B00DSDUWIQ EBOK

by Schettler, John

  “You are talking to the Admiral of the Northern Fleet!”

  Karpov’s own voice sounded thin and strident in return, and laden with resignation.

  “Admiral of the fleet? What fleet is this you presume to command now, comrade? We are one ship, lost at sea, and lost in eternity. God only knows where we are now, but I can assure you, the fleet is long gone, and there is no one back home in Severomorsk waiting for us to return either. It’s all gone, Volsky. Gone! Understand that and you have your fat fist around the heart of it. If you want to understand what I did you need only open your hand and look at it. All we had left was this ship, Admiral, and no one else seemed to have backbone enough to defend it. If I had not taken command it is very likely that we would all be at the bottom of the sea now—have you considered that?”

  Yes, he was considering it even now as he poured a second shot. It was all gone—Severomorsk and the Northern Fleet; Vladivostok and the Pacific Fleet—all gone. He was the new fleet commander, the proud remnant of all that was probably left of Russian Navy in the Pacific. That same logic sat like ice in his stomach. If the old life was gone then this was all he had—all any of them had—these three ships and the men he commanded. They could change the entire history of the world if they wished. They were the most powerful men on the earth at this moment. He had said as much to Volsky that day in the Brig. “I had my hand on the throat of time itself and I let it slip from my grasp. Don’t you understand what we could have done with this ship?”

  Now he stared at Fedorov’s well worn book on his desktop. Fedorov, pure hearted Fedorov. There was a man with a conscience, eh? Karpov recalled the glassy look in Fedorov’s eyes as he stared at the burning wreck they had made of the battleship Yamato, and realized what he had done, and he remembered what he had said to him in consolation… “It will get easier.”

  The echo of Fedorov’s response was still fresh in his mind…“I’m not sure I want it to,” the young Captain told him, and Karpov knew what he meant. It never really does get easier, he knew, not for a man with any shred of feeling in his heart.

  Now Fedorov was out looking for Orlov, lost in the past even as he was. But he had one thing with him that Karpov found missing, that last thing at the bottom of Pandora’s jar. Fedorov had hope. He knew that Volsky and Dobrynin were feverishly working out his plan with the Anatoly Alexandrov to try and bring him home again.

  That’s why I feel the way I do now, thought Karpov. There’s no hope, no one is looking for us. In fact, they probably have no idea what even happened to us. Who knows whether or not that letter I sent ever got through to Volsky?

  Yet the more he thought of Fedorov, the more he wondered. He was supposed to get back to the year 1942. If he made it, and carried out his mission, that should all be over by now. If Dobrynin had somehow managed to rescue him, Fedorov would be safely home, back in the year 2021. Would the war still be raging there, or did he find a way to put an end to it?

  Karpov shook his head, unwilling to believe that Orlov could have done anything to cause the war. He saw how it unfolded like a fan, how it was meant to be, in spite of what they read in that newspaper and the respite they won when he stayed Samsonov’s hand in the Combat Information Center and spared the American submarine Key West. Now he imagined Fedorov returning to the same bleak world of ash and cinder that they had seen on every shore they visited. He imagined the Anatoly Alexandrov sitting there in the Caspian Sea, fifteen kilometers off shore, a solitary island of metal, men, and hope. They would have put out patrols with anything they had available. They would have sent men to the naval base at Kaspiysk. What did they find there if they ever made it back? Was the world safe and sound, or just another lump of coal?

  Something told him Fedorov was in for a real surprise, because no matter what Orlov did, or failed to do, he was not the last of the Mohicans any longer. No. That honor would fall to Captain Vladimir Karpov.

  I wanted this, he thought. I dreamed of a situation like this, where I could take hold of fate itself by the throat and choke it to death if I chose to. And now I have that in my power once again! Rodenko is correct. The math becomes the brutal reality of the matter. Sixty enemy ships…Sixty two missiles. We put eight missiles and two torpedoes into Yamato…

  Yet now I could win this battle with just one or two punches—a few missiles with warheads that could take out Halsey’s entire fleet. I would use another MOS-III, a second Starfire to put bookends on this whole charade, just as I did before. That is the sound tactical decision now—why am I hesitating?

