“Have they launched helicopters?”
“No mum. They’ve requested weapons tight.”
“Then no movement on the X-3s.”
“Admiral Volsky aboard the Russian battlecruiser Kirov requesting weapons tight and parley. Please identify yourself and respond, over.”
“Announce ourselves, Mister Thomas,” said Elena. Then she leaned in to MacRae. “If it comes to a fight here, what are our chances?”
He just looked at her. “It won’t be pleasant, for either side.”
“Sir,” said Healy at radar. “Getting many more seaborne returns now. Surface contacts just west of the primary, but no IFF signatures.”
“No signatures? How many contacts?”
“A good number. I read two ships, close by the primary. Five airborne contacts, then multiple ships in column. I’m reading at least twenty ships, more resolving as we approach.”
Argos Fire was moving at 30 knots due west now, as MacRae had turned to investigate the IFF contact some ten minutes earlier. “But No IFF data? That’s odd.” He looked at Elena, explaining.
“We’ve got clear electronics signatures on the one ship, Fregat 3D radar system as we read it. Now we’re just coming into better range and it appears there’s quite an armada out there. I’m not sure what to make if it. None of the other ships are emitting electronic signatures that can reach us, but they could be running dark and leaving that work to the flagship.”
“You think this is an entire Russian battlegroup? That can’t be possible.”
“Then our wolf is out there cavorting with the sheep, mum. It might have been attacking a convoy, and then up we come, the unexpected sheep dog.”
“Any sign of that? Could we tell if there was combat underway out there?”
“Aye, we’d see it on radar, but there’s no indication of any missile fires underway. It looks to be one big happy family out there.”
Elena rubbed her hands together, always cold, even in temperate climes. Kirov, Geronimo, steaming with a group of many ships that had to be from this era. What was this about?
“Identify us as Argos Fire, Royal Navy. Then confirm parley request,” she said. “Ask identification on those other ships. Let’s see what we can find out.”
“Aye mum,” said Thomas, and he returned the message.
“Senior Lieutenant Nikolin here, speaking for Admiral Volsky. We have patched in a third party. Standby.”
The wait seemed interminable, then a voice came, quiet but firm, and the sound of it seemed to strike a tone of reason and authority. Her heart leapt when she heard the name.
“HMS Argos Fire, this is Admiral John Tovey aboard HMS Invincible, fleet flagship. I am now commanding His Majesty’s Mediterranean Fleet. Sorry to say we haven’t made your acquaintance, Argos Fire. But we request an immediate rendezvous. Over.”
My god, thought Elena. John Tovey! He was here, now, at this very moment. Then this was why this date and time had been chosen. But what was Tovey doing cruising with Geronimo?
“That’s the man who signed off on the message in that box?”
“It appears so,” said Elena taking a deep breath, and feeling like the weight of the entire world had just been taken off her shoulders. Tovey was the legendary founder of the Watch, but that was in 1942. It was 1941 now, and none of that may have happened. But it was Tovey’s order that sent her here, so she would wait to find out what had happened, elated, a feeling of great relief sweeping over her.
“Give my name and indicate my present post as Watchstander G1, code Geronimo. Then ask them if we are to consider the Russian ship as friend or foe.” She waited while the message was sent.
Far to the west, Tovey heard the voice and smiled, though he did not know why. Watchstander G1? The words struck some deep inner chord in him, but he could not quite hear it, a distant memory, stubbornly just beyond his reach. But that other word, Geronimo… This he knew quite well. It was boldly labeled on that strange hidden file box Turing had found, and typewritten all through the contents. Admiral Volsky had just told him that this was another ship from his time, from the future. My God, he thought. King Arthur has come back from Avalon, and in the nick of time.
Argos Fire soon received his message. “All is well, Argos Fire. All friends here. We request a rendezvous in the Gulf of Chania. Over.”
Mack Morgan had come up, and he was listening in, amazed. “All well and good, mum,” he said. “But I must tell you that the Royal Navy had no ship by that name active in 1941. The last ship to bear that name was sunk at the Battle of Jutland in 1916.”
“Oh? Well, then we’re in for a surprise, and I suppose they are as well. Signal confirmation on that rendezvous request. Tell them we’ll be waiting for them…. with bells on!”
Chapter 35
The man was getting his Arabs and Indians mixed up, thought Popski. What was all this rubbish about an Apache Sultan? What was all that about guard towers and oil rigs? He gave Fedorov a frustrated look.
“Well I’ve told him the whole lot, but you’ve completely lost me with all of this. They’re no Indians or oil rigs out here. Why would you tell him that? How would that rubbish solve anything?”
“Bear with me, Popski. What does he say?”
“Alright,” said Kinlan. “Mister Simpson. Send to the back of the column and have three vehicles from the rear guard troop return and report on the condition of the Sultan Apache facility. I’ll meet this Russian Captain half way. At the moment I have business to attend to, but I’ll continue this when I get my report.” The General left to consult with his staff, and they were left alone, watched by a pair of helmeted British soldiers.
“He’s given the order to check on that Sultan Indian fellow, whoever that might be. What are you two talking about here?”
