Devil's Garden

Chapter 18

“The mission is off? You are countermanding orders from Admiral Volsky.” Dobrynin had a confused look on his face.

“It is simply too risky, Chief.” Fedorov explained his reasoning, and then put forward his idea. “Don’t you agree that would be a better plan?”

“Well… I suppose it does sound more plausible, Fedorov. You found a way to make up for using all that helicopter fuel, but I’m not a Fleet Admiral. Volsky was very insistent that I get this damn helicopter on its way.”

“I will speak to him about it when we return and I’m sure he will understand my decision. Few plans ever play out as they were initially intended. At the moment, our best and only bet is to get the Anatoly Alexandrov home in one piece.”

Dobrynin shrugged. “Very well,” he said. “The procedure is underway and I am ready for rod retraction and insertion.”

“Good, Chief…Do you think we will we make it back?” The uncertainty in Fedorov’s voice was evident.

“The pattern has held steady every time we have used this rod, Mister Fedorov. One thing is probably certain, we are going to move somewhere.”

“How long do you think it will take?”

“Let me listen…” The Chief slowly raised a hand, like a conductor hushing down his orchestra with a feather light movement of his palm. He was signaling his rod technician to begin. One rod would be removed, the other inserted to maintain the steady regulation of the reaction. As the process began he sat down and listened to the reactors, his mind shutting out all the odd noise of the Marines fussing about on the ship and focusing intently on the nuclear song at the heart of the core.

He listened, hearing the telltale sound of Rod-25 rising like a clarinet above the low rumble of strings, soaring up and up as the rod descended deeper into the nuclear brew. Everything sounded normal, just as he had heard it so many times before. He closed his eyes, a slight smile on his lips, and it was then that he heard a strange harmony develop. What is this, he wondered? There was another note in the mix, then a third, though they were very muted, very distant, lilting like flutes in tandem with Rod-25. The sound changed, no longer the ascending chorus he expected, but a deep descending refrain that sounded completely different!

Fedorov watched him, amazed by the man’s obvious concentration. Everyone has some special skill, he thought. Tasarov lived under his sonar headset, and the Chief knows his way around a reactor room better than any man in the fleet.

He waited, feeling an urgent need to go and see about Orlov. His Aist class craft was being moored to the port side of the floating powerplant, commanded by Captain Malkin, and the two lighter Kalmar class craft were on the starboard side. Orlov was supposedly inside a PT-76 tank on one of those craft, and he was eager to go and see him. Then he realized that Zykov had not yet reported back and a thrum of anxiety rose in his gut. He had the distinct feeling that something was wrong, something oddly out of place.

A voice blared over the intercom loudspeaker. “Captain Malkin to Fedorov. We have a small craft approaching off our port aft quarter.”

Fedorov grasped the handset and spoke. “How close, Captain?”

“About a thousand meters out.”

“Does it look threatening? Is it closing the range?”

“No, sir. Looks to be a fishing trawler. The crew is just giving us a wave as they pass. They must think we are a Russian cargo vessel.”

“Very well. No sense causing any more trouble here than we have to. Let it be.”

Those last three words were very fateful, though Fedorov did not know that as he spoke them. Let it be…

“Keep me posted, Chief.” He was off to find Orlov and settle accounts with the man.

* * *

“Not here? Are you absolutely certain?” Fedorov had an anguished look on his face as Troyak reported. Zykov was standing next to him, a sheepish look on his face.

“We checked the tank. No one saw him. I’ve ordered a search of all the hovercraft and the facility itself. If he’s still aboard, we’ll find him.”

“I hope to God we do,” said Fedorov. “Zykov, what could have happened?”

“I ordered the men to get him to a PT-76,” the Corporal said apologetically. “The attack was really heating up and the withdrawal was very chaotic. I was checking every building for loose equipment and casualties. I don’t know, Colonel. I found two men down in the warehouse near the detention facility, but I assumed they were casualties from mortar fire. The rounds were pounding that area pretty bad as we pulled out. Now that I look at those bodies I see that they were not hit by shrapnel from anything like a mortar. They died from small caliber fire, two rounds per man-probably pistols. I’m sorry, Fedorov… I … I should have collared Orlov myself and dragged him home by the ear.”

