Armageddon

Chapter 22

They came through the hole in time Rod-25 had opened, but they were far from where they had hoped to go. And something came through with them.

Chernov sat with a look of intense concentration on his face, trying to determine what he had been listening to during the shift. The sounds were amazing, and he could hardly believe his ears. It was as if a chorus of angels were singing to him beneath those headphones, and his face registered a mix of surprise and awe as he listened. Then the static came, more from internal systems reacting badly to the displacement, stunned by the strange effects of the shift, even as those on Kirov had been so many times.

“What’s wrong, Chernov,” said Gromyko. “Your cheeks are on fire. Are you well?”

“It was awesome, Captain. But now I’m having difficulty… No… wait… Torpedo in the water!”

“Load large mobile decoy on the number eight tube!” Gromyko did not waste a second, reacting in sheer defensive reflex.

“Tube loading, sir, aye! Ready!”

“Fire decoy!”

“Firing now, sir.”

“Hard right rudder. Ten degree down bubble!”

The Matador swirled and danced, flourishing his cape to distract the foe and then spinning about and swooping down onto his haunches as the bull’s deadly horn drew near. The large mobile decoy ejected and then went noisily off on its own power as Kazan turned and dove away from the scene.

“Any idea how close that thing is, Chernov?”

“Sir, I have bearing only on passive. We would have to ping to get range quickly, but I had a good track on it before and it was inside 5000 meters when that strange interference occurred. Then I lost it temporarily, and there’s something else in the water now. Surface contact, bearing one five zero, heavy screw noise. Not sure why I didn’t hear it before.”

Fedorov was close by the Captain’s side now, and he leaned in, speaking in a low, urgent voice. “That was no ordinary interference, Gromyko. We’ve shifted. The sonar may have been affected and will recover by degrees. That was the work of Rod-25. The torpedo must have been very close if it shifted here with us.”

“All stop-rig for absolute quiet running.”

“All stop, sir, and silent now.”

Kazan’s propulsion system stopped, and the boat glided in the water, slowing by degrees, and sinking on the new downward heading. In a few minutes it was drifting, while the large noisemaker was waddling away at twenty five knots, and slowly climbing towards the surface.

Chernov had his eyes closed now, his brow dotted with perspiration in spite of the air conditioned control room. He could hear the spinning whirr of the torpedo, close at first, and then diminishing in sound. The longer he listened, the more he realized what had happened.

“Sir,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I think the torpedo lost its hold on us. It is circling at low speed now in a programmed re-acquisition search, Captain.”

Gromyko nodded, saying nothing; waiting in the silence.

“Torpedo has changed heading. I think it’s going after the surface contact!”

“Steady…” Gromyko held up a hand, his eyes on the ceiling of the operations room.

Chernov spun a finger, swirling it about to indicate higher rotations on the torpedo engine. Then they heard a distant boom reverberate through the sea, and seconds later a palpable shock wave shook the boat.

“Steady…” The Captain was standing absolutely still, like a frozen statue, his eyes on Chernov now.

“That was the surface contact, sir. I’m getting secondary explosions. Someone was very unlucky up there today.”

The unlucky ship that day was the Japanese cargo ship Konzan Maru, bound for Toyama Wan Bay on the west coast of Honshu, and she was fated that day. Her appointment with death was already logged, for on the 18th of June in 1945 she would run afoul of the USS Bonefish, one of three American subs mounting a raid in the Sea of Japan.

The US had been kept out of “the Emperor’s bathtub” for most of the war by minefields, but now, in mid 1945, a few subs were fitted with new equipment, high-frequency, short-range sonar that could use frequency modulation to sweep the immediate area around the boat out to about 730 meters and detect mines. A wolfpack was formed at Guam in late May, and “Hydeman’s Hellcats,” consisting of nine boats, moved north and penetrated the Tsushima Straits undetected to enter the Sea of Japan. Three of the boats split off in a separate pack led by Commander Pierce aboard Tunney. “Pierce’s Polecats” then consisted of that boat, the Skate under Commander Lynch, and the Bonefish under Commander Edge.

