Kirov

Chapter 10

Admiral Volsky had assembled all his key officers in the wardroom, with the bridge being manned by substitute watch standers. He sat at the head of the briefing table, his eyes on the video monitor, watching the playback that had been recorded during the overflight of the island. From time to time he would stop, and ask Orlov if this footage was indeed what he had seen. The chief nodded grimly in the affirmative.

As the video concluded, the Admiral closed his eyes briefly, rubbing a spot at his temple, then looked up at his officers and spoke in a quiet, firm voice.

“Gentlemen, from this footage it is clear to me that the meteorological station on the island is obviously missing. There is no evidence of the station facilities at any of the locations investigated, and the Loran-C antennas are missing as well.”

“Yet we did see signs of impact craters on the ground there, sir,” said Orlov. “It looked to me as if the site had been bombed or shelled. Perhaps we are at war and we have put in an air strike on NATO installations there—wiped them out!”

“These were fairly large facilities,” said the Admiral. “Did you see any evidence of wreckage? Even if these facilities had been destroyed, there would be some sign of wreckage or debris.”

“Nothing other than the impact craters we noted, sir. But the site itself seemed reconstructed from damaged metal beams and scorched wood planks.”

“Fedorov tells me this is exactly what the weather station looked like in 1941. And there was no sign of the roads that were constructed on the island after the war, nor the airfield.” The admiral tapped at one of Fedorov’s maps of the island clearly indicating these major features. “Where did they go?”

The silence around the table was profound. The men looked at one another, some wearing confused expressions, others noting the reaction of key officers, particularly Karpov and Orlov. The Admiral could clearly see that only Karpov seemed to fidget uncomfortably, the man’s restless eyes clearly revealing that he was unwilling to grasp the obvious facts they were now reviewing.

“Now,” said Volsky, “please note this photograph Mister Fedorov was kind enough to retrieve from one of his history books.” He smiled, passing a photocopy of the image around the table for the officers to review. It clearly showed the ragged bare metal beamed roof and lean-to where the helicopter had set down, as well as the piles of black volcanic rock that had been stacked into a makeshift wall at one end of the site. Then he pointed to the screen again where an image was displaying that had been taken by Fedorov’s digital camera, just minutes ago. The two images were remarkably similar.

“If my eyes do not deceive me, gentlemen,” said the Admiral, “then what we are seeing in that digital photograph is a near replica of the weather station on this island as it appeared in April of 1941. As to the effects confiscated from the three Norwegians present, Mister Fedorov was able to identify one of these men. The Admiral nodded to his navigator.

“Ernst Ullring,” said Fedorov. “This man was a leader of a twelve man team from Norway which landed on March 10, 1941. Now I will read from one of my history volumes, Great World War II battles in the Arctic, by Mark Llewellyn Evans. He clearly states: ‘Once they were set up, they began sending regular weather reports every three hours, which the Germans quickly intercepted. The Luftwaffe decided to obliterate the island and launched a raid from their airfields in Norway. The German bombers streaked in low and pounded the weather station but did nothing but stir up a little lava dust. Neither the station nor the men were even scratched. Unknown to the Germans, the weathermen relied on a very sophisticated early warning system: their Norwegian huskies heard the approaching Luftwaffe engines long before their masters did, and the dogs’ barking alerted the men in time to reach shelter.’ This explains the impact craters we observed, and the dog.”

“Yes, there was a dog,” said Orlov. “A rather of obnoxious dog as well. Barked its fool head off.”

“You have further information concerning this man, Fedorov?”

“Yes, sir. His identity card states his date of birth as 18 June 1894. He was an officer in the Norwegian Navy, receiving the war cross with sword for his efforts in maintaining these Arctic weather stations, a very high distinction. He oversaw operations on this island as well as Svalbard.”

“Born in June of 1894?” said Karpov. “The man would be 127 years old! This is clearly impossible.”

“If I may, sir,” said Fedorov, “in 1941 he would be just 47 years old, about the age of the man we saw at the site, the very same man Sergeant Troyak took this identity card from.”

“Perhaps it was his father’s, then,” said Karpov sourly.

“Considering the other evidence, that seems unlikely, sir. The man also had this notebook, in which he has been making meteorological notations on a daily basis.” He passed the notebook to Karpov. “You will note the date of the most recent entry, July 28, 1941. And sir, I also found this.” He pushed the newspaper he had found in the dugout across the briefing table, and Karpov glanced at it briefly, being more interested in the notebook for the time being.

“Now that is an old newspaper, to be sure,” said Fedorov. “It dates back to March of 1941, so I can only assume these men brought it with them when they landed at that time, as the history clearly indicates. But if it were authentic it would be far more weathered than it is now, yes?”

There was silence around the table until Volsky spoke. “We must also reconsider the evidence we obtained on the surface contact Rodenko has been tracking. The video feed showed ships that Mister Fedorov here has identified as WWII class vessels. We suspected this feed may have been tampered with, but seen in this light, the whole situation begins to paint a rather convincing picture, even if it must seem impossible to us all.” The Admiral stared at them, his dark eyes fixed and steady. “Gentlemen, it appears that we are not where we belong. Appearances can be deceiving, but all the evidence indicates the present year is 1941. This means that somehow, possibly as a result of that strange undersea explosion, we have shifted seventy years into the past!”

His expression was one of clear amazement. “Believe me, I have given consideration to every other possible explanation, but the evidence of our own eyes speaks volumes. We cannot contact Severomorsk on our normal coded radio channels because they did not exist in 1941. We hear nothing but old signals broadcasting WWII documentaries on the shortwave, no matter what station we tune in. We have images of obsolete ships on video, and were overflown by a plane that exists only in a museum just hours ago. And now all this…” he gestured broadly at the accumulation of evidence on the table.

“Yet if this is a psychological operation perpetrated by NATO this is exactly what they would want us to believe,” argued Karpov.

“Doctor?” The Admiral had invited the ship’s physician to the meeting as well. “Are we all losing our minds here or do we have good reason to reach these conclusions, as preposterous as they may seem.”

