Any way he added it up, it spelled a swift and overwhelming victory, but it was a new world now. That distant cloud on the horizon loomed over the sea with a threat of utter extinction at its root. The world went absolutely crazy these last years, he thought. My God…Look what we did to Tokyo when Curtis Lemay let the bombers loose. The world went insane, and now we’ve really got the means to end it all if it comes to another general war.
So the Russians have the bomb… I’m told we’ve got one too. That was top secret. The men out on Tinian tending the airfields didn’t even know about it, but Nimitz had sent the word through on a secure channel. They throw another one our way and we’re going to repay them in spades. That was the terrible logic of war. Here we were ready for champagne, celebration, and a long ride home. Now this. The crews were working smartly, the planes armed and spotted. All we need now is the go sign, then God help the Russians, because we’ll send them straight to hell.
It was then that the midshipman rushed in with a message. John Mulholland was under attack. He had been shadowing the Russians with his two radar pickets, Benner and Sutherland. Something came at them out of nowhere, like a couple lone kamikazes that had managed to slip through to dive on the ships for a kill. Sprague was on the radio immediately to ascertain his situation.
“Both ships hit,” came the voice, harried and urgent. “Bad fires amidships and Sutherland is dead in the water. Radar is all whacky. Can’t read a thing now, and there’s no way we can close or keep up with the bogies. They have just turned on a new heading. They’re running east at high speed now.”
“Good enough, Commander. See to your men and withdraw south. We’ll take it from here.” Sprague had a look of real anger on his face now.
He turned to Captain William Sinton by the plotting table. “They just sucker punched John Mulholland,” he said hotly. “I’ve had about all I’m going to take from those bastards. “What’s the closest destroyer on the inner screen?”
“That would be McKee there off our starboard bow.”
“Signal McKee to come along side. I’m going for a little ride.”
“Sir? You’re transferring the flag?”
“Correct, Captain. Admiral Ballentine is still replenishing his carriers south near Tokyo Bay. We need speed, fire and steel on the front line now, so he was kind enough to send me a little present in compensation for Wasp, the battleship Wisconsin. I was considering transferring to the Showboat, but Wisky is a good bit faster, and that’s just what we need now to run these brigands down.”
The “Showboat” was the nickname for the most decorated battleship in the fleet, with 15 battle stars awarded to BB North Carolina thus far in the war. Yet at a top speed of 26 knots she was slower than the newer Wisconsin, an Iowa class ship that could run at 30 knots. They called her “Wisky” and spelled it exactly that way, without the letter H. Sprague heard what Mulholland said about the Russians running east, and thought that extra speed would soon matter a great deal. Wisconsin would give him that, and plenty of fire and steel along with her two sister ships, Missouri and Iowa.
“Big-T is yours, Bill. Your decks are spotted and the boys are ready to go. I’m going up there personally, and we’ll give it to Stalin, right on the chin.”
“Very well, sir. Good hunting.” Sinton snapped off a crisp salute.
Another voice whispered from within as Sprague was piped off the bridge, more sobering, and steeped in the wisdom this long war had instilled in him. It left off the bravado and thirst for revenge and settled on the heart of the matter, because any way he looked at it now he knew men were going to die here today.… God help us all, it whispered to him, God help us all.
Chapter 29
Oberleutnant Ernst Wellman, commander of Panzergrenadier Schützen-Regiment 3 looked the man over as he slowly pulled on his gloves. “You say the Russians have collapsed?” He was speaking to a broad shouldered Cossack, Lieutenant Koban of the 1st troop of the 82nd Cossack Squadron.