Fedorov gave Popski a sympathetic look. This was going to be the fate of any man alive now who ever came into contact with men of this unit, and realized the truth. They would all stand and stare amazed, some dumbstruck with awe, like Cortez, silent upon a peak in Darien, as Keats would put it. Others would stare in disbelief, until the hard steel reality of these men from a distant time was driven home with the shock and fire of war. The Germans and Italians would get the worst of it, for here was a mighty champion that would soon come to the field of battle and weigh heavily in the equation of this war.
And yet, thought Fedorov, they were mortal men, not demigods, and their power and influence on events here would not be without limits. This was the realization that he had faced on the ship as they watched their missile count diminish, one by one. Once Kirov fired the last of its Moskit-IIs, and the inventory of SAMs was gone, it was nothing more than a veiled threat, toothless, though the appearance of the ship on an enemy’s horizon might be seen as a shadow of imminent doom.
The same thing would happen here with these men. They would begin with power that seemed overwhelming to any foe they encountered. A German light Panzer II could do nothing whatsoever to bother one of these modern new tanks.
And yet, the tanks would store little more than 50 rounds of their deadly 120mm ammunition. This brigade would likely have considerable replacement stores, but Fedorov knew they were finite. Once the ammunition was gone the tank would just be an impregnable moving pill box. It was 1941, and this was going to be a very long war. In the end, Fedorov knew the power this brigade could wield could be decisive in any given engagement, but it would be a rock in the stream of this war, stalwart, invincible, yet unable to stem the full flood of the madness WWII eventually became. Entire cities were destroyed in single bombing raids here, a conflagration never seen in modern warfare, where casualty rates dropped precipitously.
The US lost 4487 soldiers in the ten year war they fought in Iraq. On the first day of the Normandy invasion, they would lose 2500, and go on to lose 29,000 before that campaign concluded, with another 11,000 British deaths and 30,000 Germans. And though very significant, that battle was not decisive. The fight would continue in the Marke
t Garden campaign, the Battle of the Bulge, and the battles fought to cross the Rhine before Germany finally was beaten.
The loss of a division or two here would not stop the German war machine. The Germans lost well over half a million men at Stalingrad and still fight on. The Russians lost over a million there. This Brigade could win any engagement it fought while its ammunition lasted, but that was the end of it. The effect its presence here would have on the war itself would depend entirely on how, where, and when its awesome power was used.
Now he thought of Karpov, ever seeking that decisive moment in history to bring the full might of Kirov’s weapons to the cauldron of war. Karpov may have been misguided, selfish and headstrong, but in one thing he was correct. Kirov was a lever that could move a mountain if placed at precisely the right place, its tremendous power fully applied. Even now Admiral Volsky was thinking to decide the balance of naval power in the Mediterranean Sea in one decisive battle. The same would apply here with this brigade. But would even this be enough? How would the Germans react? Might they send even more troops and material to challenge this new foe, or initiate vast new programs to gain these new “wonder weapons” for their own use?
But there stood Popski, unaware of any of this, yet soon to be shaken by the hard reality of what was about to happen. How could he bring him to that understanding, bridge that 80 year gulf between Kinlan and Peniakoff and see them shake hands as one?
“Popski,” he said, quietly. “Have you ever seen uniforms like those worn by these men?”
“Can’t say as I have. Those helmets are unlike any used by the Tommy’s, and the same goes for those rifles they’re carrying, but they look like they’ll do the job well enough.”
“And have you ever seen armored vehicles like these? Look at those tanks!”
“Those are real beasts,” said Popski. “Have to be entirely new. They’re magnificent!”
“They are,” said Fedorov. “And have you ever seen a contraption like the one that we flew in to get here, our helicopter? For that matter, have you ever seen a ship like mine, or rockets that could do what we demonstrated earlier during that air attack on the Suez Canal?”
“I was there to see that!” said Popski. “Rumors make the rounds fast in Cairo, and we heard a fancy Russian ship was coming through, so I went over to the canal when you came in and saw the whole thing. Marvelous! You fellows have a few of those for our ships?”
“I wish it were so, but our ammunition is limited. That’s why we use it carefully, and sparingly, and only when it counts.”
“Smart enough,” said Popski.
“These weapons, these machines, I know they impress you, but don’t they seem fantastic?”
“That they do. One look at a tank like that will drain the blood from this General Rommel’s face, and that’s a fact.”
“Quite so, and it will drain the blood from his men as well, literally. Popski…”
He wanted to tell him that tank could not have been built by the British industries of today; that the craft of its making would not be possible for another sixty to eighty years. Then he realized this man would simply never understand the real truth, so why did he have to know? Popski would believe the tank was here, right before his eyes, but never grasp that it could have come here from the future. That would be the experience of most here. They would never know the real truth, though they would rejoice that Achilles had come to the fight, an invincible champion in this hour of need—Achilles, with one weakness in the limited duration of his power. Yet he realized now that to fully explain this situation to Kinlan, he would need to rely on his own limited skills in English, and he wished Nikolin were here. He was going to have to tell this man something that General Wavell did not even know yet!