“Well… I am finding it difficult to assume NATO has removed all these vital installations and facilities simply for the sake of playing a psychological game on us here. Who would have dreamt up such a thing—to try and convince the flagship of the Northern Fleet that she has moved in time? The whole idea is absurd. Do you think they staged all of this, the ships, the plane, the island, just for theater? Consider the cost and requirements of such an endeavor, and could they do such a thing right here in our own back yard, as it were, without us knowing about it? Hundreds of people rely on the daily weather data transmitted from the Met station on Jan Mayen. Yet we hear nothing now. Where are the facilities that should be on the island? Fifteen or twenty buildings do not simply vanish overnight. And you cannot obliterate an airfield. If it were there, and attacked as Orlov suggests, then you would have seen obvious signs.”

“That is no more preposterous than the notion that this ship has suddenly become a time machine and the year is actually 1941,” said Karpov.

“Perhaps,” said the doctor, “but do you have another explanation that fits with all the other things we have noted?”

Karpov steamed. “You ask me to choose between two nonsensical alternatives,” he said brusquely.

“Yet that is exactly what we must do here,” said Zolkin. “We must decide and choose, and then act accordingly. If we are in our own time, then our actions will soon bear that out. We can simply turn about and steam for Severomorsk, and that will settle the matter once and for all. Before that we should consider the situation carefully. Because if, by any stretch of the imagination, all these facts do add up to the improbable conclusion that we have somehow shifted in time, then realize what this means.” He looked at them all now, casting a knowing glance at the Admiral as well. “It means that we would be sitting in the most formidable ship in the world, with full knowledge of the history that is about to unfold, and the power to change it…”

The doctor had the undivided attention of every man present. Even Karpov seemed to settle into some deep inner thought, ruminating and planning. His eyes betrayed the operation of his mind as he considered the incredible advantage of the position he might now find himself in, no matter how much his every instinct screamed that this whole premise was patently ridiculous.

“The reactors,” said the Admiral in a low voice. “Chief Dobrynin said the reactors sounded odd when we experienced those strange effects in the sea. He had unusual readings and requested we reduce speed. I wonder…” He had not yet formulated a complete thought here, and so he put the matter aside, the other evidence appearing to be conclusive in his mind, however preposterous it seemed.

With the weight of both the Admiral’s considered opinion and that of the ship’s physician, both well liked and respected men, the others present voiced no objections, waiting in silence. Even Orlov, practical and gritty in every respect, a man who would normally be delivering a stream of invectives at such nonsensical ideas, sat dumb.

“Mister Fedorov,” said the Admiral. “For those of us not so well schooled in the history of the Great Patriotic War, can you tell us anything about what would be happening at this time if it were indeed late July of 1941?”

“Well sir, at this time Great Britain’s lone stand against Nazi Germany has been broken by the German invasion of the Soviet Union some months ago. And as we heard in some of the radio broadcasts we have intercepted, German panzers have reached Smolensk and will be fighting an encirclement operation there for the next month. They will then turn south to take Kiev before pressing on to threaten Moscow in what will be called Operation Typhoon in October. The Germans are also tightening the noose around Leningrad, as St. Petersburg was called then, and the siege there will begin in early September of this year.

“Remember that the United States has not yet entered the war, and will not do so for five months until the Japanese attack at Pearl Harbor in December. There is, however, increasing cooperation between Great Britain and the United States, particularly over the conduct of operations in the Atlantic. The United States landed the 1st Marine Brigade at Reykjavík and officially began relieving the British garrison there the first week of July, 1941. They have already transferred fifty destroyers to Great Britain to assist their defense of the convoy routes, and the Lend Lease law will have narrowly passed the American Congress allowing the Allied powers to ship supplies and material directly to the Soviet Union in the Murmansk convoys. The first of these, Convoy Dervish, would be very close to setting out for Murmansk. It was a small, and rather insignificant convoy, just six ships carrying raw materials and fifteen crated hurricane fighter planes. It was meant to demonstrate the feasibility of organizing Arctic convoys to the Kola Peninsula area in the future.”

“I can’t believe I am hearing this!” Karpov exclaimed. “We have enough to worry about given the situation in Europe and Asia now, let alone this nonsense about having to refight the Second World War.”

“True,” said the Admiral. “But assuming these facts present us with an impossible truth, we would be well advised to study the tactical situation we may now find ourselves in. Consider it an exercise, if you will. If events soon prove otherwise, you can have a good laugh about it. If however…”

Karpov shook his head, pinching his nose, his eyes tightly closed. “We should return to Severomorsk at once and put an end to this fantasy,” he said.

“You advise we withdraw to the bosom of Mother Russia?” Volsky leaned heavily back in his chair. “That would be an easy course to take. In a few days we would either be sitting on base with cold beer and a horse laugh or two while Mister Samsonov there entertains us with his balalaika.”

Samsonov smiled, nodding his head. “And if all this is nonsense,” the Admiral continued, “then we can return to our humdrum existence there in the cold, gray north, hoping the country can perhaps deliver another frigate or two, or maybe even a new destroyer and few more modern submarines before the end of what promises to be the most threatening period in our history since the conflict Mister Fedorov is so well schooled in.”

Orlov had a sallow look on his face. “And we’ll all end up sleeping with some old babushka and wishing we were young again to have a little fun,” he said.

“Very true,” said the Admiral. “On the other hand… We could do some snooping around while we are out here. We will also have to account for the loss of Orel and Slava. There will be questions, very many questions, I’m afraid, and as yet we have no firm answers. What is this surface contact up to? Where is it going? What about that submarine contact? If these are NATO forces then we are the only countervailing military force in theater at the moment. So no matter the date, we must carry out our mission, which is to secure and defend our nation against all harm.”

“One way or another you are going to bump into the reality of the situation,” said Zolkin, even as he had advised earlier in the sick bay. “You must act, and the truth will become obvious.”

“I thought that was what I was doing by sending this detachment to Jan Mayen,” said the Admiral. “Yet we are left in much the same uncertainty as before. We see the evidence, it leads us to an obvious conclusion, yet we are unwilling to believe it.”

