Fallen Angels: 9 Days Falling, Volume II

Chapter 13

They crouched low, waiting. The sound of voices came to them in the night, edged with frustration. One voice was louder, sharp and demanding, obviously the officer in charge of the NKVD column upset over Sutherland’s handiwork on the bridge. Haselden looked over at his mate and winked, giving him a thumbs up. But what would the Russians try to do now?

Then they heard it, a low growl of motors in the still air, faint and far off, but drawing closer. Haselden craned his neck, looking over his shoulder, eyes puckered to see anything in the murky darkness. The sound of bullfrogs and other night creatures seemed to rise in a frustrating chorus before he heard the distinctive rumble of trucks on the road behind them.

“Hold on Cobber,” he rasped to Sutherland. “We’ve got company—behind us on the road!”

They could now hear another truck column coming up, and Haselden thought he could make out a line of squarish shadows on the thin track of the road. ‘Bloody hell!” he said sharply. “This is no damn good. Who would have thought we get traffic on a road like this. They’ll come right up on our ass.” He leaned out of his cover, clicker in hand and snapped off a signal to Sergeant Terry on the other side of the road—abort—abort—abort. The Sergeant wasted no time, and half a minute later he was rushing across the road, crouching low, Bren gun in hand.

“Unexpected company,” Haselden whispered when he arrived, his face set and serious.

“Now what?”

“It’s no good here. We’ll have to get down there and take cover in those reeds. Make sure you don’t leave anything. Let’s get moving!” He turned his head. “Nice and quiet like now.”

“Right-O, Jock. Always did like a midnight belly crawl with the frogs.” Sutherland winked at him, and the three commandos crept silently away from the road, seeking better cover in the reedy fringes of the marshland to the east. The bridge they had selected as a choke point was right at the narrowest neck of the Terek River as it flowed east to the Caspian. They had to move about a hundred yards to the reeds, but once there they found good concealment. Behind them there was nothing but murky, wet ground descending to marshland now.

The fens fell off to a wide lake, festooned with reeds and floating muck. It separated the river from a long spit of sandy ground beyond it that pointed to the north like a great finger, marking the place where Corporal Severn waited on the coast with the swift boats. Haselden had radioed him earlier on the wireless and told him to move south that night under cover of darkness. With any luck Severn was due east of their position by now, though he wondered how things would play out from this point.

“This is no good here,” said Sutherland. “We’ve no decent field of fire. Sergeant Terry’s Bren won’t do us any good at all down here.” They could see the trucks coming up the road to the very place where they had been concealed just moments ago, and then slowly maneuvering to turn about. Sergeant Terry shook his head, unhappy.

“How in the world did I find myself lying here in a muddy bog on a night like this,” he muttered.

“You were most likely a troubled youth,” Sutherland jibed. Then they hushed, heads low as they watched the trucks pull up. Haselden was fishing about in his jacket for the map, and the wan gleam of moonlight gave him just enough light to read it.

“Nothing behind us, mates. Just a whole lot more of this muck and mire. That there is the delta of the Terek, six bloody miles of it to the coast.”

“They’ll get cross that river in half an hour and onto those trucks. This must have been arranged,” Sutherland whispered.

“Right you are. The only question is what do we do now? We can’t move south on their flank from here. The damn road is going to skirt the edge of that marsh lake behind us for a good eight miles, and we’d be easily seen. We could wait here and then follow them south, but they’ll leave us well behind them in no time.”

“Then we’ve no choice,” said Sutherland. “They’ll have to turn all those trucks about and will most likely load up. We’ll have to jump the last one in the line. Maybe we’ll get lucky and our man will be riding that one.”

“Maybe not,” said Haselden, “but I don’t see any other way now, Davey. Let’s work round to the right a bit. Good cover in these reeds but move slow. Fix silencers and it’s pistols and knives now. We can keep our Stens, but that Bren isn’t going to do us any good in a situation like this, Sergeant. I’m afraid we’ll have to leave it.”

Sergeant Terry nodded grimly, and was already looking to find a spot to conceal the weapon and ammo belts in the reeds. Now it was coming down to stealth and subterfuge, not firepower and ambush. Their faces were painted black beneath their dark berets, and each man lightened his load, keeping nothing more than food, water and ammo. Haselden handed off his Sten and numerous ammo clips to Sergeant Terry to compensate him for the lost Bren. “I’ll lead with pistol and knife,” he whispered. “Let’s move.”

They worked their way slowly through the reeds, careful not to let them rustle and move as they passed. It was move, wait, listen, move again, slithering along the damp ground like snakes, but in this way they were able to get to a position on the Terek, very close to the bridge that Sutherland had blown. Now he saw that his demolition charges had only damaged the bridge itself, and the span remained largely intact. There was a gaping hole in the wood of the bridge bed, but still enough room to one side for a man to edge by and carefully cross. The NKVD were rigging ropes to provide additional hand holds at this spot, and they were sending the women from the column across first.

“Must have had a dodgy charge,” Sutherland whispered.

“Hush up, Davey. I count five men there, and there’s probably that many or more with those trucks. See that tall fellow? I think that’s our man. Look, there he goes now.”

They could see a tall, stocky man making his way over the bridge, with two NKVD soldiers following behind him. Haselden strained to see him as he crossed, and noted that he continued on past the last truck. Just our luck, he thought. Now we won’t know which truck the man is in. But he decided not to curse his luck just yet. It remained to be seen just how this situation would develop. There would certainly be soldiers assigned to the last truck, but how many?

“Look, lads,” he said quietly. “When we move it will have to be quick and dirty. “There will be men for that last truck, and we’ll have to get them all, and quiet like. What we don’t want is for one of those bastards to fire his weapon and warn the others up front, so I’ll want to move just as the last of this lot begins to mount that truck. Move on my hand signal.”

The other men nodded, realizing this was perhaps the most dangerous moment of their trek thus far. Yet it was their stock in trade, as each man was a highly trained expert in close combat, and ready for the job at hand. They were settling down on instincts born of training, reflex and adrenaline now, an ancient language of muscle and nerve. Another part of their brains took over, and they became low, stealthy prowling things in the night, their senses keened up to a razor sharpness, eyes moving, minds calculating without words or logic; limbs ready to spring for the kill.

The soldiers had herded all the women forward, waiting for all the trucks to slowly back and turn themselves around on the narrow road. One man was issuing loud commands, pointing at men and gesturing. They loaded five or six women in the back of each truck, seven vehicles in all, and then two NKVD men boarded to keep watch on them. The officer walked forward, obviously to take up a position in the first truck. There were three men left over.

Haselden tensed up, hearing the engines gunning as the lead trucks in the column began to move out. The last of the three men had come from the bridge, a cigarette hanging from his lips as he hefted his rifle onto his shoulder. Two others were getting ready to mount the tailgate of the truck. It was now or never. The noise of the other trucks would provide perfect sound cover. He moved.

Haselden just crawled up onto his knees, stood up and casually walked to the back of the truck. The man with the cigarette turned his head, dumbfounded. The British Captain was holding out a pack of fresh cigarettes, smiling as he stepped up to the man. Then that moment of confused surprise became a blur. Haselden drove the base of his hand right into the man’s nose, thrusting up in a hard blow. A second soldier had one knee up on the tailgate and a swift kick took out the support of his other leg. Both men were down and Sutherland was up next to the Captain now, easily handling the third soldier, parrying the blow of his rifle butt, slipping inside and getting the man’s neck and head in a hold that saw him go slack in no time at all. A swift chop to the neck settled the man who had fallen with Haselden’s kick.

The three NKVD soldiers were down and out, nice and quiet like, just as Seventeen wanted it. Then the three British commandos quickly removed the fallen soldiers’ jackets and hats, and mounted the truck in their place.

Haselden tapped lightly near the back of the driver’s cabin and the engine growled as the truck started down the road. He settled in with Sutherland and Sergeant Terry.

“Those three back there will have a long walk home,” he whispered. “And a good long sleep until they wake up. Good that we didn’t have to break any necks.”

“Right, Jock,” said Sutherland. “Allies and all. But where is this lot going?”

“We’ll find that out soon enough, Davey Boy. For now, get the mud off your boots, slip into these nice warm coats and put on those Ushankas. We’re proper NKVD soldiers now. Enjoy the scenery.”

“Yeah? Well what’s the plan, Jock?”

“We wait a bit. It looks like ten miles to the next river. There’s a small town on the coast there as I read it, a place called Sulak. South is Makhachkala, another fifteen miles. This column won’t do much more than thirty miles an hour on these roads. It’s 10:40 hours now, so I’d say we’ll probably get down there before midnight, and perhaps they’ll stop.”

“Then what? That cigarette trick of yours was handy, but I counted eleven more men forward of this truck, including our driver. Lucky for us there’s no window in the back of that cab.”

“No worries. We can play this one of two ways now. We could work our way forward and find this man before we reach town, but that won’t be easy unless they stop again, and any slip up would blow our cover and start a row here. The other thing is to slip away just as we reach the outskirts of town. Then we work our way in under cover of these hats and jackets, looking all proper and such. We find this man in town and try to get him before dawn.”

“Right,” said Sutherland.

“Assuming they stop here.” Sergeant Terry wasn’t one for words, but he squeezed that out from beneath his thick mustache, eyeing Haselden in the dark.

“The Sergeant has a point,” said Haselden. “Well if they don’t stop, and roll right on through town, then they’re probably bound for Baku. We won’t know that one way or another until we get to Makhachkala and see what they do.”

“So we can’t very well slip away before then,” said Sutherland. “If they push on to Baku we’d be stuck. We’ll lose them for sure.”

“So we stay with the column,” Haselden concluded. “It’ll be dangerous. If they do stop and that officer comes mucking about we may have to act, and quickly. Eleven men or no, we’ll have to make our play.”

“In that event, let’s just hope they stop somewhere nice and secluded. I’d hate to start a brawl in the middle of town square.” Sutherland shook his head, the difficulty of their situation apparent. “Alright, suppose we pull this off and we do get this man. What then?”

“We get him east to the coast. If we’re in a settled area we look for a boat, any boat, and head north up the coast to that finger of land where Corporal Severn is waiting. Still packing that wireless in one piece, Sergeant?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Good enough. We get this man, call up Corporal Severn with the swift boats and have him come south to meet us if things get hot. Then we get across to Ft. Shevchenko as fast as we can.”

“Sounds easy enough when you say it like that, Jock. Yet as you can see, things happen. This column could meet up with another. There might be a full company of NKVD at the other end of this road for all we know. We go in undercover and suppose we run into some hothead officer. What then?”

“If it comes to that then we’ll have to rely on our wits, stealth and the weapons we’re still carrying. As I see the odds now, the three of us should be able to handle the men in this column. After all, we’re 30 Commando.”

“Here, here,” said Sergeant Terry. “Wish I had a battalion of the lads with us now. Then it wouldn’t matter what we run into.”

“If wishes were horses, Sergeant Terry.”

“Aye, sir.”

They settled into silence, each man turning over the situation in his mind. For the moment they had a breathing space for a little welcome rest off the damp earth, but they knew it would not be long before they would have to answer all the questions they asked one another in the dark. Something told Haselden that Lieutenant Sutherland was right. A smile and a cigarette wouldn’t do the trick again. Now it was down to pistols, knives, and the two Stens.

Chapter 14

Fedorov stepped onto the plank leading up to the gangway, a wary look in his eye. The boson’s mate gave him a glance, then saluted when he saw the decorations on his chest and the obvious insignia of a high ranking officer on his cap.

It had been a long and tiresome journey by rail south to the Caspian. The land seemed to stretch on and on in an endless wasteland of parched, tractless earth. In places the terrain was so untraveled that the rail line failed and they had to detrain to look for transport by truck. But over two days time they managed to reached their destination on the northernmost shore of the Caspian Sea at a town called Guryev, renamed Atyrau in the early 1990s.

The city was situated at the mouth of the Ural River, sitting right astride the border of Europe and Asia. The muddy brown water of the river wound through West Kazakhstan from the north in a long dull ribbon to eventually find the sea. Over the years the settlement became famous for its fish, but just off shore lay vast latent fields of undiscovered oil that would later become the Tengiz and Kashagan superfields. Decades into the future, big oil conglomerates would delve deep into the waters for the light sweet crude and lucrative gas fields, and Ben Flack would hold sway on platform Medusa at the edge of a growing conflict over energy supplies. Yet at that moment the town and its harbor on the sea seemed a lonesome and forlorn place.

In recent months, the threat posed by the advancing German Army had seen the arrival of long lines of barges and partially submerged cisterns of oil from Baku towed by commercial tugs. The Soviets were desperately trying to cap the threatened oil wells of Baku and transport the rigs and other equipment, along with as much oil as possible, to other shores far from the German advance.

When they arrived in town Fedorov learned that the Germans had finally cut the rail and road connections between Astrakhan and Baku, and he knew the way south would now mean a hazardous journey by sea. There was a small flotilla of commercial ships still making regular runs to Baku, but the only ship in port the day they arrived was the Amerika, an old oil tanker that would leave the following morning.

The quays and wharves were littered with rusty barrels, old sections of weathered pipe, dilapidated drilling equipment, and abandoned vehicles that seemed as though it had been washed ashore by the ebb and flow of the tides of war. Handfuls of stevedores and dock workers rummaged through the scrap, and occasionally a column of three or four trucks would arrive to haul things away. The smaller boats in the harbor seemed useless for what they had planned, old rotting wood fishing boats that seemed the sole livelihood of lean, haggard men trying to scratch out a living for their families, so they had no choice but to board the tanker.

“I did not expect the port to be so desolate,” said Fedorov to Troyak as they boarded the ship. “The war has not yet reached this place, but it is very near. The struggle for Stalingrad is still underway, and the German Army is deep in the Caucasus. Now we set sail for lands inside the war zone itself. We will have to get south of Kizlyar to avoid the Germans, and this tanker stops at Makhachkala before going on to Baku. It’s our one chance.”

“Zykov has been chatting with a few locals,” said Troyak. “They say the Germans have mounted occasional air strikes on the shipping lanes to the south.”

“Yes, they tried to cut these supply lines by any means, and sunk a number of ships. This ship here, the Amerika, will be sunk in a few weeks time off Astrakhan by a German air strike—that is if the history I studied before we departed still holds true. After what I experienced back at Ilanskiy I have no idea what to really expect now.”

The more Fedorov thought of those narrow back stairs at the inn, the more he worried. It was strange how he was affected, literally walking down those steps to another time, and then having his experience confirmed so dramatically by the sudden reappearance of Mironov. That was more than coincidence, he thought. Here we are, officers and crew off the battlecruiser Kirov, now Argonauts in time, and I meet the very man that ship was named for! It was still astounding to consider, or even believe, yet the memory of Mironov’s eyes, the face of young Sergei Kirov, was burned in his memory. He recalled the overwhelming temptation to say something to the man concerning his fate, years hence, on that dark day in December when he would die at the hands of an assassin. Did he say too much?

Here he was on an impossible mission in time to try and find Gennadi Orlov because he suspected the man may have fatally changed the course of events, and then this happens! The thought came to him again, even as it had in that single pulse pounding moment when Mironov was brought in by Zykov—what if this was the key moment in time? What if Orlov was nothing more than a big red herring meant only to bring him here to this place, to that darkened stairwell, and face to face with Sergei Kirov?

Before he knew what he was saying the words blurted out, an urgent whisper in the young man’s ear. ‘Do not go to St. Petersburg in 1934! Beware Stalin! Beware the 30th of December! Go with God. Go and live, Mironov. Live!’

What have I done? Fedorov turned that question over and over again in his mind now. I meet one of the most important figures in modern Russian history, a man of the Great Revolution, and I say something that could change everything if Mironov were to ever remember it and act on my stupid advice. What was I thinking? Here I am trying to find a way to prevent that terrible future we saw, but we have been fumbling in the dark all this time. We really don’t know what we must do, or change. Could this be the key?

What if Kirov remembers me; remembers what I whispered to him at the top of those stairs? What if he does not go to St. Petersburg? Would Josef Stalin still find a way to remove him? Would time find a way, just like all those crewmen on the ship who ended up never being born? A man like Stalin was such an overweening shadow on the face of history that it seemed impossible to think his fate might be changed. But what if Kirov survived…What if?

He thought about that for a good long while as they settled into a damp crew compartment on the Amerika. If Kirov survived how might his life and influence have changed things? He was very close to Stalin, almost like a brother. Yet Stalin resented his popularity, and his influence. It was clear that Stalin used Kirov’s assassination to launch his great purge and remove thousands of potential rivals and opponents. As many as a million may have died, and surely he would not leave Kirov alive under similar circumstances. Yet if Kirov did live….If he managed to remain a powerful and influential figure, what might Soviet Russia look like once freed from the blight of Stalin’s influence? Could Russia survive the rigors of WWII and still prevail without the ‘Man of Steel,’ Stalin, at the helm of that ship of state?

It was all too much for him to grasp at the moment, and Fedorov soon found that the mystery of that back stairwell was more than enough to challenge him. He had tried to describe the event as a rift in time, a tear in the fabric of spacetime that seemed to connect two points on the continuum, two years—1908 and 1942. The fact that his regression to 1908 brought him to the very moment of the impact at Tunguska was very telling, and he still suspected that that strange occurrence on June 30, 1908 could have caused the rift to form. The stairwell at the inn must have just been perfectly positioned to allow one to pass through that rift! That was mere happenstance. If the inn had never been built then the rift in time would just be hovering in space at that location, a few meters above the ground. The position and angle of the stairs provided the perfect means of entering the rift, and traveling in time!

Now he wondered if there were other places like that, other rifts in time possibly caused by the violence and mystery of the Tunguska event. Even more so, he wondered how long the rift persisted. Clearly it did not always work, for Troyak claimed he went down those stairs and yet remained stable in the year 1942. He did not encounter the phenomenon that sent Fedorov farther back in time.

How long did the effect last? Was it intermittent, coming and going like that strange pulsing the battlecruiser experienced when it moved in time? If it first occurred in 1908, it was obviously still present 34 years later in 1942. The pulsing effect could explain why Troyak did not move in time. Perhaps one had to transit the stairway at just the right moment.

What if the rift persisted into modern times, thought Fedorov? Was it there in the year 2021? And if it persisted all those years, who might have come up those back stairs in all that time, and who might have passed down them to find themselves in the distant past, stalking through the lost days of history as he was even now? That thought was truly staggering. What if other men had discovered what he had just experienced, and vanished into time? If they could not get back by taking the stairs again, then what? They would be marooned in the past and forced to live out their entire lives there. My God! He realized that every time someone went down those stairs they could have a profound effect on all history.

They could change everything, just as Fedorov and his team were striving to change the history at this moment, and save humanity from a terrible future fate. He was suddenly filled with the urge to go back and test his theory again. At the very least he wondered if he could somehow get another message to the future, to Admiral Volsky. We must find out if the stairway still exists in our time, he thought darkly. We must!

Even as he thought this another man was answering some of the very same questions Fedorov was asking himself, for he has also come down those same stairs and was about to make a most interesting discovery of his own.

“I am a Captain in the Internal Affairs Division of the Russian Naval Intelligence! How dare you treat me in this manner!” Volkov’s anger was apparent in the heat, which now colored his otherwise pallid cheeks.

“Is that so? Well I am a Colonel in the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs—Rail Security Division, Captain, if that is who you really are. Your identification card is most unusual. I have never seen anything like it. Your uniform, weapon, also very unusual. We see a great deal on this line; roust out every sort of thief and scoundrel imaginable, and we hear many wild stories. But this one I have never heard before. At the moment the irregularities I have already mentioned are enough to suspect you are not who you claim to be. This identification card for example…very strange.”

