Kirov Saga Men of War

Chapter 18



Karpov was doing something he seldom ever did before. He was walking the ship, just as Volsky might have done, and he was talking with the men, listening to them, hearing their concerns and seeing what he might do to help them. He worked the ship from bow to stern, checking on the progress of all work being done and encouraging the crews to get ready for action. He admired their determination and sense of duty, the smooth, easy way they cooperated with the junior officers, the confidence that seemed to underlie their every movement now. This was a ship of veteran sailors, and he was proud to be its Captain. He knew he still had a few bills to pay for what he had done in the Atlantic, and now he went to see about one of them.

When he found Troyak he was busy supervising the load-out operations for the sole KA-40 on the helo deck. The stalwart Marine Sergeant saluted and Karpov asked him to walk with him to the starboard gunwale.

“The men look good, Sergeant. How are they feeling?”

“They are in good shape, sir. Mantek had a problem with home, but the others enjoyed a good long shore leave this last week.”

“What was wrong with Mantek?”

“Girlfriends,” Troyak smiled.

“I understand. And what about you, Sergeant? Where is home for you?”

“Provideniya, sir. A little place on the Chukchi peninsula.”

“Have you called home? I hope all is well.”

“It’s still there, sir.”

Karpov smiled. Then he changed his tone, his voice lowering somewhat. “That was not the case with a few other men,” he confided. “One came home to find his wife with another man; another could not even find his apartment here in the city. Things have changed, Troyak, do you understand this?”

“Not exactly, sir.”

“That makes two of us. But I think our Mister Fedorov will sort the matter out for us both one day. In the meantime…” He gave Troyak a long look. “Sergeant, I have come to apologize to you for what I did in the Atlantic; for the position I put you and your men in, trying to set you in opposition to the Admiral. I was a stupid fool. I should have been severely punished, and instead I was handed forgiveness. I am here to see if you might spare me a little as well.”

Troyak nodded gravely, and the Captain continued.

“I was wrong to do what I did, and I have only the Admiral’s grace to hold for the fact that I am standing here now and still wearing these stripes. I should be in the Brig, or worse, but Volsky gave me this chance and I am pledged to the service of this ship. I won’t let him down, or this crew down, ever again. Understand?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

Karpov smiled. “I finally learned something that you have known for some time, Troyak.”

“Sir?”

“The meaning of the word duty.”

The doughty Sergeant nodded silently, understanding. Now Karpov folded his arms, taking the stance of a commanding officer briefing a subordinate, but there was something more in his tone. He was taking Troyak into his confidence, and the Sergeant could hear it plainly.

“Admiral Volsky has been summoned to Naval Headquarters at Fokino. I believe he will be assuming command there, and thank God for that. Now that leaves us to do what we can here. There has been an incident in the East China Sea, Sergeant. The Chinese and Japanese are at it again, only this time it looks serious. It’s very likely that we will be called to action again soon. I just wanted you to know, one man of war to another.”

Troyak remembered the last time Karpov had placed himself in the same rank and file as he was with his Marines. He recalled how he had inwardly distained the remark, but this time things were different. He had heard the stories the men still told about Karpov on the bridge. The junior officers rotating down to the lower decks had painted the picture very sharply. The enemy was right on top of us, but Karpov saved the ship. They were coming at us from all sides, but Karpov was cold as ice, and he stopped them! The big enemy battleship was trying to stick it to us, but not with the Captain on the bridge. Karpov gave them hell! He knew he was now standing with a man of his own ilk, another warrior in the stream of life, and yes, a man of war. Karpov’s strength was not in his shoulders or arms, but he had stood his watch on the wall, and he had fought and delivered the ship safely home again. Troyak nodded, and conferred both his absolution and acceptance of the other man in that one simple gesture.

“You can rely on me, sir.”

“Yes…But I think that will be the easy part for us, Sergeant Troyak. When it comes to a fight we will know what to do easily enough. Yet we have both seen what was left of the world on one black day after another. Something tells me we are steering a course that way even as we speak. I don’t know how yet, or what we can do about it. I once thought that if I could just get the ship home safely it would be enough, but there is something more in front of us now. We may be called to war soon, but if we are ever to avoid that other world we saw, we’ll have to become something more, you and I. We’ll have to become men of peace as well.”

“I understand, sir….At least I think I do.”

“You are the business end of a platoon of highly trained men, Sergeant. But not every blow is struck to do harm. This is the only way I can think to understand it. Sometimes we fight to do some good, and we do what we must when it comes to battle. But Fedorov once told me to think also of what we should do, and this time I will keep his advice in my front shirt pocket, and heed it well.”

