Paradox Hour

Chapter 31

They appeared in a grey fog, heavy on the sea, so thick that they could not see three feet in front of them. The ship seemed to be suspended in infinity, but soon Fedorov could feel the telltale rise and swell of the sea beneath them. The lights and equipment fluttered on the bridge, and he felt a queasy sense of disorientation, his equilibrium off, and a sensation that he was too light, too insubstantial. Then weight and solidity returned, a heaviness of flesh and bone, yet he found himself stuck in place, looking down to see the soles of his boots seemed to be fused to the deck.

A wiggle of his toes confirmed that his feet were safe and sound, and now he looked to the others on the bridge, seeing the same looks of confused disorientation on their faces. Admiral Volsky seemed to take it the hardest, trying to steady himself with one hand gripping the Captain’s chair.

“Are you alright sir?”

Volsky looked at him, his eyes glazed over, and then finally focused. He shook his head, as if trying to revive his dulled senses, and then spoke.

“A bit dizzy, Fedorov. My sea legs are not what they used to be.”

“Please sir, take the Captain’s chair. Rodenko? Samsonov?”

The other men reported all was well, and Nikolin was secure at the comm station, though he did not look happy or content. The Starpom made a quick check of the remaining bridge crew, seeing that all were well, but then noted an odd buckling in the deck near the main hatch.

“Look here, Fedorov,” he said, pointing to the obvious depression. It extended two feet out from the hatch, and now they saw that the bulkhead to one side also seemed slightly warped.

“Try that hatch,” Rodenko ordered one of the men to check the operation, and they found it wedged tight, as if the ship itself had been greatly stressed, and the metal had simply warped. It was just enough of a distortion to wedge the hatch tightly shut.

Fedorov stooped, untying his boots, and he was soon standing in his heavy woolen socks, noting one small hole where the fabric seemed missing. He had been standing right at the edge of the small depression in the deck plating, and his boots were stuck in place, as if the soles had simply melted into the deck itself. All he could think of was Lenkov’s legs when they found them in that storage locker.

“All bridge stations—report!” said Volsky, easing into the Captain’s chair and still looking and sounding a bit woozy.

One by one the watch stations sounded off. Radar and sonar both reported all clear with no contacts. CIC and communications indicated no red or yellow lights on their equipment.

“No contacts?” That was a problem. “You cannot read Invincible off our stern?”

“No sir,” said Kalinichev, “my screen is completely clear on both Fregat and Phased Array systems.”

“Sonar?”

Velichko reported all clear again. He had no acoustic reading for the British battleship.

“Well,” said Volsky. “That settles it. “Velichko has the best ears in the fleet. If he hears nothing, then either his equipment has completely malfunctioned, or there is simply nothing there.”

Fedorov gave the Admiral an odd look when he said that about Velichko, as if something was out of place with the remark, like a shirt buttoned wrong.

“Fedorov, what just happened?” Volsky noted his Captain standing in his stocking feet for the first time.

“We must have shifted just now—phased out of the time we were occupying a moment ago.”

“Phased? Where? We had clear skies and dawn just a moment ago, and now this fog is thick as good borscht… And where are your service boots?”

Fedorov pointed, and the Admiral saw the boots stuck in the deck, noting the strange warp there and the odd distortion near the main hatch.

“What is going on? Time is getting sloppy again, Fedorov. If we moved just now as you suggest, the boat seems to have suffered a few bruises.”

“I suggest we get on the P.A., sir. There may be trouble elsewhere. My boots are melded to the deck. Look where I was standing, very near that warped segment near the hatch. Remember Lenkov?”

“Only too well.” Said Fedorov. He made a general announcement on the P.A. system, asking all sections to check the status of all ship’s bulkheads, cable runs, pipes and equipment. When he finished he looked to Volsky.

“If that happened to my boots, then what if a key cooling pipe in the reactors became misaligned? We need to do a complete sweep of the ship, top to bottom.”

“Correct,” said Volsky. “You may wish to go below, Fedorov, and check on things yourself. Don’t worry about me,” he said when he saw his Captain hesitate. “I am quite myself now. It was just a passing dizziness, something I am prone to from time to time. Besides… I think you will want to fetch another pair of boots, yes?”

“Very good, sir.” Fedorov found the main hatch could simply not be opened, and so he had to use the hatch off the weather bridge, taking the long ladder down the superstructure, his feet cold on the metal with each step, and a strange, icy chill in the air that was very discomfiting. He felt as though he was descending through a cloud, the fog thick about him, and with each downward step he began to probe with his foot, hoping the ladder rung would still be there. Thankfully, he made it to the deck below, his eyes staring up the ladder, which looked oddly distorted.