“Alright, alright,” said Orlov gruffly. “Let’s assume the worst. Assume something happened to the ship. I’ve been to Jan Mayen myself,” he said to Karpov now, “and believe me, Captain, that was not the same island. It was completely empty! No roads, no buildings, no airfield.”

“Very well,” said Karpov sharply. “Let us indulge ourselves in the fantasy. We have two contacts approaching us from the south. Let us go and have a look at them, up close and personal. No long range video feed that could give us any reason to doubt what we see. Will that settle the matter?”

“You will see the light cruiser, Adventure and a single destroyer, the Anthony,” said Fedorov. “At least this is my best guess given the history. One of the British carriers we saw earlier was supposed to join this group, but… something has changed…”

“Indeed,” said Admiral Volsky. “Did we change it? We have done nothing of any consequence as yet.”

“We’re here, sir,” said Fedorov. “We’re here and we shouldn’t be, and the British forces operating in the Arctic waters have discovered our presence and already made decisions that were clearly not made historically. So far the variation seems insignificant. HMS Furious was supposed to accompany these other two ships for a time, and instead it remains with the main body that Rodenko has been tracking. A small change. Nothing momentous. But the Admiral commanding those ships out there knows an unknown ship of considerable size is at large, and he’ll be wondering about us. It could be he’s decided to keep his two carriers together as a precaution until he can learn more. And these two ships approaching us may have been sent out as a reconnaissance group. If we proceed as you suggest, understand that we may begin to make a few more ripples in the waters of history, and the changes might be very significant.“

“Yet one question remains,” said the Admiral. “The good doctor here put it to me when I first raised this problem with him in the sick bay. If these are found to be British ships, old British ships that should have been broken up for scrap metal decades ago, then it is a question we must surely answer, and it is this: Who’s side are we on in this war?”

Chapter 11

It was some time before anyone spoke, and Doctor Zolkin took a keen interest in the reactions of every man present. Karpov was still sulking, but behind that storm front in his mind he was already thinking, planning, looking far ahead at some distant outcome. Orlov seemed torn between anger, confusion and irritation over the matter. The junior officers, Rodenko, Nikolin, Tasarov and Samsonov fidgeted uncomfortably, waiting. Fedorov seemed energetically alive, his mind also forward looking as to possible consequences. It was clear he had more to say, though he politely waited for the response of the senior officers first. The Admiral was leaning back in his chair, his hands folded on the table as he regarded the others, his glance often on Karpov. It was he who broke the silence first.

“Who is our enemy here?” asked the Admiral. “In 1941 Great Britain and the Soviet Union were allies, perhaps strange bedfellows, but allies nonetheless. It has been said that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Perhaps so. The West delivered more than half of the trucks Soviet armies would use in this war, and considerable amounts of raw materials, aircraft, and other supplies. We are here, right astride the convoy route to Murmansk that became so contested in the months and years ahead. We could smash what remains of the German surface fleet in a heartbeat, and completely neutralize the air threat to these convoys as well.”

Karpov cleared his throat. “I still find this whole discussion ridiculous,” he began, “but for the sake of argument consider this… Germany loses the war, even without any assistance to the allies we might render. Now… we all know the world that emerged after that, the long cold war, the fall of the Berlin Wall and so called ‘iron curtain,’ the collapse of the Soviet Union, and the ever more encroaching influence of the Unites States and NATO in the world’s key energy sectors. They pay us lip service at the UN, but we all know here that Russia has been consistently disrespected, marginalized, and viewed with suspicion and veiled hostility ever since the war ended. The only thing that enables us to compete on the world stage in any way is our considerable nuclear arsenal and the resources we have, particularly oil, metals and timber. Yet they deal with us because they must. Let us not fool ourselves here. Look at what the Americans have done in the Middle East!”

“You are suggesting our real enemy is the West,” said Volsky, “and I suppose it is a strong argument.”

“Of course,” said Karpov. “Germany was our enemy for four years. NATO had been our nemesis ever since. The Soviet Union was going to eventually defeat Germany, with or without Western assistance. It was only a matter of time.”

“What does our resident historian think?” The Admiral invited Fedorov to speak.

“Well, sir, the Captain makes a good point. Of approximately 330 German divisions, about 270 were facing us on the eastern front at any given time. The rest were garrisons in France, Italy, the Low Countries and Norway, and these postings were largely to rebuild and reconstitute divisions we destroyed as the war progressed, at least until the landings at Normandy. The Allied strategic bombing campaign had considerable impact, however. It should not be underestimated. And they single handedly contained the Kriegsmarine and Italian Navy as well, controlling the Mediterranean, North Africa, and knocking Italy out of the war. We could never have accomplished that. Our campaign would have been a long, grinding advance on Berlin, as it was historically. Yes, I believe we would have prevailed, but the war might drag on another several years, taking the lives of countless millions more without a second front in the west.”

“True,” said Karpov. “But consider this. If we are clever, and act at the appropriate moment, we can bring about a post war environment that is much more favorable to the Soviet Union. The two sides were in a race to Berlin. We got there first, and received little thanks other than thirty years of American suspicion and enmity in the cold war. We could make certain that Russian troops get much farther, establishing a much stronger position in Europe, by simply acting to delay the allied advance. If Soviet troops are standing behind the Rhine before the British and Americans get there, then there will be no Berlin Wall, no divided Germany. NATO will not sit at our doorstep and the Warsaw Pact may replace that organization altogether. Germany is the heart of Europe, and there will be no ‘West Germany’ to collaborate with Britain and the US. That is all we really need to do—delay the Western powers advance with selective intervention. By this we could strongly affect the post-war environment. It will not be the Americans with their hand on the neck of the United Nations that reigns supreme—we will dominate that body. And NATO? We can see to it that it never even exists!” He planted his finger firmly on the table as he finished, then folded his arms.

“I agree with the Captain,” said Orlov. “We need not aid the Germans in any way. To do so would be treasonous considering the hell they brought upon us in that war. My grandfather died at Stalingrad. But sticking a thorn or two in Roosevelt’s or Churchill’s bottom might prove interesting.”

