Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) (35 page)

Orlov managed to gain control before the aircraft got a
mind of its own, and he nudged it into a slow turn to the west, and put on
speed. Then he picked up the auxiliary microphone from the flight instrument
panel and sent Nikolin back a message of his own. “I’m sorry, sir, but I won’t
be deploying your damn radar today. You lose, Nikolin.” He shut the system
down, laughing. Then he looked over at the limp body of the pilot, saw the
blood oozing from the bullet hole in his head, and laughed again. “What do you
say we take a little vacation, Pratkin? Because that’s the last either one of
us are ever going to see of that stinking ship and crew.”

He suddenly remembered something very important, and reached
down to turn off his transponder and activate all his jamming gear at full
power. The last thing he wanted now was a visit from one of
Kirov’s
lethal surface to air missiles.

Back on the bridge Nikolin had a shocked expression on his
face. He looked for Fedorov and reported. “Sir…that was Orlov on the radio just
now, and he says they cannot deploy the radar panel.”

“Orlov? He wasn’t assigned to that mission. He was just
supposed to lead the rigging and load out. What’s he doing on that helo?” He
shook his head, looking at Karpov and seeing his eyes narrow with suspicion.

“Tell them to report. What is the trouble with the radar
panel?”

“I can't, sir. I've lost all telemetry. It looks like he
switched off his transponder. The whole band is garbled now.”

“Garbled?”

Kalinichev saw the telemetry feed terminate on his board
and also immediately recognized the jamming signatures clouding his screen. “He
switched on his jamming pods, sir, I can't see him any longer.”

“What was his last recorded heading?” asked Fedorov
quickly.

“It looked like he turned west sir. That's all I was able
to get before the signal clouded over.”

Fedorov looked at Karpov and saw that his suspicion had
become a flash of anger now. “That bastard,” he said. “What in God's name does
he think he's doing?”

“Are you saying he did this deliberately?” Fedorov was
stunned. He knew Orlov was an irascible and cantankerous officer, unruly and
undisciplined, yes, and downright disrespectful at times, but this was more
than he ever expected from him.

“If he’s heading west he's making for the Spanish coast,”
said Karpov. “I should've known he was up to no good! Do you realize he
actually assaulted me outside the officer’s mess yesterday? The man is insane!”

“He assaulted you?”

“Yes, a good punch in the ribs. I suppose he thought I had
it coming, and perhaps I did. He didn’t like being stuck down there in the
engineering bay. I think we have a renegade on our hands, Fedorov. I don't
think he has any intention of returning to the ship.”

“But… He
can't
take the helo like this! What in the
world is he trying to do? Where could he possibly be going?”

“Spain,” Karpov said flatly. “It's the only neutral land
close enough, and with his jammers running full out like this he knows we can't
see him or shoot him down. That lunatic is planning to take that helicopter and
land there.”

“That's crazy,” said Fedorov, and his mind was awhirl with
the consequences of what could happen if the helicopter were to be taken by the
authorities there. “Do you realize what this means? We'll have to go after him,
Karpov. We can't let him do this. That technology must not fall into the hands
of any other living soul.”

“I don't think we'll find him easily sir,” said Karpov.
“Not in the short run. Look at your map. That's fairly hilly country north and west
of Cartagena. He could set down anywhere in those mountains, and it might take
us days to find him. He's obviously planned this very well. Who knows what he
is going to do? Perhaps the lunatic doesn't even know himself.”

