eyes
widened as he spoke, quick to latch on to anything that would allow him to fit
what he was seeing into some understandable point of reference and dispel the
illusion that Fedorov was spinning out. “This could all be part of some
elaborate ruse, designed to confuse us. Some kind of electronic warfare,
perhaps a NATO PSYOP. That strange explosion we experienced hours ago may have
been the opening salvo.”
Official
deception was something Karpov could deal with much more easily. He presented
the situation as a deliberate attempt by their enemies to deceive. Russians had
been subjected to so many official lies over the years that they became almost
incapable of recognizing truth. Their own language even used the same verb to
describe coming and going, and so in that sense, a Russian never quite knew
where he stood, or wither he was bound. Karpov heard Fedorov’s arguments, and
deep inside he knew something was terribly wrong with the ships on the video
feed, but he could not accept what the man was saying. A deliberate hoax, aimed
as an attack, was the only thing that made sense to him now.
“Orlov?”
The Admiral wanted to know what his Chief of Operations thought, but Orlov
looked as confused as anyone. He had idled with Fedorov at times, the two of
them also sharing stories of the second war where both their grandfathers had
served, but this was difficult to believe. “I don't know what to think,
Admiral. But, as it is clearly impossible that the British could resurrect
ships decommissioned and demolished decades ago, then we must give further
thought to what the Captain suggests.”
“Impossible,
you say, yet this very ship has risen from the dead, has it not? Perhaps the
British are refitting their old ships as well.”
Karpov
took a deep breath, stiffening, gratified that Orlov had again reinforced his position.
“Enough of this game,” he said. “Where is Slava? Where is Orel? If this is a PSYOP then the British have gone too far! I recommend we hail this
task force and demand immediate identification. This will put an end to this
nonsense. These ships may be responsible for everything we have been dealing
with here. Suppose they boarded Slava and have her under tow? That would
be hijacking at sea, a clear international violation.”
“A
moment ago it was this submarine that was responsible for all of our problems,”
said Admiral Volsky. “Now you suggest the British are running some elaborate
psychological operation aimed at confusing us and rounding up the Russian Navy,
ship by ship?”
Karpov
frowned, clearly unhappy with the Admiral’s remark, yet he persisted. “If they
do not identify themselves under international protocols, then it is permitted
to give fair warning and fire a shot across their bow, sir. Everything we have
endured these last hours has been a clear provocation. It is time we let them
know that the Russian Navy will not tolerate this nonsense.” He folded his
arms, his anger apparent.
Admiral
Volsky sighed heavily as he thought the situation through. One thing he had
learned in life was that things were seldom what they seemed at first take. A
man had to test the truth he chose to believe, like he would test his footing
on a long icy road. The old Russian proverb came to mind here: ‘The church is
near but the road is all ice; the tavern is far but I'll walk very carefully.’
It would be easy to go and sit in Karpov’s church rather than walk that long
road to what Fedorov was telling him. Yet something told him, quietly,
insistently, that this was no illusion foisted off on them by the British, and
he had to walk that road slowly, minding his footing with every step he took
here. He decided to test the situation and indulge his Captain.
“Very
well,” he said. “Mister Nikolin, I authorize you to break radio silence and
hail this task force on all channels. Do so in English. Give their position,
course, and speed as determined by our radar here, and request
widened as he spoke, quick to latch on to anything that would allow him to fit
what he was seeing into some understandable point of reference and dispel the
illusion that Fedorov was spinning out. “This could all be part of some
elaborate ruse, designed to confuse us. Some kind of electronic warfare,
perhaps a NATO PSYOP. That strange explosion we experienced hours ago may have
been the opening salvo.”
Official
deception was something Karpov could deal with much more easily. He presented
the situation as a deliberate attempt by their enemies to deceive. Russians had
been subjected to so many official lies over the years that they became almost
incapable of recognizing truth. Their own language even used the same verb to
describe coming and going, and so in that sense, a Russian never quite knew
where he stood, or wither he was bound. Karpov heard Fedorov’s arguments, and
deep inside he knew something was terribly wrong with the ships on the video
feed, but he could not accept what the man was saying. A deliberate hoax, aimed
as an attack, was the only thing that made sense to him now.
“Orlov?”
The Admiral wanted to know what his Chief of Operations thought, but Orlov
looked as confused as anyone. He had idled with Fedorov at times, the two of
them also sharing stories of the second war where both their grandfathers had
served, but this was difficult to believe. “I don't know what to think,
Admiral. But, as it is clearly impossible that the British could resurrect
ships decommissioned and demolished decades ago, then we must give further
thought to what the Captain suggests.”
“Impossible,
you say, yet this very ship has risen from the dead, has it not? Perhaps the
British are refitting their old ships as well.”
Karpov
took a deep breath, stiffening, gratified that Orlov had again reinforced his position.
“Enough of this game,” he said. “Where is Slava? Where is Orel? If this is a PSYOP then the British have gone too far! I recommend we hail this
task force and demand immediate identification. This will put an end to this
nonsense. These ships may be responsible for everything we have been dealing
with here. Suppose they boarded Slava and have her under tow? That would
be hijacking at sea, a clear international violation.”
“A
moment ago it was this submarine that was responsible for all of our problems,”
said Admiral Volsky. “Now you suggest the British are running some elaborate
psychological operation aimed at confusing us and rounding up the Russian Navy,
ship by ship?”
Karpov
frowned, clearly unhappy with the Admiral’s remark, yet he persisted. “If they
do not identify themselves under international protocols, then it is permitted
to give fair warning and fire a shot across their bow, sir. Everything we have
endured these last hours has been a clear provocation. It is time we let them
know that the Russian Navy will not tolerate this nonsense.” He folded his
arms, his anger apparent.
Admiral
Volsky sighed heavily as he thought the situation through. One thing he had
learned in life was that things were seldom what they seemed at first take. A
man had to test the truth he chose to believe, like he would test his footing
on a long icy road. The old Russian proverb came to mind here: ‘The church is
near but the road is all ice; the tavern is far but I'll walk very carefully.’
It would be easy to go and sit in Karpov’s church rather than walk that long
road to what Fedorov was telling him. Yet something told him, quietly,
insistently, that this was no illusion foisted off on them by the British, and
he had to walk that road slowly, minding his footing with every step he took
here. He decided to test the situation and indulge his Captain.
“Very
well,” he said. “Mister Nikolin, I authorize you to break radio silence and
hail this task force on all channels. Do so in English. Give their position,
course, and speed as determined by our radar here, and request
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