The doctor spoke next. “What would be the effect if it became known that this was a Russian ship? If we were to engage a British fleet, for example, how might this affect the relationship between Great Britain and the Soviet Union. It was the British who organized and guarded the Murmansk convoys. Suppose this aid is withdrawn?”

“We can keep our identity secret,” suggested Orlov, “at least at the outset. They will most likely assume we are German, yes?”

“If I may, sir,” said Fedorov. “Engage the Royal Navy and they will stop at nothing to sink this ship. They will use their entire fleet, all their air-sea assets, and soon, in a matter of just a few months time, they will also have the United States Navy to support them.”

“They have nothing that can match us,” Orlov said derisively.

“Oh? Do you have any idea what a 15 or 16 inch shell would do to this ship if we should be hit? Even an 8 inch shell could easily penetrate the forward deck and ignite the missile fuel and warheads there, and my guess is that this ship would literally be blown to pieces in that event. We are not invulnerable.”

“But our advantage lies elsewhere,” said Karpov testily, annoyed to be arguing with a junior officer like Fedorov. “True, we have only armored certain segments of the ship, the citadels, the reactor cores. But we do not have to come anywhere near an enemy ship to deliver a barrage of precision guided firepower on the enemy. Our missiles can fire from a range of 250 kilometers or more! Our cannon can use rocket assisted munitions and range out to 50 kilometers if need be. We can stand off and destroy any fleet we encounter, and they will never even see us. The only equivalent weapon the enemy might deploy is a fleet of aircraft carriers, and we can find them with our helicopters first and sink them before they become a threat. Should any dare launch an air strike at us, our SAM defenses will be more than enough to protect us.”

“What you say is true for a time,” said the Admiral. “It was fortunate that we replenished our primary missile inventory for the live fire exercise before we were able to complete our scheduled maneuvers. We find ourselves with reloads aboard for our Moskit-IIs. But yet there is a limit to what we can accomplish, yes? We now have forty Moskit-IIs in inventory instead of only twenty, and ten each for our other missiles. That means we have a gun with 60 rounds, and after they have been fired, all we have left are the 152mm cannon and a few torpedoes, twenty, to be exact. Certainly no ship in the world can match us now, yet we must be very judicious as to how we choose to actually use the weaponry we have.”

“You are forgetting one other thing,” said Karpov, his face hard, eyes narrowed. “We have nuclear warheads aboard.”

The tension in the room seemed to elevate at once. Zolkin shifted uncomfortably, looking at the Admiral, who covered his mouth, stroking the unshaved stubble of his graying beard. “There will be no use of nuclear weapons without my expressed approval,” he said flatly. “And at the moment I do not believe we need to consider this option.”

“The enemy will have them in a matter of a few years,” said Karpov. “And they will not hesitate to use them. This we have clearly seen.”

“We will not engage anyone with nuclear weapons,” said the Admiral firmly. “Such a use would come into consideration only in the most extreme circumstances, and only after deep consideration of the effect this would have on future events. This may indeed be nothing more than a fanciful exercise of thought, gentlemen. But if we find these two ships approaching us are not modern day cruisers and destroyers in the Royal Navy inventory, then we will be faced with profound choices, decisions of greater weight than any commander in the field has ever faced in history. We must acquit ourselves well, gentlemen. For we, too, must all die one day.”

“Yet we should consider every advantage possible,” said Karpov. “War is war. This one, of all wars, was fought with utter ruthlessness and single minded determination. Are we men? We are sworn to the defense of our nation.”

“And we will defend her,” said the Admiral. “Yet we can do so without dropping a 15 kiloton warhead on London or New York. I remind you that neither Britain or the United States were enemies of the Soviet Union in 1941. We have other means—a limited inventory of conventional weapons to defend ourselves if attacked. And we also have our brains, along with the foreknowledge of every significant event in history from this day forward. With Mister Fedorov here, and his useful book, we have details that can give us a decisive edge in battle, at least for a time.”

“What book?” Karpov looked at the Navigator. “What have you been reading now, Lieutenant?”

“Sir, I have a volume of—”

“Never mind that now,” the Admiral cut him off. “Gentlemen, I assembled you all here to discuss this matter, and hear your viewpoints, but I must now remind you that this is not a democracy, not for the moment. The chain of command will prevail as always, and my decision is final in every circumstance we may encounter. Is that clear?”

Karpov’s jaw was set, but he did not directly challenge the Admiral. Orlov looked at him, but he, too, said nothing.

“Now then,” said Volsky. “Mister Fedorov, I want you to plot an approach to these two ships that are presently advancing on our position. The evidence obtained at Jan Mayen speaks loudly, yet it appears we need more jam on the blini before we will savor it. We must determine what is real and what is not here, and we must do so at our earliest opportunity.”

“If I may, Admiral,” said Fedorov. “We have other options as well. We could sail for Iceland and overfly Reykjavík as we did Jan Mayen. If this is a PSYOP, then NATO cannot hide an entire modern city from us, can they?”

“Yes we could do this, but I believe our answer is close at hand. What was this ship you believe is approaching us?”

“HMS Adventure, along with a destroyer. Adventure is a mine laying scout cruiser, not heavily armed, sir. She had four 4.7 inch guns, primarily used for anti aircraft defense, and other smaller caliber weapons. The 4.7s can range out to about 16,000 yards or so. The destroyer has the same, along with eight 21 inch torpedoes. Neither ship presents any long range threat. We would not even have to use a single missile if they sought to engage us. We could simply direct radar controlled gun fire well outside their range.”

“Or we could send you to have a look in the KA-226. You can identify these ships by sight?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“No,” said Karpov. “I want tangible evidence, not simply this man’s assessment from a long range camera. I want to see these ships myself.”

“Well you could fly with him, Mister Karpov. However, if this is an anti-aircraft cruiser, perhaps we should be cautious with our helicopters.”

“If we wish to make a close approach with the ship,” said Fedorov, “then we could put men up on the highest mast and establish a watch there. You can see out twelve to fourteen miles from that height, and we’ll see them on radar long before that. With a good, high powered observation lens we can probably identify these ships at that range visually. In fact, we could even simply use the high powered cameras on the Tin Man watch decks. Even the Captain’s field glasses would do,” Fedorov finished. “And we would still be three or four miles beyond the range of their 4.7 inch guns.”

