Kirov

Chapter 4

The fog around them was so thick now that you could barely see from one end of the ship to the other. The sea was calm and still, and the gray white mist of an ice fog slowly enfolded ship. Soon the gilded masts, radars and antennas were fringed with a hoary white frost, which also settled on the upper decks and superstructure of the ship until she appeared like a great pale white ghost ship silently sliding through the glassy sea.

Kirov was still steaming slowly south by southwest at 10 knots, her sensors keenly scanning the surrounding ocean and airspace for any sign of an enemy of vessel or plane. They seemed to have perfect clarity, but only out to a range of about 30 kilometers, and Rodenko noted that radius slowly increasing. Tasarov’s sonar was clearing up as well, but he still had no contact on the Orel.

Admiral Volsky had been trying to decide whether to continue the investigation or return to Severomorsk. He considered what Karpov had been arguing, that this was indeed a surprise attack by Western forces upon his nation. Both Slava and Orel were suddenly missing and, seen in that light, the explosion Kirov had experienced might have been a near miss attempt to destroy her as well. The fact that Severomorsk did not respond on normal naval message frequencies could mean many things. The base could be observing radio silence, or they could have sustained damage preventing communications. Then again, the base could have been destroyed as well. It was homeport of the Russian North Seas fleet, surely a tempting and vital target in any first strike scenario.

Volsky called down to engineering for a status update on the reactors, pleased to learn that the system readings were now normal again.

“It sounded a bit odd there for a while,” said Chief Dobrynin.

“It sounded odd? What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure, sir. It’s just… Well I’ve been around this equipment most of my career in the service, and you come to know a thing by how it sounds. The harmonics were odd—that’s all I can say. It didn’t sound right to me, but the readings are normal, sir. There is nothing to be concerned about.”

“Very Well, Chief. Carry on, and report immediately if you hear anything else that disturbs you. Anything at all, yes?” The Admiral knew exactly what the Chief was trying to tell him. Years on ships at sea gave some men an uncanny sense that could detect the slightest abnormality in the ship—the way it sounded, or moved in the sea. Volsky settled into his chair, musing as he listened himself, thinking he might hear an answer to their dilemma in the faint hum of the ship’s consoles, or the thrum of the turbines.

Karpov lingered near Nikolin’s communications station for some time, as if he was waiting for a coded signal message to return from Severomorsk at any moment. Yet the time stretched out, and Nikolin waited with him, seeming edgy and somewhat discomfited by the Captain’s close presence. Karpov had a way of hovering over a workstation, and asking entirely too many questions. He was tense and uneasy as well. Somehow the sense of isolation in the long silence left him feeling strangely adrift.

Severomorsk was not merely home, but also the rein of ultimate control on the ship. Orders might come from home port that could supersede those of Admiral Volsky himself. Volsky was Admiral of the Northern Fleet, but above him was Commander-in-Chief of the Navy itself, Gennady Alexandrovich Suchkov, and his Deputy Chief of Staff Vladimir Ivanovich Rogatin. Karpov had been slowly building relationships with these men, hoping they might be useful one day. Vlasky had succeeded Suchkov as Admiral of the Northern Fleet, and Rogatin had been a former Captain of the old battlecruiser Kirov before he moved on to higher ranks. Vlasky was also the most likely candidate to take the aging Suchkov’s place, so Karpov found himself well positioned to advance even further if recent history was any guide.

Now the strange silence from Severomorsk was most discomfiting to him. A favorite tactic against a man of senior rank had always been an appeal to higher authority. Karpov had ingratiated himself with the Naval Staff as he wheedled his way into the command chair of the Kirov. Volsky was his senior, and by a wide margin, but he could always appeal to Severomorsk for a countervailing decision. So his first order of business was to seed the matter there with his own opinion as soon as he possibly could. He wanted to see if he could color the matter at hand in the eyes of senior officers back home, and possibly influence any decision that they might make about the situation. Yet more than this, he wanted to make certain his own actions would be viewed in a proper light; he wanted to begin, even in official discourse, the line of subtle truth-bending that was vranyo. The Admiral had countermanded his orders just now, and Karpov still burned with a quiet inner resentment over that. He did what he believed was proper, and in his mind the Admiral was remiss.

On one level, he saw a glimmering of opportunity in this situation. Orel and Slava were both missing, and the Admiral was being far too lax in his assessment of the potential dangers here. This incident would be viewed harshly back home, and blame and scapegoating were sure to follow. The Admiral was responsible, he knew, but he would make sure that any fault found rested squarely on Volsky’s shoulders. He would let Severomorsk know exactly what he thought, and somewhere in his mind he was already launching missiles at the Admiral. The struggle for the first salvo was the essence of modern naval combat. The Captain wanted to be sure he had himself in the best possible position if it came to an inquiry on these events. A report would have to be written on the matter, and he was already hard at work, drafting copy in his mind, and thinking just who best to put on the distribution list.

Yet for now, it was the silence that bothered him most. Who could he tell his stories to, his half-truths and darker lies, if no one was listening back home? What was going on? Why didn’t Severomorsk answer? He badgered Nikolin about his equipment—was it working correctly? When was the last time it was given a full maintenance check? Who had the duty here on the last watch? Was he trying the secure Satellite com-link line?

“I have no satellite link, sir,” Nikolin explained. “I cannot establish links to any of our com-sat bands. It must be the interference, sir.”

Karpov was wagging an accusatory finger at Nikolin, and frowning. “Keep trying, Mister Nikolin. I expect you to get this equipment sorted out!” Then he saw Nikolin had an iPod sitting off to one side, and he snatched it up, shaking it in the young Lieutenant’ face. “Perhaps you should spend more time focused on your duties, Nikolin, and less with this.” He took the device and strode away, like a strict school master chastening a wayward student.

Nikolin, shrugged, deflated, harried, and trying harder than ever to get through to Severomorsk. He sighed with relief when the Captain finally wandered off, looking for Chief Orlov, though he hoped Karpov would not pass the matter on to the him.

Orlov was a strong man, iron willed, and often too much of a disciplinarian when it came to running the ship’s schedules and training exercises, meting out swift punishment to any crewman who was lax in his duties. He was Karpov’s hard whip when it came to discipline and firm handling of procedures on the ship. The Chief was actually a Captain of the 3rd Rank, two rungs below Karpov, but stood as “Chief of Operations” and was therefore simply called the “Chief” by the men.

