Grand Alliance

Chapter 10

Admiral Cunningham had heard it all, and he had gone through the same shock and disbelief that O’Connor had, but in the end, had been treated with the same cure. After the initial briefing, if it could be called that, Admiral Tovey suggested that they all adjourn, and then take a launch over to the new ship come to meet with them here, Argos Fire. It would give Cunningham that same experience Tovey had when he first boarded Kirov, the hollow verse of T. S. Eliot rolling through his mind and the coffee-spoon normalcy of his life being stirred away forever that day. The evenings, mornings, and afternoons would never be the same for him now, nor would they ever be the same for Cunningham.

They crossed to board the sleek white destroyer, a most unusual ship, with odd angles and a superstructure that blended seamlessly into the hull. Its tall superstructure was crowned by a large white dome.

“This is a warship?”

Tovey had much the same reaction when first seeing Kirov. At least the lines of that ship had that sharp and menacing aspect, the long foredeck and the rising steel battlements behind it, that spoke of power and danger on the sea. Yet those lines had been deliberately smoothed and softened in the refit Fairchild had applied to Argos Fire. It was necessary to have Captain MacRae deploy all the guns, which were retracted below deck when not in use. Even so, Cunningham did not seem all that impressed.

“What do you people do when it comes to a fight?” he said, trying to add an edge of humor to soften his obvious deprecation. “Pardon my remark, but do you simply use harsh words? Those two deck guns of yours are good for a light destroyer, but we’ll generally give them at least four or five. Your ship would match the displacement of most of our heavy cruisers to my eye. Take our own HMS York by way of an example. She has six good 8-inch guns on a little over 10,000 long tons full load, and here you sit with no more than a two guns that looks to be a 5-incher.”

“This gun replaced your own 4.5 QF Mark V in the 1960s. It was actually a 55 caliber barrel at that time, the Mark VI version firing ordinance that had been used by a 105mm artillery gun. We call it a Third Generation Maritime Fire Support Weapon. It can fire 25 rounds per minute, out to a range of 27,000 meters with our latest munitions.”

“Yes? Well with all due respect, I’ll put my money on our HMS York if the two of you tangle.”

“Well sir, we aren’t really designed to be a ship killer, though we do have other means than our deck guns. I was told you witnessed the rocket defense the Russian ship put up when it arrived at Suez.”

“That I did, and it was quite impressive.”

“We have a similar air defense system. In fact, that is the primary role and mission of this ship. In our day, two adversaries at sea will seldom ever lay eyes on one another. You never really darken the horizon of an enemy ship. We have other missiles, rockets, that have a good long range, well over that horizon, and that big dome on the mainmast up there masks a radar system that is able to see an enemy ship out well over the horizon. So if it came down to it, Admiral, I could put missiles into your HMS York’s belly long before she ever knew I was there. You might think of us a bit like an aircraft carrier, only instead of planes we use these rockets to attack both incoming enemy aircraft and enemy surface combatants as well.”

“Interesting,” said Cunningham, cocking his head to one side. “And may I ask just how many of these rockets you carry?”

That hit on a nerve that MacRae was still soothing once he had realized what had happened to them. The power of his ship was awesome when used against the technology of this era, but it was also limited, a bright burning torch in the beginning, but deep burning coals in too short a time.

“We’ve enough to handle ourselves,” MacRae said diplomatically. “Though I take your point, sir. What power we have will be temporal. I realize that. Each missile we fire is one less under that deck there at our disposal, and I’m afraid that your own industry will not have the means to replace them, even if we put our technicians and engineers at it right alongside your very best people. A great deal has happened in the last 80 years.”

“I understand,” said Cunningham. “Fleet air defense you say?”

“Yes sir, that is our primary role. The aircraft, or other missiles fired by opposing ships, are the main threats to any warship in our day. Those and the threat from a submarine are the things we worry about.”

“I imagine you have some real demons under the sea in your day then?”

“That we do, bigger, faster, deeper diving, and much more deadly than anything from this era, as you might expect.”

“Well at least a submarine can hide when it needs to evade an enemy. That’s more than your ship could do, or even that big fellow there.” Cunningham thumbed at the distant silhouette of Kirov now. “Once you run out of those rocket weapons, things look a bit different. I hope you’ve decent armor.”

“Not much to speak of there, sir,” said MacRae.

“Then you’ll need the protection of the fleet, won’t you? Join us, and the Royal Navy is your armor, Captain. I hope you understand that.”

“Well sir… I did join you, in 1996, serving twelve years before I mustered out and was picked up by Miss Fairchild here. In fact, I served aboard this very ship, HMS Dauntless as it was called when active with the Royal Navy. We’ve given her a makeover, but she’s still the same ornery beast underneath the white paint.”

“No doubt,” said Cunningham, though he took the matter of the limited missile inventory within, and filed it away with all the other astounding things he would see and hear in the next few hours. After touring the ship, meeting the Argonauts and the crew, and seeing the fancy whirligig aircraft in the aft hanger deck, the officers all convened again in Fairchild’s stateroom, her executive suite.