The three US subs formed a loose patrol that saw Tunney come up empty, though Skate was able to put a torpedo into the Japanese submarine I-22. Bonefish notched her belt by putting down the Oshikayama Maru and added almost 7,000 tons to her tally just two days ago. Now she was making a night surface rendezvous with Tunney to get further orders. Eager for more, Commander Edge sought permission to head for Toyama Wan Bay before the entire force would withdraw as planned on 24 June.

“Edge is asking if he can ease in towards the coast and scout Toyama Wan Bay,” said the lamp signalman as Pierce finished a cigarette on the sail bridge.

“Hell, they’ve already got one ship on this patrol. If anyone should be eager for more it should be us.” Commander Pierce wasn’t happy. He wanted to pull his three boats into a tight fist and head for the wolfpack rendezvous point.

“Well, what should I tell them, sir?”

The polecat thought it over, and flicked away his cigarette butt. “Cut ‘em loose. But tell them to head for point Zulu no later than zero eight hundred hours tomorrow. Kapish?”

“Right, sir, zero eight hundred.”

Pierce went below, not knowing it was the last that he or anyone else would ever see of the USS Bonefish. The Boneheads, as they were called, were sailing off to their own little rendezvous with fate that night. Pierce and Tunney would wait for three days at the rendezvous point, but the Boneheads would never come home.

A day later Bonefish was sniffing out the wake of that unlucky Japanese cargo ship, and creeping up on Konzan Maru as she sought to enter the bay, but the sub would not get anywhere close. Something else had already found the Konzan Maru, awakening from a stupor as it circled like a dazed shark in the dim waters of the sea.

The American ADCAP Mark 48 lost its leash on Kazan, circled, then heard the noisome thrash of the cargo vessel up on the surface, leaving a nice foamy wake. Low on fuel, it elected to climb to that nearby target instead of trying to locate the elusive submarine it had been tasked to seek out and destroy. That was in the year 2021, some 76 years in the future, but the torpedo would make its kill in 1945.

Bonefish would be denied that day, as would the pack of hyena torpedo patrol boats led by escort ship Okinawa that were coming out from the bay to welcome Konzan Maru home. It was Okinawa and her confederates that swarmed over the American sub to seal her fate, but that history had just changed. Now Commander Edge stared through his periscope in amazement when he saw the Japanese cargo ship blow up, her spine cracked and split in two as she quickly settled into the sea.

“Damn, there goes my ship,” he swore. “Who the hell is out here with us? Did Pierce tag along?”

“We don’t have anything on sonar, sir,” said the XO, Lieutenant Commander Knight.”

“Well there’s one mean fish in the sea with us somewhere, and it just took one hell of a bite out of that Jap cargo ship. Down periscope! Ten degrees down bubble and make your depth 90 feet. I don’t want to be anywhere near the surface until I know what’s out there.” He shrugged looking around.

“What the hell are you doing there, Vincent?” One of his new recruits was writing with intense concentration on a notepad he always seemed to have at hand. “You making an entry in your personal log?”

“No, sir.” Seaman First Class Thomas Vincent Jr. was a fresh faced young man from New York that Commander Edge had picked up to replace a crewman down with an attack of appendicitis before the patrol. That was luck too, for that attack saved the man’s life, while taking that of this new recruit in his place.

“I was just figuring out what subs might look like in the future sir. What do you think?” he passed his notepad over so the Commander could take a look.

Edge took the pad, frowning at the sleek lines of the boat, with a bulbous round nose that looked very much like modern submarines. “How they supposed to make way on the surface with a round bow like that, Seaman?”

“They’ll spend most of their time under water, sir, and won’t need to surface much like we do.”

“Is that so…Well what’s this other thing here?”

“A rocket, sir. I figure they’ll use those to fire at aircraft from under the sea, or even ships too far away for torpedoes, sir.”

Commander Edge smiled at that. “You’ve got quite an imagination, kid,” he said. The drawings of the sub and rocket were right next to sketches of Batman and Dick Tracy. “I suppose you figure people will have those Dick Tracy watches in the future too, eh?” Edge shook his head. “We’ll get you a medal for that one,” he said in jest, “but tend to your station, Seaman and put that notebook aside.”