He had fifteen years in the navy, most served by default because he never had the babki to do anything else, or so he claimed. The truth was, he was sent here after a stint in prison when running with the criminal element known as the blatonoy, the purveyors of blat in its most extreme forms. A man needed a little dough in life, the money to grease a few palms or open a few doors, like the small dough cakes called babki the Russians delighted on and gifted one another with at times. Orlov never made his big deal with the blatnoy, so he found himself in the navy, and then found that he enjoyed the rigors of the service, and his position of authority there was better than any life he could find ashore.

Where Karpov was duplicitous, scheming and often indirect, Orlov was brutally straightforward. He would have made a proper drill sergeant in the army, and would often dress men down with a boisterous harangue when he found them easing off in their duty. He enjoyed throwing his weight around, and his muscle stood him in good stead when it came to matters of discipline. A good hard shove or a slap on the back of the head were par for the course when Orlov got hot, and if a man got him particularly angry things might go far worse.

The men said Orlov’s father had done the same to him, with a hard “spare the rod, spoil the child,” attitude. Orlov made no bones about it, even bragged about it at times. “If my old man had found me doing something like that he would knock some sense into my thick head right off,” he would say. And then he would proceed to knock some sense into a junior midshipman just to illustrate the point. The men feared him more than they respected him. They jumped to order when Orlov growled, but there was no question that the Chief was disliked.

Orlov bullied and cowed every crewman on the ship, save one, the steely sergeant of the marine contingent, Kandemir Troyak, a Siberian Eskimo from the Chukchi peninsula. He was a short, broad shouldered man, very stocky, yet all muscle. When the Chief had first met the man he had tried to impose his will on Troyak as well, bawling out an order with a derisive tone, and berating a member of the marine rifle squad. The Sergeant had taken two quick steps, squaring off to the big Chief and staring him right in the eye. “Sir,” Troyak had hissed out in his low, threatening voice. “Discipline of the marine contingent is the responsibility of the Sergeant Major.” He was so close to the chief that Orlov instinctively took a step back. Troyak was, in fact, the Sergeant Major, and he was letting the Chief know that he would not tolerate his usual brash and strong armed methods where his men were concerned.

“Well, see that it gets done then!” Orlov rejoined, his neck reddening, but the Sergeant simply stood his ground, unmoving, an implacable silence about him that left the Chief feeling most uncomfortable until he dismissed the matter, looking around him quickly to spot a Maintenance Warrant Officer and wave him down as he lugged a tool kit through a hatch.

“Hey, kudá namýlilsja? Where are you going with those, you idiot?” Orlov used the incident as cover to extricate himself from the standoff with Troyak, and he never bothered the Sergeant again. When he saw seaman Martok had turned his head from a work bench, noticing the confrontation, he cuffed him hard on the right ear and told him to keep his nose in his work or he would get worse. This was Orlov, a big, brooding, intolerant presence on the ship, quick to lord it over any man junior in the ranks, yet oddly quiet and deferring around senior officers.

Karpov had seen an able confederate in the man, and often foisted off the unpleasant matters of the ship’s discipline on Orlov. So it was no surprise when he handed the Chief Nikolin’s iPod with a disapproving look on his face. “Mister Nikolin can’t hear anything on his radio. Perhaps he is deaf listening to his rock and roll.”

Orlov responded with a sneering smile, and slipped the iPod into his pocket, giving the Communications Officer a hard-faced look.

The Admiral noticed the incident, but overlooked it for the moment, his thoughts elsewhere where he sat in the command chair. The gray ice fog seemed to close in around the ship, isolating it, smothering it, choking off air and life. Leonid Volsky struggled to clear his mind and come to grips with the situation, and soon the claustrophobic feeling he had, drifting slowly forward through the frozen mist, his ship almost blind and deaf, prompted him to act.

“If you gentlemen can keep your heads about you,” he said to his two senior officers, “I’m going to see the doctor. My head is killing me!” He slid off his command chair, and shuffled past Orlov, tapping his pocket. “I’ll take that,” he said quietly, and the chief handed him Nikolin’s iPod. “Let the matter go, Chief,” said Volsky. “The men are a little bewildered at the moment.” He would make it a point to return the device to Nikolin later.

“Very well, sir,” said Orlov, and the Admiral was piped off the bridge as he went below.

Karpov gave Orlov a knowing glance. “Gone to see the wizard,” he said. He was referring to the ship’s chief medical officer, Dmitri Zolkin, a big, warm hearted and amiable man, well suited to his role as physician and psychiatrist aboard Kirov. He was a healer in every respect, and one who knew a man’s psychological health had everything to do with the condition of his body. His remedies were many and varied, and sometimes would include along quiet talk over a cold beer, which might do more to set a man straight than anything he could inject with a needle or force down his throat with a pill.

Zolkin could take a man’s soul right inside him through the portals of those open brown eyes, and give it back to him in the warmest smile anyone had ever seen beneath his ruddy red cheeks. The ship’s crew loved him, and the officers thought of him as a big brother in whom they could confide their deepest troubles. Like a great father confessor priest, he held them all in the palm of his hand, keeping every confidence and dispensing as much wisdom as he did medication from the ship’s infirmary where he held forth with the official ship’s mascot, the gentle green tabby, Gretchko the cat.

When the Admiral arrived at the sick bay two crew members were just leaving the doctor’s office, their heads lightly bandaged where they had apparently sustained minor injuries from the blast wave that had recently shaken the ship. They stiffened to attention, saluting the Admiral as he went through the door, then rushed back to their posts, casting a wary glance over their shoulders and wondering what was happening. They had experienced the concussion of the explosion, seen the odd effects in the ocean and sky around them, and although they still stood at action stations, no order to continue the exercises had been forthcoming.

“Leonid,” said the doctor. He had been on a first name basis with the Admiral for years now, ever since they met and became good friends at the naval college, over twenty years ago. Zolkin smiled, his eyes alight, drying his hands on a towel near his first aid station as the Admiral came through the door. “Don’t worry about the crew,” he said. “Just a few bumps and bruises here and there; nothing to be concerned about. But what is going on up topside, Admiral? The ship took quite a jolt there. Did we hit a mine?”

“I wish it was something that simple, Dmitri.” It was plain the Admiral was quite distressed. He quickly shared details of the situation with his physician, tipping his head to one side when he had finished, and feeling better already just to have unburdened himself. “It is the strangest situation I have ever encountered. What do you make of it, Dmitri?”

“What you suggest about Orel suffering the same fate as Kursk makes a lot of sense to me, assuming we go by the official story. But this business about Slava is somewhat puzzling, is it not? Neither ship responds to communications hails? Then you will have to conduct a thorough search. Better Slava than Orel. Easier to find a surface ship than a submarine, and also easier to spot any sign of flotsam.”

