Kirov Saga: Darkest Hour: Altered States - Volume II (Kirov Series)

by Schettler, John

  Admiral Volsky had decided not to arrange a second meeting with Tovey just yet. He felt that it was necessary to first meet with those in power in the Russian homeland, realizing that he alone could not in any way guarantee or deliver on any offer of support or alliance.

  “I am master of this ship, Fedorov,” he had explained, “and I think we have won a measure of good will here that will come in handy in the months ahead. Yet we cannot commit Russia to a wartime alliance with Britain on our own, nor should our actions here be interpreted as such a grace by Admiral Tovey. What we must do now is meet with the man this ship was named for—Sergie Kirov. So I want to press on north as soon as possible. We can herd the Germans along as we go.”

  “I understand, Admiral.”

  “Where do you think the German fleet will head now?”

  “I doubt that the fleet commander here had full authority in this engagement, sir. It is very likely that his commitment of capital ships to open battle with the Royal Navy was conditional. I think the attack we made on Graf Zeppelin was very shocking to the Germans, even if we apparently did not hit the carrier itself.”

  “Yes, I suppose they will be wondering just where the ship was that attacked them.”

  “Indeed, sir. Radar returns showed they flew wide area search patterns all around the ship’s position. It seemed clear to me that they were trying to answer that very question. That uncertainty, the damage we put on Gneisenau, the loss of their destroyer and that tanker we sunk, and the hit we put on Bismarck all seemed to be enough rocks in the wheelbarrow to give them pause. It is my belief that Admiral Raeder gave orders that the fleet was not to be put at risk of sustaining serious losses.”

  “You believe they will return to Germany?”

  “That depends on the extent of the damage they have actually sustained. These were very tough ships, well armored, very durable. I don't think we really hurt Bismarck that badly, though the damage we put on Gneisenau appeared to be more extensive. That ship may need to return to a German shipyard for repairs. Scharnhorst will most likely return to Trondheim or another Norwegian port. If the history I know holds true, that ship will need work on its engines and turbines soon, but for now it should still be considered an operational threat. As for the battleships, I cannot see that Raeder would want them in any Norwegian port at this time. They are too important to leave exposed to potential attacks by the R.A.F. My guess is that they will return to Bremen.”

  “Then if we sail north in their wake we may not have to face this entire battle group again anytime soon I hope.”

  “Once we get out of the Denmark Strait there is a lot of sea room in the Norwegian Sea, Admiral. I think we could sail North and safely avoid engagement, but you are correct, the Germans may no longer have battle on their mind until they can learn more about what has actually happened here. They will be very curious as to what these weapons we used are, and what ship fired them.”

  “Then I think we will pay our respects to Admiral Tovey, and be on our way.”

  “You're going to meet with him again, sir?”

  “No, I think I will have Nikolin send over a message, and perhaps we might send a boat over with a box of good cigars.”

  That is what Volsky decided he would do, and in the box he enclosed a personal note to Admiral John Tovey, which he hoped would keep the door open for better days ahead. In this way they avoided the inevitable questions regarding the weapons they had put on full display here. The less said the better, thought Volsky, but he had at least avoided the scenario they had already lived through once in these waters—a hostile engagement with the powerful Royal Navy. As to their future cooperation, Volsky wrote that he would do everything possible to further such an arrangement and hoped to meet again soon.

  Admiral Tovey, he wrote. So today you have seen that there is a little more on the deck of my ship than three 5.7-inch gun turrets. We were pleased to be able to render assistance in this engagement, and look to better days ahead. I will speak with my government soon, and you should expect to hear from me again in the future. It may be that Kirov will sail south again and I would be most willing to shake hands with you if a welcome remains there for us. My respects to you, and regrets for any loss of life your fleet may have sustained in this engagement. I find it fortunate that the German Navy wisely elected to return home, and I will see to it that you are informed if any of their ships take a wayward course to the south. For now, I bid you farewell as I point the bow of my ship north, and think of home.

  Highest regards,

  Admiral Leonid Volsky

  The lantern winked out ‘fair weather, farewell.’ Then Kirov eased away from the big British battlecruiser, put on speed, and slowly slipped ahead into the night that would never be born that day. His intention was to sail north for the island and Jan Mayen, the frigid Arctic outpost that had been so instrumental when they first appeared here, a lifetime ago it seemed now. It was there that Fedorov had his first flash of genius, saying that all they needed to do was to overfly that island with a helicopter to look for the weather installation facilities to determine whether they were still in their own time or not. So it had been a key piece of the incredible puzzle they had put together to make it clear that something impossible had happened to them, and they were no longer in their own time.

  As the ship sailed north there was a strange feeling of both completion as well as a growing uneasiness. These familiar waters are deceptively calm, thought Volsky. He realized their course was fraught with uncertainty, but he decided to take Fedorov's advice to heart. He knew it would be dangerous to allow the men to go ashore, and for that matter he was not even certain they would receive a warm welcome when they first appeared in the long inlet leading to Murmansk and Severomorsk.