“I thought seeing the ship would help you deal with all this,” said Tovey. “I went through the same thing when I first toured the Russian ship.”

“Quite amazing,” said Cunningham. “Truly astounding, particularly the bridge. We’ve a good hammer here, and it comes at a time of most pressing need. So now all the secrecy surrounding the Russian ship makes sense. But Admiral… How long do you think we can keep our light in a basket? Crewmen on your ship are gawking from the gunwales even as we speak, and you know how rumors make the rounds aboard ship, and then how they jump from there to every bar and brothel they can find. You tell me the Prime Minister doesn’t even know about this business as yet?”

“Not at all. And for the moment we must keep things that way. The less said, the better. There will be some who must know, and your name was uppermost in my mind when I first thought on this. I should also think Admiral Fraser would be a good man to bring in, and certainly Churchill will have to know in time, but can you imagine trying to get Admiral Pound in this same bathtub?”

“I see what you mean,” said Cunningham. “Then Somerville doesn’t know any of this? And what about Holland with Home Fleet?”

“Both in the dark as you were some hours ago.”

“And as I still am, for the most part. This is…. Well it’s simply an unbelievable story, as you well know. If I wasn’t standing on this ship, and seeing the equipment and all here, I’d be a stubborn nut to crack myself. What is it they call those glassy colored screens on the bridge?”

“Computers,” said Tovey. “Don’t ask me to explain what they are and how they work.”

“Well I saw the young officers there simply poking their fingers at the glass and they could run the entire ship! Astounding.”

“I suppose so,” said Tovey. “But we haven’t time to gawk and ask questions now. Billy Wind is out there in the Italian Fleet, and he’s heading our way. We’re going out to meet him, and you will see the rockets fly soon enough, just as I did north of Iceland. Certainly you heard about that.”

“Hearing is one thing, but standing on this ship quite something else. The Russian Director put it right when he invited me to take hold of the elephant’s tale. This whole thing is double Dutch, yet here it is.”

“And here we all are,” said Tovey as Admiral Volsky came in with Kamenski and Nikolin. They had been touring the bridge with Mister Dean as host, and were now ready to rejoin the conference.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Tovey played the role of chairman of the board again. “So we’ve all had a good stiff drink from that cup Director Kamenski referred to so artfully. Now it’s time we decide what we can do about the present military situation here in the Mediterranean. I sent the main body of the fleet south to lend a hand off Tobruk while we’re here, but we will soon rejoin them, and point our bows west for Malta. We must decide how to set our order of battle. I propose Admiral Cunningham lead the main body as planned, with his flag on Warspite. I will sail with you, Admiral Volsky, though we will remain in close supporting range in case ABC gets into more trouble than his three battleships can handle. Any thoughts on how things will play out?”

“I see this ship has helicopters,” said Volsky. “And we also have two aircraft carriers. I propose that you use any reconnaissance assets to quickly locate the enemy fleet, and then my ship, and perhaps that of Miss Fairchild here, would be well disposed to engage at very long range. This attack might even be combined by a strike mission from your carriers. What our intention should be is to strike first, and narrow down the odds.”

“From what we know,” said Tovey, “the German fleet has reached Toulon from Gibraltar. Hindenburg and two of their newer ships were there, and we believe they will sortie with the French Fleet soon. The Italians are already at sea, so we do not yet know what the enemy intends. It may be that they plan to rendezvous into one grand fleet, which would be somewhat imposing, if I dare say. The French will have the Normandie, which proved to be a very formidable ship when engaged off Dakar, and they’ll throw in two battlecruisers and plenty of supporting cruisers and destroyers.”

“It will be my intention to target the capital ships,” said Volsky. “Past experience has shown me that the shock of seeing a battleship on fire, with no clear enemy on the horizon, can be quite disconcerting to the enemy. May I ask if you know who commands the German Task Force?”

“Admiral Lütjens, a cautious, professional officer. It was he who led the attack on our Faeroe Island base very near the place we met, Admiral. He slipped away to Brest, and from there down to Gibraltar once that fell into German hands. Now the best ship in the German navy is here in the Mediterranean, a match for my own HMS Invincible, as I daresay the Normandie would be as well. As for the Italians, they have been somewhat timid at sea in the early going, but that seems to be changing. They have strong new ships that we would be wise to respect.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Cunningham. “But you say you suggest we use all our carrier borne aircraft in a strike role, Admiral Volsky. May I remind you that the enemy air presence will be thick as we approach Malta, and I’m given to understand that the Germans have a carrier with the Hindenburg. If so, how will we protect the fleet?”

“I’ll lend a hand there,” Captain MacRae spoke up, “with assistance from Kirov. We’ve a good magazine for air defense, nearly full, and I can extend a defensive umbrella out over thirty kilometers with our Sea Viper system.”

“That will be a good second line of defense,” said Volsky. “Our own S-400s have a considerably longer range, so we can provide the initial salvos against any incoming air strikes. Between the two of us, I believe we can adequately discourage an enemy air strike, depending on its size. But it will be necessary to coordinate on IFF codes. We should program each of our systems to treat all missiles as friendly.”