Russian Cossacks fighting for the German Army, thought Wellman, and they have been damn useful. This particular unit had been formed from prisoners swept up in the lightning advance toward Stalingrad, months ago at Millerovo. The Germans had taken some 18,000 prisoners, and were trying to find a way to herd them to holding areas behind the front line. An enterprising officer who spoke Russian knew that many were not happy over their fate in the Russian Army, and were very receptive to the Germans when they came. He hit on the idea of rounding up stray horses and mounting them to form a makeshift escort for the rest of the prisoners. As amazing as that sounded, it worked. The dissident Cossacks were only too glad to switch sides and join the German advance, and now several units had been formed to serve as security and reconnaissance troops in the wide ranging steppes of the Caucasus. They were familiar with the land, could infiltrate Russian lines easily with their language skills, and brought back valuable intelligence.
“I’ve had patrols out all night on horseback,” said Koban. “The NKVD have thrown up a few roadblocks as a delaying force. They are falling back on Makhachkala. Take that and the road to Baku is yours.”
“How strong is the enemy ahead of us?”
“Battalion strength at best, Oberleutnant. If you move quickly with your armored cars, you can be in the city by nightfall.”
Wellman looked at the man, his fair hair wild with the wind, field coat sodden with the recent rain, face reddened by the sting of the cold after long hours in the saddle. These Cossacks had been with them when they made the cross-river assault at Ishcherskaya, and fought bravely, side by side with his Panzergrenadiers. They had proved themselves reliable a hundred times over.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll push on all morning and we’ll see if we can break through. The Russians are still fighting hard for Grozny, but here we have them flanked. Westhoven had given me permission to move the entire regiment up—Liebenstein’s Panzers in support. I’ll lead with my column, and you, Lieutenant Koban, you will show us the way.”
* * *
“Bukin is going on the Mi-26 mission,” said Fedorov. “So I’m assigning you overall command of the rescue mission here.”
“Very well, sir.” Troyak folded his brawny arms, ready and willing.
“Now that we know where Orlov is, what do you advise?”
“A small team will be no good,” said Troyak. “We’ll have to take the place and hold it to conduct a search and get Orlov safely out.” He had a map of the city and spread it out on a work table. “The problem is the Germans. They have been pushing down this road where we saw that column. They could reach the harbor soon, unless we stop them.”
“Can you stop them?”
“I believe we could, sir. We have lots of equipment here, even hand-held anti-tank and anti-aircraft weapons, not to mention the two tanks and APCs.”
“Where would you land our main force?”
“Here, sir, right at the harbor. We can use this wide beach area on the isthmus. It puts us very near the facility where Orlov is, and all we would have to do is close these roads leading to the port district. I’ll send up blocking forces and we’ll stop the Germans in their tracks.”
It seemed as good a plan as any. They had the force at hand for the job, and they were Russians. He worried that the sudden appearance of hovercraft, and modern Naval Marines would be unsettling, but what could be more disturbing than the war the Germans pushed south on them like an oncoming wall of fire.
“It may be that the local defense forces would see us as reinforcements in a desperate hour,” said Fedorov. “After all, we’re Russian troops, just as you said, Troyak. All we have to do is say we were sent from Baku with the best new equipment available to stop the Germans.”
“And that is just what we will do, sir. There’s no trouble out there we can’t handle,” Troyak said confidently.
“I suppose you are correct, but if we were to just go with the helo, how would you operate with the Mi-26, Troyak? Could it be protected?” That was t
he key factor now. They could not afford to have the helicopter damaged or lost, and the fuel issue remained another problem.
“We would just land on the tip of this sharp isthmus here,” said Troyak pointing at the map. Then we take the company in for a lightning fast assault, leaving one squad with the helo. It should be safe there.” The Sergeant could see that Fedorov was very worried about the helicopter.
“Which plan is best, to go in with force or try the lightning swift rescue with the helicopter?”
“You can never have too much combat power at hand for any mission,” said Troyak. If the Germans do come in force, we will want our assets ashore and ready to oppose them. If we go with the helo, we can take up to 90 men, only half the force, and no APCs. In that case we’ll need to rely on speed. I would suggest an amphibious assault with the entire force. We cave tanks and APCs that will be very useful.”