  There is really nothing there at Severomorsk, he thought, and we will not see tall Alyusha and the eternal flame if we sail up the channel of the Kola Fiord to Murmansk again. Alyusha was the tall grey statue of a Soviet soldier, 116 feet high and weighing 5000 tons atop a stone pedestal to commemorate the defenders of the Soviet Arctic during this war. They have yet to earn their laurels, he knew, thinking that the outcome of the war itself still remained unknown. The Germans have not yet come for the city that was so doggedly defended by the Soviet Moormen, the Polarmen as they were sometimes called—the icemen of the Soviet Arctic.

  He was one of them, as were all the men on the ship. They had steamed from those waters and now they return. What will be the effect on the men when they do not see the familiar skyline of Severomorsk. It was just a small settlement in 1940, called Vayenga. There will be no shipyards there, no docks or quays, except at Murmansk.

  “What can we expect in the Russian Navy at this time, Mister Fedorov?”

  “Not much to speak of, sir. They will have five or six destroyers, a handful of submarines, two torpedo boats, and a few patrol boats and minesweepers. There is nothing there that could pose any threat whatsoever to Kirov, though I do not think they would see us as hostile with that Russian naval ensign on our mast. At this time they would be busy building up the White Sea military base as an anchor defending that region. They are also a bit preoccupied with the Finns, assuming that conflict occurred as it did in our history. That may not be the case, however. I have not had time to dig up any new information with Nikolin.”

  “Very well, then we can head home without undue worry.”

  The channel leading to Severomorsk and Murmansk is very long and narrow, sir. Were you thinking of going that far in?”

  “No, I think we will be cautious at first and stay near the mouth of the inlet.”

  “Perhaps we could have a look at the area near Malaya Lopatka.”

  “Nothing was built there until 1950, Fedorov. That was the base we built for the old K-3, our first nuclear powered submarine. Don’t worry. We’ll have a look around with the KA-40, discretely, and then I must consider how to persuade Sergie Kirov to meet with us. The meeting will most likely have to be at Murmansk. Seve
romorsk wasn’t even an operational base in 1940.”

  “I can bait your hook for you, Admiral.”

  “You have a suggestion, Mister Fedorov?”

  “Yes sir. Why not send a message saying the man Kirov met at the inn at Ilanskiy in 1908 wishes to speak with you. Perhaps even mentioning my name would help trigger the recollection. If he remembers the incident, he may be curious enough to want to know more.”

  “That is a very good idea, Fedorov. Yes, I think we will do this.”

  * * *

  The word Kremlin meant “fortress,” and it had long been the heart of the Russian government in the center of Moscow, dating back as far as the second century BC. It sat on one of the seven hills of Moscow, 145 meters tall, and its golden spires and domes were known the world over as a symbol of Russian power. The first official buildings had been constructed there in the year 1156, and now the place was simply called “Kremlin Hill.”

  Its walls and towers had been improved and designed by famous architects during the renaissance. The 27 acre complex now comprised Red Square, Revolution Square, the Grand Kremlin Palace, the iconic gold domed cathedral, and many other squares and official government buildings.

  On this morning the message received at the office of the Commandant was most puzzling. It had come in over radio channels, transmitted from the far northern outpost of Murmansk where there was apparently quite a stir. News of a large warship that had been moving north sounded the initial alarms, as it was thought that this must surely be a German ship, possibly intending to scout the Arctic waters. Yet when planes were sent out from the naval base to look for the intruder, they were astounded to see a large ship, prominently flying the Russian naval ensign, and crewmen waving eagerly in welcome as the old MTB-1 seaplane overflew the ship.

  “What is this ship?” The Commandant noted that the naval authorities had stated that they were unfamiliar with the vessel, and had no record of it. Yet they were speaking with the ship’s personnel over the shortwave, and they were clearly Russian. A request had been made, very odd, and one that might had been dismissed were it not for the mystery accompanying the arrival of the ship.

  “They say it is a battleship, enormous,” said the Lieutenant of Signals. “And this message is directed to the Secretary General.”

  “Oh?” The Commandant was justifiably curious as he took the message in hand and read it slowly. “What nonsense is this? You say Murmansk has been speaking with an Admiral aboard that ship? They say it is not ours? Could it be from the Black Sea, a ship defecting from Orenburg? And who is this Fedorov the message indicates?”

  “We don’t know, sir. It is very confusing. If this ship has come from Orenburg, we would be wise to follow up on this. It may also be a diplomatic overture.”

  The Commandant frowned, shaking his head, with half a mind to tear the message up and simply throw it in the trash bin. A man named Fedorov wanted to speak with Sergei Kirov! Someone he had met in 1908? Could this man be an ambassador? He mused on it for a moment longer, then did the most expedient and careful thing.

  “Very well, send it to the Kremlin main office of the General Secretary, and then let them sort it out.” The Commandant would not be the man fingered should any trouble arise from this. He simply passed the news on and then forgot about it.

  Later that same day he was quite surprise when the Lieutenant rushed in again with even more news. “We must alert the General Secretary’s security detachment at once, Commandant!”

  “What is this all about, Lieutenant?”

