It was a remnant of that other life, he thought, just like that bandage Doctor Zolkin discovered down in sick bay, and the data on his computer with the names of the missing crew—just like that magazine Karpov found, the one we recovered from that island off the northern coast of Australia. My god… that seems so long ago now, and we were just about to enter the Pacific at that time. All these things were odd remnants from the life I experienced before. Yet how could they be here, on this ship?
Now he remembered the strange documents Alan Turing had found in the archive of Bletchley Park. They were detailed accounts of experiences from that other life, that other meridian of time we were sailing on before we shifted and manifested here in June of 1940. But this isn’t the same ship. It doesn’t make any sense. How could these things exist here?
A sudden thought occurred to him. If Orlov gave me this compass once before, might he have a similar one now? He hesitated briefly, seeing the Chief’s surly mood, but decided to ask anyway.
“Chief,” he said. “Were you in the habit of using a pocket compass?”
“What?” Orlov gave him a blank look. “Pocket compass? I suppose I have one somewhere. What’s the matter, Fedorov? You lost all of a sudden, or do you just miss your post at navigation?” He gave him a wry grin.
“Once a navigator, you always have your nose in the charts. Yeah, I’m missing my compass. If you’re not needing yours…”
“I’ll look for it.” Orlov said nothing more, getting up and bussing his tray over to the dirty dish counter.
Fedorov was very confused about all of this as he slowly made his way back to the buffet. The boundaries between these two meridians of time seemed strangely permeable. Admiral Tovey has been right at the edge of recollection from that first encounter we had with him after we shifted here. Now Zolkin seems to be struggling with memories from those earlier experiences. I wonder if Orlov is too.
“Say Chief,” he said tentatively. “This may sound odd, but do you ever get the feeling that we’ve done this before?”
“You mean that slop they’ve been serving at the buffet the last three days?”
Fedorov smiled. “No, not the food. I mean this whole situation—the ship, this incredible shift in time. Ever have what they call déjà vu?”
“What’s that, some kind of French cologne?”
“No, no. It’s a feeling that comes where you think you’ve already lived through some present moment before—maybe like you’re stuck in some kind of loop or something, and you keep going over and over events of the past, reliving them.”
Orlov looked over his shoulder, giving Fedorov a nod. “Maybe I know this. You mean like a dream—like those nice little nightmares I told you about?”
“Something like that, only it tends to happen while you’re awake. You walk into a room, and you suddenly think to yourself—I’ve been here before, done all this before.”
Orlov grinned again. “Yes, every time I go to take a shit.”
“Seriously. Ever get odd feelings like that—things repeating, odd memories returning over and over?”
“Well… Like I told you, I see things in my sleep—dreams—and yes, they repeat over and over. What of it?”
“What kind of dreams? What is it that repeats? You said you were choking someone?”
“You some kind of shrink now? What is it with you, Fedorov? Alright, I have this nice little dream where I’m choking someone to death. I can see his face, but for the life of me, I can’t remember who he is.”
“Are you sure?” Now a memory returned to Fedorov, a conversation he had with Orlov in this very room, just shortly after the ship appeared in June of 1940. He had been reading one of the history books Sergei Kirov had given to him, trying to get a grasp on all that had changed. A weariness overcame him, and the tea he was drinking was not helping. He was just about to finish up and get some sleep when Orlov happened along….
“What are you doing, Fedorov? Nose in the books again? You should have been promoted to the ship’s librarian.” Orlov said that with a grin, realizing, after all, that he was speaking to the ship’s Captain now, and remembering the humiliating lesson Troyak had taught him about showing due respect when he had been busted to the Marine detachment. He had come to the officer’s dining hall for a cup of coffee before going on duty, and found Fedorov sitting at a table reading.
“The world has changed, Orlov,” said Fedorov. “I did not realize just how much has gone awry.”
“I know you are wanting to blame me for that, yes?”
“What? No Chief. I think I got to you in time, or at least those British commandos did. Besides, most anything you may have changed would have had to occur after 1942. The altered state of affairs I am reading about now all happened well before that. I think it was Karpov who had a great deal to do with some of the changes, and I must also confess that I am equally to blame.”
“You, Fedorov? What did you do?”
Fedorov confessed his crime, that errant whisper, and he told Orlov that it ended up resulting in the death of Joseph Stalin himself.
