adrift.
Severomorsk
was not merely home, but also the rein of ultimate control on the ship. Orders
might come from home port that could supersede those of Admiral Volsky himself.
Volsky was Admiral of the Northern Fleet, but above him was Commander-in-Chief
of the Navy itself, Gennady Alexandrovich Suchkov, and his Deputy Chief of
Staff Vladimir Ivanovich Rogatin. Karpov had been slowly building relationships
with these men, hoping they might be useful one day. Vlasky had succeeded
Suchkov as Admiral of the Northern Fleet, and Rogatin had been a former Captain
of the old battlecruiser Kirov before he moved on to higher ranks. Vlasky
was also the most likely candidate to take the aging Suchkov’s place, so Karpov
found himself well positioned to advance even further if recent history was any
guide.
Now
the strange silence from Severomorsk was most discomfiting to him. A favorite
tactic against a man of senior rank had always been an appeal to higher
authority. Karpov had ingratiated himself with the Naval Staff as he wheedled
his way into the command chair of the Kirov . Volsky was his senior, and
by a wide margin, but he could always appeal to Severomorsk for a
countervailing decision. So his first order of business was to seed the matter
there with his own opinion as soon as he possibly could. He wanted to see if he
could color the matter at hand in the eyes of senior officers back home, and
possibly influence any decision that they might make about the situation. Yet
more than this, he wanted to make certain his own actions would be viewed in a
proper light; he wanted to begin, even in official discourse, the line of
subtle truth-bending that was vranyo . The Admiral had countermanded his
orders just now, and Karpov still burned with a quiet inner resentment over
that. He did what he believed was proper, and in his mind the Admiral was
remiss.
On
one level, he saw a glimmering of opportunity in this situation. Orel and Slava were both missing, and the Admiral was being far too lax in
his assessment of the potential dangers here. This incident would be viewed
harshly back home, and blame and scapegoating were sure to follow. The Admiral
was responsible, he knew, but he would make sure that any fault found rested
squarely on Volsky’s shoulders. He would let Severomorsk know exactly what he
thought, and somewhere in his mind he was already launching missiles at the
Admiral. The struggle for the first salvo was the essence of modern naval
combat. The Captain wanted to be sure he had himself in the best possible position
if it came to an inquiry on these events. A report would have to be written on
the matter, and he was already hard at work, drafting copy in his mind, and
thinking just who best to put on the distribution list.
Yet
for now, it was the silence that bothered him most. Who could he tell his
stories to, his half-truths and darker lies, if no one was listening back home?
What was going on? Why didn’t Severomorsk answer? He badgered Nikolin about his
equipment—was it working correctly? When was the last time it was given a full
maintenance check? Who had the duty here on the last watch? Was he trying the
secure Satellite com-link line?
“I have no satellite link, sir,” Nikolin explained. “I cannot establish
links to any of our com-sat bands. It must be the interference, sir.”
Karpov
was wagging an accusatory finger at Nikolin, and frowning. “Keep trying, Mister
Nikolin. I expect you to get this equipment sorted out!” Then he saw Nikolin
had an iPod sitting off to one side, and he snatched it up, shaking it in the
young Lieutenant’ face. “Perhaps you should spend more time focused on your
duties, Nikolin, and less with this.” He took the device and strode away, like
a strict school master chastening a wayward student.
Nikolin,
shrugged, deflated, harried, and trying harder than ever to get through to
Severomorsk. He sighed with relief when the Captain finally wandered off,
looking for
Severomorsk
was not merely home, but also the rein of ultimate control on the ship. Orders
might come from home port that could supersede those of Admiral Volsky himself.
Volsky was Admiral of the Northern Fleet, but above him was Commander-in-Chief
of the Navy itself, Gennady Alexandrovich Suchkov, and his Deputy Chief of
Staff Vladimir Ivanovich Rogatin. Karpov had been slowly building relationships
with these men, hoping they might be useful one day. Vlasky had succeeded
Suchkov as Admiral of the Northern Fleet, and Rogatin had been a former Captain
of the old battlecruiser Kirov before he moved on to higher ranks. Vlasky
was also the most likely candidate to take the aging Suchkov’s place, so Karpov
found himself well positioned to advance even further if recent history was any
guide.
Now
the strange silence from Severomorsk was most discomfiting to him. A favorite
tactic against a man of senior rank had always been an appeal to higher
authority. Karpov had ingratiated himself with the Naval Staff as he wheedled
his way into the command chair of the Kirov . Volsky was his senior, and
by a wide margin, but he could always appeal to Severomorsk for a
countervailing decision. So his first order of business was to seed the matter
there with his own opinion as soon as he possibly could. He wanted to see if he
could color the matter at hand in the eyes of senior officers back home, and
possibly influence any decision that they might make about the situation. Yet
more than this, he wanted to make certain his own actions would be viewed in a
proper light; he wanted to begin, even in official discourse, the line of
subtle truth-bending that was vranyo . The Admiral had countermanded his
orders just now, and Karpov still burned with a quiet inner resentment over
that. He did what he believed was proper, and in his mind the Admiral was
remiss.
On
one level, he saw a glimmering of opportunity in this situation. Orel and Slava were both missing, and the Admiral was being far too lax in
his assessment of the potential dangers here. This incident would be viewed
harshly back home, and blame and scapegoating were sure to follow. The Admiral
was responsible, he knew, but he would make sure that any fault found rested
squarely on Volsky’s shoulders. He would let Severomorsk know exactly what he
thought, and somewhere in his mind he was already launching missiles at the
Admiral. The struggle for the first salvo was the essence of modern naval
combat. The Captain wanted to be sure he had himself in the best possible position
if it came to an inquiry on these events. A report would have to be written on
the matter, and he was already hard at work, drafting copy in his mind, and
thinking just who best to put on the distribution list.
Yet
for now, it was the silence that bothered him most. Who could he tell his
stories to, his half-truths and darker lies, if no one was listening back home?
What was going on? Why didn’t Severomorsk answer? He badgered Nikolin about his
equipment—was it working correctly? When was the last time it was given a full
maintenance check? Who had the duty here on the last watch? Was he trying the
secure Satellite com-link line?
“I have no satellite link, sir,” Nikolin explained. “I cannot establish
links to any of our com-sat bands. It must be the interference, sir.”
Karpov
was wagging an accusatory finger at Nikolin, and frowning. “Keep trying, Mister
Nikolin. I expect you to get this equipment sorted out!” Then he saw Nikolin
had an iPod sitting off to one side, and he snatched it up, shaking it in the
young Lieutenant’ face. “Perhaps you should spend more time focused on your
duties, Nikolin, and less with this.” He took the device and strode away, like
a strict school master chastening a wayward student.
Nikolin,
shrugged, deflated, harried, and trying harder than ever to get through to
Severomorsk. He sighed with relief when the Captain finally wandered off,
looking for
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