Nexus Deep (Kirov Series Book 31)

by Schettler, John

  “Sookin Sym!” Orlov gave him a wide grin. “Good job, Fedorov. It looks like he took your advice, because he lived, and he’s a damn sight better than Stalin.”

  “Yes,” Fedorov said quietly, “I suppose he is.”

  “So, you want to make sure he gets the message,” Orlov guessed. “You want to speak with him again and leave nothing to chance. I Understand now. But Fedorov, how do we get back after this? Have you worked that out yet?”

  Orlov remembered the anguished look on Fedorov’s face.

  “Get back?” said Fedorov slowly. “Well, the stairway will be right there, won’t it? The last time I went up, it delivered me right back to the time I left—1942—the very same day, only a few hours later. The good Sergeant here said he had been looking for me for some time, though for me, it was only a matter of minutes that passed. I think that stairway works like that. You get right back to where you started, as if you were walking a circle. It always takes you back to where you began.”

  “Only this time we didn’t come by the stairs,” Orlov remembered how he caught that. “We got here on this damn airship,” he said. “Will it still work?”

  “We can try,” said Fedorov glumly. “We all go together, right up those stairs.”

  And that was what they tried. Now they were all gone, except for me, thought Orlov. Even as he tramped up the main stairway, his ear still listening for any further signals on his service jacket, he realized this was probably a stupid and fruitless move, but he had to be certain.

  He reached the upper landing. “Fedorov? Troyak? Anybody there?” This stairway did nothing—no magical shift in time.

  A young woman stuck her head out of one door, one of the maids that had been cleaning the rooms. This was bullshit, he thought. All the others were gone, and here he was, still stuck in 1908, all by himself.

  No.

  He was no alone. The plaintive call he had heard on his service jacket told him that well enough. Volkov! This was the man that had bothered them on the ship, then Fedorov claimed he followed him all along the Siberian rail line, and caused a great deal of trouble. It’s the same guy who started all this crap about the Orenburg Federation. Ivan Volkov!”

  “Son-of-a-bitchkovitch!” Orlov swore in English this time, the way he had heard some Americans do it once. How did Volkov get back here?

  Two plus two eventually added up to four in Orlov’s mind. It was clear that Volkov could not have come on a Zeppelin like the team did. So there was only one way he could have appeared here—that damn stairway! But why? What was he doing here? What was this crap about Team seven.

  Yes…. Fedorov once told me that Volkov had been after him, and that he had a security team with him. I can’t remember everything, but it’s clear that someone is here, in 1908, and that he’s broadcasting on a service jacket. Fedorov is long gone, off to who knows where, and all the other marines. It’s just me here now, and Ivan Volkov. What should I do?

  Fedorov’s words were darkly in his mind again… ‘ When we’re this far back in time, any little slip can have major consequences to the events that follow. One little slip could end up becoming something very big….’

  Any little slip.

  Well, Volkov was a damn sight more than that! He was one hell of a major fuck-up—right here, and right now. This is how he got back here, he reasoned. He had to come down those stairs.

  Orlov moved down the hall, seeing the door at the top of the back stairway landing. He peered out the window, seeing the rail yard was empty now. Everyone had followed those silly race car men west towards Kansk. He squinted, looking this way and that for any sign of Volkov, but he could see no one else, just an old woman dragging a child behind here on the other side of the rail yard. He was standing right there, at the top of those mysterious stairs, as if he thought Fedorov, Troyak and all the other Marines would come up any second. He would even be glad to see Zykov with his shit-eating grin again, but all was dark and silent.

  If Fedorov knew about this he would blow a gasket, he thought. One little slip, he says, but Volkov raises hell here. He starts his own goddamn country! That traitor fights against Sergei Kirov for decades. He even goes so far as to side with Hitler.

  So what do I do about this?

