Free Kirov by John Schettler Page B

the last half hour was talking about the sea
conditions. We should feel fortunate that Rodenko’s weather report was wrong
today, that’s all. And perhaps it is merely an algae bloom. Such things are not
that uncommon. The ocean is as temperamental as Karpov,” said the doctor. “It’s
just a mood. It will pass.”
    Volsky
nodded, heading for the bridge, but the doctor’s suggestion would soon raise
many more questions than it answered.
     

 
    Chapter
5
     
    Back
on the bridge ten
minutes later, the Admiral asked his radioman Nikolin to tune in anything he
could find on the short wave that might shed light on the situation, but the
result confused them even more. There was nothing on the radio bands at all. Every
wavelength was awash with the soft hiss of background static. This went on for
another half hour until the stubby first Lieutenant sat up suddenly, his hand
at an earpiece as he reported with a smile.
    “Signal!
I have Moscow on long wave. Just heard the call sign ID. Very strange, Admiral.
They signed off as Radio Moscow.” That station had been renamed ‘Voice of
Russia,’ years ago.
    “Well,
at least Moscow is still there,” said the Admiral.
    “But
they are playing oldies but goodies! It reminds me of the old military music they
would broadcast whenever there was a crisis. Here, have a listen…” He toggled a
switch and the sonorous swells of Tchaikovsky’s violins played over his
speakers. The sound touched a deep nerve in Volsky, triggering an old childhood
memory. He was just a young boy at the time of the Cuban Missile crisis in
1962, but the radio had droned on and on with similar music for hours, and the
deep memory carried a vaguely ominous undertone.
    “Surely
there must be some news being reported,” he said. “Dial in a few more regional
stations. Try Oslo or Reykjavík, or perhaps even the BBC in London.”
    Nikolin
seemed more and more perplexed the longer he searched however. “It's very
strange, sir,” he reported. “No commercials! Just music from Oslo, Beethoven
this time…Nothing much of anything from Reykjavík, and the BBC is droning on
with some old World War II documentary. They're playing speeches by Churchill
and congratulating themselves over the sinking of the German battleship Bismarck .”
Nikolin was skilled in three languages and could easily interpret the English. “It’s
the same all across the band. Lots of commemorative radio traffic about the
war. Is this an anniversary of some important event?”
    Volsky
smiled. “Ask Fedorov. He’s the historian aboard ship.” His young navigator was
a book worm of sorts, and a bit of an Anglophile in spite of the fact that
Britain was a clear enemy of Russia in the year 2021.
     “Fedorov
will tell you how much the British love their history,” said Volsky. “Well,
keep listening to the BBC. When the documentary concludes perhaps we will get further
news. But from what you have told me it does not sound like there's any major crisis
underway, much less a nuclear war. That news would be on every channel if it
were so. The North Atlantic appears to be quietly sleeping under this damnable
ice fog, or perhaps they are all at dinner, as we should be.”
    He
started away, then remembered something, reaching into his coat pocket. “Good
job, Mister Nikolin,” he said with a wink. Then he lowered his voice. “Put that
in your pocket.” He handed him back his iPod.
    “The
fog is breaking up ahead, sir,” said Karpov. “Seas appear to be rising again as
well. Barometer is down twenty points from last reading, and falling.”
    “Confirmed,”
said Rodenko. “I have clear readings on my weather Doppler returns now. The
front I was tracking is there again… but it has moved , sir.”
    “Don’t
surprise yourself to find the wind moves, Mister Rodenko,” said Volsky.
    “Yes
sir. But the winds are out of the northeast now. It was tracking from the
northwest before.”
    The
Admiral waved at Karpov and Orlov,