Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) (5 page)

 “You’ve had
an easy life these last ten days or so, Mr. Nikolin,” said Fedorov. “Now would
you kindly do a full search of the entire radio band. Scan everything, AM, FM,
wireless and short wave bands as well, and please notify me of anything you
receive.”

“Aye, sir.”
The young
mishman
was soon busy at his radio set, and then Fedorov
turned to his last senior midshipman on the watch, Victor Samsonov, his strong
right arm at the Combat Information Center.

“Mr.
Samsonov,” he said coolly. “Your report, please.”

Samsonov
swallowed hard, his thick features uncertain for a moment, then launched
himself into a standard status check report, his voice deep and clear. “Sir,”
he began, “I have nothing on my board by way of an active contact, and no
systems are engaged at this time. The aircraft which made that strafing run has
vanished, as least that is what my systems indicate. My board notes two fire
control radar systems reporting red with full malfunction—both on the forward MR-90
systems, and I have one yellow light on the S-300 system as well.”

There was
apparently damage to the ship’s medium range air defense guidance radar sets
for the “Klinok” (Blade) surface to air missile package, the ship’s primary AA
defense for threats at medium ranges between thirty and 90 kilometers. NATO
planners once referred to it as the “Gauntlet” system due to its lethal
efficiency, and the system aboard
Kirov
had seen many improvements since
that time. The yellow light on the S-300s referred to the longer range vertically
mounted SAMs on the far forward deck, a separate system, but equally lethal.
They had used it weeks ago to devastate the carrier air flights off
Victorious
and
Furious
, and the thought that it might be compromised in any way
filled Fedorov with misgivings.

“Anything
more?”

“All three
main SSM systems report green sir. We have full fire control and I have spun up
one silo to full battle readiness for each system.” The ship’s real teeth, the
lethal ship to ship missile batteries beneath their hatches on the long
foredeck, were as sharp as ever.

“Very well,”
Fedorov nodded, remembering that the Admiral would often use that same
expression after receiving a report. And for that matter he assumed as well the
familiar stance that Volsky would adopt while he took stock of a tactical
situation on the bridge, arms clasped behind him, chin high and a observant eye
to the seas around them—mid-day seas, with the sun glistening of the low wave
caps and high in the sky. He had watched the old man with much admiration many
times from his former post at the navigation station, and he took heart to know
that the Admiral was on his way at this very moment, collecting his thoughts
for the report he would soon be asked to give himself. But minutes passed and
Volsky did not appear. Time stretched on and he stood there, not knowing what
to do next.

A low tone
sounded and Fedorov walked quickly to the comm-receiver near the Admiral’s
chair to answer. “Executive Officer Fedorov here,” he said, eager to hear the
voice of Admiral Volsky again in return, but instead it was Dr. Zolkin in the
infirmary.

“I’m
afraid we have casualties, Mr. Fedorov,”
the voice said in a low and serious tone.
“If the
situation allows, could you please come to sick bay?”

Fedorov
hesitated briefly, wondering. Then he marshaled his courage and spoke up,
trying to keep his voice clear and level. “Very well, Doctor. I need to run
down damage reports, but I’ll see what I can do.”

As he
slipped the receiver back into its holder he had a sinking feeling that he knew
why the Admiral had not yet reached the bridge.

Chapter 3

Lingering
near the Admiral’s chair Fedorov
realized that he might soon be sitting there in a way he had never fully
imagined, or even desired. Yet the urgency of the moment pulled at him. He
could still hear claxons sounding and knew there was a fire below decks. The
damage control parties were scrambling to douse the flames, and when he looked out
the forward view pane he could see a column of thick black smoke rising past
Kirov’s
tall central tower, up past the main mast where it darkened the rotating radar antennae
with soot.