  He had two choices now, and plain as the two stairways leading down from this second floor. One was the back stairway, wrapped in the shadow of uncertainty. He could try that again, and maybe this time it would work. He had no notion that the direction he came from mattered. Fedorov had gathered the men in the dining room below, and they were all to go up, but in Orlov’s mind that was mere happenstance. So he could try again, and he might just get to the other end of his circle. Fedorov said it worked like that. You get back where you came from. Yes? Clearly the whole team got through… somewhere. He would have to get somewhere as well.

  The other choice was the main stairway, and as far as he knew, there was no magic there. It should just take him back down to the lobby, where that old man and his daughter were fussing about. He couldn’t blame them for that, what, with all of the Marines tramping about the inn. If he went that way, down the main stair, he’d likely stay right where he was—at least in time—and right where Volkov was….

  Yes, he thought. “If I try the back stairs again, and it works, I might get through to find Fedorov, and then he can decide what to do. Yes? He’s a whole lot smarter than I am when it comes to this time business, and he’d certainly want to know what I’ve learned about Volkov. Then again…. If I do get somewhere that way, what about Volkov? I already know he’s going to cause a shit storm here, but he hasn’t had the time to get started yet, has he. What was this crap about Team seven? Could he have other men with him.

  He suddenly knew how he could find out, reaching inside his service jacket for the same secure pocket flap and squeezing the ping button. He would get the same message that Volkov got.

  “One Contact.”

  Perhaps I should not have done that, thought Orlov. Now Volkov will know that someone pinged him… In fact… He pinched off his collar Mike. “Ping reception log,” he said. “State time of most recent reception.”

  “One ping received. 09:20 hours.”

  Orlov looked at his watch. That was no more than five minutes ago, and so he knew it had not come from Fedorov. They were all long gone….

  So, the bastard knows I’m here… No… He knows someone is here, and with a service jacket, but there’s no GPS here now, and therefore no way to get a precise location on any ping contact. I know he’s here, and he knows he’s got company, because his jacket will log my ping too. But I’m willing to bet he would think I’m one of his men—Team Seven… Well, they don’t seem to be here either, at least not within maximum range of a jacket signal. So what do I do here?

  Do I try that back stairway again, and see if I can find Fedorov? What if I get somewhere else? It’s risky, and I’ll be leaving that skunk Volkov here to do all his mischief.

  Orlov scratched his head thinking. Then he took a deep breath, and decided.

  Chapter 35

  “This is quite astounding,” said Hitler. “I only signed the order for design of this weapon six months ago, and largely at the urging of the navy because of the trouble with these naval rockets the enemy was using. Now we have a weapon that could win this war! It will certainly give the British fits. Yes? Here we have a decisive weapon, and one that we can produce with very little resources. Suspend the entire Naval building program. Listen Speer…. I want you to accelerate this program as much as possible. I know we decided that tank production was to receive top priority, but I want this moved up. Re-write the order to give the A-4 equal priority. Then comes aircraft production. But anything related to the A-4 must be kept in complete secrecy. Use only good German workers there. If the enemy discovers what we are up to, they will risk everything to try and stop us. It is already bad enough that Peenemünde was hit last night, so the British certainly know we are up to something there.”


  “The briefing, was, in part, intended to assure you that the program was not seriously hurt,” said Speer. “They hit the sleeping and living quarters with their first wave. Unfortunately, Doctor Thiel and Chief Engineer Walther were reported missing. They are still digging for them in one of the air raid trenches, and we hope they will be found soon.”

  “It should not have been hurt at all! We must triple the anti-aircraft defense there, and get more fighter groups. After what I have seen in that film, I am convinced these weapons can win the war, particularly if we can get more warheads of the kind that our Zeppelin attack delivered to London. If it is necessary to move the production facility elsewhere, then do so, but it must be well hidden, and deep underground. We must not keep all our eggs in one basket.” Hitler smiled, and it was a genuine emotion born of the enthusiasm he had for this new program. He was ebullient, his mood elevated, a new energy emanated from him and he seemed more alive than he had in weeks.

  “I have selected a new location for the production plant, at Mittelwerk,” said Speer. “In fact, it has already been set up, and work will commence shortly.”

