John Schettler - Kirov

By 1941, however, she was a throwback to an earlier day, much like the older Royal Navy battlewagons still slogging along as they put in useful service escorting convoys. She had a cluttered, unkempt look about her, with dark slate colored superstructure in a paint scheme called ‘North Atlantic Gray’ that gave her a brooding appearance and lent her the nickname ‘The Pirate Ship’ to those who saw her from afar. But to her own crew she was more affectionately known as ‘The Missy.’ Her superstructure and turret sides were festooned with hanging oval shaped life rafts and her forecastle was broken by metal sided tiers where open topped AA gun batteries were mounted, including the then state-of-the-art quadruple 1.1s.

For serious business, the ship carried four big turrets, paired fore and aft with three 14 inch guns each, though there had not been much use for them thus far in her career.

The old battleship stood as the core of Task Force 16, out with new orders to find and kill any hostile ship within 300 miles of the coast of Newfoundland. Captain Wright received a message indicating that Kaufman’s destroyers in Desron 7 were already charging in to get at the enemy, and he was elated. He thumbed the switch on his ship’s intercom. “Now hear this,” he said in a loud clear voice. “We’ve seen our transports safely off some time ago, and now we have orders to find this enemy ship that bushwhacked the Wasp. It looks like Desron 7 already has the scent, and we’re going after those bastards… Is Mississippi ready?”

“Aye, Aye, sir!” said every man on the bridge, and they could hear the echoes of the very same response all through the ship below, from a over a thousand other officers and men. Her twelve 14 inch guns and fourteen 5 inch guns were primed and loaded. Every hand aboard was standing to at a weapon or other action station, their faces set and grim. The big ship’s engines were thrumming as she labored along at her top speed of 21 knots, her sharp bow cutting into the sea.

Mississippi was ready.

Admiral Volsky Stepped boldly up to the guarded hatch where Troyak stood with his men. His mind considered the possibility that Karpov had posted these men here, but he discarded the thought. It would not matter. He knew Troyak all too well.

“That was quick moving,” said the Admiral. “I only gave the order for you to report here minutes ago.”

“Sir, I was ordered here by Captain and told no one was to enter the Aft Citadel.”

“The Captain is industrious today,” said Volsky. “Fortunately, I am an Admiral. Stand aside, Sergeant. You men there-open that hatch,” he said in a clear voice. As he expected, Troyak immediately complied. His men cleared the entrance way; two marines threw the hatch open and then stood by at attention. The Sergeant had been posted here with a squad, and here he was, yet ready to do the bidding of any senior officer on the scene. The Admiral of the Fleet was before him, and he stood sharply to attention, saluting. The man was obviously not incapacitated, as Karpov had told him. Seeing was believing.

Volsky stepped up and through the hatch, a train of young junior officers following behind him. As he did so Fedorov came running down the long passage with Doctor Zolkin. The men gathered in the battle bridge, a single watch stander there jumping up to attention when they entered.

“Admiral on the bridge,” said Fedorov when he pushed through the hatch. The sharp staccato of the forward deck guns added a measure of urgency. Kirov was firing at something, which meant the enemy ships were closer than the Admiral believed.

Volsky looked back at Fedorov, and winked. “Sergeant Troyak,” said the Admiral. “Post two marines here and secure this hatch. Then take the remainder of your squad to the main bridge and force entry. Wait for the engineers, if necessary, but you are to secure the main bridge and hold every man there until further notice. Under no circumstances is Captain Karpov to insert his command key into any system on the bridge. Understood?”

“Sir!” Troyak barked out an order in his Siberian dialect, and his men rippled into action.

The Admiral straightened his cap, briefly surveyed the battle bridge, and then turned to the group of young officers he had collected. “Velichko-sonar; Kalinichev-radar; Gromenko-CIC; Kosovich-helm; Fedorov-navigation. He looked and saw that Lieutenant Nikolin had joined his group, just coming off leave, and graciously waved him to his post at communications. “Gentlemen, take your posts.” And to the other yeoman and midshipmen that had followed his column, drifting in from quarters and non essential duty stations he said: “Any man trained may take a station. The rest return to your regular duty posts.” The men moved eagerly to monitors, three filing into the Combat Information Center to join Gromenko where he sat before a dark, lifeless monitor set.

Volsky strode over to the CIC where a central module held a receptacle for command key interface. He scanned the room, smiling when he saw Doctor Zolkin. “If you please, Doctor,” and Zolkin came to his side.

The Admiral flipped an overhead switch activating the ship’s intercom. “Doctor, if you would be so kind as to inform the ship’s crew that I am well and certified for duty.”

“My pleasure, sir,” said Zolkin. He found the microphone on the intercom and began to speak. “Now hear this, this is Doctor Zolkin speaking. Admiral Volsky has returned to his post, and I hereby certify him as fit for duty and commander of the ship. That is all.” Even as he finished they could hear the sound of crew members cheering below decks. The crew had been justifiably edgy under Karpov. They did their duty, complied with orders, yet the taut, strained effort of the man did not inspire confidence. Volsky, on the other hand, was loved by every man aboard. Ever since he had taken ill, the crew had been restless, uncertain, worried. It was hard enough for them to comprehend what had happened to the ship. Many still refused to believe it, yet with Volsky at the helm, they had some stable point of reference, and eagerly moved to their posts.

Even as Doctor Zolkin returned the small round microphone to its cradle on the intercom station, they heard yet another warning claxon, followed by the swish of a missile ejection and a solid fuel rocket booster igniting. To Volsky the sound was unmistakable. It was a MOS-III Starfire, one of the fastest and most lethal missiles in the world.

“I’m afraid the niceties will have to wait,” he said quickly, pulling out his command key and hastening to insert it in the module. The interface lit up and displayed the five LED windows for his code, which he entered as fast as his thick finger could poke out the digits.

When the missile jetted away it began to gain altitude and accelerate at a frightful pace. Mid-way to its target, some 112 kilometers to the south, it would reach the mind-numbing speed of Mach 8.0. He had 45 seconds before it would devour that distance.

The code was entered, and the Admiral punched a red button labeled ‘COMMAND OVERRIDE.’ Recognizing the Admiral’s key, a second series of LEDs lit up, this time displaying his

name and rank: VOLSKY, LEONID, FLEET ADM, LEVEL 1 COMMAND — ENGAGE?”

There were two buttons, YES and NO, and Volsky answered in the affirmative. When he pushed that last button there was an agonizing ten second delay during which the Starfire traveled over twenty-seven kilometers. Then all the systems of the battle bridge lit up, the screens coming to life, radars displaying contact data, weapons systems noting status and active ordinance en route to target. Gromenko took one look at his screen and could not believe what he was seeing. “Admiral, that was the MOS-III system-the number ten missile!” It was even now well past mid course and burning its way down to the designated target. There were ten seconds remaining.