“That is standard navy issue. Or perhaps you have never seen proper credentials for a naval officer before? There is nothing irregular about it at all!”

Colonel Lysenko, cocked his head to one side, taking another long drag on his cigarette. “And you say you have never seen this man before?” He pointed to the other officer, the one who had fingered Volkov, the one who regarded him even now with narrow eyed suspicion behind his round wire framed glasses, Mikhael Surinov.

“I have not… And where are my men? Believe this, Colonel, if that is who you really are. You are now interfering in a matter of state security of the highest order!”

“Is that so? Then you must work for the Kremlin, eh? Who is this man you were holding at gunpoint?” The Englishman was being watched by one of Lysenko’s men at the front desk where Ilyana sat fretfully listening to the whole scene, not knowing what was happening.

Volkov folded his arms, defiant. “I was about to find that out when you barged in with this ridiculous charade. I have been searching every station on this railway—every lodgment and depot. We are looking for a man, and this fellow seemed suspicious—an Englishman! What is he doing here in time of war? So yes, I detained him for questioning, and I—”

“You were looking for a man? Who?” Lysenko exhaled heavily, the ashes of his cigarette low again.

“Another naval officer, a man named Fedorov, though he may be traveling undercover.”

“Fedorov?” The Colonel turned quickly to the shorter officer. “Is that the man you told me of?”

“Yes sir!” said Surinov. “He was very bold, just as this man here seems—very official. Yet there was something odd about him. He claimed he had come from Khabarovsk, and that was proved to be a lie as soon as I returned there to make my report. I have never met an officer in the Rail Security Division who acted as he did—humiliating me in front of my security detail, not to mention those pigs I was transporting to the detention centers!”

Now Volkov leaned forward. “You say you have encountered this man—Fedorov? How did you know his name?”

“That’s what he called himself—him and his Sergeant Troyak. That man was completely insubordinate, and the Colonel did nothing! He just stood there and let a common soldier threaten me!”

“Colonel? You say this Fedorov was passing himself off as a Colonel? Where?” Volkov almost stood up, but felt the hard hand of a soldier on his shoulder. He gave the man a look of real annoyance and continued, pressing his question on the man. “Where did you see this Fedorov?”

“We are asking the questions here!” Colonel Lysenko pointed at him with his cigarette, but to his astonishment Volkov swiped it from his hand, real anger on his face now.

“Get that filthy thing out of my face! Who the hell are you? What are you doing here? What in God’s name are you trying to pull, eh? You will pay dearly for this little prank, I assure you.”

Volkov reached up, pinched his collar button and spoke, eyes on Lysenko the whole time. “Jenkov…where the hell are you? Get down to the dining room at once. Bring the entire section!”

Colonel Lysenko gave him a wide eyed look, his surprise quickly transitioning to disdain as he waited. “Such theatrics,” he said with a sneer. Then he struck Volkov full on the face with the back of his hand. “You take me for a fool? Who do you think you were talking to? A ghost?”

There looked to be a scuffle, but the two other soldiers were quick to press the muzzles of their weapons to Volkov’s head. Then Lysenko leaned in, his breath foul with tobacco as he spoke. “The next time you try anything like that I will kill you—understand? I will take my pistol and blow your brains out!”

Lysenko composed himself, reaching in his pocket for a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “Now…” He placed a cigarette in his mouth, flicking a silver Ronson lighter he had taken from someone in the course of his many official interrogations. “Just who is this Jenkov you spoke of? I see no Jenkov here? What is this section he is to bring with him?”

Volkov was steaming, his eyes like coals. Every reflex in his body wanted to reach out and choke the breath from this man. But the feel of the hard steel of the muzzle of an automatic weapon at his temple gave him pause. His mind began to work, controlling that reptilian reflex, and oddities of the encounter began to filter in through the anger he felt. People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs? That was the name of the old NKVD! What was this man talking about? Yet the Captain was a wolf of a man, and not one easily threatened or frightened. He narrowed his eyes.

“You will kill me, you say? Blow my brains out, is it? Do you know who I work for? Do you have any idea who I report to? And what is this drivel you are spouting? There is no People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs!”

Lysenko listened, arms folded, face tightening with each word Volkov spoke. He could see that this was going to take stronger measures. His impulse was to do what he had threatened and simply draw his pistol and shoot this impudent man where he sat, but this business with Lieutenant Surinov…this part about a man called Fedorov aroused both suspicion and curiosity. Something was clearly wrong here, and he was going to find out exactly what it was. He decided to take another tack with this man.

“Fedorov,” he said. “You say you are looking for a man named Fedorov… Why? Who is he that it should be of any concern to you?”

The tension in the room subsided as Volkov composed himself, his mind trying to determine what these men could possibly be up to. “That is a matter of state security,” he said quickly. “And your interference is going to come with a very high price tag.”

“So you claim to be an intelligence officer? You have been ordered to find this man? Then let us approach this another way, comrade. I am intelligence officer as well. You are either drunk or delusional if you do not recognize this uniform. And my Lieutenant here tells me a man calling himself Fedorov is masquerading as an NKVD Colonel and causing trouble. In my district any trouble eventually comes to my attention. So we came looking for this Fedorov as well. Who is he?” Lysenko wanted to find out what this man knew before he decided what to do here.

“Suffice it to say he is of special interest to Russian Naval Intelligence.”

“He is a spy then? He is attempting to infiltrate the NKVD?”

“NKVD?” Now Volkov suddenly recognized the insignia on these mans caps—yes, the light blue cap with the thin red band—the hammer and sickle of the old Soviet regime.

“NKVD? That institution hasn’t been in existence for decades. Where did you get those stupid uniforms, at an army surplus store? You think this is some kind of a joke here? You don’t know who you are fooling with. Well gentlemen, if you persist in this I will tell you that you have chosen the wrong man for your little fun and games, and I have had quite enough of this nonsense.”

Lysenko’s anger rose again, and he stood up, very slowly, his hand drifting to his side holster.

Volkov met his narrowed eyes, unflinching. “I’m warning you one last time,” he said coolly, his voice low and edged with threat.

Chapter 15

He had been eight days tunneling, working hard in the rain these last few hours to be certain any sound of the digging would be well masked. The rain would also lessen traffic at the site above, which was another advantage, but it made for cold, dank work in the trench below the site. Yet Ian was a man accustomed to the elements, and well suited to the hard labor his project would require. In the end it would pay off handsomely, and the end was well in sight. Today was the ninth day, the payoff day. He had but another eight to ten inches of vertical drilling now, straight up through the hard bottom and into the center of the plot, and then he would finally have the prize.

This was the hard part of the job, the risky part. He would have to wait out the weather, hoping for a real torrent to mask the noise of the drill. His power cabling would be stretched out behind him, along sodden wet ground in spite of his effort to lay in a plastic tarp for cover. Here and there, he noted places along the length of the tunnel where water was seeping down from above, finding its way through cracks in the cobbled roadway between his rented cottage and the target site.

If the Duke only knew the trouble and toil he had gone to these last days to secure his prize. Yet he knew the Duke could care less. The only thing he wanted was at the other end of Ian’s drill bit, soon to be laboring up through the last earthen and concrete barrier that separated him from his goal. Who would ever think the moldered remains above would be put to any good use beyond the novelty they offered tourists, a bit of history tucked away in a backwater hamlet.

Ian Thomas waited out the moments, squinting at his perfectly timed watch as the second hand swept in its endless round. Thirty seconds more and the clock on St. Martin’s would begin its midnight toll, twelve long notes that would give him a full minute to complete his task. The high speed drill was perfectly positioned, and mounted on a small hydraulic jack that would apply just the right amount of pressure as the bit worked. He had applied the most expensive lubricant he could find for this job, to be sure the bit would not squeak, and he had muffled the drill itself with sound absorbent bale. That, along with the tolling of the clock tower, should be enough to mask the noise.

Ten seconds… Five. He quickly adjusted his face goggles and breathing mask, then switched on the drill holding his breath at the noise it made in spite of all his precautions. It began to cut upward, showering the area in the tunnel below with a chalky powder. In exactly sixty seconds he would switch off and take his measurement. With any luck he would be within half an inch of breakthrough, and the last bit would be done with hand tools. Once the breech had been made he would have to insert his camera probe and document his position. GPS was telling him he was right on target, but one never knew for certain. The restoration work they had done here in the 90s could have changed things. Some idiot workman could have nudged something the wrong way—but the camera would tell him what he wanted to know. Then, if all was well, it would be a simple matter to insert his vacuum tubing and finish the job.

It was only a matter of time now, but he hadn’t counted on the devotion of Mary Perkyn that night, or the gracious accommodation of the Rector at St. Martin’s. It was going to be a very long night. He still had a lot to accomplish, but he was well on his way to success, and his patience would eventually pay him a handsome dividend.

Even now he imaging the look of profound satisfaction on the Duke’s face when he handed him the parcel he would soon be packing diligently in his cottage. And even more so he imagined the look of profound satisfaction on his own face when the Duke handed him a check for a million pounds Sterling. The world could go to hell in a handcart, but at least he would enjoy the trip after he got his hands on money like that!

Yet he wasn’t the only one to hear that last whining sound of his drill that night. Other ears were listening, and would complicate his little project in ways he did not yet know.

The Rector hastened down the cold stone floor to the east entrance, frowning as he listened to the insistent knocking on the door. Who in the world would be out on a night like this? Another poor soul come to beg a warm night out of the rain? No, the knocking had an urgency about it that gave him cause for concern. There was something harried about it, and there was fear in the sound. He hurried past the alcove shrine, forgetting to bless himself at the holy water fount, drawn to the insistent pounding at the door.

“There, there,” he said as he slid back the door bolt. “Hold on a moment, you’ll shake loose the shingles with that racket.”

The door opened with a squeak, and he squinted out into the dark landing, a cold breath of rain on his face. The caller lurched forward out of the heavy rain, but with an animated fretfulness that pricked an instinct of fear in the Rector. He was startled to see that it was old Mary Perkyn, a regular parishioner, her gray hair sodden under what passed for a rain bonnet.

“There now, Mary. What’s gotten into you?”

“Oh Rector, you must come to the chapel at once! Oh, my lord, such a dreadful sound!”

“What’s that you say? Whatever are you talking about, Mary? Here, come in out of the rain and let me close this door or we’ll both likely be blown away with the storm.”

The Rector managed to usher the poor old woman inside, closing the door hard against the intruding weather and pushing the bolt home again for good measure. “Now, Mary,” he began when he had caught his breath. “You come into the sitting room and have a spot of tea. Do you good. Settles the nerves and warms the belly, right? Then you can tell me all about it.”

“Such a dreadful fright I’ve had. A sound, like the wailing of a demon it was, and with all this storming and rain about to make it all the worse. You must go to the chapel and hear for yourself, Rector. I was praying me nightly votives, I was. Then all at once it comes, up from the ground itself, a wailing and gnashing and moaning, all just when the bell tower struck midnight!”

“Devotion aside, Mary, this is no hour to be out in such weather. Did you mean to sleep in the pew? I should think you would have been long at rest in a nice warm bed at home. Which is just where you should be, and I hope where you soon will be, once I get some tea into you.”

“But Rector—”

“Now, now… just listen to that rain and wind…” he rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “The lord is wrathful tonight. It was likely nothing more that the wind in the trees you heard, rattling against the headstones in the grave yard.”

Mary listened, but her eyes betrayed her doubt. There was real fear in them, and the Rector knew it would be some time before he could quiet the old woman down. She was getting on in years now, and taken to wandering at all hours like this. It was a shame that she had no relations close by to care for her but, that being the case, he made it his duty to look out for her, one of his long time faithful parishioners.

“Wind in the trees?” Old Mary gave him a frightful look. “I’ve heard the wind, Rector, and sat up many a night at prayers through storms worse than this. Oh, no sir, this was something more. Ungodly it was! The way it wailed after that bell. And now that you mention, it was comin’ from the churchyard. Such a disturbance! I’d know wind in trees, and this was something else altogether.” She crossed herself with a shiver, yet allowed herself to be guided along the hallway and into the sitting room.

“Well now,” the Rector decided to compromise. “If you’ll promise me to sit here and take in a bit of tea, I’ll do you the kindness of having a look at the chapel. It’s more than likely a stray cat in a quarrel, but if it will set your mind at ease, I’ll see that all is well.”

“Would you, Rector? Such a fright it was, chasing a poor old woman from her votives. It would comfort me if you would go and make your blessing. But have a care! I know the wind when I hear it, and I know cats. Something in that churchyard let loose with a howl that was like to disturb the dead!”

The Rector smiled, reassuringly as he sat Mary down near the hearth. “Well, we mustn’t have that,” he said. “Not with such distinguished company resting in the yard.” He was referring, of course, to the grave sites of the Churchill family, for the famous Prime Minister was laid to rest here at St Martin’s, in the hamlet of Bladon, close to his birthplace at Blenheim Palace.

“Now you just sit tight, and drink this tea. Fortunate for you I’m even up this night but, as you can see, I was restless with the storm and reading to quiet my mind.” He gestured to a thickly bound copy of Dante. “Talk of wailing and moaning! I was well absorbed in Dante’s Inferno, with the good lord’s harrowing of Hell, when you come to the door in such a fit. Warm yourself now, and if we get a break in the storm I’ll see you safely back to your cottage on the Green.”

“But you’ll not forget the churchyard,” Mary persisted. “It’ll need your blessing for certain, Rector. For what I heard this night had little respect for the dead, no matter how many lordships and ladies may sleep in those graves.”

“In a little while,” the Rector placated her with a calming gesture of his hand. “Looks like the rain may ease a bit after midnight. Then I’ll go and have a look if it will set your mind at ease. After that it’s off home with you. I’ve an early day tomorrow.”

The rector gave a reassuring nod and went on his way, down the long cold hallway to the cloak room so he could throw on a warm wool overcoat. The things I do in the tending of my sheep, he thought. Old Mary is getting a bit daft these days. She’s taken to keeping odd hours in the chapel, fitfully watching that graveyard as though she had an appointment to keep there soon. Don’t we all, he thought. Yet the cold rain on his cheeks and the bite of the wind made him feel alive when he was finally out the door and headed over to the chapel.

He stood for a moment, looking at the iron fence around the churchyard, and thinking of the man who was laid to rest there. Ah, Winston, you were a man for your time. The world was falling into the inferno of the Second World War and you were there to catch it and hold the damn thing up on your shoulders like Atlas. What would have come of Western civilization without a man like Churchill to keep watch with his steely resolve and bull headed perseverance?

He went in through the side entrance to the chapel, listening, as though he thought he might hear the wail of a demon, but all was calm and quiet, save the quiet stippling of the rain on the roof as the storm abated. It was just daft old Mary, he thought. He’d best get back to her and see her off to her cottage in the village.

But it wasn’t daft old Mary…It was Ian Thomas and his drill, and even as the Rector finished up and was making his way back along the gleaming wet cobblestone walkway, collar pulled high against the wind, a few yards beneath his feet Ian Thomas was creeping silently through the long tunnel he had dug, a night stalker making off with his ill gotten gain.

Stalking through history, he thought to himself as he reached the end of his narrow tunnel, slipping up the ladder and up through the floor boards of the cottage he had rented for just this little mission. He shivered, glad to be out of that long damp passage and back in a room that promised some warmth. But he had it now, the canister was well packed with enough ash to fulfill the Duke’s purpose nicely enough.

Ian held up the sealed metal container, smiling. “Begging your pardon, Sir Winston,” he said aloud with a grin. “I wouldn’t be one to pilfer a man’s grave, but the pay is so good that I could do nothing else. My, my… you don’t look nearly as imposing sitting here in my metal jar—not at all like that towering figure you were in your day, champion of the West; bulwark of the British Isles. Look at you now…”

The edge of his lips was already tipped up in a devious smile, and that look of profound satisfaction was settling onto his features as he contemplated his reward. All he had to do now was retrieve his drilling equipment and shovel, and fill in the hole again. No one would be the wiser. Then it would be off to see the Duke. There would be the usual rigmarole, of course—the DNA testing, the weighing and measuring of the sample, but he knew he would satisfy on both counts. Then he would hear the same old litany again, that he was not to breath a word of this to any living soul. Well of course not! Who would believe it?

Then his favorite part… the check, the million pounds tucked neatly away in his jacket pocket. This little caper was going to make his life very comfortable for the foreseeable future. Nine days of back-breaking work, a little stealth and imagination, and he was a wealthy man. Now he had the rest of his life to spend that money, and he was already thinking just what he would want to buy first.

But he did not know then that the rest of his life could be very, very brief. For the world was digging its own little tunnel at that moment—nine days on the journey to hell.

And it was already Day Five.

Chapter 16

He was standing by the tapestry, admiring the loom and color of the piece, and the exquisite artistry of the crest woven above his house coat of arms. Sir Roger Ames, Duke of Elvington, was also listening carefully to the account of his acquisitions agent, just back from Bladon where he had been working the operation under St Martin’s church. The Duke was the latest appointment to the peerage, with lands and estates in the County of York. There had not been a Duke outside the Royal Family for generations, and so the appointment was a rare privilege, but then again Sir Roger Ames was accustomed to rarity and privilege, and had come to expect as much in all walks of life. Now he was assuring himself that a certain matter he had commissioned was completed to his satisfaction.

“And sir,” the agent continued, “I can report that the operation was a complete success. The sample has been recovered, and with more than sufficient quantity, and the access has been resealed to a depth of six feet.”

“Not the whole of it?” the Duke questioned.

“Six feet has proven to be more than enough in prior circumstances, your Grace.”

“Yes, well that might do on foreign soil, Mr. Thomas, good for the tunnel work in Egypt I suppose, but this is the homeland we’re speaking of. Can you assure me this won’t make news one unfortunate morning with something on the order of a sink hole?” The Duke wasn’t really concerned about it, but pretended nonetheless. There wasn’t time to be worried. There were only four days remaining.

“Oh, most assuredly not, sir. All the reinforced wood work remains in place. There should be no trouble of the sort. In fact, I would venture to say the ground is stronger now than before. Remember that I was able to use that utility tunnel to get a good deal of the way. Otherwise I could never have completed a tunnel of that length in just nine days. The rest has been very well sealed.”

“Won’t it erode?”

“In time, sir, but the cavity is likely to simply fill up with rain water, which will give the whole scene the appearance of a natural aquifer if ever uncovered.”

The Duke gave him a dubious glance, indicating that he simply didn’t buy that argument, but the man didn’t seem prepared to quibble the point further.

“Sufficient quantity, you say?”

“Seven pounds, your Grace—that’s two pounds beyond the normal delivery specification. Quite adequate.”

“Quite,” said the Duke. “And certification?”

“Everything is in order, sir. DNA testing has come back double plus to the good. I have the lab reports right here with me as part of the delivery.”

“Very well,” said the Duke, turning now to regard the man he had been speaking to for the first time. Ames was a tall man, straight back, impeccable deportment, a thin twirl of a mustachio beneath a well used face, yet the lines there had given him a stately expression, haughty yet deepened with hint of hidden wisdom, the eyes dark and yet soft in their regard and lit with the confidence of intelligence. He was a man who had seen enough of the world to know the difference between good times and bad. And times were good on the Elvington Estate just now. Very good.

“Mister Thomas, might I inquire on another matter?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Have you any training in martial arts, military matters, weaponry and such?”

“I was a Lieutenant in Four Five Commando, Royal Marines, sir. Well trained in special combat arts and operations.”