  “Good,” said Hitler. “Very good. Now… what can you tell me about Nachtfeuer?” That was the code word the Germans had now given to their most secret weapons development program—Nightfire .

  “It is progressing,” said Speer. “I am told we now know how the prototypes we captured work. The problem is getting enough of the required materials, and I have already established a production plant. Nikolaus and Günter are seeing to the matter.”

  Speer was referring to the Industrial Physicist Nikolaus Riehl and Chemist Günther Wirths, and by extension, their effort to set up a plant at Oranienburg to produce reactor grade Uranium in high-purity uranium oxide. It had been decided that even in private conversation, no specific reference would ever be made to these materials, or any methods used to create them, and Speer had not even told Hitler the secret location of this plant.

  “Speer, can you imagine it? Once we get the A-4, and finally complete production on the required warheads, then we have a weapon that can rain hellfire on the enemy, day or night, and one he will be completely powerless to stop.”

  “What about their own rocket programs?”

  “A good point,” said Hitler. “Yet aside from these few encounters at sea with British capital ships, we have not seen anything more of these weapons.”

  “I’m told the British were using them to defend London,” said Speer.

  “If they were, then their deployment was a pathetic failure. I have not received a single report indicating that any of our planes have been hit or shot down by a rocket weapon. Strange… They were so lethal when deployed at sea. One would think the coastline of Britain would be bristling with rocket launching stations by now, but we have no evidence that any such program is even underway in England. Well, that will not be the case here. Tell me about the Sturmvogel . When can I expect my Stormbirds?”

  “Very soon,” said Speer. “There was some delay due to the necessity of obtaining the right silicon, aluminum and ferritic heat-resistant steel. Temperatures can reach as high as 1700 degrees Celsius. We also wanted to extend the operational lifespan from an initial 25 hours to 125 hours before major overhaul and maintenance is required. We are very close. They moved from simple prototype production to a larger test flight series that will be very close to the final production specifications. Pilot training is coming along nicely.”

  “And we must have rockets for that,” said Hitler. “I want to show them that two can play this game. We have seen nothing since these naval incidents, but that does not mean they do not have these weapons programs. They could unveil a weapon any time, and we must be ready to answer. I am told that when Gneisenau died, the enemy may have used a weapon very much like the one we tested over London. In fact, it may have been the very same thing. We already know they were conducting secret trials in the deep South Atlantic. Thankfully, Kaiser Wilhelm interrupted their party with his raid on the hen house down there, and he brought home two fine chickens! At least the navy does something right once in a while.”

  “You know Raeder will not be happy to learn we are cancelling all his planned production.”

  “Then let him weep over his beer,” said Hitler. “He delivered on his promise to control the Black Sea, but sat idle when the Allies came for Sardinia. Just when I think he might be useful, he does nothing.”

  “I am told his ships were in need of fuel, and could not sortie. The same can be said for the Italians. They have been using their battleships as nothing more than floating fuel bunkers to service a few destroyers and cruisers out of La Spezia.”

  “Good for nothing,” said Hitler, “just like their army. Operation Alaric will transition to Achse in due course. Mussolini’s days are numbered, and it is likely that he will lose his grip on things in Rome within weeks. So I have ordered Rommel to accelerate his preparations for Italy as well. If they think they will simply waltz in and take the place, they are mistaken. All my Generals hound me for divisions, Speer. They have no idea of the burdens I carry. These developments in the Mediterranean forced me to build three new armies for Italy and the Balkans. The British and Americans will undoubtedly plan a new invasion soon. Ah, Speer, wouldn’t it be marvelous if we had the A-4 ready in time to stop them?”

  “It would,” said Speer, “but I cannot promise that just yet. We are close to the final production model. Tests are very promising. As for Nachtfeuer, I will keep you advised. But remember, we still have the second enemy prototype.”