“A good point,” said MacRae. “I suppose we can send some people aboard your ship, or vice versa, and take care of that.”

“Good enough.”

They worked out the details, and the Russians made ready to depart with Admiral Cunningham. It was decided that they should rejoin the main British fleet and move west at their earliest opportunity.

“Admiral Tovey,” said Fairchild. “I wonder if I might have a word with you before you depart.”

Tovey gave her a knowing look, for he knew there were still things unsaid between them that had not been covered in the briefing given by Director Kamenski. After seeing Admiral Volsky off, he found himself in the relative quiet of the Fairchild executive suite, politely removing his hat and taking the seat offered.

“Well,” he began. “You have been looking at me like I was a long lost uncle ever since we met. What is it, Miss Fairchild?”

She looked at him again, eyes full of uncertainty, then took the same tack that Director Kamenski had used in his briefing and just came out with it.”

“Admiral… There was no nuclear detonation anywhere near my ship, and yet here we are, displaced to this time as Kirov was. We stated that in general terms during the briefing, but the devil is in the details. I must tell you now that the agent of our displacement is a peculiar device aboard my ship — one that I was led to by a direct order from my superiors. In fact, I did not expect to find what I did. Director Kamenski has told you how large detonations had a secondary effect of fracturing the time continuum. What he has not told you is that the Russians are capable of initiating a similar effect by utilizing the nuclear reactors aboard their ship. Yet Argos Fire is not so equipped. We have a pair of two Rolls-Royce gas turbines and diesel driven generators providing what we call integrated electric propulsion — not nuclear propulsion. So you might wonder how my ship came to be here.”

“You tell me this device you mention has something to do with it,” said Tovey. “You say you were led to the discovery by your superiors?”

“Yes sir, by the G1 Watchstander at that time. His name isn’t important, but I receive my orders on a secure communications link on the other side of that bulkhead.” She pointed to her hidden office now. “I must tell you that when I heard your voice in that first communication with the Russians, I was quite relieved and surprised. Things might have gone badly otherwise, but it was more than that. You see, I am a member of the group I believe you have just begun to form here sir — a group known as the Watch by its members. The odd thing about it, was that this dated from 1942 in the history I know. This business about all this being an alternate history is quite daunting. So what was familiar and well known to you, that Russia was fragmented into three states, was a great surprise to me, and I have only just learned about it.”

“There was something in the tea for all of us, or so it seems,” said Tovey by way of comforting her. “Admiral Cunningham got the bitter dregs, no sugar and double lemon.”

“Yes sir, and he also became a member of the Watch in the history I knew, as did the other man you mentioned, Admiral Fraser. And you haven’t mentioned him, but I know about Alan Turing. All Watchstanders are given the whole history when they are inducted.”

“A fascinating fellow,” said Tovey. “Yes, Turing and I have been thick as thieves.”

“Well now…. There is something else I must tell you about this device I mention.” She reached into her pocket now, and produced what looked like a typewritten page, handing it slowly to the Admiral. “I found this note in a compartment within the device itself.”

Tovey took the note and scanned the page quietly: “Should you read this your mission will have concluded as planned. Keep this device within a secure room aboard Argos Fire at all times and it will serve to hold you in a safe nexus. As of this moment, you are now Watchstander G1. Godspeed.” His eye lingered on the typewritten signature, his own name plain to see.

“Curious,” said Tovey. “I have no recollection of ever writing this note, but seeing these words now gives me an odd feeling that I did write this, odd as that may sound.”

“Admiral, there’s more to all this than I was able to share in our full meeting. This device I was led to. I believe it did not originate in our own time. In fact, I believe it was brought here from the future.”

“The future? By whom?”

“I haven’t determined that, but your name was on the list, as you can see by the presence of that note there in the device itself.”

“Well,” said Tovey. “I might also share something odd with you, Miss Fairchild. It concerns our Mister Turing. It seems this isn’t the only piece of paper my name has been put to. He told me he had come across something most unusual in the archive at Bletchley Park.”

Most unusual indeed, he thought. And he told her about the box of files, reports and photographs, intelligence gathered in years he had not yet even lived — in 1941 and 1942, and yet his name, his signature, was right there on them all, and to his great amazement.

“Turing and I had a good long talk about those files. They had to come from somewhere, and when I presented the matter to the Russians they believed the files might have been brought here, just as you say that box was brought here, from the future. Only I assumed that was from the time the Russians lived in. It never occurred to me that this whole affair may go both directions — deep into the future even as it has come here, into your past — our present.”

“Yes,” said Elena. “Those fissures in time that Director Kamenski mentioned. What makes us think they only move in one direction?” She folded her arms. “There it is — that note was brought here by someone, right along with that device, and now I need a good stiff drink! Care to join me?”

