Kirov

by John Schettler

  “Incapacitated?” Volsky shook his head, his anger building as he hurried along as fast as his thick legs would carry him down passageway. Pushing through a wardroom he looked quickly at the men there, seeing them up and fetching their heavy coats and life preservers. He quickly matched faces to skill sets in his mind. “Velichko, Gromenko, Kalinichev—follow me. Kosovich, go to the Marine Quarters and tell Sergeant Troyak to come to the aft citadel with a rifle squad.”

  Volsky was collecting officers and heading for the aft citadel, a secondary bridge below decks, sometimes called the “battle bridge,” that would serve as an auxiliary command center for the ship in the event the main bridge was damaged or otherwise out of action. It had control stations for every main element of the ship, including a combat information center, helm station, communications, radar and sonar; and it was also protected by an armored shell of 200mm Kevlar coated hardened steel armor, just as the main bridge. It was even served by the Tin Man optical sighting equipment mounted on the forward watch decks. Signals and HD video from the devices would feed directly to the aft battle bridge as well.

  The men were shocked to see the Admiral, yet pleased. They were up and in his wake immediately, and along the way the Admiral collared Fedorov and gave him an another order. “Go to the sick bay again and fetch the doctor with his medical bag,” he said. “Then come to the aft citadel as soon as possible.” To Velichko he said: “You go and tell Chief Engineer Dobrynin to report to me at once. Then get Chief Martinov in ordinance as well. I want them both. Quickly now!”

  They pressed on through narrow passages, the red combat lighting casting a ruddy hue on the lime green walls and thick bundled cables that carried the pulse of all the electronics on the ship, connecting radars, computers, control consoles. Volsky had counted four missile launches and two more roared away just as stepped up through the last hatch to the outer deck of the battle bridge. He looked up, surprised. There stood Sergeant Troyak and a squad of armed marines.

  ~ ~ ~

  112 miles or 180 kilometers to the south, the American Task Force 16 had run far enough. Some time ago, the group had slowed to make a graceful wide turn, coming about to face the pursuing enemy with all hands at battle stations. The four transports had long since taken on the wounded and other survivors of TF-1, and hurried on south, escorted by two destroyers. The rest of the force reformed around the TF flagship captained by Jerauld Wright on the old battleship Mississippi.

  Once she had been called a super-dreadnought, “a great modern battleship,” or so read the notation in Popular Mechanics in 1936. The battleship was commissioned in 1917, the largest ship in the navy at the time at 32,000 tons, and hailed as “one of the world’s mightiest ships.” Many before her had made that same claim, the mighty Hood, the mighty Bismarck, and many after her would do so as well.

  By 1941, however, she was a throwback to an earlier day, much like the older Royal Navy battlewagons still slogging along as they put in useful service escorting convoys. She had a cluttered, unkempt look about her, with dark slate colored superstructure in a paint scheme called ‘North Atlantic Gray’ that gave her a brooding appearance and lent her the nickname ‘The Pirate Ship’ to those who saw her from afar. But to her own crew she was more affectionately known as ‘The Missy.’ Her superstructure and turret sides were festooned with hanging oval shaped life rafts and her forecastle was broken by metal sided tiers where open topped AA gun batteries were mounted, including the then state-of-the-art quadruple 1.1s.

  For serious business, the ship carried four big turrets, paired fore and aft with three 14 inch guns each, though there had not been much use for them thus far in her career.

  The old battleship stood as the core of Task Force 16, out with new orders to find and kill any hostile ship within 300 miles of the coast of Newfoundland. Captain Wright received a message indicating that Kaufman’s destroyers in Desron 7 were already charging in to get at the enemy, and he was elated. He thumbed the switch on his ship’s intercom. “Now hear this,” he said in a loud clear voice. “We’ve seen our transports safely off some time ago, and now we have orders to find this enemy ship that bushwhacked the Wasp. It looks like Desron 7 already has the scent, and we’re going after those bastards … Is Mississippi ready?”