“Excellent. And would you be available for a very special assignment in the immediate future—say a few days time?”

“For you, sir, I am available any time at your convenience.”

“This would be a rather long term assignment, somewhat dangerous, I suppose, but also somewhat exciting.”

“I am yours to command, your Grace.” Thomas knew better than to ask what the compensation would be. He knew he would be well rewarded, and was pleased to land a potential new contract this quickly.

“Very well…You may make your delivery then, Mister Thomas. Leave the report on my desk. The secretary will issue a sight draft for the agreed commission—all this subject to verification by the auditors, of course. I will contact you tomorrow regarding the new assignment I mentioned.”

“Certainly, sir. And thank you, sir.” Ian Thomas made a polite head bow, bending slightly, recognizing he had been dismissed without so many words. One had to have a keen ear for intonation when speaking to this sort, and Thomas had done business with some of the wealthiest men in Europe.

He turned and walked back down the long carpeted hall, bowing slightly again as he backed out the door and pulled it gently closed. Only then did he allow himself the broad smile that finally stretched his wide features into a Cheshire Cat grin. The image of the sight draft he was about to collect was already running through his imagination. Not bad for a few days work, he thought, and an second assignment to boot!

In his office the Duke ambled casually over to his desk, hands clasped behind his back, eyes searching out the file the man had left him. He sat down in his comfortable leather chair, and opened the file, his lips taut as he read, with the occasional scratch of his chin.

“Ah, Winston,” he said aloud. “To think that you’ll soon be gleaming on a pendant.”

He thought on that…who to gift with this little treasure? It would buy the affections of the Lady Pomroy, yes? But he would have to show it round the group, and soak up a bit of the envy a good finished stone was likely to induce. Old Maitland would have a fit if I should trot this one out, what? The man thought he was firmly planted on the high ground with the Marlboro stone. We’ll see what he has to say about old Winston. Then again… I could take it with me when I leave.

He held that thought for a while, considering.

The Duke was a member of a very select club, one of many such gatherings in a wealthy man’s social circles. For years now they had been amusing themselves by seeking out the remains of famous people the world over, all long since dead and safe in the arms of history. Yet new technologies could take a sufficient quantity of their ashes and create something extraordinary, something rare and beautiful, something utterly unique, and such things had a way of being particularly desirable in the circles he frequented.

In this case his agent had just certified delivery on the remains of one Sir Winston Churchill, fresh from his cemetery repose at Bladon in Oxfordshire. The material, mostly just ash but still laden with carbon, would be soon be subjected to the immense pressures and temperatures required to create a certified diamond, and Sir Winston would become the latest glittering acquisition in the Duke’s collection. A company called “LifeGem” had been creating diamonds this way for years, mostly run of the mill ring stones made from the remains of passed “loved ones.” But the Duke, and a select group of like-minded men and women of means, had grander tastes.

He thought, for a moment. This man Thomas was good, very good indeed. Four Five Commando is it? Well enough. He may just be the man I need for this little adventure. Rumors had been floating about for some time that Maitland was up to no good again. It was said he had an exceptional find to present at the next meeting…the final meeting in just a few days time. There weren’t many left, he knew. A pity that this would be their final meeting.

We shall see, he thought. Perhaps I just might steal a bit of Maitland’s thunder with this if LifeGem can roll it over in time, yes?

He chided himself for not thinking the whole plan through carefully. A little foresight and he might have had something more in keeping with his chosen path. Being fond of themes, perhaps a nice stone created from the remains of another famous duke might compliment this one—say, the Duke of Wellington? For that matter, his nemesis Napoleon Bonaparte might be a worthy compliment. Yes, those two stones side by side would make an awesome display, would they not? Particularly if everything works out as I imagine.

He seemed pleased with that thought, and opened a drawer, slipping the file inside and pushing it closed again until the security latch clicked tight. Now onto more pressing matters. This business in the news of late, British flagged tanker struck amidships by a missile in the Straits of Hormuz, Royal Navy frigate attacked by the Russians in the Black Sea and another Fairchild tanker sent to the bottom there. What was this about now? It was sounding rather ominous. He tapped his desk, thinking on the matter.

Fairchild & Company, he thought. Yes, I was told to look out for that one in the latter days. It was a small outfit that had been making runs out of the Gulf into Milford Haven. He had the file open now, reviewing the company profile…Assets of a reported seventeen billion, most of that in fleet tonnage and estates in Aberdeen and on the Isle of Man. What was this note due now at month’s end? Bank of London, $200 million in US denominated dollars. How gauche. He preferred his accounting in British pounds, particularly for any company serving the interests of the Crown. But as this was primarily an oil company, and oil was exclusively traded in dollars, or had been until very recently, he excused the transgression.

He flipped the page, glancing at the company’s last reported balance sheet, with a particular interest in cash flows. He noted that there had been four entries over the last month, each one attributed to deliveries received at Milford Haven, where the company berthed its fleet tankers. The revenues had been diverted out to cover the last three months operating expenses, licensing, insurance, payrolls, and then there was this last entry labeled ‘Special Projects,’ that aroused some interest.

It was a $200 million credit line Bank of London was calling in at month’s end. What with the chaos on the markets of late, Barclays sniffing up the skirts of Goldman before it collapsed, Halifax, a big British housing lender damn near buggered, Northern Rock gone, Bradford & Bingly nationalized, he could see why. Credit was tighter than ever throughout the world. But this was a rather extravagant expense to slip in under an opaque heading like ‘Special Projects.’ Could Fairchild be involved in the special project, the same project he had been favoring and arranging for some time now? Was she a key holder too?

He flipped the page, noting the biography of one Elena Fairchild, the company owner and CEO. Well named, he thought, struck by the mature beauty of the woman. Decent pedigree, he concluded, with ancestors fighting in the Crusades. Family tree connected to the Landkey Fairchilds of North Devon…Coal and iron merchants owning a fleet of small vessels, which plied to Wales and Sussex. My, how the acorn never seems to fall far from the tree, he mused. A bit of spark in the blood line. They rigged out several of their ships to fight with Drake and against the Spanish Armada. Decent of them.

“Well, Miss Fairchild…” he said aloud, noting she remained unwed with some interest. She might make for an interesting companion on his little journey, then again, she might be nothing more than an encumbrance. It didn’t matter. She was half a world away, and the world was going to hell. He knew it, and a handful of other very wealthy and well connected men and women knew it too, and the days were running down. There wasn’t much sand left in the hourglass. This war was going to spin out of hand and make a grand end of things, and that was very inconvenient—unless you were very well prepared; unless you had a plan.

He had carefully positioned all his assets in recent months, making sure that his exposure to the black hole in the markets that was eating Goldman Sachs this morning could not touch him in any way, not that it mattered any longer. His mind had been focused on one thing only, a singular project…yes…how to find a place of quiet and serenity where he could live out his life in peace and exercise the considerable wealth and power he possessed at the same time—unmolested by current regulations and constraints, or the wild annoyances of the modern financial system.

Now he had just the ticket—as did a very few others. They were men like Maitland; women like Lady Pomroy, and perhaps even promising newcomers like this Elena Fairchild. She would have to pass muster, of course, and the scrutiny of the committee, but it might be arranged at the next meeting. It might. Then again, perhaps she is already a key holder as well. No one really knew the names and identities of every person privileged to hold a key. A pity to leave a woman like that one behind. Perhaps he could make inquiries.

“I see your cash flow is running a bit thin, Miss Fairchild. Seems to me you’ve got most of your quarterly profit burning in the Straits of Hormuz or lying on the bottom of the Black Sea.”

Yes…Princess Royal was your largest tanker, and you were probably counting on her to make good with the Bank of London. Pity. Let’s hope you make it through the Bosporus with your last two ships. And what’s this bit here…Argos Fire, a converted Daring class destroyer purchased some years ago for refit. How very interesting.

He thought on this large sum columned off to ‘Special Projects,’ his curiosity getting the better of him. He’d have a word with Jameson over that the Bank and see what they knew about it. Under the circumstances, and given the rather thin reserves this lady seems to have in hand at the moment, the company is looking just a tad vulnerable now, isn’t it? He sighed, realizing his old instincts for an easy kill and quick acquisition were misplaced here. It didn’t matter any longer. He had other ‘arrangements’ now, and if this Fairchild was a key holder then she would have other arrangements as well, and not be bandying about in the Black Sea worried about oil.

With that in mind he wondered if he should consider taking a man like this Thomas fellow along with him for the utilization of his special talents. He might prove very useful indeed. He decided to make him an offer, and was confident all would be well, reaching for his intercom to buzz the secretary.

“Yes sir?”

“Calendar clear for the day?” he asked.

“Nothing the remainder of the afternoon, sir.”

“Good. Ring Mister Thomas Tell them I should like to meet with him again in the morning. Shall we say six AM?”

“Very good, sir.”

That should be sufficient, he thought. A man like Thomas could be much more useful than Fairchild. She’d have to be looked after, fawned over, and might end up being a nuisance more than anything else. He had come round to thinking of his plan as something more like a safari than a pleasure cruise. In that circumstance, Thomas was the much better fit.

Then he looked at his calendar for the next week. It’s a pity he was going to have to disappoint so many people. Some were coming to seek venture capital, others to make business proposals, merger offers, lucrative expansion deals. He left all the appointments in place, though if all went well he would not be here to ever worry about them again. He would be somewhere else entirely if all went as planned.

That thought brought all the excitement of the chase back again, the eagerness and anticipation of the great journey—if it worked. That was the kicker. It had to work. He decided to give this Professor Dorland another call to see about it. After all, he bankrolled a goodly amount to indulge the man’s extravagant ideas. But if he was on to something…if it actually possible…

Even as he reached for intercom to have his secretary arrange a secure line the telephone on his desk rang—Line 1. That raised an eyebrow, and a flash of concern as he reached for the receiver.

“Yes,” he said quietly, wondering what this was all about.

“Good afternoon, sir. I am sorry to report we may have an anomaly.”

“I see. You may have an anomaly?”

“We believe so, sir. The variation readings are very high. Would you care to look at the data?”

“Yes, of course. Please have a file on my desk within the hour.”

My, my, he thought. An anomaly! This was interesting. Was someone else planning something? Could it be Maitland? The lady Pomroy? Whatever it was, he had to get a handle on it at once.

Chapter 17

It had been forty-eight hours since the disastrous eruption of the Demon imposed its will on the seas around Hokkaido. In that time the remnant of the Red Banner Pacific fleet had withdrawn into the Sea of Okhotsk as the wounded CVBG Washington retired on Guam. Even as the battle erupted in the Black Sea between units of Fairchild Inc. and the Russian Black Sea Fleet, Captain Tanner’s stricken carrier had effected a loose rendezvous with CVBG Nimitz in the region north of Marianas. Additional support was close at hand with CVBG Eisenhower, which had moved up the coast of Malaysia and through the Sulu Sea to head east for Guam.

The US was now consolidating its naval power for the next phase of its planned operations. Intelligence had been unable to ascertain the fate of the core of the Russian fleet. Satellite photography was impossible due to the enormous and expanding plume of ashfall from the volcano, and submarine contact was hit and miss on sonar due to the continuing seismic turmoil caused by the eruption. Now both sides were quietly prowling the undersea environment with subs, listening on passive sonar as they crept through the deep murky waters. Behind it all the constant rumble of the volcano growled from subterranean depths with an ominous undertone.

Naval planners on the American side deemed further operations by the Russian fleet would be impossible unless the flotilla sortied into the Sea of Japan where it would be vulnerable to land based air power from the main island of Honshu. For this reason they elected to withdraw south and consolidate to confront the real threat in the ongoing operations being mounted by China against Taiwan.

Rod Leyman, White House Chief of Staff, was meeting again with defense analyst Lt. Commander William Reed, Air Force General Henry Lane, and the newly appointed five star Navy Admiral William Ghortney. A tough and experienced naval professional, Ghortney had pinned on his gold wings long ago as a naval aviator, and the stripes on his cuff were well earned with well over 5000 error free flying hours and 1200 safe carrier landings under his belt. He had served in executive capacities on six fleet carriers, including both the Nimitz and Eisenhower, both now prowling like angry sharks in the waters north of Guam. It was his combat experience in operations against Iraq and service involving other maritime security roles that made him the ideal man for the job now facing the Navy. But the Admiral had some hard questions to ask that day.

“Who the hell sent that flash traffic to Tanner? That’s what I want to know. We had Nimitz out there on his right flank and that order prodded him to act unsupported. Damn sloppy in my judgment.”

“It didn’t come from this office,” said Leyman. “We paint the broad strokes here, but I have no idea what flash traffic even is.”

“You’re telling me the order did not originate from the White House Situation Room? Well it sure as hell didn’t come from the Joint Chiefs. I was in a meeting with the entire group not three hours ago and we heard nothing of this flash order that sent Tanner into action.”

“If I may, sir…” An adjutant stepped forward at the Admiral’s elbow and handed him a file.

Ghortney flipped the cover open and looked it over, a single raised eyebrow registering surprise as he read. He finished and set the file on the table, covering it with his stripe festooned jacket cuff. Then he looked Leyman square in the eye.

“I was just handed a message trace file on that order, and it appears to be classified above top secret. That makes it an SCI file, so I am not at liberty to discuss it further unless everyone in this room has the necessary clearance.”

SCI files were those reserved for Sensitive Compartmentalized Information. In the labyrinth of security protocols it amounted to a “need to know” designation on the file, with access strictly limited to a select group of individuals. That alone was a surprise to Ghortney, for his designation as five star Fleet Admiral placed him at the top of the chain of command now for all naval matters. That any message should be sensitive enough to bypass his inbox before an order was issued made for some very uncomfortable feelings in the gut, particularly around a table like this, where decisions were about to be made that would affect the outcome of this rapidly developing conflict and the world that would be left when it was over. Ghortney wasn’t happy about the situation.

“I’m going to be frank here and say that if I sit down to a card table for a good hand of poker, I damn well want to see every card the dealer hands me. Now, I wasn’t born yesterday and I know there are segments of this government that are buried so deep you’d need an undertaker to show you the door, but this doesn’t work for me. I don’t care if you tattoo these orders with code words from Aardvark to UMBRA. This one here was coded Watchstander-1G, for what it’s worth. If I’m appointed theater commander, I want all tactical orders routed to me, and I call the shots. Clear?”

“I wish I knew what you were talking about, Admiral.”

Reed cleared his throat and intervened. “Excuse me, Mister Leyman. What the Admiral is saying is that this order was not cleared through his desk because of a security classification issue. It was most likely designated SI, that would be Special Intelligence, and the sources and methods that developed the information are highly classified, as well as the heads that information is disseminated through.

“If I’m in command then this head better be on that list,” Ghortney said pointedly. “Anybody wants to start pushing naval carrier battlegroups around on a map, then I want to know about it and approve—that’s what I’m saying.”

Leyman seemed surprised. “You mean to say these orders were withheld? You never saw or approved them?”

“Correct.”

Now it was Leyman’s turn to sit with that discomfort. Yes, the US Government was a deeply furrowed maze of convoluted byways, where information flowed through secret plumbing from wells of power that he could not even fathom. There was NSA, CIA, black projects originating in organizations like DARPA, and virtually every branch of the military. Even NASA held secrets that few were privy too—things seen in orbit, things found on the moon and Mars, things too secret to ever contemplate open discussion. Now here was the Admiral in charge filing a complaint in the White House Situation Room and claiming key intelligence had been denied him and battle orders were issued without his knowledge or consent. It was a most uncomfortable situation.

“I understand,” Leyman began. “Well I can look into this, Admiral Ghortney, and I can also tell you that we were as much in the dark about this as you were. What is this classification you spoke of?”

“Watchstander-1G. God only knows what it’s supposed to mean, but I’m issuing standing orders that no commander under my authority is to act on any order that does not originate from FLEETCOM-1—that’s me, gentlemen—a new designation for the command I now hold. I don’t want to sound arrogant, or even selfish, but that’s the way I play the game. The congress handed me this fifth star for a reason. I know the Executive Branch is fond of reminding us that the buck stops on that desk in the Oval Office, but unless the President wants to set up shop and start issuing fleet deployment and combat orders, I’d prefer to do the job myself.”

“You’ve got it,” said Leyman. “I can’t say I’ve heard anything of this Watchstander thing, but I can find out what happened here and see that it doesn’t happen again. General Lane, have you any light to shed on this?”

“I’m afraid not. If that attack order was deemed to be above the Admiral’s desk then they sure as hell wouldn’t send it to me.”

“Then we are agreed that no one in this room knew that this message, this flash traffic as you call it, was even sent.” Leyman scratched his head. This was the White House Situation Room!

“That appears to be the case,” said Ghortney. “And to put it bluntly, that stops now.”

“Your pardon, sir,” said Reed. “That may require some rather high lever intervention. Anything coded SI-GAMMA-UMBRA would take an Executive Order to inhibit or restrict dissemination. In fact, and no offense here Mister Leyman, the President may get a daily intelligence briefing, but there are lists out there that will not even have his name on it, and that’s just the fact of the matter.”

“I see…” Leyman looked concerned. “Well if that’s what it takes—an Executive Order—then I’ll raise the matter with the President. In the meantime, before I take this to the old man himself, can you paint me a picture of what we’re going to do about this situation in the Pacific? I understand your position entirely, Admiral Ghortney. If we stand you up in front of the tiller then the ship is yours. I’ll tell you right now that I’ll do everything possible to see your decisions are final.”

“Much obliged,” said Ghortney. “As to our intentions at this point, I can brief you on that right now. General Lane here has his assets in theater ready to go now. The two Missiles North Korea tried to lob at Guam were successfully intercepted and he has a number of strategic assets now in place for deep strike missions. It’s time we begin offensive operations. General Lane?”

“Sir, I have Bones, Bats and Buffs in theater now, and I can put missiles and heavy metal wherever you need it.”

“Bones and Bats?” Leyman looked at Reed.

“That will be B-1B Lancers, B-2 Spirit stealth bombers, and our older B-52s, Mister Leyman.”

“Buffs? Where do you guys come up with this stuff?”

“It stands for Big Ugly Fat Fellow, sir. A term of endearment among the air corps.

“Correct,” said Lane. “We’ve cued up that X-51C WaveRider strike Mission and it’s ready to go. The first thing we have to do is take out their ability to access space and prevent any further attempt to hit our satellites.”

“You’re talking about hitting the Chinese?” Leyman wanted to know what he had to take to the President.

“That’s right, the Chinese…But the Russians are on my short list now as well. We may have to hit their primary Cosmodromes and other key launch sites if we want to do this right.”

“You’re talking about a strategic attack on Russian soil?”

“With conventional bombers and ordnance. No nukes.”

“Yes, but will the Russians see these bombers coming? Might they interpret this as a nuclear attack?”

“Sir, if we wanted to launch a surprise nuclear attack we wouldn’t start with the bomber leg of the triad. We’d lead with ICBMs and sea launched missiles. So yes, they might be able to detect the incoming strike package, even if we use the B-2s, but we think they would correctly interpret the attack as conventional.”

“Well I’m glad you’re confident about that, General, because it’s making me just a little bit nervous when we start sending strategic bombers over enemy airspace. Is there any way we can limit our operations to the areas presently involved in the conflict?”

“You mean Taiwan and the North Pacific? STRATCOM is the wrong tool for that job, sir. We’re here for deep strike missions. Admiral Ghortney?” Lane wanted support.