“We’ve sent the KA-226 out, but they have seen nothing conclusive yet.”

“I see,” said Zolkin. “And the explosion?”

“I am thinking we have lost Orel,” Volsky said heavily.

“An attack?”

“Karpov believed this. I am not so sure.”

“Any deliberate attack would not happen in isolation, Leonid. A surprise attack upon a Russian naval task force would be a major international incident, yes? It would have to have some context to make any sense.”

“Things were getting very difficult in recent weeks, my friend,” the Admiral explained. “Why do you think we are out here for live fire exercises? This business in Georgia has the Americans all up in arms again. They want the place to keep the back door firmly closed on Iran, yet the presence of three of our motor rifle divisions just over the border is most unsettling for them. They rattle their sword, so we rattle ours.”

“A little more talking and a little less rattling would be so much better,” said the Doctor. “Have you tried listening on shortwave to see if the world has gone crazy again?”

That very simple idea had never occurred to Volsky. If there had indeed been a surprise nuclear strike upon his homeland then something as simple as a short wave radio might provide information he needed. Why not simply tune in civilian radio stations and monitor that traffic for a while? Nikolin had been on secured military channels all this time.

“Good idea, Dmitri. Now…can you give me something for this headache?”

“Certainly, but I don’t think it’s the headache that’s really bothering you.” The doctor gave him a cursory examination to assure himself that the Admiral had not banged his head on the bulkhead. Then he looked at him with a warm expression on his face, puttering amongst his medication trays to fetch a couple of aspirin. “That’s a lot of crew to be worried about now out there on Slava and Orel. It’s a heavy burden to carry them on your back, but if this was an accident, Leonid, you can do little more than what you have suggested. Investigate the matter thoroughly, satisfy yourself as to the whereabouts of these two ships, and then report home to Severomorsk.”

“Karpov is edgy again,” said the Admiral. “He is convinced this was a deliberate attack.”

“Perhaps so, but why? The political situation was deteriorating, why else would we be here shooting missiles in the middle of nowhere like this, just as you say. But it was not all that bad. I do not think the world is crazy enough to start World War III. We are still really not over the scars left by the first two.”

The Admiral nodded, forcing a smile.

“Don’t let Karpov get under your skin,” said the doctor. “He’s your canary in the mineshaft. Listen to him, but use your best judgment. He’ll fret and fume for a while, but things will settle down soon enough, you’ll see.”

“I had best get back to the bridge,” said Volsky. “This idea about the shortwave might allow us to get our bearings again. Have you looked outside? Did you see the ocean?”

“Every crewman who has come in here in the last half hour was talking about the sea conditions. We should feel fortunate that Rodenko’s weather report was wrong today, that’s all. And perhaps it is merely an algae bloom. Such things are not that uncommon. The ocean is as temperamental as Karpov,” said the doctor. “It’s just a mood. It will pass.”

Volsky nodded, heading for the bridge, but the doctor’s suggestion would soon raise many more questions than it answered.

Chapter 5

Back on the bridge ten minutes later, the Admiral asked his radioman Nikolin to tune in anything he could find on the short wave that might shed light on the situation, but the result confused them even more. There was nothing on the radio bands at all. Every wavelength was awash with the soft hiss of background static. This went on for another half hour until the stubby first Lieutenant sat up suddenly, his hand at an earpiece as he reported with a smile.

“Signal! I have Moscow on long wave. Just heard the call sign ID. Very strange, Admiral. They signed off as Radio Moscow.” That station had been renamed ‘Voice of Russia,’ years ago.

“Well, at least Moscow is still there,” said the Admiral.

“But they are playing oldies but goodies! It reminds me of the old military music they would broadcast whenever there was a crisis. Here, have a listen…” He toggled a switch and the sonorous swells of Tchaikovsky’s violins played over his speakers. The sound touched a deep nerve in Volsky, triggering an old childhood memory. He was just a young boy at the time of the Cuban Missile crisis in 1962, but the radio had droned on and on with similar music for hours, and the deep memory carried a vaguely ominous undertone.

“Surely there must be some news being reported,” he said. “Dial in a few more regional stations. Try Oslo or Reykjavík, or perhaps even the BBC in London.”

Nikolin seemed more and more perplexed the longer he searched however. “It’s very strange, sir,” he reported. “No commercials! Just music from Oslo, Beethoven this time…Nothing much of anything from Reykjavík, and the BBC is droning on with some old World War II documentary. They’re playing speeches by Churchill and congratulating themselves over the sinking of the German battleship Bismarck.” Nikolin was skilled in three languages and could easily interpret the English. “It’s the same all across the band. Lots of commemorative radio traffic about the war. Is this an anniversary of some important event?”

Volsky smiled. “Ask Fedorov. He’s the historian aboard ship.” His young navigator was a book worm of sorts, and a bit of an Anglophile in spite of the fact that Britain was a clear enemy of Russia in the year 2021.

“Fedorov will tell you how much the British love their history,” said Volsky. “Well, keep listening to the BBC. When the documentary concludes perhaps we will get further news. But from what you have told me it does not sound like there’s any major crisis underway, much less a nuclear war. That news would be on every channel if it were so. The North Atlantic appears to be quietly sleeping under this damnable ice fog, or perhaps they are all at dinner, as we should be.”

He started away, then remembered something, reaching into his coat pocket. “Good job, Mister Nikolin,” he said with a wink. Then he lowered his voice. “Put that in your pocket.” He handed him back his iPod.

“The fog is breaking up ahead, sir,” said Karpov. “Seas appear to be rising again as well. Barometer is down twenty points from last reading, and falling.”

“Confirmed,” said Rodenko. “I have clear readings on my weather Doppler returns now. The front I was tracking is there again… but it has moved, sir.”

“Don’t surprise yourself to find the wind moves, Mister Rodenko,” said Volsky.

“Yes sir. But the winds are out of the northeast now. It was tracking from the northwest before.”

The Admiral waved at Karpov and Orlov, prompting the two men to approach. He settled back into the command chair and folded his arms thinking out loud. “We have found no evidence of Slava, nor the slightest whisper or sign of Orel. Severomorsk has not returned our signals, and we can tune in nothing but nonsense on the radio.” He shared Nikolin’s report with them and the three men huddled together speaking quietly with one another.

“This explosion we experienced may have had something to do with Orel’s demise,” said the Admiral. “That at least makes some sense to me. But the disappearance of Slava is very troubling. I’m inclined to agree with you Karpov, she may have been attacked. But if that is so, then why can’t we find the slightest trace of her, and why would our enemy break off the attack upon our ship and leave us at large? Slava was a relic. We are the target they would most want to strike, without question.”