  The voice of Dr. Zolkin played out in his mind now, speaking last as they huddled in the sick bay trying to decided what to do when the ship appeared in the Tyrrhenian Sea. “You have all been discussing what we might do, what we are capable of doing, and yes, what the consequences may be in the end, but speak now to what we should do…” The implication of some moral element in the decision was obvious. “Yes, we can smash our way through these ships, and blacken Malta or Gibraltar if we so decide, but should we? Simply to secure our own lives and fate? How many will die if we attempt this?”

  How many will die?

  The Second World War was finally over, but the world had not seen the fire of Atomic weapons again…until Vladimir Karpov appeared to remind them of just what he had done once before. My God, he thought, thinking of the report Nikolin gave him a few minutes earlier. He had monitored the American radio calls and determined that the missiles they fired had struck a carrier—the Wasp, the very same ship I sunk in the North Atlantic! They built another one, and probably named it in honor of the first. Fate and time put the damn ship in front of me again and, lo and behold, what did I do? Now here I am ready to annihilate Halsey and all the rest of them, just as they are planning the same fate for me. We can crush them like insects… “But should we? Simply to secure our own lives and fate? How many will die if we attempt this?”

  Even as he asked the question he knew the answer. He could hear it in the echo of his own pledge to Volsky before he was given a second chance by the Admiral… “I swear to you—here and now… I know what I did, and why, and that is over now. I know I deserve nothing but your contempt, but give me this chance and I will not fail you again—ever.”

  The Captain caught a glimpse of himself in his shaving mirror, sitting there on the desk. He saw the pain and confusion on his own face, and knew he was far from decided on this matter. A second chance…. “If there is any shred of honor left in you, Karpov, I will give you this one chance to find it again.” Volsky had given him that. He treated him with respect—treated him like a man, and Karpov swelled with pride at the recollection of the Admiral’s praise when they finally made it through the storm and sailed home again. The eyes of every man on the bridge were on him when he belayed the order to fire on Key West, and he was every man on the ship at that moment—all of them.

  A second chance. Time was handing it all to him once again. History doesn’t repeat itself, but it echoes…yes, and a haunting sound it is to sit and listen to it all again. What will it be, another missile, another MOS-III, another mushroom cloud on the angry sea? It had taken the eruption of hell itself to get him to this place—a place few men could ever stand—at the very edge of a second chance to do what he should do, to be a real man, and not a mindless shark.

  Then his own words to Zolkin returned, biting at him, a clawing reminder that grew in the cold logic of war where the equation ‘kill or be killed’ was the solitary factor, and the synapse and nerve set the reflex that would make that difference and decide the issue for one side or another. He had given it all to the good doctor when the shrill alarm sounded to break off their discussion…“Listen, Zolkin,” he said quickly, a finger pointing to the scrambling sound of booted feet on the decks above them. “Hear that? This is no longer a question of what we should do, but what we must do. It is either that, or we go to the bottom of the sea like so many before us.”

  Volsky had said much the same thing to him once as he
tried to sort this whole impossible situation out. “Did we do all this?” The Admiral waved his arm at unseen shores as he spoke. “No. We did not. We only made it possible for them to do it—all the other generals and admirals and prime ministers and presidents. We showed them what power was, and they wanted it for themselves as badly as you wanted it, Karpov. So now we see the result. In truth, I cannot blame you any more than I blame myself, and all we have before us now is simply a matter of survival.”

  Yes, we showed them what power was, and that was exactly what he wanted to do again. He had it all worked out in his mind, the missile, the mushroom cloud, the ultimatum that would follow like the dark rain of radioactive seawater. They were still cruising within sight of the Demon Volcano that had sent him here, and he could erupt as well, a Demon in his own right, and spew the wrath and fire of hell at his enemy to bring them under his heel in one swift act of retribution. But he would give them fair warning.

