Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) (36 page)

He was alive, alive,
alive!
And in that jubilant singularity
of this moment he realized that he was the only one who knew that. They would
see the destruction of the helicopter and think he was dead. He was free,
drifting in this sublime white mist, as if a second life had come to him. He
was completely reborn—a demigod falling from the skies to a world unprepared
for the power he might one day wield. Yes, he knew in that fleeting instant
that he
was
like a god, for he had knowledge of all the days to come.
Knowledge was power, and if there was one thing Orlov understood in this life,
it was power.

He drifted down and down, and then he realized that he was
still well out to sea and probably headed for a long slog in the water. This
wasn’t over yet. He pulled the tab on the life preserver embedded in his flight
jacket and inflated it with a dry hiss. It would probably keep him afloat, but
night was at hand and it would be much colder in the water. He had nothing to
eat or drink, the pistol in his jacket pocket being the only other thing he had
managed to hold onto in those wild moments before he leapt. Then he remembered
that this parachute could be steered, and he began to work the harness, gliding
it gently toward the land he could see to the west, wrapped in a purple haze of
twilight.

As he descended he could suddenly see that the ocean was
not empty below him. There was a flotilla of small fishing boats on the water, their
bows pointed west toward the small ports and villages that undoubtedly dotted
the coastline there, and he whispered thanks, hopeful that someone would see
him go into the water and come to his aid.

That was what eventually happened, but it wasn’t until he
had been pulled from the sea like a big wet fish and was sprawled out on the wooden
deck of the fishing boat that he felt that thrum of hope again, and realized
his old life might really be behind him. He had been in the water for an hour
before the boat drew near and saw his arms waving and heard his hoarse, deep
shouts in the gloaming dark.

Now he sat, tired and drenched, his wool cap still pulled
low on his forehead. He smiled and spoke to them gratefully. “Spasibo!” He
said, thanking the three clueless brown eyed men staring at him. “Za druzhbu
myezhdu narodami!—To friendship between nations!”

The men did not understand a word he said, of course, and
Orlov spoke no other language but his native Russian, but his manner and the look
on his face communicated his gratitude, and they all nodded, smiling. The heavy
set man in the middle of the three spoke back to him. “Bienvenidos a bordo!”

The Spaniards had seen and heard the explosions in the sky,
and saw the slow descent of his parachute. It was not all that unusual an
event. There was a war on, though thankfully Spain had managed to stay out of
it. They had seen Italian bombers flying in from their far bases to try and
bomb Gibraltar in the past, and at first they presumed this was some hapless
Italian pilot, but Orlov’s appearance and language set them off that assumption.
Perhaps German, or Eastern European, they thought. Polish soldiers sometimes
fought for the British now. In any case, he was a man in need and they helped
him below to get out of his wet clothes and get some welcome food into him. When
they saw his pistol they gave it a second look, but then went about their
business as normal, not wanting to provoke and trouble with this big man.
Perhaps he was a commando, they thought. He certainly wore a uniform, and he
looked threatening as well. The heavy set man was speaking to him, though Orlov
simply nodded and smiled.

“Tenga cuidado, amigo mío.
Si las autoridades
descubren que eres un soldado, van a arrestar y detener a usted por la duración
de la guerra.
Tenga cuidado.”

Orlov realized he was going to hear a lot of this
unintelligible speech for a while, but for now the sound of another human voice
was welcome, and he needed only one thing from these men—a little food, some
dry clothing, and a few hours to sleep while the boat put in to shore. He was
living in a new world now, and though he had nothing of value he could use for
money, and little idea where he even was, he knew that he would have no trouble
getting what he wanted, or where he wanted, in the long run.

Yes, he thought. This is going to be very interesting.
There would be good food, and drink, and women. He knew that no one on
Kirov
would ever be able to find him now. He was safe, reborn, and free to live out a
whole new life, if he just kept a good head on his shoulders. If this
was
1942 he might make an awful lot of money with what he knew. He’d be living in a
world where Karpov and Volsky and all the others were not even
born
yet,
and he could settle more than a few scores if he wanted. How old was Karpov, he
wondered? Somewhere in his forties? He would have to wait thirty odd years
before he could pay him another visit, but it would be worth it. Then
again…what would that rat Karpov do when I find his grandfather and strangle
the man, eh? He smiled inwardly just to think about it.