The Captain clasped Troyak on the shoulder, even as he had done once before, only this time things were different. This time the gesture was real. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Sir.” Troyak saluted, and returned to his men.

Karpov headed forward to look for Fedorov, learning that he had gone to the sick bay, so he made his way there. When he arrived he was surprised to see both Kapustin and Volkov there, in some heated conversation with Doctor Zolkin.

“Welcome, Captain,” the Doctor said with some exasperation. “Perhaps you can do some of the shouting now, and I can have a rest.”

Zolkin was at his desk, Fedorov sitting on a chair by the wall, and Kapustin was seated opposite the Doctor with three manila folders in hand. Volkov was standing behind him like a gray shadow, a smirk on his face.

“I was asking the good Doctor here how he managed to come up with this little charade,” said Kapustin, gesturing at the files.

“What are you talking about, Inspector?” said Karpov, his eyes drawn to the folders.

“You are going to tell me that you know nothing about it as well? What do I have here now, three blind mice? You are the senior officers aboard this ship!”

“He is telling me these records were fabricated,” said Zolkin, an aggrieved expression on his face. “These are the files for the new junior officer trainees that we lost in the accident aft.”

“Denikin, Krasnov and Rykov,” said Karpov.

“Exactly,” said Zolkin. “You see, Mister Kapustin, he knows them by name without a second thought.” He pointed at the Captain, claiming him as evidence on his side of the argument. Karpov realized that Zolkin had been out of the loop in the discussion he had with Volsky and Fedorov on this matter, and he was thinking how to proceed.

“Well the Captain knows them, does he?” said Kapustin slowly. “That’s good, because no one in Moscow seems to know them, not their names, not their service records either. So where did these come from?” He rotated slowly in his chair, like a big threatening gun turret slowly training to engage a new target.

Karpov knew the matter was not going to be resolved easily; not here, not now. They had not come to any decision as to how it might be handled before their dinner was interrupted by the call to return to duty at once. Now Kapustin and Volkov were right back at it again, but the Captain decided what he had to do, so he keyed his Moskit-II and fired.

“This is a matter of state security,” he said calmly. “Neither you, nor Captain Volkov here were privy to it. Yes, do not look so surprised, Inspector General. You do not know everything, and should you inquire about this further you will get the same reaction you received from Moscow when you went after the names on that list.” Karpov was lying, of course, but he did so with such a convincing tone that it sounded completely believable.

“You are telling me… You mean to say these men are not dead?” Kapustin leapt to the obvious conclusion.

“This is outrageous,” said Volkov.

“Oh?” Karpov turned at him, missiles ready. “You are a ranking officer in the Naval Intelligence Division, and you are going to stand there and tell me that men with names but no traceable life history behind them are not sometimes very useful? Get a head on your shoulders!” He raised his voice now, then put his hands on his hips, leaning forward and staring right at Kapustin.

“Do you know what’s going on out there now?” He pointed a stiff arm towards the unseen harbor, and the ocean beyond. “Do you have any idea what’s been happening these last weeks and months? Where the world is headed? You think you know everything and have it all written down there in your files? Has it ever entered your thick head that this ship disappeared for a reason?” He pointed to the deck. Kapustin’s eyes widened, a hint of uncertainty there. Volkov gave Karpov a sallow look, a mix of shock and disbelief.

“Yes,” Karpov pressed on. “How does a ship like this get half way around the world without NATO knowing about it? Yes. Where is that missing special warhead? And by God what happened to the thirty-six men on the list Doctor Zolkin gave you? Well get a hold of your boots and pull them on, Inspector. To put it quite plainly, it’s none of your damn business! But it is my business, and the business of this ship and crew. Forgive me if no one bothered to inform you before we left Severomorsk, but I think you were probably busy keeping track of serial numbers on some other ship then, yes?”

Kapustin gave Karpov a long look, thinking. He was Inspector General of the Russian Navy, and in that position he knew a great deal. He could tell you what was in the magazines and holds of nearly every ship in the fleet, and who was serving on them, and where they were berthed, and how many cans of paint they had on order and which ones were efficient and which ones were sloppy. Yes, he knew a lot about the navy, but he also knew that it was folded in on itself like a maze at times, and the pathways of power flowed through the heads of an alarming number of gray haired old men.

Karpov’s bravado had shaken him, for the Captain had been correct—nobody knows everything. There were still dark corners into which he had never been able to peer. Men like Volkov behind him were often sent into those corners to bark and sniff and drag things out of the shadows. But there were times they went in and never came back out. There were places in the convoluted, old power structure of the Russian military where it was still very dangerous to tread.

