Kirov Saga Men of War

Chapter 9



The car pulled up along the wide concrete quay a few days later, well after sunset. The dim street lamps cast a wan light over the dull gray wharf, but out on the bay the lights of the city shimmered on the calm water. The rear door opened and a man stepped out, wearing a long dark overcoat and a black fedora hat. He carried a thick brief case, and was followed by another man in a long gray overcoat before the car drove quietly off. The two men stood for a moment, staring up at the high battlements of the heavy guided missile cruiser Kirov where the ship rode at anchor, tied off to the long quay and now served by a floating pier off the starboard side where several grey metal gangways climbed up to the ship’s main deck.

The man with the briefcase was Gerasim Kapustin, Chief of the Naval Inspectorate, and fresh from the airport and a long flight from Moscow. The taller uniformed man was Captain Ivan Volkov, Russian Naval Intelligence, and the two stood for some time, their eyes searching the long, sharp contours of the ship, with Volkov occasionally pointing at something. They noted the canvass tarps draped over the wound to Kirov’s aft quarter, and the area that had once been her reserve battle bridge. Kapustin’s eyes strayed along the tall main mast, up to note the missing radar antenna there.

With a shrug the Chief picked up his briefcase and started for the nearest gangway. They were met by a Marine Guard, who saluted, noted their identification, and then opened the gate to admit them to the ship. Their footfalls on the long metal gangway had an ominous clatter as they went, and the Marine waited a few moments before he picked up a phone from the gateway call box and rang up the bridge.

“Gate two,” he said in a low voice. “They are here.”

“Very well. Thank you, Corporal.” It was the voice of Captain Vladimir Karpov.

Ten minutes later Karpov turned to greet the two men as they stepped onto the bridge. He walked forward extending a hand. “Welcome aboard, Director…Captain.”

Karpov had never met either man, and the Director removed his hat to reveal a crop of curly grey, hair fringing an otherwise balding head, with sharp blue eyes, and a well managed mustache and beard. He looked the part, a careful minded professor of a man accustomed to long hours at a desk pouring over charts, tables, reports and computer screens. The other man was taller, a grey wolf, colder and more aloof.

“Things appear well in order here,” said Kapustin.

“Although from the look of things that cannot be said of the ship in general,” put in Volkov.

Karpov’s eye met the other man’s where he perceived a steely coldness in the Captain, a dark haired, grey eyed career officer, tall, with stiff bearing and a pallid complexion.

“It was a bit of a rough ride, Captain,” said Karpov.

“So we hear.” Volkov continued to study the Captain, noting Karpov’s trim, well kept uniform, his cap smartly in place and an air of sure authority about the man. This one is a fighter, he thought. He’s another grey wolf, just as I am, and a man to be reckoned with. He had read up on Karpov’s service history on the plane, noting how quickly he had risen in the ranks to his post as Captain of the fleet’s newest and finest warship. He knew that such a post would not be given lightly, though he had heard more than one rumor about this man, that he was mean and conniving, a bit of a back stabber at times, and driven by an aggressive, restless energy. Those were qualities he understood easily enough, for his own career in the Naval Intelligence arm had seen more than enough infighting within the ranks before he secured his present position.

“Well, gentlemen,” said Karpov, extending a hand to the still open citadel hatch. “We’ll have more than enough time on the bridge tomorrow. I imagine you must be tired after your flight. If you would care to accompany me to the officer’s dining hall, we have prepared a light meal, a little uzhin, and some refreshment.”

Uzhin was the Russian third meal of the day, always served well after six though it was lighter than the main meal, obed, served around 2:00pm.

“Thank you, Captain,” said Kapustin. “That would be most welcome.”

Karpov led the way, pausing and turning as the other men stepped through the hatch. “You have the bridge, Mr. Rodenko.”

“Aye, sir,” Rodenko echoed smartly, “Captain off the bridge.”

The men reached the bottom of the stairs and continued down another ladder and then through a long corridor before Karpov indicated they should turn left into the officer’s dining hall.

“And how is the damage control situation progressing, Captain?” Kapustin stepped into the well warmed dining room, smiling as he handed off his fedora and overcoat to an orderly, though he set his briefcase right beside his chair where the orderly gestured that he should be seated, and the white coated mishman knew better than to touch it further.

“We are making good progress,” said Karpov. “Thankfully the spare parts were in inventory and our Chief Byko had had men up on the aft mast all day re-cabling the Fregat system.”

“That must have been a severe explosion when we lost the Orel.”

“It was, sir. Unfortunately we lost a KA-40 and the KA-226 at the same time. You may have seen the damage aft.”

“Not yet,” said Kapustin, “but we will have a look in better light tomorrow.”

