Kirov

by John Schettler

  “I see,” said the Admiral. “These ships mentioned here, they are the same vessels you identified in the video?”

  “I believe as much, sir. The video clearly shows those carriers and 8 inch gun Kent class cruisers. I’ve looked up the these names in my old copy of Jane’s Fighting Ships, and compared the photos to the video images we had. Suffolk is a Kent Class cruiser, sir. There’s no question about that—two turrets forward, two aft, and three stacks amidships. Devonshire was London class, but they’re all considered County Class heavy cruisers.”

  The Admiral closed his eyes, that headache still refusing to leave him in peace. “You're going to have to do more for me than a couple of aspirin, Dmitri,” he said to the doctor. “If I thought I had a headache before, what Fedorov is telling me now is something even you may have no remedy for.”

  The doctor was very curious, leaning forward, looking over his glasses at the volume the Admiral was paging through now. Volsky related the details concerning the video feed from the helicopter, telling him how Fedorov’s keen eye had apparently identified the flagship at first sight as HMS Victorious, not to mention the plane that overflew the ship a few hours ago.

  “You mean to tell me you actually have live video images of the ships?”

  “Yes, Dmitri. That's what so, confounding about this whole thing! The evidence is right before our eyes. I saw that plane myself—everyone on the bridge did. Mister Fedorov here took it upon himself to rush out onto the outer watch deck and have a very close look.” The Admiral gave Fedorov an admonishing glance. “Yet this passage here names the very same ships our helicopter filmed just hours ago. Now… the Captain believes we are all hallucinating, that this is some elaborate psychological operation undertaken by NATO, and if that is true, then they have cooked up something really sinister this time. Everything that has happened since that detonation near Orel has been one impossibility after another. Could these effects result from a nuclear detonation, from radiation exposure? This I wonder. Yet we have not detected any radiation threat whatsoever. And Mister Fedorov here has voiced the only possible scenario where the presence of these ships and planes makes even the slightest bit of sense.”

  The Admiral looked at his navigator, as if handing him the baton and urging him to speak his mind. Fedorov cleared his throat, again realizing how insane his words might sound. Was the Admiral merely sounding him out here in front of the doctor so that he could demonstrate his odd behavior? He put that thought aside, preferring instead to believe the Admiral was a confederate and not an adversary concerning his views on the situation.

  “This will sound crazy,” he began. “But as I said on the bridge, sir, the presence of these ships and planes cannot be explained in the year 2021, which can only mean…”

  Both men waited for him to finish the thought that they themselves were thinking. Fedorov took a deep breath, forging on. “The BBC news broadcast we received on the radio, sir… Did you hear the date? It was this exact date, sir, 28 July 1941. And right there, in that book…” He stopped, the conclusion obvious to them all.

  No one spoke, but both the Admiral and Navigator looked at Zolkin, as if his take on the matter would certify their own sanity or delusion, one way or another. Each, in their turn, had come to suspect the incredulous notion that something profound had happened to the ship.

  Zolkin considered all the information they had shared with him, recalling the deep thrumming drone of the aircraft that he heard some time ago, and piecing together stories various crewmen had left with him as they filed in and out of his sick bay these last several hours. Many had complained of headaches, nausea, some experiencing an unaccountable dizziness. Yet he had found no sign of fever, infection, or other pathogen in his examinations, and there was no evidence of harmful radiation emanating from the strange explosion that had set the sea aglow all around them hours ago. Others simply complained that they could no longer access the Internet on their pads and personal computers, and the sudden sense of isolation only added to a rising anxiety that was running through the crew.

  “28 July, 1941,” he breathed, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Of course I have not seen this video, or this aircraft you speak of, but I will take your testimony on faith. So let us reason the matter through. We have video images, radio broadcasts, and the over flight of a single aircraft that Mister Fedorov has identified as an old British fighter plane. The first two could be deliberate deceptions, though I assume you have inspected this video file obtained by the helicopter and found it to be valid, yes?”

  “I had Nikolin go over it with a fine toothed comb,” said the Admiral. Orlov was curious about it as well, and would not rest until he had run the footage through the wringer. We find no evidence of tampering. I do not believe, as Karpov suggests, that this file was a video feed by NATO designed to deceive or confuse us.”