Chapter 11

The Italians had not been idle during the conference off Crete. By the time Invincible rejoined the main battlegroup, fleet reconnaissance off the carrier Eagle had spotted a large enemy force at sea southeast of Messina. At least six large capital ships were reported, and though the British did not know the exact ships involved, they were able to take a good guess. In fact, the battleships Roma, Venetto and Littoro had just transited the Strait of Messina, sailing to join Andrea Doria, Duilio and Conte Cavour from Taranto, with four heavy cruisers, several light cruisers and fourteen destroyers.

Far to the northwest, the Vichy French would contribute another powerful fleet led by the pride of their navy, the battleship Normandie, battlecruisers Strasbourg and Dunkerque, with two heavy and four light cruisers, and ten destroyers. Admiral Jean de Laborde was in command, a man who placed little faith in Darlan, liking him even less. Yet he also loathed the British, and the actions off Mers el Kebir and Dakar had made him a determined foe.

Strong enough on its own this second fleet was even more potent with the addition of the Germans task force arriving from Gibraltar. Admiral Lütjens still sailed independently, but he was within close supporting distance to the French fleet with Bismarck and Hindenburg, escorted by their light carrier Goeben and the new fast battlecruiser Kaiser. This combined force was still in the Tyrrhenian Sea, and heading south.

Tovey and Cunningham were quick to appreciate the advantage this situation now presented them. They determined that it was now or never if they were to have any chance in this engagement, and the British fleet mustered some 300 kilometers southeast of Syracuse. As they expected, the enemy was not without eyes in the sky as well, and the threat of preemptive air strikes was the first attack they encountered.

The Italians had put up three SM-79 Squadrons for their initial attack, about 60 planes in all with escorting fighters, and they would soon be supported by the thickening presence of German aircraft. The boast made by Volsky and Captain MacRae concerning fleet air defense would soon be put to the test. Kirov received word of the initial incoming strike wave at 08:00 hours on the morning of January 31, 1941. Admiral Volsky was on the bridge when Rodenko reported the data feed had been sent by Argos Fire.

“So it seems the British Sampson is as good as they claim,” said Volsky. “We have not picked up those planes with our own Fregat system yet.”

“We will in five minutes,” said Rodenko.

“Yes, but five minutes is an eternity in modern combat. Thankfully we will not be fighting the British today. What is our situation?”

“It looks to be a fairly large formation, sir. At least sixty planes.”

“Sixty? Mister Samsonov? What is our SAM inventory?”

“Sir… We have 25 S-400 Triumf missiles ready in silos, 94 missiles on the Klinok system, and 50 Kashtan missiles still available with the close in defense systems.”

“Very well, we will open the defense at long range as promised. Salvo of five S-400s please. This is something the British cannot do, eh Rodenko? No matter how good their radar is, it hardly matters if their Sea Vipers can only provide a defense out to 30 kilometers. Our S-400s can fire now, and even our Klinok system more than doubles the range of the British missiles. The ship will come to Air Alert One. You will fire on my command, Mister Samsonov.”

There seemed a weariness in the Admiral’s tone, which Rodenko perceived at once when Volsky settled into his chair, his heavy features clouded over with inner thought. It’s not his tooth this time, thought Rodenko, it’s this endless war. We’ve already fought our way through 1941 and 1942, not to mention that little sortie to 1908! Then we back stepped to 1940, and here we are back in 1941 all over again. The Admiral is tired, and not just of standing his watch here on the bridge. It’s the killing that bothers him most, which is something that never preyed on Karpov’s mind. That said, I’d rather have Volsky here in command. Karpov knew no limits, and for all his tactical prowess, his hubris continually put the ship at grave risk. I wonder what would have happened in that final battle against Togo if Kazan hadn’t pulled us out of the borscht?

Rodenko looked at his bridge crew, as he was now acting Captain in Fedorov’s absence. The men were still fresh and ready for anything. Tasarov was listening under his ASW headset, in spite of the liability with the loss of their bow dome sonar. The towed array was still an order of magnitude better than anything of this era, and he had every confidence that the submarine threat could be answered. And Samsonov was his old self, stalwart, broad shouldered strength with lightning quick reactions, like a good heavyweight at the CIC. He had circulated among the crew, and found them to be remarkably buoyant with Volsky back at the helm. The shadow that Karpov had cast had lifted, and the men seemed eager for the coming fight. But what of the ship itself?

Kirov was holding up as well as might be expected. Their reactors and propulsion systems had been running smoothly, in spite of a brief glitch just before Fedorov departed on the KA-40. The hull repairs were holding up, but would need attention soon. As the British fleet could make no more than 20 to 24 knots, speed was not an issue now, and so the stress on the hull was lessened. The crew had just completed a full inspection and maintenance evolution on all weapons, and Kirov was ready for action. There was only one concern Rodenko still had in mind, their missile inventory. It still seemed ample now, but he noted that Volsky was committing only five of the S-400s here, and knew they would switch to the Klinok system soon after this salvo.