He was soon looking for the nearest hatch into the main conning tower, intent on finding Damage Control Chief Byko to see if anything else had been reported amiss. Along the way he stumbled into clumps of crew members in the interior passages, and assured them all was well, setting them to work inspecting cable runs, deck structure and anything else in their sections. By the time he found Byko, initial reports were coming in from Chief Warrant Officers, Midshipmen and Petty Officers, and a list of several odd instances of what the Chief called “metal fatigue” were reported.

Another hatch on a deck serving one of the fire control radar stations seemed slightly off plum, and the gunwale there bulged, as if it had been forced out of alignment by a collision—except the bulge was outward, which eliminated that as the reason for the distortion.

Amazingly, there were absolutely no reports of any equipment malfunction, which impressed Fedorov when he gave that some thought. The ship was packed with electronics and precision machined equipment, yet nothing seemed to have sustained any damage at all. Every wire and cable run was checked, the crew running along the thick bundles with gloved hands to look for any breaks or distortions, but nothing was found amiss. If something as simple as a single microchip had not manifested intact, they would surely notice an immediate system failure, but none were reported. It was as if something about the energy, or perhaps the magnetic field surrounding the equipment, served to shield it from the odd effects being reported elsewhere. The only damage was confined to dead metal—bulkheads, deck plating, and the two hatches that seemed frozen shut.

Fedorov was several hours below decks, getting a feel for the entire ship, and grateful that no further incidents along the lines of Lenkov had been discovered. Every man seemed safe and sound of body, though he could not ascertain how they were holding up mentally. He went past the sick bay to check on Doctor Zolkin and the condition of Chief Dobrynin, and there he did find another line of eight or ten men, all wanting something to offset the same queasy nausea and disorientation that had affected the Bridge crew momentarily.

“He’s recovering slowly,” said Zolkin. “The rest has done him some good, and he is asking to get back to the reactor room. I think it best to keep him here another eight hours, and get some good food into him.”

“Does he report hearing that sound as before?”

“Yes, he can hear it, but the brain compensates for these things, and comes to ignore a disturbance like that in time. Live next to a waterfall, and you don’t hear it after a while. I think it was just the early days of the disturbance that he found so intrusive.”

“Any other men reporting this?”

“No, but there is a general sense of anxiety among the crew, and I have had to apply first aid to more than the usual number of black eyes and bruised cheeks. There have been a few quarrels below decks. I suggest food, Fedorov. If we have anything the cooks were saving for holidays, roll it out in the galley. There’s nothing like a good meal to make a man feel fit and comfortable.”

“Thank you, Doctor. That’s a very good idea. I’ll speak to the galley cooks on my way back to the bridge.”

“I do note the Captain is out of uniform,” said Zolkin with a smile, looking down at Fedorov’s grey wool socks.

“It’s a long story, Doctor. Yes, I’m off to fetch a new pair of service boots.”

Along the way, Fedorov met one mishman who seemed to be bent over a clipboard, pencil in hand, a puzzled expression on his face. He recognized the man, Sub-Lieutenant Gagarin, a workshop and repair technician.

“Something wrong, Mister Gagarin?”

“Sir? I was just checking my shift assignments… very strange.”

“Explain please.”

“Well sir, I always assign eight men per shift—always. But today, for some reason, I only see seven names on my list. I know them all, because I often pair crewmen who I know work well together. It’s this last name, sir, Mister Konalev. He’s an OR-4 senior seamen from workshop B, but for some reason I assigned him to the A-shift, and he’s not with…” The man’s expression deepened, and he scratched his head.

“Not with who?”

“That’s just it, Captain. I don’t remember. This man, Kornalev… Yes, I always posted him to B shift with a partner, but I simply cannot remember the other man’s name now. So here he is, odd man out, and posted over to the A-shift.”

“Did you experience any disorientation recently, Mister Gagarin?”

“Me sir? Just a flutter in the belly. Thought we hit a big wave or something, but I have good sea legs. I’m fine, sir.”

“Well, we’ve all been through quite a lot in recent months. Make sure you stay well rested, and spread the word, there is going to be a special meal served in the mess hall tonight. Holiday fare.”

After another spooky climb up the long outer ladder, Fedorov was soon back on the bridge, and in shiny new boots, reporting to Admiral Volsky.

