John Schettler - Kirov

“I must be getting old,” he said to Orlov. Then the entire bridge seemed to roll in his vision, spinning wildly. He swayed, instinctively reaching for the arm of his command chair to try and steady himself. Orlov saw him losing his balance, and ran quickly to his side.

“Are you all right, Admiral?” The Chief took his arm, helping to steady him, but could see a glazed look in Volsky's eyes, which seemed to jerk this way and that, unable to focus. Then the Admiral started to fall.

Orlov shouted, and two Yeomen ran quickly to render assistance. “Call the doctor,” said Orlov. “Better yet, go and fetch a stretcher and we will take him to sick bay ourselves.”

Volsky's eyes were open, yet he said nothing, clearly distressed by a severe attack of what seemed like vertigo. The lights above him, the milky green glow of the radar and combat stations, all blended with the faces of the men as they leaned over him, and he closed his eyes to fight off the nausea. At that moment the quiet fear he had dredged up earlier returned to harry him again. What if something had changed? The sharp bow of his ship had been knifing through the history for days now, shredding one seemingly unalterable fact after another. What if the future had changed enough to touch his own life? What was happening to him?

Orlov was up at the ship’s intercom as four men arrived with a stretcher and began to take the Admiral below. “Captain Karpov to the bridge please. I repeat, Captain Karpov to the bridge.” Then he turned to Rodenko. “You have the bridge, Mister Rodenko. The Captain will be here in a moment. I'm going below with the Admiral.”

He followed after the men as they worked their way through the rear hatch to the bridge, down the long narrow gangway, and struggled to carry the heavy man through a floor hatch and down a steep ladder to the decks below. Along the way, curious crewman looked on with concern and anxiety apparent in their eyes. Orlov waved them aside, yelling at them to return to their posts and mind their own affairs, which of course did nothing to improve the situation. Yet Orlov knew only one way in dealing with the men, a strong hand and a hot temper.

When Captain Karpov heard the intercom message, he was just finishing up a breakfast in the officer’s mess of boiled eggs, fresh dark bread with tvorog, a soft curd cheese, and strong hot tea. He passed on the unusual serving of Sirniki, a pan fried dough offering with cheddar cheese, milk and sugar. Someone was making sure the officers had a few comfort foods on the menu given the trying circumstances of the last days. Perhaps he would catch a good blini with sour cream and jam later, but for now he was still musing over the information he had read in Fedorov’s book.

Now he understood fully the scope and nature of the events surrounding this week in the history of the war. He made careful note of the dispositions of ships prior to this day, thought at length about this Atlantic Charter, an event of enormous significance that was now no more than a three day cruise to the South. The British prime minister, the American president, and the chief officers of all three services on both sides would be present. It was an opportunity that would seldom ever present itself to a military commander, a gathering of crows he might fell with one well placed shot. Yet how could he convince the Admiral to take the necessary action and use the power at his disposal in a decisive way?

Now he hurried to the bridge, brushing past curious crewman who wondered what was happening as he went. When he reached the forward bridge citadel a mishman announced his arrival.

“Captain on the bridge!”

“As you were.” He immediately saw that Orlov was gone, and his eyes went to the next senior officer. “What is our status Mister Rodenko?” The Captain wasted little time, walking immediately to Rodenko's radar station to check on developments.

“The Admiral was taken ill, sir. Chief Orlov has gone below.” He continued briefing the Captain as to the status of the contacts he had been tracking both to the north and east of them now. Karpov was not happy to hear of this new surface contact, particularly when he saw that it was already inside the 200 mile range circle, and still closing on his ship.

“What are those ships?”

“They have been identified as British battleships,” said Rodenko. “Fedorov can tell you more, sir”

“Mister Fedorov?”

“Battleship King George V, and battlecruiser Repulse, sir. We had a look at them with a KA-40 on infrared last night. I recognized the silhouettes. Those contacts to the northwest are two heavy cruisers, and behind us, the shadowing force built around those British carriers is still following, but there has been no air activity, sir.”

“I can't believe the Admiral allowed these heavy ships to come so close! What is the range of the guns on those battleships?”

“Sir? No more than 30,000 yards. Perhaps twenty-eight kilometers at best. They are well over 160 kilometers away now, and pose no threat. I believe the Admiral's intention was to-”

“Thank you Mister Fedorov, you need not inform me of the Admiral's intentions. I will discuss the matter with him myself.”

Karpov reached up adjusting the fit of his black sheep’s wool Ushanka, and slowly walked to the command chair to seat himself. It promised to be another cold day, and he had on a warm, black leather jacket as well. His eyes narrowed with thought. It was just as the Admiral had warned him. These British were like a dogs after a cat. They were vectoring in ships from three compass headings now, and these two battleships were maneuvering to block their path to the south. What was marshalling beyond the range of Kirov's sensors?

“Fedorov. This other battleship, the Prince, where would it be located now?

“You mean Prince Of Wales, sir? That ship was scheduled to leave Scapa Flow on August 5th, tomorrow, sir. She was due to arrive in Newfoundland on the 9th, and considering that the British would most likely route her to the south, she will probably be somewhere off the north coast of Ireland tomorrow.” Somehow the question made Fedorov just a little uneasy. That was the ship carrying Churchill. Why was the Captain asking about it? In fact, how did he even know about it? He was fairly certain Karpov knew little or nothing about the composition of the Royal Navy at this time.

Karpov rubbed his chin, thinking. “Somewhere off the coast of Ireland,” he said aloud, “and carrying that grumpy old bulldog Churchill.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind, Fedorov.” Karpov chided himself for voicing his thoughts, yet the situation was very interesting. All he had to do was come around to a heading of one-three-five and he would very likely find the ship without much difficulty.

“What is our present heading?”

“Sir, the ship is presently steering 202 degrees, south by southwest. Speed 25 knots.”

He thought about the prospect for a time, but discarded the option. It would mean deviating from the course the Admiral had set, and he already knew where this ship was heading in any case.

At that moment Orlov returned, his eyes wide, a little breathless after having climbed up from the lower decks again. He immediately noticed Karpov.

“Good morning, Captain. I must report that the Admiral is indisposed.” He raised his eyebrows, giving Karpov a knowing look. “He was taken with a bad fit of vertigo, and Doctor Zolkin has decided he must sleep. He has given the Admiral a sedative and is keeping him under observation in the sick bay until further notice. It appears you have the con, sir.” He smiled.

“Very well,” said Karpov. “I'm assuming full command of the vessel until such time as the Doctor recertifies Admiral Volsky as fit for duty.” He made the statement loud enough for every man on the bridge to hear, settling comfortably into the command chair with Orlov at his side. Then to Orlov he said in a lower voice: “What do you make of these British battleships creeping up on us like this?”