Fedorov
gave some fleeting consideration to sending
out their remaining KA-40 to confirm the kill and see if Orlov might have
survived, but Karpov convinced him it would be fruitless.

“We’ll only waste more time and aviation fuel. It was bad
enough that this incident cost so much as it is. Nothing could survive that
barrage. All five missiles detonated on the target. He’s gone, and I say good
riddance. Now we must turn our attention to what lies ahead. If we send up the
KA-40 it should be to find these British ships you are worried about.”

Fedorov hesitated. He did not want to risk losing their
last helicopter, and decided to just hold to their planned course. He had
little doubt that they would soon see Force Z on their long range radar, and
said as much.

“You have the bridge, Mister Karpov. I’ll inform Admiral
Volsky of what occurred and then take a few hours rest. Run steady on this
course for another two hours, then come right to course two-two-five
southwest.”

He went below, his heart heavy, and reluctant to be the
bearer of yet more gloomy news for the Admiral. When he reached sick bay he
found that Volsky was asleep in the back room, and so he left the news with
Doctor Zolkin.

“Don’t take it too hard,” said the Doctor. “Men like Orlov
have a way of making their own fate, and their own misery. If it is any comfort
to you, I will say you did the right thing. The Admiral gave a standing order
that none of our weapons or equipment were to fall into enemy hands. You
prevented that, at great cost, but it was wise to do so in any case.”

“At first I thought Orlov might survive,” he said, and then
I felt even worse for wishing him dead.”

“I know, I know. He was no friend of yours, but your
conscience still bothers you. That is only because you are a good man, Fedorov.
There was another man on that helicopter, Yes? I don’t think Orlov was as kind
to him. That makes nine now. Nine men dead in this business. At least I don’t
have to put these last two into the sea. Remember that this was none of your
doing, and look to what you must do now to keep us safe.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

He left without much sense of consolation in spite of
Zolkin’s words. He still felt responsible for everything that had happened thus
far, for all those nine dead men, even though he knew he was being hard on
himself to do so. This was the dark shadow of command, he thought, the other
side of the pride and excitement he felt that first time on the bridge. It
weighed on him, every last ounce of it, and the responsibility seemed a
crushing burden now, not just for the ship and crew, but for the history he had
been stubbornly trying to defend. But how do you save tomorrow, he thought?
Everything was once so certain; so predictable. Then those Italian battleships
appeared from nowhere, and he could never feel safe or content with all the
knowledge he had stuffed in his brain again.

As he walked to his cabin he was still harried by a
strange, unaccountable feeling that something had gone terribly, terribly
wrong. It was more than Orlov’s betrayal and blind stupidity, and more than his
death or the loss of the helicopter. It was something deeper, a great yawning
uncertainty that overshadowed his every step now. It was a profound sense of
misgiving and dread that he simply could not chase from his mind.

He reached his cabin and lay down on his bunk, staring up
at the ceiling and trying to see just where it was that he had made some great
but unseen mistake. He needed rest, but sleep would not come to him, and as he
lay there the nagging question returned to his mind again.

What if he’s alive, he thought to himself? Oh God, spare
the world from this man if you will. Find a place in heaven for him and get him
there soon. For if you do not he will surely find a place for himself in hell—for
himself and how many others?

Chapter 27

When Fedorov
returned to the Bridge three hours
later Karpov reported all was well, and they now had a clear surface contact to
their southwest.

“We are on course 225 now and the sea is calm. The ship is
running smoothly at thirty knots and we’ve found your Force Z. You were
correct. We spotted them about 150 nautical miles out. They are still well
ahead of us on a heading of 255 degrees, but we’ve cut their lead and they just
reduced speed to fifteen. If we increase to full battle speed that will give us
another five knot edge to see if we can make up that distance.”