“This fog,” said Volsky when his Captain was announced, coming in through the side hatch to the weather bridge. “It is very disconcerting. Radar shows nothing around us, not the Invincible, nor any of those German ships we were just shooting at a few hours ago. At least they may be having a better day now that the ship has gone and pulled another disappearing act. How are we doing, Fedorov?”

We have another stuck hatch aft, and I’ll have engineers on this one in ten minutes. There were two other instances of deck warpage, but both in non-essential areas. Three bulkheads seemed out of alignment, and a gunwale was bulged outward near one of the fire control service decks. Other than that, the ship and crew are fine. We’ve had no equipment failures. I had the men check every wire and pipe on the ship, particularly in the reactor section.”

He related his discussion with Doctor Zolkin, and the decision to get some good food into the men. Volsky was glad to hear that Dobrynin was recovering. “What happened here, Fedorov? Is this just another instance of this pulsing business you have spoken of?”

“Something different, I think,” said Fedorov. “When we pulsed before it was a rapid event, and we manifested very close to the moment we occupied when the effect was first noticed. This time we seem to be…”

“Elsewhere?”

“We have no GPS or satellite data, so I do not think we have reached any time in the future when that technology was active. Yet we also have no contact with any of the ships we were able to clearly track on our systems before this happened.”

“Admiral Tovey must be wondering what has happened to us,” said Volsky.

“I would say so, sir.”

“But how did this happen, Mister Fedorov? We have not used either of those two spare control rods, and I do not think we were firing any special warheads at the German fleet. The last time this pulsing occurred, it was a result of Dobrynin’s attempt to deliberately remove us from that situation in the Coral Sea. Am I correct?”

“That is so, sir, but after Lenkov, it is clear that the ship itself is… unstable.”

“That may become a bit of an understatement considering what happened to Lenkov,” said Volsky. “What if this continues? We could end up twisted like a pretzel the next time we pulse. And will we stay in this place, or turn up somewhere where the weather is a little better?”

“Chief on the Bridge!” came the boatswain’s call, and Orlov huffed through the side hatch in a grumpy mood. “Top to bottom,” he said gruffly. “The men are going over the whole damn ship!”

“I trust you are well, Chief,” said Volsky.

“Not bad,” said Orlov. “But we found another stair missing on the lower engineering level. They had to rig a ladder there. Damn thing was half there, three steps, the rest gone. What’s going on around here, Fedorov?” Even Orlov turned to the ex-navigator for answers now, but Fedorov could only speculate.

“We’re shifting, yet in an uncontrolled state,” said Fedorov. “Remember my example with magnetism? The ship may have acquired some kind of phantom energy throughout its travels. It may be causing these effects. How were the final mast inspections, Chief?”

“Everything seems to be working on the main masts and radar decks. The Tin Man optical units checked out fine too. An Engineering team is on the way to fix that mess.” He thumbed the main bridge hatch. “Speaking of magnetism, there’s just one other thing gone haywire.” He smiled, handing Fedorov his pocket compass.

Fedorov took it, and to his amazement, the needle was completely lost, It spun left and right, then twirled about, unable to find magnetic north, a useless flutter, no matter which way he held it.

“Keep it,” said Orlov. “It’s no good to me.” He tramped over to the coffee station near the plotting table, and looked for a mug. “Who knows,” he said. “Maybe the coffee will taste better for a while.”

Chapter 32

Lieutenant Commander Wellings had no luck in regular seamen’s dungarees and white cap. In fact, every time he tried to get down to the cargo hold on Rodney, he found himself press-ganged into some other duty by a burly Chief. What he did discover, is that his pursuit was fruitless. The compartment he needed to get to had been completely flooded, and sealed off. It was going to take a diving suit with oxygen tank to get in there, and he did not think he was going to pull that off any time soon.

He struggled to the upper decks, trying to avoid the scrutiny of any Petty Officer he encountered, and slipped quietly back to the ship’s laundry, looking for the bag where he had secreted away his officer’s uniform. Once dressed as a Lieutenant Commander again, he felt a little better, though his mission here had been a failure, at least insofar as that key was concerned.

Last time it had been pure happenstance, the shift and roll of the ship under the vibration of those awesome guns above, and the heavy seas. This time, he knew exactly where to go and how to find that damn key, but circumstances had prevented him from getting anywhere near it. He chided himself inwardly.

I should have acted much sooner, but the first order of business was getting cozy with Captain Dalrymple–Hamilton and trying to steer Rodney out of harm’s way. Now my time here is limited. In another eight hours the pattern signature will begin to erode, and so they’ll have to pull me out very soon.