  Can I reach an agreement of some kind here with these men? Can I make an arrangement? If not, I can show them what real power is. It would be as easy and flipping a switch.

  But should I?

  Part VII

  The Mission

  “But first whom shall we send

  In search of this new world, whom shall we find

  Sufficient? Who shall tempt, with wand'ring feet

  The dark unbottomed infinite abyss

  And through the palpable obscure find out

  His uncouth way, or spread his aery flight

  Upborne with indefatigable wings?”

  ― John Milton, Paradise Lost

  Chapter 19

  It was a dull gray morning that day, all too common on the Caspian Sea, but as Captain Shlyupkin stepped onto the weather deck he wished the clouds were thicker. His ship, Caspian tanker Kulibekov, was one of four fat vessels in a long line heading south for Baku. Behind him came the Komitern, followed by Ubelikov and Amerika, each laden with war supplies bound for ports along the Caspian coast where the hard pressed 58th Army was struggling to hold back the German advance. There had been fighting at Kizlyar just a few days ago when German recon units tried to take the place in a surprise attack. The NKVD units had held the line there, but the 16th Panzer division had managed to cut the roads and rails leading north to the Volga, and the only way to get supplies through was by sea.

  That made Captain Shlyupkin just a little more uncomfortable that morning, and he found his eyes searching the clouds overhead for signs of enemy planes. A little fog would do us a world of good now, he thought. Where is it when you need it? Thus far there had been no losses in the Caspian due to air attack, but something about the morning, the silence on the sea, the stillness in the air all conspired to whisper warning to him. There was a hush on the world, a quiet that could not last. Something was going to happen. He could feel it.

  Shlyupkin had good reason to feel ill at ease. If this was now the only supply route south, the Germans would certainly know about it. And this was the first major convoy mounted since the rail line had been shut down. The Germans could have eyes on that coastline at this very moment. The flotilla was moving in towards the west coast now, bound for their first port of call at Kaspiysk just south of Makhachkala.

  “Ruyazin…Smirnov! Get up on the main mast and into that crow’s nest. I want you up with binoculars looking for enemy planes. And sound that bell the moment you see anything. Right now!”

  Smirnov was first up the ladder, Ruyazin following halfheartedly behind him. They settled into their watch like a couple of chicks in the nest, and it was not long before the bell rang that morning.

  The Captain turned quickly. “Where?” he shouted, but his watch standers were not pointing at the sky, but ahead, off the bow of the ship where the mist rode lightly on the still waters of the sea. Smirnov was pointing a long arm forward, and the Captain turned, raising his field glasses to see what he was indicating.

  At that moment the bell rang again, more urgent, a strident peal in the still morning air, and this time Captain Shlyupkin did not have to wonder what was coming. He could hear it, the muffled sound of aircraft engines, getting louder with each passing second. “Man the guns, All ahead full!” He shouted orders to the bridge and saw his crewmen scrambling to get the tarps off the two machine guns, his only defense.

  Then he looked forward again, thinking he could finally make something out there, a formless shape on the sea. What was he seeing? They were well south, approaching the naval base at Kaspiysk. It might be trawler or other lighter out to meet us, he thought. And he hoped they had a few good more guns to join the fight that he knew would soon be underway. No… whatever it was, it was massive, like nothing he had ever seen before.

  The growl of the planes was louder now, and he looked to see the dark shapes sharpen overhead as they came. Stukas! God help us, Stukas! How did they get this close?

  They were flying out of makeshift bases east of Mozdok on the Terek River. The Germans had leap-frogged them closer to the front for just this purpose, so they could sink their 500kg bombs into the vulnerable tanker traffic heading south and cut the last supply route to the 58th Army. Shlyupkin saw their broad wings tip over and they started to dive. The scream of their engines sent a chill up his spine, and he heard the distant bells on the other ships ringing out the alarm, the sound of machine gun fire rattling the still morning air.