“It won’t be enough,” said Fedorov, walking to his
navigation board. His well trained eye took in the position, course and speed
of the British task force relative to
Kirov
’s and he knew at once that
they had lost their race. “It’s what I was afraid of,” he explained. “If we had
more sea room to the starboard side I could turn another fifteen or twenty
degrees and then perhaps we could outrun them. Unfortunately, that course would
send us right across Cabo de Gata—Cat’s Cape here.” He pointed to the prominent
land mass southeast from Almiera. We can’t sail on land and if they come any further
to their starboard side, even a few points, then our situation is even worse.
They just had too long a head start on us, but I can’t see why. They seem to be
several hours ahead of where I expected them.”

Again, something was wrong. Something had changed. Unless
Rodney’s
boiler problem was miraculously cured, they must have turned Force Z earlier.
They were supposed to turn back at 18:55, but there is no way Force Z could be
where it is now unless… He ran a hasty calculation.

“Damn,” he breathed. “It’s slipped again. They must have
turned west as early as 16:00 hours! This means
Indomitable
wasn’t
exposed to that attack that put three bombs on her flight deck at 18:thirty
hours, and they’ll likely have her intact.”

Karpov shrugged. “Three carriers now?”

“It seems so.”

“And I could have taken out at least two of them if I had
just had a free hand weeks ago. The cat you don’t feed today will scratch your
leg twice as hard tomorrow. Now we fight them again.”

Fedorov seemed unsure of himself now. Their plan had
failed. They would not be able to slip past Force Z tonight, and the prospect
for a battle was looming on the far horizon, drawing ever closer with each turn
of
Kirov’s
powerful screws. He looked at the navigation plots, thinking.

“An hour before midnight, at 23:00 hours, they will be here
if they stay on their present course. I doubt if they’ll have planes up
tonight, except perhaps to provide local air cover over the task force. We
might be visited by some long range recon planes out of Gibraltar, but
otherwise, I don’t think they’ve seen us yet.”

“And where will we be at that hour?”

“Here—about forty nautical miles off their starboard aft
quarter.” Then he saw it—one slim chance, but they would have to plan it very
well, and it would be very risky. Karpov could see the new light in his eyes,
and he probed him.

“What? Do you see another option?”

“Look… At 23:00 hours we’ll also be about forty nautical
miles due east of Cabo de Gata. Suppose we turn due west at that time and run
directly for the cape. If they don’t see us then we just might slip past them.
If they do see us then they would have to turn fifteen degrees to starboard—but
I think we could still out run them. The only thing is this: they won’t catch
us in this event, but they
will
spot us, and those guns range out to 36,000
meters, with an effective range of 32,000 meters for battle.”

“We’ll be inside that?”

“Unfortunately yes.” He looked ahead in his mind,
wondering. “We’ll have no room to maneuver to starboard. We’ll be right on the
damn coast, so we’ll just have to run the gauntlet.”

“Let’s try, Fedorov. When our first salvo of missiles hits
home we’ll give them a real surprise, just like the Italians. It will be a
night action. We can jam any radar they may deploy. We have twice their speed,
and plenty of firepower.”

“Yes, but they have three carriers, and they’ll launch
everything they have at us. Gibraltar will get in the game soon after with
their air squadrons.”

“We still have thirty-five of our S-300s and seventy-nine
more on the Klinok system, and we’re going to hit anything we fire at.”

“There may be submarines.”

“Our sonar is now fully operational and we can use the
Shkval
rocket torpedoes to snuff them out like a match.”

“And minefields in the straits…”

“You saw what we did at Bonifacio. We can get through,
Fedorov! Don’t lose your nerve now. Our only other choice is to drop anchor
here and get Nikolin on the radio to Gibraltar.” He pointed to the unseen base,
somewhere to the west. “Do that and I guarantee you that this Force Z will come
steaming up in any case, and then we’ll have our battle right here. It will
happen, sooner or later, Fedorov. But if we try to get by them we’ll at least
have a chance to win through.”