Seaman First Class Tommy Vincent would get his medal another way, a posthumous Purple Heart awarded to all the crew members of the Bonefish after the rest of “Pierce’s Polecats” gave up and turned for home three days later.

“What is happening?” Fedorov’s face was drawn with concern.

“Explosion,” said Chernov. “The American torpedo has struck that surface contact. And I’m picking up another undersea contact now, farther out, and bearing one-two-seven degrees.”

“Undersea contact?” Gromyko seemed confused. “What is going on here? Where have all these contacts come from?”

Fedorov knew what was happening. The sonar was slowly gaining strength and resolution to paint a picture of their tactical situation in the immediate area. “Are you certain,” he asked. An undersea contact was very bad news. There would be nothing in 1908 that would be skulking about beneath the waves here.

“Getting more surface noise now, Captain. At least five discrete contacts. Screw noise is high and tight. These sound like patrol craft, sir. And that undersea boat is heading our way and leading them right to us here.”

“If this shift has happened do I have full reactor power now?”

“I don’t see why not,” said Fedorov.

“Very well,” said Gromyko. “Right standard rudder and ahead two thirds. Make your depth 150.”

They waited, with Chernov listening until they heard the sound of active sonar pinging audibly in the sea. It was unlike anything the sonar man had ever heard, and seemed fairly weak to his ear, but minutes later the sound of explosions rippled through the water. Okinawa and her group of fast patrol boats had found something, and they were furiously heaving depth charges into the sea in reprisal. One would scud against the side of the American submarine and the Boneheads would all retire to that eternal patrol, joining their brothers aboard USS Snook, also sunk by the Okinawa, the most successful ship in her class.

Fedorov shrugged, his eyes looking at the ceiling, imagining the scene out there as the American boat died. He knew what they had just heard, and was now certain that Kazan had not shifted to 1908.

“We’ll have to try again, Admiral,” he said hopefully. “Here there will be no further sonic interference from that volcano. Perhaps Chief Dobrynin will have better luck.”

“Rod-25 remains very stubborn, does it not? It insists on dropping us into the waters of WWII.”

“What is happening, Admiral?” Gromyko wanted to know the score, and Fedorov briefed him quietly, telling them they were going to have to initiate the procedure once again.

“The good news is that there will be no more trouble of the sort we just had. All you need do is cruise very deep and we should be well below any further action here.”

“Very well. Where should I point my nose, Mister Fedorov?”

“Here…” Fedorov pointed to a tactical display on the navigation monitor. Put us due west of the Oki Island Group.”

“Why there?” asked Volsky.

“If I know Karpov, he will be trying to find and engage the Japanese in a decisive battle. And if I know Admiral Togo, the man will deploy his fleet here.” He pointed to a spot south of Tsushima Island, very near the tip. “If you assume a position west of the Oki Islands, that will put us on a general bearing back to Vladivostok. We’ll use Orlov’s idea and say we came through the Primorskiy Engineering Center.”

“Assuming we get there at the correct time,” said Gromyko. “Do we have any idea where we are now-I mean the date?” He lowered his voice, glancing askance at a couple crewmen to chase the curiosity from them and set them back to their monitors.

“We really don’t know for certain, and we would have to run up an antenna to sample signals intelligence. From past experience we can assume this may be the 1940s, and if I heard what I thought I just heard out there, the Japanese have just sunk an American sub, so I believe it would be very late in the war, 1945.”

“How can you know this?” Gromyko folded his arms, unconvinced.

“Because US subs could not penetrate the Sea of Japan until that time in the war. In fact. If I spent some time with my research I think I could probably tell you exactly what happened out there just now, right down to the vessels involved on both sides. All I would have to do is find an instance of a US sub sinking near our present location.”

“You assume that history is all undisturbed, Mister Fedorov,” said Volsky. “Remember, our nemesis was here earlier-in this very year if this is 1945-and he raised hell up north in the Kuriles.”

“Yes…” Fedorov’s eyes seemed to sparkle now. “Sir, can we take this discussion to a secure area?”

“Very well,” said Gromyko. “Mister Belanov. Make your depth 400 meters and ahead two thirds. Steer 220 degrees and take us west of Oki Island. Then hover. You have the con.”

“Aye sir.”