Second Front (Kirov Series Book 24)

by John Schettler

  And yet… If this does work as Fedorov believes, then a good many problems on my desk get resolved. Stalin would probably settle accounts with Volkov, and the Japanese will get their comeuppance. Since I’m not taking the ship back to 1908 as before, then they have no reason to invade Siberian territory. We could come out of the shift and find we already have Vladivostok back, with no need to bully the Japanese further, unless I decide to help the Americans here.

  Should I? They get very powerful here in the Pacific by 1945, and enforce their own steel reign for decades after. Remember how Captain Tanner bragged about that. He as much as told me that the Pacific was his beat, until I put my missiles up his ass. He smiled at that, a little consolation in the midst of his worrisome muse. Then he sighed, looking ahead, thinking hard about the future that might arise from this meridian.

  I’ll beat the Japanese, he thought. There was no Midway disaster last May, but I can arrange for that. I could get after the carriers here easily enough, and smash each and every last one. But what about this damn Japanese missile destroyer? I suppose their SM-2s might be able to hold us off for a while, but they can’t stop torpedoes, can they? One way or another, I’ll get their carriers, and I’ll get that damn destroyer as well.

  But can the Soviets hold off Germany. Can I stop Volkov on the ground? It will be years before the action in the west presents any real threat to the Germans. This so called Second Front will be futzing about in North Africa for a good long while. Until then, the war in the east will be the real crisis point. Can we win? Supposing we do, even if it takes the use of my special warheads. Then what does the post war world look like?

  I suppose Russia gets reunified. Do I then see the Free Siberian State folded under Sergei Kirov’s reign? I have ample room to negotiate there, and well before the war ends. If Kirov reneges, I’ve always got Ilanskiy… Assuming I survive this whole affair.

  That was what was really bothering him, as selfish as it seemed. The world could all go to hell, get twisted back on itself like a pretzel, but none of that would matter to Karpov as long as he was still in power, still lording it over the oceans of the world aboard his invincible battlecruiser. He could not see how things could simply change here all at once, or vanish. He had no idea what Fedorov was talking about with his dire warnings, but he was deathly worried about his own sad fate.

  If what Fedorov says is true, he realized, I should not be here. In order for me to be in this position, I must first go to 1908, and then come forward again as I did. I’m gloating that Volkov never arises here, but what about me? What about my Free Siberian State? If we kill Sergei Kirov, how do I still end up controlling any of this? Siberia will be Soviet territory, Stalin’s little Gulag farm. And what happens to my airship fleet; my brother?

  Then something struck him like a hammer. Just a moment, he thought. This world is the result of actions we took earlier, when the ship first vanished in the Norwegian Sea. It’s the result of Fedorov’s little hunt for Orlov, and my unexpected visit to 1908, all of it. Fedorov’s rescue mission gives us Sergei Kirov and Ivan Volkov, and my sortie in 1908 sets up this entire situation in the Pacific. But those things didn’t happen here. Not on this meridian. We went north to Murmansk, not south to the Denmark Strait. So in this time line, we never fought the British, never went to the Med, and never fought the Japanese as I did when I pounded Yamato before we shifted home again. None of that ever happens here!

  But it clearly did happen, because I remember each and every minute of it. By God, I’ve even got that damn magazine we found in the Pacific that told us how the war started in 2021. I’ve got a real and tangible thing from that sequence of events. How is that possible? Clearly, all those other events happened on another time line, not this one. This is just the altered reality those events created, and the ship that caused all this has vanished. But here I am, a remnant from that other time line, just like that magazine!

  The realization struck him deeply now. He was mere flotsam, just as he was when time dropped him into the Sea of Japan in 1938. Why? How did this happen? How come I appeared here, and how could that magazine exist here?

  Time makes mistakes.

  That was all he could think of. Time isn’t perfect, and the chaos we caused was so great, that she slipped a few stitches. That satisfied where the magazine was concerned, but not for his own personal fate.

