They were right at the edge of the S-400s engagement envelope, and it was very nearly out of fuel. But down it came, its speed intense, like a bolt of lightning from the heavens above. All the chaff and flares were fired to try and spoof it, but it was not fooled. Its radar eyes and cold chip mind could clearly see the fluttering moth below, and it was locked on, relentless, boring in for the kill… until its fuel load was suddenly expended, flaming out in a last sputter of fire, and now it would be moving on momentum only, losing most of its power to maneuver.
Sherenski pulled hard on his controls, sending the helo wildly off in another direction. The missile saw the target move, tried to compensate, but the back end had moved off angle when the thrust cut out. The computer tried to compensate, making tiny adjustments to the fins to attempt a recovery, but it did not work. The missile began to tumble, and the internal program, sensing all fuel expended and loss of control, simply detonated the warhead with its self-destruct module. Even so, they heard the sharp clink of shrapnel strike one of the rotors. It had been that close.
Back aboard Kirov, Karpov had come over to Samsonov’s station to personally take charge of the self-destruct command, and for that tense last thirty seconds, the Missile Chief sat stolidly in his chair, one eye watching the missile telemetry readings, the other stealing glances at the self destruct switch. When the telemetry cut out, a strong sign of successful detonation, he thought he heard Karpov swear under his breath. Then, looking at the Admiral’s hand, he could see the command to destroy the missile was never sent.
Karpov cast a dark, narrow eyed glance his way, and the Chief looked away, saying nothing, and checking his telemetry reading again. “Missile destroyed,” he said in a low voice.
Karpov closed the plastic cover over the missile abort switch, moving like a wraith to Rodenko’s station. “You see,” he breathed. “Nothing to get all bothered about. But I certainly got their attention. Yes?” He flashed a pale faced smile.
Now Nikolin spoke. “I have Captain Fedorov again sir. He is asking to speak with you.”
“Send it to my ready room.” Karpov strode off, closing the hatch behind him with a hard clank.
Rodenko looked at the other members of the bridge crew, who sat in silence, a bit stunned by what had just happened, but no one spoke. Then Grilikov came stomping up the main stairway to the bridge and loomed in the hatch, stepping inside, his big heavy-booted feet hard on the deck. He had been told by Karpov that whenever the alarm for combat of any sort was heard on the ship, he was to drop anything he was doing and get to the bridge at once. The silence among the bridge crew deepened.
Inside his ready room Karpov was struggling with his own inner anger. I was stupid just now, he chided himself. That was a goddamned knee jerk reaction on my part, something my brother self might have done, impulsive, wasteful and just plain stupid. Yes, I wasted a good missile just now, and all I did was put Fedorov on his guard. There’s another way to handle this. Where can they go? That helo has limited fuel, and it must either make its rendezvous with Irkutsk, return to the ship, or simply land somewhere. Any of those alternatives would have ended this scenario. The missile wasn’t necessary.
He reached for the handset, and thumbed it to speak. “Karpov here. Get the wax out of your ears, Fedorov. You’ve been ordered to return to the ship immediately. This mission is aborted.”
“What in the name of heaven is going on, Karpov? Why the missile? We took damage just now, and you could have killed us!”
“That was just a little theatrics to get your attention and make it stick. Now turn that helo around and get back here. We certainly can’t discuss this on the radio, encrypted or not.”
“But we’ve so little time,” said Fedorov. “If I don’t act before the 30th of September—”
“Bullshit, Fedorov. Understand? Bullshit! Turn that helo and get back here. I’ll explain everything when you arrive.”
Fedorov’s pulse was up, a heat on him even in the cold Siberian air. That missile had been very close. The outer limit of its engagement envelope was variable, and it had failed to reach them, but just barely. What could have possibly compelled Karpov to make this call? Didn’t he understand what was at stake here? The Admiral’s voice came back, a little breathless, as though he had been struggling to control himself, an enforced composure evident in his tone, though Fedorov could perceive the tension in every word he spoke.
“Look Fedorov, where else can you go? You’ll run out a fuel yourself soon, and have to land somewhere in Siberia—my Siberia, I might add. Make your rendezvous with the Irkutsk and I’ll have you arrested then and there. So just be smart now and turn back while you can. There’s more to this than we contemplated—very much more.”
He’s afraid, thought Fedorov. He’s afraid of something, but he can’t come right out and say it. How can I convince him that this mission is imperative. “Admiral,” he said. “If we abort now, we may not have time to get back and complete the mission.”
“There isn’t going to be any mission!” The anger was back.
“But you know what’s at stake. We went over everything, for hours and hours.”
“Yes, I know what’s at stake—but you don’t, Fedorov. Now stop arguing and obey orders!”
Fedorov thought quickly. He needed time, so he decided to allay the Admiral’s fears, whatever they were, and tell him what he wanted to hear. “Very well, Admiral. We will return to the ship as ordered. I just hope to God you know what you’re doing here. Fedorov out.”
“Get up to altitude so Rodenko can see you,” said Karpov back. “I can promise you safe passage home. Then I’ll explain everything. Karpov out.”
“Turn now and climb sir?” Sherenski gave Fedorov a wide-eyed look.
“And give that bastard another shot at us?” said Orlov. “Sookin Sym! He’ll kill us, Fedorov. Don’t believe a word he says. We should take the helo and get as far away from here as we can.”
Fedorov gritted his teeth. “Pilot, put us back on course for the Irkutsk rendezvous.”
“Sir? You will not obey the Admiral’s order?”
“Damn right he won’t obey the bloody Admiral’s order,” Orlov growled.
“Just turn and make that rendezvous,” said Fedorov, and keep us low. Keep the transponder off, and disengage the radio as well. I can’t have them tracking us that way, but first… I need to buy us some time.” He thumbed the send switch.
“Black Hawk to Mother, that missile did more damage than we thought. We have a fuel leak and I’ve determined we cannot make the ship.” He reached over, and cranked the frequency modulator, and flipped a switch for ECM jamming as well, all while he continued sending. “Come in, Kirov, we cannot read your link…. Breaking up…” Then he switched the radio set off.
Aboard Kirov, Nikolin received the message, but it didn’t sound anything like genuine interference to his trained ear. To make certain, he checked his data log on the frequency integrity, and looking that over he was immediately convinced that they had tried to spoof radio failure on the other end. It was deliberate.
He swallowed, thinking, his eyes moving this way and that. Then he reported. “Sir, that last communication was cut off. Their radio sounded like it was fried. I’ve lost the com link.”
Fedorov had at least one collaborator there in Nikolin. But would he now have the time he needed to carry out his plan? He looked around the cabin, realizing he was going to ask a great deal of all these men. His eyes met Troyak’s.