  “Though it has done exactly that,” said Zolkin. “So…At the risk of reinforcing a fantasy, let me play the devil’s advocate here. If these ships and planes do exist, as real and tangible things, and if we trust what we have heard on the radio is no mere documentary, then let us assume the most outrageous possibility that we are no longer in our own time…”

  “Yes,” said Fedorov, “But how is that possible?”

  “The explosion…The sea…” The Admiral began. “It was very odd, Dmitri. Like nothing I have ever experienced.”

  The doctor nodded. “It seems to have had some unusual effects on the whole ship.” He told the Admiral of the many complaints registered by various crew members.

  “Dobrynin in engineering said they picked up strange reading from the reactors,” said Volsky. “He said things did not sound correct, and I know enough about ships at sea to take such a statement seriously.”

  “Alright, for the sake of argument, if nothing else,” said Zolkin, “let us construct a plausible scenario. Suppose the Orel did have an accident, either with one of her missiles or reactor cores. There is a massive explosion, right at her plotted position, and this has some strange effect on space-time. Who knows, perhaps our reactor cores were affected as well.”

  “Space-time?” Volsky frowned.

  “That’s what we live in,” said Zolkin. “Four dimensions that we know of, length, breadth, height and time. Lump them together and we get space-time, unless Einstein is mistaken.” He laughed. “Alright… now, I am no Einstein, but if a massive explosion can move things in the three dimensions comprising space as we know it, why not the fourth as well?”

  “You are suggesting we were literally blown into the past by the shock wave of this explosion?”

  “For the sake of argument,” said Zolkin. “Let us suppose as much. If we take this view then everything we have observed would make sense in that light. The only place in which it remains confounding, and clearly impossible, is if we assume we are still in our own time, the year 2021. It is only there that these ships and planes and voices on the radio become inexplicable, correct?”

  The Admiral nodded, and Fedorov shook his head as well, his eyes wide with renewed excitement. If the ship’s physician could believe these things, then he was not losing his mind after all. The doctor went on.

  “And considering a few other oddities…Slava and Orel have vanished, yes? Well perhaps Orel was destroyed by this explosion, and Slava remains unaffected, still in position, only in the year 2021 where she should be. That ship was well south of Orel’s position, the shock wave may not have been enough to move her. So that would account for her disappearance. In fact, from her perspective, we are the ship that has vanished!” He laughed at that, pleased with his own circuitous reasoning. “Slava’s captain could be there thinking that both Orel and Kirov were destroyed in that explosion. What else would he conclude?”

  “As to the other oddities, if this is July of 1941, Mister Fedorov would indeed have no GPS satellites to communicate with, nor would the crew be able to log on to the Internet, as they have all been complaining. Severomorsk was not a major modern
naval base until well after WWII, though I believe we had air fields there in 1941. But the place wasn’t even called Severomorsk until the 1950s. It was Vaenga before that time, right?”

  “Yes,” said Fedorov, “and the fleet was called the White Sea Flotilla back in 1941, not the Northern Fleet.”

  “So perhaps this explains the silence from North Fleet headquarters,” Zolkin continued. “All these clues make sense if this is indeed the year 1941.” He finished, taking a sip of tea and looking at them matter of factly.

  “Now then…” Zolkin cleared his voice. “On the other hand, let us take Captain Karpov’s view that this is a psychological operation staged by NATO. Let us assume the explosion was a new weapon of some kind, designed to disorient and impair mental functioning. Who knows what they have come up with? A microwave bomb? Who knows? Under this theory, we would have to assume that the video feed was fed to us, in spite of your rigorous examination of that file. And we must assume that all these radio transmissions are false. That means NATO would have to be able to control the transmission of virtually every radio station on earth, correct?”

  “Nikolin has monitored, London, Moscow, Oslo, New York, even Tokyo on shortwave bands. Every single station is broadcasting old documentaries from the Second World War.” Fedorov folded his arms, waiting.

  “Correct, unless NATO has some kind of electronic spoofing ship out there that is quietly jamming normal radio bands and broadcasting this misinformation on all known channels from that era. This, too, is a possibility.”

