John Schettler - Kirov

Volsky sighed. “I suppose you are right. I do feel much myself now. Thank you, Dmitri.”

“And Admiral…Should you need an ally, you know you can count on me. I was not kidding when I told Karpov it was mine to certify the health and fitness of any man aboard-be it physical or mental health. If Karpov becomes a problem…”

Volsky nodded silently. “Let us hope that he does not,” he said quietly.

Trouble was brewing on the cold grey swells of the sea. Rodenko had a KA-40 up earlier to keep watch on the American task force withdrawing to the south. The ships turned southwest on a heading of 230 degrees, a course that would bring it round the cape of Newfoundland, and Orlov had carried out Karpov’s instructions, following on a parallel course to the north. Earlier, they had spotted a single aircraft on radar, tracking out from Newfoundland, and the Chief let it be. He did not want to bring the ship to action stations again and fire off a SAM for this one plane, or so he reasoned it. And all the better if it would keep the Admiral from trying to return to the bridge.

Now that Karpov was here, Orlov was glad to hand over the watch. Orlov loved to second orders, but was a bit unsure of himself when it came to tactics in a battle situation at sea. If anything happened, he would rely on Samsonov, but Karpov was Captain for a reason. He knew what he was about, when to turn, when to shoot, how fast to go.

The Captain took stock of the situation and increased to 30 knots, his heart racing with the ship’s engines. How long before Volsky tried the door? When would the next stupid seaman slink off to sick bay to shirk his duty and find the hatch sealed? How much time did he have? A voice warned him again, plaintive and fearful, the squeak of the mouse within-he could still back out of this. He could rush below, pretend to discover the lock on the door and blame it on an unseen conspirator. He could launch the investigation himself, pretending to be Volsky’s friend and loyal ally all along. Only Orlov knew more, and the Chief would keep his mouth shut, wouldn’t he? He could deny the entire conversation with Martinov, or get to him first with a threat to make him pay dearly if he opened his mouth. How much time did he have?

Rodenko’s voice reporting a new contact jangled his nerves, snapping him back to the moment at hand. Search radar reported what looked like another storm front on the horizon to the south. There were many ship contacts, all arrayed in a number of surface action groups, a storm of steel slowly moving north towards their position.

“How many ships?” Karpov asked quickly.

“Seven ships here in the American Task force that has been withdrawing, but they have turned now, Captain. They are now heading north. Then I count eight more ships here-the signal returns are smaller, weaker. I think these are destroyers like the one we encountered off Jan Mayen. Over here, another eight ships, a mixed force, most likely the British, and I think heavy units are present-most likely the ships we fired on earlier.”

“They are setting up a picket line and they plan to sweep north and catch us like a fish in a net.” Karpov’s mind worked quickly. “Fedorov, can you confirm what these ships might be?”

There was no answer, and Orlov spoke. “You sent Fedorov below, Captain. Tovarich is at navigation.”

“Of course.” Karpov rubbed his chin.

“How far away are these ships?” The Captain turned to his radar station where Rodenko was busy monitoring his screens.

“150 to 200 kilometers, sir,” said Rodenko. “The number one group is a little closer, small contacts, probably American destroyers.

“They are all moving north?”

“Yes, sir.”

Orlov looked at him, his eyebrows raised, waiting on a decision from the Captain. Karpov seemed edgy, nervous, like a bow string that had been pulled back too far. The strain was obviously getting to him as well. The Captain looked exhausted now as he looked at Orlov.

“Your thoughts, Mister Orlov?” He said that just loud enough for the bulk of the bridge crew to hear him, as if he wanted a second voice to back him now in the decision that was percolating to a boil in his mind. It was mere theater, Orlov knew. The Captain knew what he wanted to do, what he had been planning to do all along. He was just covering his tracks, that was all.

“They are out in force today, Captain. And I think they are coming for us. At the moment we are cruising straight for the coast of Newfoundland. If they sweep up north they will herd us into the Sea of Labrador, and I think we both know there is no northwest passage.”

“We are not going to be swept anywhere we do not intend to go,” said Karpov derisively.

At that moment the motley Tasarov shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He stiffened, his eyes opening wide, listening intently on his sonar headphones as if he could not believe what he was hearing.

“Con, sonar- torpedo in the water!”

Karpov spun about, anger and shock on his face. “Where?”

“Bearing… zero-nine-five and closing!”

“Battle stations! Helm ahead full! Port thirty!” Karpov immediately shouted out an order for evasive maneuvers.

“Ready on countermeasures,” said Tasarov.

“Fire now!” There was a strident edge to Karpov’s voice, and obvious fear. The alarm blared three sharp blasts for ASW operations as Orlov ran to the forward view screen, eyes straining through the haze to try and locate the torpedo wake. He could not see it, so the torpedo was not yet close.

“Shkval!” Karpov shouted. He was referring to the lethal VA-111 Shkval or Squall, a high speed, super-cavitating underwater rocket that had both active sonar and wake homing capabilities. It would eject from the ship’s side and seek out the incoming torpedo at speeds of over 200 knots if necessary.

“Firing now,” said Tasarov.

“Go to active sonar, you idiot,” the Captain said sharply. “How could you let a sub get this close?”

“I’m sorry, sir. It must have just been hovering beneath a thermal layer. I had nothing on my passive sonar. Nothing at all.”

“Find me this submarine!” Karpov pointed a finger at him.

“Aye sir!”

Tasarov was working his board feverishly, but the Shkval found the incoming torpedo first. It kept one eye on the home ship, and another on the incoming target, precisely calculating the speed necessary to intercept the torpedo at a safe distance. Tasarov pulled off his headset just before the weapon intercepted its target, destroying it with an audible explosion that sent seawater up in a column of spray about 2500 meters off their port bow. It would have been a close call if it were a fast, modern day torpedo, but it was a long shot for a WWII submarine. Whatever was out there, it was not in close if it fired at that range, which is probably why Tasarov could not hear it if it was quietly hovering on battery power.

The hollow ‘ping’ of the ship’s active sonar sang out in regular intervals, and with each pulse Karpov could feel his own pulse rising. There was nothing at sea he hated more than a submarine. It was not long before Tasarov had located a target.

“Con, sonar contact bearing four-five degrees at 4200 meters.”

The captain exhaled, obviously relieved to have found the spider in his cupboard. “Very well,” he said. “Kill it, Mister Tasarov. Kill it before they have a mind to fire at us again.” He turned to Orlov. “Those bastards!” he said. “They wave a line of ships in our face while they try to sneak up on us with a submarine.” This was obviously a German boat, he knew, yet in his mind he now lumped all his enemies into one bin, the British, Americans and Germans were one and the same to him. “Secure the bridge!” he pointed, and a mishman of the watch ran to set the inner security clamps on the main bridge hatch.