John Schettler - Kirov

The tension on the bridge increased perceptively. Karpov was fluttering back and forth between Tasarov and Rodenko, looking at the signals traffic on their monitors though he did not understand what the readings meant. Nonetheless, he would point at the screens asking questions, what is that, what is this, and it was clear that Rodenko was becoming irritated over having to explain each and every item on his scope to the Captain.

On the other side of the Combat Information Center, Orlov was hovering near the heavy set Victor Samsonov where he was completing diagnostics on his primary weapons systems. Samsonov was one of the few men the Chief never bothered much. His girth and strength were the equal of Orlov, and Samsonov was a thick-necked warrior, the hard fist of the ship when it came to battle. So Orlov had naturally befriended the man, often chatting with him on the bridge and standing close by when the smell of imminent violence was in the air.

The previous year, just after Kirov was commissioned and out for her very first sea trials, the ship had caught a Somali pirate skiff in the Gulf of Aden on Orlov’s watch. The Chief did not hesitate to take direct and immediate action. He told Nikolin to order the boat to stand by and be boarded, and when the pirates failed to comply he increased speed, closed on the skiff, and ordered one of the close in defense Gatling guns to tear it to pieces, laughing under his breath when he saw the effect of the gun on the small boat.

“That will teach them a thing or two,” he said, clapping Samsonov on the shoulder. The weapons officer was the kind of man Orlov understood and respected, one who’s training and disposition would see him solving any perceived problem with something in the ship’s considerable weapons inventory. It was as if the Chief inherently understood Samsonov, and saw him as a kind of protege.

Yet Samsonov’s boards were clean of distinguishable ESM data as well, Orlov noted. Whatever was out there, it did not conform to any of the signatures for known Western combat vessels. There were no active radars ranging on them, which was another reason why he believed the Admiral had hesitated to take further action. In spite of Karpov's frenetic energy, the Chief was beginning to feel that this was not a planned strike mission after all. What commander worth his salt would make such an approach? Then something else occurred to him and he spoke his mind.

“Perhaps these ships are here to investigate very same incident we have been involved with,” he suggested. “They may have detected this explosion, and dispatched a task force to the area for further information.”

Admiral Volsky nodded, his eyes grave and serious now. “And so we must be very cautious, gentlemen. Very, very cautious. You all know that we can ill afford another incident where NATO forces are concerned.” He leaned heavily on the word incident, a not so veiled reference to the loss of the destroyer Admiral Levchenko in the Mediterranean the previous year when she was maneuvering at high speed and collided with a NATO cruiser in bad weather. “Mister Samsonov, no active combat radars will be locked on Red Wolf Two until we have further information as to their intentions, is that clear?”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Samsonov's deep basso confirmed the Admiral's order. The big, broad shouldered man sat easily in his chair, radiating confidence that one might expect from one in his position. He sat at the business end of the most powerful surface combatant in the Russian Navy, and oceangoing gladiator. His short cropped hair, chiseled features, and burly muscularity fit the image well. Samsonov was a warrior, and eager to fight. Though he could not know then just how busy he would be in the hours and days ahead.

When the video feed from the KA-40 finally reached Rodenko's combat information center, the situation took a sudden and very unexpected turn. If Admiral Volsky thought he was perplexed before, this latest news was completely confounding. It seemed that every attempt they made to clarify the situation only seemed to muddy the waters around them, presenting impossible circumstances that they struggled to understand.

The ship’s navigator, Fedorov, was keenly interested in the images on the screen, yet his face registered obvious disbelief and surprise. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a smart phone, swiping at the screen to activate an application. Moments later he was comparing images from the helo video feed to the photos he had stored on his cell phone, a bemused look on his face.

“Those are British ships,” he began, hesitating somewhat. “But they are clearly not modern vessels. I have the entire database of Royal Navy ships back to the year 1900 right here.” He hefted his cell phone and showed them the application. “These ships are antiquated… Old World War II class vessels.”

Karpov listened, strait faced as any listener must when he heard preposterous nonsense masquerading as truth, like good, well-told vranyo over a drink at a bar. But this was no bar, and the Captain was in no mood for flights of fancy. “ Tufta, nonsense,” he said, breaking form and pointing at the screen. “Now you are hanging noodles from your ears, Fedorov. What are you saying, that they have dragged these ships out of mothball? Perhaps they are planning to use them for target practice just as we were with Slava. Go and chase the wind.” It was clear that the Captain thought he might have more success with that than with this outlandish analysis.

“You don't understand,” said Fedorov. “I am not trying to fool you, Captain, or be glib here. That looks like an Illustrious class aircraft carrier.” He pointed at the screen, suddenly sure of what he was seeing. “It is most likely HMS Victorious, and she was sold off to the ship breakers for demolition in…” he squinted at his application, “1969.” Anton Fedorov was not lying, even if he believed his own eyes might be fooling him. He was a long time naval history buff with a particular interest in World War II. Now he was peering at the live video feed, shoulders hunched, his cap askew on a head full of thick brown hair, and he could not believe what his eyes were telling him. “That ship,” he pointed, “is even older! It looks like HMS Furious, sir, in service with the Royal Navy until 1948. You see? The typical island superstructure is completely missing. No one has designed anything like that for decades. Look at the way the forward edge of the flight deck is curved above that long, narrow bow. It’s the Furious. I’m certain of it, Captain.”

Karpov was not persuaded “This is no time to be foolish, Fedorov. Talk sense! Don’t try to tell me these ships were dragged out of the shipping yards and put back in service. We may have to resort to such measures, but our fat capitalists here do not.”

“No sir, I’m telling you these ships were scrapped — years ago! There is no way they could be put back in service.” Fedorov had a look of complete amazement on his face. “Good lord, what in the world is going on here?”

Karpov just stared at him. “You’ve spent too many hours with your nose in those history books of yours, Lieutenant, and like any good liar you begin to believe your own vranyo. This is not possible. There has to be another explanation.” Karpov refused to believe what his navigator was telling him. These had to be modern British aircraft carriers, and he said as much. But Fedorov was quick to correct him.

“With all due respect, sir, the only ship in the Royal Navy that might look anything like this carrier here,” he pointed, “would be their new HMS Queen Elizabeth. And look, sir, there’s not even any discernable island on that other carrier. There’s no modern British carrier in such a design. That has to be HMS Furious, sir. She was just a converted battlecruiser with a single deck running the full length of the hull.”