Fedorov could see that Zykov was very deflated. He was given the job of finding Orlov and he had done that under very difficult circumstances. But something obviously went wrong. No plan ever plays out as it is intended. He remembered his own words to Dobrynin just moments ago.

“Damn! Well maybe he’ll turn up in the search,” he said. “I know you did your best, Zykov.”

Then he realized that the procedure was already underway. They could shift in time at any moment! If Orlov was not aboard they would lose him again, and without his service jacket there would be no way to find or track him.

“Search every compartment, every deck and storage locker. Search the air conditioning conduits-everything! Turn this place upside down if you have to. I’m going to see if we can stop the rod maintenance procedure. We can’t leave here without Orlov!”

Fedorov started away but, as he was down a ladder and heading for the entrance to the lower deck, he saw something, felt something strangely odd.

He stood on the deck, looking around and scanning the gentle swells of the Caspian Sea. There seemed to be a series of ripples emanating from the ship, and expanding out in concentric circles. Was it happening? Were they starting to displace in time?

He looked out and saw the trawler Captain Malkin had reported, a small shape on the wide expanse of the sea and sailing slowly past the facility. Two men were on deck but, as he watched, the air between the Anatoly Alexandrov and the trawler seemed to quaver and ripple with a mirage-like sheen.

My God! He exclaimed inwardly. We are moving! The shift has begun! He could feel his pulse quicken, an urgent heat rising on his neck. He could feel the whole damn mission slipping through his hands now like a loose mooring rope. It was too late to get to Dobrynin and stop it, and Orlov was gone, gone, gone!

Then he realized that if he could still see that trawler they must be in 1942. It was there, bobbing in the sea as before, though veiled with a gossamer sheen of light now. Was something wrong? Was Rod-25 failing them at long last? He had to get to Dobrynin and find out.

* * *

“Well have a good look at that, Jock” said Sutherland.

“I’ve been looking at it. Why in blazes did you follow those damn contraptions?”

“Just curious to see what they were up to. They’ve already bushed us off with no worries. What do you make of it?”

“Some kind of ship, eh? But it’s not moving. Those Russian Marines are docking up with the damn thing.”

“What’s that up on top? Looks like a big grasshopper!” Sutherland pointed now.

“Hell if I know. You’d best get to the pilot house again and steer clear, will you? Suppose they get curious and come over here to have a look.”

“Don’t worry, Jock. We’re just a fishing trawler to them. I’ve even been waving at them to look all nice and friendly. We’re a good thousand yards away and just sailing merrily off to look for some fish. No worries.”

But Haselden was worried. Sutherland could see it on his face, more than worry. There was a look of absolute dread in the man’s eyes, a cold fear that he had never seen before. Haselden had been through the heat of the fire in action many times before, and in situations far worse than this.

“What’s wrong, Jock? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Never seen anything like this,” he said under his breath. “What’s wrong with the bloody sea?”

Sutherland noticed it too-the odd sheen in the air, and how it quavered and rippled, as if the atmosphere had been heated all around them. Then they could hear a low hum that seemed to deepen, descending below the threshold of hearing, though it could still be felt. A veil of mist seemed to rise about the distant ship, rolling outward and rippling the sea itself, as if the ship were pulsing and creating waves.

He watched, astounded, as the first wave reached them, lightly rolling the trawler, then another and another, a miniature tsunami disturbing the placid sea. The mist thickened, becoming a fog that now enveloped them and became so dense that they could no longer see but a few feet beyond the gunwales of the boat. A thrumming vibration was felt, a trembling quiver in the air and sea.

He looked over to check on Haselden, still worried about the Captain, and was given the shock of his young life. The man was there…but not there! He seemed to be wavering in the odd mist about the ship, a look of profound fear on his face, and absolute astonishment and alarm! Then, with a strange hiss, Haselden was gone! The man simply vanished into the mist, as if he was a ghost-as if he had never been there at all!

Then all was calm.

Sutherland stepped back, eyes wide, heart pounding with fright.

“Jock?” His rational mind forced him to lurch over the edge of the trawler, thinking Haselden might have fallen into the sea, but there wasn’t the slightest sign of that in the water. The odd ripples in the calm sea remained completely undisturbed.

“What’s up with those Russians, Lieutenant?” It was Sergeant Terry calling to him from within the cabin of the boat. “Can’t see a thing in this mist.”