Now the situation developing in the Pacific came to mind and Karpov’s words began to make sense. The ship had clearly been on a very dangerous mission. He had not sorted it all through, but his careful inspection had uncovered enough to know that this ship had been in combat. It was no accident that she had a hole in her hull. That was torpedo damage. And the injury to her main mast and aft citadel was no accident either. A little scrape of a pen knife here…A sample or two in a plain plastic bag for the labs…Yes, he soon had his suspicions confirmed. The smoke and fire and residue of battle was on the ship, and the scars of combat at sea. He could see it also in the eyes and demeanor of the crew. This was a fighting ship, a man-o-war in every respect. This was a fighting crew, men of war indeed. And Karpov, he knew, was a fighting Captain, as good as any man in the fleet by the scores notched in his fleet exercise records. Now something told him clearly that Kirov had been involved in some very special mission this last month, and it was no exercise.

Kapustin leaned back, eyes narrowed as his surprise faded and these thoughts ran through his mind. Then he simply gathered the three manila folders into a neat pile on Doctor Zolkin’s desk and stood up.

“Thank you, Captain. I think that settles the matter for the moment.” He had been struck amidships and had fires to put out. The smoke of uncertainty was now thick, and his gunners could not range on the target. He had to fall off and come about, just as Admiral Da Zara had in the Tyrrhenian Sea, and just like Admiral Iachino had at the Bonifacio Strait. Something told him, an inner instinct that had served him well for many long years, that this was not the place and time to fight his battle over this matter. If he pursued it, he might sail into hidden shoals and reefs that lay unseen in the murky waters surrounding this incident. Sanji Iwabuchi might have told him to beware of impetuosity in this regard, though he knew nothing of that man’s sad fate.

“What are you saying?” said Volkov pointing at Karpov, an incredulous look on his face. “You mean to say you’re going to let them get away with this insubordination? What about Orel? I’ll tell you where the missing warhead went! What about Orel?”

Karpov gave him a murderous stare, and Kapustin quickly intervened, like someone pulling on a heavy leash. “Mister Volkov,” he said sharply. “Insubordination? Either you were not listening to what Captain Karpov just said, or you were not smart enough to hear what I just heard in his words. I am going to flatter you and assume you are not stupid. So I will say it again—this matter is closed for the moment. I believe I have enough information to complete my report, but I may be some weeks writing it.” He looked askance at Karpov and Fedorov now, then fixed his attention fully on Volkov again. “In the meantime, our work here is done, and I believe these officers have other matters to attend to.”

“But—”

Volkov fought his own quick inner battle between his eagerness to make the kill and his instinct for caution. It was fight or flight, and he had always been the attack dog when it came to situations like this. But he could feel the hard chain on his neck now, and saw how the leash was firmly in Kapustin’s hand, and so he stifled his protest, deciding he could deal with this some other way through Naval Intelligence.

“Very well,” he growled. “I will make arrangements for our departure at once.” It was clear that Volkov was not happy, and he strode out, giving Karpov an evil eye as he went.

Kapustin composed himself, then looked from Zolkin, to Fedorov where he sat silently on the chair by the wall, and then to Karpov. The Captain stood, stiff backed, arms folded, eyes narrowed.

“Do you know I had a very good dog once,” said the inspector. “A Belgian Tervuren I called Chang. He was a magnificent animal. You know they have the thickest ruff of any breed I have ever seen. They can handle a German Shepherd with no trouble, because the other dog just can’t get its teeth through that ruff.” He clenched his fingers to illustrate the frustrated bite. “You are correct, Captain. Nobody knows everything, do they? Not even the Inspector General of the Russian Navy, though I may know quite a bit more than you realize, and enough to know I am not going to get my teeth through your ruff this time either. Perhaps we will talk again another day, but I think you are correct about one more thing, and that is why I leave you here to attend to it. The world is going to hell faster than we know, and I, for one, do not look forward to the trip. We’re going to need your sort at the helm of ships like this, and so I leave you to more important matters.”

Kapustin smiled, picked up his black felt fedora, and walked slowly out of the room. They listened to the echo of his footsteps fade to silence before anyone said another word.





Part VII



Devil in the Details



“A mountain is composed of tiny grains of earth. The ocean is made up of tiny drops of water. Even so, life is but an endless series of little details, actions, speeches, and thoughts. And the consequences, whether good or bad, of even the least of them are far-reaching.”



—Sivananda