He had been so close to his goal here, and now it was so very far away. Yet a lot could happen in eight hours, and as soon as he was back on deck he could see the fireworks starting on the horizon to the south—missile fire! He watched as the fiery rockets streaked up into the sky, faster than anything he had ever seen. Their white contrails at elevation were already catching the first rays of the sun, and turning to long strands of ocher rope in the sky. The damage they soon caused on the dark western horizon was soon plain to see. Something had been badly hit there, and he found himself wondering if it was the same ship Nordhausen had reported to him in his variation search data—Graf Zeppelin. That ship should not even be at sea! Perhaps that problem has already been solved, but that was a grim thought, and he put it aside.

Now what to do? I’d best get up to the bridge to see what the general situation is. Our reading was that the German squadron was forced to turn back when they were struck by British submarines, but we could find nothing in the British service logs about that attack. The information came only from the memoirs of Kapitan Karl Topp. Why do I have the feeling that things are swinging off kilter here? It’s that damn battlecruiser again. It’s entering the penumbra of that impending paradox, and that will cause considerable phase instability. How much time do we have?

His footsteps were hard on the metal ladder steps, tapping out his haste like the ticking of a harried clock, his breath coming fast as he hurried to the bridge.

Chernov heard what was coming, and he knew it was trouble. Two heavyweight Spearfish Torpedoes, 533mm, built to replace the old Tigerfish that had been phased out in 2004. That weapon could run at 35 knots, but only for a very short time, giving it a high speed range of about 7 nautical miles. The Spearfish had been conceived as early as 1970, when the speedy Alpha Class Soviet subs waited like titanium greyhounds, leashed in port with their lead cooled reactors kept warm at all times, and used as fast interceptor boats that would streak out into the northern seas at speeds exceeding the Tigerfish torpedo itself! In fact, if not in close, a British sub of that day would have to be very lucky to get an Alpha with a torpedo attack. The enemy sub could simply turn and outrun anything that was fired at it. That, and the fact that only 40% of the Tigerfish built met design specs, was a good reason to move them into the dustbin of history.

The Spearfish was something quite different, driven not by a battery powered electric motor like its forerunner, but by a new, advanced pump-jet propulsor, coupled with a gas turbine engine using Otto II for fuel. This reddish looking oil developed by Doctor Otto Reitlinger, was an arcane mixture of three chemicals, all synthetic, and they reacted with each other when heated to produce the desired energy. Once underway, the torpedo could catch anything in the sea, with blistering speeds up to 80 knots, and it was smart. It could be fired with wire guidance, but when let off the leash, its microprocessor brain could make autonomous decisions on target runs, using both active and passive sonar to find its mark. If it missed, it had the range at 30 nautical miles, over 50 kilometers, to program itself for a second attack vector. In short, the weapon was fast, intelligent, and very deadly with its Aluminized PBX 300kg warhead.

“How many?” asked Gromyko, quietly, the sweat already high on his brow.

“Two sir, both probably still on wire, running true on our last position before that turn.”

“Depth?”

“I make it shallow at 40 meters.”

Gromyko looked at his depth reading to see Kazan was slowly falling through 60 meters, descending ever so slowly, her engine off and the sheer weight of the boat slowly taking it down. The Spearfish didn’t even have to hit him, he knew. It could initiate a proximity detonation if its sensed sufficient mass close at hand. These fish would run on their fiber optic wire links back to the firing sub, which had the best ears under the sea ever developed. He knew their Sonarman had probably heard the subtle change in sound on the target he had been tracking.

They were well aware of our position, he thought, and they know we heard those torpedoes fire. So they’re listening for our countermeasure, and I don’t think the sled will fool them if they heard us when we rolled over for this dive. Everything depended on the range now.

“How far out are they?”

“Quite a ways, sir. Sound Track has them at an estimated 30 klicks.”

That was a good long shot, thought Gromyko, but well within that weapon’s attack radius. What if I ran now? We’ve got about ten more minutes until those fish get close. They’re moving at 150kph! If I go all ahead full at 65kph now I could run another twenty kilometers. That would put those fish right out near their maximum range, and well beyond their wire guided segment when they catch me…

“Secure silent running!” he said suddenly. “All ahead full battle speed!”

“Ahead full!”