“Yes, but we can’t leave anything behind here, Troyak. All the equipment must be safely withdrawn—and all our men. If any man falls, he must he brought out safely. We can leave no man behind.”
“Sir, we never leave a man behind. Rest assured.”
“Very well…prepare your mission. I want the option to use those hovercraft and the heavy assets they can carry. We must be in a position to attack in a matter of hours. I’ll square things with Bukin on the command change.”
“It won’t bother him, sir. He still thinks I’m his Gunnery Sergeant.”
* * *
The Mi-26 was soon squatting on the deck of Anatoly Alexandrov again, the Marines finishing up the loading of their equipment as evening folded he land with gray. Dobrynin had scoured the ship for any further reserve they could find, and the big helo had her tanks topped off for the long haul. He thought they would want to leave for the Pacific coast immediately, but Fedorov had pulled him aside earlier to tell him of the sudden change of plans.
“You’re taking the Mi-26 south again?”
“Not if I can avoid it, but I want the helo available in case we run into any problems. It can’t be helped, Chief.” Fedorov explained.
“But the Admiral said this mission east was very urgent, Fedorov. It’s a very long way. Why delay?”
“You act like the mission is running late, but remember, it’s 1942 here, and we have nearly three years before we need to be on the Pacific coast.”
“Mister Fedorov, we have two Kalmar assault class hovercraft here, each one carrying a PT-76 amphibious tank, and a contingent of 60 Marines. And over there we have an even bigger “Aist” Class hovercraft, with three more APCs and more Marines. You will have an assault contingent of 180 men! Why can’t they get the job done? Why do you still need the helicopter?”
Fedorov could see Dobrynin was worried about everything, and the stress of planning the mission lay heavily on him. “I want the helo in reserve until the outcome here is decided. I know you are worried about Bukin’s mission, but we’ll get it all done—this mission and the job out east,” he reassured him. “I’ll also have to leave some force with you here to protect the Anatoly Alexandrov. We cannot afford to lose this ship and its reactors. Otherwise none of the control rods will be worth anything at all. Leave things to me.”
He did not confide his remaining concerns—a deep inner worry over those two control rods. He had no idea whether they would even work, and he had been thinking about the situation for some time.
Suppose we conclude this mission safely, he thought. Suppose we then use Rod-25 here and all goes as we expect. We end up in the year 2021, and then what? Then we will know whether that helicopter out there ever really makes it to the Pacific coast and manages to contact Kirov. It will all be history by the time we get home. And what if I learn the mission failed—for lack of fuel because I had to stubbornly insist on using the Mi-26 to find Orlov. Keeping it here is just going to tempt me to use it again. The mobility it provides is very desirable…But if I’m the reason it fails to reach Karpov, what then? What does Karpov do here, marooned in the past with three of the most powerful ships in the world?
He struggled with that, wondering what would happen if push came to shove and another battle started in the Pacific with the Americans. The situation will be too tempting for Karpov, and he has the power to change everything now. Even if we do reach him, and supposing these two new rods work as we hope, where will it send Kirov and the other ships this time? The Admiral just assumes that they will all be brought home to the year 2021, but that is by no means certain. They could go anywhere, even further back into the past!
He ran into that same dead end in his thinking again. There was just no way to know. All they could do was stumble about like blind men in the dark. They had no comprehension of the forces they were playing with now, and no way to really control these time displacements.
Then there was that incident on the back stairs of Ilanskiy. What really happened there, he wondered? Was there a rift in time that I walked through, or was it something about me that caused that displacement? Troyak went down those stairs and nothing happened to him. But Mironov came up them and moved from 1908 to 1942! It was maddening.
If it was a rift, a tear in the fabric of time caused by the Tunguska event, then it clearly allowed displacement between those two points on the continuum. June 30, 1908 was hotwired and linked to August of 1942. It was a gap of thirty-four years. What if I went back up those stairs from this point in time? Would it take me forward, perhaps by another interval of time equal to thirty-four years? Would I end up in 1976? Again, there was no way to know, so this was all useless speculation. The only thing he could control for the moment was this mission, and so he shook himself from his reverie as Troyak came up, saluting.
