“Blast!” he hissed in the dark. “They’ve taken the whole bloody lot into that fortress there. It looks like a detention facility.”
Sutherland strained to have a look, shaking his head. “Fat chance getting inside that,” he thumbed dejectedly. “We’ve come all this way to try and break into a prison?”
“Hush, up Davey,” Haselden warned. “We’ll think of something. There’s a couple ways we could play this now. These uniforms and hats we’ve got will see us off well enough with that sort. Maybe we could slip in somehow.”
“Right, and maybe we can’t. Suppose one of those buggers gets a close look at us, or starts asking questions.”
“Then we may end up getting inside another way.”
“Another way? How do you figure it? Is there some kind of secret passage on your map?”
“No secret passages, Davey. But if they do find us out, then where do you think they’d put us, eh? Right there in that hell hole of a prison.”
Sutherland looked at him, annoyed. “You can’t be serious.”
“Can you think of any easier way in? You want to try and storm that gate with a couple pistols and the Stens?”
Sutherland looked to Sergeant Terry for support, amazed at Haselden’s proposal now. “You’re really figuring to get us inside as…as prisoners? Then what? You plan to just excuse yourself and ask if you could please be let out with this Orlov we’re after? ”
“Don’t talk nonsense. If we do get inside there might be a way to make contact with this man.”
“You speak Russian now, do ya? Open your mouth in there and they’ll hear you speaking the King’s English and think they have a nice little spy on their hands.”
“Queen’s English now,” said Haselden. “Shame about old King George going the way he did. But yes, Lieutenant. Remember, we’re allies and such. Why, we might even ditch these uniforms now and just go tromping up to that gate in our khakis.”
“And introduce ourselves?”
Sergeant Terry was smiling now as Sutherland played the good devil’s advocate. Here they were trying to figure a way to get thrown into prison, and then once inside they’d have to figure a way back out.
“Suppose we did just up and say hello at the gate. What would they make of us? We could fuss about like visiting officers for the lend lease program like we did at Fort Shevchenko and see what happens. We ask to see their commandant and they’ll eventually find someone who can communicate with us. One way or another, we have to get inside that prison.”
“We came all this way to get thrown in the hole?” Sutherland made one last attempt at arguing the matter.
“If it was good enough for the likes of a man like Admiral Fraser, then it’s good enough for our lot.”
“Admiral Fraser? What’s he got to do with anything?” Sutherland was now aware of the fact that Fraser had served in this region with thirty Royal Navy sailors in 1920 when they were all taken by the Bolsheviks and thrown into prison in Baku. It was long months and cruel days before they were eventually released.
The sound came before Haselden had a chance to explain, that distant thumping that seemed so odd to them all, and impossible to place. It was getting louder and louder, coming from above them, and Haselden leaned around a crate to have a look outside, eyes puckered against the slate grey of the pre-dawn sky. Low clouds obscured everything above them but there was obviously an aircraft of some sorts up there, coming in over the bay. He had deduced that much, but it was unlike any plane he had ever heard before. He thought he saw a massive dark shadow deepen the gray to black at one point, and something swirling in the sky. What in God’s name was up there?
* * *
“There it is!” Zykov gave Troyak the thumbs up. “I’ve got his signal! They’re down there on that road, and it looks like they’re heading right into the city.
At last, thought Fedorov with great relief. They had spent a good long while, consuming precious fuel while they searched all the way from Kizlyar and south along the road. There was no sign of Orlov’s signal, but what they had seen there was cause for some alarm. Troyak thought he spied a column of trucks and armored vehicles, and Fedorov took a closer look with night vision binoculars. The powerful opticals revealed more than he expected.
“My God!” he said quickly. Those are Germans! It’s an armored column. I was even able to make out insignias on some of the vehicles, mostly trucks and light APCs, but a few tanks as well. What in the world are they doing here?”
Something had changed, he thought quickly. The Germans got as far as Ishcherskaya east of Mozdok on the Terek when elements of 3rd Panzer Division made a daring cross river assault there. But they only held the bridgehead for a few days in the history Fedorov had studied before the mission. Apparently that was not the case any longer. The column was well south of the Terek and moving swiftly on through the grey morning. The history had changed! Now the Germans had outflanked the defense at Grozny, and it looked like this column was pressing on to the Caspian coast and Makhachkala.
Suddenly Zykov thought he had a brief IFF return well south, near that city, but it vanished. They turned in that direction, somewhat leery of overflying the city itself. Even at night the sound of the Mi-26 would certainly arouse curiosity and draw unwanted attention if they flew low enough to pick up Orlov’s jacket signal if it was in passive mode. Fedorov ordered the pilot to move off shore and hovered about three kilometers off the coast before deciding to ease around south of the city. Then Zykov suddenly had a signal, and Fedorov’s heart leapt. They found him!
They were soon pouring over maps, noting the position and trying to hone down the exact location. “It looks to be right near the coast on the bay,” said Fedorov. “Right on the wharfs…could they be moving him to a ship? Let’s get lower. I need to see the surrounding area.”
“A ship would be good,” said Troyak. “Easy to find once it leaves port and easy to take him there. If we get much lower we’ll wake up the locals,” he warned.