  I’m not just anybody, he thought. I’m Vladimir Karpov. I built this entire world! I was the one who pissed off Orlov. Absent that, he never jumps ship. So all of this is my doing, because I am first cause for this world to exist. That is why I persist here—why I will continue to persist. Time might dearly love to get rid of me, but she can’t, I’m just too damn important. Without me, none of this ever happens.

  But what about my brother?

  Who is the pretender to the throne here, me or my brother? How could time allow him to enter my world while I was here? Ah… but I wasn’t here. That’s what all that travail was aboard Tunguska. I was somewhere else when my brother self appeared here aboard Kirov. My brother was supposed to replace me! Time was planning to crown my brother king here. That bitch was trying to eliminate me completely, but something happened. I eluded her grasp and survived.

  My God! She had it all figured out. Kirov was supposed to appear here, and then time filled Fedorov’s head with the memory of everything we did in the first loop. He was supposed to steer the ship to a different course, which is exactly what he did. As for the world here, these altered states, that was history insofar as time was concerned. It all started rewriting everything back in 1908, and clearly, none of those other events when we fought the British and Italians and Japanese ever happened here. So time is quite content to let this time line persist—in fact, that is exactly what she is planning! There is only one errant thread in her loom as she weaves all this together again—me! So what would I do in her place?

  Karpov swallowed hard now, for he knew exactly what he would do. He would find any way possible to get rid of the aberration, and that is exactly what he was, an aberration.

  So if I do this, use that control rod as Fedorov planned it, then I throw my fate to the wind again. I place myself at Time’s mercy, and I have no reason whatsoever to believe that she will simply return me safely. Fedorov was talking about men simply vanishing—I’ll be the one to go next. Time doesn’t want me here—she wants my brother!

  He gritted his teeth, inwardly shaking his head before it moved outwardly. Then he spoke aloud, to himself, to anyone who might hear it around him, and to time itself.

  “To hell with that!”

  “Sir?” Rodenko looked over at him.

  “Mister Nikolin,” said Karpov firmly, ignoring Rodenko for the moment. “Signal the KA-40. Tell them the mission is aborted, and they are to return to the ship immediately. This is an emergency.”

  * * *

  They were up over the Sea of Okhotsk when the message came in, approaching the large desolate island of Bolshoy Shantar. Fedorov was in the co-pilot’s chair, looking over some charts. Orlov was behind him in the second row of the forward cabin with Troyak to his left. A group of five Marines were in the rear compartment.

  Orlov was there because Fedorov had personally asked him to join the mission. He had come across him earlier that day, moody and disgruntled, as always, but it was the pistol he was wearing in a side holster that caught his eye. Fedorov was smart enough to put two plus two together, and he knew he did not want to leave Orlov on the ship with Karpov—not with the mood that was on the Chief that day, and not with Orlov carrying that sidearm. The best thing, he thought, would be to get him off the ship. He could take Orlov with him, and then leave him on the Zeppelin when they made the rendezvous with the Irkutsk. That was the ship they were meeting for the flight to Ilanskiy. Karpov’s other self would meet them there.

  The Pilot, Sherenski, saw the comm-link light up and toggled a switch. Nikolin’s voice soon played over the overhead speaker.

  “Mot
her One to Black Hawk, this is an emergency action message. Mission abort—I repeat. Mission abort. You are to return to the ship immediately—come back. Over.”

  The pilot looked at Fedorov, who had a puzzled expression on his face, but the light of understanding was slowly growing in his eyes. He raised a hand, indicating that Sherenski should take no action.

  “I’ll handle this,” he said, reaching for the radio handset. “Black Hawk to Mother One. What is the problem? What emergency? Over.”

  “Black Hawk, Black Hawk—Mission abort. Repeat. Mission Abort. This is an order. Acknowledge on compliance. Over.”

  Fedorov had a frustrated look on his face. “Mother One—Nikolin—is the Admiral on the bridge? Put him on. I wish to speak with him directly.”