  “What about the Fulmar!” Fedorov said quickly. “Did they manufacture that as well?”

  “Correct,” said Zolkin. “You tell me these planes no longer exist, but what if this model was rebuilt just for this exercise. Is it not odd that only this single plane was sent against us from this British carrier task force? We have seen nothing else.”

  “But why, Dmitri?” said the Admiral. “Surely this is a great deal of effort to toy with us as you suggest.”

  “If they are testing a new weapon, some top secret black–ops gizmo, then in this light we have an equally compelling scenario, yes? Perhaps they wish to observe the effects of this weapon first hand, monitor our reaction. Yes, it would be real psychological warfare on a much grander scale, and we are their guinea pigs for this nefarious experiment.”

  “What about Slava?” asked Fedorov. “How could they make her disappear?”

  “She may have been intercepted, boarded, and escorted from the scene to reinforce our confusion,” said Zolkin.

  Admiral Volsky looked at Fedorov, and back at the doctor. “Which is it, Dmitri? The situation is insane under both scenarios. Boarded? That was a Russian cruiser—old, but still armed and fully capable of defending herself. We would have seen her missiles, detected some evidence of a battle, but there was nothing—only this strange undersea explosion, and she was gone. Which am I to believe?”

  “Take your pick,” said Zolkin. “You must assume one scenario or the other, and then act accordingly. Fedorov tells me the ship’s radar was amiss just after that detonation. Perhaps there was a battle, but you could not detect it. In any case, if the ship was displaced in time as a result of this explosion, and it is indeed 1941, that will soon become apparent to anyone determined to test that hypothesis with actions. If, on the other hand, this is an elaborate NATO ruse, that can be tested by bold maneuvers as well, yes? You say there is a task force out there? Then find it. Confront it. That will solve the issue one way or another.” The doctor took a last sip of his tea and folded his hands, smiling.

  “It certainly would,” said the Admiral. “Yet to do so would mean we would have to sail within visual range of that surface action group. If things came to a fight, it would not put us in a very good position. We noted 12 ships in the enemy group.”

  “Well, if they are old British ships from the Second World War, what have you to worry about?” Zolkin raised his hands.

  “Pardon me, sir,” said Fedorov. “I would not underestimate this British fleet, whether it was from 1941 or the present. Those two carriers will have roughly thirty planes each, so we might be facing simultaneous attack by sixty aircraft. And those two heavy cruisers have eight big guns each that can range out to twelve miles. We would have to be within that range to make a certain visual contact in these weather conditions. I don't have to tell you what an eight inch diameter shell might do to some of the equipment we have on board. Only the two command citadels and reactor core areas are armored well enough to take such a hit and possibly survive intact. Suppose it were to penetrate the forward hull and ignite the missile fuel on our Moskit-IIs? Our armor there is only 80 to 100 millimeters thick, and an 8 inch shell can penetrate that easily enough. As powerful as we may be, this ship is very vulnerable at close range like that.”

  “Which is why Captain Karpov wants to take the ship up behind Jan Mayen, putting the island between us and this enemy task force. From there we can fire our fast missile barrages with much greater effect. It's a much stronger defensive position.”

  “Yes, yes,” said the Doctor. “Assuming this is 1941, your point is well taken, Mister Fedorov. But if it is still a late summer day in 2021, then we may find the enemy surface action group is no more than one or two NATO picket ships with these electronic spoofing devices broadcasting a false radar contact along with their dummy radio and video feeds. As I said before, bold action in either case, will settle the matter one way or the other. You have no choice, Admiral. You will eventually have to close with this task force and discover the truth.”

  “That may not be necessary,” said Fedorov quietly.

  The Admiral looked at him, waiting. “You have another idea Lieutenant Fedorov?”