  “Aye, Aye, sir!” said every man on the bridge, and they could hear the echoes of the very same response all through the ship below, from a over a thousand other officers and men. Her twelve 14 inch guns and fourteen 5 inch guns were primed and loaded. Every hand aboard was standing to at a weapon or other action station, their faces set and grim. The big ship’s engines were thrumming as she labored along at her top speed of 21 knots, her sharp bow cutting into the sea.

  Mississippi was ready.

  ~ ~ ~

  Admiral Volsky Stepped boldly up to the guarded hatch where Troyak stood with his men. His mind considered the possibility that Karpov had posted these men here, but he discarded the thought. It would not matter. He knew Troyak all too well.

  “That was quick moving,” said the Admiral. “I only gave the order for you to report here minutes ago.”

  “Sir, I was ordered here by Captain and told no one was to enter the Aft Citadel.”

  “The Captain is industrious today,” said Volsky. “Fortunately, I am an Admiral. Stand aside, Sergeant. You men there—open that hatch,” he said in a clear voice. As he expected, Troyak immediately complied. His men cleared the entrance way; two marines threw the hatch open and then stood by at attention. The Sergeant had been posted here with a squad, and here he was, yet ready to do the bidding of any senior officer on the scene. The Admiral of the Fleet was before him, and he stood sharply to attention, saluting. The man was obviously not incapacitated, as Karpov had told him. Seeing was believing.

  Volsky stepped up and through the hatch, a train of young junior officers following behind him. As he did so Fedorov came running down the long passage with Doctor Zolkin. The men gathered in the battle bridge, a single watch stander there jumping up to attention when they entered.

  “Admiral on the bridge,” said Fedorov when he pushed through the hatch. The sharp staccato of the forward deck guns added a measure of urgency. Kirov was firing at something, which meant the enemy ships were closer than the Admiral believed.

  Volsky looked back at Fedorov, and winked. “Sergeant Troyak,” said the Admiral. “Post two marines here and secure this hatch. Then take the remainder of your squad to the main bridge and force entry. Wait for the engineers, if necessary, but you are to secure the main bridge and hold every man there until further notice. Under no circumstances is Captain Karpov to insert his command key into any system on the bridge. Understood?”

  “Sir!” Troyak barked out an order in his Siberian dialect, and his men rippled into action.

  The Admiral straightened his cap, briefly surveyed the battle bridge, and then turned to the group of young officers he had collected. “Velichko—sonar; Kalinichev—radar; Gromenko—CIC; Kosovich—helm; Fedorov—navigation. He looked and saw that Lieutenant Nikolin had joined his group, just coming off leave, and graciously waved him to his post at communications. “Gentlemen, take your posts.” And to the other yeoman and midshipmen that had followed his column, drifting in from quarters and non essential duty stations he said: “Any man trained may take a station. The rest return to your regular duty posts.” The men moved eagerly to monitors, three filing into the Combat Information Center to join Gromenko where he sat before a dark, lifeless monitor set.

  Volsky strode over to the CIC where a central module held a receptacle for command key interface. He scanned the room, smiling when he saw Doctor Zolkin. “If you please, Doctor,” and Zolkin came to his side.

  The Admiral flipped an overhead switch activating the ship’s intercom. “Doctor, if you would be so kind as to inform the ship’s crew that I am well and certified for duty.”

  “My pleasure, sir,” said Zolkin. He found the microphone on the intercom and began to speak. “Now h
ear this, this is Doctor Zolkin speaking. Admiral Volsky has returned to his post, and I hereby certify him as fit for duty and commander of the ship. That is all.” Even as he finished they could hear the sound of crew members cheering below decks. The crew had been justifiably edgy under Karpov. They did their duty, complied with orders, yet the taut, strained effort of the man did not inspire confidence. Volsky, on the other hand, was loved by every man aboard. Ever since he had taken ill, the crew had been restless, uncertain, worried. It was hard enough for them to comprehend what had happened to the ship. Many still refused to believe it, yet with Volsky at the helm, they had some stable point of reference, and eagerly moved to their posts.

  Even as Doctor Zolkin returned the small round microphone to its cradle on the intercom station, they heard yet another warning claxon, followed by the swish of a missile ejection and a solid fuel rocket booster igniting. To Volsky the sound was unmistakable. It was a MOS-III Starfire, one of the fastest and most lethal missiles in the world.