“Must be a prototype,” he said at last, leaving Popski in the innocence of unknowing. Some would eventually know the real truth. Wavell would have to be one of them, and O’Connor was on the way here at this moment. Other men highly placed in the British army and government would certainly have to know. The rest of that impossible truth would still be protected by that bodyguard of lies, as Churchill might put it.
“I think that I will try to speak with General Kinlan on my own now, if you don’t mind. I can manage a bit of English.”
“Have a go if you wish. Maybe you can talk sense into the man.”
Fedorov checked with Popski on a few words he was uncertain of, words like displacement and detonation, and then he had him ask for a private conference with the Brigadier, which Kinlan granted. His report had come back, and he had an odd look on his face. The two men went off near an FV432 command vehicle and Fedorov began his faltering attempt to communicate.
“Forgive my English. You’re report? It is concluded?”
“It has, and it seems you were correct, Captain. My men report the site is… well the whole damn facility has vanished! What is going on here? What kind of trick have you Russians pulled?”
Fedorov struggled to get all of that, but the essence came through. “No tricks,” he said. “An accident.”
“Accident? There were millions of pounds worth of equipment and facilities back there. What kind of accident could have them go missing short of another of your damn warheads? Either that or my patrol got lost. They certainly weren’t all carted off by the Berbers, or buried by that sandstorm. Right?”
“No second warhead,” said Fedorov. “It was the first.”
“The first? Well we got that one. At least we got two of the three, and the last was off target to the east. Those facilities were completely intact when we moved our column out.”
“The attack… it caused big accident. Odd effect of nuclear detonation, like EMP.”
“EMP? That might fry electronics, but it bloody well could not account for what we’re talking about here.”
“Not EMP… similar strange effect of detonation. Causes big problem with time.”
“A problem with time? I don’t follow you.”
“Sorry. I will try again…. Detonation changes time, breaks time. It can make things move in time. Understand?”
“Move in time? That’s bosh.”
“Bosh?”
“It’s nonsense! What are you talking about?”
“Not bosh. Is real truth. Your men just found General O’Connor. He is the real man… General Richard O’Connor, and you will soon see. Your base at Sultan Apache remains there, in year 2021. But you are not there. Your men, your brigade, all displaced in time due to detonation. Big accident! I know for sure. Because this happened to my ship.”
Kinlan gave him a look that was half annoyed and half astonished. “Your ship? Are you telling me you think you moved in bloody time?”
“Yes! This is true. Nuclear detonation during live fire exercises. Accident. Then we appear… somewhere else! Same place, different time. Honest truth.” He held up his hand as though he were taking an oath. “I know it sounds impossible. I never believed it myself, until facts made things true. We moved here, to this time—1941.”
“1941?” Kinlan grinned at him, unbelieving, as there was no rational place he could put this. “You’re trying to tell me you think this is 1941? You’re daft, man, off your rocker.”
Fedorov did not follow that, but he could sense the other man’s rejection of what he had told him. “Then where is Sultan Apache?” He returned to his long suit, playing another spade.
Kinlan stared at him. “Well I don’t know where it is, Captain. But it seems you don’t know where it is either with this silly explanation.”
“Sounds false, sounds crazy, I know this. But I speak truly. Sultan Apache is all there, but in 2021. It is you that went missing, just like my ship. You heard reports? Kirov lost in Norwegian sea. You heard this?”
“Yes, I heard the report. Then you show up a month later in the Pacific.”
“Yes! But we do not sail there in oceans of 2021. We sail there in 1940s! Then it happens again. An accident with reactors sent us back to our own time
… to year 2021. All true.”
There was movement from the grey brown sand out beyond the sheltering tent set up off the hatch of the FV432. Then one of the Staff Officers, the man named Simpson, emerged with another report.
“Excuse me, sir. Reeves’ scout section is back. They’ve a number of men in jeeps, a bunch of throwbacks, or so they appear. Jeeps look to be old relics, and one man is claiming to be a General O’Connor.”
“Very well,” said Kinlan, the same problem on his hands, unresolved insofar as he was concerned. “Bring the man in. Maybe he can make more sense than this one.” He gave Fedorov a disparaging look.
“General Richard O’Connor,” Fedorov tried again. “Real man—from 1941. Look close at this man. Check photos. Look close at Popski. Look at jeeps. All 1940s!”
“Or all some elaborate theater you Russkies cooked up to hold up my column so you can lob another warhead or two our way.”
“No! Not true. No more missiles. Let your eyes prove this. See General O’Connor. Then you believe… You are here now, in 1941, and this is real. My ship is here, up north, and we fight for the British now. Kirov is an ally, a friend, not enemy. Russians and British are allies in 1941. Soon you believe this too. It is very important… Critical. This can change the war—change history—make no more war with Russia in 2021. Understand? We can stop war there, in 2021, and we can win war here, in 1941.”
Kinlan took that all in, his eyes fixed on Fedorov, seeing the urgency in the man, hearing the sincerity in his tone of voice, and the desperate need to be believed.
“This all happened as I say,” said Fedorov. “An accident, but all true. Otherwise, you tell me, General Kinlan. Where is Sultan Apache? Go look with your own eyes!”
Three Kings (Kirov Series) Page 30