Devil's Garden

Chapter 4

50 miles south east of Hokkaido, 1945

Captain Yeltsin, stared at the rising mushroom cloud, amazed on the bridge of Orlan. He would not have believed it if he had not seen it with his own eyes. It was the first time he, or any of his bridge crew, had witnessed such a thing. They knew they carried the weapons in the belly of the ship’s magazines, but had never seen what they could really do when fired in anger. Everyone gaped at the horizon, awe struck.

His destroyer was alone now, Orlan, the sea eagle, alone on the rising swells of doom. She was the first of the Project 21956 class stealth destroyers delivered just before the onset of hostilities. Yeltsin had been proud to sally forth from Vladivostok with the fleet flagship, yet now there was no sign of Kirov, and the distant, black hulk of the American battleship Iowa was the only thing on his horizon, rolling like a stricken whale.

They built them very tough in this day, he thought. No ship of our era could have survived that blast. He remembered that the Americans had dropped a pair of atomic weapons on fleets anchored off Bikini Island to see what the effects were. Many ships survived the blast intact like this, sinking in time from slow leaks and hull damage. That battleship will undoubtedly sink as well. It is little more than a hunk of floating mangled steel now, and God go with the men who died there today.

Yet when it was over he was amazed to see that a second wave of aircraft was still coming in from that same heading, the planes sweeping around the tall mushroom cloud as it cauliflowered up into the gloaming sky. And further out to the west there came another large group. Karpov had ordered him to cease fire so the P-900 carrying the tactical weapon would arrive safely on target. What was he planning now? Was he going to swat these remaining planes from the sky with another tactical airburst, or were they to resume conventional SAM defense? The question was moot, as the Fleet Commander was nowhere to be seen.

He steadied himself, shaking the horror of the moment from his mind and ordered his radio man to see if they could contact Kirov for further instructions. Perhaps the ship had veered off and was lost in the haze. Yet they had nothing on radar but those damn American planes. There was no initial response but the hail continued, sounding more and more plaintive with each repetition… “Orlan to Kirov. Come in, Kirov. Requesting battle orders. Over. Orlan to Kirov. Please respond. Over. Where are you, Kirov? Please come in. Orlan to Kirov. Where are you?…

Frustrated and knowing the enemy planes were just minutes away, Yeltsin stepped out of the enclosed armored citadel of the bridge and onto the weather deck, binoculars in hand. They had been steaming about two kilometers in front of the big battlecruiser, but when he scanned the sea in his wake, there was no sign of the ship. Kirov was gone! What had happened?

Yes, they had felt the harsh wind from the explosion, the shock wave and swell from the sea, but even his much smaller ship rode it out easily, and there were no enemy planes in close. Could Kirov have suffered the same fate as Admiral Golovko, struck by a late fired round from the stricken American battleship? No, there was no sign of an explosion aft, and Kirov was a very big ship. If there had been an incident, or even an accident aboard the ship itself, he would have seen something. Yet what was that strange glow on the sea? He would not have time to investigate further.

The hard seconds ticked away, and now it struck him that Orlan was alone, and soon to be faced by a massive air attack. Time was running out. He rushed back into the bridge.

“Air alert one! Resume SAM defense! Ready all close in defense systems!”

The klaxon howled out the alert, and within seconds the first sleek SAMs were ejecting again from the ship’s forward deck, streaking wildly into the sky to seek and destroy the American planes. The roar of the missiles continued, one after another, the skies streaked by ribbons of smoke as they sped away on hot white tails. Then he heard the low, distant drone of many engines, saw the blue specks in the sky drawing ever nearer amid the roiling explosion from his lethal SAMs

Perhaps a hundred planes massed above Iowa had been swept to oblivion by that detonation, but there looked to be another hundred behind them, veering left and right around the angry mushroom cloud and still bravely bearing down on his ship.

“How many missiles do we have remaining?” He shouted over the growing noise of the oncoming planes.