Fedorov was deeply concerned now. This was something
totally unexpected, that one insane moment in the flow of events that could
simply not be predicted no matter how carefully he had planned his course to
the south. All he could think about was what effect this would have on all the
history from this point forward. If Orlov survived, how might he changed
things? He knew he was not an educated man, yet Orlov knew enough to cause real
havoc if the information about days yet to come would ever be believed by
anyone he encountered. Believed and acted upon…

Yet worse than this was the presence of the helicopter
itself here in the middle of World War II. No matter how skillfully Orlov set
it down, perhaps on some remote hilltop, one day it would be found and that
discovery would have a dramatic and incalculable effect on the history. He
lowered his head confused, angry, and frustrated. It was hard enough trying to
learn how to command the ship when he had never been trained for such a
position. He relied on the support of the Admiral, Captain Karpov, and his good
officers here on the bridge. All it takes is one bad apple, he thought, and
Orlov was as sour as they came. Why didn't he see it sooner? The man should've
been left locked up in the brig. After the fire and incident with the KA-40 he
thought Orlov might have a chance at redeeming himself, just as Karpov had. Now
all that had gone to hell in one unpredictable moment, and how in the world
could he possibly fix things this time? Where in all of his history books would
you find a solution this time?

“I have an idea, sir.” Kalinichev spoke up. “I'm very aware
of the signatures his ECM pods are going to put out. I think I can follow them,
sir.”

“You mean you can still track him?”

“Not exactly sir, but what I can do is get a good estimate
on the signal strength of this interference and isolate it to determine the
source. I know what waveforms to look for because I helped program that system.
I think I can get at least a general idea of his location.”

“How close?” Karpov was at his side at once.

“I won't be able to pinpoint it but I can get it within…
several hundred meters.” Kalinichev was guessing, but neither Fedorov nor
Karpov would know any different. Now Karpov turned and made a suggestion.

“Think submarine here, Mister Fedorov. We don't know
exactly where he is, but we get enough of a signal to know approximately where
he is. We know where he
won't
go, certainly not out to sea. And at this
moment he is still in a range of our S-300 SAM system. If Kalinichev can get a
close enough fix on his location, then a barrage of three or four missiles
might have a chance of knocking him down before he reaches the coastline. If we
can do that, then he goes into the sea and no one is likely to find it, or ever
know about it.”

Fedorov's eyes widened. He had to do something, and this
was as good a plan as any he could've possibly devised. Then he remembered what
he had told Karpov about the jammers just a few moments ago. “Kalinichev!” he
said excitedly. “Can you isolate on the 150 to 176 MHz bands? Can you fine
those wavelengths and home in on the source?”

“Well yes, sir, but we don’t usually jam those
wavelengths,”

“We do now! Find them if you can. Karpov! Get your missiles
ready!” He didn't hesitate a moment. If there is any way possible that they
could shoot this helicopter down, he had to act at once.

Karpov was only too happy to oblige. He gave orders to
activate the S-300s and told Kalinichev to manually feed his best possible
estimate of the helicopter’s present and predicted position to the CIC. He knew
they would be taking a long shot, like a destroyer lobbing depth charges into
the sea where they thought a submarine might be hiding. They were going to take
a proverbial shot in the dark, but the S-300s had a very wide shrapnel
dispersion pattern. If he fired three to five missiles he might just saturate
the area with enough metal to hit this target. He knew they had very few
missiles to waste, but something in him also understood what had spooked
Fedorov so deeply about this incident. Beyond that, something else want to
throw a punch back at the man in a way that he never could do with his own
fist.
Kirov
would punch back for him, and three tense minutes later he
gave the order to fire.

They watched, their eyes transfixed by the phosphorescent
glow of the radar screen which received the missile telemetry feedback and
clearly tracked the outgoing salvo of five precious S-300 missiles. Their speed
was incredible, and they quickly overtook the spot on the scope where Kalinichev
had made his best guess as to the location of the jamming source. It was very
near the coast, and Fedorov bit his lip, hating what they had to do, yet hoping
against hope that it would work. Because if it didn’t work, he thought; if that
man vanishes into the midst of the Spanish countryside in 1942, then God only
knows what kind of havoc the head and darkened heart of Gennadi Orlov might
visit upon the world.

Chapter 26

Five missiles
roared from the forward deck of
Kirov
,
the deadly S-300s, capable of Mach 6 speed out to a range of 150 kilometers.
They had been aimed at a location Kalinichev had selected at the most likely
source of the intense radar jamming, with a focus on any signal emanating at
176MHz or lower as Fedorov suggested. As they fired Karpov realized they had
yet another option and he shouted to the tactical officer over the deafening
sound of the missile engines.