  “Well, sir, now that you mention Jan Mayen, there’s a weather station there, and we’re heading that way even as we speak. I thought about this after we lost satellite GPS, so I switched to Loran–C, as there is a big antenna on the island, or at least there was one after 1960. That was down too when I tried to get a signal. Yet there still should be a meteorological station there. It was burned down when the war started, but the Germans never occupied the island, and men were back with a small Norwegian military detachment in 1941 to restore the weather station and set up a coastal radio relay outfit there. In our day there’s a four man team there year round at Metten, or the Met as we call it. So all we have to do is send a helo with a few men to see who’s home. Surely they can’t hide all those modern prefab buildings and other facilities on the island. If we find them we will know this is 2021, as it should be. If we do not…”

  The Admiral smiled broadly, looking at the doctor, who laughed, nodding his head. “There you are, Admiral,” he said. “I certify your navigator as sane and fit for duty!”

  The Admiral stood up, clasping his Lieutenant on the shoulder. “Fedorov,” he said. “You’re a genius! Return to your post now, but say nothing of this to the Captain. I’ll be along shortly…Oh yes, may I borrow your book for a while?” He held up the volume Fedorov had shared with him.

  “Certainly, sir!”

  When the Lieutenant had left them, Admiral Volsky sat quietly with his old friend again, briefly flipping through a few pages of the book Fedorov had given him. “An enterprising young officer,” he said of his navigator.

  “That he is, Leonid.”

  The Admiral looked up at the doctor, saying nothing for a moment. “Tell me, Dmitri. What do you really think?”

  Zolkin thought for a moment, then spoke in a quiet, serious tone. “Karpov is probably correct,” he said. “I argued Fedorov’s point as well as I could, but I’m not so sure I can get my mind around his ideas just yet. You have to admit, it would be an amazing development, yes? Think of it my friend…You would be commanding the most powerful ship in the world if Fedorov’s story was true. The only catch is this…” The Admiral noted the gleam in Doctor Zolkin’s eye as his friend gave him a hard look. “Who’s side would you be on in this war? That book there,” he poin
ted, “would tell you everything you need to know about the war at sea. Russia and Britain were allies in 1941, but by 2021, things have taken a different course.”

  The Admiral raised his eyebrows, smiling, yet his eyes held that distant look again, as if his thoughts were wandering with all the lost souls that had ever sailed these seas. The doctor could see that the question had a profound effect on his friend, kindling a state of mind that the Russians called toska. There was no English equivalent for the word. It’s meaning was something akin to “forlorn sadness,” a melancholia born of the interminable winters and harsh conditions of life in Russia, and a deep longing to be somewhere else, in a place of comfort and warmth where the challenges of life were replaced with quiet and safety. Yet more than this, toska touched upon some inner hidden spiritual anguish of the soul, like that old ache in the Admiral’s tooth that warned him of bad weather. It was a restless anxiety in one sense, and a deep inner yearning in another.

  “Well,” said Volsky at last. “Thanks to Mister Fedorov, we’ll know where we stand soon enough, Dmitri. I’m off to the bridge to get that helicopter over to Jan Mayen. I’ll keep you advised. We should know what is happening in a few hours.”

  Chapter 9

  Karpov was pacing restlessly on the bridge seemingly impatient over something, and occasionally peering through his field glasses at the rising seas ahead. He put the ship into passive mode, stilling the active radar sweeps the ship was blasting the enemy surface action group with and slipping quietly away to the west. He recovered one KA-40, leaving the second in his wake to keep a lookout for the undersea contact that had disappeared. The last thing he wanted was a stealthy American attack submarine creeping up on him. It would be all of 15 hours before he had the ship where he wanted it, assuming he kept on at just 20 knots.

  For the moment they saw no further sign of enemy aircraft, though the sight of that old prop-driven plane had been somewhat of a shock to him. Perhaps NATO had deployed a new type of small spotting plane with a turbo prop engine, he thought. Yet they had seen no sign of an orbiting enemy AWAC surveillance plane on their scopes. Unless NATO had managed to completely mask their signals, these two enemy carriers were being quite devious. There should have been a vivid radio-electronic signature around a carrier action group like this—if there really were carriers there. He still suspected that the video footage had been fed to them by NATO PSYOP elements—disinformation, nothing more. He had a mind to turn at any moment and send in a barrage of twenty Sunburns that would wreak havoc on this surface action group, no matter what was there. That would teach them to play with fire, he thought.