“My god!” Orlov exclaimed. “Here I was worried a bit about choking Commissar Molla, and you took a contract out on Stalin!” As always, Orlov interpreted the events in light of his own life experience, running with the Russian mob for so many years before he had joined the navy had left him very jaded.
“So you see, Orlov, you can sleep easy now. I’m the real culprit.”
“And that bastard Karpov. He sleeps easy too—with the fishes!” Orlov grinned again.
“Yes, I suppose so. In fact, as to that Commissar you speak of, remember, in this world now it is only 1940, so he may still be alive out there somewhere, though if he is, he will be working for Volkov, and not the Bolsheviks.”
At that Orlov’s face and mood darkened. “Still alive? But I killed him.”
“In 1942, but that world, those events that saw you make your way to the Caucasus… well, they might never occur. This is a new world, Chief. Another life altogether, for you, and I suppose for Commissar Molla as well.”
“Sookin syn!” Orlov swore, clearly unhappy with what he was learning now.
“Orlov… That man you say you dream about. Can you remember anything about how he looks? I mean, did he have a uniform? Was he in the service?”
Orlov’s eyes narrowed. “Come to think of it…. Yes… He had on some kind of military cap, with a red star.”
“Navy?”
“No… Not Navy. But it was just a goddamned dream, Fedorov.”
Now Fedorov decided to take a leap here, and asked Orlov something he didn’t expect.
“Chief… Ever hear of a man named Molla? A Russian Commissar.”
That hit Orlov like a bucket of cold water. He turned, a look of confused surprise on his face. Commissar Molla. Yes, he had heard that name before. He knew the man… But how? Where? That was the face in his dream, Molla’s hound dog face wrenched with pain. Something seemed to snap in his mind, like a window breaking in a storm, and a flood of memory rushed in like cold wind. Commissar Molla!
“Sookin syn! The bastard thought he would have his way with the women, rounding them up like cattle. Well he picked up more than he knew. Bothered my grandmother, that sick, demented son-of-a-bitch. Then he started asking questions—put that pistol of his right in my face.” Then the memories came in a great torrent. It all came back to him, with crystalline clarity, icy cold, and chilling to the bone. He remembered it all….
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’s 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 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!
“Just where did you think you were going, Orlov? What were you doing at Kizlyar? Are you a German sympathizer? A Spy? Were you trying to get through our lines to get to those pigs?”
“Of course not,” said Orlov hotly. “I’m Russian! I was looking for the pigs on this side of the wire, men who roust women and children out of their homes and truck them off to places like this in the night. Men like you, Commissar.”
Molla stepped closer, his hand tight on the revolver again. He had killed a hundred men for far less cause than this man just gave him; interrogated thousands more with seared and severed flesh. He was brash, young, and full of himself, and now he had a strong sense that the man he had before him was of the same dark order, a demon of a man who could kill without remorse, without conscience. These were the most dangerous men in the world, he thought. I could use a man like this… if I could control him. Then his righteous anger flared, as he realized just what the man had said to him. Bound for hell or not, we still keep order.
“You stinking piece of shit!” Molla swore at Orlov now. “Tell me… Which eye should I put the first bullet through?” He raised his pistol again, pointing it right at Orlov’s forehead.
“Tell me,” Orlov said darkly, looking him square in those icy black eyes. “How long can you breathe when I get both hands around your neck?”
It was very difficult to speak while you were choking, and that was what was happening to Molla now as he listened to Orlov’s last taunting rebuke.
The big Russian had moved so quickly that the Commissar could not even squeeze the trigger of his pistol! In an instant Orlov batted the weapon aside with a sweep of his arm and had a murderous hold on the other man’s neck, forcing him back on the desk where he had been sitting and tightening his big hands on the man’s throat. Molla’s pallid cheeks quickly reddened as he strained for breath….
“My God! Fedorov….” Orlov gave him a look of profound amazement. Molla! Yes, I know the man. I hunted the bastard down—choked the life out of him for what he did. Then, the next thing I remember I’m on some kind of….” He hesitated, as if struggling to recall something, the memory right at the edge of his mind, yet wreathed in shadow. “You came back for me!” The Chief pointed a thick finger at Fedorov, a look approaching anguish on his face.
