Armageddon

Chapter 34

The wan light of a grey day gleamed on the wet surface of the boat when it broke the surface of the sea. Kazan rose from the shallow hiding place where it had crept so close to the imminent possibility of annihilation. Yet no one on the bridge of the burning ship in the distance was listening for it, or seeking its death in the sharp explosive tip of a rocket torpedo or missile.

There sat Kirov, the smoke and fire of war charring her hull and superstructure, but yet sound and seaworthy, and still a dangerous shadow on the sea. All about the two vessels the sea was calm, rippling gently away from an unseen center point of stillness. Kirov’s guns were silent as well, the computers that aimed and fired them bludgeoned into a stupor by the effects of the displacement. There were no other ships anywhere to be seen, not the dogged battle line of the British squadron, not the remnant of Vice Admiral Kataoka’s embattled division, not Admiral Togo on Mikasa charging boldly forward to join in battle, nor the Great White Fleet that had sailed so far and fast to reach this place, only to find the enemy it sought had vanished.

They were all gone, far away and lost in another time. Only one man alive on any of those ships would ever live to see that dark shadow again, John Tovey, and he would shiver with the memory of that first sighting, and strange disappearance, the remainder of his life. It was said the Russian ship was sunk, yet no vestige of the vessel was ever found in the shallow waters off Iki Island. Rumors of the ghostly encounter would be passed from sailor to boatswain and back again over the long years ahead, but the incident was never explained. It remained one of the great mysteries of the sea, a place where so many other ships had vanished at the edge of a storm, never to be seen again.

The ship was there, they said. It was real, and the holed hulls, sheered funnels, burning weather decks, and ravaged superstructures of many who fought against it that day stood as undeniable testimony to that fact. The list of ships sent to the bottom in the brief time the rogue vessel blighted the seas off the Imperial homeland of Japan was a long one. Kamimura’s entire division was all but destroyed in the Oki Island engagement, and the battleships Tango and Mishima obliterated. Dewa’s cruisers paid a high price for his impetuous desire for battle, with Kasagi and Chitose sunk, Otawa and Nitaka set afire, and the destroyer Asagiri broken in two. Kataoka’s flagship Chinyen and the cruiser Matsushima were also sunk that day, with Hashidate burning and falling off the line of battle, never to fight again.

Karpov and Kirov exacted a very high price for the privilege of closing the range, until one man finally stood up, refusing to fire any longer, and said no to the horror the ship had visited upon that unsuspecting world. The blow against the Japanese fleet was a hard one, but not fatal. The recent commissioning of HMS Dreadnought had rendered most ships afloat that day obsolete, and they would all soon be scrapped for new construction. Without the ceaseless patrol of Kirov in the Sea of Japan, that nation’s imperial ambitions, and the navy that would one day conquer half the Pacific, were still on track.

Russia was severely censured politically for a time, but was too possessed with its own internal strife and rebellion to notice or care. Great Britain was now living beneath the looming shadow of the First World War, and the Tsar was soon courted again as an ally against Germany. And so Karpov’s dream of a Russian Pacific power would never come to pass. It was not on the restless swells of the sea that history would turn in the gyre of the maelstrom, but in the tempestuous storm of revolution on land.

There, the iron will of another man rose like a demon from the ashes of the Romanov dynasty and slowly took hold of the growing revolution in his cold hand-Ivan Volkov. With an uncanny insight for things to come, his close confederates soon came to call him “The Prophet,” and he soon found himself at the center of the Bolshevik party, its new master, and a shadow that would fall over Europe and the world in days ahead.

Only one man stood in his way, resolute, unyielding, and with enough of a power base to contest him-Sergie Kirov. He had seen the world that Stalin would build, and learned of the fate that awaited him. Now he saw that same iron and evil in Volkov, and he stalwartly opposed him. It would be Sergie Kirov who stood like Rodenko, and Zolkin, and Samsonov and the others and said no to Volkov’s meteoric rise to power, and the fate of Russia would hinge on the outcome of that struggle.

Rodenko stood up now, looking at the empty seas around the ship, and he knew it was over, the terrible ordeal finally ended. We have moved again, he thought. There sits that island, there is the bay the Captain was steering for, yet we are somewhere else now, in some other time. But when?

