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done while jostling in the ranks
for promotion. This was common all through the calcified power structures in
Russia, from the police stations in every town, up through government at every
level. Rank had its privileges. There would be nice thin layered blini with
melted butter, jam and honey on the officer’s table in the morning for
breakfast, but not for the rankers below. One had to do whatever was necessary
to put honey on the table, he thought, but what to do about Volsky?
    Just
as in his university days, Karpov had been involved in more than one deception
with senior officers standing as potential rivals on his career path. He took
it upon himself to investigate personal matters in the lives of men he found
threatening. He learned their habits and foibles, the state of their marriages
and affairs, the bars or clubs they frequented, and he became a master of
spreading those subtle, destructive lies, lozh, often wrapped in the
more familiar gauze of vranyo —a wolf in sheep’s clothing, as it were.
    Where
lies would not serve, Karpov often feigned friendship by sending unusual gifts
at odd hours and in unusual circumstances. Once, he had sent a bottle of fine
French champagne to a rival officer on the day after his son had failed
miserably in his crucial academy testing. He rubbed it in by pretending to
apologize the next day, saying he was so certain the young many would pass that
he believed the gift was well made. “Perhaps next semester,” he concluded. His
message in these petty and often offensive capers was obvious, and they were
one of many reasons why those beneath Karpov in the ranks had come to dislike
him so much. For those above him, he reserved liberal praise and the most
strict and proper decorum—until he set his mind on the post that particular officer
occupied. After that, when a man became an obstacle, Karpov began a long and
calculated campaign to subtly undermine him, a whisper here, a rumor there, a
little vranyo , a little more lozh , an arranged embarrassing
moment in the line of duty that would serve to cast doubt on his rival’s
competency.
    Once,
in an exercise much like the one Kirov had planned for that very day, he
had gone so far as to tamper with the towing line clamps for the target barges
that would be towed by a rival captain. Then he insisted on a high speed
maneuver that he knew would tax the compromised link until it gave way, leaving
the barges scattered and adrift, and well out of proper position when the live
fire exercise was scheduled to begin. His report on the matter was particularly
critical of his rival, and he went so far as to joke about “Kutusov’s folly” in
the ranks, cementing the mishap securely in the lore of the navy at the time.
    When
he received word that he had been made Kirov’s new Captain, he swelled
with pride—until Volsky arrived. Now he saw the Admiral as an obstacle to his
free reign here; someone he had to defer to out of respect to the man’s rank,
though he often thought he knew better when it came to the machinations of
running the ship.
    The
Captain always waited for the Admiral’s seat to cool before he finally settled
into it to stand his command watch on the bridge. The residual warmth always
made him uncomfortable, a reminder that there was someone else above him in
rank on the ship; someone he had to answer to, that the ship was not truly his.
    “Come
about, Mr. Orlov,” he said to his Chief of Operations. “Port thirty.” Yet even
as he gave the order he heard, or rather felt a distant heavy rumble, ominous
and deep, like a great kettle drum being struck by a mighty hammer.
    “What
in god's name was that?” said the Captain. “That was no thunder.” There came a
blinding white light, and Karpov saw his navigator, Fedorov, pulling off his
headset, instinctively shielding his eyes. The searing light flashed and
vanished, leaving the air alive with what looked like a hundred thousand
fireflies all around the ship, strange