  Then the first bombs began to fall with an awful wail.

  * * *

  “Get a move on. All you men must be down on the lower deck!”

  Dobrynin shouted at the last of Bukin’s Marines as they trundled along the roof of the Anatoly Alexandrov, laden with arms and satchels. The vast bulk of the Mi-26 overshadowed them, its long rotary props drooping towards the roof deck in sweeping arcs.

  The Chief was justifiably worried as the operation moved towards the last hurried stages of preparation to the launch hour. He had signaled Admiral Volsky two hours ago that the reactors were now fully operational and running safely, with Rod-25 mounted and ready to go. He immediately received the go ahead to launch his mission, and it was now well underway. The thing that worried him was the odd time delay that was sometimes noted between the conclusion of the maintenance procedure on Kirov, and the onset of the effects that resulted in time displacement. What if nothing happened? What if the magic wand that had sent them careening into the past would no longer work?

  Dobrynin stood on the deck until the Marines were safely down the ladder and scrambling into the hovercraft below. There they would man the other equipment that had been crowded about the facility. A pair of Project 1206 Kalmar assault class hovercraft were moored close to port side of the floating power plant. Each one carried a single PT-76 light amphibious tank, and a contingent of 60 Marines. A third and larger “Aist” Class hovercraft, hull number 609, was moored to the starboard side. It’s carrying capacity was greater, up to 80 tons, and so it held more APCs. One was a ZSU 23-4 Shilka quad Anti Aircraft gun, and it was joined by two BTR-50 amphibious APCs. There was room left over for another 60 Marines and their supplies and equipment, bringing the land assault contingent to 180 men, all commanded by the newly promoted Lieutenant of Marines, Arseny Bukin. The three hovercraft would be collectively commanded by Captain Oleg Malkin of the 242nd division of amphibious ships, Caspian Flotilla.

  What in the world are we doing, thought Dobrynin? He was a long way from his familiar old post aboard Kirov. As he stared at the big Mi-26 he wondered about the other two radiation safe containers aboard. Would they really work just like Rod-25? The whole plan was so characteristically Russian that it almost amused him. Why couldn’t they just use one rod installed at the Primorskiy Engineering Center to send the other one back, he had asked Admiral Volsky. Then they would not have to fly all the way from the Caspian to Vladivostok and the Pacific coast again.

  “Two reasons,” Volsky had answered. “First, we don’t know how far back these other two rods will shift something, assuming they even work.
Second, we have three ships there—two with nuclear propulsion units, Kirov and Orlan. Our plan was to get them all lined up, install one rod in the two nuclear powered ships with the Admiral Golovko sandwiched between them. Then we will try to run the maintenance procedure simultaneously and see what happens.”

  “See what happens?”

  “Yes, Dobrynin, I know it sounds crazy, but we could think of nothing more to do. One voice here suggested we hold these last two rods in reserve. Their obvious power would give us some amazing potential. But I refused. We must do everything possible to bring Kirov and the other ships home again. Their presence there is too much of an offense to the history. But you need not worry about that. your mission is to find Fedorov first, and hopefully Orlov as well. But make sure that helicopter gets safely on its way.”

  “I understand, sir.” Yet Dobrynin did not really understand. This was the most insane exercise he had ever been involved in, and the thought that Volsky was relying on him as overall mission commander was heavy on him now.

  “I’m not trained for combat operations,” he had argued when the Admiral first handed him the assignment.

  “Don’t worry about that, Chief. Leave that to Bukin and his Marines. Captain Malkin has also been fully briefed. Yes, he found the situation unbelievable, as we all did at first, but he is a good officer. He will command the amphibious units and see to the defense of the Anatoly Alexandrov. You just do what you do best. Organize the mission, see to all the equipment and supplies, operate the reactors. We have even taken the precaution of mounting engines on the Anatoly Alexandrov, just in case you should need to move the platform for some reason or another. They are mounted aft, and will give you no more than 10 or 12 knots, but it would be enough in an emergency.”