“Sir, I read 96 SAMs still remaining and ready to fire.”

But there was a second group of aircraft off their starboard side, the planes off Ticonderoga and the remainder of Sprague’s carrier group, at least 160 or more contacts. He was now being attacked by nearly 280 enemy aircraft, three planes for every missile they had on the primary SAM system. They had 56 more missiles on the Kashtan system, and 8700 rounds on the 30mm Autocannons. If it came to that things will be very bad, he thought. Very bad indeed.

Sheer mass and brutal determination had been at the heart of war fighting in this era. In the beginning the Germans danced and maneuvered, running armored rings around their sluggish opponents. Four years later the allies were a massive juggernaut, virtually unstoppable, and relentlessly grinding down their enemies by the sheer weight of massed fire and steel. The Americans had beaten down the Japanese by simply out-producing them, building hundreds of ships and thousands of planes. And when Japan finally sent her last armored gladiators out, Yamato and Musashi, the Americans simply swarmed over them with relentless air strikes, like bees against a lion. Yamato was hit by eleven torpedoes and six bombs before her magazines exploded sending a mushroom cloud six kilometers high that was seen over 90 miles away in Japan. Musashi was even tougher, and took 19 torpedo hits and 17 bombs before she finally capsized and sank.

Any ship could be sunk, Yeltsin knew. Look what happened to Admiral Golovko when the Americans scored just one lucky hit-more a fortunate miss, as they probably never even saw the stealthy warship. They had been firing at the much larger silhouette of Kirov, and simply missed, the rounds falling short to strike Golovko by sheer chance. It will only take one or two hits to do the same to us…

Now the harsh logic of war was apparent to him. His ship was never meant to oppose this many targets. It was designed to fight as an integrated part of a surface action group, with fighters from the carrier Admiral Kuznetsov overhead and the support of four or five other ships all contributing to its survivability. Orlan was meant to fly with a flight of other proud eagles, and without them the ship was doomed. Where was Kirov?

“Radar, report surface contacts aft.”

“Sir, my scope is clear. I read no surface contacts on the aft quarter.”

“Sonar! Go to active search. Report any contacts within five kilometers of the ship.”

Sir, aye, active search….” There was a brief delay as the sonar pinged out its plaintive call, still echoed by the communications officer as he continued his hail: “Orlan to Kirov. Come in, Kirov. Requesting battle orders. Over. Orlan to Kirov. Please respond. Over. Where are you, Kirov? Please come in…”

“Sir, I have no undersea contacts within five kilometers. Continuing search.”

Where are you Kirov?

Karpov had said something that he suddenly recalled now:

“There is one thing more…Should it come down to nuclear weapons, I must tell you that our experience leads me to believe that our position in this timeframe could be affected by a detonation.”

“What do you mean?” Yeltsin still had the same question in his mind now “Affected in what manner?”

“It is impossible to say. We have already seen how a massive release of explosive energy sent us here. A nuclear detonation, close enough, could send us somewhere…else…”

Clearly it has sent you somewhere else, Karpov, but it left us behind…unless…Might another nuclear detonation blow a hole in time for Orlan to sail away to safety? His statement to Karpov had carried that hope.

“Perhaps this might also be a way for us to get back to our own time again.”

“That thought occurred to me,” said Karpov. “We might kill two bears with one shot. If we do have to teach the Americans a lesson, and it changes the history in our favor, that will be one thing. If it also sends us home, so much the better.”

“And if it puts two thousand men in an early grave?”The voice of Doctor Zolkin echoed in his mind now. “What then, Karpov?”

What then?

Should he follow Karpov’s lead and blast the oncoming American strike wave from the sky? And what about those fast battleships out there chasing him at 33 knots? He had sixteen missiles and he had seen Karpov put six Moskit IIs on the American battleship. It was still firing before the final blow ended that battle! He had three special warheads as well. He could use one to deal with the contacts to the southwest. The ship’s missiles could then be concentrated on the remainder of the Halsey air group.