  “Kirov, sir. They say that is the name of that ship I reported on earlier this morning. And not only that, the Secretary General himself is making ready to leave for the airport. I am told he is flying north to Murmansk today, and we are to provide for all the security arrangements.”

  “Today?” The Commandant’s face reddened, eyes widening and looking this way and that, as if to find everything he would need to assure security. The air force must be notified. Fighter squadrons must be alerted all along the intended flight path, men must be waiting at the other end, trusted men from the GRU, and base security must be heavily reinforced—and all this had to be done quickly and as quietly as possible.

  Sergei Kirov was an impulsive man, he knew. The General Secretary had once received a message that there had been an air raid at Perm and flew there himself that very day to see to the organization of the ground defenses there in the event the Grey Legion was planning an offensive. He was impetuous, with ceaseless energy, and it was just like him to do something like this on the spur of the moment.

  The Commandant would be a very busy man that day.

  Chapter 14

  June 24, 1940

  They would meet near the first stone building ever constructed in the city of Murmansk, a stately red brick walled structure with tall concrete exterior columns and two high arched windows flanking the heavy wood door, framed in bright white paint. It sat adjacent to the rail yard on Lenin Street, at the edge of the harbor where Admiral Volsky’s launch was tied off. Just a short distance beyond the broad rail receiving yard, they caught sight of the old Hotel Arctic, built in 1933. They were told that quarters had been arranged there, and a reception was planned at the main dining hall.

  The men who received them at the quay when they arrived were military police, and they eyed Sergeant Troyak and Corporal Zykov darkly when they saw the burly Sergeant emerge from the cabin of the launch. He snapped off a crisp salute, which was then returned, and something about this time honored gesture of good will and perhaps the red hammer and sickle flag Volsky had retrieved from his sea chest and fixed atop the boat, seemed to defrost that the situation. When Volsky appeared in the uniform of a naval Admiral, the security men stiffened at attention, affording him the respect the uniform and rank was due, even if they did not know anything of the man who wore it.

  “Right this way, Admiral.” A tall man in a dark trench coat gestured to a waiting line of cars, and there was room in the vehicle for the entire party.

  They could have easily walked to the meeting site that had been arranged. Volsky had suggested the location in communications exchanged with the City Commandant before the meeting. He knew of the old hotel, as his father had often spoken of the place. They drove through the familiar intersection known as “Five Corners” and arrived at the hotel just minutes later. Volsky looked around and noted the absence of the statue that would commemorate Gunner Andre Bredov, who gallantly defended his position and then blew himself up when surrounded by Nazi soldiers when they tried to storm Murmansk during their Operation Silver Fox.

  Not yet, Anrdre, he thought. That was in 1944. I used to have lunch there in the grounds near the place where they will erect that statue, assuming Bredov was still out there somewhere and was destined meet the same fate. The monument to the victims of political repression was missing as well. The town was dramatically different, with none of the tall brick and concrete buildings, and almost no vehicular traffic on the broad empty streets. There were many more buildings of wood, some using the unhewn trunks of pine trees to construct log cabins.

  After a brief security check, and profuse apology for the necessity, they were ushered into the lobby, where Troyak and Zykov would wait, served hot tea and cakes. They had instructions to contact the ship using the hidden radio in the lining of Troyak’s service jacket. A full contingent of well armed Naval Marines was ready on board Kirov, with the KA-40 loaded for bear. The Admiral did not think it would be necessary to call on them, but the uncertainty inherent in the situation prompted him to arrange for his extraction should he not contact the ship within 24 hours. All the men had hidden transceivers and could be easily located.

  Volsky and Fedorov were then led off to the meeting room, flanked by four guards in the same dark trench coats, and they saw more security men at intervals along the long hallway. Doors were dutifully opened at the end by two more guards, and they were let into a spacious room, with an elegant crystal chandelier ab
ove a table dressed out with candles, oil lamps, and white linen. Tea service was waiting, and they were quietly attended by white coated hotel staff while they waited.

  Ten minutes later a door opened and two men stepped in, taking up positions to either side of the entrance. The next man they saw seemed like a demigod walking out of the mists of time itself—Sergei Kirov. His stocky frame, broad face, ruddy features were unmistakable to any Russian, as they had been depicted in statues, postage stamps, posters and artwork for decades after his assassination in 1934… But that had never happened in this world. Stalin had died in Kirov’s place.

  The tallest guard, clearly a favored adjutant, announced the arrival in a clear voice. “The Secretary General of the Communist Party!”

  Kirov looked at them as they stood in respectful greeting, both men removing their caps as though they were in the presence of a saint. Volsky saw the light of awe and respect in Fedorov’s eyes, and noted how Kirov stared at him, an equal light of amazement plain in his expression. Then he smiled.

  “All security personnel will leave the room at once,” he said, still standing by the door. The men obeyed, though their officer’s face betrayed some concern. Volsky noted a small hand gesture by Kirov, reassuring the man that all would be well. Then Kirov stepped forward and extended his hand to the Admiral in a warm greeting, yet his eyes were ever on Fedorov, glittering with silent realization.