Doppelganger

by John Schettler

  He took a long look around, shaking his head, and then going back down the rise to the cottage. Once inside he shifted off his pack, and set his rifle down by a chair. Then he saw something on the bare wooden table that seemed odd, a pot of freshly brewed tea, the steam still curling from the spout of the iron kettle. One cup was half full on the table, the second broken and spilled on the wooden floor.

  He could picture the men in his mind… at least he thought he could. Suddenly it seemed very difficult to summon up the memory of their faces, though he had spent many hours with them there in the past. Frowning, he scratched his head, looking about, and finding absolutely no sign of the men, not their equipment or books, no boots and coats, nor any possession—only those two cups of tea, one half empty, the other broken. He walked up to the wooden table, pulling off his gloves and feeling something was very wrong here. One hand touched the side of the iron kettle, finding it still very warm, as though taken from the fire just minutes ago.

  And yet, with each minute that now passed, his mind seemed to be enfolded with the same deep ice fog that he had encountered earlier on the trail. Why had he found it so necessary to walk all day and come up here to the hunter’s lodge? He knew damn well that pickings were very lean in the summer. He might find an occasional fox or minx, enough for a good pelt or two, but little more. And who had taken the liberty just now to make themselves at home in his cottage?

  They must have seen me on the trail, he thought, and when that fog bank rolled through on the wind, they took the opportunity to slip away. Then again, it might have been the reclusive Huldufolk, curious about his isolated haunt, and creeping about in the fog to see what they might find. That he had come there that day, bearing gifts for two strange Russian men, never entered his mind. It fled like the thin, insubstantial tendrils of a dream, the images fading, recollection losing its grip, memories lost. Never again would he think about them, sitting there before those strange humming boxes and winking lights in the night, their eyes watching the odd sweep of a phosphorescent clock face as the green hand swept in endless circles. He knew nothing of the two Russians, nor anything more of the fact they had ever been there.

  He was simply Oleg, out that morning to visit his hunting lodge, and curious as to who might have been in his private little domain, helping themselves to his tea.

  * * *

  First Able Seaman Thomas Winn was back at his station, staring oddly at the new equipment in the radio room he would monitor from time to time. It had been brought in by the Russians, quietly installed and fed power from the ship’s electrical system, and he had been taught how to use it, bemused at first by the many new dials and switches. Yet Winn was an old radio man, with many years of experience, and he soon learned that this one worked much like the other equipment he was so familiar with, once he got used to the dials and switches.

  There had been very little traffic on the device of late. The fleet had moved south to the Azores, where a gathering of several new and unfamiliar looking ships had been secreted away in a broad bay. Crewmen pointed and whispered about them, wondering what they were, but in time, the men got on with their business and let them be.

  From time to time, Invincible had sortied out with a pack of destroyers, watching the waters east towards the bay of Biscay for any sign of enemy activity. HMS Glorious was on station there to look for the Germans, but they never came.

  Old Hindenburg and the rest took a little spanking and went running off to France, he thought. Yet we lost a good ship in Rodney, and word is we damn near lost Glorious as well. But we made them pay, or so it’s been said. Jerry had a carrier out here too, and it never made it to France. The Russians put the fire to that one, and sent it down, or so I’ve been told.

  Funny thing that they slipped off like that, right in the thick of things, and haven’t been seen or heard from since. The Admiral has been down here nigh on every other day, and always with the same bloody questions—any news of the Russians? Any messages on the secure comm link channel? He seemed good and worried about that ship, and so maybe we lost more than Rodney that day. Maybe the Russian ship went down as well, ran afoul of a U-boat and took a torpedo that ripped open her sides and sent her down so fast that no one could even get off an S.O.S…

  Yes, I’ve seen it before when I was with the convoys out of Halifax. Damn U-boats would come prowling like sharks, nipping at the flanks of the convoy, and then a ship might just light up with fire and smoke, all on a moment, and be gone the next.

