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

by Schettler, John

  Chapter 36

  He looked at them, unbelieving, yet utterly convinced on another level as to what he was seeing. To the Admiral’s profound amazement he was soon reading what appeared to be his own reports, dated from August of 1941 through August of 1942, regarding a coded series of incidents under the broad designation Geronimo. Where Turing had gaped at his own initials on the back of reconnaissance photos, Tovey now stood dumbfounded to see his full signature, unmistakably affixed to the reports Turing had handed him. If this was an elaborate ruse, a forgery, it was expertly done. Tovey recognized his own unique style in the way he would format his briefings and reports, and his ‘voice’ in the text itself.

  He sat, stupefied, bewildered and badly bothered, speechless for some time. “This is absolutely impossible,” he said at last. “Impossible… Yet here it is. This is my signature, yet it is quite obvious that I could not have written any such report. Royal Navy ships dueling with this Russian battlecruiser?”

  “It was more than a duel, sir,” Turing ventured. “I’ve been reading all morning, and this documents involvement by the American Navy, the use of some rather amazing weaponry, action against the Italians, a full out running gun battle with our own Nelson and Rodney, and more. Apparently that little war was ended by truce in a meeting between you and the commander of this mystery ship designated Geronimo, and it was at that meeting that the ship was finally determined to be of Russian origins—a ship firing advanced rocketry that was effective against both aircraft and surface ships.”

  “Someone has a rather bold imagination,” said Tovey at last. “This sounds to me like a rank and file effort at drafting up an alternate history, a work of pure fiction, yet so chillingly real. I could swear that report you just handed me was written by my own hand, and the signature certainly was. What could this possibly be about? Are the two of us completely daft?”

  “This evidence is simply too authentic in format and detail, sir. No one outside Bletchley Park could have done this, and I can assure you that no one inside it has the slightest bit to do with it. We would have neither the time nor the inclination to produce such a complex fabrication. And yet, my initials are there as plain as your own signature. This may also seem odd, but I have the distinct impression that you and I have discussed all this, in great detail, at some time in the past.”

  “Mister Turing, correct me if I may have forgotten a prior encounter, but is this the first time we have ever met in person?”

  “It is, sir, and I thank you for coming, and putting up with what must certainly seem a complete crock of mad hatter stew. I am as perplexed about all this as you are, yet the details presented in these documents are chillingly accurate—units, designations, officers involved. Whoever wrote these documents would have had to be privy to information that no one head might hold. That aside, the photographs, sir. These images simply cannot be fabricated.”

  “I should think not.”

  “If you think you are confounded now, I dare you to venture further into the contents of that box. Things begin rooted to the here and now, familiar names and such. There is, indeed, a Melville-Jackson, for example. I looked up his service record. The man is presently posted to No. 236 Squadron R.A.F., flying Bristol Blenheims on convoy patrols and escort sorties over the Channel and Western Approaches. Then there are references to Royal Navy Fleet operations that are either top secret, in the works, or completely fabricated. One was called ‘Jubilee,’ another ‘Pedestal.’ There are documents referring to a FRUMEL unit in Australia, an acronym for Fleet Radio Unit, Melbourne, yet no such unit exists. I looked into that.”

  “Australia? What would the Aussies have to do with any of this?”

  “This ship apparently went round the Cape of Good Hope to the Pacific and tangled with the Japanese navy as well.”

  “The Japanese?”

  “It’s right in the box, sir. Envelope number seven. You will find photographs taken by coast watchers near Darwin—of the same ship. The really alarming thing is that the reports reference action by the Japanese against Darwin, and against the American Navy in the Solomons. Yet we both know there is no naval war underway in the Pacific, at least not yet.”

  Tovey reached up, took off his hat, and set it quietly in his lap. He knew all of this, on some deep unfathomable level of his being. It was all true, yet impossible. It could simply not be possible in any wise. It was madness, sheer lunacy, an anomaly so impenetrable that it numbed the mind. It was Geronimo.

  “Alright,” he said, his mind settling on the only thing left that might explain the situation, like a man scuppered into the sea grasping at any floating spar he could reach. “Suppose all this is some complex deception plan, aimed at throwing off the Germans. Suppose these reports were prepared by some secret arm of the government, and there are many, Mister Turing.”

  “How would you explain the uncanny resemblance to reports you might draft yourself, Admiral?”

  “It would be challenging, but it might be mimicked. And the signature could have been forged.”

  “The photographs?”

  Tovey stumbled at that. The photographs were the bulk of the information. There were images of the ship in many different settings. Was it possible that some photo alchemist in a hidden special section was turning them out, superimposing negatives, conjuring this all up in a darkroom witches brew of deception?

  “The photographic evidence is daunting, but I must admit the possibility of tampering and tomfoolery before I can go down the lane to the next house, Turing. For to knock on that door admits to sheer bedlam. You and I both know that these cannot be images and reports from 1941 or 1942! That is madness. So it must be something else, correct?”

  “Yes, it must be, but I cannot shake the awful feeling I have about it all, Admiral. It’s as if we have had this discussion before, and bent our minds around it at the edge of that insane conclusion that we cannot admit to here and now. I can say nothing more than that, but I have the most nagging feeling that something is terribly amiss here. Have a look at some of that gun camera footage and you will be utterly amazed, as I was. The question now is what do we do with all this?”