“Perhaps it was a warning, sir,” Karpov suggested. “Sinking an old rust bucket like Slava makes a point, but does not sting quite so much. And a near miss on Kirov also makes a very direct point. If they have done this I am thinking it must be the work of an American submarine, sir,” said Karpov.

In his mind, Karpov saw the situation as he might view any impending quarrel with potential rivals. Once he had struck a particularly effective blow at a senior Gazprom manager by first discrediting one of his assistants by making sure some important statistics he needed for a report were delayed, and then savaging the man at a briefing by using those very same numbers to flay his report. The incident cast a shadow on the senior manager, making him wary and suspicious, and showing him his own vulnerability. It put fear into him, and fear had a way of slowly sapping a man’s ambition and strength. Clearly someone had struck a hard blow, not directly at Kirov, but at her weaker companion ships. It was a maneuver Karpov inherently understood, as he had practiced the tactic many times in his checkered past.

“Remember, I correctly put the ship into a high speed evasive turn sequence just after the initial detonation.” He held up a finger to emphasize the word ‘correctly.’ “I was not about to wait and hear from Tasarov that a torpedo had acquired us.”

The Captain had started a maneuver known as ‘cracking the whip.’ When threatened by a torpedo, a surface ship would increase to flank speed and make a series of high speed turns to port and then starboard and back again in order to create a series of overlapping wakes behind the ship. It was a potential defense against wake homing torpedoes, which might become confused in the churning seas and veer off in the wrong direction as they tried to follow a wake.

“You also wisely gave the order for active sonar just minutes after the explosion we detected,” the Captain continued, buttering up Volsky’s dark bread for a moment. “Perhaps these maneuvers were enough to give this submarine second thoughts.”

“It was you who argued against active sonar, Karpov,” the Admiral reminded him, seeing how he had cleverly lumped that high speed maneuver in with his own decision to go to active pinging.

“Yes sir, but given the situation I can only assume the enemy knows we are aware of him now and has broken off his attack for the time being, though he may be tracking us, very stealthily, very quietly, waiting for just the opportunity to strike again. It could be one of their new Virginia class submarines, sir. Tasarov would not hear it easily in these conditions, if at all.”

“Then you are suggesting we resume active anti-submarine operations? Orlov, what do you think?”

“I agree with the Captain, sir. It’s the only explanation that makes any sense.”

“You do not think Orel suffered an accident?”

“That’s possible, sir. But the disappearance of Slava leads me to believe something else is going on. I recommend we get one or both KA-40s up now that we have recovered the KA-226. If what Karpov suggests is true, the activity may keep this submarine from any further ideas about attacking. The Captain ordered a high speed turn right after the explosion. That was followed soon after by active sonar.” He repeated Karpov’s own logic. “Now we have slowed and the sea conditions have improved. Yet this would give the appearance that we are lying low, listening and waiting. Launch the KA-40s, Admiral. If this submarine believes we are still actively looking for him, aware of his presence, then he will think twice, even three times, before he dares strike at Kirov again. And if he does, we punch him in the face.”

It was much like Orlov to play the devil’s advocate in any situation like this, and to assume the worst possible potential outcome in any scenario. It was also typical of him to ratchet up the matter by taking some more direct action. Lying low and listening on passive sonar was a long and often boring procedure for him. He much preferred the more direct application of an active sub hunt, using the helicopters like a pair of bloodhounds to sniff out the foe while the ship waited with a strong fist of reprisal. “So we should have the torpedoes active and ready,” he said, referring to Kirov’s own anti-submarine torpedo defenses.

While the Chief had not expressed his innermost thoughts directly before this, he sided with Karpov earlier, and now seemed to be strongly reinforcing the Captain’s opinion that the ship should be operating on a wartime footing.

Volsky pressed his lips tightly together, deciding. “Very well, gentlemen, I will indulge you both. Begin active antisubmarine operations at once. We have recovered the KA-226. Now launch both KA-40s and have them each search a 180° arc around the ship.”

Captain Karpov seemed very encouraged by this, and immediately turned to Tasarov at the ASW station to inform him of the new orders. It was not merely that he had been vindicated, his fears justified, his opinions respected. He had also successfully colored the incident with his own view that this was, indeed, an attack, and no mere accident. In doing so he had discredited the Admiral’s own appraisal of the situation, and laid further groundwork to bolster the fact that he had been correct all along.

Yet on another level he was equally relieved because the ship was now taking every possible precaution against another attack, particularly against a submarine, and his inner fears were held in check by the direct actions they were now taking. They were no longer cruising sedately along through that confounding fog, a big fat target in his mind. They were no longer the victims, the target of an unseen foe. Now they were hunters. Now they were seeking well deserved revenge. Someone was going to be held accountable for the loss of Slava and Orel. It was not going to be Kirov, and by extension, it was not going to be him. If they found this enemy submarine lurking in the depths he had every intention of recommending they immediately kill it, punch it in the face, just as Orlov had put it. So he was hopeful they would have a contact soon, and he was not disappointed.

The whirling roar of the helicopters could soon be heard as they took off, one heading northeast, the other southwest. The KA-40s would position themselves just over the horizon on either side of the ship, and drop their RGB-16-1 radar hydro-acoustic buoys, extending the a ASW awareness of the ship by a considerable distance. If nothing was found they would move further, repositioning from point-to-point, dropping buoys and sending telemetry directly to Tasarov’s onboard systems. Twenty minutes later the helicopters had found something lurking in the depths of the Norwegian Sea.

The slower speed and better ocean conditions had also improved Kirov’s passive sonar reception considerably, and Tasarov was listening intently at his station, watching the data streams coming in from the distant KA-40s. Suddenly there was something different in the backwash of his signal, and he sat up stiffly more alert, noting his screen where he saw the telltale trace of the signal. The tonals were very unusual. He made some adjustments to try and tune his systems in on the contact, yet it was very faint. Possibly quite distant, he thought at first, until data from the KA-40 gave him a solid fix.

“Con, sonar contact bearing 140, range twenty-two kilometers. Possible submarine—confidence high!” Tasarov immediately reported his contact and Karpov was soon at his side, leaning in to look at his screens as the sonar man pointed out the information. He was rubbing his cold hands together now.

“It’s a very weak signal,” said Tasarov. “And it doesn’t conform to anything we have in the ESM database.” The electronic surveillance measure database stored signatures of various ship types based on their radar and signal emissions, return characteristics and electronic profiles. The contact was a clear unknown. “We barely have a hold on it,” he said, “but it’s there. Moving very slowly now, perhaps no more than ten or twelve knots.”