“It can’t be helped. Pilot, see if you can get down under this cloud deck so I can have a look at the city.”
The pilot nodded and the helo descended, the signal strengthening as it did so. As they lost altitude they were soon beneath the low clouds. His mind returned to the urgency of the moment, eyes scanning the ground below. There was a column of trucks on the road near the harbor quays and he was surprised by how different the area seemed now. Fedorov had been to Makhachkala before, but this wasn’t 2021, it was 1942. They were looking at a squat, yet well built structure that looked like an old prison there and now he suddenly realized what had happened.
“Take us up, and quickly. Get us back under cloud cover!” He realized they could not linger there, an enormous hovering helicopter beating the skies with its massive props.
Troyak gave him a questioning look. “What do we do, Colonel?”
“See that structure there? I’m willing to bet the signal is coming from that location. That’s looks to be a detention camp or prison. I could see guards and barbed wire on the walls. Orlov is there! But we can’t very well just land here with a single squad. We’ve already drawn the attention of those guards. Let’s get higher.”
“What then?”
Fedorov’s mind was working quickly. They brought only a single squad. There would be guards, perhaps a full battalion of NKVD here. This was a prison, and access would be very restricted. He would need more resources if they were to consider taking the place to rescue Orlov, and the longer they lingered here with the helicopter…
No, he could not risk the Mi-26. If anything happened to it then there would be no way to attempt the delivery of those remaining two control rods to Karpov. He knew what he had to do.
“Can you activate his jacket from here?”
“I believe so.”
“Then get it to broadcast its IFF location beacon signal. You say that will range out to 50 kilometers and we should be able to pick him up again easily. But at the moment, we need to
get this big fat helicopter out of here. Head for the Anatoly Alexandrov. We’ll need more resources.”
“And then what, sir?”
“Then we take that prison, find Orlov, and go home.”
Troyak took one last glance at the prison and the surrounding area now before they were swallowed by the cloud deck again. “Very well,” he said confidently.
“You think we can take the place and hold it for a while?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“But Troyak…From the looks of that column we saw back there the Germans could be here soon. There doesn’t seem to be any organized defense here. Something has changed in the history. They weren’t suppose to get this far south.”
“Well, sir. We can do something about that if you wish. I can stop that column.”
“You can stop it?”
“We have a full company of Marines on the Anatoly Alexandrov, and then some.”
“So we have,” said Fedorov thinking. Intervention would be risky, even rash, but then it occurred to him that they might set right whatever had gone wrong and save Makhachkala and the precious oil beyond at Baku. If the Germans were to take it who knows what the consequences might be.
He was torn for a time, reluctant to do anything to cause yet more alterations in the history, but at the same time he was looking at an invading army overrunning his homeland down there. The memory of Orlov’s note came to him now…
“Fedorov, are you reading this? Are you listening? I know you must have spent many long nights in your search. Well here I am! Yes, Gennadi Orlov, the Chief, the one who bruised your cheek that day in the officer’s mess… I always did have a Bolshevik heart. It’s not that I am not afraid to die. I worked my ass off in the service because I love my people, my country, my Motherland. I want to tell my comrades in arms that I have never known cowardice or panic. I left you all to find a life here on my own, and one I never could have before. I do not know what may have happened to you and the ship and crew I once served. My dying wish is that you destroy our enemies once and for all. Be heroes, be valiant men of war so that history will remember you as defenders of the Rodina. Should you ever find this, and learn my fate, I hope that you, courageous Russian sailors, will avenge my death.”
“Sergeant Troyak,” he said slowly. “You will lead the assault.”
“My pleasure, sir!” Troyak’s smile lifted a good bit of weight from Fedorov’s soul. They were going to war.
Chapter 27
Admiral Fraser sat in the wardroom aboard Duke of York, thinking. His eye fell on the long sword and gilded scabbard, which he always kept close with his sea chest and other personal effects. It was a very special gift, and one he always wore on special occasions and ceremonial events. He had intended to wear it for the surrender ceremony in Tokyo Bay aboard Missouri, but all that was on hold now. The war was not yet over. He could not yet put away the sword for good.
As he looked at it, the memories returned, the adventure of it all, and the hardship. Back then he was only Commander Fraser, but newly promoted and so very proud, a young man of thirty one-years. They had just backed down the Germans in the First World War, on land and by sea, and he had been part of the Royal Navy supervision of the internment of the German Fleet. It was a heady time, with England rising to meet any challenge in the world, and prevailing. So it was that he volunteered for the first cherry assignment to come along, a stint with the White Russian Caspian Fleet to see if he could help get their ships in fighting order.
Fraser led a small group of Royal Navy Sailors on a long trek from the Dardanelles, across the Black Sea to Batumi where they took to a train heading east for the Caspian. He was beginning to feel just a little bit like T. E. Lawrence, the daring British officer who had raised such a ruckus in the Middle East during the war. It was all to be a grand adventure, but it didn’t turn out that way. The train was ambushed and the engineer refused to go any farther, which forced Fraser to literally back-track and return to Batumi. The only ship they could find was bound for Izmir far to the west on the coast of Turkey, but he gave it a go.