  Yet we had no sign of that with the Russians. Watchman Jimmy Corkle has a few tall tales to tell about how it went missing—just like that, one minute there, and the next minute gone. But Jimmy Corkle has told more than his fair share of tall tales from the mainmast, and could not always be taken seriously. Still, the silence on that radio set was deepening with time.

  Then it happened.

  He was sitting there that day, minding his signals traffic on the British set, where plans were being made for some visit by that other odd ship, the Argos Fire. It had been riding at anchor out in that secluded bay with the rest of those new ships, the funny fleet as the men called them now. A message came in on the Russian radio set, and he quickly typed it up for the Admiral, glad he would have something to hand him when he came down today with his questions. Then it happened, that strange glitch, the green fire, the tingling in the air all about the room.

  He saw what looked like static fireflies around him, and particularly near that new equipment set he had learned to monitor. Thinking the damn thing might be shorting out, he reached for it to turn off the power, and then felt a sharp pain, as if his hand had been bitten by something, or burned on a hot teapot. He yanked it back, cupping it in his other hand, his eyes still wide with surprise and shock as the light danced around the radio set, green fire enveloping it, but held at bay by a shimmering sheen of scintillating blue.

  Then there came a sudden chill, and a moaning sound, like the braying of the Hound of the Baskervilles. He felt a sensation of dread, a clammy fear settling over him, as if something was coming for him, to this very place, with an anguished hunger that wanted everything here dead and gone.

  “God save me,” he breathed, leaning back away from the infernal Russian machine. Amazingly, he saw the device shudder, alight with that strange green and blue fire, and then the moaning trailed off, long and distended. The cold abated, and things settled down.

  The quiet that followed was eerie and still, the quiet of fog, the stillness of death, the chill of things done and forgotten. But unlike Oleg in his cold, lonesome cottage, Tommy Winn remembered everything just as it was. There sat that radio set, the lights gleaming red and green, as always. The momentarily fit had passed, and now the silence abated, and the room was suddenly humming with all the other equipment, as though nothing had happened.

  Yet he could still feel the sting in his hand, and when he looked there, he saw his fingertips looked red and inflamed, as though singed by fire. He had the distinct feeling that he had survived something very dangerous just now. It was as if something had reached for that damn Russian radio, clawing at it, wanting it, a ravenous hunger. Yet when the green fire came, that icy blue shield around the device had staved off that hunger, and stilled its deep growl.

  He felt like a man on a fishing boat, merrily going about his business and baiting his line when a great white shark reared up, jaws gaping, serried white teeth wet with seawater as its endless maw opened to devour him. But the jaws snapped shut, finding nothing to clamp down on! The demon was gone as quickly as it had come, leaving him shaken, wet with fear, his pulse racing, but otherwise alive and well.

  He crossed himself, whispering saints be praised, and he was grateful he was still alive, though he could not think what he should be afraid of. He was sitting on the most powerful ship in the Royal Navy, behind nearly a foot of solid steel armor plating in the conning tower, and yet, at that moment, it was as if he was sitting at the edge of perdition itself, his hand burne
d by the fire when he reached for that machine.

  Lucky me, he thought. Once burned, twice shy, and I’ve been burned more than a few times in the past. That damn thing must have suffered a fit, and I might have shocked myself senseless if I had laid my hand on it. Pulled back just in time, and all seems well and in order now. I’ll have to report the problem to the maintenance chief, and see if they can have a look at the power feeds. The Russians said they had to put something they called an adapter on the plugs, but maybe things have fallen out of order. Bonkers in here just now, wasn’t it? How did it get so bloody cold? And look at me here now, sweating like a school boy before the master and thinking I’ve a swat from a sturdy cane waiting for me.