“They know we are listening,” said Karpov turning to the Admiral. The contact was further evidence that the scenario he had put forward was entirely correct. “Thank god I had the presence of mind to take the necessary action.” In crediting himself he stuck a bur in the Admiral, but Volsky overlooked the remark as the Captain rattled on.

“Even if we do have signatures on the American Virginia class, these boats are still very slippery, sir. That data is not yet reliable. But at least they know we are on to them now.” He turned to the Admiral, arms folded on his chest, eyes bright. “I recommend we engage the target, sir.” They had found their devious enemy, now it was time for reprisal.

The Admiral considered this, but quickly decided against an attack. “No, do not engage for the moment,” said Volsky. “If we are not at war, then we certainly don’t want to begin one, do we? But instruct the nearest helicopter to vector over that position and hold station just below 600 meters. I want to be sure they can hear our rotors if they are listening. We will show them we know exactly where they are and see if that changes the situation.”

“They will take evasive maneuvers, sir,” Karpov complained. He knew that once you had exposed a potential enemy it was essential to make a quick kill. Never let a rival regain his balance once you had him by the collar—that was a lesson his years at Gazprom had taught him very well. The longer you waited, the more chance your foe had to cover his tracks, or finagle some way of escaping your well set trap. He pushed this same thought forward in military terms. “American submarines can dive very deep, Admiral, particularly this class. We may lose them. Why not strike now while we have the contact and can plot a certain firing solution? We may not get a second chance with a submarine like this.”

The Captain had a good point, and Volsky knew it. In the grueling, silent game of ship versus sub, it was the undersea boat that always had the advantage. Victory would go to the side who heard the enemy first and established a good firing solution. A weapon active in the water, ready to acquire its target, was not even a sure defense against a stealthy attack submarine. Sixty percent of the time, a sub would hear and find the surface ship first, and also shoot first. And the ship that got off the first shot then had a strong possibility of surviving intact. Was the explosion they had experienced a first shot by this submarine, a warning intending to frighten and intimidate, as Karpov suggested? Clearly this was not a friendly submarine—or was it? The Admiral considered the possibility that this might even be the Orel, damaged but still alive. The damage could be masking the boat’s IFF signals and clouding Tasarov’s ESM readings. His heavy heart wanted to believe as much, so he decided to be very cautious here.

The Captain was just a little too quick to see ‘wood goblins’ in the taiga, or so the Admiral believed. If they fired on this contact and destroyed it, they would never know whether it was Orel. He decided to wait, unwilling to escalate the situation just yet, or to fully accept Karpov’s assertion that this was a NATO attack.

“Move the helicopter, Captain. We will observe the contact’s reaction and consider the matter further. And for good measure,” he turned to his navigator now, “Mister Fedorov, plot an intercept course and put us on that heading at once. Increase speed to 20 knots.” If this were Orel, and they could hear his helicopter above them, then perhaps the boat would surface, Volsky hoped.

“It’s very odd, sir…” Fedorov spoke up.

“What is very odd?”

“My GPS navigation systems are all still down, sir. The equipment appears to be operating correctly. I’ve tried three diagnostic tests, and even reset the entire array, but I cannot acquire any satellites. I’ll have to plot by other means.”

“We are probably still experiencing the aftereffects of this undersea explosion. Carry on.”

Karpov glanced at his Chief of Operations, and the two men met eyes, but Orlov said nothing. Reluctantly, the Captain ordered Nikolin to move the helicopter as the Admiral wished. But it was clear that he was uncomfortable with the situation, and wanted to take more aggressive action at once. He was fretting nervously, his hands still rubbing away the cold with frenetic movement.

Rodenko’s deep voice sounded yet another warning. He had been monitoring telemetry from the helicopters as well. “Con—Active radar reports new surface contact, sir. Now bearing two-zero-five degrees, 80 kilometers out.” Information was now winking onto his screens, as if the ship was awakening from the stupor that had enfolded it with the thick ice fog, and was slowly coming to its senses.

The Admiral raised his thick charcoal eyebrows, surprised with this new information, though he considered it in silence for the moment.

Karpov was not so contemplative. In his mind the new surface contact was an immediate vindication of his assessment that enemy forces were indeed operating against them now. Rodenko read the signal carefully and reported.

“This is a large signal, sir. Multiple ships, but very slow, speed no more than 15 knots.”

Who was this creeping up on them from the south, thought Volsky? A large signal? He rubbed his eyes, weary, his head still aching. “How many ships?”

Rodenko was not certain. “I make it ten, possibly twelve discrete contacts, sir. It appears to be a fairly large task force.”

“Air activity?” The Admiral wanted to know if an American carrier was coming to make their acquaintance.

“No air contacts reported, sir. This appears to be a surface action group, and they are running emissions tight. I get just the whisper of a faint radar signal. Perhaps they have found a way to drastically reduce their electronic signature, sir.”

A submarine on one side, and a large surface contact on the other, both apparently moving toward his ship like two predators stealthily stalking their prey. The Admiral considered the situation. He could feel Karpov’s uneasiness, feel the Captain’s eyes upon him, waiting, impatient, and eager to take further action. He knew what his Captain would advise, but there was something about the scenario that just did not make sense. The enemy was creeping up on him, inching along at slow speed. If he were mounting such an attack, he would be surging in from both sides and, at this range, missiles would already be in the air, inbound on his ship with bad intent. The struggle for the first salvo was the first lesson of naval combat in the modern era. Both contacts were well within range of his ship, yet neither one had fired. Were they waiting for him to take the next move? Given these circumstances, he decided to be very wary here.

“Very well… Designate the undersea contact as Red Wolf One. It will be tracked by KA-40 Alpha. Designate the surface action group as Red Wolf Two. Move KA-40 Bravo toward Red Wolf Two at once,” he said. “Rodenko, do you have any ESM signatures that can assist in identifying these vessels?”

“No sir. At least not in the combat database.”

“Radio emissions?”

“No, sir,” said Nikolin. “The contact is observing complete radio silence. I read nothing on typical communications bands.”

“Move KA-40 Bravo, and tell them to use their long range HD cameras to give me a visual on this surface contact. Let’s see where the dog is buried here.” The Admiral wanted to get to the heart of the matter. “We will show them we know they are here, and find out just who they are at the same time. They are well within range and would’ve fired on us by now if they had any aggressive intentions. The same can be said for this submarine to our north, but given this development, I think we had best turn to face this surface action group. Mr. Fedorov, hold on that submarine intercept. Helmsman, Port fifteen. Put us into a gentle turn. We will keep station here until the helo report firms up this new contact.” He voiced his reasoning, looking directly at Karpov. “So let us have a closer look, gentlemen. I want to know what I am shooting at before I commit this ship to an act of war. But keep a wary eye on that undersea contact. Karpov may yet be correct.” He threw a bone to his Captain willing to consider any possible contingency until it was proven one way or another.

