Three Kings (Kirov Series)

by John Schettler

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes!” said the navigator, Monk.

  “Well met, gentlemen.” O’Connor was pleased to see the men, but took in their shabby appearance and made a mental note to have a word with them later. The men were unshaven, uniforms filthy, and looked to be self-styled military vagabonds.

  “We’ve been looking for you, General. Sergeant Galloway here, and these are Lance Corporals Cokes and Jewell—Signalman Simpson there in the back.”

  “Signalman?” O’Connor took a long disapproving look at Hector Simpson, his beard so long that the other men had taken to calling him “JC,” Jesus Christ.

  “Then you have a radio?”

  “That we do, sir,” said Sergeant Galloway.

  “Good then. We’ll want to get a message off to Alexandria and let them know you’ve found me.” He stopped, looking over his shoulder when he heard the sound of more vehicles approaching.

  “More of your boys, Sergeant?”

  “No sir, we’ve just these six jeeps, and those sound like armored cars.”

  “Armored cars? That must be the Italians out of Giarabub. There were no armored cars available on our side for work out here, as you well know. It was all we could do to keep 2nd Armored running up north. I couldn’t even spare a single Wellington bomber to support Fergusson. We only had two! Well now, can we outrun them?”

  Corporal Cokes was already pulling back the bolt on the machinegun mounted on the jeep, but it was going to do them little good, for other eyes had been out searching that day as well, noting the long column of dust that seemed just a little too thick where the jeeps had come up.

  * * *

  They were not human eyes, but the sensitive infrared sensors at the nose of Lieutenant Reeves’ scout column in the 12th Lancers. The speedy Dragons moved, with lightning speed, fanning out in a wide line abreast to envelop the contact and prevent its escape.

  It was then that both O’Connor and Reeves got a real surprise, for it seemed there were British armored cars operating in the desert after all, but the like of which he had never seen. And for Reeves, it seemed that the story that odd Popski impersonator had told him about the General’s plane going down was true—impossibly true.

  His column of Dragon IFVs pulled up surrounding this new group, yet when he made the P.A. announcement, stating he was British Army, he was surprised to hear cheering from the small group of vehicles they had come upon. That in itself was a bit of a shock, as the locals here had little welcome for them whenever they patrolled outside the Sultan Apache perimeter zone.

  One thing led to another, and he was soon on foot, questioning the men, as he had the Russians. There was one among them that all the others deferred to, a short wiry man with grey white hair and an officer’s cap. He carried a riding crop, which he tapped incessantly at his thigh to emphasize anything he said, and he was wearing the uniform of a serving British officer. Reeves could clearly see the rank as well, a Lieutenant General!

  He stared at the short energetic man in front of him amazed, because he knew the history of the desert war very well, and this man was the spitting image of General O’Connor, just as that other fellow had been the image of Popski. He passed a fleeting moment, thinking this new catch might be in league with the others, a grand theater, a re-enactment group, but why would anyone want to come out here and play at World War Two? Here? Now, with the whole world going bonkers in another very real and deadly war?

  The Lieutenant started with a brisk salute, more to the rank than anything else. These men might be imposters, like the last group, but he would play out the game and see what he could learn. Yet the man’s answers made no sense, mentioning names like Wavell and Cunningham, all long dead, and making the grand claim that he was, in fact, commander of the British XIII Corps in the Western Desert!

  “Just who the hell are you, Mister Reeves?” said O’Connor. “12th Royal Lancers aren’t even here in Africa as far as I know. And how in the world did you manage to trade in your old Morris CS9 for that!” He pointed at the Dragon IFV, clearly amazed.

  Reeves found his interrogation had quickly backfired on him, as the sheer force of O’Connor’s will and determination seemed to carry the moment. He rode out the storm of words, waiting for this so called General’s questions to abate like he waited out the blowing sand to get this mission started. They came one after another: Where did he get that vehicle? What in bloody hell was he doing out here wearing the patch of the Desert Rats on his shoulder, when that division was back at Alexandria refitting? Did Wavell send him? Was he a new unit? How many men were in his column? … and on it went as if the fellow thought he was out here to fight the last war, his great grandfather’s war, settled long ago with the blood of another generation on these cruel desert sands. In the end he simply held up his hand as if calling for a truce.

  “Easy does it,” he said to O’Connor, strangely bothered by the odd notion that this man seemed so completely authentic in his role that he could be the real thing. “I have orders to report all contacts,” said Reeves, “and to get anyone found out here to the rear of our column. Perhaps you’d best tell your story to my Brigadier.”

  O’Connor’s fate line was redrawn that day, when the history resounded with a strange echo, enacting his disappearance and capture right in the midst of the first German offensive. Yet there was one dramatic difference—he had not been captured by the Germans of Ponath’s 8th Machinegun Company, but by a bemused Lieutenant in the 12th Royal Lancers, in a British Army that would not exist for another 80 years.

  Reeves elected to do the only sensible thing he could think of at that moment, and pass the problem along to the officers above his pay grade. So he radioed in to Brigadier Kinlan, and his report came at a most opportune time.

