Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) (6 page)

Fedorov saw
where the worst of the attack had riddled an outer hatch with sharp punctures,
the metal spraying inward as shrapnel to kill and wound several men in this
compartment. Some of the overhead insulated piping and wire conduits that ran
in cluttered runs along the roof had also been sheered to ribbons, and
technicians were already at work there, cutting and replacing wire and nosing
about in an electrical panel fuse box that was blackened with recent fire.

“How bad was
it?” he asked a seaman where he worked.

The young
man looked up at him, saluting when he saw Fedorov’s cap and shoulder insignia.
Then he recognized the face, and half smiled in recognition. His eyes clouded
over soon after. “There was a lot of shrapnel. We lost three men here,” he said:
“Gorokhov, Kalinin and Pushkin. The rest weren’t too bad off. The
starshina
sent them to the sick bay twenty minutes ago.”

Fedorov knew
one of the men well enough to take the news with a bit of a sting. He nodded,
his features taut but controlled. “I’m off to see about them then,” he said.

“What was
it, sir?” the seaman asked, his eyes wide.

“An aircraft
of some sort. We haven’t sorted it out yet, but stand easy. Rodenko is on the
watch and we are in no further jeopardy at the moment.”

“But what
about the Admiral, sir? Is it true he was killed in the attack as they say?”

“Killed?”
Fedorov tried to sound as if he knew what he was about, but the news shook him,
and the look on his face could not conceal the emotion. “We have not heard
that, seaman,” he said in a low voice, “but I will keep the ship informed. For
now we can only carry on. As you were.”

Fedorov
edged past the man into a long corridor and made his way quickly through the
ranks toward sick bay. Along the way many men pressed him with questions, but
he bid them to attend to their duties and hurried on, which did little to quell
the anxiety that seemed to jangle the nerves of the whole ship’s crew now.

Killed? The
thought of Volsky dead was leaden on him now. If that were so then it would all
fall on his shoulders, the responsibility for commanding the entire ship and
crew. In truth, he never wanted a command position, being content with his
status as the ship’s navigator. Admiral Volsky had been a mentor, and almost a
father to him. He listened to him, guided him, and was slowly easing him into
his new role as
Starpom
these last days. He can’t be gone, thought
Fedorov. He can’t! But if it were so he knew he would have to set an example
for the others now. Volsky was the one great link that seemed to bind this crew
together. They loved the man and would do anything for him, which is why
Karpov’s betrayal and mutiny was doomed to fail from the moment he first planned
it. But now…if the Admiral was gone…

What would
the men think? They had been through a great deal these last days. Even the
long, uneventful cruise across the Atlantic had filled them all with a sense of
foreboding ever since they first made landfall on the Azores. Rumors quickly
circulated that everyone was dead and there was nothing but burned out wreckage
and fire scored bones left on the islands. When they finally entered the
Mediterranean Sea and scouted north to Toulon and then down the coast of Italy,
the men could finally see for themselves that the rumors were true. They had
gathered in groups on the outer decks, clustering near the gunwales and
railings to gawk at the destruction of Rome and Naples. It did little to
improve morale. Were they the last survivors of a terrible war, they wondered?
And what would become of them now?

At length
Fedorov reached the sick bay, seeing two first class seamen leaving with a
salute just as he arrived. One had a bandaged head and the other had his arm in
a sling, but neither man looked seriously injured. He slipped through the
hatch, catching a glimpse of three bodies shrouded in white sheets on the
tables at the far end of the room. His heart leapt when he thought he might see
the Admiral lying there but then Zolkin appeared from the next room with a wan
smile. The bearded, bespectacled senior medical officer was a Captain of the
second rank after his long career in the Russian Navy. He was, in fact, two
ranks above Fedorov, though the medical branch was not in the operational arm
of the service.

“Ah, Mister
Fedorov. I was hoping to see you soon. They tell me that a plane strafed the ship?
Is this so? I hope there was not any serious damage. As you can see we have
already lost enough.” He gestured grimly to the three bodies.

“All is well—for
the moment,” said Fedorov. “But what about the Admiral, doctor? The men tell
me—”

“Don’t
bother with what the men are saying,” said Zolkin. “Here I was just lecturing
these last two to keep their composure and stop with all these preposterous
rumors. One man says this, another one says that, and the next thing you know
the
Titanic
is sinking off our starboard bow.” He was drying his hands
with a clean white towel as he spoke, and Fedorov could not help but notice the
blood stains on his medical apron.

First blood,
he thought. The enemy, whoever they were this time, had finally put claws into
the ship, and hurt us with an attack.

“Then the
Admiral is alive?”

“Of course
he’s alive—at least he was five minutes ago—but he’ll have one hell of a
headache when he wakes up. He was struck by shrapnel when that plane came in on
us. What in the world is going on, Fedorov? I thought we were clear of danger,
floating around in some new nightmare of our own making. Now this! What has
happened?”

“Admiral
Volsky will recover?”

“Yes, he’s
just in the next room. Leg wound and a superficial side wound, but he was
apparently trying to climb the long maintenance ladder on the main tower and
fell when we were fired on. What was that old man thinking by trying to climb that
ladder at his age? The Admiral has been in fairly good health, but he is no
spring chicken. Now he has a nasty weal on the side of his head, and probably a
nice concussion for his trouble as well. But I’ve patched him up and he’ll be
well enough in a few days.”

“We lost
three men?”

“I’m afraid
so. There was nothing I could do for them. They were dead before the rescue
crews got them to me. Lucky for Volsky that a fire crew fetched a stretcher and
got him in here safely. But what about my question. What’s going on out there?”

“We don’t
know just yet.”