  “I’m afraid the niceties will have to wait,” he said quickly, pulling out his command key and hastening to insert it in the module. The interface lit up and displayed the five LED windows for his code, which he entered as fast as his thick finger could poke out the digits.

  When the missile jetted away it began to gain altitude and accelerate at a frightful pace. Mid-way to its target, some 112 kilometers to the south, it would reach the mind-numbing speed of Mach 8.0. He had 45 seconds before it would devour that distance.

  The code was entered, and the Admiral punched a red button labeled ‘COMMAND OVERRIDE.’ Recognizing the Admiral’s key, a second series of LEDs lit up, this time displaying his name and rank: VOLSKY, LEONID, FLEET ADM, LEVEL 1 COMMAND – ENGAGE?”

  There were two buttons, YES and NO, and Volsky answered in the affirmative. When he pushed that last button there was an agonizing ten second delay during which the Starfire traveled over twenty-seven kilometers. Then all the systems of the battle bridge lit up, the screens coming to life, radars displaying contact data, weapons systems noting status and active ordinance en route to target. Gromenko took one look at his screen and could not believe what he was seeing. “Admiral, that was the MOS-III system—the number ten missile!” It was even now well past mid course and burning its way down to the designated target. There were ten seconds remaining.

  “Abort the missile, Mister Gromenko,” said Volsky, but at that moment the power wavered, winked off briefly, then back on. Volsky knew what had happened, his face calm and resolved. When the battle bridge went active the systems on the main bridge had all gone dark. Karpov must have realized what was happening and rushed to the emergency reset. He was attempting to regain control of the ship’s systems even as Gromenko pressed the missile abort, and that brief interval of chaos, where two computer systems wrestled for control of the energy pulsing through cables and wires all over the ship, was enough to interfere with the abort action—almost enough.

  The missile received a pulsing command to interrupt its programmed flight path and nose down into the sea. Its engines cut off abruptly, but it was still moving at an incredible rate of speed. Three seconds later it would again be sent a renewed order to abort as Gromenko frantically pushed the button on his panel, this time to disable its warhead…but when the signal arrived the missile was not there. Two seconds earlier it had plunged into the sea, some 500 meters short of its intended impact point, and ignited.

  ~ ~ ~

  Aboard DD Plunkett, Captain Kaufman was desperately shouting orders to his helmsman to zigzag his ship forward into the teeth of the enemy gunfire. The maneuver was futile, as the enemy guns were not trained and fired by men with optical sighting. A computer had hold of them now in the hard electronic grip of its radar. Lasers also targeted his ships for an added measure of accuracy. His ship was hit and on fire, as were Benson, Mayo, Jones, Gleaves and Hughes, and all eight destroyers of Desron 7 were now making smoke in an attempt to mask their brave charge and get within torpedo firing range, though the smoke did nothing whatsoever to deter Kirov’s gunfire. Kaufman suddenly saw what he first thought to be lightning on the horizon, then a bright wash of white smoke and fire coming from the distant enemy vessel. At first his heart leapt with the thought that one of his destroyers has scored a direct hit on the enemy with a 5 inch deck gun, but he was only seeing the smoke and ignition of the lethal MOS-III Starfire as it first launched.

  Something moved with terrible speed, a small fire in its wake, and a long yellow tail fading to russet orange as it sped off to the east of his position. He took heart for a moment, thinking TF 16 must be pressing in from the east. Then, a long minute later, the sky itself seemed to ignite with light and fire, as if a massive thunderbolt had struck the sea, flung down by an unseen angry god. The light was so bright that he flinched, turning his head away and instinctively holding up a hand to shield his eyes. What in God’s name were the Germans firing now?

  ~ ~ ~

  On the main bridge Karpov smiled inwardly when he heard the Starfire eject an ignite its motors. As it rocketed away he allowed himself the barest edge of an upturned lip in a restrained grin. Yet the enemy destroyers came to mind again, and he decided to bring more guns to bear.