He could not answer that while Doctor Zolkin lay bleeding beside him, and so he ordered the men to open the citadel hatch and called for a medical team to get the Doctor below. One by one the men sat back down at their posts, still silent, as if unable to speak in the face of the heavy stillness around the ship. Then Rodenko walked over to Samsonov and placed his hand on his broad shoulder, nodding with a half smile to Tasarov where he stood in the big man’s shadow.

“Well done, Samsonov, and you Tasarov. You have done the right thing, and you will never regret it.”

“Sir,” said Tasarov. “Where is the Captain?”

Now Rodenko looked over his shoulder at the still open hatch to the weather bridge, his eyes darkening with misgiving. He walked slowly to the hatch, stepping out and expecting to see Karpov huddled against the outer bulkhead of the bridge, but there was no one there, only a stain of blood on cold grey metal, where a bloodied hand may have gripped the gunwale. The Captain was missing in action.

He heard the thumping of a helicopter emerge from the silence, and looked to see the KA-40 coming in slowly off the port bow. It had been unable to raise the ship, and so it circled back towards Kirov as the action began to heat up and became another fly caught on the web woven by Rod-25. The bulbous round nose of Kazan broke the sea as the big submarine leapt up from its silent patrol. He ran back into the citadel, and was quickly at the communications station, eying the dials to open a channel. A shadow fell on the console and he turned to see both Chekov and Nikolin had come back to the bridge, so he stood up, arm extended to the chairs as he invited them to take their posts.

“Mister Nikolin, please signal Kazan that all is well aboard Kirov, and that I have assumed command as per the Admiral’s orders.”

The voice of Admiral Volsky was soon on the overhead intercom speakers. “Well done, Rodenko. And to all of you there I express my deepest regrets for what you have just endured. You have all done your duty. Mister Fedorov and I will be coming over in a few minutes.”

He did as he promised, dragging himself up the ladder from a boat tethered near Kirov’s aft hull and returning the stiff salutes of the men there as he was piped aboard. Then he walked up to the nearest man and extended his arm for a warm handshake. Fedorov, Orlov and Troyak followed after him, coming aboard to cheers and warm salutations, though a few men shirked when Orlov appeared at the gunwale gateway.

Volsky turned to Fedorov and gave him a quiet order. “Go forward to the bridge and see about Karpov. I will be there shortly.”

Several Marines were there for security, and when they saw Sergeant Troyak return they saluted crisply, then came forward to clasp him heartily on the back and shoulder. “Welcome back, Sergeant! I see you brought Corporal Zykov too.”

“Lieutenant Zykov,” the former Corporal exclaimed. “Mister Fedorov gave me a nice promotion, and Orlov here is a Captain again.”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Zykov,” said Troyak. “That was a temporary assignment, you are as much a Corporal as they come these days, so don’t think we’ll be shining your boots tomorrow.”

They all had a good laugh, even Orlov, who looked around, feeling strangely out of place now as he stood on the aft deck. He had thought he would leave this ship and crew behind forever, and make his way in the world of 1942 with little more than Svetlana whispering in his earbuds to remind him of his old life, the life that lay somewhere far ahead of him, concealed in the obscuring and uncertain mists of time.

Yet he, like Karpov, once thought he could shape that life into an image of his own making by using the foreknowledge of all the days yet to come to good advantage. Unlike the grand scale of Karpov’s plans, it was only his own personal fate that he had been concerned with. Now, however, when he felt the hard metal deck beneath his feet again, and the subtle roll of the ship, he was as much at home as any place he had ever known. He was glad to be back again, if the men would have him.

Volsky took some time, working his way through every section and compartment of the ship to greet the men, offer his praise and reassurance, telling them that all would be well.

“I see you have been in quite scrap or two,” he said looking at the thin column of smoke still rising amidships. “Chief Byko has some work to do again.”

“Don’t worry, Admiral, sir. We have already put those fires out, and the damage is not serious.”

“That is good to hear.”

“Where are we now, sir?” one Mishman asked plaintively.

“Where are we? We are aboard the finest fighting ship in the world,” he said with a smile. “Do not worry. I have business to attend to on the bridge now. All will be made clear in time.”