“Sir, the men are ready.”
“Very well, Sergeant. Let’s get moving.”
Troyak looked over the gunwale of the main deck to the pilot in the hovercraft below and rotated his hand overhead to signal engine startup. There was a high pitch whine, then a lower growl as the big engines started. With tremendous noise.
Fedorov had briefed the men, telling them what was at stake. “I know that we may be opposed, but do not harm the Russians if it can be avoided. If it is possible to take prisoners and hold them while we find Orlov, all the better. But the mission must not fail. No man can be left behind. Not one piece of equipment either.” He left that out there, and each man considered what he might have to do now, facing their own countrymen in a potential conflict here, as well as the Germans.
“I just hope my Great Grandfather isn’t here,” Corporal Subakin jibed, and the other men laughed.
They were on their way.
* * *
Orlov heard the footsteps in the hall, and smiled inwardly. At last, he thought. The Commissar was finally here. Once inside the prison they had taken his overcoat, cap and service jacket, just as he expected, and they were hanging on the coat rack in the corner, objects of curiosity or evidence to be fodder for the interrogation that was coming next. Orlov was suddenly reminded of that first session with Loban under the Rock of Gibraltar. He wondered if this Molla would get curious and meet Svetlana the way Loban had?
The door opened and a man stepped in, medium build, and dressed in a plain NKVD uniform with side pistol holstered and two thin leather straps crossed on his chest. Right over the place where the man’s heart was missing, thought Orlov. Yet as nondescript as his dress was, the man’s face and eyes were quite revealing. He was much younger than Orlov had expected him to be, and there was a cold, arrogant air about him, the character of a young man who had come into too much authority and power before he had lived enough to know how to use it. His eyes seemed to squint as he looked Orlov over, narrowed slits with obsidian ice behind them.
The Commissar walked to his desk, his footfalls loud on the old wood floor, but he did not sit down, He stood, regarding Orlov with those cold black eyes, one hand on his left hip. Then he calmly drew his pistol, raising it to the level of his cheek to take aim square at Orlov’s head.
>
“Name,” Molla’s voice was flat and terse, edged with impatience.
“Orlov.”
“Where did you get that uniform?”
Orlov looked at him, a glow of defiance on his cheeks as he sized up the situation. He needed to get the man closer to him.
“I took it from a dead man. He had little use for it, and I thought it would get me to my destination a little easier.”
“Dead man? You killed this man?”
“Of course,” Orlov returned quickly. “I don’t think he would have given me his uniform otherwise.”
“You killed an NKVD Officer?” Molla’s voice was loaded with recrimination now, the slits of his eyes more pronounced.
“Yes, I killed him. He insisted on taking me to Novorossiysk, and I did not wish to go there.”
Molla’s hand never wavered as he held the pistol, and now he slowly moved his finger tight on the trigger. It was a Nagant M1895, an old, reliable revolver dating back to the days of the last Tsar. Orlov could clearly see the bullet laden cylinder, and knew a round was chambered and ready to fire with one squeeze of Molla finger, but he was heedless of the danger. All he could think of was getting Molla closer.
“They say you claimed to have orders for me?”
“That was a lie.”
“Of course it was. No one gives me orders here, except perhaps Beria, and he is not around at the moment.”
“Lucky for us both,” said Orlov with a shrug.
Molla sensed something in the man, a strange kinship that was evident in his devil may care attitude. He was holding a pistol on the man, and yet he did not think the frank and direct answers he was receiving were born of fear. Most men would be clearly intimidated, eyes averted, with that pathetic pleading look as they struggled to find a way to prove their innocence. But not this man. No. He’s is unlike any man we’ve hauled in for a good long while now. This one is a fallen angel, just like me, dark seraphim, bound for hell and determined to start the fires now while he lives. It’s as if he thought he was invulnerable!
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