Karpov gestured to the table, nicely set with white linen and silver, and full-stemmed crystal for water and wine. There were appetizers, deviled eggs, accented with marinated mushrooms, as well as a plate of small open-face sardine-tomato-cucumber sandwiches. Both were sprinkled liberally with fresh dill. A plate of black bread caught Kapustin’s eye, and he reached for a piece, dipping it into the cold soup called okroshka, in a small bowl set on his main dining plate.

“Please help yourselves, gentlemen.” Karpov smiled as they settled in to begin the meal while the orderlies poured water and wine. “We’ll have salads and pierogies, and the main dish will be stuffed halupkis and Stroganoff with Kasha.

“I see there was no damage to the galley,” said Volkov, and Karpov simply smiled, not addressing the remark, but noting the veiled undertone to it that strayed towards insolence.

“I must tell you that we had come to believe the ship was lost in that incident,” said Kapustin, buttering his bread. “This business with the ship’s computers, tell me about it, Captain.”

“Well, Director, I am not entirely sure of what actually happened to Orel. But it was our assessment that there had been an explosion. Their Captain radioed that they had a problem with one of their torpedoes. Apparently they mounted the wrong warhead. Then came the detonation, and it was quite significant. Many of our systems were affected, radar, sonar, communications, so we believed it may have been an after-effect of a nuclear detonation.”

“Most unsettling,” said Kapustin. “Well, we have read your report, and that of Admiral Volsky as well. While I may question his decision to continue the ship’s mission under those circumstances, I will accept it for the moment.”

“I must say, sir,” said Karpov. “The Admiral was considering all his options at that moment, and given the political situation we also considered that Orel may have been lost to hostile action, possibly by a NATO submarine. So we acted on that scenario first after a meeting of the senior officers.”

“Who was in that meeting, if I may ask?” Kapustin leaned back as the second course of potato and prune pierogies was brought out, his eye straying to the dish.

“The Admiral, myself and Operation’s Chief Orlov.”

“Yet Orlov is not presently listed in the ship’s compliment.”

“No, sir. I’m afraid he went aft to supervise the situation on the helo deck, and was lost in the secondary explosion when the KA-40s caught fire.”

“I see…” Kapustin reached for a Pierogi. “Well these look good. Be sure to count the pits if you get a prune to watch your luck.”

“Not much of that on this ship, it seems,” said Volkov again, with just enough of an edge to it that Karpov decided he would let the man know who he was dealing with here.

“Well, Captain Volkov,” he began with a gesture to the other man’s soup bowl. “I see you have a taste for the okroshka. There are many things best served cold like that. Pickled cucumbers, Olivje potato salad, some good Salo bacon, salami and cheese, herring and caviar, and one thing more—my favorite.”

“And what is that?” Volkov met his eye.

“Why, revenge,” Karpov smiled. “And some good vodka and beer.” He picked up a small open faced sandwich, dilled sardines on thin rye, and took a bite.



* * *



Mishman Ilya Garin stared at the test-bed monitor, watching the flux readings closely. His prompt readings looked safe, and the rod interchange procedure was progressing slowly, approaching the half way mark when Markov would spell him on the watch. Chief engineer Dobrynin was down the hall looking over readings obtained by the electron microscope they had used to make a close inspection of Rod-25 as it was slowly lowered into position.

They were actually working on a low grade KLT-40 naval propulsion reactor that had been built as a backup for the floating nuclear power station barge AkademikLomonosov, deployed in the Kamchatka Peninsula region since 2016. The Russians thought a movable power facility would be useful in the region, and the design was so reliable that in 2018 they set up the reserve reactor as a test-bed facility in the Primorskiy Engineering Center. The KLT-40 was similar to the reactors used aboard Kirov, which paired two small pressurized water reactors using enriched U-234. Some models for commercial power generation might have as many as sixty-six control rods above the reactor vessel head, but this smaller test-bed model had only twelve, and much less power.

Dobrynin was quietly running the same typical rod replacement routine, while conducting a general scan of Rod-25 for any sign of corrosion, or flaw. He had mounted the rod in the central test position, in the middle of a circle of the remaining twelve rods. So today the control rod that would stand as relief pitcher for Kirov’s starting rotation of twenty-four rods per reactor, was now actually Rod-13 in this minor league game. All told, this test-bed facility reactor might produce ten percent or less of the power Kirov’s plant generated, a good safe environment to see if they could detect any anomalies with the makeup of the rod itself under real working conditions.

Markov came in with a folded magazine under his arm and tapped Garin on the shoulder as he took his seat at the monitor station. “Lunch Ilya,” he said. “And then when you finish, Dobrynin wants you to collate the inspection results.”