Papa Volsky was back, and the mood of the crew elevated perceptively with each step he took on those embattled decks. He made a point to go by the sick bay, thinking he would find Doctor Zolkin there tending to any man wounded in the action lately fought. To his great surprise he saw Zolkin lying on his own medical examination table, his arm and shoulder being wrapped and attended by two medics.

“So you have joined the fighting too,” he said with a smile.

“I did what I could,” said Zolkin, and when the medics left to look after other wounded men, Volsky closed the door and sat down heavily on the chair by the bed.

“I am so sorry, my old friend. When the ship left the harbor at Vladivostok and sailed by the bay south of Fokino, I saw you all go, and wished I was there with you. But they strapped me into Abramov’s chair and there I sat, learning one thing after another from the pages of the history books, and wondering if I would ever see any man aboard this ship again, particularly you Dmitry. I had no idea any of this would happen.”

“None of us did, Leonid.”

“And how were you wounded?”

“Karpov.” He told the Admiral how Nikolin had come running breathlessly into the sick bay, holding a memory key with that recorded message traffic.

“He recorded it? God bless Nikolin. I was very worried when Karpov did not comply with my order. How sorry I am to have put you in front of his broken soul. You were very brave to go to the bridge as you did, Dmitry.”

“It was either that or we would have seen another mushroom cloud. There is a lot you have yet to learn about what happened.”

“I’m sure there is, but rest now, my friend. I will go forward and see about the Captain. It’s time I was on the bridge.”

When he got there he learned the news from Fedorov first, who had been talking with Rodenko when the Admiral stepped through the hatch. The eyes of the entire bridge crew were on him at once, the men smiling and obviously very happy and relieved to see him again. After a time he took Rodenko and Fedorov into the flag briefing room, and learned all that had happened.

“Karpov drew a gun, yes, I have seen Zolkin, and I am pleased to tell you the good Doctor will do just fine. The man who skewered a score of enemy ships with his missiles apparently could not shoot strait, and for that I am very grateful.”

Rodenko had the same question that many crewmen had asked. “Any idea where we are now, sir?”

“We do not know yet,” said Volsky. “I imagine Gromyko is over on Kazan wondering the same thing. I have told him to submerge for reasons of security. For all we know we could be back in 2021 and right in the middle of that war again, or even in the 1940s in the middle of that war. Fedorov may have told you we made a brief stop there on our way back to 1908. Any way we look at it, we must assume these are unfriendly waters here.”

“We have ship-to-ship, sir,” said Fedorov, “but Nikolin says longer range communications are still down. The ship’s systems will most likely recover slowly in the hours ahead.”

“Well, as soon as possible I think we should at least have a SAM battery operational, just as a precaution.”

“I’ll see to it, sir,” said Rodenko.

“As for Nikolin, I’m going to give that young man a Papa Volsky bear hug. If he hadn’t recorded that message I sent, who knows what may have happened? Now then… Mister Fedorov, if you would set that enterprising mind of yours to finding out how we should reset our watches and calendars, I would like to address the crew. But first I must ask where the Captain was last seen alive?”

“He was out on the weather deck off the side hatch of the bridge, sir,” said Rodenko. “I was out there to see about him just after we shifted, but he was gone. I did hear gunshots, Admiral, just as we began to shift.”

“I see… Well I think I will go and have a look. See to those matters for me, will you both?”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Rodenko saluted.

Volsky stepped out, first congratulating Nikolin and expressing his gratitude to all the junior officers as well. Then he turned to Victor Samsonov, and leaned in, saying something quietly to the man. The light of appreciation was evident in the CIC Chief’s eyes, and when he sat down he seemed just a little bigger, if that were possible. Then Volsky walked slowly to the side hatch and stepped through, closing it behind him.

He stood in silence, his eyes playing over the deck, as if looking for any sign or remnant of the Captain. Then he spied the blood on the gunwale railing, and saw more blood spatter on the deck just below it. He thought of Karpov and all he had done, their many arguments and discussions, his intransigence and unyielding ardor for battle, and his obvious skill when it came to the fire of war. He remembered how he had shared a drink with him, asking him why he had tried to take the ship so long ago. He recalled the Captain’s pledge and promise, broken now, yet another victim to the man’s ravenous ambition.

