To Kill a Nightingale

Copyright 2023 Matt Hardman All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanically including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the author. All of the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The events, dialogue, and opinions expressed are solely the product of the author’s imagination and not intended as expressions or representations of the views of the United States Navy or any agency, organization, or government described within. Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Hardman, Matt. author To Kill a Nightingale / Matt Hardman Issued in print and electronic formats. ISBN: 978-1-990644-53-5 (soft cover) ISBN: 978-1-990644-57-3 (kindle) ISBN: 978-1-990644-58-0 (epub) Editor: Jennifer McIntyre Cover design: Paul Hewitt/Battlefield Designs Interior Design: Winston A. Prescott Double Dagger Books Inc. Toronto, Ontario, Canada www.doubledagger.ca 1 K-561 Kazan 05 December 2022 | 0155 Local Time Black Sea Captain Ivan Sergeyevich Korov stepped into the attack center of the Kazan and let his eyes take in the myriad of information presented to him. This was a force of habit developed over his two decades of submarine service. His pale blue eyes scanned every panel, display, and readout in the space. The information contained on each screen, gauge, and dial was being relayed to him verbally, each watch station using clipped phrases to communicate the status of Russia’s newest cruise missile submarine. But I need to see for myself. Always. “Contacts?” Korov’s voice was gruff. He didn’t like this mission. The Kazan was a Yasen-M-class cruise missile submarine. It had been designed and built to shower fleets and land-based targets with the new Igla-M cruise missiles. It was not a special ops boat. It wasn’t designed to ferry troops into battle. It could do that, the captain knew. It was capable of such missions, but Korov did not like risking his new command, an eight-hundred-billion-dollar collection of technology, running special operations troops to shore. Or anywhere else. Fucking brown-water ops. Korov scowled as the Kazan’s sonar officer, Senior Lieutenant Yevgeni Stepanovich Belyaev, reported. The man’s voice was barely a whisper. “No subsurface or air contacts, Captain. Several surface contacts. All cargo ships. One is the Brixton, a British merchant hauler. One is the Istanbul. Turkish registry.” “Very well. Keep your ears open, Yevgeni Stepanovich.” “Yes, Captain.” A hand fell on Korov’s shoulder and he turned to see a short, overweight, balding man smiling at him. “It is almost time, Captain,” Mikhail Gregorovich Alexandrov said cheerfully. Korov went back to scanning the displays and gauges in the attack center, trying to ignore the man. Willing him to go away. Alexandrov was not a sailor. In the Soviet Navy, he would have been the political officer, a man assigned to ensure that every sailor on the ship remained loyal and committed to the Communist Party. Though the job title was missing, Alexandrov’s job was little changed. He was... What do the Americans call such people? Snitch? “Is something the matter, Captain?” Alexandrov would not be ignored. “Nothing, Mikhail Gregorovich. Everything goes as planned.” Korov forced a smile. “You do not like the mission?” Alexandrov asked. Korov paused, choosing his words carefully. “I would choose to make this approach with another class of submarine. One that is less valuable to Russia.” Korov saw Alexandrov’s brow knit in confusion and explained. “These merchant ships are clumsy and ignorant. Having this one stumble into us is a risk.” “Ah,” Alexandrov exclaimed. “But leadership in Moscow knows this and they have chosen Kazan. It is our most technologically advanced ship.” Korov grimaced inwardly, but did not speak. Alexandrov’s hand fell heavily on his shoulder again. “Trust in Moscow, Captain. They know best.” Korov watched Alexandrov walk away and shook his head. Idiot. Korov looked around the attack center, searching for the one man who was clearly out of place. There. By the scopes. Dressed almost completely in black. A heavy beard. A dark, knitted, woolen watch cap rolled above his ears. Korov did not like the man and knew that his assessment was unfair. He didn’t know the man. They’d not spoken more than ten words at a time for the past week. The man in black—Korov didn’t even know his given name—never spoke without need. He just stood there, with his eyes scanning and a peculiar expression on his face. Korov disliked the look more than the man, because he thought he knew what the man was thinking. He thinks he’s better than me. Than us. Korov thought about that. Maybe he is. At some things. But that arrogant bastard needs us. And he probably knows it. Korov checked his charts and the various weather reports resting on a nearby clipboard. He did not envy the man or his team. December in the Black Sea was cold as hell. Enough to make even the most stolid Russian shiver. And these men will get wet on top of that. Korov shook his head, smiled, and motioned the man over. “It’s almost time. Are your men ready?” A nod. No verbal response. Korov looked at the electronic chart and at the chronometer mounted next to it. He turned back to his guest. “Fifty minutes.” The man in black nodded again before turning and walking out of the attack center. Korov watched him go and thought again about how much he hated this tasking. It wasn’t particularly difficult or taxing. His crew had the training and skills to carry it out easily. As did the crews of almost every other submarine in the Russian fleet. And that, Korov thought, was precisely what made his job tonight stupid. Driving a cruise missile submarine right up beside one of those clumsy cargo ships. Mother of God. Who thought this shit up? But Korov knew the answer to that. And he knew why. A cargo ship, or any other vessel, could