Kazan lurched ahead, her powerful engines straining. If Chernov’s read on the firing range was correct, things would be very close. The torpedoes might have anywhere from five to ten kilometers left in them when they hit the red zone. If they had been just a little closer, they would have had us for sure, thought Gromyko, but they were too hasty. Then again, they had to hear us firing at those German ships out there. Perhaps they thought we were hitting British ships. Chernov had also reported more contacts down the firing heading of the incoming torpedoes. Several processed through to known signatures, and it looked like a British fast sealift task force.

Yet the madness of the moment was that Chernov still had all the German ships on his board, churning along to the west and northwest. I look that way and its world War Two—I look behind me and its World War Three! What in hell is going on here?

Think, Gromyko, he shook his head to clear his mind. Think! That Type-45 out there came through time, just like Kirov. So did we! So someone else has a ticket to this show, that can be the only possible explanation.

“Get a message to the British Destroyer,” he said quickly. “Highest priority. Tell them we are under attack by an Astute Class submarine and see if they can call their boys off!”

Perhaps he could talk his way out of this mess. Yet the confusion and chaos inherent in this moment led him to believe this would not likely happen, though it was worth a try. The Argos Fire would get the message, wonder about it, try to verify the presence of that sub out there, and it would be difficult to find. Oh, they’ll hear the torpedoes alright, and hopefully that will convince them, but can they get that sub Captain on the line in time? I don’t think so.

He nodded inwardly, his jaw tightening. Then we fight fire with fire, he thought. First we go defensive.

“Load tubes nine and ten—Shkval!”

They’re coming at me with a pair of fast heavyweights, but I’ll damn well show them what speed is under water. How about a pair of supercavitating hyper-torpedoes, running at 370kph? They were lightning quick, designed to kill subs, ships, and for just this tactical purpose as well—other enemy torpedoes. The jig was that they had a very short range, an envelope no more than 15 kilometers. He had to hold them in the tubes until those two Spearfish were closing on his tail, and then he would fire, turn his sea rockets around, and give them hell. I’ll either get those bastards or not, he thought. If one gets through it won’t have much fuel left.

The entire situation had now spun off in a wild twisted gyre of chaos. Two wars were underway at the same time! He was either going to be dead in the next ten minutes, or someone else was. It came down to that single glaring choice.

The best defense was always a good offense, he thought. Those bastards are out there now, grinning at the other end of that fiber optic wire, and as long as that silent devil of a sub is out there, my life will not be worth five rubles. That sub is just too quiet. It’s a miracle Chernov heard the damn thing. If they don’t get me today, they’ll certainly try again tomorrow. He knew what he would do if this were 2021. Time to get serious…

“Load tube number one,” he said, his voice hard and low. “Special warhead. Mister Belanov,” he turned to his Starpom, “stand ready to initiate permissions sequencing.”

He was reaching for the Hammer of God.

Argos Fire was about 30 nautical miles south of Rodney when the harried message from Gromyko came in over the secure channel they had arranged. Mack Morgan was in for yet another surprise when he got the message on the bridge, turning to MacRae with a befuddled look on his face. “Russians say they’ve detected one of our subs—Astute Class. They’re under attack!”

“Here? In bloody 1941?”

“That’s what the message reads,” said Morgan, shaking his head incredulously. “They want us to see if we can contact them and calm things down.”

They had been quietly advancing on Rodney’s position, with Kazan well out in front, over 50 nautical miles away on point defense. The submarine had just launched torpedoes at the German battle fleet to the north, and his sonar station had clearly heard two hits. Then, out of the blue…

“Now let me get this straight,” said MacRae. “We’re sitting here closing on the old British battleship Rodney, and out of nowhere we get an Astute Class sub here taking a sucker punch at the Russians? What in bloody hell is going on here? They have to be mistaken.”

Then another voice spoke, his own Sonarman monitoring the bow-mounted medium-frequency Ultra/EDO MFS-7000 system. It was not good enough to catch the Ambush when it arrived, but he could clearly here the donnybrook now underway between the two subs.

“Sir, I have torpedoes in the water, and they sound like Spearfish. I’d recognize that pump-jet propulsor anywhere.”

Spearfish… MacRae knew that was the premier weapon on the Astute Class, and now his temper abated as he moved into battle mode. What was happening here? Did his own ship move again? Were they back in the soup of World War Three?”

“Radar—do we still have a reading on the Rodney?”

“Aye sir, I have her at 28 nautical miles, speed ten knots. We should have her on the horizon in about ten minutes.”

What kind of salad was he being served at this bloody restaurant? Something slipped here, and he had no idea what it was, but he had to act.