The tension on the bridge increased perceptively. Karpov was fluttering back and forth between Tasarov and Rodenko, looking at the signals traffic on their monitors though he did not understand what the readings meant. Nonetheless, he would point at the screens asking questions, what is that, what is this, and it was clear that Rodenko was becoming irritated over having to explain each and every item on his scope to the Captain.

On the other side of the Combat Information Center, Orlov was hovering near the heavy set Victor Samsonov where he was completing diagnostics on his primary weapons systems. Samsonov was one of the few men the Chief never bothered much. His girth and strength were the equal of Orlov, and Samsonov was a thick-necked warrior, the hard fist of the ship when it came to battle. So Orlov had naturally befriended the man, often chatting with him on the bridge and standing close by when the smell of imminent violence was in the air.

The previous year, just after Kirov was commissioned and out for her very first sea trials, the ship had caught a Somali pirate skiff in the Gulf of Aden on Orlov’s watch. The Chief did not hesitate to take direct and immediate action. He told Nikolin to order the boat to stand by and be boarded, and when the pirates failed to comply he increased speed, closed on the skiff, and ordered one of the close in defense Gatling guns to tear it to pieces, laughing under his breath when he saw the effect of the gun on the small boat.

“That will teach them a thing or two,” he said, clapping Samsonov on the shoulder. The weapons officer was the kind of man Orlov understood and respected, one who’s training and disposition would see him solving any perceived problem with something in the ship’s considerable weapons inventory. It was as if the Chief inherently understood Samsonov, and saw him as a kind of protégé.

Yet Samsonov’s boards were clean of distinguishable ESM data as well, Orlov noted. Whatever was out there, it did not conform to any of the signatures for known Western combat vessels. There were no active radars ranging on them, which was another reason why he believed the Admiral had hesitated to take further action. In spite of Karpov’s frenetic energy, the Chief was beginning to feel that this was not a planned strike mission after all. What commander worth his salt would make such an approach? Then something else occurred to him and he spoke his mind.

“Perhaps these ships are here to investigate very same incident we have been involved with,” he suggested. “They may have detected this explosion, and dispatched a task force to the area for further information.”

Admiral Volsky nodded, his eyes grave and serious now. “And so we must be very cautious, gentlemen. Very, very cautious. You all know that we can ill afford another incident where NATO forces are concerned.” He leaned heavily on the word incident, a not so veiled reference to the loss of the destroyer Admiral Levchenko in the Mediterranean the previous year when she was maneuvering at high speed and collided with a NATO cruiser in bad weather. “Mister Samsonov, no active combat radars will be locked on Red Wolf Two until we have further information as to their intentions, is that clear?”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Samsonov’s deep basso confirmed the Admiral’s order. The big, broad shouldered man sat easily in his chair, radiating confidence that one might expect from one in his position. He sat at the business end of the most powerful surface combatant in the Russian Navy, and oceangoing gladiator. His short cropped hair, chiseled features, and burly muscularity fit the image well. Samsonov was a warrior, and eager to fight. Though he could not know then just how busy he would be in the hours and days ahead.

Chapter 6

When the video feed from the KA-40 finally reached Rodenko’s combat information center, the situation took a sudden and very unexpected turn. If Admiral Volsky thought he was perplexed before, this latest news was completely confounding. It seemed that every attempt they made to clarify the situation only seemed to muddy the waters around them, presenting impossible circumstances that they struggled to understand.

The ship’s navigator, Fedorov, was keenly interested in the images on the screen, yet his face registered obvious disbelief and surprise. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a smart phone, swiping at the screen to activate an application. Moments later he was comparing images from the helo video feed to the photos he had stored on his cell phone, a bemused look on his face.

“Those are British ships,” he began, hesitating somewhat. “But they are clearly not modern vessels. I have the entire database of Royal Navy ships back to the year 1900 right here.” He hefted his cell phone and showed them the application. “These ships are antiquated… Old World War II class vessels.”

Karpov listened, strait faced as any listener must when he heard preposterous nonsense masquerading as truth, like good, well-told vranyo over a drink at a bar. But this was no bar, and the Captain was in no mood for flights of fancy. “Tuftá, nonsense,” he said, breaking form and pointing at the screen. “Now you are hanging noodles from your ears, Fedorov. What are you saying, that they have dragged these ships out of mothball? Perhaps they are planning to use them for target practice just as we were with Slava. Go and chase the wind.” It was clear that the Captain thought he might have more success with that than with this outlandish analysis.

“You don’t understand,” said Fedorov. “I am not trying to fool you, Captain, or be glib here. That looks like an Illustrious class aircraft carrier.” He pointed at the screen, suddenly sure of what he was seeing. “It is most likely HMS Victorious, and she was sold off to the ship breakers for demolition in…” he squinted at his application, “1969.” Anton Fedorov was not lying, even if he believed his own eyes might be fooling him. He was a long time naval history buff with a particular interest in World War II. Now he was peering at the live video feed, shoulders hunched, his cap askew on a head full of thick brown hair, and he could not believe what his eyes were telling him. “That ship,” he pointed, “is even older! It looks like HMS Furious, sir, in service with the Royal Navy until 1948. You see? The typical island superstructure is completely missing. No one has designed anything like that for decades. Look at the way the forward edge of the flight deck is curved above that long, narrow bow. It’s the Furious. I’m certain of it, Captain.”

Karpov was not persuaded “This is no time to be foolish, Fedorov. Talk sense! Don’t try to tell me these ships were dragged out of the shipping yards and put back in service. We may have to resort to such measures, but our fat capitalists here do not.”

“No sir, I’m telling you these ships were scrapped—years ago! There is no way they could be put back in service.” Fedorov had a look of complete amazement on his face. “Good lord, what in the world is going on here?”

Karpov just stared at him. “You’ve spent too many hours with your nose in those history books of yours, Lieutenant, and like any good liar you begin to believe your own vranyo. This is not possible. There has to be another explanation.” Karpov refused to believe what his navigator was telling him. These had to be modern British aircraft carriers, and he said as much. But Fedorov was quick to correct him.

