Kirov

by John Schettler

  Fedorov was back inside, sealing off the hatch to the exterior watch deck, his face alight with excitement and amazement, nose red from the cold.

  “Mister Fedorov,” said the Admiral, “you will kindly maintain your post in the future. Compromising the integrity of the citadel is a serious breach of conduct.”

  “I'm sorry, Admiral,” said Fedorov, “but did you see it, sir? That was an old British fighter plane, a Fulmar II from the look of it, the same planes that would be assigned to these carriers in the Second World War, sir!”

  Karpov looked as though he was about to say something, but he held his tongue, for he himself had clearly seen what Fedorov was describing. Admiral Volsky noted Fedorov's astonishment, relieved that he had made the right choice in holding fire, at least for the moment. But now even the evidence of his eyes simply added to the wild confusion of the moment, for what he had seen, what Fedorov was describing, was clearly impossible.

  “This must be some sort of reenactment,” said Orlov. “The radio show, the old ships, and now this plane.”

  “Sir,” Fedorov went on, shaking his head. “There is only one known example of that aircraft type in existence, and it is sitting in an aeronautical museum in England. There is simply no way that plane could be out there unless…” He himself stopped at the precipice of his own thinking, unwilling to make that last impossible leap over the edge into an abyss he could not hope to fathom. What was happening?

  “What are you saying, Fedorov. We just saw the plane, did we not?” The Admiral looked at his navigator, his expression grave and serious.

  “It was a Mark II Fulmar, sir, most certainly. That was a Rolls-Royce Merlin 30 engine, and the air duct beneath it on the nose of the plane is a characteristic feature of this aircraft—the long canopy as well. It was used in both strike and reconnaissance roles during the Second World War aboard British carriers, first introduced in March of 1941. Sir, the only known surviving aircraft of this type is the very first prototype model off the production line, which never saw active combat during the war, and it's in the Fleet Air Arm Museum in Somerset! I saw it just last summer while on leave. There is no way this aircraft could be flying today!”

  “You tell me you are certain this plane is a Fulmar in one breath and then say it cannot possibly fly in the next. Which is it, Fedorov?” said the Admiral. “How am I supposed to sort this out? Everything we have seen in the last three hours seems completely irregular. Both Orel and Slava are missing without the slightest trace—no sign of wreckage, no thermal signature on the ocean floor, no signals traffic of any kind. Severomorsk does not respond to our communications, and we hear nothing on the radio but historical documentaries and old music. Now I have twelve ships south of my position that no longer exist, and I am being over flown by aircraft that do not exist either—or was that a seagull we just saw.”

  “Aircraft that do not exist in the year 2021, sir,” said Fedorov, realizing again how insane his remarks must sound.

  The Admiral looked at him, astounded. “You are suggesting we are…”

  “This is all nonsense, I tell you,” said Karpov. “This has to be a NATO PSYOP or perhaps a re-enactment, as Orlov suggests. Otherwise we may all be suffering the effects of that explosion. Hallucinating. To think anything otherwise is pure lunacy. What, Fedorov? Are you telling me we have sailed back into the middle of the Second World War? Go and see the doctor! You are clearly unfit for duty here.”

  “I will be the judge of that,” said Admiral Volsky. Yet the throbbing in his head seemed worse than ever, in spite of the two aspirin the doctor had given him, and it was clear that all the other bridge crew seemed overly stressed and very anxious. Karpov’s frenetic emotion was keeping everyone on the edge of a razor. Samsonov still waited tensely at his combat station, Nikolin was looking at him with those big round eyes while he continued to listen to the BBC broadcast on his headset. Orlov was sulking in the CIC, his attention pulled between Karpov’s boisterous statements and the video from the KA-40 that he had been re-playing.

  The Admiral knew he needed to act—to give the men something they could focus their energies on. These were his officers and chiefs. What else was happening below decks as the crew sat fitfully at their action stations?

  “Rodenko, what is that plane doing?”

  “It has turned back toward Red Wolf Two, sir.”

  “Very well. Our helicopter?”

  “Well to the west, sir. There’s no possibility of a conflict.”