His new radar man on the watch caught his eye, and he knew they now have solid contacts with the Fregat system. So Rodenko notified Admiral Volsky, and soon they were watching the first missiles fire from the long, forward deck. Off they went, the five fingers of doom, a fist of supersonic fire and steel that would soon catch the Italian bomber formations well before they could ever expect to be targeted. The enemy learned this lesson from us once, thought Rodenko. The British adapted fairly well, and the Japanese too. Let’s see how the Italians learn. That air defense fire was at fairly close range over the Suez canal when we arrived in theater. This time we’re hitting them nearly 300 kilometers out. They are probably still forming up after takeoff from their bases. The shock is going to be very telling here.

It was. They watched the digital track of the five missiles as they traveled unerringly to the target zone. Rodenko was counting down the range, until he saw Volsky raise a finger. So he waited, allowing an interval of silence until the missiles were on target. Then he leaned over the radar display, waiting for the system to refresh. He could already see that the S-400 attack had the effect of poking a bee hive with a sturdy stick. The once regular contact formations had disintegrated into a confused scatter. He waited for the digital readout, then reported.

“Admiral, Fregat system now reports 42 contacts still airborne. The strike had taken down an astounding eighteen planes. Perhaps not all of those were kills, Rodenko knew. The S-400 had a very wide blast radius for its fragmentation rods. It likely damaged enough wings, rudders and canopies to thin the herd, though he knew they had probably killed half the planes that were now unaccounted for in the contact count. Some would be limping back to base now, and outside our coverage zone. I wonder what they will have to say to their wing leaders when they hit the ground?

“Contact reorganizing and continuing on a projected intercept course,” said Rodenko. “Range now 220 kilometers at about 4500 meters altitude. Speed increasing to 400kph.”

The Savoia-Marchetti SM-79 Sparviero, or “Sparrowhawk” was a fast and durable three engine airframe, often called the “Hunchback” by the men who flew it, because of its distinctive dorsal hump on the forward superstructure near the canopy. Though it looked awkward, it had set pre-war speed records, and was really a fast and reasonably agile plane in combat. But its duralumin and plywood skin was easily penetrated by the fragmentation warheads of a good SAM, and not one missile fired would fail to find a target. It would simply come down to how many missiles could be used here, and Volsky had decided he would only spare five of the precious S-400s.

“Ready on Klinok system,” said Volsky. “Twelve missiles please, three salvos of four each, and you may launch at your best maximum range.”

They would wait until the enemy formation was inside 80 kilometers before Samsonov caught Rodenko’s eye, his hand hovering over the firing toggle.

“Effective range now,” said Rodenko. “You may fire.”

The claxon rang, the deck erupted with white smoke, and the missiles streaked away to find the unseen enemy. A more selective weapon, each missile would vector in on a single plane, with a much tighter fragmentation burst. Kirov would quickly trade those twelve missiles for fifteen SM-79 bombers, and Rodenko reported the updated situation report as before.

“Fifteen enemy planes confirmed down, but our radar count now reports only 25 aircraft still inbound. I show two other planes aborting, most likely with secondary damage.”

“Very well,” said Volsky heavily. “Contact the British destroyer. Tell them we have thinned the herd as promised and will now turn the engagement over to them. Let us see how their Sea Viper does. We have already given the fleet a nice little spectacle.”

They would have to wait another five minutes for the Sparrowhawks to come into what Kirov would call a close defense range. To the British, it was the outer limit of their Aster-15 missile at 30 kilometers. The Aster-30 could do better at 120 kilometers, but MacRae had waited to use his shorter range system. In truth, he could have fired much sooner with his Aster-30 missiles, but had decided not to speak of those in the briefing. The last time he had used that particular missile, he had been firing at Russian SU-24s! Now here he was all chummy with the Russian battlecruiser.

“No doubt they enjoyed lording it over us on the range of those missiles,” he said to his Executive Officer Dean.

“That first salvo was most likely their S-300 system,” said Dean.

“Or the S-400s. Damn impressive. What was their secondary battery?”

“Most likely the SA-N-92 Gauntlet system, sir. About 80 Kilometer range.”

“Good enough, but our Aster-30 will beat that, eh?”

“It will indeed, sir. Any reason why we aren’t using them?”

MacRae gave him a wry smile. “I told the Russians we would cover at 30 klicks, and said nothing of the Aster-30. We’ve only 50 of those left. Our missile count on the Aster-15 is much higher. It’s always wise to keep something under your kilts, Mister Dean. The CIC will activate forward deck Sea Viper system, number fifteen please, and standby.”

“Aye, sir, Sea Viper-15 activating and standing by. The ship is now at Air One.”

“Prosecute your contacts.”

“Sir, aye sir!”

“Mister Boyle. You will switch to control guidance and feed target data to the Vipers from the Sampson system.” Normally the Aster was an autonomous system that would use its own RF seeker to find and prosecute its target. But Dean realized that planes of this era would not be “emitting” on any of the typical spectrums the missiles would sniff. He was turning the whole engagement over to Sampson. So where Kirov placed the man by that name at the CIC, the British high domed radar set would be coordinating their strike, in close cooperation with the CIC computers.

