Kirov II: Cauldron Of Fire (Kirov Series) Read Free Page A

ring
to it. And I agree with everything you have said. We’ll win through, I have no
doubt. It is just a matter of time.”

 
     
     
     
    Part I
     
    First Blood
     
    “So long the path; so hard the
journey,
    When I will return, I cannot say for
sure,
    Until then the nights will be longer.
    Sleep will be full of dark dreams and
sorrow,
    But do not weep for me…”
     
    - Russian Naval Hymn

Chapter 1
     
    20 August, Year Unknown
     
    Admiral Leonid Volsky slowly climbed last
stairway leading to the main deck, emerging on the aft quarter of the ship on a
clear, starry night. The warm breeze of the Mediterranean was welcome compared
to the harsh winds he was used to in the north, and he breathed deeply, taking
in the sweetness of the night air, and the all embracing calm of the quiet sea.
    They had
been sailing east now for all of ten days, crossing the Atlantic for European
waters, intent on learning more about the strange circumstances of their
voyage. As his mind wandered through the memories of these last few weeks he
could scarcely believe the images that came to him—of the accident that sent
the ship into the icy fog of infinity and the amazing and confounding dilemma
that followed. A chance encounter with an old fighter plane had led them into
the cauldron of the Second World War, as astounding as it still seemed. Within
days his ship and crew were locked in a life and death struggle against the
rapidly mustered strength of the Royal Navy and then her American allies as
well. His illness, the stubborn headache and that odd spell of vertigo that had
sent him into the infirmary with Dr. Zolkin, had allowed his truculent
subordinate, Captain Karpov, to embroil the ship in heated combat. By the time
he had awakened from his fit, Kirov was at war and, sadly, thousands
would die when her arsenal of lethal modern weaponry was set loose in the fray.
    Karpov….
    The Admiral
still shook his head to think on the man, hoping that he had finally managed to
reach him when he visited him, just days ago, a thousand questions in his mind
and heart. He remembered it now as he walked the deck, ambling slowly toward
the aft helo bay.
     
    “Why,
Karpov?” he had said right out, his eyes lined with pain and the awful sense of
betrayal he felt.
    The brooding
Captain remained silent, eyes averted, arms folded over his service jacket, an
expression of restrained anger still apparent on his face.
    Volsky
leaned forward, waiting, like a wounded father scolding a wayward son. “None of
the others were involved in this,” he said evenly. “Tasarov, Samsonov,
Rodenko—they were all blameless. Orlov I can understand,” he said slowly.
“Orlov is a dullard when it comes right down to it. How he rose to Chief of the
Boat still befuddles me. I certainly had nothing to do with his promotions, but
here he was, ready to follow any man’s lead that seemed sensible to him in the
heat of action, and given more to muscle than mind when any obstacle presented
itself. Yes, he’s a hard man, Orlov, but not one with guile. He would never
have dreamed or dared what you did. No, Karpov. It was all your doing,
yes? Orlov was nothing more than an witless collaborator, and I am willing to
bet that you had to pressure him to complicity in this mutiny.” He ended with a
hard fat finger on the table between them.
    They were in
the Captain’s personal day-cabin where Volsky had summoned his wayward officer
from the brig, marched under guard here for this meeting as Kirov sailed
east, away from the black horror of Halifax.
    Karpov gave
the Admiral a sharp glance, averting his eyes again, still sullen and
unresponsive, folded in on himself and beset with a mix of emotions—anger, frustration,
outrage and beneath them all the bile of shame that seemed to choke him now,
stilling his voice and darkening his mind as never before.
    “That’s what
I must call it—mutiny,” said Volsky, “for there is no other word for it. And
for a flag officer of the