expected to see incoming missiles at
any moment.
Yet
the Admiral sat calmly on his chair, his eyes narrowed with that vacant look of
inward thought that so clearly signaled to the others that he was not be
disturbed at the moment. What had happened to the rest of his task force? There
were 465 men aboard Slava , and another 100 on Orel . Where in god’s
name were they? The feeling that had bothered him all morning was back again. He
had a clear sense that something profound had happened, but he could not
discern what it was. What if Karpov was correct and this was war?
Would
NATO launch a surprise attack like this, perhaps from a stealthy submarine that
had been lurking undetected in the region? Orel and Slava were
gone, yet his ship, the only real threat in the task force, was untouched. The
more he considered this the more he began to feel that this had been another
accident. Yet if Orel had suffered an accident, where was Slava? She was farther away from the sub’s position than Kirov and should have
been well outside the effect radius of a 15 kiloton explosion. These odd
incongruities frustrated and blocked his thinking, like pieces of a puzzle that
would simply not fit, no matter how hard he tried to force them into a coherent
picture.
The
rest of the bridge crew sat silent at their posts, watchful, wary, and somewhat
on edge. Tasarov had a pained, worrisome expression on his young face. He was
checking and rechecking his system, adjusting settings, listening intently, his
hand running through his hair at times as he adjusted his equipment. His brow
was heavy with concentration, and it was clear that he felt somewhat
responsible for the situation. If the ship had been attacked by a torpedo, why
didn’t he hear it?
Rodenko,
the soft spoken Ukrainian, was equally disturbed. He was the eyes of the ship,
where Tasarov was its ears. The fact that he could not even detect the weather
front he had been monitoring was most unsettling.
Nikolin
sat at his cubicle on communications, flipping through a code book and checking
his radio gain and reception bands. All his normal communication channels
seemed strangely quiet, and the silence out of Severomorsk was very odd. He had
sent coded emergency flash signals, and there should have been an immediate
response.
Some
of the junior officers seemed lost in their spacious Russian souls. They leaned
over their stations, eyes glazed with the milky luminescence of the screens and
systems lights, their thoughts running with the old fairy tale hero, Yemelya ,
the great idler. Life at sea was often endless and dull for them. They could
sense that something was amiss, but had not been privy to much of the
discussion among the senior officers, and so they watched the interminable
sweep of their radar scopes, tuning and adjusting their equipment. Some seemed
lost, others alert and curious, their eyes watching the senior officers
closely, as recent events had put them on edge.
The
remote helicopter reported no sign of radiation, however. And nothing
whatsoever was detected by the sonar buoys—no sign of wreckage on the seafloor
at all. They even patched the data through to Tasarov, so his better trained
eye and ear could verify the findings. There was just nothing there. Infrared
sensors, which would have easily detected heat from a ship that had recently
endured combat damage sufficient to sink her, reported nothing unusual.
Then
Nikolin seemed encouraged as the signal strength from the KA-226 improved
dramatically. He had much more clarity, and instinctively looked at Rodenko,
who smiled as he reported. “I have a clear reading on the KA-226 now,” he said.
“The interference is gone.” Kirov's systems seemed to be in perfect
working order, the telemetry being received from the helicopter on Tasarov's
panel was pristine. There was simply nothing else there to be seen, so Admiral Volsky
ordered the helo to return. He stared out the forward viewports, noting the
color of the sea had
any moment.
Yet
the Admiral sat calmly on his chair, his eyes narrowed with that vacant look of
inward thought that so clearly signaled to the others that he was not be
disturbed at the moment. What had happened to the rest of his task force? There
were 465 men aboard Slava , and another 100 on Orel . Where in god’s
name were they? The feeling that had bothered him all morning was back again. He
had a clear sense that something profound had happened, but he could not
discern what it was. What if Karpov was correct and this was war?
Would
NATO launch a surprise attack like this, perhaps from a stealthy submarine that
had been lurking undetected in the region? Orel and Slava were
gone, yet his ship, the only real threat in the task force, was untouched. The
more he considered this the more he began to feel that this had been another
accident. Yet if Orel had suffered an accident, where was Slava? She was farther away from the sub’s position than Kirov and should have
been well outside the effect radius of a 15 kiloton explosion. These odd
incongruities frustrated and blocked his thinking, like pieces of a puzzle that
would simply not fit, no matter how hard he tried to force them into a coherent
picture.
The
rest of the bridge crew sat silent at their posts, watchful, wary, and somewhat
on edge. Tasarov had a pained, worrisome expression on his young face. He was
checking and rechecking his system, adjusting settings, listening intently, his
hand running through his hair at times as he adjusted his equipment. His brow
was heavy with concentration, and it was clear that he felt somewhat
responsible for the situation. If the ship had been attacked by a torpedo, why
didn’t he hear it?
Rodenko,
the soft spoken Ukrainian, was equally disturbed. He was the eyes of the ship,
where Tasarov was its ears. The fact that he could not even detect the weather
front he had been monitoring was most unsettling.
Nikolin
sat at his cubicle on communications, flipping through a code book and checking
his radio gain and reception bands. All his normal communication channels
seemed strangely quiet, and the silence out of Severomorsk was very odd. He had
sent coded emergency flash signals, and there should have been an immediate
response.
Some
of the junior officers seemed lost in their spacious Russian souls. They leaned
over their stations, eyes glazed with the milky luminescence of the screens and
systems lights, their thoughts running with the old fairy tale hero, Yemelya ,
the great idler. Life at sea was often endless and dull for them. They could
sense that something was amiss, but had not been privy to much of the
discussion among the senior officers, and so they watched the interminable
sweep of their radar scopes, tuning and adjusting their equipment. Some seemed
lost, others alert and curious, their eyes watching the senior officers
closely, as recent events had put them on edge.
The
remote helicopter reported no sign of radiation, however. And nothing
whatsoever was detected by the sonar buoys—no sign of wreckage on the seafloor
at all. They even patched the data through to Tasarov, so his better trained
eye and ear could verify the findings. There was just nothing there. Infrared
sensors, which would have easily detected heat from a ship that had recently
endured combat damage sufficient to sink her, reported nothing unusual.
Then
Nikolin seemed encouraged as the signal strength from the KA-226 improved
dramatically. He had much more clarity, and instinctively looked at Rodenko,
who smiled as he reported. “I have a clear reading on the KA-226 now,” he said.
“The interference is gone.” Kirov's systems seemed to be in perfect
working order, the telemetry being received from the helicopter on Tasarov's
panel was pristine. There was simply nothing else there to be seen, so Admiral Volsky
ordered the helo to return. He stared out the forward viewports, noting the
color of the sea had
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