John Schettler - Kirov

The fifteen megaton tactical warhead was enough to wreak havoc on Task Force 16. Not a single ship would survive. All three screening destroyers would be sunk, along with both cruisers. Only the battleship Mississippi would remain afloat, heeled over and tossed in the violent seas, her crew senseless or wildly struggling to escape the watery coffin of the ship.

Volsky had turned his key a second too late to stop the missile, but at least he had managed to transfer command operations to the aft battle bridge, foiling Karpov’s attempt to reset the system.

When the main bridge went dark again, Karpov swore under his breath. Where was Troyak? He was supposed to have secured the aft citadel from any intrusion, yet Volsky was obviously there. Either he failed to reach the citadel in time, or he had deferred to the Admiral’s command. He had to find out where he was, and where he stood in the action that might now ensue. “Orlov!” he said quickly. “Get on the intercom and summon Sergeant Troyak. I want him up here with a squad of marines at once!” If Troyak complied it would mean he was still at large, and not under Volsky’s thumb. Would the Admiral have the foresight to assure he had Troyak under his command?

Orlov went to the battery operated intercom and gave the order, so it was no surprise when the Captain soon heard a heavy footfalls on the ladder outside and a hard, clanking knock on the main bridge hatch. Somewhat relieved, Karpov went to the entrance, the red overhead emergency lighting reflecting in the eyes of every man on the bridge as they followed his shadow when he passed. He thumbed on the door intercom. “Troyak?”

“Sir, Sergeant Troyak requesting entry to the bridge.”

“Well done, Sergeant,” Karpov began, pleased that the Sergeant had come so quickly. He decided it was time for decisive action now. He would personally lead Troyak and his marines and re-take the battle bridge. Once he had the Admiral locked up again, he could finish the job and deal with the real problem at Argentia Bay. Roosevelt and Churchill were next on his list. If the fat Prime Minister had survived his barrage against the British, he would make sure that he would not escape the next missile. He had every intention of firing his second weapon of choice, the SS-N-27B Sizzler land attack cruise missile, and aiming it directly at Argentia Bay, using its nuclear warhead to incinerate everything there. But first, the Admiral…

The Captain began flipping open the hatch seals and released the lock. It opened with a slight hiss as the NBC system had increased the air pressure on the bridge slightly when it was first secured as a countermeasure to chemical or biological weapons. Gloved hands pulled the hatch open and Karpov saw the dull gleam of red light on the cold metal of an assault rifle, pointed directly at his chest. Reflexively, he stepped back, and two marines leapt onto the bridge, weapons at the ready. Behind them came the steely figure of Sergeant Kandemir Troyak, his eyes narrow and cold; emotionless.

“What are you doing, Troyak?” Karpov’s mind was a whirl. He suddenly realized what was happening and how he had stupidly compromised his position by not questioning Troyak further before he opened the hatch. How could he salvage the situation?

“Put that weapon down, Sergeant. You were ordered to secure the aft battle bridge, and you must do so at once. The Admiral is delusional! He is indisposed. Can’t you see what has happened? He has fired a nuclear warhead!” Karpov knew exactly what had happened, knew why Troyak was here now, but he played out the only line he could think of, his eyes already looking to Orlov for support.

Troyak looked at him with no emotion. Like the cold computer that had dismissed the Captain’s electronic appeal with prejudice, he, too, quietly ruled in favor of Admiral Volsky. “Sir, I regret that I cannot carry out that order and I must inform you that by order of the Fleet Admiral this bridge is now secured from further operations. All officers and crew will remain here until further notice. I must also request that you immediately surrender your command key.”

“What? What are you saying? This is outrageous! I demand to see the Admiral at once!”

Troyak just looked at the Captain, saying nothing, but the look on his face carried a clear and unmistakable message that could only be translated as: ‘Don’t fuck with me.’

“Orlov?” The Captain looked for his ally and co-conspirator, who stood with his arms folded, a disgusted look on his face. The Operations Chief took one look at Troyak, perhaps the only other man on the ship that he found in any way intimidating, and then at Karpov where he stood pointing at the marine Sergeant with a pained expression on his face. His thoughts strayed to the pistol tucked into this beltline, but there were five marines here now, each with a fully automatic weapon. The Captain seemed a small and pathetic thing before the imposing girth of the Sergeant, a Siberian Eskimo, short, squat, yet broad shouldered and powerfully muscled, his thick legs planted wide, his hand firm on his weapon.

The situation had changed now from one where the authority flowed from the protocols of rank and command structure to one where muscle and steel held sway. It was a world Orlov knew well, for he often used his own brawn to intimidate and harass the crew, imposing his surly will on any whom he found to be remiss in their duties. But Troyak was an unmovable rock, he knew. He stood there in full battle array, a black Kevlar body shield covering his broad chest, combat helmet pulled low on his forehead, weapon at hand and those dark slits of eyes watching, waiting, yet revealing nothing.

Orlov looked at the Captain and said: “Consequences, Karpov. Consequences.”

“Nonsense!” Karpov strode over to the CIC, reaching for his command key with the intent of making a coded request for dual control of the ship’s systems. The ship’s guns were still firing at the American destroyers, fully automatic, as the tension on the bridge wound to the breaking point.

“Sir,” said Troyak, coldly. “I must request that you surrender your command key at once.”

The Captain ignored him, seating himself before the command module, his key in hand. Troyak moved so quickly that even Orlov was stunned at the man’s speed. He took three brisk steps, and placed the muzzle of his assault rifle directly against the Captain’s head. A second later his hand was on Karpov’s, gripping it like a cold metal clamp.

Karpov yelled and the key slipped from his squashed hand, snatched up in one sharp movement by the marine sergeant, who then jerked his arm back and snapped the thin beaded metal chain that secured the key around Karpov’s neck. The Captain grimaced, clasping his hand where the sergeant had gripped it, and then rubbing the side of his neck.

“Your pardon, sir,” said Troyak, stepping back into a position where he could easily see every station on the bridge. He handed the key to one of his marines. “Take this to the Admiral,” he said. Then he resumed his position with his back to the far bulkhead, stolid, implacable and silent, as if nothing had happened.

The marine stepped through the hatch, quickly on his way to the battle bridge with a silver message that would tell the Admiral the ship was finally secure. At that moment, a mishman near the forward viewing screen called out. “The ocean!” he exclaimed. “Look at the sea!”

Karpov turned, a pained expression still on his face, and looked out towards the distant horizon. “You will pay for this insult,” he said, pointing at Troyak, but his gaze was soon riveted to the great white cloud in the distance, looming over the gray horizon and clearly visible as it broiled up into the atmosphere. He knew the ship was much too far from the epicenter of the detonation to suffer any ill effects, but he did see a large swelling wave rolling towards them, the leading edge of the tsunami generated by the blast wave. It was still near 40 feet high at this range, but Kirov was a big ship, 900 feet in length and with a good beam. She rode it well, rising up and then surging back down into the sea again as the battlecruiser slid into the deep trough, her bow awash with fuming white seawater.