John Schettler - Kirov II - Cauldron of Fire

Zolkin threw one more comment in while they waited. “What about Orlov? He’s down in the brig as well—in a separate cell I hope. The last thing we need is for the two of them to be commiserating together.”

“I have given him some serious thought as well,” said Volsky. “Orlov did not come up through the naval schools like Karpov. He was a mishman and advanced to his position the old fashioned way, by waiting it out and working his way up the ranks. I accepted him as Chief of Operations, as that is where I found him when I came aboard for these maneuvers, if we can use such a word for this ordeal. Yet I have never been fond of the way he handled the men. Beyond that, Orlov has no combat naval training to speak of, and I doubt he has the brains for it in any case. No—he was clearly subverted by Karpov in the events that transpired days ago. Karpov needed his authority, and I think his muscle in many respects, before he would dare what he attempted. I do not hold Orlov blameless—not by any means. But I do not think he had anything to do with initiating this mutiny.”

“I’m glad you have called it that,” said Zolkin. “Because that is exactly what it was.”

Volsky nodded, but continued with one last thought. “Perhaps one day we will hold a proper hearing and court martial for them both. But for now we do not have the time to bother with that. As to Orlov, I assigned him to Troyak’s team yesterday. He’s a bull out of his pen for the moment, and too accustomed to bullying anyone who opposes him. But Troyak—” Volsky smiled. “Troyak is the one man on this ship that can back Orlov down if he has to, from a physical standpoint and also considering the temperament of the man.”

“Yes, thank God for Troyak,” Zolkin was quick to agree.

“He knew his duty when he saw it. Such men are natural leaders. So sending Orlov to join the ship’s commandos where Troyak can smooth out a few of the rough edges seemed like a good idea. That is exactly the sort of situation that will benefit a man like Orlov, do you agree?”

“A good plan,” said Zolkin, and the other men nodded.

“Very well,” said Volsky, turning his head when a knock came on the outer hatch. “I believe that will be Mister Karpov under escort from the brig. Let him in, gentlemen. And then let us see if we can sort out this mess and decide what best to do.”

Karpoventered the room, eying the others with a guarded expression, but saying nothing. He had expected this, a kangaroo court where the others would flay him and decide his punishment, and he had already resigned himself to the fact that he would likely be busted down to Able Seaman, and rot in the ranks aboard this doomed ship for years. It came as some surprise then when Admiral Volsky indicated this was to be a tactical briefing, gesturing that they should all have a seat around Zolkin’s desk. He endured the edgy glances and looks from the others, but seated himself next to Tasarov in sullen silence, waiting.

“Very well,” Volsky began from his recovery cot. “I will give the floor to my First Officer, Mister Fedorov.”

Karpov suppressed a wince at that, realizing again what he had risked, and done, and lost. He fixed his gaze on the desktop, not meeting the eyes of the others, ashamed on one level, and angry on another at his own stupidity. Here was a young Starshina , still wet behind the ears and three ranks beneath him now elevated to First Officer of the ship. But when Fedorov began to speak he was again shocked at what he heard.

“To bring you abreast of our earlier, discussion, Captain,” Fedorov began by addressing Karpov, who did not fail to notice he was referred to by his proper rank, which he appreciated. One thing about Fedorov—he was always respectful, even if Karpov no longer believed he deserved that respect. “…the attack three hours ago was made by a twin engine fighter aircraft, possible a British plane out of Malta, or even a German long range fighter off Sicily or Sardinia. I did not get a good look at it, but I’m inclined to believe the former. Its sudden appearance led me to research that has since indicated we have slipped backward in time again and remain involved in the Second World War. I don’t know how it has happened, but Dobrynin reported that same odd reactor flux just before the event, and… well… here we are, strafed by a twin prop fighter aircraft. To be as specific as I can at this point, I believe the present day and time to be August 11, 1942, at 16:20 hours.” He glanced at the wall clock, which Zolkin had reset earlier to account for the time shift they experienced.”

Karpov’s eyes widened as he heard the unbelievable yet once more, but there was no way he could argue otherwise, and he had come to accept the impossible as a matter of daily occurrence on this ship by now, so he waited to hear more.

“We are now in considerable danger, bottled up in the Mediterranean Sea, and very close to a major air-naval campaign that was fought as the British attempted to relieve Malta by sending a convoy of much needed supplies and oil. The next three days will see major combat operations to the southwest of our current position, which is presently here.” He stood up and indicated a position on the wall map in the infirmary. “Our present course is 45 degrees and we are making twenty knots. We have minor damage, but most critical systems are functional, and Chief Engineer Dobrynin tells me that the reactors are now stable and in good operating order.”

“Operation Pedestal, Karpov,” said Volsky looking at his ex-Captain. “You recall it from the academy?” Karpov thought for a moment, and then nodded in the affirmative and Fedorov continued his briefing.

“The action has begun,” he said. “The convoy reached the first Axis submarine picket line north of Algiers at mid-day and, true to the recorded history, the British light carrier HMS Eagle was sunk by torpedoes. They are continuing east and will not be engaged again until 20:00 hours, near dusk this evening—a probing attack by some 36 planes off of Sardinia. There will be two more attacks until the convoy reaches the Skerki Bank northeast of Bizerte. At that point, if the history repeats itself, the heavy escorts will turn back while a force of lighter cruisers and destroyers attempts to ram the convoy home, around Cape Bon, down through the Sicilian Narrows, and then to Malta. They will endure heavy attacks by fast torpedo boats from units based at Pantelleria near Cape Bon, and as they approach Malta by renewed air attacks from Comiso and other airfields on Sicily. This convoy was the most heavily escorted of the war to date, with some 50 British warships, including two heavy battleships and five…now four aircraft carriers, all trying to secure the safety of just fourteen merchant ships. That said, only five supply ships got through to Malta, and one, the tanker Ohio , was barely afloat and had to be sandwiched by two destroyers under tow to get her there. Beyond that, the British are going to lose several valuable cruisers and a few destroyers as well.”

“To make it simple,” said Volsky, “it is a hornet’s nest of fire, right astride our most logical route of escape. If we head for the Atlantic as planned now, we will most certainly become embroiled in this operation, and I do not think the British will welcome us at the Suez Canal, or facilitate our transit there, so we have quite a problem on our hands here. Now I want the best opinions from each of you—particularly from you, Captain Karpov, as you are one of the finest tactical officers in the fleet.”

Karpov heard the admiral’s praise and it seemed to bolster his flagging spirits, particularly in front of the other men, making the mantle of his shame a little easier to bear. He glanced at Volsky appreciatively, and sat just a little straighter in his chair, no longer slouching with averted eyes, but now stealing sidelong glances at the others to gauge their response to his presence.