“We can get closer than that,” said Karpov sourly. “If they dare attack us I will make short work of them.”

“Very well,” said the Admiral. “Then this is exactly what we will do, and hopefully before this weather front makes observation impossible. But Captain, I will be on the bridge for this operation.” He eyed Karpov, noting the man’s reaction.

“Gentlemen, let’s get moving. Anyone scheduled for relief get some sleep. I am well rested, and I will take the ship in, Mister Karpov. You may stand down and get some rest. Join me on the bridge in 6 hours. By that time we should be very near these ships. Mister Fedorov—plot me a good intercept course. I want to sail west of Jan Mayen.”

“Aye, sir.”

Karpov sighed heavily, still convinced this was all a waste of time. Yet the first thing on his mind now was his stomach. He was hungry and wanted to get in a meal and a few hours sleep before he returned to the bridge. On the way to the officer’s mess he pulled Orlov aside and asked him what he thought of the situation.

“It’s one fine v’zádnitse, Captain. How is it the Americans say this? Up shit creek without a paddle. It’s crazy. And the more I think on it the more I begin to feel crazy. Yet, after all this, it begins to paint that impossible picture.”

“Don’t be a fool, Orlov. Yes, I know the evidence seems convincing, but everything we have seen could have been part of a psychological operation staged by NATO, even the removal of the facilities on Jan Mayen, in spite of what the Doctor says.”

“I’m not so sure about that, Vladimir. That’s the one thing about all this that bothers me. I’ve been on that island too, and I’m telling you there was nothing there when we overflew it a few hours ago. You don’t disassemble those buildings in a few hours time. What, do you think they’ve stored everything in some underground bunker to put them back together again after they’ve had their fun with us? This is very disturbing, Captain. I can dismiss the other things, even that airplane, but this business concerning the island is very perplexing.”

Karpov said nothing for a time. He was also finding it difficult to dismiss the evidence they had uncovered by visiting the island. Yet something in him remained stubborn, holding on to the world they had come from, and unwilling to embrace the prospect that it was entirely gone now—possibly gone forever. He felt like a spider without a web, a mouse without a hole to hide in any longer. Even so, another part of his mind was creeping ahead, sifting through the possibilities. “Who do you think our real enemy is, Orlov?”

“The British, the Germans, the Americans, they are all the same as far as I’m concerned. Aren’t they all in league together anyway? We have few friends in the world, Captain. Even the Chinese eye us with suspicion these days.”

“But let’s assume the impossible. If this were 1941, would you join the British in opposing Nazi Germany?”

“I would find some way to stick it to them both,” said Orlov emphatically.

Karpov thought about that for some time as they walked, and when they had reached the officer’s mess, he leaned close and gave Orlov a quiet order. “When we finish up here, Chief, I think it best we put some men to work and remove any obvious insignia on the ship. Pull down the ensigns as well. Just as a precaution.” He forced a weak smile.

Orlov grinned. “You’ve been thinking about this from a few different angles, haven’t you, Captain? Your point about securing a better position for us after the war was well taken. Yes, we have a very powerful ship here, but consider what the Admiral said… We have just sixty missiles on board, and we are lucky to have even that many. The reloads for the Moskit-IIs are stacked high in the crates below decks, so if we were to take a hit, we would go off like a firecracker. We must be careful in the early going, no matter whose ships are out there, no matter what year it is. The silence from Severomorsk is also very disturbing. I don’t know which scenario frightens me the most. If things turn out to be the way you see them, and this isn’t World War II, then World War III might have started eight hours ago. Take your pick. It’s a nightmare in either case as far as I’m concerned.”

“If that is so, then we are in the fight of our lives, Chief. Yet we have the means to defend ourselves adequately, and we can punch harder than any ship in the world.”

As Orlov stood to leave, Karpov left him with one final thought. “Yes, we have limited ammunition, and we must be very prudent in the way we use it. But we have other means, and I am not so squeamish as the Admiral when it comes to using them.”

At that, Orlov said nothing. He took his leave, out to make the rounds below decks and see that the scheduled maintenance checks had been finished.

Karpov sat with his dinner for some time, though his appetite had vanished. He ate, reflexively, sopping up the gravy with some good black Russian rye bread, but his mind was wandering in distant fields. As usual, except for those times when Orlov was with him, he ate alone. None of the junior officers seemed to want to share his table, and when he was in the officer’s mess they often stilled their conversation as well, talking in hushed tones with one another as if they might disturb the Captain.

Karpov was used to such reactions from the men under him. In one sense, he took it as a sign of respect, though deep down he knew they shunned him out of fear. One voice in his mind believed that was good. The men should have a healthy fear and respect for their senior officers, yes? But a deeper feeling that could only be described as loneliness whispered something else to him about it. He did not want to listen to that voice.

Yet, by and large, he was alone in the world. Take him out of this small kollectiv on the ship and there was no one back home waiting for him. When the ship returned to Severomorsk, all the other crewmen would rush down the gangways and into the waiting arms of wives, children, parents, but not Karpov. His parents were long gone, and he had been too preoccupied with the machinations of his career to ever contemplate marriage. There was no secret photo tucked away in his wallet of a sweetheart left behind. Yes, he had rank and authority now, but even the lowly mishman, the warrant officers he would post to the watch, and the able seamen busy with menial tasks below decks had something, someone, where he was denied. It made their banal and pointless existence bearable, he thought. They were too easily contented by the fat cheeks of their devushkas and babushkas.

He was still perturbed with Fedorov, that damn z’opoliz, an ass kisser if ever there was one. The man seemed to have read the Captain’s own book—buttering old Volsky’s bread as he pushed his war books and silly ideas on him. Yet, the more he thought about it, the more he realized Fedorov had nothing of the cold, hard ruthlessness in him to make any use of his new found connection to the Admiral. Fedorov was too naive to have any notion of the game where real power was concerned, except perhaps to be a good victim. He was just a little chaynik, wet behind the ears, he thought, and he dismissed him as another young fool of an officer, and by no means an opponent worthy of his attention. He could crush Fedorov any time he chose.