“Put out a warning on standard fleet comm-link channels. See if you can wave off that submarine. Send this: Astute class submarine, Stand down! Your attack is blue on blue. Repeat. Stand Down! You are firing on friendly shipping!”

The message went out, but MacRae knew that if torpedoes were already in the water it may be too late to pull the leash on them. Some bloody sub Captain out there was going to be as confused as he was in another minute.

“Sir,” came the next report from sonar. “I have a Type 65 in the water now! The Russians are firing back!”

The entire situation had suddenly disintegrated into a Mad Hatter’s dance of teacups on the sea. The Russian battlecruiser was suddenly missing from their radar screens, and in its place an undetected Astute Class submarine appears, and immediately goes to war with the Russian submarine! All the while, the Germans are still licking their wounds from that missile attack put in by Kirov, and by now they will be right on Rodney’s western horizon, mad as hornets.

“The ship will come to general quarters,” said MacRae stolidly. He looked at Mack Morgan. “Is this a private fight? Or can anybody get in on it…. Now then. Get her ladyship up here please. This whole situation is twisted on its head! I’d like to know which bloody side of this bar fight we’re on!”

Chapter 33

Kurt Hoffmann was angry, mad as the hornet Gordon MacRae made him out to be. He had seen his brother ship Gneisenau stricken by those torpedoes, and now that ship was dead in the water. Though his instinct had been to stop and render assistance, Karl Topp on the Tirpitz would hear none of that. He signaled all ahead full, and the formation was to begin an evasive zig-zag approach. The Gneisenau would be left to Prinz Eugen and Thor, their decks already crowded with survivors pulled from the water off Graf Zeppelin.

Hoffmann had that same feeling of rising alarm that he had in the North Atlantic the previous year. When he saw the morning sky alight with those golden yellow rocket tails, he knew they had the devil to pay. Somewhere out there, hidden just beyond that glowing horizon, a shadow plied the sea, dangerous, mysterious, and at war. It was here, he thought, the same ship that had bedeviled them in the North Atlantic. Could these rockets be coming off the decks of HMS Invincible, as Wilhelmshaven believed? He knew that a small flotilla of at least three ships had been reported running the straits of Gibraltar, and one of those was said to be a battlecruiser.

But we have the positions of all the British known battlecruisers pegged out here in the Atlantic, he thought. So what was that other big ship that blew through the Pillars of Hercules? Yes… it was here. Whatever that ship was, it was firing those rockets again—firing blind from beyond the horizon, unless that submarine that stuck it to Gneisenau was reporting our position. It was uncanny how the missiles sought out the carrier, the second time the British had targeted Graf Zeppelin. This time the ship did not survive.

And from all reports Gneisenau is in very bad shape as well, he thought. So they have a submarine out there calling the shots now, and taking a few for good measure. Loki is already gone. Thor is busy fishing men out of the sea. Now that we are at full battle speed that sub will not be so lucky again. But in one hot hour, half our battlegroup is simply wiped off the sea! Lütjens must be having fits!

“Ship sighted!” came the call from the high mainmast. “I think it’s the Rodney!”

“Guns Ready! Now they pay the butcher’s bill.” Kurt “Caesar” Hoffmann was hopping mad, and the “Praetorian,” as he was called, was going to war. The ship’s chief gunnery officer, Schubert, was now at the Kapitan’s side.

“We’re ready, Kapitan. Waiting for orders from Tirpitz.”

“To hell with that! Open fire the moment you have the range. This is personal now, Schubert. We’re out for our pound of flesh here.”

Schubert nodded, Getting the range from Lowisch on the upper gun director. “Target at 22,000 meters.”

“Fire!” Hoffman’s voice was hard in the cold morning air, and the guns of Scharnhorst soon followed, their barrels elevated, and bright orange fire blazoning from the forward turret. Shubert fired Anton to gauge the range, with Bruno loaded and ready to fire after his first rounds were spotted. Nearly a minute later they saw the shellfall through binoculars, leading the British battleship and slightly short. Then Hoffman saw the distant flash of gunfire, hearing the loud boom some seconds later, a low, rumbling thunder on the horizon. Rodney was not unarmed.

Under normal circumstances I would never tangle with a ship like this, he thought. That ship may be old and slow, limping from that torpedo hit, but those are 16-inch guns out there…

“Sir, Tirpitz signals for a turn to port!”

“Come left fifteen!” Hoffmann knew that Topp was making his turn to get all their gun turrets into action now. It would be the eight 15-inch guns on Tirpitz, and the nine 11-inch guns on Scharnhorst against those nine 16-inchers on Rodney. On paper the Germans had the clear edge, and they also had a considerable speed advantage, making them much harder targets to train on and hit. By contrast, once they found the range on Rodney, it would be as if that ship was a sitting duck.