  Tommy Winn would never know just how close to perdition he really was that moment. Now that it had passed, all seemed well as before, but something had indeed reached for the Russian radio set, the green fire and endless hunger of Paradox. Yet it had been frustrated, held at bay, kept safe in the strange nexus point that had formed around a very special Admiral, on a ship that now skirted the swirling edge of the whirlpools of time, HMS Invincible. She had lived up to her name in that hour, steadfast, stalwart, invincible, and Tommy Winn was living proof.

  And so was the Russian radio set, still sitting there unharmed in the silence of its electronic dreams, even as another similar set, its first cousin, sat in similar bliss safely aboard the Argos Fire. Something had reached for it that day as well, but it had survived intact the same way Tommy Winn’s set had prevailed, the hunger of Paradox frustrated by some arcane twist in the logic of Time.

  Chapter 29

  It was that radio set which would suddenly come to play a very important role in what would now happen aboard the battlecruiser Kirov. Fedorov passed a sleepless night, slipping in and out of dreams, waking up and thinking all he had just experienced was just a bad nightmare, until he heard the voice of Chief Orlov on the ship’s intercom, summoning the crew to the morning shift. A feeling of fear and alarm jangled his nerves when he again realized where he was, an old soul on a new ship, a changeling spirit, spared from the wrath of Paradox, and given this new life.

  Will this happen again and again, he wondered? He thought of all that might lay before him, and the daunting challenges he now faced. First off, how could he convince the Admiral and Captain Karpov that the ship moved in time? That should be much easier now, he thought.

  I did it before, and even when I wasn’t entirely sure of what was happening myself. So now, with all I know, it should be easier to prove my case. I must find a way to speak with the Admiral. Karpov will be very difficult at first, but I know how I convinced him before, and maybe those same old tricks will work again.

  Can I just come out with it? Of course not. They’ll think I was absolutely insane, particularly after that fall I took and all the time I spent in sick bay. No. I must be very cautious at the outset, and very clever. I must wait as evidence begins to present itself, and then interpret that evidence as I did before. Yet the situation is very perilous now. Beginnings are always chancy affairs. Last time, we encountered that British task force, though that isn’t likely now. Nothing in my Chronology of the War at Sea is likely to be reliable, though that remains to be seen.

  From what I gathered with Nikolin, the German fleet made it to France—at least Hindenburg did. That will mean Admiral Tovey and Home Fleet will most likely be standing a watch against any further breakout attempt. Those ports are right on Britain’s life line to the Middle East. It will probably mean the British bases in the Azores will become the center of gravity for Home Fleet now, and not Scapa Flow. So I must look for news from there, and perhaps I can find a way to contact Admiral Tovey. The important thing at the outset is to prevent this ship from reflexively engaging the British as we did the last time. Tovey is the key to that.

  As he made his way to the bridge, his feet felt leaden, his body and soul weighted with the burden of being the only man on the ship that knew what was really happening. Up the last stairway and through the hatch he went, easily adopting his old role as navigator, for in truth his Captain’s hat had never fit him all that well.

  “Fedorov,” said Orlov, seeing him come on the bridge. “Sleep well with Zolkin last night?” He chuckled with that, winking at Samsonov.

  Fedorov gave him a peremptory salute. And made for his post, warily looking about to see who was on duty. He eyed Nikolin, who had also just taken his station, and gave him a silent nod of his head. The junior Lieutenant began checking his equipment, doing all the routine things he would normally accomplish as he started his shift. But as he put on his headset, he gave Fedorov another look, and the two men passed a knowing glance. There was a question in his eyes, and Fedorov gave him a quiet nod in the affirmative. Karpov wasn’t on the bridge yet, nor the Admiral, and Fedorov hoped Nikolin might get that message out on the coded ship-to-ship channel and learn something.

  He heard Nikolin speaking quietly on his headset microphone, sending out a standard ‘all ships’ hail, and awaiting a reply. Orlov inclined his head, and thought he would see what Nikolin was doing, drifting over from the CIC where he often hovered with Samsonov.

  “Ready with your report, Nikolin?”

  “Sir? You mean on the radio transmission intercepts? Yes sir.”