  “Mister Nikolin, signal the KA-40 to stand down and return to the ship. Mister Fedorov,” said Volsky. “Show me our position on the navigation board.”

  “Of course, Admiral.”

  “Mr. Karpov, if you will compose yourself, please join us.”

  The three men moved to the clear Plexiglas navigation plot where Fedorov had been working out their position manually after losing GPS navigation. “We still have no satellite links,” said Fedorov, “but I have calculated our position here, midway between Bear Island and Jan Mayen. That squiggle there is where Orel should be, but I have drawn in the approximate radius of that detonation, assuming it was a warhead from one of Orel’s missiles, sir.”

  The Admiral nodded, and Captain Karpov listened, his eyes narrowed suspiciously, as if he was waiting for Fedorov to skew off into his ridiculous theory again. The navigator went on, pointing out symbols on the board as he spoke.

  “This would be Slava’s last known position,” he said. “Now we had one KA-40 here earlier, but we have moved it off to the west, north of Jan Mayen. The other helicopter is sitting on top of the undersea contact here.”

  The Admiral suddenly remembered the submarine, and he turned to his ASW man. “Mister Tasarov, any developments on that undersea contact? What is Red Wolf One up to?”

  “The KA-40 is over the contact’s last known position, sir. But it has gone silent.”

  “I see…” The Admiral rubbed his chin. “Very well, gentlemen. The enemy wants to play war games with us and I will accommodate them. Captain, where would you place the ship to best deal with this surface action group?”

  Karpov stood taller, the pained expression in his eyes ameliorating somewhat, lips pursed while he looked at Fedorov’s plotting board. “Here, sir. I would move us due west in the wake of the KA-40, to a position north of Jan Mayen, and well away from the position reported for this submarine. The island will serve to provide some concealment from radar if we put it between our position and the enemy surface action group at Red Wolf Two. And should we engage, they will have that much less time to pick up our outbound missile salvo.”

  “Well thought out,” said Volsky, complimenting his Captain. The man may be high strung, he thought, but he was a sound tactician.

  “How extensive is the sea ice in that region?”

  “It should not be a problem,” said Fedorov, “but sir—”

  “Very well, Captain Karpov. Bring your ship around to a heading of 245 degrees west southwest.” The Admiral deliberately handed the task to Karpov, and he could immediately see the effect seemed to calm the man. Karpov nodded and gave the order in a clear and steady voice.

  “Helm, come about to course 245. Speed twenty knots.”

  “Helm responding on course 245, sir. Ahead two thirds.”

  The Admiral smiled. “Well, gentlemen. The identity of those ships may as yet be open to debate, but we will not argue the matter further here. We will operate under the assumption that this is a potentially hostile contact and maneuver in such a way so as to give our ship every advantage possible.”

  “But sir—”

  “Not now, Mister Fedorov.” The Admiral cut his navigator off, a determined look on his face. Someone had to act sensibly if they were ever to unravel this mystery. He had put Karpov to work and given the man something to focus his mind on now.

  “Captain, please monitor Tasarov’s hold on that undersea contact closely while we move to this new position. You may also oversee the recovery our hel
icopter.”

  “Aye, sir.” Karpov left them, energized, and obviously happy to be done with Fedorov’s stupid assertions and on to a proper tactical deployment. When he had gone the Admiral leaned slightly in Fedorov’s direction, and spoke in a very low voice. “Return to your station, Mister Fedorov. But I want you to find me any information you can possibly dig up concerning the naval situation in the Norwegian Sea on July 28th, 1941.” He gave Fedorov a slight glance, and the man nodded eagerly, a restrained smile alight in his eyes.

  “You can rely on me, sir.” Fedorov was quickly off to his post.

  Chapter 8

  Aboard HMS Victorious, the signal from Grenfell’s Fulmar was cause for some alarm. The pilot, Lieutenant Easton, had reported a large surface ship, yet he was confused as to its type and nationality. The ship had a menacing appearance, yet he could discern no big guns mounted on the long forward deck, just a patchwork of what looked like hatches, as if the vessel was a large, fast cargo ship of some kind. He noted several smaller turrets, however, oddly shaped, yet clearly guns in the range of four to five inches, something a destroyer or light cruiser might carry. Yet this ship was big! Its superstructure climbed up in a series of stark gray plateaus mounting stalwart metal towers, battlements and masts arrayed with strange antennae and pale white domes that gleamed in the wan light. He had flown many missions with the Fleet Air Arm, and knew a warship when he saw one. This ship was easily the size and scale of a battleship.