Chief Byko
called up to the bridge to report the full extent of the damage, which seemed
remarkably light given the sound and fury of the attack they had just endured.
One of the lifeboats on the port side had been riddled with machinegun fire and
set ablaze. Heavier rounds had piled into the main superstructure, some
penetrating to the outermost compartments in the interior of the ship, where
three seamen lost their lives and seven more were wounded by shrapnel. An
examination of the damage showed that the worst of the attack had been aimed at
the command citadel, though remarkably little harm was done there. The 200mm
armor plating surrounding the critical systems and personnel in this area had
deflected most of the heavier rounds, but some of the more sensitive radar and
electronics components above suffered serious damage. The port side radar
control for the Klinok (SA-N-92) Missile system was shot completely through and
virtually shattered. Byko had engineers up on the roof of the citadel removing
the unit and gauging their chances of replacing it with reserve components from
the engineering bay.

Rodenko
finally seemed to get his primary search radars clear of interference and was
getting a good picture of the area around the ship, though his range seemed limited.
“All clear for the moment,” he said to the Executive Officer. “I suppose we can
count ourselves lucky that they didn’t hit the main search radars. Our Voskhod
MR-900 system is green and the 3D Fregat MR-910 on the aft mast is fully
operational. Not sure why our signal range is so attenuated at the moment, but
it was not from any damage sustained in that attack.”

“We had the
same situation with signal range the last time,” said Fedorov. My Navigation
Radars were at 50% of capacity for several hours.”

“The last
time?” Rodenko looked at him. “You mean to say—”

“That was no
modern aircraft that just hit us,” said Fedorov. “In the heat of the moment I
could not get a clear look at the plane, but I did see enough to know it was a
twin engine fighter—probably a Beaufort or perhaps even a BF -110.”

Samsonov
frowned. He had never heard of either aircraft, and realized things were
skewing off in an impossible direction again. “Then we are still back to the Second
World War? This is crazy! What is going on?”

Fedorov
looked at him, thinking, but said nothing for a moment. Remembering the attack,
he recalled the piercing lights that lanced through the bridge compartment.
Rodenko had seen them as well, and he questioned him about it.

“Those lights,
Rodenko. Do you remember what happened?”

“I thought
it was a laser,” said Rodenko. “Came right through the main bulkhead of the
citadel and hit the decks. But, as you can see, there is no damage at all.” He
scratched his head, clearly flummoxed by the attack.

“It was probably
rounds from the main cannon on that aircraft,” said Fedorov.

“Impossible,”
Samsonov complained. “Right through our armor? Then where are the holes?”

“I don’t
think they really hit us,” Fedorov began, still feeling his way through the
explanation himself, trying to get his mind around it even as he spoke. “This
trouble with the ship’s reactor Dobrynin reported… and strange light on the sea
just before the attack, the odd pulsation in the air—it was all just as we
experienced it before. I think we may have slipped again, moved in time again.”

“But how?”
Rodenko and Tasarov both turned in their chairs now, keenly attentive to what
Fedorov was saying. The other crew members were listening, though Rodenko waved
a hand at one, a look of annoyance on his face that set the man back to his
watch on the radar.

Fedorov
stepped closer and the four men seemed to form a circle, the senior officers on
the bridge now, Fedorov as the acting
Starpom
, or First Officer, and his
senior Lieutenants, Rodenko, Tasarov and Samsonov. He went on, still trying to
sort through the situation in his mind as he spoke.

“Suppose we moved
again,” he began. “God only knows where now, but it was clearly not forward in
time. We’ve slipped
back
again—or we were pulled back again. Who knows
why? But it was as if we were not quite all here when that plane came in on us.
Some of those rounds seemed to pass right through the bridge, just as you say
Rodenko, like a laser. Then, as we solidified in this moment, the shells began
to bite against the citadel’s armor. We got off rather easy with this attack.
Those cannons could have done a lot more harm if they had hit more critical
systems, but I think most of the rounds passed right through us…because we
weren’t really
here
yet—we were still manifesting in this new time.”