The missiles began to fire, lance quick into the sky. They were extremely fast and agile, and there was no way any plane was ever going to spoof them or out maneuver them, no matter how good the pilot was. Twelve were fired, and they all found planes. The last baker’s dozen left alive in the SM-79 strike had seen enough and finally lost their stomach for the fight. They turned around and dove low for home.

“Enemy contacts breaking off and now outbound.” Dean updated the sitrep and waited.

“Secure Viper system,” MacRae ordered. “But the ship will remain at action stations. That may not be all they throw our way. Signal the Russian ship and give them our kind regards. How many more of those long range SAMs you figure they have, Mister Dean?”

“Full loadout would be 64 missiles, sir, but we’ve no way of knowing how many they’ve used up until now.”

No we don’t, do we, thought MacRae, and that’s what bothers me. But he said nothing of this, turning the bridge over to Dean to go below. He wanted to check on the situation below the forward deck, and see how the crew was settling in to this full wartime status. Yet the question still nagged at him like an itch he could not reach, so he caught hold of Mack Morgan in a corridor and voiced it again.

“We know this ship tangled with the Americans in the Pacific, right? Well at the briefing we heard they mixed it up pretty well here before they came to their senses and sided with us. Why would we not know about those engagements? Wouldn’t they be history to us from where we were back in 2021?”

Morgan did not quite know what to say. He had never considered the question and had no immediate answer for MacRae.

“Good point there, Gordie, if you don’t mind my using the handle.”

“Not here, between the two of us, but in front of the crew you’ll stick to Captain.”

“Aye, sir,” Morgan gave him his toothy white smile. “Well what about that Nexus talk Miss Fairchild laid on us.”

“What’s that?”

“Well the lady said we were in some kind of Nexus point as I recall it. And to be honest, who had their nose in the history books with all that was going on these last few weeks.”

“True,” said MacRae, “but you haven’t forgotten who led the assault at D-Day, did you?”

“Good old Monty.”

“Yes, but the Yanks will say it was Eisenhower.”

“Let them. Monty was the de facto commander on the ground.”

“That’s the point I’m making, Mack. If this damn Russian ship raised hell with the Royal Navy in 1941, then why don’t I remember ever hearing about it in school?”

“You’d best ask her ladyship,” said Morgan.

“I’ve missiles to look after for the moment.”

But MacRae made it a point to ask when he could, and was never quite happy with the answer he got from Elena.

Chapter 12

Tovey was on the bridge of HMS Invincible, watching the missiles score the blue sky with their white tails. The spectacle seemed to stir a memory within him, and not of the missiles he had seen in the recent North Atlantic engagement, or above Suez. No. It was something deeper, that odd feeling again, just as he felt it welling up when he heard the word Geronimo. Miss Fairchild’s mention of the Watch also had the same effect on him, and he was thinking deeply about that note she had handed him.

The woman seemed convinced that this device, as she called it, had come from the future — not her own future, but years even more lost and distant beyond her time. The conclusion they had come to, that the fractures in time might extend in both directions, was most disturbing. Yet that was not what bothered him, it was his name affixed to that note.

“Should you read this your mission will have concluded as planned…” As planned? That suddenly had a rather ominous tinge, for he realized that his name there implied he was most likely aware of that plan, if not its author. Yet how could that be possible? How would I get hold of something like that, a box from the future with something in it capable of moving that ship in time. Why, the whole matter seems like it was designed to bring that ship here, to this moment, to serve in this hour of need.

A sudden thought occurred to him, and brought a smile to his lips. This whole business with none of these people knowing about the Orenburg Federation is rather telling, isn’t it? Why, it’s as if they all came from a completely different world, a copy of this world, yet different. In fact, the Russians fairly well confirmed this. The words of Admiral Volsky came to mind now, from that fateful meeting aboard the Russian ship off the Faeroes… “Quite frankly, the world as it now stands does not seem to be the one we left. This will also be difficult for you to grasp, but the history we knew did not see our homeland divided in civil war as it is…”

They claim they met with me off Gibraltar in 1942, to parley, and the evidence of that meeting was plain to see in the archive. Why, I even knew the name of the place — Las Palomas. It just popped into my mind like I had lived all that through in this life, a memory emerging from some hidden depth, like a fish leaping from the unfathomable sea, and then it was gone…

Who’s memory was that? Mine? It couldn’t be. The thought of another John Tovey out there, interacting with the Russians, establishing the shadowy group that came to be called the Watch… well it gave him a bit of a shiver. The more he thought about things, the deeper the feeling became seated in him.

These odd feelings and notions aren’t simply hunches or intuition, he thought. It’s a powerful sensation, like déjà vu, a shadow of a deeply hidden memory upwelling in my mind. These must be remnants of those other lives… echoes. In fact, Turing felt them as well, though Cunningham seemed completely unaffected this way. He was properly astounded by what he learned at that briefing, and I’ll have to keep a good eye on him now, but I sense no deeper root in him like the one that seems to be growing within me — at least not yet.