  “Assuming the only logical explanation that I have put forward, that this is material prepared as a deception, then we should keep it safe and very secure. Say nothing about it to your colleagues, Turing. The fewer cooks around this kettle, the better. However, I should like it if you would select four or five photographs for me. Choose images you think are particularly compelling. In a few days time I have scheduled a meeting with the commander of that ship—Kirov. Yes, it is a Russian ship after all, in truth as well as in that fiction we’ve uncovered from your storeroom.”

  “One remark, if I may sir. This ship first appeared just a few weeks ago, right in the middle of your recent operation against the Germans. Before that time nobody heard of this ship. Are we to assume that all this material was doctored up in the last week or two, then tucked away in this box and hidden in the archive? I must tell you that when I first dragged it from its shadowed resting place, it was covered in dust as if it had been sitting there for years, completely undisturbed.”

  Tovey did not quite know what to say to that. Turing made a telling point. How could all these reports and photographs have been assembled, all about this ship, and in so little time. There were only a very few men that even knew about the meeting he had with the Russian Admiral, though many had seen the ship when it came alongside Invincible.

  “Half my squadron had a good long look at this ship, Turing. Word gets out. In any case, I will be meeting this Russian Admiral again in a few days time, that is unless I find myself beheaded by Admiral Pound, or locked away in the Tower of London.”

  He stood up, putting his cap back on and straightening his jacket, as if to set all right again, smoothing out the impossible wrinkle this box had introduced. He pointed to the box.

  “Let’s keep that material safe, shall we, and just between the two of us for the time being.�
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  “Of course, Admiral. I’ll see to it. Shall I select a few photographs for you now?”

  “Take your time, but send them to my Admiralty office by special courier. Mark it eyes only, and to my attention.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Tovey nodded and began to leave, but Turing cleared his throat, needing to say one last thing. “Something else, Mister Turing?”

  “Well sir, in considering your assumption, that all these documents and photos were prepared as part of a deception plan, how could anyone predict these events? These photos and reports are all detailing things that have clearly not happened, but in a manner that suggests they did happen, that all the material in that box is history. Why would anyone create material about an engagement in the Pacific that they could never know about in any wise? It would all be a wild guess and a terrible waste of time.”

  Tovey looked at him, thinking. “Interesting point,” he said quietly. “Yes, I suppose it would be a waste of time, and I can’t see why anyone would do such a thing.”

  “Oh, that question is answered in envelope nine, sir.”

  Tovey raised an eyebrow. “Envelope nine?”

  “Yes sir. There is one final document there that may be of interest to you. It indicates that the events documented in these files are to be classified top secret, so secret that only a handful of people would ever know about any of it. That code word I telephoned you about—Geronimo—well it was supposedly known to no more than ten men, a group known as ‘the Watch,’ and you may be surprised to learn that the First Sea Lord, most everyone else of note in the Admiralty, and the Prime Minister are not on the list.”

  “The Watch?”

  “Yes sir, and as to the mystery of who might have wasted their time with all of this, the rascals are clearly identified.”

  “Out with it, Turing. Who’s behind all this?”

  Turing smiled. “We are sir… You and I—at least according to the report, and the two signatures affixed to it, in envelope nine.”

  “You mean to say that someone is trying to use our names and reputations in an attempt to lend credulity to this box of fairy tales?”

  That wasn’t exactly what Turing meant to say, but he decided to be very discrete here, and simply smiled. “Apparently so, sir.”

  Tovey shook his head, clearly bothered by all of this. As he reached the door he stopped, not knowing why, a rhyme in his head that he could not account for, like something that had just welled up from some deep, unconscious pool in his mind. He looked over his shoulder at Turing, a strange light in his eye.

  “Byron,” he said quietly. “Do you read poetry, Mister Turing?”

  “Sir? Well, now that you mention it, I do. Yes, I am particularly fond of Lord Byron’s muse.”

  Tovey smiled.

  “I thought as much,” he said with the nod of his head. “Good day to you.”

  Turing watched him go, feeling himself to be the biggest fool in the world. Here was the Admiral of the Home Fleet, and what did I summon him here to see? That box full of parlor tricks and deceit—fairy tales as he called it. Of course his explanation is the only possible answer to all this. It may even be that there is some secret operation on and I’ve gone and stuck my thumb in the pie. There is simply no other way to think about this.

  He looked at the box, frowning, feeling the red heat of embarrassment rise on his neck. The Admiral must have thought he was a complete idiot. Yet on another level he could sense something more had transpired here. Tovey was genuinely shocked by the evidence contained in that box. The word Geronimo seemed to jolt him with an almost electric current. Those photographs deeply disturbed him.

  What was that bit at the end about Byron’s poetry? Ah, the photos. Well I’ll fish about a bit more and find the best of the lot. As he did so, his hand fell on something cold and hard at the bottom of the box. When he pulled it out he was struck yet again with that same feeling of profound anomaly. It was a watch, and not just any watch. It was his own Gallet Multichron Astronomic! He had been missing it for a month! What in the world was it doing here in this old box?

