Kirov Saga:
Winter Storm
By
John Schettler
A publication of: The Writing Shop Press
Winter Storm Copyright©2015, John A. Schettler
KIROV SERIES:
The Kirov Saga: Season One
Kirov - Kirov Series - Volume 1
Cauldron Of Fire - Kirov Series - Volume 2
Pacific Storm - Kirov Series - Volume 3
Men Of War - Kirov Series - Volume 4
Nine Days Falling - Kirov Series - Volume 5
Fallen Angels - Kirov Series - Volume 6
Devil’s Garden - Kirov Series - Volume 7
Armageddon – Kirov Series – Volume 8
The Kirov Saga: Season Two
Altered States– Kirov Series – Volume 9
Darkest Hour– Kirov Series – Volume 10
Hinge Of Fate– Kirov Series – Volume 11
Three Kings – Kirov Series – Volume 12
Grand Alliance – Kirov Series – Volume 13
Hammer Of God – Kirov Series – Volume 14
Crescendo Of Doom – Kirov Series – Volume 15
Paradox Hour – Kirov Series – Volume 16
The Kirov Saga: Season Three
Doppelganger – Kirov Series – Volume 17
Nemesis – Kirov Series – Volume 18
Winter Storm – Kirov Series – Volume 19
Tide of Fortune – Kirov Series – Volume 20
More to come…
Kirov Saga:
Winter Storm
By
John Schettler
Kirov Saga:
Winter Storm
By
John Schettler
Part I – Chain of Command
Part II – Disclosure
Part III – Unmasked
Part IV – The Rising Storm
Part V – Roads Not Followed
Part VI – Malakhovo
Part VII – Black Snow
Part VIII – The Devil’s Adjutant
Part IX – Seed of Perdition
Part X – Crusader
Part XI – The Better Part of Valor
Part XII – Climb Mount Niitaka
Author’s Note:
Dear Readers,
We ended Nemesis at the edge of a confrontation in the Helo Bay while the action was building on the east front, and that is where we will being again, settling affairs on the ship before returning to Guderian’s drive for Tula. He ran into unexpected Soviet reinforcements in the first of Karpov’s promised Siberian Shock Armies. Now we return to those battles, large and small, some fated, some deferred to another day. The action now underway in Russia marked a decisive turning point in the history Fedorov knew, and its resolution will be a key factor in this alternate history as well.
That action will reach a real crisis point in this volume, and then we must also visit General Rommel again as the British launch Operation Crusader. Finally, 1941 ends with Japan’s Operation Z, the dramatic attack on Pearl harbor. Only this time, in these altered states, things will be different. Yet it is also said that the more things change, the more they stay the same. I will blend the tried and true with the seed of change in this retelling of those events. And now that the thorny issues of paradox and the ripples of chaos it creates are behind us, we enter a new kind of chaos zone in this volume. For the war has already lost its innocence, and now becomes the terrible and desperate struggle it always threatened to be.
The clouds are darkening, the wind is up, and lightning scores the rain streaked sky. It is time for Winter Storm…
- John Schettler
Part I
Chain of Command
“He who wishes to be obeyed must know how to command.”
― Niccolo Machiavelli
Chapter 1
“Mister Orlov!”
The Operation’s Chief seemed to freeze with that voice, his eyes widening. Even Grilikov flinched, his confrontation with Troyak momentarily distracted, granite head turning to see Karpov standing at the far end of the Helo Bay near the open hatch. Orlov gave Grilikov a quick, but urgent look, inclining his head to call his attack dog off, and the big man took that step back Troyak had demanded, though the look on his face remained hostile.
Yet the sudden presence of Karpov on the scene seemed to overshadow everything else. The security men behind Orlov shrunk back, their hands loosening on the weapons they were brandishing. Grilikov seemed extremely edgy, the look on his face dissolving with each sharp footfall as the Captain approached, a sheen of perspiration on his brow now, and his neck reddening near his broad shoulders. Orlov felt much the same, this unaccountable uneasiness in the presence of Karpov, an unnerving, almost quailing feeling that left him very unsettled. His normal jaunty attitude melted away, and he suddenly had a hangdog look on his face.
Ever since they made port, and the Admiral left the ship, Karpov seemed very different. There was a sinister air about him that one could literally feel as he approached. It wasn’t his physical presence, though Orlov knew he seemed darker, more hardened, twisted like a steel coil. Yet the Captain was not a big man, not like Grilikov, or Troyak, or even Orlov himself, who stood a head taller. No, it was not his physical presence, but there was nonetheless an aura of sheer menace around the man now, and the crew hushed when he passed in the corridors, sensing and feeling it like a dark shadow moving among them on the ship.
“Captain on deck!” said Troyak, and every Marine stood to attention.
Karpov stepped up to the scene, arms clasped behind his back, taking in the situation with a studied, narrow eyed glance. “At ease…. What is the problem here?”
“Sir,” Orlov began, then stopped, swallowing and clearing his throat. “Sir, I came to take inventory as ordered, but the Sergeant and his Marines do not seem cooperative.” He gave Troyak a quick look, dark and unfriendly.