From there they took another train through Turkey this time bound for Baghdad, but once they arrive there no further transport could be found beyond a few horses and camels. So Lawrence of Arabia it was, he thought, and pressed on overland by horse, camel and foot. He and his party crossed Persia with a small Gurkha escort and eventually arrived at their destination, a small run down hovel with a single pier on the Caspian Sea called Enzeli.
The ships they were to inspect and refit were thick with rust and of no real military use, so Fraser determined to get himself north to Baku where he hoped to find the bulk of the White Russian Caspian Fleet. What he found instead was a few miserable floating hulks, rusting away without any regular maintenance. Yet with typical British pluck and a can-do spirit, Commander Fraser set himself to the task of refitting the small fleet…Until the Bolsheviks arrived.
The Reds did not take kindly to outside interference in their revolution, particularly those aiding the Whites. Fraser’s whole contingent was captured, stripped and bound on the quays while their clothing was searched, and then re-dressed only to be thrown into prison. The facilities were hardly accommodating, lice infested, unfurnished cells with bare earth floors. By day a wan light filtered through the metal grid on the ceiling, their only source of light and fresh air. Water was restricted to a single running tap for thirty minutes each day. There was no latrine, nor bedding of any kind, and the harsh conditions and poor nutrition with little more than watery soup, rice, and black bread laced with straw to eat soon undermined the men’s health and morale.
Worse than that were the atrocious psychological abuse they were subjected to, marched out and forced to watch executions, disembowelments of condemned prisoners, particularly the women. On one occasion the Armenian warden in charged ordered the summary execution of nearly ninety locals, who were shot with rifles then slowly finished off with pistols while the British were forced to watch. Whole families were condemned and died in this manner, though sometimes young children were left alive to wander aimlessly about the prison halls crying for their lost parents for days on end before they disappeared.
Commissars questioned the British, inquiring into their politics, religion or other beliefs, and many were told they would soon suffer the same fate as those they had seen die. As it turned out, it was all a gruesome bluff intended to heighten the stress and suffering of the men, and so it was no surprise to Fraser when the first man to die, Seaman Marsh, was found to have slit his own wrists with a piece of glass. The Bolsheviks fought over the clothing, then left the body to rot in the two small sixteen by sixteen foot cells where all the men were quartered together. It stayed there for four days, raising a horrid stench before the guards finally removed it. Four others died this way.
Commander Fraser and all his men were presumed dead, but when they learned one of their men was to be released as an interpreter to aid prisoner exchange with the Georgian army to the south they hatched a daring plot to get word home to England. If the man’s word was not good enough, he swallowed a locket with a picture of Fraser’s mother within as proof he was alive.
Great Britain was not called that without reason, particularly as she rose into her imperial prime after her victory in the First World War. The Crown’s displeasure with the plight of their sailors soon led to their release. They had been marooned two long years in what came to be known as the “Black Hole of Baku.” Twelve of the thirty men survived, Fraser among them.
In a strange twist of fate the ship that greeted them when they were returned to Batumi by train was HMS Iron Duke, the same name as that of a certain Royal Navy frigate that had fought Russians of another generation in the Black Sea of 2021. In that year, economics had temporarily trumped politics. Britain’s interest in the Caspian was purely for the oil that remained there. In fact, the offices of the British Petroleum Corporation in Baku were just a few short blocks away from the old prison site w
here Fraser and his men had suffered so much. And at that very moment, the black berets of the Fairchild’s Argonauts waited there for the return of Lieutenant Ryan’s last X-3 helicopter and a ride back to the Argos Fire.
But that was another world, and one that Admiral Fraser would never see or know. This world seemed more than enough for any man to manage.
Fraser had revisited the nightmare on many a dark and lonesome night in later years. Then came the war and he saw himself rise to positions of increasing responsibility. Few men would know it to see him in his Admiral’s cap and dress whites, but behind that pleasant and smiling face was a steely resolve born of those long nights in the Black Hole of Baku, listening to the moaning sobs of his men as they suffered there. As for the sword, the focal point that had triggered this avalanche of bitter memories in the Admiral’s mind, it was the last gift of the men who survived, given to Fraser when they all were returned safely home. He kept it close ever thereafter.
The Russians, he thought. Churchill was correct about them, wasn’t he? Our alliance made us strange bedfellows with Hitler and Tojo in the mix. Now that we’ve beaten them, we wake up and stare at one another wondering how in the world we’ll ever get on together. What are they up to now with this bloody damn ship and its weapons from hell? If Tovey and Turing have it right…If this ship is from another time, then we may reap the whirlwind if we let it loose on the seas of our world again. What was going to happen if they threw the combined might of the allied fleets against it? This time there would be no parley. This time it was war.
He gazed out the port hole and saw King George V steaming proudly off his starboard side. We’ve tangled with this monster once before, you and I, he thought. Perhaps Tovey should have made an end of it long ago when he had the chance. I’d think my odds were good for a victory with this battlegroup alone against that ship—man to man, steel against steel, and the rockets be damned.
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