You thought we all had the wax in our ears, Karpov, he said silently to the missing man, and only you could hear the siren’s song. I gave you this ship and crew, and it was only by the grace of God that they are still alive and well-the grace of God and a few good men who were willing to stand against you in that final hour. There are thousands dead now, scattered all through the decades, and thousands more unborn because of all we have done. How can we ever measure it? And how can we ever be forgiven? The worst of it all is this haunting fear that you were right, and there is nothing more we can do now to set things as they were.

He lowered his head, at the edge of tears, and sighed heavily. Then he turned, straightened his hat and uniform jacket, and stepped through the hatch.

“Lieutenant Volsky on the bridge!” Fedorov was grinning now.

“Ah, I see I am still wearing a Lieutenant’s uniform. Well let no one think that a simple Lieutenant cannot be the most important man alive one day.” He winked at Nikolin now, and smiled.

Fedorov stared at him with admiration and hope, yet his attention was ever drawn to that open hatch where Karpov had gone missing. What had happened to him? Did he take his own life? Why was there no body found? These things and so many others settled like heavy anchors on the silted bottom of his mind. Kamenski had posed more than one challenge to him with his subtle hints and innuendo. The differing stories of how the war ended, the revelation that he had long been aware that time travel was possible, the strange fissure in time at Ilanskiy, and the unsettling notion that others had walked there were most troubling to him.

Like Volsky, he sighed with resignation. Nothing was certain. The history he once thought of as secure and safe in the past, stony and solid, unchangeable, had been proven to be a mutable and ephemeral thing. In fact, he thought, if what I now suspect is true, then other men from the future have returned to the past and worked their will upon it…Just as I have.

The loss of innocence in the face of that hard reality shook him to his very soul. Nothing is written, he thought, remembering the novel by Vladimir Bartol, Alamut. In that ancient stronghold of the Assassins the credo was stark and unyielding: “Nothing is an absolute reality; all is permitted.” If that were so then Karpov may not have been the madman he seemed. Perhaps I am the one deceived by my own delusions of grandeur, he thought. The idea that I could make everything whole again was foolish, even selfish.

Yes, he knew now that other men from had walked in the Devil’s Garden of history, and trampled the flowers there. He knew that he would never look at the world the same way, and his own life was now forever changed. His heart was heavy as he turned to the Admiral again, seeing him reach slowly into his jacket pocket to draw out a small book, opening it, his thick fingers turning the pages slowly.

“Gather round for a moment, men…I thought I would say something to you all, perhaps something profound. I know we have all done many things we came to regret, and taken many lives with the power beneath our feet, mighty Kirov. We have blood on our hands, and many tears to shed. Yet we did not hate those we engaged in battle, and for most of us it was not for gain or glory that we ever fought. We fought for each other, though now we may feel at times the need to hide from the gaze of sane men in this world who do not ever wish to find themselves in the service of war.

“ One man among us fought his battles, within and without, as we all must do. He thought we could shape the image of our future by changing the past, and so for him tomorrow was yesterday. While his actions may have seemed incomprehensible and cruel, we must also remember those times when he stood with us, a comrade in battle, and fought to save this ship and crew. He was our brother once, though wayward, lost, and consumed by emotions that many of us will never feel or understand.

“I am told that was a British cruiser that led the final charge against this ship in battle. While we have seen the British as foes many times on this journey, I have always held a certain admiration for them, in many ways-except when they are chasing me with battleships!”

At this the men laughed, one moment of levity at a time when their hearts were heavy, weighted with remorse and sorrow. The Admiral sat down in the Captain’s chair, swiveling to face the men as they waited.

“So this is written by a British poet, Lord Byron,” he began, his eyes soft on the well worn page. “And it speaks well to how we sailed together these many long months, and through uncounted days, across decades and even centuries to reach this place. We do not know where it is just yet. We may still be lost in time, but we will find that out soon enough. Then again, it may be that we have no place in this world any longer and that we have murdered all our tomorrows in the yesterdays where we fought and extinguished so many souls…