John Schettler - Kirov

“Nonsense,” said Karpov, shaking his head.

“But sir, Queen Elizabeth is a full fleet sized carrier. 65,000 tons, and the ship we have on video is just a light carrier by comparison. Perhaps 22,000 tons. Queen Elizabeth is the newest addition to the British fleet, and her signature would be unmistakable to us on radar. We've already cataloged her ESM emissions long ago. And if that were Queen Elizabeth, the airspace above her would be well patrolled. Yet this fleet is moving in complete silence, with virtually no radio or radar emissions of any type. No air cover. These are simply not modern vessels, sir. I am certain of it.”

Admiral Volsky was standing behind the two men, his eyes fixed on the view screen, his mind also struggling to comprehend what he was seeing and hearing. He liked Fedorov, and often talked with him about the old war, and he had come to respect the young man’s passion and knowledge on the subject. So instead of dismissing him, as Karpov clearly did, he pressed for more information. “Those other ships?” He asked, pointing at two sizable vessels steaming to either side of the two carriers.

Fedorov squinted at the screen, then smiled, amazed, but certain of what he was seeing. “Admiral, those are two Kent class British cruisers, 14,000 tons full load. Look, those turrets there on the forward section are mounting heavy 8 inch guns. No ship has carried that kind of armament since the Second World War. In fact, the keels on those ships were laid down in the mid-1920s, and they mostly entered service by 1926. Many survived the war, but not a single one escaped the salvage yards, sir. The ships simply do not exist any longer.”

“You are certain of this?”

“Yes, sir, the three stacks amidships are unmistakable. I would know that silhouette anywhere.”

“Then we are looking at a ghost fleet?” Karpov protested. “This is preposterous! I have heard a lot of guff in my day, Fedorov, but this tops it all. It's nonsense, I tell you.”

“It's there,” said Admiral Volsky gesturing at the video. “Or are you suggesting the British are feeding us this video footage with some new electronic warfare gizmo?”

Karpov raised his eyebrows, thinking a moment. “That may be possible, sir.” His eyes widened as he spoke, quick to latch on to anything that would allow him to fit what he was seeing into some understandable point of reference and dispel the illusion that Fedorov was spinning out. “This could all be part of some elaborate ruse, designed to confuse us. Some kind of electronic warfare, perhaps a NATO PSYOP. That strange explosion we experienced hours ago may have been the opening salvo.”

Official deception was something Karpov could deal with much more easily. He presented the situation as a deliberate attempt by their enemies to deceive. Russians had been subjected to so many official lies over the years that they became almost incapable of recognizing truth. Their own language even used the same verb to describe coming and going, and so in that sense, a Russian never quite knew where he stood, or wither he was bound. Karpov heard Fedorov’s arguments, and deep inside he knew something was terribly wrong with the ships on the video feed, but he could not accept what the man was saying. A deliberate hoax, aimed as an attack, was the only thing that made sense to him now.

“Orlov?” The Admiral wanted to know what his Chief of Operations thought, but Orlov looked as confused as anyone. He had idled with Fedorov at times, the two of them also sharing stories of the second war where both their grandfathers had served, but this was difficult to believe. “I don't know what to think, Admiral. But, as it is clearly impossible that the British could resurrect ships decommissioned and demolished decades ago, then we must give further thought to what the Captain suggests.”

“Impossible, you say, yet this very ship has risen from the dead, has it not? Perhaps the British are refitting their old ships as well.”

Karpov took a deep breath, stiffening, gratified that Orlov had again reinforced his position. “Enough of this game,” he said. “Where is Slava? Where is Orel? If this is a PSYOP then the British have gone too far! I recommend we hail this task force and demand immediate identification. This will put an end to this nonsense. These ships may be responsible for everything we have been dealing with here. Suppose they boarded Slava and have her under tow? That would be hijacking at sea, a clear international violation.”

“A moment ago it was this submarine that was responsible for all of our problems,” said Admiral Volsky. “Now you suggest the British are running some elaborate psychological operation aimed at confusing us and rounding up the Russian Navy, ship by ship?”

Karpov frowned, clearly unhappy with the Admiral’s remark, yet he persisted. “If they do not identify themselves under international protocols, then it is permitted to give fair warning and fire a shot across their bow, sir. Everything we have endured these last hours has been a clear provocation. It is time we let them know that the Russian Navy will not tolerate this nonsense.” He folded his arms, his anger apparent.

Admiral Volsky sighed heavily as he thought the situation through. One thing he had learned in life was that things were seldom what they seemed at first take. A man had to test the truth he chose to believe, like he would test his footing on a long icy road. The old Russian proverb came to mind here: ‘The church is near but the road is all ice; the tavern is far but I'll walk very carefully.’ It would be easy to go and sit in Karpov’s church rather than walk that long road to what Fedorov was telling him. Yet something told him, quietly, insistently, that this was no illusion foisted off on them by the British, and he had to walk that road slowly, minding his footing with every step he took here. He decided to test the situation and indulge his Captain.

“Very well,” he said. “Mister Nikolin, I authorize you to break radio silence and hail this task force on all channels. Do so in English. Give their position, course, and speed as determined by our radar here, and request immediate identification under international protocols as the Captain suggests. Do not, give our identification unless I direct you to do so. Is that clear?”

“Aye, sir.”

The tension only increased when their message was met with absolute silence. They waited, while Nikolin repeated his hail, ten times in all, but there was no response.

“You are certain they are hearing us?” asked the Admiral.

“I'm broadcasting across the entire band,” said Nikolin. “They heard us alright, unless they are also suffering the effects of that explosion.”

“It did take us several hours before systems returned to normal,” said Orlov.

“I disagree,” said Karpov, his lips tight with obvious frustration. “Their silence is just another way to goad us, keep us in the dark.” Once you have told your lie, Karpov knew, silence was then your best friend. “I recommend stronger action, Admiral. We should engage missile radars and then see if they are willing to comply with international law and identify themselves.”

Admiral Volsky’s features were grave and drawn. He seemed very weary, his eyes closing for a time as he considered what his volatile captain was suggesting. To paint the contact with active targeting radars would certainly escalate the situation, yet if he did so they may have to reply in kind. That, at least, would give them verifiable ESM signatures on those ships, and they would learn, once and for all, whether this video feed was valid or some product of NATO engineering and counterintelligence operations.

Against his better instincts, he had already broken radio silence himself, clearly revealing his position. If he escalated it was likely his ship would soon be lit up with active radars as well. If something had slipped…If this was a war situation, then he could be making a grave mistake by being so accommodating to the enemy. With political tensions winding ever tighter, discretion was wise here. He clasped his hands behind his back, rocking his heavy frame back and forth, shifting his weight as he considered, then stilled himself, turning to Samsonov.