John Schettler - Kirov

“Five Captain? But we only received three.”

“Yes, of course. Three. I was thinking of another mission. Well for this mission we will need to have proper weapons selection for our forward mounted MOS-III system. Has missile number ten been double checked for readiness?” Karpov assumed there was one compatible warhead for each of his three surface-to-surface missile systems. The MOS-III was a high speed hypersonic missile, and the battery was arrayed in three vertical silos of three missiles each. The number ten missile was in a special silo, with control seals and extra protection. He wanted to be sure the warhead was there and not in inventory within the missile magazine.

The chief was one of the few men aboard ship other than Admiral Volsky who actually knew what the nuclear inventory was. The size and number of the warheads was kept in a sealed envelope, in a small vault that could be opened only by inserting both the Admiral's and the Captain’s keys. Yet the chief had to store the missiles and warheads securely on board, so he was obviously privy to the matter, yet sworn to say nothing whatsoever about the weapons. Under normal circumstances he would have never discussed the weapons with anyone, but the Captain, he assumed, was surely informed by now and knew what he was talking about. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Excuse me, Captain. Mount the number ten missile?”

“Correct,” said Karpov, his voice hard and controlled.

“But I will need permission from-”

“From the commander of the ship-yes, you are looking at him, Martinov. Have you not heard?” Karpov cut the man off quickly. “The Admiral is indisposed. He has been taken to sick bay and his condition remains in doubt. Get the wax out of your ears and listen once in a while. I have assumed full command and Orlov is now my Executive Officer. Shall I send him down to second this order? He will not be happy about it. Just get it done, Chief. But observe all proper weapons handling procedures and safety guidelines. Make certain your Coded Switch Set Controller is programmed appropriately to require a command level key insertion before operation. But given the circumstances, with the Admiral unable to perform his duties for the moment, we do not have time for the niceties of peacetime protocols. The setting should be fixed at position one.”

“I understand sir, but the default is position two, and I will need proper authorization to override that setting.” Two keys were normally required to activate the Coded Switch Set Controller (CSSC), which would receive an activation code for the warhead.

Karpov felt again that rising magma of anger, but he restrained himself. “This is not a peacetime environment, Martinov. This is war now, or do you think we’ve just been shooting off missiles to keep you busy here?”

Karpov’s just tapped him on the shoulder. “This is a direct order. Don’t worry. I am the only one responsible. Complete this by 18:00 hours, or there will be hell to pay. The same for the P-900s. Mount the number ten missile there as well.” The P-900 was the NATO coded SS-N-27B “Klub” missile, also called the “Sizzler” mounted on the bow, forward of the main Moskit-II battery. Unlike the faster hypersonic high altitude MOS-III, it was a subsonic land attack cruise missile, though its final stage of approach to the target was a Mach 3.0 low level run.

Karpov clapped the Chief on his shoulder again and walked quickly away, unwilling to engage the man further should he equivocate. He knew there was one final warhead for the Moskit-II Sunburn system, but decided to leave that in the magazine for the time being. One should always have a reserve.

Three warheads, he thought. Only three. That lump-head Martinov had better obey those orders. If it comes down to it and I need more firepower, those missiles had better be primed and ready. He knew he had just crossed a very dangerous line here. He felt it even as he gave Martinov that order. If Admiral Volsky got wind of this he could be relieved of command and face a court martial, without a doubt. Yet his own admonishment to Martinov returned to bolster him. This was war. The expediency of the moment was rare and unique. He must do what was necessary, in spite of Volsky’s orders to the contrary. If events proved him wrong he would face the consequences, but not without a fight.

He was out of his hole now, no longer a mouse, but something bigger-a rat set loose in the bowels of the ship, and he had wire to chew. Yes, he had wire to chew… He had won the battle within himself, or so he now believed. Next he had to win against Volsky. That accomplished, he could again take the fight to the British and Americans, and settle the matter once and for all.

With that in mind, and his business here finished, the Captain’s next stop was the crew’s quarters for Sergeant Troyak and his marines. The sound of his boots clapping hard on the deck as he walked bolstered him, recalling the image he had held in his mind of the honor guard marching proudly to meet with Roosevelt and Churchill. Now he wanted to sound out the stony Sergeant and see how he might react if it came to a real crisis aboard the ship.

“Good day, Sergeant.”

“Sir.” Troyak stood to attention, two of his marines in the room doing so as well.

“As you were. I only wanted to commend you on your performance at Jan Mayen. The information you gained was very useful.”

Troyak did not need the compliment, or want it, but he nodded thanking the Captain out of courtesy. The mission had been a simple reconnaissance; a quick in and out and nothing to take undue notice of.

“The situation is somewhat confounding for us all,” said Karpov. “Some of the officers may have difficulty understanding what has happened; finding a way to come to grips with it. They may react in unforeseen ways in the stress of battle. I trust you and your men will remain disciplined and clear headed at all times, as it may take a firm hand in the days ahead to keep the ship on an even keel.”

Troyak listened, his features expressionless. The Siberian Sergeant was a strong, rough-hewn man, and one not given to such considerations. The thought that he or his men would ever demonstrate a laxity of discipline was not possible as far as he was concerned. Kirov was a warship, and he was a leader of warriors. That was the end of it.

“I trust you understand me,” Karpov pressed.

“Sir, the squad is ready for action and every man is fit, and will do his duty.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. Keep that in mind should I call on you. We have some difficult days ahead; difficult choices. Some will quail in the face of battle, but you and I will have to lead the way. Yes?” The Captain gave him a sidelong glance and the two men exchanged salutes before he went on his way.

Troyak thought that last remark was odd. You and I? Somehow he recoiled at the thought that Karpov would think he was a bird of the same feather as his marines. He allowed himself a derisive smile, then returned to his task of cleaning and oiling the assault rifle inventory.

Karpov would make one last stop. He had checked on everything that mattered, his weapons in the looming struggle he envisioned, in more ways than one. There was only one other thing he needed to do. He had promised Orlov he would deal with the problem Volsky presented, and a stop at the maintenance bay to review the recalibration of the missiles was the perfect cover. While he was there he took a pair of wire cutters and a few pad-locks. Then he made his way quietly to the sick bay, his heart suddenly pounding when he realized what he was about to do. Time to chew on the last wire…

This was the edge of the precipice, he knew. The orders he had given to Martinov could be rescinded, explained away. He could mouse his way out of that transgression if he chose to, and squirm through a crack in a floor board to reach the safety of his mouse hole again. Or could he? Something had changed in him. He was something bigger now, something darker, and more heedless of the cost he might incur if he took this next step. No one could prove he did this, came a voice, a reason, a last means of escape.