  Back on the bridge of Kirov, Karpov shook his head. He expected this, but there was no time to lose now. There was too much at stake.

  “Rodenko,” he said sharply. “Range to contact?”

  “Sir? They are 314 kilometers out, approaching the island of Bolshoy Shantar.”

  “You have a telemetry link?”

  “Yes sir, our link is good.”

  “Feed that to the CIC.” Karpov spun about, his eyes finding Samsonov. The helo was slipping away. “Mister Samsonov. Key up an S-400. Target that helo and fire.”

  The Weapon’s Chief gave him a blank look, hesitating, but not saying anything.

  “Samsonov! Now! Now! This is imperative!”

  “Aye sir!” Samsonov’s hands were a blur. “Sounding missile warning—forward deck. S-400 40N6 keyed for action. Waiting on system…”

  “Go Samsonov. Fire!”

  “Sir, this is the long range ballistic trajectory missile. It was not on ready alert status and will need time to prep for action. It’s the only missile we have with the range to get out that far.”

  “Damn!”

  “Waiting on system… Waiting…” The time seemed eternal. “Sir, I have the ready light. Firing now.” The reflex was well honed, the order, the movement, the missile on its way in a billow of white smoke and yellow fire. The P-400 was so named because this version, the 40N6, had that range in kilometers, but it had a long way to go before its own internal systems would detect and lock on to the KA-40. Yet it was very fast, and it was going to get there very quickly, climbing to high altitude, and then tipping over to make a target approach from above, whereupon its active radar would switch to seek and destroy mode. It’s speed in that climb would reach Mach 7 at the apex, but as it tipped over and dove, it would accelerate to near Mach 12. At that speed it would be moving four kilometers per second.

  The tension on the bridge was thick. Karpov was trying to kill the KA-40, with Fedorov, Orlov, Troyak and others aboard. The bridge crew was clearly shocked, some with eyes wide, not knowing what was happening or why. Samsonov had done his job, but his brow was wet with sweat, and he seemed clearly upset. Rodenko’s pulse was up. As senior officer on the ship now under Karpov, he felt he needed to speak up here.

  “Admiral, sir, what are we doing?”

  “Don’t worry, Rodenko. That goes for the rest of you. This is merely a warning shot. I need to reinforce my order. That mission must abort!”

  “You mean you will self-destruct this missile? Sir, it will acquire in another minute. Time on target is 120 seconds!”

  “I am well aware of that, Mister Rodenko. Calm yourself. Nikolin. Repeat my order. Tell them if they do not abort and assume a homeward bound heading immediately. They will be shot down.”

  * * *

  “Missile warning!” Sherenski looked at Fedorov, a mix of shock, surprise and fear in his eyes.

  “That bastard!” said Orlov. “He’s trying to kill us all this time.”

  If that were true, thought Fedorov, then it was sloppy, and not like anything Karpov would have premeditated. They were almost beyond missile range. If Karpov wanted them dead, he should have fired long ago, when his missiles would have a much better chance of hitting them. No, something had happened. Something was wrong. But what?

  Fedorov thumbed the handset hard. “Karpov! What in God’s name are you doing? Explain this!”

  All that came back was Nikolin again, repeating Karpov’s order.

  “Should we turn?” Sherenski looked at him.

  “They can’t be seeing us on the Fregat system this far out. They have to be relying on our transponder to fix our position. Turn it off, Shut down all radar and dive! Get down as low as you can. Take evasive maneuvers and be prepared to fire any ECM we have.”

  Survival first.

  There was a fast killer out there, and it had already acquired their position. There was another killer behind that weapon, and what could have possessed Karpov to fire on them rather than simply getting on the radio was now something that left Fedorov feeling very cold.

  This is exactly what I did when we thought Orlov was escaping on the KA-226, thought Fedorov. We’re slipping away. Another few minutes and he won’t have anything that can hit us this far out. But what is he thinking? We might only have another minute left.