  * * *

  The Staff Officer leaned in, speaking quietly to Kinlan as he reported. “These were men claiming to be British soldiers, sir, dressed out in that same old style British kit from head to toe!” He gestured to Popski now, who was listening intently.

  “A Sergeant Galloway, sir. Six jeeps and an odd bunch that look like they’ve been out here for a good long while. That’s how Reeves put it. But they had another man with them, and sir, the fellow claims to be a British General. Calls himself O’Connor.”

  Brigadier Kinlan just stared at him. “O’Connor? Rubbish! What in bloody hell is going on here?” He looked down at his library pad again. There was the entry on the General himself in the data file, complete with a vintage photo from World War Two.

  Fedorov heard the name O’Connor and his heart leapt. He immediately asked Popski if he had heard what was said.

  “Sure enough,” his guide said. “They’ve done our work for us, Captain. So you won’t have to spin up that helicontraption of yours any further. It’s O’Connor alright, along with some of my men! I caught several of the names that staff officer reported.”

  Then to Brigadier Kinlan he said: “Just you wait and see now, sir. General O’Connor will be more than glad to straighten this matter out for you.”

  “Will he now?” Kinlan did not seem happy at all, and he gave a sharp order to his Staff Officer. “Tell him to bring the whole lot in,” he ordered. “We’ll get to the bottom of this mess right now!”

  Chapter 33

  Troyak had been unable to get through to Kirov, saying there was odd interference on every radio band. This news kept Fedorov in the dark, knowing that something terrible had happened again here, but unable to determine whether his team had moved in time again… until he heard that the British had found O’Connor. If this was so, if it was actually General O’Connor out there in the desert, then this new British General and his Desert Rats had somehow manifested here from the future! They were the interlopers in time, and not his own small contingent. But how did it happen?

  He remembered that strange glow in the sky, the almost phosphorescent light in the blowing sand, and that odd moment when Orlov had yelped with pain dropping that thing he had found in S
iberia—in the Tunguska river valley. He began to piece together the odd bits of the puzzle, thinking hard. This British General Kinlan had said something about a missile, an ICBM. Popski told him that they ‘got it first,’ before it could make an end of them, though he did not know what Kinlan meant by that. That could only mean they engaged it with anti-ballistic missile systems, but he gathered that the warhead had detonated, somewhere over the Qattara depression.

  Kinlan thinks we’re a fifth column, he realized, finally understanding that remark about lazing about near the target area. He meant ‘lasing,’ but Popski would have never heard of that word, and translated it otherwise. Brigadier Kinlan thought we were here to paint the target zone and help guide the missile attack in. He questioned Popski further about it, and it was the only conclusion he could come to. If this were so, then Kinlan might see Popski and his men as saboteurs, even O’Connor. How could he possibly believe anything else?

  Now he had come to one of those critical moments of knowing that could make all the difference in how this all played out. A nuclear detonation… a Tunguska fragment… a hole in time. It was the only possible explanation. That’s how Rod 25 must be working. It contained exotic residual material from the Tunguska event, and when lowered into the sublime nuclear dance of the ship’s reactor, the combination cut time like a razor, and anything within a given radius fell through the rift.

  Director Kamenski told him that large explosions disturb time, particularly those of nuclear origin. Could that thing Orlov found serve as a kind of lightning rod, where all that strange effect was targeted at this very place and time. If so, the radius of this event must have been very great if it allowed a force the size of a full Armored brigade to move through the rift. Then again… From what he could determine, and see all around him, this brigade had been tightly concentrated, ready to make a road march, with all its vehicles and equipment gathered into a zone that probably did not exceed five or ten kilometers. Even Rod 25 could produce a radius effect that wide, and this thing Orlov had could be a highly concentrated fragment from the Tunguska event, with considerably more power than the control rod.

  All these thoughts tumbled through his mind in a matter of seconds, but now the agonizing question was before him—what should he do about it? What could he do? Saving his own skin, and extricating his contingent from this dilemma was one thing, but to do so he was going to have to convince this Brigadier Kinlan that his brigade was no longer where he thought it was—that he and all his troops were now sitting in the Egyptian desert in January of 1941! Look how long it took us to accept what had happened to us. And Admiral Tovey… He and Turing had years to figure this all out, the slow accumulation of hard evidence, tangible clues, right down to those photographs they handed us. What can I do to convince this General without sounding like I’m a madman?

  He groped about, trying to figure a way he could persuade this man, and explain what had happened. O’Connor, he thought. General Richard O’Connor. They were bringing him in with Popski’s men this very moment. O’Connor is a prominent historical figure. There will be photographic references, in fact, I could call them up on my jacket computer if need be. Would that be enough? Perhaps, but then he realized what was on the other side of that coin.

  If I do convince them they have moved in time, he thought, then they’ll have to know who we are as well, and wonder how we came to be here. This man was British military, with a very important post in commanding one of the only heavy armored units they had left in 2021. It is very possible that he would have heard about the disappearance of our ship during those live fire exercises.

  He thought about this. Could I tell him who we are, and how we came to be here? That lets the bear out of the cave, doesn’t it? Admiral Volsky was bold to reveal this to Tovey, but to convince Kinlan of his impossible fate, I may have to reveal it to the entire world. This is information known only to Admiral Tovey and Alan Turing in this era. My god, even Popski is still in the dark. He doesn’t even know who we really are!