“You came to take inventory?” Karpov turned slowly towards the Chief, looking him up and down, and the bigger man seemed to shrink under his withering regard. “Who told you to do that? The Marines manage affairs on the Helo Deck. You know that as well as I do. I told you to request that Sergeant Troyak make this inventory, and have it sent to me by 15:00. Now it seems I have to see to the matter myself.” The censure and disapproval was evident in every word Karpov spoke.
The Captain looked quickly at the three security men. “And what are you dragging these men around in your wake for? Why are they armed?”
“Sir, I… I was thinking there might be difficulties…”
“You were thinking?” Now Karpov leaned in to the Chief, lowering his voice, and staring him directly in the eye. “I will do the thinking on this ship, Mister Orlov. You will execute my instructions, which said nothing of an armed security contingent to accompany you here. No one carries a weapon aboard this ship except on my direct order. Is that clear? These men are to return to their regular station at once, and locker those rifles.”
Even as he said that, the three men stiffened with a salute, heels clicking, and ready to move off, which was another rebuff to Orlov. When senior officers spoke to one another, the enlisted men were merely statues on the scene, deaf and dumb until receiving an order to act. Hearing Karpov’s order, it was Orlov who should have then turned to dismiss the men, the directive passing down the chain of command. The soldiers’ immediate and reflexive response to Karpov’s words, as if Orlov were not even there, was another reproach for the Chief, who seemed in command of nothing whatsoever at that moment, completely discombobulated.
“Stand where you are!” Karpov raised his voice, ever so slightly, a command directed at the guards, and with obvious displeasure. He had not failed to notice the blatant breach of protocol, and waited, giving O
rlov an impatient look, even as he also gave him back just a little measure of dignity in the situation.
Orlov finally realized what was happening, and then turned to order the men off. His neck was even redder than that of Grilikov now, who stood stone still, eyes averted, waiting like an automaton in the thick tension of the moment.
“You have other rounds to complete this morning?” said Karpov.
“Magazine check,” Orlov returned sheepishly.
“Very well, please see to that with Martinov, but he is to prepare the inventory, and see that it exactly matches the readout we get on Samsonov’s board in the CIC.”
“Yes sir,” said Orlov. “Will that be all?”
“For the moment. I’ll want to speak with you in the officer’s briefing room in thirty minutes. Dismissed.”
Orlov swallowed, waved a hand at Grilikov, who started to turn until he saw Karpov look directly at him, which froze him in place again.
“Mister Grilikov, wait at the far hatch. The Chief can handle his affairs without your assistance. Mister Orlov, thirty minutes.”
The Chief nodded, saluting and walking with Grilikov to the far hatch, where the Sergeant stopped and stood like a Titan, tall and hard by the open entry. Now Karpov turned to Troyak, giving Zykov a brief glance, his careful eye seeing the weal on his upper cheek, and knowing what it meant, knowing everything that had happened here in one glance, and everything that might have happened had he not come on the scene.
“Sergeant Troyak,” he said. “Forgive the Chief’s meddlesome ways. I will speak with him on the matter later. I trust there was no problem here?”
“None sir,” said Troyak.
“Good, because I want no discord on this ship, particularly no friction with the security contingent that boarded in Severomorsk. I will see that proper protocols are followed, and have those men well briefed. Should there be any further difficulties, please inform me directly if you have any concerns. As to the matter of the inventory I sent Orlov to request, will you handle the matter personally?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Excellent. I want a complete accounting of everything in your larders, munitions of every type, and all weapons, equipment, and special modules available for loadout on the helicopters. That includes Oko panels, sonobuoys, infrared systems, everything. Understood?”
“Sir, yes sir. I will have a complete inventory ready for you by 15:00 as requested.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. I would like to meet with you briefly when you present that report. I will be in the ready room off the main bridge at that time, and you may report to me directly. No need to involve Chief Orlov.”
“Very well, sir.”
Now Karpov looked at Zykov. “Corporal, he said with a half smile, it seems you and I have both become the walking wounded of late.” He gestured to the gauze that was still on his cheek, part of the ploy he had devised to mask his scar for the first few days aboard ship, and obviously taking notice of the mark on Zykov’s cheek.
“It was nothing, sir. Just a stumble.” Zykov still had his girly magazine behind his back as he stood, half at attention, half at ease, and inwardly glad that Orlov and his warthog had been put in their place. He was also relieved that the fearsome confrontation between Troyak and Grilikov did not reach the point of an explosion that would have been terrifying, to say the least. He had seen Troyak fight before, in training and in combat, and the Sergeant was lethal when he wanted to be, and utterly fearless.
“Just our big feet,” said Karpov. “Thank you, gentlemen. As you were.” He turned, walking quickly to Grilikov, and simply raising a finger to take the man in tow. The Titan cast one backwards glance over his shoulder as they went, thinking to find Troyak’s eye, but the Sergeant Major completely ignored him, turning to his Marines and growling out an order.
“You heard the Captain. All section teams to report with full inventory, and on the double!”