Tirpitz fired, a salvo of four rounds, two from each of the forward turrets. Scharnhorst was soon ready for her second salvo, and Schulte decided to fire only his B turret this time, wanting to fine tune his sighting.

“Two degrees down elevation,” he called. “Ready… Shoot!”

Even as he shouted, the first big rounds from Rodney came arcing in well out in front of the German formation, four tall water splashes marking their fall. The battle might now decide far more than the fate of the three ships engaged had finally begun.

Marco Ritter was out on the flight deck of Goeben, raging at a deck crewman to clear some equipment so he could take off. He had heard the news that shook the fleet. Graf Zeppelin had been badly hit, the damage severe, and it looked as though the ship would not survive. Word soon came that their brother carrier had managed to get six Stukas into the sky before the ship endured that last fatal hit from the British rocket attack.

Damn those rockets! There goes the bulk of our air defense here, and most of our Stukas. Only six made it off, and there are three fighters still up on top cover. That makes nine planes off Graf Zeppelin now in the air, and that’s all the eggs we can put in this basket. I need to get up there, and with a full tank to loiter as long as possible.

“Rudel!” he had shouted. “Get your Stukas up. I’m making you the new Squadron leader—your planes and six more off the Graf Zeppelin. Let’s get moving!

The chocks were pulled away, and Ritter gunned the powerful engine on his Me-109T, rolling down the short flight deck and into the amber sky. He was on the radio coordinating with the pilots off Graf Zeppelin at once, and they were now circling about the Goeben, a swarm of angry bees gathering for the attack.

“The target is Rodney,” he shouted. “All other fighters remain here on fleet defense. The crows follow me!” He put his plane in to a shallow bank, peeled off and led the way, off to the northeast where the action had just been joined by Topp and Hoffmann. They were coming with the six Stukas off Graf Zeppelin, and Hans Rudel had only just arrived with the three strike planes off the Goeben. They all had a bone to pick now, and they put all thoughts of how they might land on the crowded little escort carrier aside.

That would not matter, for the sky was soon to be alight with the hot contrails of Aster 15 rockets. There would be plenty of room on the flight deck of the Goeben in due course…

Now the wild scene in the red-orange dawn would suddenly take yet another unexpected turn. Captains on every ship involved were set on battle, their eyes behind field glasses, faces grim, the boom of the guns loud on the morning air. Thick black smoke erupted from the German battleships, the rolling char of cordite so thick that the men could taste it with each mighty salvo fired. The Germans were finally finding the range on the hapless Rodney. There had already been two near misses, when the Anton turret of Scharnhorst straddled the British ship, sending shrapnel into the stacked crates of boiler tubes on her decks.

Rodney thundered in reply, her third salvo very nearly scoring a hit on the Tirpitz. Now on the bridge, Lieutenant Commander Wellings was in a quandary. He had been unable to retrieve the precious key from Rodney’s hold, and in spite of every effort to steer the ship away from harm, the tall splash of seawater riddled with shrapnel was now the hard reality at the end of all his plans.

Rodney shuddered with the firing of her own guns, four barrel salvoes that shook loose the deck planks and rattled every loose object on the ship. It was the second time Wellings had heard those monstrous guns fire, and the last time he had found himself flung overboard into a wild sea, witness to one of the greatest naval duels ever fought. This time it was not Bismarck out there, but her brother ship, the Tirpitz, and this time the odds were different too. That was a Scharnhorst class ship out in front!

The history here was still twisted and bent back upon itself, and he could see no way this intervention had any chance of succeeding. The only thing now was to get to his designated retrieval point, a position amidships where the project team would be looking to pull him out.

No sooner had he turned to look for the aft hatch and ladder down, when the first telling blow struck Rodney, just forward of her tall coning tower, and right on the number three gun turret there. It was an 11-inch shell flung at them by Kurt Hoffmann, and though the heavy armor at nearly 16 inches was enough to protect the turret from penetration, the shock and concussion was severe. Several packing crates that had been set atop the turret were blown to pieces, and black smoke billowed up, obscuring the bridge with choking cinder.

Wellings heard the drone of aircraft overhead, the scream of the Jericho trumpets, the wild hiss of rockets in the sky. When the smoke cleared he could see the twisting contrails of agile missiles snaking through the thin clouds overhead, seeking out the squadron of German Stukas. Then something happened that no one expected, except Gromyko.