That said, the Lieutenant’s suggestions seemed to be driving their mission now—a junior officer’s advice taken over that of a Captain of the First Rank! The man had turned this tactical maneuver behind Jan Mayen into a fishing expedition for his theories. He considered all the arguments again, that something had happened to the ship, to all the facilities on Jan Mayen, to the entire Royal Navy as well. It was entirely nonsensical, yet even Orlov was vacillating in doubt now, and he had to admit that last briefing had shaken him somewhat as well.

What if it were true, he wondered? Every time he let that thought take center stage in his mind there was a thrumming pulse of anxiety in his gut. If it were true, then there was no one back home at Severomorsk they would ever have to answer to again—not for him, nor for anyone else. Suchkov, the God of the navy, would be a four year old boy! A line from Dostoyevsky entered his mind soon after this thought: ‘If god is dead, then everything is permitted.’

Another thought, or more a feeling came to him now. There was no one waiting for any of the men now either. They were all just like him now. Every man aboard was alone, cut off, isolated here in the kollectiv of the ship. Kirov was the only reality for them now, the only vestige of home they would ever know again. Why did that thought make him so uneasy—the thought that every man among them was now a derelict in time, as lost and forlorn as he felt at times? ‘If God is dead…’

The bulk of the crew did not know any of this as yet. Only the senior officers and the mishman warrant officers of the bridge crew knew what they had been dealing with. The rank and file had no idea what was happening. He dragged himself up from the table and buttoned his jacket before he ventured out to walk the ship for a bit.

As he passed small groups of men quickly came to attention, and Karpov forced a wan smile as he greeted them. If it were true; if Severomorsk and the entire world they knew were gone now, then they were all just zombies, walking dead men, dispossessed souls adrift in the cold seas of the world.

They were all just like him now.

Chapter 12

On board HMS Victorious, Admiral Wake-Walker was studying his plotting map carefully, with Captain Bovell at his side. “This message from the Admiralty has done it,” he said with some irritation. “Sounds like Admiral Pound is worried the Germans may be trying to slip another raider out into the Atlantic. I can’t imagine what ship this is. We put a torpedo into Lutzow and laid her up at Kiel with Tirpitz, but they’re having another look to see if anything has moved. Apparently this report of a cruiser to our north has got the boys over at the Golf, Cheese and Chess Society all in a dither.”

He was referring to the GC&CS, which stood for Government Code & Cipher Station at Bletchley Park, some 40 miles outside of London where the code breakers worked over intercepts to try and piece together clues of what the enemy may be up to. Also called “Station X” or simply “BP” for Bletchley Park, the code breaking effort had been aided by the capture of several German cipher machines in recent months, machines that had been provided by Royal Navy units intercepting German auxiliary ships in the region. Since the recent sortie by Bismarck had jangled the nerves of the entire system, it seemed particularly sensitive to the report of any lone warship steaming in the frigid Arctic waters with the possible intent of working its way over to the Denmark Strait west of Iceland for a shot at the Atlantic convoy traffic.

“It was a fairly unusual contact, sir. Perhaps they want us to have another go at identifying that ship.”

“Well it seems that they do, Captain. I have informed them that Adventure and Anthony were detached yesterday with just this intent, but they want us to linger until we get some confirmation.”

“And then there is this unusual signal from Jan Mayen, sir,” said Bovell. “Something about a helicopter landing there? Admiralty says the Norwegians thought it was Russian. I’m aware of the fact that the Russians were working on these, but intelligence indicates they have made no significant production or deployments of such an aircraft even if they do have it in development.”

“It might’ve been a German machine,” said the Admiral. “I read reports about a Focke Wolf model, number sixty-one I believe. It was tested in 1936. Nothing more than an old biplane with its wings taken off and a pair of rotors mounted on struts where the wings might be.”

“The signal did say it had twin rotors, sir,” said Bovell.

“Yes, very curious. Could the Germans have something like this in production? If they do, Norway would be the perfect place to deploy such an aircraft, what with all the mountainous terrain and all. Yet Jan Mayen is some 600 miles from the Norwegian coast. The Focke Wolf-61 had a maximum range of no more than 150 miles. Unless Jerry has been exceptionally busy of late, I doubt they managed to fly an FW-61 out there.”

“It was said a full squad of infantry landed with this aircraft sir. The FW-61 might carry one or two men of the most, but a full squad? And they were a little too polite to have been Germans, wouldn’t you say?”

“Quite so…” Admiral Walker was somewhat perplexed over the report. “Well, perhaps Adventure and Anthony will shed some light on the subject. In the meantime, it seems operations to the North Cape area have been put on hold until we can learn more one way or the other. Vian’s Force K was out making a run up to Svalbard off to our east. First time a Royal Navy ship has visited that island since Nelson’s day. Well, it looks like that’s been put on hold as well. The Admiralty wants us to coordinate with Force K in the event this unknown ship is a German cruiser. I’m afraid we stuck our foot in it by sending off that report yesterday.”

“It seems so, sir.”

“We are to move back west toward Jan Mayen to support our scout detachment in the event this contact firms up. See to it that Grenfell is notified about this, will you? I’ll want his boys up by mid-day.”

HMS Adventure was riding at anchor off the narrow neck of Jan Mayen, there to check on the status of the Norwegian weather station. Aside from tall tales of an unusual aircraft that had landed the previous day, all seemed well. The Norwegians seemed to think the craft was Russian, noting the single red star insignia it bore, which seemed odd. The station team leader, Ullring, was a reliable man, and his report was taken and relayed on to the Admiralty as well as Wake-Walker with Force P. At 10:00 hours, however, the lookouts spotted what looked like a large vessel on the southwestern horizon.

Captain Norman Grace was peering through his field glasses with a worried expression on his face. What would the Russians be doing with a whirlybird out on Jan Mayen? Ullring’s report made some sense. If the interlopers had been German he doubted they would have left the station intact or any of the Norwegians alive. It was all very curious, but the Captain had more to worry about than he bargained for now.