  Admiral Wake-Walker was huddled with Captain Bovell in the plotting room as the two men studied the charts. “Could this be an armed oiler or other fast replenishment ship?”

  “If it is, sir,” said Bovell, “then it is certainly nothing I’ve ever heard of. A tanker mounting five inch gun turrets? It has to be a cruiser, sir. The pilot must have been mistaken as to its size. You know how doggy these over-flights can be.”

  “Rumor was that the German commerce raider Atlantis was trying to work her way back to German home ports,” said the Admiral. “She had 5.9 inch guns, but latest intelligence has her back tracking for the South Atlantic. Probably heading to the Pacific.”

  “I doubt that ship would be up here, in any case, sir.”

  “Pity the damn plane wasn’t mounting cameras,” said Wake-Walker. “Yet whatever the identity of this ship, it seems to have vanished again. Grenfell’s pilots can’t seem to range on it any longer, and I’m not inclined to loiter here looking for the damn thing. We’ve orders to get out east.”

  “At least those hails have stopped, sir. Having our position, course and speed called out in the clear like that was becoming a tad uncomfortable.”

  “Look here…” The Admiral tapped at a spot on his charts. “We’ve had the fighters up for three hours now. They’ll be low on fuel and on their return leg now. Grenfell is spotting another flight to relieve them, but we won’t have much daylight left today.” The Admiral was considering his options. “Suppose we detach Adventure and a destroyer to get up there and have a closer look around for this ship. She can report and then proceed with her planned mine delivery to Murmansk.”

  “It sounds like a good idea, sir, unless this is a German fast cruiser on the loose that the Admiralty is unaware of.”

  “With 5 inch guns it would have to be a destroyer.”

  “True, but if Adventure takes a hit with all those mines aboard, mounted on the decks as they are, it could be rather grim, sir.”

  “We’ll send a destroyer with her as a picket ship. If they do run into anything they can slip away. But it would ease my mind to have someone out on our right flank tomorrow morning. I want to turn east at once—bring the whole task force about on a heading of zero-nine-five degrees. The Germans will probably have more seaplanes out and about looking for us in the morning. I want to be somewhere else.”

  “Right, sir.” Bovell still seemed uneasy.

  “What is it, Captain?”

  “Well, the thing is this, sir. That hail… It was sent in plain English—a bit thick on the accent, but from where, sir? If Easton was at all correct on his location for this contact, there’s no way that ship could have spotted us, let alone call out our heading, course and speed as if they had us fixed with a radar signal. And we both know that’s impossible, sir. Even our very best radar sets aboard Suffolk can only range out twelve to fifteen miles for surface contacts. The only reason we could see that other ship is because we had an aircraft up with longer range air to sea radar set. Easton is reporting this ship some fifty miles north of us.”

  “It might have been one of our subs,” the Admiral suggested. “If so, I’ll have the captain’s head, or worse. We might ask the Admiralty about that. Then again, perhaps it was that German Do-18 hailing us. They may have been loitering about. Just like Jerry to goad us like that. I’ll note that the hails ceased soon after we put Grenfell’s fighters up. Probably gave them the willies and they high-tailed it back to Tromso or Trondheim.”

  Bovell nodded, the Admiral’s logic answering his concerns. “With your permission, sir, I’ll see that the fleet comes about on that new heading.”

  “Very well,” said the Admiral. “You can signal Adventure to depart at once. Have her search the area near Jan Mayen and have a look at the weather station there. Once she’s reported we’ll send her on her way… And oh, yes. Detach the destroyer Anthony as her escort. She’s just replenished with Black Ranger and should have the legs for the job.” He was referring to the oiler that had arrived to refuel his task force earlier that day.