He had fired his Type 65 torpedo, back along the axis of the undersea enemy attack. His two supercavitating Shkvals had helped clear the way, lancing out in their bubble jet spheres and blistering in to find one of the two Spearfish that were slowly closing the range on Kazan. The Russian sub had been running at its best speed of nearly 36 knots, heedless of the sound they were making now. Soon, thought Gromyko, the sea will erupt with Neptune’s wrath.

It sounded like a great kettle being struck when it happened. Nearly a hundred meters deep, the 20 kiloton warhead went off with a resonant boom, the immense sphere of expanding gas and vaporized seawater creating a tremendous shock wave in all directions. The second Spearfish careened wildly off course, its sensitive sonar pummeled with the wrenching sound, dumbstruck.

Gromyko knew his torpedo would take too long to reach the enemy sub, but he only needed to get close. The shock of the warhead would expand out several kilometers, and all he needed was to get some of that awful explosive force close to his enemy to hurt this sub.

And he did.

The Ambush shuddered with the blow, emergency signals going off all over the boat, an outer stabilizing fin wrenched by the shock, and the tremendous pressure forcing a hull leak in the sail that sent torrents of seawater down into the compartments below, as men scrambled to seal off the hatches. No one could see what was really happening, the searing green fire at the outer edge of the nuclear bubble in the sea. There came a rending sound, so deep and terrible that every man on the boat covered their ears, their faces taut with pain. It was a sound from another place, the moaning agony of eternity, long and distended, the meridians of infinity being wrenched and twisted until they broke.

The fissure opened, and Ambush plowed right into the expanding wave of shimmering phosphorescent plasma. It was as if the edge of that fire was the maw of some great wrathful sea demon, opening to consume the submarine. Ambush’s rounded nose vanished at the glimmering edge, soon followed by the long, bulbous body of the vessel, which plunged right on through a deep rupture in time, rent open by the violence of the explosion. It was the first instance of atomic fire scorching the lines of fate that shaped these altered states, pre-empting the angry blow that Vladimir Karpov might have flung at his enemies in August of that very year… but it would not be the last.

The chaos of war swirling above the embattled British battleship was suddenly upstaged by the massive upwelling of seawater on the horizon. All eyes were riveted on the scene, and watchmen on every ship, pilots in their headlong dives, and crewmen at the gunwales of perdition gripped the hard steel there and held on for dear life.

A cold wind swept over the battle, just as Anton turret on the Tirpitz sent not one, but two more 15-inch rounds plunging down on Rodney. One struck the conning tower, the second smashing into the hull very near the damaged compartment where the battleship hid its secret cargo. The magazine for the forward torpedoes was there and, one by one, the long sleek weapons blew up in a series of shuddering explosions.

Bulkheads burst open and the outer hull itself was wrenched with a great tearing gash. A dark stain of oily blood clouded the sea, and through it, came the glimmering of tiny bars of gold bullion, falling, falling into the depths of the sea. And with them went the great stolen treasures of the Parthenon, a Metope of a Centaur, rearing up and locked in fitful combat with a Lapith warrior, the wild charge of horsemen carved into a marble Frise, and one more thing, the Selene Horse, exhausted by its recent sortie through the heavens, veins bulging, eyes wide, mouth gaping open and gasping for air.

Down they fell, a flutter of debris on the endless swelling currents of the sea. Down and down they went, into the deep depths where only one pair of human eyes could ever hope to see or find them again, the eyes of Lenkov, dark in death, where his body drifted near the silted bottom of Peake’s Deep.

No man aboard Rodney knew what they had lost, the King’s business, made flotsam in the deep green sea, and never to be seen again. No one on Argos Fire would learn what really happened, nor any soul on another ship, lost in the grey fog of infinity that now seemed to swirl and eddy about its tall mainmast, where the swirling watch of radar eyes twisted with their ceaseless watch.

Yet in all this chaos, there moved the secret stealthy hand of order, some unseen force, whisper soft, yet bent on its work with mindless logic. All of these various players, like pieces in a great game of chess, were now unknowingly conspiring with one another to reach some unfathomable zero sum in the infinite calculus of time. So while Rodney burned, the Stukas plunged down through the gauntlet of missile fire, and over it all there rose the massive blight of steam and vapor rising up like a terrible storm, its shadow deep and impending, where the sea itself, sucked up in the torrid gyre of that nuclear fire, stood there like a tower of chaos, slowly collapsing in a roaring wave of destruction.