“I agree with General Lane,” the Admiral put in quickly. “We have two carrier battlegroups mustered now, and CVBG Washington will be able to hand off its viable assets to either one to strengthen those groups. These are the tools, to use the general’s word, that we’ll use to beat the Chinese over the head with a hammer to settle this Taiwan business. The Strike Warfare Commanders and working with the Air Tasking Orders for Taiwan now. There was no way I was going to send the Eisenhower in to the South China Sea on its own after we saw what happened to Tanner on Big George. This time we will group our naval assets and use them in close coordination with one another. The Chinese have demonstrated some interesting and formidable capabilities. If we’re going to settle this matter, we’ll need everything we have in theater.”

“What about the Russian fleet?” Leyman was looking at his latest briefing on the matter.

“We think they’re down for the count—nothing we need concern ourselves with in the short run, except for the boomers. Those are the SLBM subs capable of launching missiles at the US from off shore. Thus far this business hasn’t escalated to an all out war at sea, but that’s where it’s headed. If this thing winds up any tighter, they’ll be after our boomers, and we’ll be after theirs, and I mean all over the globe.”

“The President is hoping we can limit this to the Pacific—to Taiwan and the Chinese.”

“Those hopes have already gone up in smoke, Mister Leyman.” Ghortney was not one to mince words. “The Russian 58th Army crossed the border into Kazakhstan this morning. They’re already operating to seize the oil fields in that region, and with the Persian Gulf up in arms, that matters. There’s also been an incident in the Black Sea involving British ships, not to mention that sucker punch in the Gulf of Mexico when they took a pot shot at that oil platform.”

“Thunder Horse? Yes, that one hurt us.”

“At least we got the damn sub, so they paid for that attack. The point I’m making is that the gloves are coming off. The Chinese have already gone after our satellites. The Russians and their proxies like Iran have hit strategic energy infrastructure that we rely on wherever they can find it. This is no longer a gentleman’s war. It’s time we get serious and let them know what they’re up against. It’s time we pushed back—and hard.”

“Very well….” Leyman looked from Ghortney to Lane. “Just what do you propose we do?”

“Hardkill SEAD will begin the operation,” said Ghortney. “We’ll use the Tomahawk Land Attack Cruise Missile and other similar assets off both surface and subsurface naval units, and from aircraft as well.”

“Seed?”

Ghortney spelled it for Leyman. “Suppression of Enemy Air Defense,” he explained. “We hit their known SAM sites and radars. That clears the airspace for the second wave that General Lane will be sending.”

“My bombers are ready,” Lane said quickly. “We lead with the B-2 strike and take out their satellite launching facilities. The B-1s can then be tasked against the airfields they are now using to support operations against Taiwan. We can pound them with more cruise missiles, smart bombs, and take those fields down in 24 hours. Then Admiral Ghortney might have something further to say about things.”

Ghortney nodded. “The next task would be establishing air superiority over Taiwan. CVBG Washington is down for the count at the moment, but I’ve got Nimitz and Eisenhower ready to move west, and we’ll hold Tanner’s remaining assets in the Washington group as a reserve until Third fleet reinforces us. CVBG Bush is already heading for Pearl Harbor. That will give us sufficient naval air power to restore order in the skies over Taiwan, and once we do that, the Chinese will think twice about the troops and equipment they’re loading on their amphibious shipping. We need to move quickly, and hit hard if they begin cross channel operations.”

Reed cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Admiral, but what about the DF-21s?”

“What about them?”

“The Chinese know their trump card is the ballistic missile. Look how they went to it right at the outset when they tangled with the Japanese. You move those carriers west and you might be looking at DF-21’s trying to make a clam chowder out of your operational zone.”

Reed had put his finger on the strategic crux of the matter. The aircraft carrier had reigned supreme in naval strategy since it proved itself in the Second World War. Now, for the first time, the threat of ballistic missiles was posing a grave challenge to carrier dominance. Just as the capabilities of carrier launched planes had ushered in the demise of the battleship, now ballistic missiles threatened to dethrone the carrier.”

“Well, Mister Reed,” Ghortney put it as straight as he could. “We’ll just have to see about that, wont we. We’ll just have to pound those missile sites to dust as well.”

Chapter 18

“The KA-226 is reporting in now, sir,” said Rodenko. “We have good long range radar returns on the American battlegroups to the south. It appears that they are bringing up another large flotilla.”

“Show me.” Karpov leaned heavily on the rim of the radar panel as Rodenko pointed out the contacts.

“I’ll have the data transferred to the tactical board, sir. This looks like yet another carrier task force—at least ten capital ships, and communications has intercepted ship-to-ship radio traffic. Nikolin believes Admiral Halsey is commanding.”

“That would agree with Fedorov’s books,” said Karpov.

“Yes, well I’m reading 34 additional ships in this group. Add those to the units we are already tracking and we are now facing no less than 60 enemy warships of various types.”

“Nine carriers, four battleships and three heavy cruisers,” said Karpov matter of factly. “That is if the historical data is accurate. The rest are light cruisers and destroyers.”

“We have 62 SSMs, sir.” Rodenko’s eyes conveyed the obvious admonition. “That is not enough conventional weaponry to effectively oppose a force of this size. And those carriers will likely have hundreds of aircraft available.”

“Correct.” Karpov was pacing now, thinking and considering his situation. It was shaping up very much like those last frantic moments off the coast of Newfoundland when the ship was faced with multiple enemy task groups. The weapons tally was no more favorable then, and he had determined that stronger measures were necessary. Why was he hesitating now?

“How long before those ships might threaten us with another air strike?”

“The Sprague group has been loitering about a hundred kilometers due east of Shikotan Island, Captain. They could launch now, but radar returns show only modest combat air patrols over that group. I believe they are waiting for the Halsey group, which should reach strike position in about ninety minutes if we proceed on our present course and speed. If we were to hold in place, make that three hours.”

Karpov’s eyes narrowed. “Helm, port fifteen. Mister Nikolin, signal the flotilla to match our movements. We will circle in place.”

“Aye, sir.”

The order seemed to ease the tension a bit on the bridge, and Rodenko was relieved that the Captain seemed to want to buy himself a little more time to consider the situation. Karpov appeared ill at ease, however, as if the weight of the decision was heavy on him now.

“They are not making the mistake Captain Tanner did in 2021,” said Karpov.

“Sir?”

“Tanner tried to take us on single handedly. The Americans had another carrier approaching, the Nimitz, named for the Admiral commanding their fleet in this timeframe. Tanner came in alone and he paid for it, just as this Sprague group would have paid a high price if they pressed that last attack against us.”

“But they called that attack off and consolidated,” said Rodenko. “Now they present us with a much stronger force.”

Karpov was pacing. “Get hold of Orlan and Golovko,” he said to Nikolin again. “Ask Yeltsin and Ryakhin if they can join me for a conference in thirty minutes aboard Kirov.” Then he turned to sonar. “Mister Tasarov—keep a sharp ear. I want the KA-40 up on ASW patrol and coordinating with Golovko. No surprises please.”

“Aye, sir. Our immediate zone of operations is clear and I am monitoring the situation closely.”

“Good man… Rodenko, you have the bridge.”

Karpov stepped toward the aft hatch, his eye catching the red emergency lighting and manual lock switch as he did so, and a thrum of anxiety rose in his stomach. The memory of that moment when he had opened the hatch and saw the dull gleam of that light on the barrel of an assault rifle pointed at his chest returned to him. The stalwart figure of Sergeant Troyak standing in the hatch opening… the cold, emotionless eyes of the Siberian Marine, the feel of his hand like iron on his own when Troyak took his missile key…The humiliation that followed seared him again as he recalled what happened. The image of Orlov’s face as he looked at him, a quiet sneer of disgust in his eyes, and the last words the Chief spoke to him… “Consequences, Karpov. Consequences…” And all the while the sound of Kirov’s deck guns cracked in the air like a snapping whip, salvo after salvo. Then the sight of that distant mushroom cloud blossoming up on the horizon, and with it the realization of what he had done.

Karpov lowered his head, stepping quickly through the hatch, his face clouded and troubled.

“Captain off the bridge!”

He was down the ladder and heading aft, his footsteps leading him on past the officer’s mess, where another memory clawed at him. Orlov…He remembered how the big Chief had deliberately spilled coffee on his table, and his surprise in seeing him there as he left the officer’s mess. It was the last time he had spoken to Orlov, and his hand moved involuntarily to his side where the Chief had buried a fist in his gut.

Hot anger colored the Captain’s cheeks as he walked, quickly turning right to reach his quarters. He closed the door with a hard shove, taking off his Captain’s hat and wiping the damp sheen of perspiration from his forehead. Without thinking he went to a cabinet and took out a bottle of Vodka and a shot glass, sitting down at his desk with a hard thump as he hit the chair.

A dejected cold feeling surrounded him. He took a sip and then tipped the shot quickly down, breathing hard with the fire of the liquor on his throat. The taste of the Vodka triggered yet another memory of that drink he had with Admiral Volsky in the brig. He had been sullen and disrespectful, calling the Admiral an old man to his face and prompting him to fist the table top in anger. He could hear Volsky’s anger, well justified…

“You are talking to the Admiral of the Northern Fleet!”

Karpov’s own voice sounded thin and strident in return, and laden with resignation.

“Admiral of the fleet? What fleet is this you presume to command now, comrade? We are one ship, lost at sea, and lost in eternity. God only knows where we are now, but I can assure you, the fleet is long gone, and there is no one back home in Severomorsk waiting for us to return either. It’s all gone, Volsky. Gone! Understand that and you have your fat fist around the heart of it. If you want to understand what I did you need only open your hand and look at it. All we had left was this ship, Admiral, and no one else seemed to have backbone enough to defend it. If I had not taken command it is very likely that we would all be at the bottom of the sea now—have you considered that?”

Yes, he was considering it even now as he poured a second shot. It was all gone—Severomorsk and the Northern Fleet; Vladivostok and the Pacific Fleet—all gone. He was the new fleet commander, the proud remnant of all that was probably left of Russian Navy in the Pacific. That same logic sat like ice in his stomach. If the old life was gone then this was all he had—all any of them had—these three ships and the men he commanded. They could change the entire history of the world if they wished. They were the most powerful men on the earth at this moment. He had said as much to Volsky that day in the Brig. “I had my hand on the throat of time itself and I let it slip from my grasp. Don’t you understand what we could have done with this ship?”

Now he stared at Fedorov’s well worn book on his desktop. Fedorov, pure hearted Fedorov. There was a man with a conscience, eh? Karpov recalled the glassy look in Fedorov’s eyes as he stared at the burning wreck they had made of the battleship Yamato, and realized what he had done, and he remembered what he had said to him in consolation… “It will get easier.”

The echo of Fedorov’s response was still fresh in his mind…“I’m not sure I want it to,” the young Captain told him, and Karpov knew what he meant. It never really does get easier, he knew, not for a man with any shred of feeling in his heart.

Now Fedorov was out looking for Orlov, lost in the past even as he was. But he had one thing with him that Karpov found missing, that last thing at the bottom of Pandora’s jar. Fedorov had hope. He knew that Volsky and Dobrynin were feverishly working out his plan with the Anatoly Alexandrov to try and bring him home again.

That’s why I feel the way I do now, thought Karpov. There’s no hope, no one is looking for us. In fact, they probably have no idea what even happened to us. Who knows whether or not that letter I sent ever got through to Volsky?

Yet the more he thought of Fedorov, the more he wondered. He was supposed to get back to the year 1942. If he made it, and carried out his mission, that should all be over by now. If Dobrynin had somehow managed to rescue him, Fedorov would be safely home, back in the year 2021. Would the war still be raging there, or did he find a way to put an end to it?

Karpov shook his head, unwilling to believe that Orlov could have done anything to cause the war. He saw how it unfolded like a fan, how it was meant to be, in spite of what they read in that newspaper and the respite they won when he stayed Samsonov’s hand in the Combat Information Center and spared the American submarine Key West. Now he imagined Fedorov returning to the same bleak world of ash and cinder that they had seen on every shore they visited. He imagined the Anatoly Alexandrov sitting there in the Caspian Sea, fifteen kilometers off shore, a solitary island of metal, men, and hope. They would have put out patrols with anything they had available. They would have sent men to the naval base at Kaspiysk. What did they find there if they ever made it back? Was the world safe and sound, or just another lump of coal?

Something told him Fedorov was in for a real surprise, because no matter what Orlov did, or failed to do, he was not the last of the Mohicans any longer. No. That honor would fall to Captain Vladimir Karpov.

I wanted this, he thought. I dreamed of a situation like this, where I could take hold of fate itself by the throat and choke it to death if I chose to. And now I have that in my power once again! Rodenko is correct. The math becomes the brutal reality of the matter. Sixty enemy ships…Sixty two missiles. We put eight missiles and two torpedoes into Yamato…

Yet now I could win this battle with just one or two punches—a few missiles with warheads that could take out Halsey’s entire fleet. I would use another MOS-III, a second Starfire to put bookends on this whole charade, just as I did before. That is the sound tactical decision now—why am I hesitating?

The voice of Dr. Zolkin played out in his mind now, speaking last as they huddled in the sick bay trying to decided what to do when the ship appeared in the Tyrrhenian Sea. “You have all been discussing what we might do, what we are capable of doing, and yes, what the consequences may be in the end, but speak now to what we should do…” The implication of some moral element in the decision was obvious. “Yes, we can smash our way through these ships, and blacken Malta or Gibraltar if we so decide, but should we? Simply to secure our own lives and fate? How many will die if we attempt this?”

How many will die?

The Second World War was finally over, but the world had not seen the fire of Atomic weapons again…until Vladimir Karpov appeared to remind them of just what he had done once before. My God, he thought, thinking of the report Nikolin gave him a few minutes earlier. He had monitored the American radio calls and determined that the missiles they fired had struck a carrier—the Wasp, the very same ship I sunk in the North Atlantic! They built another one, and probably named it in honor of the first. Fate and time put the damn ship in front of me again and, lo and behold, what did I do? Now here I am ready to annihilate Halsey and all the rest of them, just as they are planning the same fate for me. We can crush them like insects… “But should we? Simply to secure our own lives and fate? How many will die if we attempt this?”

Even as he asked the question he knew the answer. He could hear it in the echo of his own pledge to Volsky before he was given a second chance by the Admiral… “I swear to you—here and now… I know what I did, and why, and that is over now. I know I deserve nothing but your contempt, but give me this chance and I will not fail you again—ever.”

The Captain caught a glimpse of himself in his shaving mirror, sitting there on the desk. He saw the pain and confusion on his own face, and knew he was far from decided on this matter. A second chance…. “If there is any shred of honor left in you, Karpov, I will give you this one chance to find it again.” Volsky had given him that. He treated him with respect—treated him like a man, and Karpov swelled with pride at the recollection of the Admiral’s praise when they finally made it through the storm and sailed home again. The eyes of every man on the bridge were on him when he belayed the order to fire on Key West, and he was every man on the ship at that moment—all of them.

A second chance. Time was handing it all to him once again. History doesn’t repeat itself, but it echoes…yes, and a haunting sound it is to sit and listen to it all again. What will it be, another missile, another MOS-III, another mushroom cloud on the angry sea? It had taken the eruption of hell itself to get him to this place—a place few men could ever stand—at the very edge of a second chance to do what he should do, to be a real man, and not a mindless shark.

Then his own words to Zolkin returned, biting at him, a clawing reminder that grew in the cold logic of war where the equation ‘kill or be killed’ was the solitary factor, and the synapse and nerve set the reflex that would make that difference and decide the issue for one side or another. He had given it all to the good doctor when the shrill alarm sounded to break off their discussion…“Listen, Zolkin,” he said quickly, a finger pointing to the scrambling sound of booted feet on the decks above them. “Hear that? This is no longer a question of what we should do, but what we must do. It is either that, or we go to the bottom of the sea like so many before us.”

Volsky had said much the same thing to him once as he tried to sort this whole impossible situation out. “Did we do all this?” The Admiral waved his arm at unseen shores as he spoke. “No. We did not. We only made it possible for them to do it—all the other generals and admirals and prime ministers and presidents. We showed them what power was, and they wanted it for themselves as badly as you wanted it, Karpov. So now we see the result. In truth, I cannot blame you any more than I blame myself, and all we have before us now is simply a matter of survival.”

Yes, we showed them what power was, and that was exactly what he wanted to do again. He had it all worked out in his mind, the missile, the mushroom cloud, the ultimatum that would follow like the dark rain of radioactive seawater. They were still cruising within sight of the Demon Volcano that had sent him here, and he could erupt as well, a Demon in his own right, and spew the wrath and fire of hell at his enemy to bring them under his heel in one swift act of retribution. But he would give them fair warning.

Can I reach an agreement of some kind here with these men? Can I make an arrangement? If not, I can show them what real power is. It would be as easy and flipping a switch.

But should I?

Chapter 19

It was a dull gray morning that day, all too common on the Caspian Sea, but as Captain Shlyupkin stepped onto the weather deck he wished the clouds were thicker. His ship, Caspian tanker Kulibekov, was one of four fat vessels in a long line heading south for Baku. Behind him came the Komitern, followed by Ubelikov and Amerika, each laden with war supplies bound for ports along the Caspian coast where the hard pressed 58th Army was struggling to hold back the German advance. There had been fighting at Kizlyar just a few days ago when German recon units tried to take the place in a surprise attack. The NKVD units had held the line there, but the 16th Panzer division had managed to cut the roads and rails leading north to the Volga, and the only way to get supplies through was by sea.

That made Captain Shlyupkin just a little more uncomfortable that morning, and he found his eyes searching the clouds overhead for signs of enemy planes. A little fog would do us a world of good now, he thought. Where is it when you need it? Thus far there had been no losses in the Caspian due to air attack, but something about the morning, the silence on the sea, the stillness in the air all conspired to whisper warning to him. There was a hush on the world, a quiet that could not last. Something was going to happen. He could feel it.

Shlyupkin had good reason to feel ill at ease. If this was now the only supply route south, the Germans would certainly know about it. And this was the first major convoy mounted since the rail line had been shut down. The Germans could have eyes on that coastline at this very moment. The flotilla was moving in towards the west coast now, bound for their first port of call at Kaspiysk just south of Makhachkala.

“Ruyazin… Smirnov! Get up on the main mast and into that crow’s nest. I want you up with binoculars looking for enemy planes. And sound that bell the moment you see anything. Right now!”

Smirnov was first up the ladder, Ruyazin following halfheartedly behind him. They settled into their watch like a couple of chicks in the nest, and it was not long before the bell rang that morning.

The Captain turned quickly. “Where?” he shouted, but his watch standers were not pointing at the sky, but ahead, off the bow of the ship where the mist rode lightly on the still waters of the sea. Smirnov was pointing a long arm forward, and the Captain turned, raising his field glasses to see what he was indicating.

At that moment the bell rang again, more urgent, a strident peal in the still morning air, and this time Captain Shlyupkin did not have to wonder what was coming. He could hear it, the muffled sound of aircraft engines, getting louder with each passing second. “Man the guns, All ahead full!” He shouted orders to the bridge and saw his crewmen scrambling to get the tarps off the two machine guns, his only defense.

Then he looked forward again, thinking he could finally make something out there, a formless shape on the sea. What was he seeing? They were well south, approaching the naval base at Kaspiysk. It might be trawler or other lighter out to meet us, he thought. And he hoped they had a few good more guns to join the fight that he knew would soon be underway. No… whatever it was, it was massive, like nothing he had ever seen before.

The growl of the planes was louder now, and he looked to see the dark shapes sharpen overhead as they came. Stukas! God help us, Stukas! How did they get this close?