“With all due respect, sir, the only ship in the Royal Navy that might look anything like this carrier here,” he pointed, “would be their new HMS Queen Elizabeth. And look, sir, there’s not even any discernable island on that other carrier. There’s no modern British carrier in such a design. That has to be HMS Furious, sir. She was just a converted battlecruiser with a single deck running the full length of the hull.”

“Nonsense,” said Karpov, shaking his head.

“But sir, Queen Elizabeth is a full fleet sized carrier. 65,000 tons, and the ship we have on video is just a light carrier by comparison. Perhaps 22,000 tons. Queen Elizabeth is the newest addition to the British fleet, and her signature would be unmistakable to us on radar. We’ve already cataloged her ESM emissions long ago. And if that were Queen Elizabeth, the airspace above her would be well patrolled. Yet this fleet is moving in complete silence, with virtually no radio or radar emissions of any type. No air cover. These are simply not modern vessels, sir. I am certain of it.”

Admiral Volsky was standing behind the two men, his eyes fixed on the view screen, his mind also struggling to comprehend what he was seeing and hearing. He liked Fedorov, and often talked with him about the old war, and he had come to respect the young man’s passion and knowledge on the subject. So instead of dismissing him, as Karpov clearly did, he pressed for more information. “Those other ships?” He asked, pointing at two sizable vessels steaming to either side of the two carriers.

Fedorov squinted at the screen, then smiled, amazed, but certain of what he was seeing. “Admiral, those are two Kent class British cruisers, 14,000 tons full load. Look, those turrets there on the forward section are mounting heavy 8 inch guns. No ship has carried that kind of armament since the Second World War. In fact, the keels on those ships were laid down in the mid-1920s, and they mostly entered service by 1926. Many survived the war, but not a single one escaped the salvage yards, sir. The ships simply do not exist any longer.”

“You are certain of this?”

“Yes, sir, the three stacks amidships are unmistakable. I would know that silhouette anywhere.”

“Then we are looking at a ghost fleet?” Karpov protested. “This is preposterous! I have heard a lot of guff in my day, Fedorov, but this tops it all. It’s nonsense, I tell you.”

“It’s there,” said Admiral Volsky gesturing at the video. “Or are you suggesting the British are feeding us this video footage with some new electronic warfare gizmo?”

Karpov raised his eyebrows, thinking a moment. “That may be possible, sir.” His eyes widened as he spoke, quick to latch on to anything that would allow him to fit what he was seeing into some understandable point of reference and dispel the illusion that Fedorov was spinning out. “This could all be part of some elaborate ruse, designed to confuse us. Some kind of electronic warfare, perhaps a NATO PSYOP. That strange explosion we experienced hours ago may have been the opening salvo.”

Official deception was something Karpov could deal with much more easily. He presented the situation as a deliberate attempt by their enemies to deceive. Russians had been subjected to so many official lies over the years that they became almost incapable of recognizing truth. Their own language even used the same verb to describe coming and going, and so in that sense, a Russian never quite knew where he stood, or wither he was bound. Karpov heard Fedorov’s arguments, and deep inside he knew something was terribly wrong with the ships on the video feed, but he could not accept what the man was saying. A deliberate hoax, aimed as an attack, was the only thing that made sense to him now.

“Orlov?” The Admiral wanted to know what his Chief of Operations thought, but Orlov looked as confused as anyone. He had idled with Fedorov at times, the two of them also sharing stories of the second war where both their grandfathers had served, but this was difficult to believe. “I don’t know what to think, Admiral. But, as it is clearly impossible that the British could resurrect ships decommissioned and demolished decades ago, then we must give further thought to what the Captain suggests.”

“Impossible, you say, yet this very ship has risen from the dead, has it not? Perhaps the British are refitting their old ships as well.”

Karpov took a deep breath, stiffening, gratified that Orlov had again reinforced his position. “Enough of this game,” he said. “Where is Slava? Where is Orel? If this is a PSYOP then the British have gone too far! I recommend we hail this task force and demand immediate identification. This will put an end to this nonsense. These ships may be responsible for everything we have been dealing with here. Suppose they boarded Slava and have her under tow? That would be hijacking at sea, a clear international violation.”

“A moment ago it was this submarine that was responsible for all of our problems,” said Admiral Volsky. “Now you suggest the British are running some elaborate psychological operation aimed at confusing us and rounding up the Russian Navy, ship by ship?”

Karpov frowned, clearly unhappy with the Admiral’s remark, yet he persisted. “If they do not identify themselves under international protocols, then it is permitted to give fair warning and fire a shot across their bow, sir. Everything we have endured these last hours has been a clear provocation. It is time we let them know that the Russian Navy will not tolerate this nonsense.” He folded his arms, his anger apparent.

Admiral Volsky sighed heavily as he thought the situation through. One thing he had learned in life was that things were seldom what they seemed at first take. A man had to test the truth he chose to believe, like he would test his footing on a long icy road. The old Russian proverb came to mind here: ‘The church is near but the road is all ice; the tavern is far but I’ll walk very carefully.’ It would be easy to go and sit in Karpov’s church rather than walk that long road to what Fedorov was telling him. Yet something told him, quietly, insistently, that this was no illusion foisted off on them by the British, and he had to walk that road slowly, minding his footing with every step he took here. He decided to test the situation and indulge his Captain.

“Very well,” he said. “Mister Nikolin, I authorize you to break radio silence and hail this task force on all channels. Do so in English. Give their position, course, and speed as determined by our radar here, and request immediate identification under international protocols as the Captain suggests. Do not, give our identification unless I direct you to do so. Is that clear?”

“Aye, sir.”

The tension only increased when their message was met with absolute silence. They waited, while Nikolin repeated his hail, ten times in all, but there was no response.

“You are certain they are hearing us?” asked the Admiral.

“I’m broadcasting across the entire band,” said Nikolin. “They heard us alright, unless they are also suffering the effects of that explosion.”

“It did take us several hours before systems returned to normal,” said Orlov.

“I disagree,” said Karpov, his lips tight with obvious frustration. “Their silence is just another way to goad us, keep us in the dark.” Once you have told your lie, Karpov knew, silence was then your best friend. “I recommend stronger action, Admiral. We should engage missile radars and then see if they are willing to comply with international law and identify themselves.”

Admiral Volsky’s features were grave and drawn. He seemed very weary, his eyes closing for a time as he considered what his volatile captain was suggesting. To paint the contact with active targeting radars would certainly escalate the situation, yet if he did so they may have to reply in kind. That, at least, would give them verifiable ESM signatures on those ships, and they would learn, once and for all, whether this video feed was valid or some product of NATO engineering and counterintelligence operations.