“Activate the secondary infrared terminal seekers on those
missiles!” If they got anywhere near a good target, the missiles could also
find it by other means. The five steel fingers reached out from the ship, like
a mailed gauntlet clawing the sky as they went.

On the KA-226, Orlov saw the missile warning indicator and
he knew he might have only seconds to live. “Bastards!” he shouted, and grabbed
the safety parachute harness, knowing he had to get out of the helo at once if
he was to survive. He had it on in fifteen seconds, frantically clawing at the
release on the side hatch and grunting hard as he dragged it open.
Thirty seconds
—he
was poised at the edge, feeling the hard wash of the overhead rotor and the cool
evening air on his face. In that brief interval the missiles accelerated to
their top speed and were already over thirty kilometers from the ship, closing
fast.

His heart leapt with fear and adrenaline when he looked
down. The helo might normally cruise at 1000 meters but they had climbed much
higher for the planned radar sweep and were up over 4000 meters. He jumped,
battered by the rushing wind, his big frame tumbling and soon falling all of sixty
meters per second in freefall. Would he get far enough away before the missiles
found their target? He prayed to all gods and demons that he would.

Karpov clenched his fist with jubilation when he saw the
telemetry signal go white, indicating a hit. “Got him!” he shouted. The missiles
had found their target. The jamming signatures Kalinichev had been monitoring
immediately cut off, and now they could clearly see the detonation site of the
attack on the radar scope, very close to the coast line northwest of Cartagena.
“We got the bastard!”

He looked at Fedorov, who had a grim expression on his
face, his eyes dark and searching. “Are you certain?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Karpov. “Nothing could survive that. Five
S-300s? It was a high price to pay for that scumbag, not to mention the loss of
another helicopter.”

Fedorov nodded, thinking for a moment, then quietly said:
“Goodbye, Mister Orlov….” The others remained silent, something uncomfortable
in the moment. They all knew the irascible Chief, and each one held some memory
of their interaction with him. None among them had been close to the man, and
many had felt his rude temperament and brutish ways, yet there was something in
the way that Fedorov said that, and it pulled some undefined emotion from them,
perhaps pity, perhaps regret, or a sense of waste, and in some way they felt
diminished with his loss, and beset by a vague notion of dread, though no man
would mourn him. But their emotion was misplaced…

Orlov
fell a long kilometer before he groped for the
parachute release, his unshielded eyes puckered near shut by the cold wind. He
pulled hard, his body shaken when the chute deployed to brake his fall and he
shouted, releasing the tension, ecstatic that he had managed to get out of the
helo in one piece. Then he saw them, the five fingers of doom emerging from a
low white cloud and moving at an impossible rate of speed towards his general
location. The helo had flown on, cruising at 360 Kph for those last twenty
seconds, moving two kilometers off. He had fallen over another kilometer and
was now far enough away from the target to be relatively safe from the
exploding shrapnel.

Four of the five missiles had locked on to the helo, the
verdict of their infrared modules guiding them mercilessly in on its big heat
signature. The last S-300 took passing note of another small heat signature
hovering near and well below the target. In a few split seconds its missile mind
considered what to do, then dismissed the object as a parachuting thermal decoy
and joined its comrades, a majority opinion of five now. Seconds later the
missiles ripped the evening sky apart with one explosion after another, and the
KA-226 was obliterated.

Orlov winced at the sight, realizing how close he had come
to death. It had seen him, reached for him, and he felt the cold brush of its
steely hands as it nearly grasped him. But he was
not
dead—he was alive!
He was a great laugh, a wild roar of elation, a bellowing shout of thanks to
the heavens above as he fell through the cool evening air, vanishing into a low
cloud. When he broke out through a gap in the clouds he gasped at the beauty of
the last fading light on the stillness of the sea, tears streaking his face,
his still bandaged hands gripping the harness of his parachute, oblivious to
the pain.