It was more than memories, much more. There were tangible things from that other world in this one, the intelligence files he had just told Fairchild about, and the strange box aboard her ship — the device she mentioned. And what about Turing’s watch! There was another little mystery that was as yet unsolved. It went missing in this world, and then turned up in a box from some other telling of these events. How could all these things from other times find their way into this world? How were these memories emerging from within him?

A box from the future — a device… Fairchild said she had instructions that led her to Delphi. Someone must have a flair for the dramatic, he thought, hiding the damn thing beneath the Oracle’s shrine. Now that I think of it, that young Russian Captain intimated there were other places like this, where the rifts in time caused by all these massive detonations had become permanent. Think on it — gateways in time, portals to other worlds. Yet, from everything the Russians have told me, things done in one world seem to have an effect on all the others!

That was why the Russians remained here, and why Admiral Volsky has thrown in with Great Britain. They’re trying to prevent things that happened in their own time, things they have seen, a great doom that comes upon the world in 2021. It was a doom of our own making, or so they have led me to believe. These missiles they fire, scratching the blue sky, driven on with relentless yellow fire, like mindless sharks — that is what put an end to their world. Yet how ironic it is that we need them now, in this war, to give us any hope of seeing they never consume the world in the next one.

A bell rang, turning over the hour, and setting the new watch. He suddenly became aware of his senses in the here and now, the smell of the sea, the light on the water, the streaks of dark grey in the distant clouds that promised the threat of rain.

My life is wound about this Russian ship like a vine now, he realized. My God… I believe I saw this ship decades ago, in the Straits of Tsushima, aboard King Alfred, off Iki Island. Then boxes of reports and photographs appear, and notes from the future, bearing my name. The Russian Captain came to the same conclusion as Miss Fairchild did about all this. He could still hear Fedorov’s voice… “How could images of events we lived through in 1941 and 1942 be here, a year before any of that ever happened, in the year 1940? Unless — and this is the only possibility we could grasp at — unless they were brought here, from some future year, and by someone we have yet to identify who is also capable of moving in time.”

He smiled now, a strange light in his eye. Someone planned it, the mission for this Argos Fire. The order went out through the Watch, the organization I supposedly founded. The note bore my name. Why feathers and fiddlesticks…. I think I may know who brought these things here, and it wasn’t old H.G. Wells with his Time Machine as I told the Admiral.

“Excuse me Admiral. Message from the Russians.”

Tovey was again pulled from his reverie into the urgency of the moment. He took the decrypted message and read it quietly…. Argos Fire had radar contact at long range on the Italian fleet. CONTACT ON LARGE ENEMY FLEET REPORTED, BEARING NW AT 120 KILOMETERS. The coordinate of the contact followed, and estimated composition. Many ships. Steel in the water, and an impending battle at sea rising with the weather off his bow. RECOMMEND YOU JOIN A.B.C. - HOSTILITIES IMMINENT.

That was an understatement, thought Tovey.

“Mister Towers, send to Captain Bridge on Eagle and have them reconnoiter this contact and ascertain ship type and number. I want to know what we’re looking at.”

“Right away sir.”

That was a question on Admiral Volsky’s mind as well that morning. Rodenko had reported no less than thirty separate contacts! At a range of 120 kilometers, the two forces were closing the distance between one another by at least 40 kilometers per hour. They would have the enemy on their horizon in under three hours time, and by noon the battle would be fully engaged. Yet Volsky had no intention of waiting for the enemy to get within gun range. He could have fired an hour ago, but chose to take the time to coordinate his actions with the other fleet elements.

As with the air strike, it was decided that Kirov would open the action, followed by Argos Fire. Then they would observe the enemy’s reaction, take battle damage assessment, and decide how to proceed.

“Well,” Volsky said to Rodenko. “I was laid up in sick bay with Doctor Zolkin when we last faced the Italian Navy. What kind of fight can we expect here, Mister Rodenko?”

“I suppose that depends on the men commanding that fleet,” came the answer. “They didn’t like our missiles, and we’ll again have the advantage of first shock. If we hit them hard enough here, we just might drive this fleet off.”

“That is my hope,” said Volsky. “We have thirty-two SSMs, correct Mister Samsonov?”

“Yes sir, nine Moskit-II, nine MOS-III, and the new missiles we received from Kazan, fourteen P-900s.”

“Then let us begin with a salvo of four P-900s. We’ll hit them and then see how they react. Can we target their capital ships?”

“Radar signal processing is fairly conclusive, sir,” said Rodenko. I can designate capital ship targets with high confidence.”

“Then I see no reason to wait any further. Fire your salvo, Samsonov. The ship will come to full battle stations.”

The man on the other side was also a familiar face in these actions, one Admiral Angelo Iachino, the very same man who had faced the wrath of Kirov off the Bonifacio Strait. When Da Zara’s cruisers had encountered a fast enemy ship in the Tyrrhenian Sea, and come off badly damaged near Calabria, Iachino was urged to sortie with his heavy battleships from La Spezia.