  Then he noted the date and time the watch had stopped. The calendar window read September… In the year 1942. What in God’s name was going on here? Was he being framed? He knew there were men spreading rumors, talking about his strange ways and habits. He knew there were other men keeping a close eye on him—on all of us here at Bletchley Park.

  He sighed. Looking again at some notes he had scribbled on the back of a photo. Yes, he clearly recognized his handwriting there. How could anyone mimic it with such uncanny accuracy? Why they would have to fish about in my waste basket and find all my doodles and notes, wouldn’t they? Just like this bit here on this photo.

  He read the note: Dilly’s ‘L’ Crib! What was that about? The words meant something to him. Dilly Knox was one of the team members working on Enigma. ‘Cribs’ were little lapses and errors of judgment that the Enigma machine operators might use in the formatting of their messages. They might always start a message with the same word, for example, or make careless and repetitive keystrokes that could become clues as to how the code could be interpreted. But he could not think what Dilly’s L Crib might be. Knox had been active as a cryptologist since 1914 when he worked in the Royal Navy's cryptological effort in Room 40 of the Old Admiralty Building. He was apparently on to something again.

  That was another thing that bothered Turing. If this was some elaborate hoax, a planned deception, the perpetrators had seen to the smallest of details, like that errant scribble of a note that was all too typical of his own habits. They might have fished it out of the waste bin, he thought again. It might have been something I wrote days or weeks ago. I can hardly remember half the mumbo jumbo that I run through my own head on any given day.

  He finished up, selecting his photos and pocketing his Gallet watch, glad to have it back again, but very suspicious as to how it went missing now, and how it found itself in that hidden box under a patina of dust that looked to have accumulated over long years. It was more than strange. There was an eerie quality to his feeling about all this now, and one that got his hackles up, chilling him with implications he did not wish to even consider.

  He sent off his envelope to the Admiralty as Tovey asked, put the box right back where he found it, and went about his business again, a good deal more edgy and ill at ease for all his trouble.

  The next time he saw the tall bespectacled Dilly Knox, he remembered the note. In a very casual manner he asked his colleague a brief question. “How goes it, Dilly? Any Cribs this week?”

  “What’s that, Turing? Oh yes! It seems we picked up a test message from a German operator who must have been all thumbs. I was just looking over the message when it occurred to me that there wasn’t a single instance of the letter L in the whole damn message!”

  Turing knew immediately what that meant! Any time an Enigma machine key was depressed, it would return any letter of the alphabet except the one letter labeled on the key being used. If there were no instances of the letter L in the message, then it was a clear tip that the key labeled L had indeed been used, and most likely multiple times.

  “On a hunch I assumed this operator had gotten very lazy and just kept using that single key. Well we broke that whole message, and sure enough, I was correct. It just read LLLLL.” Dilly smiled. “I’m calling it my L crib, Alan. Make a note of it. It will likely go down in history!” Knox laughed and was on his way.

  Turing did not laugh.

  Apparently I did make a note of it, he thought darkly. Right on the back of that bloody photo. And yet I’ve heard this from Knox for the very first time, and just this minute.

  Just this minute…

  His hand fell on the watch in his pocket now.

  Yes! It was all about time!

  The Saga Continues…

  Altered States: Volume III ~ Hinge of Fate

  As Turing and Tovey pursue the mystery of the strange mother lode of
information on the Russian ship, Admiral Volsky sails to meet with the British on the Faeroes, bearing an offer of formal alliance between Soviet Russia and Great Britain. Meanwhile, the Germans plan a fateful meeting of their own, at the small village of Hendaye on the border near Spain. There Hitler hopes to secure another vital ally so that he can breathe life into Admiral Raeder’s long advocated plan for a Mediterranean strategy. It will begin with ‘Operation Felix’ the assault on Gibraltar, and only one man stands in the way, el Caudillo himself, Francisco Franco.

  As Britain steels itself for possible invasion, Tovey must now rally his battered fleet to the defense of Gibraltar, England’s Rock in the Mediterranean and the hinge of fate that could turn the entire course of the war should it fall. Opposing him are the powerful new French battleships at Casablanca and Dakar, and a resurgent Kriegsmarine led by a fearsome new gladiator, the Hindenburg.

  Meanwhile, The airship Narva faces danger and mystery on the Stony Tunguska, even while elements of two other airship fleets converge on another hinge of fate, the inn at Ilanskiy. Action, mystery and intrigue pulse through this compelling continuation of the amazing Kirov Saga!

  THE KIROV SERIES ~ BY JOHN SCHETTLER

  Kirov

  The battlecruiser Kirov is the most power surface combatant that ever put to sea. Built from the bones of all four prior Kirov Class battlecruisers, she is updated with Russia’s most lethal weapons, given back her old name, and commissioned in the year 2020. A year later, with tensions rising to the breaking point between Russia and the West, Kirov is completing her final missile trials in the Arctic Sea when a strange accident transports her to another time. With power no ship in the world can match, much less comprehend, she must decide the fate of nations in the most titanic conflict the world has ever seen—WWII.