His ship was at anchor, he had a shore party still on the island, and beyond that his engines had been doggy ever since he was detached. They could make no more than 22 knots the whole way up. A mine layer and AA picket by trade, Adventure had run afoul of one of her own mines off Liverpool earlier in the war and was laid up for repairs. Live by the sword, die by the sword, he thought. Apparently there had been unseen damage to one of the turbines, and he was getting a noticeable wobble at high rotations. He had his stokers and ERA men, the Engine Room Artificers, working the boilers and turbines below, but nothing seemed to solve the problem. Now this!

From the look of it he was seeing a fairly large ship, obviously a warship, and with a dangerous looking silhouette at that. Undoubtedly this was the vessel he had been told to be on the lookout for. He wanted to get underway immediately, but to possibly buy him some time to recover his landing party he waved down an Ensign and gave an order, his voice edged with just enough disquiet to be noticeable.

“Make to Anthony,” he said. “Tell her to up anchor and steam out to that contact and see what we have. I’ll be underway as soon as possible.” He raised his field glasses again, a look of real concern on his features.

Captain John Michael Hodges received the message with some chagrin aboard the destroyer. “What’s this?” he said. “I’ve got four 4.7 inchers and a lot of gall running out against a ship with the looks of this one.” He, too, had seen the approaching vessel and did not like the look of it one bit. “I’ve a bad feeling about this.”

“Portia in Arduia,” said his Executive officer, repeating the ship’s motto, ‘brave under difficulties.’ And it was soon apparent to the Captain that he would have to be exactly that. He sounded general quarters, got up steam quickly enough, and was off to the races, heading southwest toward an ominous silhouette on the horizon.

Aboard Kirov at 09:30 hours they were making their approach to the enemy contact. Rodenko had been tracking the ships on radar from one of the KA-40s while they were north of Jan Mayen. Once they cleared the masking bastion of the island, they recovered the helo and took up long range radar scans from the ship. The mysterious submarine contact had long since vanished, and Tasarov had nothing further to report on his ASW watch. Admiral Volsky was satisfied that threat was reduced now, and was intent on getting a closer look at these two ships. The contact , whatever it was, did not alter its course to intercept Kirov when the Admiral steered west of Jan Mayen. It seemed to be heading for the island itself, which was curious.

Perhaps the men at that makeshift weather station had filed a report, he thought, and the British were sending in the cavalry. It’s a pity Orlov didn’t have the presence of mind to destroy the radio equipment on that island outpost.

He gave the orders to come about in a long graceful turn that eventually saw his ship approaching the southernmost tip of the island from the southwest. They had out run the weather front on the way down and still had good visibility, though the seas were beginning to rise. It was not long until his navigator called down from the maintenance deck on the high mainmast of the ship where he had set up his long-range observation gear.

“It’s still difficult to make out at this range, sir, can you get us just a little closer?”

“As you wish, Mister Fedorov.”

The Admiral was cautioned by Rodenko a moment later. “Con, radar contact breaking off and heading in our direction, speed thirty knots.”

“Someone is just as curious about us as we are about them. Please sound action stations, Mister Samsonov.”

“Aye, sir.” Samsonov toggled a switch and the alarm klaxon sounded throughout the ship sending the crew scurrying to battle stations. Kirov was drawing her sword.

Moments passed and the distant contact was small ship that grew larger on the horizon until Fedorov called down from above, a definitive edge to his voice. “Getting a good look at her now, sir. You should be seeing her well on the Tin Man cameras. Definitely two stacks, a small destroyer class vessel, possibly no more than 1300 tons, but she looks a little angry, sir.”

“Like an impudent little dog on a leash,” said the Admiral. “Range to contact, Mister Rodenko?”

“18,300 meters and closing.”

The Admiral thought quickly. In another few minutes that ship would be within its maximum firing range with the weapons Mister Fedorov had described. Kirov herself was making near thirty knots, so the two ships were closing on each other at 60 miles per hour. That gave him just one minute to decide what to do. At that moment Karpov burst through the hatch, his face red with obvious exertion, responding to the alarm for general quarters.

“Welcome, Captain,” said the Admiral. “Good of you to join us. It seems we have a visitor.” He gestured to the flat panel monitors where video feed from the Tin Man optical systems on the forward watch decks clearly displayed the image of a small ship. It was churning its way forward through the choppy seas, a frothing white bow wave visible with the high speed it was making.

“Care to have a look through your field glasses?” said Volsky.

Karpov said nothing, striding to the forward view screens where his field glasses hung from a peg. He threw the strap around his neck and raised the lenses up to have a look. “That ship is getting very close,” he warned.

“Fedorov here,” the navigator’s voice came over the intercom again. “I’ve got good imaging now, sir. There’s no question that this is a World War II type A class British destroyer. This one was commissioned over ten years before the war. We can’t outrun her Admiral. She’s capable of thirty-five knots, so you’ll have to decide what to do here, and soon.”

“What is he saying—ten years before the war?” Karpov had an incredulous look on his face. He peered through his field glasses, and caught a glimpse of the ship, catching the number 40 when her bow wave diminished. It looked to be a small corvette—certainly not a modern British destroyer.

Seconds seemed like minutes, yet the Admiral’s mind was a whirl. If he fired on the ship, it would surely return fire, and if it persisted he would have to destroy it to protect Kirov from damage, or at least put it out of action. If he waited and the enemy struck first… Karpov looked at him, tense and irritated, and it was clear from his expression that he wanted to engage at once. “Mister Samsonov,” the Admiral said slowly. “Please lock our 100mm forward deck cannon on the oncoming ship.”

“Aye, sir,” said Samsonov. “Gun ready and radar lock established. The signal is good.”

“Helm come about, hard to port, left thirty degrees.”

“My helm is left thirty, sir.”

“You’re going to turn away?” Karpov looked at him. “It’s just an old rust bucket, and you’re going to run from the damn thing?”