The history was different then. In that world the British attack on Taranto had occurred in November of 1940, and the ships Iachino had at his disposal were those last survivors of that very successful attack. Cavour, Duilio and Littorio had all been damaged in that attack, but it had never happened. Iachino inherited the command of the Main battlefleet from Admiral Campione, who was deemed too cautious in the early encounters with the Royal Navy in 1940. Those battles had been inconclusive, and Iachino was now in command of a force capable of settling the entire issue of the war at sea in the Mediterranean, or so he believed.

“Wait for the Germans, wait for the French.” He shook his head when Admiral Bergamini cautioned him in a meeting they held aboard the battleship Caio Duilio. “I will do no such thing!” We have the entire fleet here, Bergamini, six battleships. The British have only four, and we match them in cruisers and destroyers as well. I’ll have the entire matter settled before the French ever get to the Straits of Messina.”

Iachino had every reason to be confident, but it was a boast he would soon come to regret. He had no conception of what was about to happen to his fleet, and he would soon face an attack that would come completely ‘out of the blue.’ The weather was still behind him, and ahead the skies were open and clear — until the first missiles came. His watch reported something in the sky, a thin white contrail, and he reached for his field glasses, raising them with a brown gloved hand. Iachino was a man in his early 50s, yet grey haired beneath his officer’s cap. He was in the second division, his flag aboard the new battleship Littorio, a ship that had been built to counter the French Dunkerque design.

Where Dunkerque had eight 12.9-inch guns and 225mm armor, Littorio would be built with nine 15-inch guns and 350mm of armor at the belt. Ahead of his ship, in the first battleship division, Admiral Bergamini had placed Conte Cavour in the vanguard, following with his flag on Caio Duilio, and with Andrea Doria rounding out that division. Iachino followed with the newer ships, Littorio, Veneto and Roma. Now Iachino spied the contrails in the blue sky, thinking it must be high flying planes. But he soon saw that they were moving much too fast. What were they?

“Enemy planes!” he shouted, with the only explanation that would rightfully come to his mind. “Fast!”

“Look sir, they are diving!” The watchman pointed, and Iachino could already see the AA guns on the battleships well ahead of him starting to train their barrels skyward. He gave the order for battle stations, the bells sounding as the men rushed to their weapons. “Arrogant,” he said aloud, clearly seeing four contrails now. “These must be fast reconnaissance planes. They think they can get down low and sneak in on us, but don’t they ever look over their shoulder? Those contrails can be seen for fifty miles!”

Then he heard a clamor from the men, raising his field glasses again to see what they were fussing about. The planes were swooping low — so low that it seemed they would crash right into the sea! Then, to his amazement, they began a shifting maneuver, a dizzy dance as they approached his leading battleship division. Some crazy pilots were thinking to make themselves difficult targets today. What were they doing? Were these torpedo bombers to be coming in that low? They were certainly not the lumbering British Swordfish—my god! Their speed!”

It was then that he saw the first dark fist of black smoke mushroom up from the ships ahead. The planes had suddenly put on a tremendous burst of speed, flashing in at Conte Cavour and Duilio. They had hurled themselves right at the battleships in a suicidal charge that sent all four to fiery deaths!

“What in god’s name has possessed the British,” said Iachino. “Are they so desperate that they are willing to sacrifice the lives of their pilots like this to get hits?”

Apparently so. But these planes had come in so fast that the battleships had barely trained their flak batteries before they struck home. No plane could travel at such speeds. He soon got the alarming reports from Bergamini. Both his ship and his lead battleship had been struck, and now a fatal flaw in the redesign of Conte Cavour was exposed. The ship had been completed in 1915, given several overhauls between the wars that extended her length and beam, upgraded AA guns, and even bored out her main guns to 12.6 inches. Her deck and barbette armor had also been thickened, adding weight that had caused her main belt armor to be completely submerged at full load. So when the P-900s struck, they hit the ship well above this heavy armor, and the 200 kilogram warheads moving at two and a half times the speed of sound during the final high speed run, carried a considerable impact.

Bergamini reported bad fires amidships on Conte Cavour, and the hull holed in two places with gaping black tears, over ten feet wide, that were now belching torrid flames with heavy smoke. His own ship Duilio had been struck at a different angle, with one hit on the sturdy conning tower about thirty feet below the bridge. The ship had not seen much of the fire of war. It had served only seventy hours at sea in WWI, then went through extensive refits similar to Cavour. She was nicked at Taranto, by the British attack there in the old history, but missed altogether in this altered history, as that attack had never been launched. Her initial wartime patrol had failed to find the enemy the previous year, and so the ship’s first real taste of battle would be this hard slap in the face from a P-900 Sizzler, and a punch to the gut when a second missile also struck her amidships.

In one hot minute a third of Iachino’s battleships were hit and burning. He gritted his teeth, angry that he had not insisted on fighter cover over the fleet. That would be something he would soon have to correct. But if the British were going to simply crash their aircraft into his ships like this… Was it desperate bravery on their part now? They knew they could not face me ship to ship here. Or was it simply madness?

He would soon learn that it was neither, for the missile attack had only just begun. It started with the fires, bright and fierce, but they would soon become burning coals in the guts of his battleships that would burn with unquenchable heat.