They were flying out of makeshift bases east of Mozdok on the Terek River. The Germans had leap-frogged them closer to the front for just this purpose, so they could sink their 500kg bombs into the vulnerable tanker traffic heading south and cut the last supply route to the 58th Army. Shlyupkin saw their broad wings tip over and they started to dive. The scream of their engines sent a chill up his spine, and he heard the distant bells on the other ships ringing out the alarm, the sound of machine gun fire rattling the still morning air.

Then the first bombs began to fall with an awful wail.

“Get a move on. All you men must be down on the lower deck!”

Dobrynin shouted at the last of Bukin’s Marines as they trundled along the roof of the Anatoly Alexandrov, laden with arms and satchels. The vast bulk of the Mi-26 overshadowed them, its long rotary props drooping towards the roof deck in sweeping arcs.

The Chief was justifiably worried as the operation moved towards the last hurried stages of preparation to the launch hour. He had signaled Admiral Volsky two hours ago that the reactors were now fully operational and running safely, with Rod-25 mounted and ready to go. He immediately received the go ahead to launch his mission, and it was now well underway. The thing that worried him was the odd time delay that was sometimes noted between the conclusion of the maintenance procedure on Kirov, and the onset of the effects that resulted in time displacement. What if nothing happened? What if the magic wand that had sent them careening into the past would no longer work?

Dobrynin stood on the deck until the Marines were safely down the ladder and scrambling into the hovercraft below. There they would man the other equipment that had been crowded about the facility. A pair of Project 1206 Kalmar assault class hovercraft were moored close to port side of the floating power plant. Each one carried a single PT-76 light amphibious tank, and a contingent of 60 Marines. A third and larger “Aist” Class hovercraft, hull number 609, was moored to the starboard side. It’s carrying capacity was greater, up to 80 tons, and so it held more APCs. One was a ZSU 23-4 Shilka quad Anti Aircraft gun, and it was joined by two BTR-50 amphibious APCs. There was room left over for another 60 Marines and their supplies and equipment, bringing the land assault contingent to 180 men, all commanded by the newly promoted Lieutenant of Marines, Arseny Bukin. The three hovercraft would be collectively commanded by Captain Oleg Malkin of the 242nd division of amphibious ships, Caspian Flotilla.

What in the world are we doing, thought Dobrynin? He was a long way from his familiar old post aboard Kirov. As he stared at the big Mi-26 he wondered about the other two radiation safe containers aboard. Would they really work just like Rod-25? The whole plan was so characteristically Russian that it almost amused him. Why couldn’t they just use one rod installed at the Primorskiy Engineering Center to send the other one back, he had asked Admiral Volsky. Then they would not have to fly all the way from the Caspian to Vladivostok and the Pacific coast again.

“Two reasons,” Volsky had answered. “First, we don’t know how far back these other two rods will shift something, assuming they even work. Second, we have three ships there—two with nuclear propulsion units, Kirov and Orlan. Our plan was to get them all lined up, install one rod in the two nuclear powered ships with the Admiral Golovko sandwiched between them. Then we will try to run the maintenance procedure simultaneously and see what happens.”

“See what happens?”

“Yes, Dobrynin, I know it sounds crazy, but we could think of nothing more to do. One voice here suggested we hold these last two rods in reserve. Their obvious power would give us some amazing potential. But I refused. We must do everything possible to bring Kirov and the other ships home again. Their presence there is too much of an offense to the history. But you need not worry about that. your mission is to find Fedorov first, and hopefully Orlov as well. But make sure that helicopter gets safely on its way.”

“I understand, sir.” Yet Dobrynin did not really understand. This was the most insane exercise he had ever been involved in, and the thought that Volsky was relying on him as overall mission commander was heavy on him now.

“I’m not trained for combat operations,” he had argued when the Admiral first handed him the assignment.

“Don’t worry about that, Chief. Leave that to Bukin and his Marines. Captain Malkin has also been fully briefed. Yes, he found the situation unbelievable, as we all did at first, but he is a good officer. He will command the amphibious units and see to the defense of the Anatoly Alexandrov. You just do what you do best. Organize the mission, see to all the equipment and supplies, operate the reactors. We have even taken the precaution of mounting engines on the Anatoly Alexandrov, just in case you should need to move the platform for some reason or another. They are mounted aft, and will give you no more than 10 or 12 knots, but it would be enough in an emergency.”

“I will do my very best, sir.”

“I know you will, Dobrynin. Signal me the instant you return…And I hope to God we are all still here to greet you.”

That thought was a sobering one, and it underscored just what was at stake with this mission. It was no longer the fate of a few officers and men, or even the three ships they were foolishly trying to bring home. Something much more was on the table now, for they all knew well what the world could look like if they failed. They had seen it with their own eyes in the devastation of one port of call after another. Now they had come to tempt the dark unbottomed infinite abyss of time and fate itself.

Dobrynin sighed heavily, shook his head as he stared at the Mi-26, and then headed for the ladder down. By the time he made his way to the main operations center on the facility a young mishman rushed over with news from the radio room. The worry on his face was obvious.

“Sir, we just received a call from Kaspiysk Naval Base. They say they have radar returns on airborne contacts to our south”

“NATO planes?”

“We don’t know, sir. They are coming in very low, and quite slow, so they may be helicopters. Kaspiysk is activating the 847th Coastal Missile Artillery detachment.”

The young man’s worry was infectious. The war was now at their doorstep, but Dobrynin knew one thing about command that was an absolute necessity—a steady hand. The long years of patience and precision care in the operation of delicate and dangerous naval reactors would now stand him in good stead.

“Very well, mishman, return to your post.” His voice was calm and reassuring. He walked slowly to the operations center and gave the order to conclude the maintenance routine. He looked at his watch. They had dipped Rod-25 into the neutron flux over an hour ago. It was already being slowly withdrawn from the reactor core, but it would take another ten minutes for full extraction. If NATO was coming for them now he might not even get the mission underway, but he would have to leave that with the defensive units Volsky had provided. His job was to get Rod-25 in and out of the nuclear borscht, and hope for the best. Yet now he had need for haste.

“Increase rod withdrawal speed,” he said. “Use the number three rating.”

“Aye, sir. Increasing withdrawal rate to three.”

“Keep a sharp eye on those flux readings…” Dobrynin walked slowly to a chair and sat down, closing his eyes. He was listening to the music of the core. The score was different here, the harmonics and rhythm slightly varied from the music Kirov would sing to him, but the song remained the same. He could hear the subtle harmonies in the vibration of the system, and then he smiled. Yes…there it was…It was the same odd meter, the same rhythm and beat, He could hear Rod-25 conducting its nuclear chorus, and he knew the procedure would be a success, and very soon now.

“Sir!” The mishman was back again, his voice strained and urgent. “Kaspiysk says we are under attack! They are engaging with missile defense batteries!”

“Good for them,” said Dobrynin, slowly opening his eyes. “Let them do their work. We have already done ours.”

Lieutenant Ryan was not happy about his chances just now. They left one X-3 back at Baku as a reserve, as he had explained it. But he knew the real reason was that he did not want to risk losing all three helos and stranding the Argonauts there. Now his worse misgivings had come to pass. They had been spotted as they came in low from the south. The Russians were not sleeping as he hoped. His co-pilot Tom Wicks had just informed him the Russians had located his X-3s on radar.

“They’ll be painting us red in another few seconds,” he said.

“Bad manners, those Russians,” said Ryan. “Here we are just flyin’ in fast and low, and they get all miffed about it.” They were thirty kilometers out before they were seen. Yet they could not bring weapons to bear on the target ahead until they hit the 8 kilometer mark. Ryan had counted on speed and stealth to let him get in close to get the job done. The Russian radar system, code named Gravestone” was just too good.

“What do you figure they’ll be shootin’ at us,” asked Wicks?

“Missiles me boyo! Big fat missiles—probably S-300s, and maybe worse.”

“Not a whole lot worse out there than that mean fire stick,” said Wicks, but he was wrong. There was a whole lot worse, and the X-3s were about to meet it.

“Well you just get the jammers fired and be ready on ECM and chaff. That’s all we have between us and an early grave.”

The 847th Coastal Defense battery was firing the new Russian Triumf missile system, a vertically launched missile using the deadly 9M96E medium range SAM.

“There’s our target on radar,” he said. The two X-3s were riding very low now, right on the water, the churning wash of their rotors leaving a long mark on the sea as they came.

“Right, and I think they’ve still got us on radar as well. I have missile lock!”

“Evasive maneuvers and quick on those countermeasures!”Ryan pulled his X-3 up sharply as Wicks fired everything he had, the chaff littering the sky above them before Ryan dipped down low again. The first S-400 bought the ticket and they saw it streak high overhead and right through the chaff cloud like an angry shark attacking a school of fish.

“Damn!” Wicks shouted. “Did you see how fast that monster was? If they fire a few more of those, we’re toast for sure, Ryan.”

But the Lieutenant was so focused on his flying that he could not respond. He looked at his radar to check the position of his target…the signal was gone! The target should be clearly visible now on the horizon, but peering out the forward screen all he could see was a strange haze, like the shimmer of a mirage in a desert.

“What’s up Tommy? Where’s my target?”

Now it was Wicks turn to gape at the screen. “They must be jamming us,” he said quickly.

“Jamming us? Well the damn thing should be right in front of us by now, big as a beached whale!”

“Missile!” They saw a second SAM streaking up, then tipping over in a vicious high speed dive as it acquired a target. The two helos split apart, both firing chaff and blasting away with ECM countermeasures, but this time the missile was not fooled. It locked mercilessly on to the other X-3 and blew it to hell, striking the bird dead on and coming right in through the pilots cabin.

“This is madness,” said Ryan. “God bless you Wilson,” he said of the other pilot, and the sight of the fireball that had taken down the helo was enough to make him reconsider this ill planned mission. “We’re out of here, Tommy. Leave a string of hot flares and chaff behind us, and if you have any favors left with the old man upstairs, now is the time to call them in. Whatever we were after has run for cover. That had to be a damn submarine. It’s gone!”

It was no submarine, but Lieutenant Ryan was correct about one thing. The Anatoly Alexandrov was gone. Rod-25 had sang its song to infinity, and the big floating power plant had suddenly vanished.

For Ryan, his only thought now was to save his helo and the lives of all aboard before the Russians fired another missile at them. He streaked away, so low that his landing carriage was actually skimming the sea, his hand steady on the stick and a quiet Irish song and prayer playing in his head. “Guard us now, Lord. We could use a little of that luck of the Irish. And if this be the end of our journey, may we be half an hour in Heaven before the Devil knows we’re dead.”

The sudden disappearance of the Anatoly Alexandrov must have distracted the Russians at Kaspiysk. Or perhaps Ryan’s invocation was heard and answered, but no other missiles came for them that morning. The men at Kaspiysk had not been briefed as to the true nature of Dobrynin’s mission, and now they came to believe the enemy helicopters had gotten off a missile of their own and sunk the power plant. But they were wrong. Rod-25 had worked its magic again, and Anatoly Alexandrov vanished into the misty fog of time.

The mission was on.

Chapter 20

When it happened, Bukin was on the bridge of the big hovercraft with Captain Malkin, number 609, moored off the port side of Anatoly Alexandrov. He was watching the battle unfold as the coastal defense battery began firing S-400 missiles. Something was attacking, coming in low from the south, and he saw that Captain Malkin was immediately engaging his short range SAM system as a last ditch defense. He quickly ordered a squad of Marines up to the roof of the facility with hand held 9K338 Igla missiles. The name meant “needle” and the needles were sharp. NATO called the infrared seeking missile the SA-24 Grinch, but by any name it was a very capable infantry operated SAM system. If NATO was coming for them, they would greet them rudely with a sky full of needles.

Yet something about the moment seemed odd to him, the light breeze that had been blowing from the east suddenly halted and there came a breathless stillness. He heard a low pitched sound, descending even lower as if drawn into an unfathomable abyss until it was sucked beneath the range of human hearing to become a thrumming vibration, felt but not heard. The light seemed to waver around him, as if the day were fluttering in doubt.

Off in the distance he thought he saw the oncoming attack, two aircraft very low on the sea and firing flares and chaff. A shore based missile found one and ignited it in an angry fireball, the other seemed to dance wildly in the sky for a moment…and then dipped away low, obscured by mist on the sea. Perhaps it, too, was struck by fragments from that explosion and went down. What was NATO thinking by sending in a few helicopters like this? They had no chance to get through a battery of S-400s.

Then he heard a strange sound, high up, and growl of engines that were obviously aircraft, but very unfamiliar. In a split second he realized the attack must still be underway. He looked up to see the dark shapes falling like crows from the sky to attack…ships! A long column of what looked to be commercial cargo vessels sat in the dull gray light of the morning where the sea had once been completely empty. Could they have emerged from an unseen bank of fog in the distance? What were they doing there? These were restricted waters and Admiral Volsky assured him that no other traffic would be in the vicinity.

“Malkin—look there!” He pointed out the surface contacts.

Captain Malkin was equally surprised. A veteran in the Caspian flotilla, he had been charged with the command of the last remaining hovercraft for some years. It had mostly been a dull job of maintenance at the edge of the listless sea, with no more than one or two real live exercises per year. When he got news that he had been selected by Admiral Volsky to lead a special ops mission he swelled with pride. Then he heard the briefing and could not believe his ears. Vranyo was vranyo, a nice habitual stretching of the truth between Russians that was always part of the daily interchange of life. But Bukin seemed deadly serious.

“Yes, I know it seems madness,” he had told him, “but if this mission is successful you will see with your own eyes. I know,” he nodded confidently, “I was on Kirov.”

Now the madness was all around him, on the sea, in the sky above, and the natural shock of suddenly finding himself in completely different circumstances imposed a momentary paralysis as he gaped at the scene. Dark black aircraft were screaming down from the sky like birds of prey. What kind of planes were these? No…this was not NATO at all. This was what Bukin had warned him about. This was the Great Patriotic War!

His shock and surprise soon gave way to the rush of adrenaline that imminent battle produced. He could hear the distant, urgent peal of ships’ bells ringing out the alarm, and the sound of machine gun fire. Bright tracer rounds scored the sky as the cargo vessels put up their pathetic air defense. Then he saw a tall geyser of water and heard the booming explosion of a bomb as the first plane swooped low and began climbing again. It was a very near miss.

“Come on, Malkin! They’ll be after us next. Engage the bastards, Those must be German planes out there!”

Thankfully the squad of Marines on the roof had the same idea. A second bomb hit one of the cargo vessels with an enormous explosion. Then, seconds later, Bukin saw thin streaks lace through the slate gray sky as the needles sprang up after the diving planes. One, then three, then five missiles fired. He heard a loud whistling scream from above and ducked reflexively as another bomb fell very near the Anatoly Alexandrov sending a wash of seawater up high enough to wet the props of the big Mi-26 on the roof deck.

Malkin had finally shaken off the shock of the sudden transition and was rapidly engaging with the quad 9K32 Strela (arrow) missile defense battery on the 609 craft. It quickly put four arrows up to join the needles, and soon the sky was alight with flaming explosions as one missile after another found targets overhead and ignited them. The Germans got two hits on a single ship, but the missiles had thinned their ranks considerably and given them pause. The remaining planes were wheeling away to the west, heading for the perceived safety of the shoreline.

Bukin smiled, clasping Malkin on his shoulder. “Welcome to World War Two!” he shouted over the noise of the battle. “We got here just in time to kick the Germans in the ass! Those were Stukas!”

Fedorov was out on the weather deck with Troyak and Zykov when he heard the first bells ring. Thus far the journey south had been uneventful. The Amerika was last out of port, sailing to rendezvous with three other ships out of Astrakhan and bringing up the rear in a line of four commercial vessels. He could barely see the lead ship, and had wondered about the names of the other vessels in the line, worried about their prospects on this voyage.

When he inquired in the radio room he learned the bad news. The flotilla leader was Caspian tanker Kulibekov. Next came the Komitern, followed by Ubelikov and Amerika. He had made a point of studying the situation in the Caspian before they launched the mission. All these ships had been sunk by German air strikes! Kulibekov survived until November of 1942, but the other three, including their own ship Amerika, would go down in late October. He had double checked the dates of the attacks. The last two ships in the line would die together on October 26th. Komitern would be hit on the 30th and Kulibekov the following month. That was weeks away.

Then came the sound of aircraft overhead, the warning bells, the chatter of the machine guns. He stood calmly on deck by a gunwale, watching the skies and confident that this attack would fail—until the first bomb struck Ubelikov just ahead of them.

“My God!” he exclaimed. “It’s happening early. It’s happening now! If the rest of the history holds true, we’re next to be hit. We had better look to our lives, Troyak.”

Troyak was looking at something else. He pointed, a big grin on his face. “Have a look there,” he beamed. “Those are hand held Igla missiles!”

Fedorov looked to see the thin streaks of the missile tails threading the sky. They were coming from a point on the horizon ahead where he could dimly see the dark squat shape of something glowing with a wavering sheen like a mirage. “It’s Anatoly Alexandrov! They’re early! They’re here!”

They watched as a salvo of four more missiles went up, and Troyak said they were the arrow system off one of the hovercraft. The sight of the missiles in the sky filled them with renewed courage. It had been a long, hard journey from Vladivostok. All along the way the prospect that they would be marooned here indefinitely was very real, and each man sat with that, wondering if Stalin’s Russia would be their new home for the remainder of their lives.

“It worked!” Fedorov shouted over the sound of the growing battle. “Rod-25 did it again…Only they’re here early, or perhaps we’re late. I suppose there was no way we could really coordinate a mission like this. But one thing remains consistent—Rod-25—and those missiles are a welcome sight!”

“We could have saved ourselves that long train ride, Fedorov. Why didn’t we just go with the Alexandrov?”

“True, but we did not know that back then, Sergeant. All we knew was that we had a good chance of shifting back from the Primorskiy center reactor. We hoped our plan with the Alexandrov would work, but we could not be sure. Besides…” Fedorov paused, as if deep in thought now. “I think we needed to take that journey—that we were somehow meant to take it. That business on the stairwell at Ilanskiy was very important.”

Even as he said that Fedorov revisited his feeling that the encounter with Mironov at Ilanskiy was fated. Things had played out in a haphazard way. Yes, Troyak was correct to point that out. We could just as easily be sitting over there aboard Anatoly Alexandrov now, and would not have had to trek over a thousand miles to make this rendezvous. But then I would not have found that rift in time on the stairwell at Ilanskiy. I would not have met with Mironov, with Sergei Mironovich Kostrikov—Kirov!

Troyak was listening, still smiling, and already mounting his ear buds to use the radio set woven into the fabric of his service jacket. “Shall we give them a call to let them know we are here?”

Fedorov considered that, then looked around for any sign of a small boat or life raft. He spied a weathered dinghy on the aft deck and pointed. “We’ll need that,” he said quickly. “I don’t think it would be wise if the hovercraft come steaming up to these ships. We’ll get off in that boat and head out to sea. They can pick us up there, without so many eyes to bulge.”

“Very well, sir. Troyak nodded at Zykov, who immediately set off to secure the boat. A boatswain protested, but quickly silenced himself when Fedorov and Troyak came striding up. Fedorov decided to cover their tracks a bit.

“This is far too dangerous,” he said to the boatswain. “Did you see those German planes? Did you see the Katyushas hit them? Amazing! We’re going ashore now, so get out of the way.”

The man gave way, unwilling to challenge a colonel in the NKVD, but as they got the dinghy up on the winch and began lowering it, a few sailors whistled at them in rebuke.

“Looks like the rats are leaving the ship,” one man said. “Afraid of the Germans, eh?”

Troyak gave the man a hard look, but Fedorov waved him on and the three men slowly climbed down to the dinghy where it now bobbed in the water next to the steamer.