  “Helm, starboard thirty and come about on three-one-five! Samsonov, bring the two aft 152mm batteries on line and stop those destroyers!”

  Desron 7 was still bravely charging through the smoke and fire, blooded but undaunted, and closing on torpedo firing range. Kirov came about in a tight turn, her aft deck guns now blazing away as she did so, pulsing out shells at an alarming rate of fire. A few seconds later, however, the systems on the bridge all winked, fluttered, and then went dark. Only the dim red overhead battle lights remained on.

  “That bastard!” Karpov immediately knew what had happened. The Admiral was loose and on the secondary battle bridge, a feature unique to Kirov, and unlike any other ship in the world. He rushed to a wall panel, flipping open the clear plastic casing for the emergency reset. There would be no time to re-enter his command key and request dual control by code. He had to insure the telemetry link to the missile remained intact, and he only needed a few seconds. The ‘Fire and Forget’ guidance system on the MOS-III was disabled when the nuclear warhead was mounted. It required a command link to the mother ship, the last vestige of restraint as a fail-safe on the use of nuclear weapons. Kirov held the ever extending electronic rein on the weapon, with one last chance to pull back and hold it in check.

  Karpov pulled heavily on the reset switch, yanking it down into the ON position and seeing the immediate surge of battery backup power enliven the command systems on his bridge, but it was the barest flutter. Somewhere, deep within the ship, another computer sat as judge and jury on the matter.

  It was the Admiral’s ignition key that had initiated operations on the ship when he first stepped aboard and took over official command for the scheduled missile trials, and though Karpov’s command key had successfully ordered the missile fire, it was the Admiral’s key that was now activating the secondary systems on the battle bridge, and that command postdated the former. The computer saw the reset request when Karpov threw his switch, yet it endowed Volsky’s keyed command as a new and superseding order, dismissing Karpov’s plaintive action with prejudice. It closed the switches that would feed power to the main bridge, which remained dark, and it would stay that way until a second valid command key was inserted and a request for dual operations was properly coded and approved. Yet Karpov’s desperate attempt to wrest control from the Admiral had been enough to impede the abort command….

  ~ ~ ~

  The Starfire fell into the sea, and the momentum of the missile took it over a hundred feet beneath the water before the 15 kiloton warhead exploded and sent a massive wall of white seawater blasting up thousands of feet into the sky. It was considered a small tactical nuclear warhead in Kirov’s day, but was roughly the size of the weapons the Americans would drop on Hiroshima and Nagasaki this
very same week, just four years later. It fell just ahead of Task Force 16 where the Mississippi lumbered forward into the battle, and the leading destroyer Captains quailed at what they saw.

  Upon detonation the weapon ignited to a blast wave of highly compressed superheated gas and vapor, which propelled millions of cubic feet of water straight up in an immense geyser. Enormous fists of seawater surged out from this central core, rising and then slowly falling, as if hammering down to smash anything that remained on the sea. Then the base of the geyser thickened as a huge surge of water radiated out in all directions, a wall of seething ocean hundreds of feet high that rolled away from the detonation like a colossal pyroclastic flow from a volcanic eruption. Above this, a steaming cloud spread out until it encompassed a width of nearly five kilometers.

  The battleship Mississippi and the rest of the ships in Task Force 16 would face surging waves from the first atomic weapon ever detonated on planet Earth. The lead destroyers were swamped by the massive wall of water, tossed up and about like bits of broken wood, so much flotsam on the raging seas. The massive tsunami smashed into cruisers Quincy and Wichita, snapping the former in half and rolling the latter over beneath a million of tons of water, dragging her crushed and mangled hull and superstructure beneath the waves. Lastly, trailing some distance behind the screen of five ships, Mississippi was ready to meet her fate.

  Captain Wright stared in awe at the gigantic column of water, 1500 feet in height, its walls 200 feet thick at the base of the eruption. Then the much smaller tsunami generated by the detonation careened over his ship, smashing into the battleship and rolling her completely over on her starboard side. It was as if a hurricane blast of wind and sea water had been conjured out of thin air and sent roiling down upon the ship from heaven above. That was not too far from the truth.