  The KA-40 was a nice fat target, easy to see on radar, and it was not agile. The S-400 had already crossed half the distance to its target before the radars on the KA-40 even acquired it and sounded that missile warning. Now it was coming on like a runaway train, hurtling down from the apex of its long range flight path, its engine roaring in its wake, radar eyes searching… searching….

  Chapter 32

  The helo plummeted down, the missile lock warning barking, jangling raw nerves as instinct took hold and they all struggled for hand holds to keep from being thrown about. Sherenski, toggled three switches, pushed hard and sent the KA-40 into a steep dive, accelerating as he did to full military throttle on the engines.

  They were right at the edge of the S-400s engagement envelope, and it was very nearly out of fuel. But down it came, its speed intense, like a bolt of lightning from the heavens above. All the chaff and flares were fired to try and spoof it, but it was not fooled. Its radar eyes and cold chip mind could clearly see the fluttering moth below, and it was locked on, relentless, boring in for the kill… until its fuel load was suddenly expended, flaming out in a last sputter of fire, and now it would be moving on momentum only, losing most of its power to maneuver.

  Sherenski pulled hard on his controls, sending the helo wildly off in another direction. The missile saw the target move, tried to compensate, but the back end had moved off angle when the thrust cut out. The computer tried to compensate, making tiny adjustments to the fins to attempt a recovery, but it did not work. The missile began to tumble, and the internal program, sensing all fuel expended and loss of control, simply detonated the warhead with its self-destruct module. Even so, they heard the sharp clink of shrapnel strike one of the rotors. It had been that close.

  Back aboard Kirov, Karpov had come over to Samsonov’s station to personally take charge of the self-destruct command, and for that tense last thirty seconds, the Missile Chief sat stolidly in his chair, one eye watching the missile telemetry readings, the other stealing glances at the self destruct switch. When the telemetry cut out, a strong sign of successful detonation, he thought he heard Karpov swear under his breath. Then, looking at the Admiral’s hand, he could see the command to destroy the missile was never sent.

  Karpov cast a dark, narrow eyed glance his way, and the Chief looked away, saying nothing, and checking his telemetry reading again. “Missile destroyed,” he said in a low voice.

  Karpov closed the plastic cover over the missile abort switch, moving like a wraith to Rodenko’s station. “You see,” he breathed. “Nothing to get all bothered about. But I certainly got their attention. Yes?” He flashed a pale faced smile.

  Now Nikolin spoke. “I have Captain Fedorov again sir. He is asking to speak with you.”

  “Send it to my ready room.” Karpov strode off, closing the hatch behind him with a hard clank.

  Rodenko looked at the other members of the bridge crew, w
ho sat in silence, a bit stunned by what had just happened, but no one spoke. Then Grilikov came stomping up the main stairway to the bridge and loomed in the hatch, stepping inside, his big heavy-booted feet hard on the deck. He had been told by Karpov that whenever the alarm for combat of any sort was heard on the ship, he was to drop anything he was doing and get to the bridge at once. The silence among the bridge crew deepened.

  Inside his ready room Karpov was struggling with his own inner anger. I was stupid just now, he chided himself. That was a goddamned knee jerk reaction on my part, something my brother self might have done, impulsive, wasteful and just plain stupid. Yes, I wasted a good missile just now, and all I did was put Fedorov on his guard. There’s another way to handle this. Where can they go? That helo has limited fuel, and it must either make its rendezvous with Irkutsk, return to the ship, or simply land somewhere. Any of those alternatives would have ended this scenario. The missile wasn’t necessary.

  He reached for the handset, and thumbed it to speak. “Karpov here. Get the wax out of your ears, Fedorov. You’ve been ordered to return to the ship immediately. This mission is aborted.”

  “What in the name of heaven is going on, Karpov? Why the missile? We took damage just now, and you could have killed us!”

  “That was just a little theatrics to get your attention and make it stick. Now turn that helo around and get back here. We certainly can’t discuss this on the radio, encrypted or not.”

  “But we’ve so little time,” said Fedorov. “If I don’t act before the 30th of September—”