“Good riddance!” they heard another sailor yell at them from above. “Go back to the other NKVD bastards where you belong.”

Fedorov shook his head, eager to get underway. There was no motor on the launch, so they were going to have to row. Troyak pushed off, inwardly angry when he heard the sailors on the Amerika jeering at them, but he swallowed his pride and ignored them. There was no way they could explain their situation or make the men understand what they were doing. He knew Fedorov’s plan was for the best.

They rowed hard, and Fedorov saw that the Germans got two hits on Ubelikov. That ship was burning hard, and listing to starboard where obvious flooding threatened to capsize the vessel and sink it. They could hear the faint cries of alarm and calls for help as they rowed, and Fedorov was torn by the urge to go back and render assistance.

You must not, he told himself, swallowing hard. You must stay the course and make a rendezvous with the detachment on Anatoly Alexandrov. A man’s fate is a man’s fate. And that ship was supposed to be hit. You can’t try to save the entire world from death and pain. Keep pulling those oars.

He could hear Troyak speaking through his collar microphone now on a secure coded channel. “Wild Geese to Mother Lode—come in. Wild Geese to Mother Lode—come in.”

“Wild Geese, this is Mother Load, Lieutenant Bukin here. We have a locator beacon signal on you in the middle of the Caspian Sea! What is your situation—Over?”

“Lieutenant Bukin? You mean to say you now outrank me, Arseny? This is Troyak here. We were on one of those ships, last in the line, but put off in a lighter. We’re heading east into the Caspian to stay out of sight. Fedorov doesn’t want to show the locals any more than we have to.”

“Understood, Sergeant. Hey, you gave me the slip back in Vladivostok! Good to hear your voice again. We’ll be a few minutes getting one of the hovercraft operational. Is Orlov with you as well?”

“We haven’t even made landfall to look for him yet. You’re early, but it was good to see those Ilgas go up. We’ll keep rowing east. I’m leaving my signal locator beacon on and you can track us easily.”

“Hold on. We’re coming. Bukin out.”

Troyak shook his head. “Lieutenant Bukin, is it? He was a Corporal last time I saw him, and jumped right over my head. Now he’ll have a good laugh over the fact that he ranks me.”

Fedorov gave him a grin. “If it is any consolation, Sergeant, I can promote you to Captain at once, for outstanding performance in the field.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” said Troyak. “Did I ever tell you the story of my father’s hunting dog, Private Litchko? He was a wonderful dog—flushed out quarry like no other. We had a hunting lodge in Kamchatka, and my father would let visitors use the dog when they came out for hunting trips. One year an old friend of my father’s came back to the lodge and asked about the dog. What, my father said to him? You mean Private Litchko? Yes, that was the best dog we ever hunted with, this man told my father. Well I’m sorry to disappoint you, my father said in turn, but that dog was so good we promoted him to Captain Litchko, and now all he does is sit around and bark.”

Fedorov laughed, understanding exactly what Troyak meant. “I have the distinct feeling that Bukin is going to enjoy barking for a while. He’s probably still upset because we left him behind in the reactor room at Vladivostok.”

“He’ll get over it,” said Troyak, and then he put his back into the rowing, sending the lighter surging ahead. It was nearly an hour later when they saw the squat shape of the hovercraft approaching and heard the roar of its two big turbine engines mounted on the aft section of the craft. Fedorov’s plan was to get to the Anatoly Alexandrov and then gather all the officers together to decide how to proceed. He turned to Troyak as they watched the hovercraft approaching.

“Can we try locating Orlov yet through his jacket beacon?”

“We can try,” said Troyak, “but our chances will be better closer to the west coast. Were over twenty kilometers away here. His passive range for IFF pickup is five kilometers. If he turns on his transceiver and broadcasts, we could see him out here, but otherwise we’ll have to get ashore.”

“Admiral Volsky said he would provide us with ample resources,” said Fedorov.

“A full reinforced company of naval Marines,” said Troyak with a satisfied look on his gruff features. He looked like a bulldog that had just eaten a pork chop. “They’ll even have AFVs on the hovercraft, and we won’t have to worry about the German planes any longer either. There will be plenty of missiles for air defense.”

“Our own little invasion force,” Fedorov shrugged. “The only question I have is whether or not we should contemplate using it. The less the Soviet forces of this day see of us, the better.”

“Why, sir? We just tell them we were sent as reinforcements. How will they know otherwise?”

He squinted at the distant horizon to the west. Orlov was out there somewhere, so close, yet so far. Where was he, and how could he get to him without writing a whole new chapter in the military history of this war? It wasn’t going to be as easy as he had hoped.

Chapter 21

Fedorov could not believe what he was hearing. “The ship has displaced in time again? To 1945?”

“Not just Kirov,” said Dobrynin. “This time three ships have vanished. At least that is what Admiral Volsky has told me. Karpov sent a letter to that same storage locker and it turned up in 2021!”

“Amazing. Then the eruption of that volcano was so violent that it must have opened another time rift. Yet this time the ship did not have Rod-25 installed. How will they get back?”

“Take a look at the big fat Mi-26 on the roof,” Dobrynin pointed. “There’s more going on here than you realize. They found two more control rods that were produced in the same lot as Rod-25. We have them right here on that helo and the plan is to fly them all the way to the Pacific coast for Kirov and the other ships.”

“But you said Karpov appeared in 1945. It’s October of 1942 now. They’ll have to wait out the entire duration of the war!”

“Exactly,” said Dobrynin. “Don’t give me those big eyes, Mister Fedorov. I didn’t come up with this plan, I was just briefed by the Admiral and told to manage this part of the operation to rescue you and Orlov.”

Fedorov gave a heavy sigh. “Well a lot of good that will do us now. Here I was worrying about the fate of a single man, and now I learn that there’s an entire naval flotilla at large in the Pacific of 1945! Orlov may yet be important, and yes, we must rescue him if possible, but Karpov appears nearly three years later and this will trump everything we do here. I hope to God he keeps a good head on his shoulders and doesn’t start another war! Does he know we’re sending the Mi-26? No…” Fedorov answered his own question. “How could he possibly know? There would be no way to communicate this to him.”

“The plan is to get the Mi-26 to the coast, possibly out on Sakhalin in an isolated location where they can wait for Kirov to appear. Then they’ll try to contact Karpov via radio.”

“If they make it there,” said Fedorov, a frustrated look on his face. “If they manage to survive somewhere until 1945, and if they know exactly when the ships appear, and if Karpov picks up their radio call. Good heavens! What a stack of teacups! A thousand things could happen to them over the next few years. The Japanese controlled all of South Sakhalin Island during the war. Their 88th division was posted there. How many men are you sending on the Mi-26?”

“Just four. All the rest of that space is being used for fuel and supplies to get the helo there. It’s a very long way to the Pacific coast from here.”

“Indeed…” Fedorov shook his head. “We just spent the last week getting here by road and rail.”

Two more control rods had been found! Would they work as Rod-25 had? Dobrynin explained the plan to him, but the longer he listened, the more he began to feel it was doomed to failure. The team would have to remain safely undetected for almost three years. Then, on the day Kirov and the other ships were supposed to appear, they would have to make contact with Karpov as soon as possible. But the Captain would not be expecting their call. In fact…”

“The plan has failed,” he said darkly.

“What do you mean,” Dobrynin complained. “We haven’t even launched the operation yet.”

“You say Karpov managed to get a note to the Naval Logistics Center? That took time. He would have probably sent helicopters with a small Marine contingent to infiltrate Vladivostok and get to the locker just as Troyak and I did. That took time. If your Mi-26 makes it to the Pacific coast and is there and ready to contact the ships upon arrival, then they obviously failed to do so. Karpov would have taken at least a full day to mount this operation and let Volsky know what happened to him—possibly longer. No further message was received? There was nothing stating he received the control rods and was going to use them to try and return home? No, that wouldn’t be possible yet.”

Dobrynin scratched his head. “Not as of 09:40 hours on the day we launched our operation to arrive here.”

“What day was that?”

“October 5th, 2021.”

“What was happening with the war?”

“Things were not going well. The American’s sent planes off one of their carrier groups and Karpov fought an engagement. The Chinese have also attacked Taiwan with a heavy salvo of ballistic missiles and aircraft. There was an incident in the Persian Gulf and now Iran and Israel are at each other’s throats. We even lost a submarine in the Gulf of Mexico. I was informed that Moscow was going to initiate operations here the day I left.”

“Here?”

“At Kashagan and Tengiz oil fields in the North Caspian. There was also a scrap in the Black Sea, but I was too busy here to attend to the reports. I will say one thing. We were under attack at the very time we shifted.”

“Under attack? Here in the Caspian?”

“NATO aircraft were approaching from the south. Just a small pinprick, a couple helicopters, but they were heading right for our operations and the coastal defense missile batteries at Kaspiysk engaged them. That was the last news I received. Now we are here.”

“So Karpov was displaced by that volcanic eruption. Astounding! What day was that?

“October 2nd. It took us another couple of days to pull things together here.”

“Yes, and Rod-25 is very meticulous now. It’s October 5, 1942—the same day you launched the operation in 2021.”

Fedorov sat down, thinking hard now. What could they do? Karpov sent that message, which meant that, during the interval he loitered within helicopter range of Vladivostok, he must have received no communication from the Mi-26. The plan must have failed. If it were to succeed then that long tenuous line from here to the Pacific—from here to 1945—had to remain perfectly intact. Something went wrong. If Karpov was contacted by the helo team then why would he not mention that in his note?

Then it struck him, with thunderclap surprise—Volsky could not dream up the Mi-26 plan until Karpov sends his letter! Of course! Otherwise the Admiral would have no idea where Kirov and the others shifted. So Karpov appears in a kind of limbo, a brief slice of eternity where the future is uncertain. When he first appeared Volsky had no knowledge of his presence in the past, but the instant Karpov’s team delivered that letter and closed the locker at the Naval Logistics building a new time line was possible! That single act of transmitting information to the future has already worked a change in the line of events. Volsky got the letter and here we are on the Anatoly Alexandrov trying to sort this whole mess out.

His mind ran on, feverishly trying to work through the convoluted loops of time and causality. So it isn’t possible for us to successfully contact Karpov the moment he arrives, he thought, because that all depends on his decision to send that letter. We can go there with the Mi-26, but somehow the effect of that operation will have to occur after Karpov arrives in 1945. Even if everything went perfectly with the Mi-26 and they remained safely undetected until Kirov appears, Karpov could not possibly hear or respond to our radio calls until after he sent his letter. How long was that interval, that slice of uncertainty in time? What was Karpov doing during those hours? Now he found himself laboring to recall the history of those last days of the war, history that they had already dramatically altered with their sorties into the past.

“Dobrynin…Did that letter say when Karpov arrived. Did it give an exact date?”

“August of 1945.”

“No day?”

“That is all I was told, Mister Fedorov.”

“Damn! We need to know the exact date.”

“What do you mean? We have three years to wait for Kirov to show up again. What is the problem?”

“The problem is this: we know Karpov arrives in August, but on what day? We can’t order the team to just start broadcasting radio calls on August first round the clock. They’ll be detected for sure. Then there’s Karpov. That’s another potential problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure what he will do if he decides there is no way he can ever get back to 2021. If he thinks his bridges are burned, and there is no other life for them but the one they have there in 1945, then he might do something radical. He’ll have the power to make a dramatic intervention if he chooses to do so. The only problem is that he may overreach himself. The United States Navy was enormous at that stage of the war, and they would all be concentrating at Sagami Bay off Tokyo for the surrender ceremony…”

“What’s wrong?” Dobrynin saw the look of surprise in Fedorov’s eyes like newly kindled fire. Then he seemed to lapse into fear.

“My God,” said Fedorov. “The temptation will be overwhelming. Karpov will be sitting there with three ships, nuclear warheads, and the power to unleash hell if he so chooses. The entire Allied fleet will be concentrated in one place at Sagami Bay!”

“You are thinking he might try something as he did in the North Atlantic?”

“God help us if he does, but yes, Karpov is now the prime lever on all the history from that moment forward. There’s no telling what he might do!”

“Unless the Americans have something to say about it,” said Dobrynin.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Fedorov. “Things could get completely out of hand, and then what? We have no way of ever knowing unless we get home to find out.”

“You want me to dip the rod back into the soup? We’ll be somewhere else in no time.”

“Not without Orlov. I didn’t come all this way to leave him stranded here… I need to think…” Fedorov began pacing, head down as he stared at his feet, hand rubbing his brow. He had to sort this out and come up with some reasonable plan here, but what should they do? First, find Orlov. The journey had taken them far longer than he hoped, and they were late. Orlov reached Kizlyar on the first of October, but every report he had heard as they drew near the Caspian region indicated the Germans were very near that place and it was now the front line in the war to control the oil. Hitler was hell bent on getting to Baku. The oil wars start here and they will continue for the next eighty years.

Orlov might still be there at Kizlyar, or somewhere south of that location. They had to get within five kilometers of him if his service jacket was switched off. That might make for a long and difficult search now. What they needed was a helicopter….And they had one, sitting right on top of the Anatoly Alexandrov.

“We’ll have to use the Mi-26,” he decided.

“What? They’re supposed to take off for the Pacific coast as soon as possible. Volsky beat that into my head before I left.”

“That may be so, but we need the helicopter to look for Orlov first. Trying to put men ashore to search for him on land will be too risky.”

“But we have no fuel for that,” Dobrynin objected

“I understand the situation,” said Fedorov, “but we need Orlov. We can’t leave without him so we’ll have to find the fuel, one way or another.”

“Are you ordering me to commit the Mi-26 to this operation, Mister Fedorov?”

Fedorov looked at the Chief, respecting him greatly. “I will take full responsibility, Dobrynin. The decision is mine. You’ve done everything Volsky asked of you, but I want to get Troyak and Zykov on that helo and do a night search below 3000 meters. It’s the only way we can locate Orlov’s jacket signal. We had hoped to be at Kizlyar before he got there, but we’re late. There’s no other way now. We leave tonight.”

“Well what am I supposed to do while you go off looking for Orlov? I was supposed to rescue you, Fedorov!”

“And you have. Your mission will be the same, Chief. Just hold the fort and protect the Anatoly Alexandrov at all costs until we get back. In the meantime, we can save on fuel if we offload excess storage on the helo and fly lighter. We can always load it back again when we return.”

“If you return. What do I do if we lose your signal locator?”

“We’ll be fine. It will be dark. Troyak will be with me, and I’ll take some Marines.”

“Plenty of those around.”

“Exactly. We’ll sweep the area around Kizlyar first, then work south over the Terek and along the roads to Makhachkala. It’s just a couple hundred miles in all. We should be able to pick up his signal very quickly.”

“Then what?”

“We’ll have to see. If Troyak thinks we can get him, we’ll land. If the situation is more difficult, we’ll return here and go in with more force. The quicker we do this, the better. I’d prefer to keep things very quiet.”

“Well that big monster on the roof makes a good deal of noise, Fedorov.”

“Yes, but the road hugs the coast and runs right near the shore in many places. We can be two or three kilometers off the coast and flying low enough so we still can pick up that signal. It will work. I’m sure of it.”

“Very well,” Dobrynin could see that the young officer had made up his mind. “You rank me by several levels, Fedorov. I have my orders from Volsky, but your decision will supersede that here in the field. Just remember one thing—every minute we waste flying around here is one minute less for the long journey east. You say it’s just a couple hundred miles? We may wish we had those miles once the Mi-26 heads east to look for Kirov. You wanted to know why Karpov didn’t hear anything? Perhaps this is why. Perhaps the Mi-26 never has the fuel to get to the coast.”

Fedorov shrugged. He knew that Dobrynin was correct, and perhaps he was being foolish here, but some inner hunch still warned him not to leave Orlov behind.

I’ve got to find him, one way or another. And then I’ve got to find a way to get to Karpov three years hence, because if I don’t, I think I know exactly what he will do with those three ships. And God help the world if I’m right.

Chapter 22

Tech Sergeant Jason Banks watched the big planes roll out of the hangers onto the tarmac at Anderson AFB, pleased that his morning’s labors were done and the torch would now be passed to the pilots in the planes. The strike had been postponed when the sirens signaled air alert some days ago. The island base personnel had quickly moved to air defense shelters and the newly deployed THAAD missile system was engaging targets unseen in the skies above. This time it was North Korea pressed into useful service as an attack dog by Beijing, launching Musudan missiles more as another warning to the Americans to stay out of the deepening fight over Taiwan than anything else.

THAAD got the first missile aimed at the island, fired to test exactly what altitude the US might make a successful interception. The second missile barely got off its launch pad before being lazed by a secret weapon the US had moved into Kadena for just this purpose. Then another debate ensued over what to do about the situation, and it was one the Air Force General Lane eventually won. The US was moving at the speed of a democracy, which was lethargic at times, and the situation had not yet worsened enough to compel them to act in a more urgent manner. Two long days later Lane obtained permission to finally get a retaliatory strike package airborne with the B-2s, and Jason Banks was back in business.

The six B-2s were an awesome sight together like this, the broad swept wings of black, saw tooth tail, and porpoise hump noses making them look surreal at certain angles, like ships from another world. His men were finished with their loading and maintenance, and the torch he had handed off was the X-51C, a hypersonic stealthy cruise missile dubbed the WaveRider, scheduled for delivery that morning to three very special sites on the Chinese mainland. If China wanted to take out American satellites, the response would be to prevent them from ever launching satellites of their own.

The first targets on the list that morning were the satellite launch centers at Taiyuan and Jiuquan, and the Guangde rocket launch site west of Shanghai, respectively known as Base 25 and Base 603. These targets were within 500 kilometers of the coast and could be struck by B-2s over the South or East China Seas. Three B-2s would be assigned to each target and Banks watched them take off, glad a little payback was heading east while the base still intact.

Someone took a pot shot at us, he thought, but THAAD was good enough to knock whatever they sent our way down. Now we return the favor. Those bad boys will be up in ten minutes, and this is probably the last any human eyes will see of them until they return. The Spirits of Missouri, California, South Carolina, Washington and Texas were already up, Spirit of Kansas, his home state, was the last in the line, the one new plane that had joined the B-2 wing to replace the bomber by that very same name that had been lost on this airfield in a takeoff crash in 2008.

It was a $1.4 billion dollar mishap that day, not including the “classified material” the Spirit of Kansas had been carrying that also went up in smoke when the big plane came down. The official “findings” on that crash attributed it to three improperly calibrated pressure transducers that resulted in faulty data sent to the flight control computer. The plane went into a stall on takeoff, its wing dipped and hooked the ground, and that was that.

Don’t crash again, baby, he whispered as the Kansas-II began to put on power. He stood and watched the running lights wink as the plane taxied. Three minutes later the roar of the engines told the tale. The “Bats” were all airborne now, their bellies full of high tech death and destruction. After achieving altitude, the formation would cruise north over Rota and Tinian in the Marianas where they would then turn northeast and head for Kadena AFB on Okinawa to meet some very special friends.

The US was taking no chances with its precious B-2s. They would soon be joined by the 94th Expeditionary Fighter Squadron flying F-22 Raptors in escort for the sortie into the East China Sea. Six fighters would be up that morning to join the party, and Flight Lieutenant William Hitchcock was in one of them. With a vintage name like that his mates had naturally taken to calling him “Wild Bill” and he lived up to the handle well enough as a daring and highly skilled pilot.