  “It must be kept safe,” said Hitler. “They undoubtedly know we have it. They may even believe we used it on them over London. One would think that they would have mounted an immediate reprisal, which is why I ordered the ministries in Berlin to be dispersed to underground bunkers. It would be a terrible shame, Speer, if all your wonderful architecture were destroyed by this weapon. It is already bad enough that we have their bombers to contend with. I must admit, I made a terrible mistake with the Z Plan before the war. Goring was correct. I should have put far more resources into the development of the Luftwaffe instead of Raeder’s battleships. Even Doenitz is having difficulties now.”

  “Oh? What is his situation? We have tried to keep resources for U-Boat production flowing at good levels.”

  “Yes, but the Allies have made many technical advances in the Atlantic. Doenitz sunk 120 ships in March of this year—that’s 700,000 tons, and we lost only 12 U-boats in that month. Things fell off in April—only 64 kills and 15 U-boats lost. Then it all fell apart in May. We got only 58 ships that month, but lost 41 U-boats. That is more than we lost in the entire year of 1941! Doenitz even lost his son on U-954, and I sent him my personal condolences. After such losses. Doenitz has pulled back to rethink his methods and tactics. Hopefully we can reverse the downward trend, but you see, this is just one of many things I must contend with. The losses in Tunisia were keenly felt, and the Russians have been particularly aggressive of late. We must reverse the situation, and for that I need tanks and aircraft. Keep them coming, Speer. Put everything we save from Raeder’s building program into the effort. Now we need fighters, bombers, heavy panzers, not do-nothing battleships, cruisers and destroyers. If a ship is ready to be commissioned, and I mean within 30 days, no more, then work may proceed. Otherwise, I want the steel for other purposes. We must make sure Nachtfeuer andSturmvogel get top priority. This war is far from over.”

  * * *

  “Admiral?” There was real emotion in Tovey’s voice when he heard Volsky on the other end of that secure radio channel. He still remembered that hard day when the Germans put that shell on the bridge of HMS Invincible, and very nearly decapitated the Royal Navy in the process. Tovey had been blown right off his feet, and it was only the intercession of Admiral Volsky that saved his life. When they handed Tovey the last remnants of Volsky’s possessions, his service jacket and cap, he remembered also what he had found there. Losing Volsky had been a very
hard blow, but now, there he was, Lazarus, risen from the dead, his voice as clear and firm as it always was.

  “I know this must be somewhat difficult for you to understand,” said Volsky. “I must tell you that I am not even sure I know how I came to be here. It has something to do with all this arcane science that first took hold of my ship in the North Atlantic, and set us against one another.”

  “Yes,” said Tovey. “That is all a very dim memory for me now, though I can still recall it if I put my mind to it. I remember how we stood together on that islet off the southern tip of Spain, well met. And I’ll never forget the first time I set foot on your ship, seeing the demon that had haunted my operations first hand, and feeling it underfoot. Quite extraordinary. I have been told, mostly by your Mister Fedorov, that all these things are remnants of a past life—something to do with that paradox he kept warning us all about.”

  “Yes, I cannot quite sort it all out myself, but it is all up here in my head.” Volsky paused briefly. “If you can believe it, Admiral Tovey, I was sitting quietly at my desk in Severomorsk one morning. Then, the next thing I knew, I was aboard one of our submarines. Something happened in that instant—I know not what exactly—but there I was, and with my head full of things I was certain I had never experienced in the life I had led, and yet they were so completely convincing as memories, so clear and defined. Admiral… There are worlds within worlds, within worlds. How else to explain my presence here now?”

  “So it seems,” said Tovey. “Mister Fedorov talks about them at times, does he not? At least he tried to explain it all to me once.”

  “He does. Meridians, that’s what he calls them. According to him, there was once a single line of causality. He calls it the Prime Meridian, but apparently that accident in the Norwegian Sea that sent my ship here was quite profound. I knew, and from the moment I first put a missile on the first aircraft, that I was doing something that would make an irrevocable change to the flow of those events. Lord knows, Mister Fedorov has agonized over it ever since. We changed everything, and for that I am truly sorry. Now, here we find ourselves trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. That is a figure in one of your English nursery rhymes. Yes?”