Fedorov was watching him very closely, a light of excited awareness in his eyes. Orlov remembered! He was aware of experiences he lived through after he jumped ship. He knows!
Part II
Grim Realizations
“Tonight we shall sup with Pluto…”
― King Leonidas, on the eve of Thermopylae
Chapter 4
Kapitan Falkenrath and the Goeben steered south until they were certain they had evaded their enemies, then slowed to 12 knots. On the night of the 27th of February, he turned east, intending to creep silently towards the coast of Africa again, which he approached on the fateful morning of the 28th. He had a sense that something was amiss, a strange quavering in the air that day, and an unaccountable disturbance that he could not put his finger on. It was the initial eruption of Krakatoa, and though he was much too far away to hear it, the shock wave that shook the atmosphere was something perceptible to all the men on the ship. One thought he felt an odd vibration, another was strangely seasick, thinking it no more than a bad bit of beef at breakfast.
Now the ship turned northeast, following the coast up toward the German airfield at El Aioun, which promised to have air support up to cover his approach. In the meantime, Captain Sanders had searched fruitlessly to the north and west, until he ran up close to the island of El Hierro in the Canary’s. His quarry had eluded him, and Tovey ordered his cruisers to return to the Azores to have a look at the damage put on Sir Lancelot by Hans Rudel’s dramatic attack.
As for Rudel himself, he turned and headed for the African coast, even though he knew he would not have the fuel. What he wanted to find now was a U-boat, for if he had to ditch in the sea, that was his only chance at being rescued. With the weather bad, his chances were slim. A lot of U-boat Kapitans would submerge to avoid the pounding heavy seas could deliver to their boats. So Rudel knew his best chance was to find clear skies, and luck was with him that day. He broke out of the worst of the storm, continued east, and found a nice wide glistening patch of open sea.
If anyone was in the vicinity, this would be a perfect place to surface and take on fresh air after the storm, and that was what Kapitan Karl-Friedrich Merten was doing that hour. Rudel spotted the U-boat, and made a slow approach, but he knew he had to get them on the radio before they saw him. He managed to do that just as the top watch spotted his plane, and was reporting the alarm to the Kapitan.
“Aircraft spotted sir! Coming in low from the west.”
His first Officer, Oberleutnant Albert Lauzemis, made ready to order the dive, but Merten stopped him. “It’s one of ours,” he said, and sent 2nd Warrant Officer Werner Happe up with a team of divers to see about fishing the pilot out of the sea.
Rudel overflew the U-boat, his wings wagging in greeting. Then he flew a slow, lazy circle before he open
ed his canopy and bailed out, landing very near the u-boat, his parachute a wet deflated jellyfish on the sea. The divers got to him in a small inflatable rubber boat, and he would live to fight another day.
“What in the world are you doing out this far?” asked Merten.
“Hunting the British,” said Rudel. “What else?” He told them his story, and all the men listening were quite impressed.
“Well,” said Merten. “You can hunt with us for a while if you like. Our mission is to interdict the waters in the approach to Lagos further south.” Rudel was going on his first, and last, U-boat patrol, but a signal was sent to Group West informing them of the rescue operation.
Marco Ritter had been very glum for a few days after he made landfall, thinking Rudel had met his fate in those stormy seas. He eventually transferred to the Prinz Heinrich, operating east of Lanzarote, and that was where he heard the news.
“They found your protégé,” said the Kapitan. “U-68 picked him up and he’ll be on patrol with them for some time. But he gets a nice free ride all the way back to Lorient, assuming that U-boat makes it safely home.”
Ritter smiled. “Don’t worry about that, Kapitan. With Hans Rudel aboard, that boat is charmed. They’ll make it home.”
And they did….
The Goeben made it safely to the German controlled coast as well, and Falkenrath took it quietly north to Casablanca, arriving with barely enough fuel to keep his screws turning. He was very pleased to see the Kaiser Wilhelm anchored in the port, and they also had news that Detmers on the Kormoran was still at sea, undiscovered, but making steady progress north.
Now the Germans had two of the three great prizes they had obtained in the deep South Atlantic, and days later Admiral Raeder sat down to his dinner with Kapitan Heinrich, soon to learn the world was not what he thought it was.
Steel Reign (Kirov Series Book 23) Page 3