Hitchcock was still trying to shake that nagging cough that was just part of the job insofar as the F-22 was concerned. The pilot’s oxygen system has been buggy throughout the life cycle of the aircraft, but no matter what they did to try and correct the problem, the well known “Raptor cough” persisted, resulting from breathing high concentrations of oxygen enriched air while accelerating through multi-G force maneuvers. When you could fly higher and faster than most anything in the sky, there were a few tradeoffs that you just lived within the service. Wild Bill had no regrets.

An hour later he was up at altitude and waiting for his charge. Perhaps the most capable fighter in the world, the unique radar scattering shape of the plane combined with the radar absorbing materials used in its construction made it extremely stealthy. Finding it in the sky on radar would be much like trying to track a pea flying at several thousand miles per hour. The APG-77 radar system was also very stingy with the energy it used, activating to find potential threats without also revealing the position of the Raptor. At the same time its ALR-94 radar warning sensors could silently detect other radar-using targets at very long range. It was the same basic calculus of air combat—see the enemy first and kill the enemy before he sees you.

Radio silence was also a part of the job like this, but Wild Bill didn’t mind. He enjoyed the quiet solitude of soaring at 40,000 feet through the early hours of dawn. The bombers were below them, lumbering along under the careful watch of the Raptors. An E-3 Sentry was also up that morning for long range radar coverage in case the Chinese had any surprises in store for the package. Hitchcock didn’t expect any trouble, particularly this far out from the Chinese mainland, but as chance would have it, trouble was on its way. His data link from the E-3 soon indicated a number of airborne contacts inbound and they were ordered to engage.

The Raptors began to accelerate rapidly, streaking away from the subsonic B-2s as they went into supercruise mode, their radars searching the skies ahead. It looked like quite a reception committee, and the only thing that Hitchcock could think of at that moment was how in hell the enemy had managed to locate them.

The truth of the matter was that the Chinese had not located them. They were simply flying a mission of their own, targeted at Taiwan again with two squadrons of J-12 fighters led by a squadron of their premier stealth strike fighters, the formidable J-20. There were eighteen planes in all, and they were intending to strike an airfield near Taipei as a follow on to the highly successful ballistic missile strikes of the previous days. To the Raptor pilots it looked like someone had given away the game and they assumed the B-2s had been targeted for interception. But the Chinese hadn’t seen a thing that morning. It was all happenstance that was about to become an lightning fast air duel between the best fighters each side possessed.

The odds appeared very steep to Wild Bill at first blush. He was tracking eighteen enemy fighters, and the Raptors of the 94th were outnumbered three to one. No strangers to combat, the 94th was one of the oldest active squadrons in the US Air Force. Their legacy dated back to 1917 when they first flew SPADs in the First World War. Over the years they had flown P-38s in WWII over North Africa and Italy, and eventually moved on through the evolving chain of fighter designs to the F-15A Eagles before being upgraded to the deadly Raptors. Now they were about to prove their worth and throw their hat in the ring, as true to their squadron insignia.

With high value strike assets close at hand, the Raptors needed to get at the enemy quickly, and the talons they would use were the latest air-to-air missile the US had deployed to date, the AIM-120D. Each plane carried four of these longer range missiles in the central internal weapons bay, along with two shorter range AIM-9M/X Sidewinders in smaller internal bays to either side. They would fire immediately, while the action still remained well beyond visual range, and see if they could thin the enemy ranks.

The fighters surged ahead, their central bays opening for only one brief second to fire, and then they peeled off on a new vector, ready to fire again. The Chinese never saw them coming, and it was not until the first three J-20s detected the AAMRAMs coming in for them that the jig was finally up. All three died before they could do anything about it, but the word was out and the other planes were breaking formation, jettisoning external fuel tanks to go stealthy, and sweeping away in all directions. They scattered into the azure blue sky climbing as their afterburning turbofans burned with yellow, hot fire.

The Chinese tactic when surprised was to get high, using their incredible service ceiling of over 65,000 feet to gain advantage. Two J-20s were climbing, but the Raptors were already up there watching like supersonic birds of prey, and their second salvo was in the air before the first of the J-20s even got a fleeting ghost of a radar lock on them. The pilot knew he had been targeted, but he still managed to get off two PL-12 missiles in reprisal. Then he died a flaming death along with three more comrades in the older J-12s.

Hitchcock was warned of the incoming missiles by his ALR-94 radar. The Chinese Missiles were climbing up for him, aiming at a point in the sky they calculated the Raptor might be in a few seconds time, but Hitchcock made sure his plane wasn’t there. The Raptor was capable of some very extreme supermaneuvers, with thrust vectoring and attitude control well beyond normal aerodynamic limits of most aircraft. The PL-12s would not find him that day. With four of the six J-20s down and no situational awareness of where the enemy was, the rest of the J-12s wanted no part of the action. They were trained as fighter bomber pilots, with very limited air-to-air combat training, so they turned and broke for the coast at high speed.

The last J-20 was stubborn that day. The plane was close enough to see Hitchcock’s Raptor visually and thought it would tip its nose up and get off a missile shot. Wild Bill would have nothing of that. He executed a Herbst maneuver decelerating rapidly as he increased his angle of attack to a stall, utilized his thrust vectoring engines to maintain control, coned over to a new flight direction that pointed his nose right at the enemy plane. Then he poured on the power. The Chinese pilot could not maintain his lock, and in that brief interval Hitchcock fired a Sidewinder that went hissing out after the enemy.

Wild Bill was two for two, and the B-2s slipped quietly through the contrail torn skies en route to their launch position. Then their bellies opened to send the X-51Cs roaring to the attack, accelerating through Mach 4 and beyond Mach 6 in a matter of minutes. The WaveRiders were on their way.

Three bombers fired six missiles that would take out the satellite control center a few miles southeast of Ningwu, the telemetry station north of Wuhai, the technical center where long lines of men sat in pale blue uniforms and caps as they attended to their monitors, and finally the launch pad facilities themselves. The second triad would target the launch control headquarters at Taiyuan Satellite Launch Center. In each group, one plane was held in reserve, leaving four missiles available for any target of opportunity.

The strike went off without a hitch, with all four missiles from the lead bombers finding their targets. This left the two reserve planes free to penetrate a little further and go for the Xichang Satellite Launch Center, or Base 27. The Raptors hung around long enough to be certain there were no further threats to the big bombers, even after the B-2s had crossed into Chinese airspace. They remained undetected until they delivered their high tech package and turned for home. When they were done, the People’s Republic of China had lost, its ability to put a satellite in orbit in one fell stroke.

They were not happy about it.

Within hours orders went out on a very secure channel to a submarine that had been hovering silently off the West coast of the United States. The message they would deliver by return mail would have dramatic implications and tip the world just one step closer to the mayhem and destruction of all out nuclear war.

Robert passed a restless night in the Quantum Sleeper, and spent all the next day haggling with his broker to see if he could salvage anything from the collapse of Goldman the previous day. By sunset he had given up his mind returning again to that list he had been working on. The news had been bad, and something told him it was going to get worse very soon. The TV kept on with the latest updates on the missile strikes against the Chinese mainland. The more he listened, the more he felt the compelling urge to lay in some supplies before the store shelves were stripped completely bare. Finally he started to move, and he was heading down the stairs when it happened.

The lights winked in their recessed overhead spot wells, and then went out. The ongoing babble of the TV where he had been watching the breaking news went silent. The screen was suddenly phosphor TV black. He reached for his iPad, realizing the Internet was down as well. Ten seconds passed…a minute… It was the strangest feeling in the world—no power. No lights, camera, action. No TV and radio. No Internet.

Food and Gasoline….That was the ticket now. That and the hundred items list he had started working on last night, the ones to disappear first from store shelves in a time of grave national crisis. He went to the window and looked out to see if he could see any signs of other folks in the neighborhood with electricity, but all was dark and quiet in the early morn.

He had been through power failures before, but something about this one, coming as it did on the heels of that morning news feed, gave him the shivers. He decided to send an email to his buddy Aaron. If the cell system was still up he might get it. He’d make it short, just a quick text message: WTF?

But the message never got through because his phone was dead. That was odd, he thought. I charged the damn thing just last night in the Quantum Sleeper. I still have near 100% battery now.

The minutes passed and the sweat on his brow was challenging that stay fresh feeling he was supposed to have all day from his shower. Liz was already yapping at him to call PG&E and see how long it would be before they had the power up. His cell phone was wacky, so he reached for the land line, surprised to find that it was also dead.

Power down, phones dead, Internet gone, no TV. The advertizing had finally stopped. In effect, the entire substance of his life was now toggled OFF. He couldn’t even play his Yamaha keyboard for musical distraction because he upgraded last year and this model didn’t run on batteries.

Holy Freakin’ Dodge!

Robert grabbed his car keys and was out the front door in a flash. “Be back soon!” he yelled to Liz, seeing she was using the power failure to abandon the morning laundry and head out to the swimming pool to lounge about.

Yet lounging about was the last thing on Robert’s mind just then. His worries about his stock in Goldman had vanished; his fretting over the mortgage and credit cards was up in smoke. Now all he cared about was getting to an ATM and pulling out as much cash as he possibly could get his hands on. But the power was down…If this was more than a local outage then how would the ATMs work? If he went in to see a teller how would they call up his account info? How would they even cash a check?

Something told him that the banks were going to be closed anyway. So, as he slipped into the front seat of his Lexus he had already changed his mind and determined to head for the nearest supermarket for food. They had ATMs there too. Yes…Food and water was top of the list now. That was the smart play. Food and water would keep the Quantum Sleeper functioning as a safe bedroom bunker, and they could go easy on the battery and stretch it out as long as possible—stretch that 8 hour emergency battery life into eight days if they just powered on for an hour a day.

There was no way he could think beyond that. Eight days without electricity was more desolation and denial than he had ever experienced in his life, because he lived in that lucky 50% of the planet that was plugged into the grid. It had taken humanity millions of years to reach that dubious statistic, when 50% of earth’s population had achieved access to electricity in the year 2005 and Robert was going to find out just how the other half of the planet was living in short order.

He put the key into the ignition went to start his mid-sized sedan—great mileage, always reliable; bought for nothing down and low easy payments after a song and dance at the bank.

Nothing happened. It was dead.

WTF?

The meeting in the White House Situation Room was ready to adjourn. Leyman had the recommendation of both Admiral Ghortney and General Lane—follow up the successful B-2 strikes with the B-1s and then move in the carriers to restore order over Taiwan. They would take the fight to the enemy now.

At that moment there was a soft buzz at the secure door and Leyman turned to give the Marine guard the nod. The door whisked open and a White House staffer rushed in, leaning close and whispering in Leyman’s ear. His expression darkened immediately, and he dismissed the aide with a grave nod. When the room was secure again he turned to the others and folded his hands on the table.

“Well gentlemen, it appears the Admiral is correct about that Boomer hunt. A few minutes ago there was a missile launch off the West coast. Your people will have this information by now, Admiral, but to make a long story short, there’s been a detonation…”

He let that hang there for a moment, his eyes looking from Ghortney, to Lane, to Reed. Then he qualified his statement with the word no one wanted to utter in that room, but one that was in the back of each man’s mind.

“It was a nuclear detonation, and apparently the whole west coast is as dead as a doornail.”

“What?” Lane was practically out of his chair. “How many warheads? How many cities did they hit?”

“They didn’t hit any cities,” Leyman explained. “It was a single warhead. The detonation was well up in the atmosphere over Nevada, and everything from Seattle to San Diego went dark.”

“A single warhead,” said Reed looking at Lane with an ‘I told ya so’ in his eyes. “A goddamned EMP strike.”

“That appears to be the case,” Leyman went on. “The whole power grid is down. Hoover Dam is off line, Glen Canyon, a number of others. The grid is down and the blackout extends as far east as the Rockies in places. I’ve got to see the President at once, and this puts us at DEFCON 1, does it not?”

“Cocked Pistol,” said Lane reciting the code name for the highest condition of strategic alert. “Maximum readiness with an expectation that nuclear war is imminent.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Leyman. “Well if you’ll excuse me gentlemen, we’ll have to continue this briefing after I bring in the President. If we are now holding that cocked pistol it will be his finger on the trigger, and damn soon unless we make some other arrangements with the Russians and Chinese.”

He stood up, buttoning his suit coat in a gesture that somehow seemed out of place. It was a small habitual civility; well practiced decorum, yet outside the secure underground bunker the world was about to go ballistic.

“Arrangements?” Ghortney gave Lane a look of chagrin.

“That’s what we do in the civilian branch, Admiral. We make arrangements. Hold tight, gentlemen. The President is on his way here now.”

Controlled chaos was the order of the day on the streets of the City—barely controlled chaos. Every traffic light in the city was dead, but that didn’t really matter because every car was dead! The traffic was backed up for miles on the tortuous bends of the Bay Area freeways. People had no idea what had happened for the most part, as there were no radios functioning either, and so their first reaction was to reach into their pockets for a cell phone, but they were all dead as well. Within minutes thousands were out of their cars, basically exchanging versions of the very same story. They were just driving along when the car seemed to lose all power. There were scores of accidents, hundreds of hoods up with well intentioned men peering into the engine compartment of their vehicles, but not one was going to be started again anytime soon.

As the minutes became an hour people just started off on foot, amazed and stunned by what had happened. There were throngs crossing the Golden Gate and Bay bridges on foot, and bike riders were suddenly kings of the highway—until people started yanking riders out of their seats to get at the bikes. In and around the major airports there were massive fires from wrecked planes burning uncontrolled when airlines in mid-takeoff or landing approaches suddenly lost all power and came crashing to earth. All across the Western United States planes were falling from the sky.

No aliens in orbiting ships were responsible for the falling skies, it was just a couple of well placed missiles with EMP warheads. The pulse they created cascaded down through the upper atmosphere, a massive sizzle of voltage faster than any circuit breaker or surge protector could react. Virtually every unshielded electronic device, and the entire power grid from Colorado to the Pacific coast, was toasted in just one split second.

It would take long months, more like years to restore the area to what it was just a few seconds before the detonations. But the world didn’t have months or years to do the required work. It had nine days, and of this was the twilight of Day Five.

Chapter 23

Karpov had his verdict, the consensus of the three Captains after a brief face to face meeting aboard Kirov in the officer’s mess hall. It had been a long discussion, but the urgency of time forced them to a hasty decision. Yeltzin had advised caution, suggesting the flotilla should disengage and head east into the Pacific to better assess the situation and buy more time for a final decision. Yet Karpov argued that would simply postpone the inevitable. They would have to confront the proverbial ‘powers that be’ at one time or another. Better now than later.

Captain Ryakhin, younger, less experienced, seemed to gravitate to Karpov’s point of view. He had been heartened by their earlier interventions, seeing how easily they could handle the ships of this era and bolstered by the decision to assist the Russian invasion of the Kuriles with naval gunfire support. A dedicated officer, he strongly suggested that they should fight on behalf of Soviet Russia, their homeland, even if it was not the Russia they had come from.

“We are Stalin’s wayward sons,” he said. “He may have been a brutal father, but the Russia we left behind was molded in his hands.” Ryakhin was also feeling just a little guilt over the live fire incident that had downed the American reconnaissance flight. This mishap had forced the action and seemed to stir up quite a reaction in response. Ryakhin apologized to Karpov, stating he would enforce better discipline in the future.

In the end it was decided that they would make one last attempt to negotiate with the Americans and, if they refused or pressed any further attack on the flotilla, they would meet that hostility with equal force.

“And I will be the judge of what ‘equal force’ means,” said Karpov. “It will be my intention to defend the fleet with conventional weapons, and this may mean offensive operations on our part as well. Yet I have been through all this before. We have limited missile inventories, and when the missiles are gone, we become little more than fast cruisers in a sea of trouble. They will harry us and hound us until they catch us one day, and then it will come down to deck guns. We may win some of those battles, but then again we may get hurt as well. You have seen the damage to this ship when we returned to Vladivostok. Let that be a stern reminder.”

“The odds are very steep, Karpov,” said Yeltzin. “Do you really want to engage the Americans now? Now, when their entire navy is concentrated within a few hundred kilometers of our present position?”

“Now or never,” Karpov returned. “If they attack us with what appears to be overwhelming force I will issue you a coded signal—Hellfire. This will convey my decision to utilize a tactical nuclear warhead, though I do not take it lightly. I intend to give the American Admirals the opportunity to avoid conflict. We shall see if they are wise enough to do so, but I will not back down here. That said, I will be the sole authority on use of nuclear weapons. Neither of you are to mount tactical warheads on missiles unless I give such an order—understood?”

“Let us hope things do not come to that,” said Yeltsin. “But we will support you, Captain.”

“Of course you will,” Karpov smiled, then he was suddenly serious again. “There is one thing more,” he began, his eyes shifting as though he were trying to locate something on the desk. “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 leaned closer. “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…”

“This happened to you in the Atlantic?”

“It did, but we later attributed it to the use of that control rod. Now I am not so sure.”

“Then perhaps this might also be a way for us to get back to our own time again,” Yeltsin hit on the obvious point of opportunity.

“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?”Another voice intruded from the shadow of the half open door, and Doctor Zolkin entered, a hard look on his face. “What then, Karpov?”

“You were not invited to this conference, Doctor.”

“Sorry to crash the party gentlemen, but I invited myself. I am a Captain of the Second Rank.”

“You are not in the primary command structure of the ship,” Karpov snapped at him. “That rank is merely a courtesy, Zolkin. You know it as well as I do.”

“Courtesy or not, I am here and you have heard what I just said. You think you can just fire off your weapons and slaughter these men without consequences?”

“Not without consequences.” Karpov stood up now. “I am well aware of the consequences, more so than any man in this room.”

“And what does your conscience say about that?” Zolkin looked him square in the eye, defiant.

“That is my concern!”

“No, Captain. It is our concern, yours, mine, the good Captains here, and also the concern of every man on this ship. If you fire off another warhead, then all history changes.”

“That is the point under discussion, Doctor. Yes, all history changes, and hopefully for the better. You want what we just lived through all over again? You would prefer the cold war, the collapse of the Soviet Union? The oil wars, and then the final battle for our very survival in 2021? Yes, we could change all that. We have the power.”

“How many warheads do you have, Karpov? Suppose you destroy the American fleet here. You think they will leave it at that? No! Fedorov says your first little act of valor ended up changing the history and there was no Pearl Harbor. Well, you’ll give them that right here, won’t you? Use a nuclear warhead here and all you will do is poke a stick in the belly of the bear, the most powerful nation on this earth at the moment. They will build three new ships for every one you destroy, and another thing. They have the bomb as well. You say you will fight for Russia? What if they drop one on Moscow?”

“We don’t know if they’ve developed atomic weapons yet. You said yourself, the history has changed. If they had the bomb, then why didn’t they use it on the Japanese?”

“Who can say? But I am willing to bet they do have it—are you going to start World War Three here?”

“I’m not starting anything. If you were eavesdropping long enough at that door then you heard that. Yes?”

“What I heard was a man determined to take his second chance and get it right this time. You are so very clever, Karpov. You think your first bomb just missed the mark, that’s all. Now if you just fling another it will hit the target this time. Am I correct? Well listen here—all of you—those are men out there—human beings.” He pointed at the wall, to sailors unseen over the far horizon, in their ships of steel, men of war, but men nonetheless. “They are flesh and blood, not shadows. Each one you kill also casts a long shadow of death on every generation yet to come. You do not just sink their ships, you kill fathers, and you kill their sons and daughters, and their grand children, all in one throw. You will have their blood and the blood of all their unborn descendents on your hands. For what? Stalin? Mother Russia?”

Zolkin waved his hand in frustration. “Alright…I’ve said what I came here to say.” He gave them a long hard look. “Now I’m going back to sick bay to wait for the men to start lining up at my door.”