“More charts and tables,” said Garin. “What are we supposed to be looking for, Markov?”

“Don’t ask me. We just read the monitors. Let the Chief worry about it.”

“He is worried,” Garin thumbed over his shoulder to the long corridor behind the doorway out. “The Admiral was here all morning with him, and now more reports.”

“It’s the damn inspection,” said Markov. “They say Kapustin is going over everything with a white glove. They’re interviewing lots of crew members too, even matoc level.”

“Lucky for us we don’t know anything, eh?” Garin said glibly. “What are you reading?”

“Just a magazine.” He slid the magazine Garin’s way, open to an article where the headline read: ‘British Remember Fallen in Agreement Gone Bad.’

“Well, keep your eyes on the monitors, Markov. You can read your magazine in the break room. Yes?”

“Go and eat, Ilya. I’ll see you in another hour.”

It was actually going to be a good deal longer. Garin went down the long corridor past the inspection room where Dobrynin was working, and into the cafeteria for his meal break. Half way through his sandwich there was a noticeable flutter in the overhead lighting. He looked up, saw a neon bulb winking fitfully, and gave it no more thought. A little over an hour later he finished his tea and went back down the hallway, sticking his head into the inspection room to tell Dobrynin he was going back to relieve Markov.

“Very good, Mister Garin. How’s the food tonight?”

“It’s very tasty, sir. Good rye bread. You should try it.”

“When I have finished looking over these readouts.”

“Markov says you want me to collate the data again?”

“If you would be so kind, Mister Garin.”

Garin looked at his watch. “The cycle is nearly over now, sir. Any problems?”

“We won’t know until we get all the data from the scan. But you can commence your shutdown sequence now. Number twenty-five has already been withdrawn and the original twelve apostles seem to be praying quietly. Move in the remaining 12 rods now and commence shutdown. Markov can take his meal break.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get right down there.”

Garin slipped out the door, and ran down the hall to the reactor room, inserting his key card for entry and waiting until he had a green access light. He pushed open the door, thinking the room seemed a bit dim, and heard it close behind him.

“Markov, your turn,” he said. “The bread is pretty good tonight, but not before we run the shutdown sequence. Then I’ll have to spend another two hours collating the data from the scan.”

He walked into the control room, thinking it seemed oddly strange. Then he realized what was wrong. His coat was missing from the wall rack. There was nothing on the monitor desk, not the book he had been reading, the empty tea cup or his pen. Markov’s magazine was gone as well. In fact the chairs were missing. What was going on here?

“Markov?”

Garin leaned around to look behind the monitor station, but there was no sign of the other man. Where was he? Dobrynin would have a fit if he found out Markov had left his shift early. There was no restroom in the test-bed monitoring station, but perhaps he drank too much tea and had to run out. He could understand him taking the book and magazine, but the chairs? It made no sense. The Chief was going to skin him alive. Human eyes had to be on the monitors at all times during any part of a core maintenance procedure, and he shook his head, looking at the monitors with relief when he saw no warning lights.

Stupid Markov, he thought. He’ll get himself into some real trouble if I tell the Chief he left his station. What’s he doing with the chairs? Then he reached up and toggled the switches to initiate a full system shutdown, concluding the test. Another set of twelve more rods would descend into the reactor vessel, stilling down the fission to a very low level prior to final shutdown.

The wall intercom buzzed, and he walked over to it and thumbed the call button. “Reactor Testing Room, Mishman Garin speaking.”

“Garin? Have Markov come in here with his clipboard before he takes his meal break.” It was Chief Dobrynin.

Garin looked around…the clipboard was also gone. “Sir,” he began. “Markov is no longer here, and the clipboard is missing. He must have taken it with him.” He hated to be a snitch, but it had to be said. “He was not here when I arrived to relieve him, Chief.”

“Not there? I’ll fry him in oil! Where is he, that good for nothing… Never mind, Garin. Just complete the shutdown sequence. I’ll be there in a few minutes. If I find him in the head I’ll flush his own stupid head down the toilet!”

“One more thing, sir…” Garin bit the bullet and made his report. “The chairs are missing. Both of them, sir.” He felt stupid as well, but what else could he say?

“The chairs are missing?”

The chairs were missing, the clipboard was gone. Garin’s jacket was no longer on the wall rack, the book and magazine were gone, and Markov’s tea was missing too. Markov was missing, and it would be the last that any man alive on earth that day would ever see of him.





Part IV



Storm Clouds





“What if tomorrow vanished in the storm? What if time stood still? And yesterday--if once we lost our way, blundered in the storm--would we find yesterday again ahead of us, where we had thought tomorrow's sun would rise?”



― Robert Nathan, Portrait of Jennie