Against his better instincts, he had already broken radio silence himself, clearly revealing his position. If he escalated it was likely his ship would soon be lit up with active radars as well. If something had slipped… If this was a war situation, then he could be making a grave mistake by being so accommodating to the enemy. With political tensions winding ever tighter, discretion was wise here. He clasped his hands behind his back, rocking his heavy frame back and forth, shifting his weight as he considered, then stilled himself, turning to Samsonov.

“Come to condition one readiness on the number three forward missile array and activate targeting radars for that system.” He was ordering his CIC Chief to activate his P-900 cruise missiles, an array of ten subsonic sea-skimmers on the forward most section of the ship, very near the bow. In effect, he would be calling the enemies bluff, challenging their silence with a sharp push on the shoulder, letting them know he was fully prepared to take further action if they did not comply. Yet something within him whispered extreme caution. The situation was still a muddle of unanswered questions. Samsonov, like a note played on a well tuned keyboard, was quick to respond, activating his targeting radars and engaging the surface contact with an active signal.

“Mr. Nikolin,” said the Admiral. “Please repeat your hail.”

The tension was palpable on the bridge of Kirov when Rodenko reported a new and worrisome development. “Con, radar contact, airborne at 37 kilometers, south by southwest, and bearing on our position. Multiple contacts now! I read five… now six contacts, all airborne.”

“They are launching!” said Karpov. “I warned as much, Admiral. This is a NATO carrier task force after all. Recommend we come to full battle readiness. Prepare to oppose incoming air attack.” He turned to Fedorov, eying him darkly. “There’s your carrier air operations,” he said. “They were lying in wait. Playing possum!” Karpov was, of course, going to see the goblins he had conjured up in his own mind. From his point of view, the enemy was doing exactly what he would have done. They were simply springing a well laid trap, nothing more, nothing less.

Samsonov looked over his shoulder and Admiral Volsky noted how his hand was poised over the alert readiness alarm. The ship was already at action stations, but full alert would send the crew scrambling to a heightened level of preparedness.

“Speed?” The Admiral wanted to know what he was dealing with. Was this a missile barrage or a flight of strike aircraft as Karpov warned?

“Very slow, sir.” Rodenko watched his readings closely for a moment, realizing the gravity of the situation. If these were missiles the ship had but minutes, even seconds to respond. He wanted to make certain he was interpreting all the data accurately, and he hoped his systems were fully recovered from the anomaly they had experienced. His system showed no identifiable missile types inbound. Was it correct? All this passed in the barest moment within his mind, then he gave his best judgment.

“One contact inbound on our position…five contacts appear to be orbiting the surface group. These are aircraft, sir. Not missiles. I repeat. This is not a missile barrage.”

“How long before the inbound contact reaches us?” The game of cat and mouse between Russian and NATO forces had been ongoing for decades now. Both sides had been conducting active maneuvers in Norwegian Sea in recent years, each closely monitoring the activities of the other, and this could be nothing more than another overly curious NATO surface action group sent here to nose about his business, or perhaps, as Orlov suggested, they were merely investigating the anomaly Kirov herself had encountered.

“Inbound contact speed… 180 KPH, approximate,” said Rodenko. “Perhaps a Harrier jump jet, sir, or possibly a helicopter. It’s certainly not an F-35 at that speed.” He was referring to the F-35 Lightning II, a stealthy, supersonic joint strike fighter rumored to be slated for deployment on the newest British carrier, Queen Elizabeth. “Inbound contact will be over us in 10 minutes, sir.”

“What about our KA-40?”

“It is already inbound as well, 10 kilometers out now. Probably already visible on the horizon.”

“Mister Nikolin,” said the Admiral. “Instruct the KA-40 to move due west away from our position. Designate this incoming plane as Red Wolf Three. They are to lock their air defense missile systems onto this contact, and hold fire pending further notification. Repeat, weapons tight.” The Admiral turned to Samsonov next. “Mister Samsonov activate primary air defense systems array and lock radar on contact. Weapons tight. The SA-N-92 system, if you please.” He was activating his medium range “Gauntlet” air defense missiles.

“Weapons tight, Admiral?” There was a derisive tone to Karpov’s voice. “You’re going to let them overfly us?” An over-flight would be standard operating procedure for any NATO task force. The plane would sweep gracefully by, the pilot thumbing his nose at the Russians as he passed. Sometimes they would launch emergency flares as mock weapons to rub in the fact that they could just as easily have launched live munitions. It had happened a thousand times before, largely without incident, but the circumstances here were quite different and the Admiral knew it. The fact that both Orel and Slava were still missing weighed heavily in the equation.

Karpov’s wide eyed look of astonishment communicated his feelings on the matter transparently. Volsky knew that if the Captain had his way, this plane would be destroyed in a heartbeat. But he also knew that if he were to destroy the target, the enemy task force may be compelled to reply in kind, and he would soon find himself engaging ten to twelve NATO ships. If Karpov was correct, and this was a deception, then those ships were not old British carriers and cruisers, either. They would be lethal, modern ships like his own.

At that moment Nikolin noticed something on his radio band monitor and listened briefly. He had hold of the signal from London they had been waiting for, the BBC News broadcast at the top of the hour, regular as rain in these cold Arctic waters. Yet what he heard made no sense.

“BBC news broadcast, sir, but it’s very odd.”

The Admiral was eager for any more information he could get. “Let me hear it,” he said.

“Admiral,” Karpov protested. “We have no more than seven or eight minutes now!”

Volsky raised his hand, quieting the man as he listened. The signal seemed faint and weak, and it was like nothing he had heard in recent years.

Four sonorous notes of Beethoven’s fifth Symphony sounded, and Fedorov’s eyes widened as he listened, recognizing the famous allied V for victory call sign that was used in tandem with that musical motif throughout WWII.

“You mean to say this documentary business continues?” said the Admiral. “This is not the regularly scheduled live news broadcast?”

Fedorov spoke up, realizing that what he was about to say sounded incredulous, but needing to voice the opinion in any case. “Sir, we have clear video of the approaching task force. They are World War II era ships! And we are hearing a news broadcast from 1941… In fact that’s all that has been on the radio band for the last three hours.” He made no further conclusion, thinking it more than enough to simply link these two pieces of the puzzle together.

Karpov gave him an angry glance, waving at him dismissively. “Ridiculous!” he said sharply. “That air contact will be over us in five minutes now.”

“So we will wait for it, Mister Karpov,” said Volsky. Given the circumstances, he had decided there was simply nothing else he could do. When the plane arrived they would identify its markings and type by clear visual contact, putting an end to the mystery once and for all. In the Admiral’s mind, an answer to his many questions was just five minutes away.