Neither could Sutherland, but he was still shaken by what he had seen-what he knew he had seen-but what he also knew was quite impossible. What happened just now? Where was the Captain?

“My God…” He let out a long breath, staring at Sergeant Terry, his face ashen white.

“What’s gotten in to you, Lieutenant?”

“It’s Jock…He was there. Right there next to me, Sergeant. And when that bloody fog rolled in, he…why he just vanished!”

“Man overboard?”

“No! I was looking right at him and he simply disappeared!”

Sergeant Terry narrowed his eyes, giving Sutherland a stern look. He had seen men go daffy under pressure, but Sutherland seemed to have the situation well in hand up until now. What was the Lieutenant talking about? Was there an explosion or accident of some kind on that odd looking ship? That rolling fog and the ripples in the sea had originated from the ship, and caught them like a bad storm front. He peered into the mist, a strange feeling in his gut that they had lost their way and were now adrift on an endless sea of oblivion.

* * *

Inside the cabin Orlov could feel it too. Another trawler, he had thought at first. Good! It beats walking, or even bouncing about in a truck on those muddy roads. If they had stayed ashore they would certainly have been caught up in the fighting that was closing in on the city. The roads south were probably cut already by the Germans.

When he saw where these men were heading, he was relieved. Another little trip by sea would be just the perfect way out of this mess, unless those Marines on the hovercraft get nosey. Who were these men? They had gunned down his Marine captors without a moment’s hesitation, as if they had been lying in wait all along, ready to spring their little trap.

When the leader spoke to him in English he did not know what he was saying, but gave the man a subtle grin nonetheless. From their looks, and the uniforms they had on under their trench coats, he reasoned they were British soldiers. What in the world were they doing here? Could those men at Gibraltar have followed his trail all the way here? He found that prospect hard to believe, but considered it a possibility. If that were the case, then they would be trying to get me safely out of this region to an area controlled by the British in WWII.

Now he wished he had held on to his computer jacket. Svetlana would have given him all the information he needed about British operations and bases close to the Caspian. On second thought, the sight of the jacket stuffed down the throat of Commissar Molla and dangling like a bizarre beard from the man’s chin gave him another moment’s amusement. The Marines found him even without his jacket. If it were not for these three men he would probably be aboard that ship out there with the rest of the Russians.

He looked out the cabin window at the ship, thinking it looked odd and squarish to be a sea going vessel. What was it? It clearly was not a carrier, or even an Ivan Rogov class transport ship. Look how they had to moor the hovercraft by its side like that. And look at that monster of a helo on the top! Now he knew what he had heard before in the truck as they arrived here-that was an Mi-26! Someone went to some very elaborate ends to plan and launch this mission. They must want me very badly.

As he watched the Marines on the deck he passed a moment of regret, a feeling that he should be there with them, his true countrymen from the future world of 2021. They were brave to come after him this way and fight off the Germans in the bargain. Fedorov undoubtedly planned this whole thing, and he most likely talked Volsky into providing all this equipment. My God, they built a whole reinforced amphibious assault company to come after me! He was almost sorry he had to disappoint them.

Then he heard that same descending vroom, felt the deep vibration as it fell into a black hole below the threshold of all sound. He sensed the charged quality of the air, and saw the eerie sheen wavering between the trawler and the Russian ship. He had felt all these things before, and each time it was an occasion when Kirov displaced in time. But that wasn’t Kirov out there. It was some kind of floating facility-probably a power plant like they use in the arctic at times, or up near Kamchatka. How could it move in time?

He stared until the grey mist rolled out to envelop them, with a sinking feeling that his comrades from the future were now long gone. He was alone again, marooned again, trapped here in the middle of the Second World War without even Svetlana to help him find his way.

I still know what happens, he thought, consoling himself. I may not know all the little details, but I’ll know the big things. I know how the war goes, and how it all ends. I know about Khrushchev and the Cuban Missile Crisis and the Berlin Wall and when it all goes to hell and comes falling down. I’ll know enough to make a lot of money. But first I’ll need to deal with these three here, and this burley Sergeant sitting in front of me will be no small task.

Three men? He looked again, seeing there were only two now. The older man, apparently their commanding officer, was no longer there. Perhaps he was on the other side of the boat, he thought, thinking what he might do next. Bide your time, he told himself. Time was one thing he had in abundance now…All the time in the world.