John Schettler - Kirov

Turing sighed, resignation evident on his face. “Quite,” he said. Then he moved his white bishop and put the enemy queen in jeopardy. “Better get over here, Atkins. I’m about to ruffle your lady’s skirts!”

Admiral Volsky was sitting up in bed, quietly drinking tea. The doctor was lounging on a nearby chair, keeping an eye on the Admiral, and was pleased when he finally stirred from sleep. He took a moment to get his pulse and temperature, and then looked in his eyes, gratified to see they were focusing and tracking properly. Then he served up his favorite remedy, a cup of hot Earl Grey tea.

“That’s it, Leonid, drink up. I’ll have you back on your feet in no time. I’ll say one thing for the British, they make good tea.”

“They sell good tea,” Volsky corrected him. “The Chinese grow the stuff.”

“Ah, feeling your old self again?”

“Much better now. The room has settled down, and my stomach along with it. But what in the world went on while I was down for the count? I could hear the ship, feel it in battle.”

“I suppose you had better know sooner than later,” said the doctor. “Your Mister Karpov has been taking pot shots at anything that comes within a hundred and fifty kilometers of us.”

“The British?”

“Yes, but Mister Fedorov says he’s also engaged an American Task Force as well. It was supposed to be delivering planes to Iceland. He was quite upset about it. Karpov had him relieved and sent below.”

“Relieved?” The Admiral raised his heavy brows, his eyes troubled again. “Did we get hurt?”

“No, the ship is fine. But I’m afraid the Americans cannot say the same. Karpov sunk a few ships. They never saw what hit them.”

Volsky closed his eyes, exhaling as if he could purge the trouble in his mind with his breath, then he opened them again, afraid the room would be spinning. Thankfully it was not. “What ships?” he said calmly, waiting.

“Well, don’t ask me, Leonid. Send for Mister Fedorov.”

At that moment there was a knock on the outer door, and Zolkin looked over his reading glasses, seeing the Captain leaning in through the half open entrance.

Karpov had been making his rounds, and this was to be his second stop. Earlier he had vented his ire on Chief Engineer Dobrynin and told him that if his ship could not make at least twenty knots in an hour’s time he would be relieved. He received word soon after that the reactor cooling situation was now sorted out, and the ship was certified for any speed up to ‘all ahead full’ at thirty-two knots. The Captain called up on the intercom to set the ship’s course just shy of 180 true, and increased to two thirds, cruising at twenty knots. Then he made for the sick bay to check on the Admiral.

“Come in, Captain,” Zolkin called out to him. “We’re in here having tea. Don’t tell me you have a stomach ache as well.”

Karpov entered, surprised, and inwardly disappointed to see Volsky sitting up, awake, and obviously alert. “Good to see you have recovered, Admiral,” he lied. “How are you, sir?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose. It seems thirty years at sea have taken their toll on me. And the ship?”

“We had a problem with our reactor coolant, but the engineers have fixed it. We’re back up at twenty knots and cruising south.”

“I see,” said Volsky. ”Did Dobrynin say anything about the sound of the reactors? Any unusual readings?”

“No, sir, it was just a cooling problem. It’s been fixed.”

The Admiral seemed relieved. “So tell me what you have been shooting at, Mister Karpov.” It was an obvious request, not a question.

“Sir, we engaged enemy surface and air units that threatened to penetrate our outer defense exclusion zone. The British have since broken off their pursuit. Their battlegroups to the north and east have turned away.”

“Exclusion zone? You are getting very testy with the British I see. And to the south? What about the Americans? There was a task group bound for Iceland as part of their occupation force. It was bringing supplies, aircraft. Don’t tell me you sunk those cargo ships.”

“No sir, I did not.”

“It was just an aircraft carrier,” said Zolkin quietly, folding his arms. Karpov looked at him, annoyed.

“An aircraft carrier?” Volsky stiffened and sat up higher, his heavy features registering obvious surprise.

“We were under attack by a large formation of aircraft. I took the steps necessary to defend the ship and crew.” The Captain immediately defended his actions.

“Those planes weren’t attacking,” said Volsky dismissively. “They were just being ferried out to Iceland. The carrier’s strike aircraft weren’t even aboard! Didn’t you consult with Fedorov?”

The remark annoyed the Captain even further. Fedorov was a junior lieutenant, and the thought that he needed his advice before taking appropriate action galled him.

“That may be the case, sir, at least insofar as Fedorov’s books tell you this. But on my radar scope a flight of thirty aircraft bearing on my position is a threat, and I dealt with it as such. The British could have informed the Americans about us,” he repeated his logic on the matter. “All the American ships had orders to attack. Fedorov will tell you as much. And for that matter, the history could have changed. These planes could have been rearmed for a strike mission. What? Was I supposed to let them fly right over us? We were directly in their flight path.”

Volsky rolled his eyes, this time with aggravation, not vertigo. “Yes, and why is that, Captain? Do you recall our last conversation? I told you I wanted to avoid contact with the enemy, and engage them only if we had no other option. I told you to use our speed to evade their ships, and that I would decide what to do about the carriers, yes? Did it occur to you that you could have steered east into the Atlantic long before this? And the carrier? That would have been the Wasp if I recall my notes from Fedorov’s book. You sunk this ship?”

Karpov was silent for a moment, then he raised his chin, folding his arms. “That I did, sir. In my judgment-”

“Your judgment? Do you have any idea of the likely consequences of this act? You wanted to prevent the Americans from getting to the Rhine? Well, it’s very likely you have just given them four months head start!” Volsky put his tea down, clearly upset, and ran his hand through his well grayed hair. “I heard the missiles in my sleep,” he said quietly, holding up a finger, which wagged as he spoke. “I thought I was just having a nightmare. Now I wake up only to find this is the nightmare. What day is it?” He had not even thought to ask Zolkin earlier.

“August 6th, 1941,” said the doctor. “Or so we believe.”

“August 6th…” Volsky thought. “Then in just three days time the Americans and British will meet at Argentia Bay. What is our present position, Captain?”

“We are due east of Cape Farewell, Greenland, and I have just turned on a heading of 180. The remainder of the American task force is withdrawing south as well. They have been taught a lesson, sir. I do not think we will be bothered further.”

“Yes, but who is going to teach you a lesson, Mister Karpov? Did I waste my breath with our last discussion?”

“I promised you that enemy planes would not threaten us again, sir. I removed the threat, and the carrier that launched it. Under similar circumstances I would do so again.”

The Admiral shrugged. “Every time I leave the bridge you begin firing off missiles! What, do I have to bring my cot up to the citadel and sleep there as well? How many missiles did you expend in these attacks?”

“They were not attacks, sir. They were necessary defensive operations.”