  “Good, because the Admiral will want to know everything as soon as he arrives. And you Fedorov? Is Petrov’s manual plot correct?”

  “It is, sir. I have us still circling at 10 knots over Slava’s last reported position.”

  “Today we get the submersible down for a good look at the sea floor. Alright, be sharp. Karpov will be here soon as well.”

  “Aye sir.”

  Orlov drifted away, off to find coffee in the briefing room, and Fedorov realized that was the last anyone saw of him on the old ship. He passed a moment, wondering if this Orlov might have come from the old Kirov again, but he could see no sign that Orlov was in any way distressed, and did not think the Chief would handle these events so calmly if he had shifted here. No. This was the old Orlov, the man he was before Karpov tried to take the ship, and he was busted down to a lowly Lieutenant and sent off to Troyak and his Marines. Yet here they were, sailing in a world that other man had done much to shape. It was Orlov’s discontent that led him to jump ship on the KA-226, and that ended up starting that long journey to find him again, a journey that led to Ilanskiy…

  Fedorov looked at Nikolin again, waiting and wondering whether he had any response. The other man just gave him a silent shake of his head. Nothing, and something more died in Fedorov as he realized the other ship might be gone. Surely they would have heard that coded message, though he still held out a little hope in thinking the old ship might very well be in that same eerie fog as before, out there somewhere, elsewhere, and perhaps destined to appear again one day. Yet there was no certainty there, and he could not invest too much hope in that. He had to deal with things here and now.

  Kirov was gone, at least for now, yet still right beneath his feet. The King is dead… Long live the King. This ship now ascended to the throne of fate, and he was its real Captain, that he knew, even though he no longer wore the rank. It was his responsibility to steer the ship safely now, and prevent this situation from spinning off on a course that would cause even more harm.

  So now he set his mind on how to proceed. The Admiral was the key factor here. He held the real authority, but Fedorov wondered if he would again suffer that debilitating collapse, an effect from that first shift, that led to Karpov taking command at a most inopportune time. If that happened again…

  “Admiral on the bridge!”

  Orlov had been leaning over Samsonov’s station again, and he stood up straight, saluting as Volsky appeared through the hatch, breathing a bit heavily as he always did.

  “One day we will get elevators installed on these ships,” he said with a smile. He noticed Fedorov at once, and took a moment with him.

  “Mister Fedorov, welcome back. I trust you ar
e well?”

  “I am sir. The dizziness has passed and I feel fine now.”

  “Good, good. Mister Orlov, is the submersible staged for launch?”

  “Ten minutes, sir. Byko is checking the seals on the hatch.”

  “Very good, then I will take Mister Nikolin’s report, unless we have any further contacts. Rodenko? Tasarov?”

  “All clear sir,” said Rodenko.

  “No undersea contacts, Admiral. All quiet,” Tasarov gave his report, seeing Fedorov watching him closely, a strange look on his face, like he had found a long lost cousin.

  “Then Mister Nikolin can tell me what he was listening to on the radio last night. Any news?”

  “Just the same, sir. Old WWII documentaries. They just keep playing the same old news, something about Barbarossa, and Smolensk was the latest.”

  “Barbarossa? That was the German attack on Russia in 1941, am I correct, Mister Fedorov?”

  “Yes sir,” said Fedorov, eager for any interaction he could get with the Admiral. “The First Battle of Smolensk was fought between mid June and September, 1941. It was the first instance where the Red Army recovered enough to put up stubborn resistance, and delayed the German advance on Moscow for two full months.”

  “That’s our resident historian,” said Volsky. “So that battle would be at its height now. Yes? Perhaps they are commemorating the 80 year anniversary of these war events. Yet no other news, Nikolin?”

  “Just this old war news, Admiral.”

  “Still no GPS feed,” said Fedorov, wanting to stay engaged. “And I have no Loran-C data from Jan Mayen—nothing from the Met.”