. He had to find out where he was, and where he stood in the action that might now ensue. “Orlov!” he said quickly. “Get on the intercom and summon Sergeant Troyak. I want him up here with a squad of marines at once!” If Troyak complied it would mean he was still at large, and not under Volsky’s thumb. Would the Admiral have the foresight to assure he had Troyak under his command?
Orlov went to the battery operated intercom and gave the order, so it was no surprise when the Captain soon heard a heavy footfalls on the ladder outside and a hard, clanking knock on the main bridge hatch. Somewhat relieved, Karpov went to the entrance, the red overhead emergency lighting reflecting in the eyes of every man on the bridge as they followed his shadow when he passed. He thumbed on the door intercom. “Troyak?”
“Sir, Sergeant Troyak requesting entry to the bridge.”
“Well done, Sergeant,” Karpov began, pleased that the Sergeant had come so quickly. He decided it was time for decisive action now. He would personally lead Troyak and his marines and re-take the battle bridge. Once he had the Admiral locked up again, he could finish the job and deal with the real problem at Argentia Bay. Roosevelt and Churchill were next on his list. If the fat Prime Minister had survived his barrage against the British, he would make sure that he would not escape the next missile. He had every intention of firing his second weapon of choice, the SS-N-27B Sizzler land attack cruise missile, and aiming it directly at Argentia Bay, using its nuclear warhead to incinerate everything there. But first, the Admiral…
The Captain began flipping open the hatch seals and released the lock. It opened with a slight hiss as the NBC system had increased the air pressure on the bridge slightly when it was first secured as a countermeasure to chemical or biological weapons. Gloved hands pulled the hatch open and Karpov saw the dull gleam of red light on the cold metal of an assault rifle, pointed directly at his chest. Reflexively, he stepped back, and two marines leapt onto the bridge, weapons at the ready. Behind them came the steely figure of Sergeant Kandemir Troyak, his eyes narrow and cold; emotionless.
“What are you doing, Troyak?” Karpov’s mind was a whirl. He suddenly realized what was happening and how he had stupidly compromised his position by not questioning Troyak further before he opened the hatch. How could he salvage the situation?
“Put that weapon down, Sergeant. You were ordered to secure the aft battle bridge, and you must do so at once. The Admiral is delusional! He is indisposed. Can’t you see what has happened? He has fired a nuclear warhead!” Karpov knew exactly what had happened, knew why Troyak was here now, but he played out the only line he could think of, his eyes already looking to Orlov for support.
Troyak looked at him with no emotion. Like the cold computer that had dismissed the Captain’s electronic appeal with prejudice, he, too, quietly ruled in favor of Admiral Volsky. “Sir, I regret that I cannot carry out that order and I must inform you that by order of the Fleet Admiral this bridge is now secured from further operations. All officers and crew will remain here until further notice. I must also request that you immediately surrender your command key.”
“What? What are you saying? This is outrageous! I demand to see the Admiral at once!”
Troyak just looked at the Captain, saying nothing, but the look on his face carried a clear and unmistakable message that could only be translated as: ‘Don’t fuck with me.’
“Orlov?” The Captain looked for his ally and co-conspirator, who stood with his arms folded, a disgusted look on his face. The Operations Chief took one look at Troyak, perhaps the only other man on the ship that he found in any way intimidating, and then at Karpov where he stood pointing at the marine Sergeant with a pained expression on his face. His thoughts strayed to the pistol tucked into this beltline, but there were five marines here now, each with a fully automatic weapon. The Captain seemed a small and pathetic thing before the imposing girth of the Sergeant, a Siberian Eskimo, short, squat, yet broad shouldered and powerfully muscled, his thick legs planted wide,