He turned and stepped through the half open door, his footsteps echoing on the deck plating as he went.

Karpov sat down again, folding his hands, his face drawn but a determined look in his eye.

“The doctor is somewhat dramatic,” he began. “Yet what he fails to realize is that in war the enemy makes choices too. They may give us no other option if they will not listen to reason here.”

“Unless we turn east,” Yeltsin put in one last time. “The Pacific Ocean is a very big place.”

Karpov looked at him, but said nothing more. The meeting ended, faces hardened with the realization that they could indeed commence the Third World War within the next few hours if things went ill.

Thirty minutes later Karpov was on the bridge. “Mister Nikolin. I want you to broadcast on an open channel to the Americans. Tell them I want to speak with Admiral Halsey. Tell them I am offering to negotiate the situation and reach a peaceful resolution…to avoid any further bloodshed here.”

“Aye, sir.” Nikolin began sending his message in English, and Karpov wished he had taken the time to learn the language. Then again, he thought, perhaps we can teach the world to speak Russian here. That is the voice I will speak in now, and let them hear it well.

Aboard Battleship Missouri Admiral Halsey was sitting in the ward room office, reading the fleet manifest and thinking. They had lost Wasp—again—and Ziggy Sprague’s TF 38.3 was now light a good number of aircraft, but he still had teeth. There were over 200 planes left in Sprague’s task force, and he was bringing 350 more on Yorktown, Shangri-La, Bon Homme Richard and two light escort carriers. He also had two more superb fast battleships with Missouri and Iowa, a fist full of heavy cruisers, and over twenty destroyers to throw in with Ziggy’s group.

Someone just called our bet and so we’ll go double or nothing, he thought. Whoever they are, we’ll show them who the hell they’re messing with—rockets or no rockets. The British Admiral Fraser had warned him not to concentrate his ships too tightly, though that seemed to fly in the face of good naval tactics. He had used a sledgehammer approach to bludgeon the Japanese to their knees with one swift, powerful blow after another. The war was finally over, and all it will take is just one more swing of that hammer to let everyone concerned know who’s in charge here.

“Admiral, sir…” A midshipman was knocking lightly at the door, saluting as he entered.

“What is it Mister Wilkes?”

“Sir, you asked to be informed of any unusual message traffic. We’re receiving a radio transmission from the Russians up north.”

“What’s this all about?”

“I think you’d better hear it for yourself, sir. It’s been repeating for the last ten minutes now. They’re asking for you by name, sir.”

Halsey took that in. So history was calling his name again. It was not a surprise. They know who they’re up against here now and they probably want to jaw bone about it.

“Very well, Mister Wilkes. I’ll take this directly in the radio room. Walk with me.”

It wasn’t a very long walk, down one corridor and up two ladders to the small compartment behind the main bridge, the flag radio room. Halsey listened, hearing the obvious Slavic accent in the English transmission. Fraser was correct. It sure sounded like these were, indeed, Russians.

“They’re broadcasting this in the clear like that?”

“Yes, sir,” said the radio man. “The whole fleet can hear it.”

Halsey thought about that a moment, then folded his arms. “Then let them hear this.” He reached for the microphone on the desk and thumbed the send switch.

“Now hear this. Attention on all decks. This is Fleet Admiral Halsey speaking to our Russian friends up north, and you had better listen up. You have fired on our aircraft, downed planes, refused to yield or heave to for boarding, and further engaged vessels of the United States Navy in active combat. I am bringing sixty warships up there to see about it, and I can double up on that bet any time it suits me. Now you will do exactly what I order here. Allies or not, you will heave to and be boarded by United States Marines. Your ships will be taken in tow, and held until such time as negotiations are concluded with the Soviet government over this matter. Is that understood?”

He waited, the eyes of the two radio men on him now, his arms folded over his broad chest. A long minute later the voice came back, in the same heavily accented English.”

“I am speaking on behalf of Acting Fleet Commander Vladimir Karpov, Russian Federal Navy. While we have no direct affiliation with the Soviet government, we nonetheless will look to their interests and endeavors. They have not sanctioned or approved our actions in defense of our ships, nor are they even aware of our presence here. That said, I will tell you that we will not heave to as ordered, nor will our ships be boarded, towed, or interned in any way. Furthermore, the Soviet government has no say in the determination of our fate, though the inverse may well be true. And the same goes for you.”

“What the hell is this guy talking about?” Halsey said aloud, clearly annoyed. “A bit long winded, isn’t he? Well let me make it clearer.” Halsey thumbed the radio send and spoke again.

“You will heave to and be boarded or I will sink you. Over.”

“You may try to do so, Admiral, but I will give you fair warning here. We have weapons unlike any you have ever seen. I am capable of destroying your entire fleet. Understood? Please do not force me to take actions that you and the men you command will dearly regret. I will offer to negotiate with you in person, or with fleet officers of command level rank, to resolve the situation without bloodshed, but if attacked I will defend my fleet and destroy yours in the process, and that is not a bluff or brag.”

Halsey shook his head. “Now you listen here, you son-of-a-bitch.” His cheeks betrayed his obvious anger. “You’ll meet with me on a cold day in hell. You will do exactly as I ordered in my first transmission, and that immediately. Signal your surrender now and this will end amicably. Otherwise you can go to hell, and I’ll be happy to send you there myself, personally.”

“You are making a mistake, Admiral Halsey. Very well, before things get out of hand I invite you to look to your starboard bow in ten minutes time. Karpov out.”

“Look to my starboard bow? What’s this idiot talking about?”

Halsey handed the microphone to the nearest radio man. “Issue the following fleet order and have it sent through flag and lantern as well. Don’t use the 24 MC circuit, just send it in the goddamned clear! Attention all ships, all carriers…” He looked out the porthole noting a pendant flying stiffly in the breeze to determine the wind direction.

“The fleet will come to three, four, zero degrees north and ready for battle. All carrier commanders…Let’s get turned into the wind.”

He turned and stormed out, heading for the bridge.

Chapter 24

They saw something on the Sugar Charlie (SC-2) Radar on the Missouri, but the pip was moving so fast on the screen that the radar attendant thought it was a glitch. It was there, then gone, but it was off the starboard bow of the ship, and so anything seen was reported.

“Flag; Sugar Charley One. Reporting bogie, north by northwest, bearing true, single plane, pip wavering.”

The officer of the deck took the handset to acknowledge.

“Sugar Charley One; Flag. Single bogie aye, aye. Watchstander G1, confirm sighting. Over.” The OOD wanted eyes on the contact to both confirm and identify it if possible, and he was not disappointed.

“Flag; Watchstander G1. Bogie in sight, bearing zero-one-two, range twenty, incredible speed! Designate bogie one.”

“Watchstander G1; Flag; bogie one bearing zero-one-two, range twenty and very fast, aye, aye.”

Halsey was listening closely, arms folded, eyes scanning the horizon to the northwest. Something was out there, and he reached for a pair of binoculars to have a closer look when the sky was suddenly lit up like an exploding sun. The flash was so bright that Halsey was fortunate he wasn’t focusing on the bogie with binoculars yet, and had his back to the view port, or he would have been blinded. As it was, every man on the bridge shirked and instinctively shielded their eyes. Seconds later there came a strong vibration and the entire ship shuddered as a hard wind struck it from the north. Then they heard it, the awful ripping explosion and deep angry thunder that followed.

As the brightness faded Halsey squinted off his starboard bow to see an enormous explosion mushrooming up to the northwest. It looked as though the sea itself was on fire, and being sucked up into the sky as the mushroom towered up and up, billowing out at the top in a roiling yellow orange fireball.

“Brace for high seas!” a voice shouted, and then he saw the water coming at the fleet in a great wave, perhaps eighty feet high. Amazed at the sight, he saw a distant destroyer in the outer screen lifted by the wave and tossed about like a toy. As it rolled on through the formation all he could think of was that terrible hurricane they had faced a few months ago, but soon he saw the bigger and heavier ships were riding out the heavy swell intact, and he could feel the ocean lift Missouri, see her bow find air in the wild sea spray as the big battleship crested the wave, and then Mighty Mo settled back into the water, rolling slightly but sea keeping well.

Look to your starboard bow in ten minutes time…Halsey saw the evil white halo above the explosion in the sky, as though a demon from hell had been crowned with white fire. He had told the Russians to go to hell, and now they had served up a slice of the real estate for him to survey at his leisure. It was the most awesome thing he had ever seen.

He had heard the rumors from the 1941 incident in the North Atlantic—that the Germans possessed a terrible weapon based on atomic power. He didn’t understand it. Splitting something like an atom seemed an impossible thing to do, but he had been briefed in recent months on the existence and deployment of similar weapons now in the US arsenal, and they were very close at hand.

Halsey turned to Captain Stuart S. Murray, an old misplaced submariner who had been serving at the Annapolis Naval Academy since 1943 and was taken out of mothballs to be given a prime command on the battleship in May of that year.

“What in God’s name do you make of that?” The searing light was finally dim enough to be viewed without discomfort, but the big, amiable Captain, dubbed “Sunshine” by his peers, seemed dumbfounded.

“Get a message off to Admiral Nimitz,” said Halsey. “Tell him we have just witnessed what appears to be a large explosion—belay that—tell him the Russians have the goddamned bomb, and they’ve just detonated one after warning me to look out for it ten minutes ago. That ought to make his day, because it sure as hell just spoiled mine.”

When the news reached Admiral Fraser he was with Chester Nimitz on Guam, preparing to board a plane to rejoin his Task Force 37 in the Sea of Japan. Now he was certain of what would happen if the Americans attacked. He had not been present in the North Atlantic when that first bomb went off, but Admiral of the Fleet, John Tovey had seen it with his own eyes along with his Chief of Staff, Daddy Brind. He remembered all too well what Brind had told him about it.

“Vast and threatening,” he called it. “Threatening in a way that you simply cannot describe—and that was well after the detonation by the time we got within sight of it. I would hate to see one actually go off. Seeing one in a lifetime was more than enough.”

In 1942 when Fraser had advanced to second in command of Home Fleet, Admiral Tovey took him into his confidence on a very delicate matter after the incident in the Mediterranean, one concerning the true nature of the ship Rodney and Nelson had tangled with, and what had really happened after Gibraltar, a story that few men alive had ever heard. Fraser was now one of an elite inner circle known simply as “The Watch” and his code signal was Watchstander G3, number three in the overall chain of command within the group that stretched back to Tovey. Ahead of him in those shadowed ranks were only two men: Admiral Tovey himself and the eccentric but brilliant Alan Turing. He was amazed that Turing would be privy to matters where Churchill was not informed, but Tovey convinced him that bringing the Prime Minister in, and the government, would be no easy task.

Ever since the Geronimo raider had disappeared off the Island of St. Helena, the Watch had come to believe it reappeared in the Pacific soon after, a matter of days in fact, and that was a clear impossibility that had led to the startling conclusion that the ship was not from their time. Beyond that, its weapons were simply too advanced. The Watch had been set on every active sea lane of the world to look out for this ship, and now it had returned, two years later in 1945, back with the bomb.

Where was it going in those intervening years? How did it manage to evade detection? These were questions the Watchstanders had toiled with for long years. Turing was of the opinion that the ship was continually moving in time, perhaps marooned, perhaps under deliberate control. Either way, its continued reappearance was deeply troubling and Fraser had just had a long conversation with Admiral Nimitz about it. Try as he might, he could not persuade the Americans to belay the planned attack being assembled at that very moment by Admiral Halsey.

“The ship is dangerous,” he had argued. “It is unlike any warship afloat, with weapons that can do grave harm in an instant. You could be sacrificing a good part of your Pacific Fleet if your lock horns with this ship and it decides to use the same weaponry it just demonstrated. I strongly advise we parley with this Russian Captain, just as our Admiral John Tovey did. We had four battleships at risk and ready to engage, the core of the entire Home Fleet but—”

“But what did it get you?” Nimitz said quietly. “They reneged on their pledge and slipped away.”

“Yes, but they went to fight the Japanese! Your invasion at Guadalcanal succeeded largely because of their intervention. Yamamoto had another full carrier division heading your way, and this ship stopped it single handedly—at least this is what we have surmised after a couple years good intelligence work.”

“Hard to believe,” said Nimitz. “But the Russians didn’t use anything like that weapon on the Japanese. Hell, if they had the bomb back in 1941 , then why didn’t they use it on the Germans?”

“We don’t know…” Fraser could not reveal the whole truth, not even to Nimitz. “But they didn’t need to. The ship beat the Yamato to a near hulk, and that was with its conventional naval rocketry alone. You can’t beat this ship in anything like a fair fight, Admiral. It will require overwhelming force, and my great fear is that if we concentrate to attack, they will answer with what we just saw—an atomic bomb, just as they did in the North Atlantic when we closed in for the kill.

“So now we’ll have to deal with it on our terms. You British were entirely too accommodating. Is this thing Russian, Admiral? We’ve had the Russian Ambassador on the hot seat for hours and he swears on his first born son that the Soviet government knows nothing whatsoever about this ship.”

“He may be telling the truth, Admiral. That was, in fact, what the commander of that ship asserted when he met with Admiral Tovey.”

“Well how in the world is that possible?” Nimitz sounded irritated now. “They design and build the damn thing, and now you’re telling me they claim to know nothing about it? Sorry, Admiral, but I just can’t buy that line. I think Uncle Joe is blowing smoke in our face, and I put that lightly. I’ve also been advised that President Truman has authorized us to respond in kind if the Russians do actually deploy an atomic weapon in combat against us. We’re drawing a proverbial line in the sand here. The feeling back in Washington is that the Russians have to be reigned in, and quickly. Patton is itching to go after them in Europe right now. They may have the bomb, but they can’t have very many.”

“But don’t you see, Admiral. They’re trying to warn us off. They offered to negotiate. Why not take them up on it? If you attack now they will escalate with more atomic weapons. I’m sure of it.”

“Then that’s exactly what they’ll get in return.”

“But this is insane! How many bombs do you have?”

“That’s not the question we need to ask now, Admiral Fraser. The question is how many do they have.”

“Well, if they can expend one to make of demonstration like this what does that tell you? Our intelligence believes they may have many of these weapons, and that creates a whole new calculus here. It isn’t simply a matter of ships and planes, Admiral, though if you do attack this ship be prepared to lose very many of both in that effort.”

Nimitz took a deep breath. “Admiral Fraser. We just won the Second World War. Now the Russians seem intent on starting another one. So be it. We have the force to win this one too, and atomic weapons in theater if they escalate. I will tell you now that I have been authorized to use them.”

The silence between the two men was thick now. What more could Fraser say? Revealing the true nature of this ship would seem incredulous. Negotiation bought time for the Watch to get more valuable information. Where exactly did the ship come from? Why was it here? What did its officers and crew really want?

But to Nimitz this was just a ship—one of hundreds that had gone to the bottom of the sea in the last four years. It was just a ship with the bomb, and that was all the more believable now because he had planes with the bomb, out there in the Pacific somewhere on one of those tiny islands. One last attack would settle the matter, or so the American point of view was evident now.

The Yanks had been the senior service from the moment they first entered the war on Britain’s side. They were like a well muscled work-horse in the beginning, and one that needed to be broken to the plow harness if they were ever going to get the job done. Thankfully the more seasoned and experience British officers had been there in the beginning. In time, however, the dash and fighting ability of Men like Patton, the dogged perseverance of Omar Bradley, Hodges and so many others, had made all the difference in the war. England could not have prevailed without the United States at her side. Montgomery could not have won without Patton and the others.

“Well then…” Fraser cleared his throat. “Where do you want me with Task Force 37?” He folded his arms, resigned.

“Swing up north of Hokkaido, Admiral Fraser, and cut the bastards off from Vladivostok. Make sure nothing comes out to reinforce this Captain Karpov. We’ll handle the rest.”

“Very well. Admiral Nimitz, you know me to be a well seasoned officer of the line. If you won’t take my advice on not picking this fight, then allow me to suggest how you might win it. The Royal Navy has faced down this ship twice before, and here is how you must deploy…”

Fraser’s primer was well reasoned, and Nimitz listened intently. All carriers should move to the rear in a widely dispersed formation. Aircraft must launch and assemble only to begin the operation. Thereafter they must disperse and come in from all compass headings on the target, and at layered altitudes. Sub flights were to break formation and scatter to make individual attacks the instant they were fired upon by aerial rocketry. It would be every man to himself from that point on. Coordinated air strikes were useless, but if the fleet air arm could keep consistent and constant pressure on the enemy, it was hoped some planes would penetrate the fearsome anti-aircraft defense and score hits.

While this air operation was underway, the carriers must be well screened by light cruisers and destroyers. Heavy cruisers and fast battleships were to break formation and deploy at intervals of five to ten kilometers presenting a wall of steel to the enemy. This would put the big ships within supporting range of one another, but not grouped to a point where more than one could be sunk by an atomic weapon. Upon contact with the enemy, they were then to close at high speed on widely spaced headings, get into gun range, and fight on a ship by ship basis, individually. Any destroyers that could be spared from carrier screening duty could serve as hounds to make torpedo runs at the enemy if possible. Every submarine available should be vectored in to attack.

The overwhelming force now available could not be used as a sledgehammer as it had been against the Japanese. Instead it must come at the enemy like a vast wave of steel, a tsunami of warships deployed on a widely dispersed front in a high speed charge. This way, even if the enemy used one of their terror weapons, they could only affect a part of the wave, blow one small gap in the line. If a ship went down, a reserve of fast cruisers would be held to fill the gap in the line, and the attack would roll on.

Nimitz listened, head cocked to one side, thinking these were some fairly outlandish naval tactics. He had two heavy fists with Halsey and Sprague, and two more behind them. Everything he had learned about war fighting relied on speed, concentration and firepower.

“Yes,” said Fraser. “That’s all well and good, but concentrate at your own peril. We learned that in the North Atlantic. Remember the Mississippi and the cruisers that went down with her. And as for your carriers, remember the Wasp—both of them. We also learned that your Captains are going to have to be prepared to take their lumps if you close with this monster, but close you must. If we can get three to five decent capital ships in gun range of this Russian flotilla, we should be able to hurt them badly. But getting there’s the rub.”

“We’ll get there, Admiral Fraser,” said Nimitz. “We’ll get there if I have to order ever man jack afloat out there to paddle in on a life raft with rifles. We’ve got good men at the tillers now, hard, experienced naval war fighters who won’t flinch. They’ll get the job done.”

“If they don’t concentrate.” Admiral Fraser put a hard finger on the table between them to emphasize his point. “Remember, Admiral, attack in force, but the entire formation must be widely dispersed. Do that and we can sink these ships, I’m sure of it. Yet if it comes down to the bomb, you might at least tell them it’s coming at them first. Perhaps that would stay their hand and put some sense into this mess.”

“Telegraph our punch? I suppose I could do that, but let me assure you that we’ll use that as a final measure, and I won’t take the decision lightly.”

“I’m sure of that, but I must tell you one thing more that neither one of us really cares to hear at this point in the war. Men are going to die here, and perhaps very many will not be going home on your Operation Magic Carpet. I’m sorry for that—sorry for the whole damn bloody business we’ve been about these last years.”

‘The Japanese are sorry too,” said Nimitz coolly. “The Russians will be sorry right along with them—” He looked at his watch. “I make it another three hours before the operation begins. The Russians have been circling in place and I’ve held Halsey and Sprague on a tight leash. It’s time to release the hounds.”

“God be with us,” Fraser sighed. “Yet if we can get this ship, history will thank us for it. More could be riding on this battle than either you or I can see right now.”