“Well I am pleased to see you agree that this is not one of our contemporaries, Mister Karpov. An old rust bucket indeed. No, we are not running. Do you recall we have two 152 millimeter batteries on the aft section of the ship as well? In the event it becomes necessary I want to disable that ship quickly.”

Suddenly there was a distant wink from the interloper, and a puff of smoke. The destroyer had fired its forward deck guns, barking out a warning as it charged boldly forward. Seconds later the shells landed well wide of Kirov, and short by a considerable margin.

“A proverbial shot across the bow,” said the Admiral, knowing that events now were careening down the course that he could scarcely control. The next salvo from this impudent destroyer might find the range at any moment, yet something within him whispered a veiled warning, urging him to turn about and leave the ship as it was. Even if he did so, the other ship was still churning forward with its brave challenge.

“Mister Nikolin. In your very best English, please warn that ship off. Order it to cease fire and turn about, or we will engage.”

“Aye, sir.” Nikolin began his hail, yet the other ship kept its heading, a second round firing and landing just a bit closer to Kirov’s bow.

Admiral Volsky sighed, realizing he would now be forced to take action, whether he wished to or not. His best option would be to disable the oncoming ship, but his heart was heavy as he gave the order to fire.

“Mister Samsonov, disable that ship with the forward cannon. Six rounds, no more. I want to give their captain second thoughts about his mad little rush. He should know we are prepared to defend ourselves. Fire!”

Kirov’s forward turrets were fully automated. No crew fed shells to the breech of the guns, and the 100mm cannon at the nose of the ship could fire all of eighty rounds per minute if put on full automatic, though that was rarely attempted. Samsonov engaged the target with two short three round bursts, and seconds later the forward section of the destroyer was awash with sea spray from three near misses. The second burst struck the ship, one exploding on the lightly armored forward gun turret, others blasting into the deck and prow.

“A hit!” said Karpov, obviously relieved.

Samsonov looked over his shoulder. “I have a laser lock now, sir, the next salvo will all be on target.”

“Just a moment, Mister Samsonov,” the Admiral held up his hand, waiting.

Captain Hodges on HMS Anthony had found out all he needed to know about the vessel looming on his forward arc. He fired a warning shot across the bow of the oncoming ship, heard its surprising order for him to turn about, and then it had returned fire with a lethal reprisal. His ship was struck by a small caliber weapon from the looks of the damage, but his forward battery was out of action now, a small fire burning there. He might have pressed on, but what he saw in his field glasses convinced him he was putting his ship at grave risk.

“Hard about!” He shouted. “All ahead full! Make smoke! There’s no way we can tangle with the likes of that.”

He could clearly see that the ship was easily three times his size, a massive, threatening shadow on the seas ahead. Good god, he thought, it must be the Tirpitz. Admiralty had it all wrong, and the Germans have slipped another battleship out to sea to raise hell again. He clearly remembered that gray morning on 23 May when his ship steamed as part of the destroyer escort for Hood and Prince of Wales as they sortied out to look for the Bismarck. A day later, Anthony had been detached to Iceland to refuel, and it was there that she got the news that the mighty Hood had been sunk, blown up, all hands but three scuppered into the sea. Admiral Holland had gone down with her, and the shock resonated throughout the whole of the Royal Navy.

The next day he had sortied out again to join the Prince of Wales, aghast to see Britain’s newest battleship bruised and wounded as well. Lord almighty, he thought, not another one. It’s Tirpitz! He gave a brusque order to his radioman at once. “Signal Adventure, put it in the clear, large German raider now bearing on our position. Possibly Tirpitz or Hipper class cruiser.”

When Captain Grace got the message aboard Adventure he could scarcely believe what he was hearing. There have been no mention of the dread German battleship in any briefing he had attended prior to this mission. The Royal Navy had been preoccupied with clearing possible convoy routes from Iceland up to the Kola Peninsula, and this mission was just another sweep up north to take a poke at the Germans and deliver a few mines.

Tirpitz was supposed to be sleeping comfortably at Kiel, laid up for repairs. If she was out to sea, then the entire complexion of the campaign would change in a heartbeat. He knew the Royal Navy would stop at nothing until the German ship was put into a watery grave with her sister ship Bismarck. And here he was, standing on the front line of that possible action, first to see her and sound the alarm. He didn’t have the guns to contest her, the radar to shadow her, nor the speed, and considering that, he had no intention whatsoever of attempting to do so. His only thought now was of saving his small task force from certain destruction. With all these mines aboard, he was a floating ammo dump, and if the enemy ship gave chase he could not outrun her.

“Damn the shore party,” he said. “Haul that anchor up now and go full ahead! Come round to course zero-six-five and signal Anthony to withdraw and match that heading. We are outgunned here, and I’ll be damned if we’re going into the sea like Holland and Hood.” He crossed his fingers and whispered a silent prayer. If it was Tirpitz, she could make thirty knots. She could run him down and blow him to hell in a heartbeat.

To his radioman he said: “Code a message to Admiral Wake-Walker on Victorious. Sighted a large enemy surface ship, presumed Tirpitz, or Hipper class cruiser. Withdrawing to join main body at once.”

“That put the fear of the devil into them,” said Karpov, smiling. “He saw the oncoming ship suddenly lurch about, making smoke, clearly wanting no further part of the engagement with Kirov.

Discretion was the better part of valor, thought Admiral Volsky, at least this time. “Mister Fedorov, do you have a clear identification on the other ship?” he said into the intercom.

“The smoke is obscuring the action now, sir, but I have good video footage and we can enhance it with the computer.”

“Mister Karpov—is that a type 42 or 45 British destroyer?”

Karpov just looked at him.

“Very well, helmsman, come about on the port quarter, new heading of two-four-five.”

“Coming about to two-four-five, sir.”

The destroyer’s aft turret also fired as it sped away, the shells landing well wide and short of the mark again, and the Admiral did not return fire this time. Another nation, in a far distant time and place, had just joined the greatest conflict the world had ever seen, he thought. It seems we’ve chosen sides after all, and the British won’t like it one bit, will they. But my god, my god, what was happening? Kirov was lost, miles and long years from everyone and everything the crew had ever called home.

And now she was at war.