  “Good enough, sir.” Captain Bovell saluted and slipped out through the hatch to the bridge.

  ~ ~ ~

  Fedorov found what he was looking for and was elated. He had dragged out his volume of The Chronology Of The War At Sea, 1939-1945, Russian Language Edition, and flipped quickly through the well dated pages to late July, 1941. Amazed at what he saw, he discretely notified the Admiral that he had further information, and Volsky had ordered him below to see the doctor.

  “And take that with you,” he said, pointing at the volume Fedorov had been holding. “Show that to Zolkin.”

  At first Fedorov believed he was being sent down to have his head examined. After all, he was the only one who had ventured to voice the possibility that the planes and ships they had seen were, indeed, real. If this was an hallucination or other strange after effect of that odd detonation, then the whole crew should be examined. Why was the Admiral picking on him? It was Karpov, he thought. Karpov and his damnable lap dog Orlov…yet he was fortunate the Captain hadn’t put Orlov on to him, and the Admiral’s presence on the bridge seemed a calming and moderating influence over the man. Sometime later, he slipped through the hatch to the sick bay, a sheepish look on his face.

  “Mister Fedorov,” said the doctor. Zolkin was sitting at his desk, a cup of hot tea steaming at his right hand. He looked at Fedorov over the top of his reading glasses, smiling. “How may I help you?”

  “I'm not entirely sure, sir. I was ordered to report by the Admiral.”

  “Feeling blue, are you?”

  “I feel fine, sir, but the situation on the bridge is… Well, rather strained at the moment.”

  “Tell me.” Zolkin waited folding his hands before him on his desk, his dark eyes studying the man and noting the peculiar signs of both excitement and nervousness about him.

  Fedorov told the doctor what had transpired, the strange surface contact, and the over-flight by the old British fighter.

  “So that's what all that noise was,” said Zolkin. “What kind of plane was it?”

  Fedorov related the details, making a particular point to note that this plane had been retired long ago, and only one was known to even exist.

  “You saw this plane?”

  “With my own eyes, sir. You heard it yourself!”

  “I certainly did.”

  At that moment both men were surprised to see Admiral Volsky step through the door, removing his cap and tucking it under his arm as he exhaled deeply. Z
olkin noted how he closed the door, securing the bolt lock after he did so.

  “Admiral Volsky,” the doctor stood at once, taking a more formal tone with the Admiral in the presence of another crewman.

  “As you were, gentlemen.” The Admiral looked at Fedorov, noting the book he still had sitting on his lap. “Very well,” he said. “You have something more to say about the situation, Mister Fedorov? Something in that book there?”

  “Well sir, you asked me to find as much information about operations in the Norwegian Sea for the period we discussed. He glanced warily at the doctor, not knowing how much he should reveal, but the Admiral’s expression made it clear that he should speak freely. “It's here, sir,” he began, “I marked the place here on page 75.”

  “Read it to me, please.”

  Fedorov opened the book, his ink stained finger tracing its way midway down the central column on the page as he began to read. “22 July through 4 August, Arctic sector. British carrier raid on Kirkenes and Petsamo. From 22 to 25 July the ships earmarked for the operation are assembled in Iceland…” He paused, skipping ahead slightly. “Here it is, sir… on 26 July the mine laying cruiser Adventure, used as a transport to Murmansk, leaves with the destroyer Anthony. There follows later Force P under Rear Admiral Wake-Walker, consisting of the aircraft carriers Furious and Victorious, the heavy cruisers Devonshire and Suffolk, and destroyers Echo, Eclipse, Escapade and Intrepid… It's all here, sir.” He handed the Admiral the book, pointing out the passage with his finger. “The Russian translation. A very rare find I picked up in London last summer.”

  The Admiral read the passage, squinting at the fine print, yet nodding as he did so. “Ten ships,” he said.

  “Two more destroyers and a tanker join the task force as well, sir. They refuel and Wake-Walker proceeds with this attack, which was rather disastrous. The Germans were ready for them. They were spotted by a seaplane and the Luftwaffe had Me-109s lying in wait for them when they launched to attack the harbors. Several British squadrons were cut to pieces.”