Kirov Read Free Page A

we would most likely be sitting at the bottom of the sea to
contemplate the error of our ways. The man who fails to think ahead of time
will have a very long time to think afterwards when his fat, ugly boat is berthed
up in Murmansk with all the rest, waiting to be broken up for scrap and hauled
away by the salvage teams. Perhaps then he will have learned the value of proper
timing in a naval exercise.”
    Members
of the bridge crew smiled to themselves as they listened, accustomed to the
Admiral's long diatribe on most any subject that did not meet with his
approval. To them he was old “Papa Volsky,” Grand Admiral, Godfather, King of
the Northern Seas. And they were his well favored and trusted retainers, many
of them hand-picked and promoted up through the ranks by this very man. He was
a shining example of naval professionalism, a consummate strategist, strict
disciplinarian, yet an amiable father to a crew he regarded as his own private
family. His strength, willpower, decisiveness, and quiet dignity had been an example
to them all for years now, even as his wrath would be their bane. Just the
sight of him, sitting thoughtfully in his command seat, his hand toying with
the wood of his pipe, was a comfort to them. His deep set eyes would flash
beneath graying brows when he spoke, his voice a strong baritone suited to his
ample frame.
    They
would do anything for him, go anywhere with him, and he returned their loyalty
with the generosity that sometimes seemed out of place on a naval warship where
Spartan asceticism was the rule the day. Yet no one was surprised when a box of
fine Cuban cigars would turn up in the wardroom, a gift from the Admiral to all
his ranking officers and chiefs.
    On
the other hand, like the sea around him, he could be temperamental at times,
quick to anger one moment, stoic and quiet at other times when a brooding inner
vision seem to haunt him, a quiet darkness that hid within his soul in a place
no man could sit with him for tea. At such times he expressed his frustrations
in these long monologues, lecturing, as any father would do with wayward sons.
He was firm in handling any perceived breach of procedure, but never cruel or
heartless. When he criticized, he could drain the blood from a man's face in
ten seconds. Yet when he praised a man, you could see the lucky soul swell
right there before him. It was not mere bluster and the bludgeon of authority
that gave the man his rank. His mere presence radiated command, from the cut of
his uniform, to the tilt of his cap, Leonid Volsky was an admiral in every
sense of the word.
    Volsky
crossed his arms and pursed his lips, clearly bothered by the delay. This was
supposed to be a simple live fire exercise, a routine that had been practiced
many times before, yet now it seemed to auger something dark and foreboding. He
had a strange feeling that there was something amiss, something slightly off
its kilter. It was not merely the impending onset of bad weather, or the
frustrating incompetence of Rudnikov on the Orel . There was something
more….He could not see what it was just yet, but some inner voice warned him
that this day would be far from routine. Call it intuition, or the barnacled
salt of many years experience at sea, but Volsky sensed something was wrong. He
found himself listening intently to the ship, the sound of its turbines, the
hum of the electronic consoles here on the main bridge, as if he might ferret
out the vague disquiet that had settled over him. Yet everything sounded normal
to his well tuned ear.
    The
ship he sailed was the newest addition to the fleet, a miraculous resurrection
of one of the most imposing classes of surface combat vessels ever designed. Any
sailor worth his salt will tell you that it's bad luck to rename a ship, but
the Russians never seemed to bother with it. Most ships in the Kirov class had started with the name of the Russian city, and then been renamed
after a famous admiral or general. In Kirov’s case,