  Yet the more he thought about this incredible situation, the more he realized the inevitable outcome of these events. This unit was posted to the BP Sultan Apache oil concern in the year 2020, after the massacre of British oilfield personnel there. He remembered the incident clearly, and now he knew what must have happened. The damn war, he thought. It’s started. The missiles are in the air in 2021, and this was on the target list, two fat birds that could be killed with one nuclear stone. Our forces could take out a vital oil and gas recovery facility here, and wipe out the best unit in the British Army at the same time.

  But it didn’t happen that way, and we had everything to do with that. Kirov, this entire odyssey, Orlov, that mission to Ilanskiy, all of it. Then he realized that he, himself, had been at the heart of everything that had happened to forge that chain of events. Yes, Orlov jumped ship, or so he now secretly believed, but I was the one who insisted we go after him. I found the stairway at Ilanskiy, and whispered that warning in Sergei Kirov’s ear. I was the one who insisted we go after Karpov too, and now Kazan is involved in all of this. I was the one who sent Troyak and Orlov on that raid in Siberia, and that’s how Orlov found that Devil’s Teardrop. This is all my doing! And now look what’s in front of me, the British 7th Armored Brigade from the year 2021! My God, the power this unit has at its disposal could influence the entire outcome of this war, and all the history that follows it.

  What should I do? It’s going to happen one way or another, with or without any action on my part. These troops were set to move out from their base at Sultan Apache. If so, then they were going to head north to ports that might be able to accommodate the movement of this tonnage. That would be a chancy move with the war heating up as it was, but they’ll try. Yes, they’ll try, and if they do go north they will run right into the thick of things, demigods on the field of battle, the Desert Rats, echoes from the future, born of a past that was playing out here and now, reincarnated in a form and shape so potent that it could change everything. They could save Egypt, prevent England from being knocked right out of this war if things continue to unravel here.

  Fedorov had been deeply troubled by the news that Gibraltar had been taken, and the shadow looming over Malta. The dominoes were falling now. He knew the history so well that he could easily see the most likely outcome of these events. Even now, Admiral Volsky was out to sea with Kirov to try and bolster the British fleet as they faced those impossible odds against a combined Axis naval force twice their size. That fight we can win, he thought. With Kirov, and with Kazan out there somewhere, we can unhinge the growing Axis naval power and reset the balance here as it was, restoring the Royal Navy to a position of naval supremacy.

  Yes, that we can do, but what about Rommel? How do we influence events on land? That was the dilemma he had discussed with Admiral Volsky. The Germans took Gibraltar, and they’ll likely take Malta now. Rommel will get all the tanks, fuel and supplies he needs here, and what if the Germans reinforce him further? What if they make this place their major war effort for all of 1941? We can win the war at sea, but how in god’s name do I stop Rommel?

  There were two ways, one an indirect approach that was within their power—logistics. If we establish naval supremacy here, then we can sink any troop transport the other side puts to sea, and cut off Rommel’s supplies. That was one thing Kirov and Kazan could easily accomplish, particularly with the stealth of the sub.

  Yet can we do this before the German force footprint here becomes too large for the British to oppose Rommel’s advance? Now he remembered what Admiral Tovey had confided to them before they put out to sea to look for their battle. He revealed that Turing had sent word that BP had wind of new German troop authorizations for North Africa. They were going to send the troops they had used to smash the Rock of Gibraltar, put that hammer in Rommel’s hand by augmenting his force with 1st Mountain Division and a newly reconstituted Grossdeutschland at full division strength! Those units and others, like the 90th Lig
ht Division, were now earmarked for North Africa, and they just might get here before this naval situation is resolved to our satisfaction. Then all we could do is try and make their lives miserable here, by cutting off their seaborne communications with France and Italy.

  He considered that, and realized the Germans now had many more options open to them for supplying a force here in North Africa. Tripoli was the first port they would use, but they also had Oran, Algiers, and now the narrow straits of Gibraltar to Tangiers. Getting supplies to Egypt from those ports would be much more difficult, but if the Germans were determined… There was even the possibility that they could create an air bridge, like they tried to supply the 6th Army at Stalingrad.

  And how to stop Rommel from smashing his way to the Suez Canal before Kirov and Kazan can make that vital difference? A logistics war is a long, drawn out affair, a way of killing your enemy by starving and smothering him. But there was another way, the direct solution to the problem, right here!

  The answer was now right in front of him, all around him in the thundering rumble of heavy tanks and IFVs. The Desert Rats had come home again, by chance, fate or design, and if they do move north Fedorov now knew what had to happen. They would find the British holed up in Tobruk, and by god, they would learn the horrible truth of what had happened to them the hard way and, after the madness passed, they would fight. He was as certain of this outcome as he could possibly be.

  So you see, he thought. You can stand here worrying about revealing this insane truth to this world, that men from a future time were here to take up arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them. Shakespeare had something to say about everything, he thought, smiling inwardly as his anxiety settled down around this conclusion.