The men sprang into action, needing no further encouragement to get to work, and each one inwardly proud at that moment, as much as they, too, were relieved. The situation with Orlov had cascaded to a near disastrous confrontation, but the sanctity of their deck was upheld, and something in the fact that Karpov instinctively understood and reinforced that in his actions there that day, earned the Captain a measure of their respect.
Karpov was twenty paces down the corridor, before he stopped, not even turning, and spoke.
“Sergeant Grilikov. You will not lay a hand on any member of the Marine contingent again. Not for any reason. Not ever. Understood?”
“Sir, understood sir. And begging the Admiral’s pardon.”
“Captain, Mister Grilikov. We are not aboard Tunguska. On this ship you will address me as Captain.”
“Yes sir. Sorry sir.”
“And as commander of my personal security contingent, you will see that no man of that detail bears arms unless I so order it. Not on this ship. Is that also clear?”
“Clear sir.”
“Very good. Follow me.”
The Captain continued, the shadow walking on, the massive hulk of Grilikov following, both men passing quickly down the long corridor and taking the ladder up.
They were headed for the Officer’s quarters.
*
When the quiet knock came, Fedorov did not expect it. It was rare for anyone to disturb him in his quarters, and for a moment, he thought, and even hoped, it might be Nikolin. He wanted to see if he could persuade the communications officer to send out another quiet message, though he knew that would be somewhat risky. In fact, he also knew that he was putting any man he recruited into jeopardy here, and that thought was also a burden as he considered his situation.
I was very lucky, he thought. It was clear that Karpov was very suspicious of both the Admiral and myself. Yes, he was our nemesis, and we were the same to him. Karpov was clearly trying to ascertain what we knew, who we really were, and I hope to God he bought our little theatre. The Admiral was very adroit with his pose at that moment, but did Karpov believe it?
“Come,” he said, wondering who it was, and crestfallen when the door to his cabin slowly opened and the Captain leaned in.
“Mister Fedorov,” he said. “May I come in?”
“Certainly sir,” said Fedorov, standing to offer a salute.
“Wait here, Grilikov. And no need for formalities, Mister Fedorov.” The Captain stepped in and closed the door firmly behind him. He spent a moment, his eyes scanning the room, noting the books on the shelf above the desk, the unkempt bunk, the half eaten roll on the desk, wrapped in paper.
“I see housekeeping hasn’t called this morning,” he said. “May I sit down?”
“Of course. Here sir.” Fedorov gestured to the chair by the desk, waiting until the Captain was seated before taking a seat himself on the bunk.
“I trust you have calmed down now after our discussion ashore?” Karpov gave him a searching look, and Fedorov knew he had to be very cautious here.
“It was very confusing, sir… I mean the harbor, the whole city gone, and then this business with the Admiral. I always suspected we had moved in time. I was arguing that all along, but to finally realize it was true…” He had to play this part very carefully now.
“Yes,” said Karpov. “Very disconcerting, but you see, I have finally come round to your point of view, Fedorov. You should be grateful for that. I was beginning to think some rather grim thoughts about you.”
Karpov remembered what his brother self had told him now. Yes, Fedorov was a pest, and more. His other self had suspected he was a double agent. He had said and done some very unusual things in the tension of those first days after the 28th of July. Now Karpov was going to see just where that anchor fell, and pull it up if need be, to move his ship of thought along concerning this man. He started weighing in the anchor with his next question.
“About that radio message you asked the Admiral to send…. What was it, exactly?”
“Radio message?”
Fedorov knew he could not play too dumb here, but his pulse quickened when the Captain started with this line of questioning. He tried to remember now, any and everything he might have said in those first days that would give away the fact that he knew much more than he let on, that he was, in fact, much more than he seemed.
“Oh, yes,” he recovered. “The Royal Navy command protocol. I knew about that from my reading, sir. It was clear to me that I was looking at British cruisers, County class, on those video feeds we got. Yes, that was impossible, and I clearly understood your dismissal. It was difficult for me to accept as well, but I’ve learned to believe my own eyes, and that started with the moon, as I tried to explain, sir.”
“The moon?”
“Yes sir. It was all wrong, phase and position, just as I told you, and the only time period where the current data was valid was this time, 1941.”
“Ah… Yes,” Karpov realized this must have been something Fedorov presented to his other self. The moon was wrong, something a navigator could not fail to notice. “You put the clues together very well, Mister Fedorov, and very quickly too. It was as if you knew what had happened to us all along.”
A thrum of anxiety underscored that remark in Fedorov’s chest. “I suspected, and strongly, that the ship was not where it belonged. It wasn’t just the moon, sir. The radio signals, those ships, were all evidence I could not easily dismiss.”
“Then you got that message protocol from one of your books?”
“Yes sir.”
“May I see it please?”
Again the rising adrenaline, for Fedorov knew damn well that he could not produce that evidence. What to do? “It isn’t here, sir. I think I was researching that at my station on the bridge. But I’ll bring it to you.” How he would manage that, Fedorov did not yet know, but he had to seem fully cooperative, or his cover might be shredded here and now.
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