He realized
how crazy his words must sound, but by now the crew had come to accept the
impossible circumstances of their situation. “Look at the time,” Fedorov
pointed to the chronometer. “It is two in the morning, and we should be in the
thick of night. Please correct me if I am wrong, but it is broad daylight now.
Where has the night gone? Unless the earth’s rotation has suddenly changed, we
have obviously moved in time.”

“But there
was no nuclear detonation,” said Rodenko. “How did it happen this time? How
could we move again like this?”

“I don’t
know…” Fedorov was quick to admit his own ignorance. “We may never know. It
could be that we have never really settled in time again after that first accident
that sent us reeling into the past. Ever skip a rock on a pond? Perhaps we are
skipping along in time like a stone skips on the water. We landed in 1941, and
then skipped off the water into that nightmare world of the future, only to
fall back into the drink again. We just sailed across the Atlantic, so we have
deliberately moved in space.”

“That I
understand,” Rodenko argued. “But I see no controls at the helm for time
displacement! How is it possible?”

“I said I
don’t know,” said Fedorov. “Look—we won’t be able to sort through all of this any
time soon. It took us days to realize what had happened the first time, but we
may not have the luxury of time like that again. We need to be alert and ready,
and must assume we are still not where we belong. If we
have
moved
again, we need to find out where we are, because if we’ve landed back in the
1940s as before, then this could be a very dangerous place.” He pointed to the
forward view pane. “Don’t be lulled by those nice calm seas and clear blue
skies. The Mediterranean was a cauldron of fire during the Second World War,
and we’ve sailed right into the middle of it. If I could only figure out the
date and time…” He remembered his radio man and turned to that station, his eyes
alight.

“Anything to
report, Mr. Nikolin?”

“Nothing
yet, sir. The band is all clouded over. I think I’m starting to get a signal,
then I lose it. It comes and goes like that, but I get nothing clear enough to
record.”

“Well, keep
at it.” He surveyed the bridge, thinking what to do next. The situation had
calmed for the moment, and he wanted to get below and see the damage first
hand, but even more to get to the infirmary and see what the Doctor was calling
about.

“We’ll sort
out what has happened soon enough,” he concluded. “In the meantime I need to
find the Admiral and give my report. Stay on that scope, Rodenko—all of you—be
keenly alert now. And Mister Samsonov,” he warned, “we cannot afford to be caught
by surprise again. I assess no blame here. None of us saw that plane until it
was right on top of us. But don’t let another aircraft get within striking
range of this ship, eh? If Rodenko finds anything and feeds you a contact, you
have my permission to fire at will and shoot it down. I’m afraid the
circumstances compel us to shoot first and ask questions later until we know
what has happened and where we are.” He straightened his cap, resolved.

“And now,
gentlemen, I must go below. Mister Rodenko—you have the bridge.”

“Aye, sir.”

He made
his way out the hatch and down the
stairway to the decks below. Men saluted as he passed, to his uniform and rank
if nothing else. They knew him as Fedorov, the young dreamer at navigation,
lost always in his books when he wasn’t on duty, and always ruminating on the
dusty pages of history past. Yet, with the rumors that had been circulating
about the Admiral, they were glad, at least, to see a ranking officer in their
midst. Karpov and Orlov were still locked up in the brig, and most of the other
senior officers were on the bridge. Though many of the junior officers still
thought of Fedorov as one of their own, the fact remained that he was now
wearing three stripes and two pips of a Captain Lieutenant, and was designated
Starpom
,
the First Officer of the Boat in authority beneath Admiral Volsky.

Down in the
lower decks, the chief warrant officers, or
mishmanyy
, held sway,
commanding the ranks of
starshini
below them, Chiefs and Petty Officers
of various classes, down through Senior Seamen, though the bulk of the 750 man
crew were still at the lowest navy rank, the
matpoc
who carried out all
the daily tasks required to keep the ship running in good order. The men still
had on their bright orange and yellow life vests and helmets, already hosing
down and swabbing the decks where residual fire damage had occurred.