open-face sardine-tomato-cucumber sandwiches. Both were sprinkled liberally with fresh dill. A plate of black bread caught Kapustin’s eye, and he reached for a piece, dipping it into the cold soup called okroshka, in a small bowl set on his main dining plate.
“Please help yourselves, gentlemen.” Karpov smiled as they settled in to begin the meal while the orderlies poured water and wine. “We’ll have salads and pierogies, and the main dish will be stuffed halupkis and Stroganoff with Kasha.
“I see there was no damage to the galley,” said Volkov, and Karpov simply smiled, not addressing the remark, but noting the veiled undertone to it that strayed towards insolence.
“I must tell you that we had come to believe the ship was lost in that incident,” said Kapustin, buttering his bread. “This business with the ship’s computers, tell me about it, Captain.”
“Well, Director, I am not entirely sure of what actually happened to Orel. But it was our assessment that there had been an explosion. Their Captain radioed that they had a problem with one of their torpedoes. Apparently they mounted the wrong warhead. Then came the detonation, and it was quite significant. Many of our systems were affected, radar, sonar, communications, so we believed it may have been an after-effect of a nuclear detonation.”
“Most unsettling,” said Kapustin. “Well, we have read your report, and that of Admiral Volsky as well. While I may question his decision to continue the ship’s mission under those circumstances, I will accept it for the moment.”
“I must say, sir,” said Karpov. “The Admiral was considering all his options at that moment, and given the political situation we also considered that Orel may have been lost to hostile action, possibly by a NATO submarine. So we acted on that scenario first after a meeting of the senior officers.”
“Who was in that meeting, if I may ask?” Kapustin leaned back as the second course of potato and prune pierogies was brought out, his eye straying to the dish.
“The Admiral, myself and Operation’s Chief Orlov.”
“Yet Orlov is not presently listed in the ship’s compliment.”
“No, sir. I’m afraid he went aft to supervise the situation on the helo deck, and was lost in the secondary explosion when the KA-40s caught fire.”
“I see…” Kapustin reached for a Pierogi. “Well these look good. Be sure to count the pits if you get a prune to watch your luck.”
“Not much of that on this ship, it seems,” said Volkov again, with just enough of an edge to it that Karpov decided he would let the man know who he was dealing with here.
“Well, Captain Volkov,” he began with a gesture to the other man’s soup bowl. “I see you have a taste for the okroshka. There are many things best served cold like that. Pickled cucumbers, Olivje potato salad, some good Salo bacon, salami and cheese, herring and caviar, and one thing more-my favorite.”
“And what is that?” Volkov met his eye.
“Why, revenge,” Karpov smiled. “And some good vodka and beer.” He picked up a small open faced sandwich, dilled sardines on thin rye, and took a bite.
Mishman Ilya Garin stared at the test-bed monitor, watching the flux readings closely. His prompt readings looked safe, and the rod interchange procedure was progressing slowly, approaching the half way mark when Markov would spell him on the watch. Chief engineer Dobrynin was down the hall looking over readings obtained by the electron microscope they had used to make a close inspection of Rod-25 as it was slowly lowered into position.
They were actually working on a low grade KLT-40 naval propulsion reactor that had been built as a backup for the floating nuclear power station barge Akademik Lomonosov, deployed in the Kamchatka Peninsula region since 2016. The Russians thought a movable power facility would be useful in the region, and the design was so reliable that in 2018 they set up the reserve reactor as a test-bed facility in the Primorskiy Engineering Center. The KLT-40 was similar to the reactors used aboard Kirov, which paired two small pressurized water reactors using enriched U-234. Some models for commercial power generation might have as many as sixty-six control rods above the reactor vessel head, but this smaller test-bed model had only twelve, and much less power.
Dobrynin was quietly running the same typical rod replacement routine, while conducting a general scan of Rod-25 for any sign of corrosion, or flaw. He had mounted the rod in the central test position, in the middle of a circle of the remaining twelve rods. So today the control rod that would stand as relief pitcher for Kirov’s starting rotation of twenty-four rods per reactor, was now actually Rod-13 in this minor league game. All told, this test-bed facility reactor might produce ten percent or less of the power Kirov’s plant generated, a good safe environment to see if they could detect any anomalies with the makeup of the rod itself under real working conditions.
Markov came in with a folded magazine under his arm and tapped Garin on the shoulder as he took his seat at the monitor station. “Lunch Ilya,” he said. “And then when you finish, Dobrynin wants you to collate the inspection results.”
“More charts and tables,” said Garin. “What are we supposed to be looking for, Markov?”
“Don’t ask me. We just read the monitors. Let the Chief worry about it.”
“He is worried,” Garin thumbed over his shoulder to the long corridor behind the doorway out. “The Admiral was here all morning with him, and now more reports.”
“It’s the damn inspection,” said Markov. “They say Kapustin is going over everything with a white glove. They’re interviewing lots of crew members too, even matoc level.”
“Lucky for us we don’t know anything, eh?” Garin said glibly. “What are you reading?”
“Just a magazine.” He slid the magazine Garin’s way, open to an article where the headline read: ‘British Remember Fallen in Agreement Gone Bad.’
“Well, keep your eyes on the monitors, Markov. You can read your magazine in the break room. Yes?”
“Go and eat, Ilya. I’ll see you in another hour.”
It was actually going to be a good deal longer. Garin went down the long corridor past the inspection room where Dobrynin was working, and into the cafeteria for his meal break. Half way through his sandwich there was a noticeable flutter in the overhead lighting. He looked up, saw a neon bulb winking fitfully, and gave it no more thought. A little over an hour later he finished his tea and went back down the hallway, sticking his head into the inspection room to tell Dobrynin he was going back to relieve Markov.
“Very good, Mister Garin. How’s the food tonight?”
“It’s very tasty, sir. Good rye bread. You should try it.”
“When I have finished looking over these readouts.”
“Markov says you want me to collate the data again?”
“If you would be so kind, Mister Garin.”
Garin looked at his watch. “The cycle is nearly over now, sir. Any problems?”
“We won’t know until we get all the data from the scan. But you can commence your shutdown sequence now. Number twenty-five has already been withdrawn and the original twelve apostles seem to be praying quietly. Move in the remaining 12 rods now and commence shutdown. Markov can take his meal break.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get right down there.”
Garin slipped out the door, and ran down the hall to the reactor room, inserting his key card for entry and waiting until he had a green access light. He pushed open the door, thinking the room seemed a bit dim, and heard it close behind him.
“Markov, your turn,” he said. “The bread is pretty good tonight, but not before we run the shutdown sequence. Then I’ll have to spend another two hours collating the data from the scan.”
He walked into the control room, thinking it seemed oddly strange. Then he realized what was wrong. His coat was missing from the wall rack. There was nothing on the monitor desk, not the book he had been reading, the empty tea cup or his pen. Markov’s magazine was gone as well. In fact the chairs were missing. What was going on here?
“Markov?”
Garin leaned around to look behind the monitor station, but there was no sign of the other man. Where was he? Dobrynin would have a fit if he found out Markov had left his shift early. There was no restroom in the test-bed monitoring station, but perhaps he drank too much tea and had to run out. He could understand him taking the book and magazine, but the chairs? It made no sense. The Chief was going to skin him alive. Human eyes had to