Then there would be two madmen at large in the history, he thought grimly. He looked at the men of his bridge crew, tense yet alert, performing their duties by reflex, following the protocols of their training with expert skill. His ship was also answering the call of war, engines strong and running full out, weapons firing with smooth efficiency, missile after missile, each one killing a man out there in the wild sky-a brave, brave man who may have lived a long and happy life were it not for the obscenity of this moment, this awful blight on the face of time.

Karpov has done his worst and then he leaves me here in the soup, he thought. What should I do? Do I fight to preserve the lives of my ship and crew, and at any cost? The light gleamed on his high forehead, the years taking most every hair that once grew there in his youth. He was a veteran of twenty five years in the Russian Navy, in line for a promotion, ready to add another stripe to his cuff and sew in a bigger star there as Rear Admiral Yeltsin. What did any of it matter now? Was he fighting for Russia here? Would anything he or his ship do here matter under the crushing weight of the decades to come? Something told him that he could only worsen the fate of his nation if he added to the grievous harm Karpov had already done.

He decided.

Yeltsin walked slowly over to his executive officer and quietly told him to summon the ship’s chief engineer, Yeremenko. When the man arrived on the bridge the missiles were firing fast and furious from the destroyer’s forward deck, streaking out to find and kill the American planes. One missile-one kill. The math was ruthless and unerring, yet with each kill the number of missiles remaining ticked one notch lower.

“Yeremenko,” Yeltsin said quietly, his voice low so that no other members of the bridge crew could hear him. “I need you to prepare to scuttle the ship.”

“Sir?”

“Yes, Yeremenko. The battle looks to be a glorious event out there now as our missiles punish the enemy at range like this, but the ammunition is limited. The range is closing fast. I calculate that even if every missile strikes and kills an enemy plane, we will still be attacked by well over a hundred aircraft in the next twenty minutes. Our autocannons may get five or ten more, but the rest will get their chance with us, and I expect we will be hit. You saw what happened to the Admiral Golovko.”

“Yes sir….But what about Kirov? The men say they cannot see the ship off the bow any longer.”

“We don’t know what happened. We have no radar contacts and there is nothing wrong with the Fregat system. The ship vanished shortly after that detonation, yet we remain. Yeremenko…The Americans must not be allowed to obtain the technology aboard this ship: the computers, weapons systems, reactors, warheads. Understood?” He finally got to the heart of the matter.

Yeremenko gave the Captain a wide eyed look, realizing what he was saying. The Captain did not believe they would survive this attack. How was it possible, a ship like Orlan taken down by the old planes like this flown by men who were grey haired great grandfathers before they were even born? Yeltsin was telling him the worst. The ship would have to be destroyed. There must be nothing left for the Americans to find, because if they were ever to salvage their wreckage they could leap ahead decades in a single bound. Yet the next obvious question came to him, and Yeltsin saw it in his eyes even before he spoke the words.

“But… But what about the men, sir?”

Yeltsin just looked at him, saying nothing, and Yeremenko knew that they, too, could never be taken alive by the Americans. The Captain continued.

“Is there a way we could use one of the special warheads?” Yeltsin’s eyes were searching now. “It would be quick, complete, and painless. It would be over before anyone knew it was happening-perhaps just like the fate of the Americans out there. An eye for an eye…”

Yeremenko was silent, nodding after a moment, his eyes heavy with grief. “I will do what I can, sir. I think it can be arranged. But is there no other way, Captain?”

Yeltsin had no answer, no alternative. “Carry on, Mister Yeremenko. We may have very little time.”

Lost in eternity, but with no time to spare. Now they had to hasten to arrange their own demise! The irony of the situation cut Yeltsin deeply as he turned away, the sound of the missiles firing now a strident rebuke.