Fedorov was
going to say he was as much in the dark as anyone else, but an inner voice
reminded him that he needed to show more resolve now, and muster all the
strength at his disposal. At that moment, the comm unit buzzed and Zolkin
glanced at it over the rim of his round silver spectacles.

“Be my
guest,” he gestured as he finished drying his hands. “It’s probably for you in
any case, yes? I’ll get rid of this apron and tidy up.”

Fedorov
reached for the handset and answered. It was Issak Nikolin, his radio man
reporting on a signal.
“It came in on the wireless bands, fairly weak but
audible. Sounded like ship to ship traffic, sir. I recorded it, but it is in
English. Something about an eagle.”

“An eagle?”

“Yes sir,
but I think it’s something about a ship—they say it’s the fifth of the war now,
at least I was able to hear that much. Then the signal cut loose and I lost it
again.”

Fedorov
thought hard for a moment. An eagle…a ship…the fifth of the war… Then his mind
suddenly joined the three odd clues and he knew like a thunderclap what it was
about, and where they were!

“Keep
listening, Mister Nikolin. I’ll be on the bridge again shortly.”

Fedorov’s
mind reeled with the sudden realization that had come to him. How could he be
sure? How could he get confirmation?

“More bad
news?” asked Zolkin as he tossed his soiled medical apron into a hamper. “You
look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Here, why don’t you sit down for a moment,
Fedorov.”

“No time, Doctor.
I’ve got too much on my back just now.”

Zolkin gave
him an understanding look, and clasped him by the shoulder. “Yes, I can feel
it,” he said with a wry smile. “Take your time, young Captain Lieutenant. Catch
your breath and give yourself a moment. You’ve been under the spotlight all
these last days in your new post, and that’s enough to unsettle most any man.”

“Thank you,
Doctor,” Fedorov nodded, and then lowered his voice. “I think something has
slipped again. That was Nikolin with a fragment of radio traffic. I think I may
know what has happened—where we are—and it gives me no cause for comfort. How
soon before the Admiral might recover?”

“Hard to
say. He’ll need at least a day before I allow you to pile your load on to his
belly again. I’m afraid you’ll have to carry things for a while longer. Go and
see to your business on the bridge, and if you can manage to get some sleep,
that would be good as well. I see we have an unaccountable day, and my night’s
sleep is gone as well, but I take it to have something to do with all the other
scenes in this nightmare we’ve been living these last weeks. Come back when you
know more and we’ll all have a chance to sort it through—you, me and the
Admiral.”

“Probably
best,” said Fedorov. “I’ll get up to the bridge then—oh yes—do you remember
that book I brought with me and gave to the Admiral? The Chronology of the War
at Sea?”

“Need to do
some more reading? What are you fishing out now, Fedorov?”

“I need to
check some dates and times.”

Zolkin folded
his arms, rubbing his thick beard as he thought. “Well I think the Admiral had
that book in his quarters. After this Karpov business was finished it kept him
up reading a good many nights.”

“Thank you,
Doctor. I’ll be off now.” He looked at the three men lying under those sheets.
“What should we do about them? I suppose a burial at sea would be appropriate.”

“I’ll handle
that,” said Zolkin. “You’ve enough to worry about as things stand now. Go and
find your book.”

Fedorov
tipped his hat with grim nod as he left, and Zolkin shook his head after him.

Yes, there
was a great deal on his shoulders now, thought Fedorov. More than he had ever
tried to carry in his life. He wondered if it would break his back, or if his
legs would give out from under him in a crucial moment that would cost them all
much more than the lives of those three men.

As he walked
on down the long corridor to the ship’s officer’s quarters a fragment of a poem
came to him when he thought about the men he had seen there in sick bay.

No heroes death for those who die
in boats where none can see.
no wreaths, no flags, no bugle calls -
just peace, beneath the sea…

Part II

The Operation

"It will be necessary to make
another attempt to run a convoy into Malta. The fate of the island is at stake,
and if the effort to relieve it is worth making, it is worth making on a great
scale. Strong battleship escort capable of fighting the Italian battle squadron
and strong Aircraft Carrier support would seem to be required. Also at least a
dozen fast supply ships, for which super-priority over all civil requirements
must be given. I shall be glad to know in the course of the day what proposals
can be made, as it will be right to telegraph to Lord Gort thus preventing
despair in the population. He must be able to tell them: “The Navy will never
abandon Malta.”

- Prime Minister, Sir Winston
Churchill

Most Secret memo to
the first lord of the Admiralty, the First Sea Lord, and his Chief Of Staff,
Gen. H. L. "Pug" Ismay.

Chapter 4

Fedorov
flipped through the pages of his
book, intent on running down Nikolin’s clues in the history. His first thought
was that the ship had rebounded in time, and had returned to the year 1941, but
as he read the entries for activity in the Mediterranean, he could see nothing
that mated with the cryptic message his radio man had received. He was sitting
in the quiet of the Admiral’s cabin, where he had found the book there on the
nightstand, just as Zolkin had advised him.

“An eagle, a
ship, the fifth of the war,” he muttered aloud. He was sure of his hunch now.
HMS
Eagle
was the name of a British aircraft carrier operating in the
Med during 1941 and 1942. She was found by a German U-boat that slipped inside
her destroyer screen and the carrier was hit by four torpedoes broadside,
keeling over and sinking in a matter of minutes. There! He had the reference
now, and he had slipped in a photograph of the from page of the Daily Telegraph
when the story broke in England under the glaring headline: “Fifth Aircraft
Carrier Lost.” He squinted at the blurry text, reading:

“Admiralty
communiqué this afternoon announced that the aircraft carrier H. M. S.
Eagle
has been sunk by a U-boat in the Mediterranean. A large number of the ship's
company are safe. Next of kin will be informed as soon as details are received.