Three Kings

Chapter 31

“See here,” said Popski. “You can stow that crap about us being prisoners, lad. That is if you want to keep those two Lieutenant’s stars on your shoulder for very much longer. Sorry I’ve only got one on my shoulder, but it’s a bloody crown, mate, and you damn well know what that means in the British army. Now, if you haven’t got any sense in your head, then where’s your senior officer?”

Reeves eyes could not be seen, but his jaw tightened. “I can send you to see someone who’s got one of those crowns on his shoulder if you like. Only he’ll have three stars beneath it! Will that suit you? Now, I don’t care if you’re Prince Harry in the flesh! I’m officer on point, and there’s a war on. You’re standing here with this man — a Russian — and you tell me one of their damn helos is out there. You have crew aboard that helo? How many are you?”

“Of course we’ve got crew! I’ve told your Sergeant here what we’re about and why. Search and rescue! There’s a man out there in this mess, and a particularly important one. He won’t last long with you wagging your ruddy jaws here, will he?”

Fedorov could not follow all the English, but he could see the exchange was heating up, and his heart beat faster as he considered what to do. These men were certainly not British soldiers from the 1940s. There was a modern IFV sitting in front of him with its engine on a low growl, and he had managed to catch the Lieutenant’s remark about Prince Harry. Now he knew he had to discover what had happened. Could we have moved again, he wondered? How? That thing Orlov had — could it be responsible? He said he found it along the Tunguska River on that last mission. That thought knocked down one domino after another in his mind.

He had to determine what had happened here, and his first thought was to get to the helicopter and radio Kirov. If the ship responded, then they were still in 1941. But he did not think this Lieutenant would take kindly to him trying to contact a Russian battlecruiser just now, so he had another idea. Popski had radioed for support from his comrades at Siwa. They were supposed to be bringing in jeeps tonight, and the plan was to establish a base camp here, and at least have vehicles available for a ground search in the event this storm persisted and they could not fly. Time was of the essence, or so Popski stressed. A man could only survive so long in the desert, and this was not just anyone, but General O’Connor himself. Yet if they had somehow moved in time again, all that was irrelevant now. He had to decide what to do; how to find out what had happened here.

“Major,” he said in English, then switched to Russian in a low voice. “When might your men arrive on those jeeps?”

“Soon enough to straighten this lot out,” said Popski with an indignant look on his face. This cheeky Lieutenant in front of him had riled his temper, and he was clearly not happy.

Reeves own impatience got the best of him, as the entire column was lined up behind him and waiting to move out. He reinforced his demand. “I said how many are you?”

“What does he say?” Fedorov asked quickly, and Popski translated, arms folded on his heavy chest.

“Tell him we have two squads of Naval Marines deployed 100 meters behind us with the helicopter. Tell him we have no quarrel with him, and we’ll stand down and cooperate fully as he wishes. But we have an urgent need to speak with his commanding officer.

“Look here,” said Reeves. “Do I have to order my squadron to deploy?”

Popski could hear the urgency in Fedorov’s voice, though he did not understand why. Yet his own instincts also argued quietly with him, and he knew this might be a dangerous situation that he should diffuse as quickly as possible. That tough Russian Sergeant with his Marines looked to be the sort to shoot first and ask questions later, and that could be a problem. This Lieutenant here didn’t seem happy to have found Russians at all, and he wondered why. He also realized the man had a job to do, orders to comply with, and knew they might only get things resolved by seeing his senior officer as Fedorov urged.

“Alright Lieutenant,” Popski relented. “We’ve ten good men behind us, and two pilots, all well armed and holding a perimeter around that contraption back there. But we’ll do things your way. We’ll need to see your commanding officer right away and get this sorted out.”

“Tell your men to lay down their arms and come forward,” said Reeves. “And if you have any ideas about doing anything else, I’ve a column of tanks and infantry behind me five miles long. Understand?”

Popski grimaced, but swallowed his pride. “Well enough,” he said. “But I’ll say one thing. We expected we might get this sort of treatment from the Degos or Jerry out here, but not the Desert Rats!”

While he was talking Fedorov turned discretely and pinched his own collar microphone. “Troyak,” he said in a low voice. “All is well. Stand down immediately and stow all weapons in the helo. Understood? All weapons in the helo. Contact the ship tell me immediately if they respond. Then come forward, and no man is to carry as much as a pistol with him. Get it done, Sergeant.”

He looked to Popski and told him to tell them they were bringing his men up at once, unarmed. At this the Lieutenant seemed satisfied, and he seemed to stand easier now, shifting his eye goggles to his forehead.

“Well then,” said Reeves. “Get your party over there, and Sergeant Williams will see to you. We’ll have a lorry sent up for your men, and I’ll inform my Brigadier that you wish to speak with him.”

The winds were beginning to quiet down now, and visibility was improving. Reeves got a glimpse of the KA-40 for the first time, and could hear the sound of some activity there, men moving about, deep voices. He was still very guarded, and he left the odd, unhappy Major and his Russian officer with one last remark.

“Now if you don’t mind, Major, I think I’ll have a good look around with my squadron. Any trouble, mind you, and I’ve got plenty more to share with you and your Russian friends. Understand?” Then he ordered two more armored cars, which is how Popski saw them, to come up and cover the helicopter.

“Don’t worry yourself, Lieutenant,” said Popski. “With those monsters at your beck and call, you’ll get no trouble from our lot.”

“What? This here?” Reeves gestured to his IFV, still waiting behind him, gun at the ready. “Those aren’t the monsters, Major. The big boys are well behind us, as you’ll soon see.”

He gave orders that his Sergeant should get everyone rounded up, secure the scene, and prohibit all radio communications. Then he leapt back up onto his IFV, turning and offering Major Popski the courtesy of a salute, which Peniakoff did not return.

Brigadier Kinlan had a problem on his hands, and one he did not expect. He had finally come up in a Panther Command Liaison Vehicle with three staff officers, leading the Regimental HQ Scout Troop of eight Scimitar light tanks. If Popski was impressed by the eight wheeled IFV that Reeves had rolled off in, the appearance of these tanks widened his eyes even more.

“They look to be a new breed of animal,” he said. “Never saw a tank like that one before. Why it’s as big as a Matilda II, and I hear you boys call that the Queen of the battlefield.”

A soldier standing by heard that and spoke. “The Queen? Well you can have a look at the King now. Here he comes.”

Then Popski got the surprise of his life. One of the ‘monsters’ that impudent Lieutenant had spoken about came up in a cloud of blowing dust and he could hardly believe his eyes.

The Challenger 2 tank was truly an awesome spectacle, a 62 ton beast that dwarfed the biggest tank Popski had ever seen, which was one of the stalwart Matildas. This tank was nearly three times heavier, almost twice as long and wide, and with a gun on it that looked to be a full sized artillery piece, bigger even than the 25 pounder he was familiar with. It made the 2 pounder on the Matilda look like a tiny popgun by comparison.

“God in his heaven!” His jaw dropped as he stared at the tank. If the British Army had things like that at its command, then all would be well in the world. He simply could not believe what he was seeing, and there was a second monster right behind this one, rumbling with the sound of unmistakable power.

“Sweet Jesus,” he breathed, looking at Brigadier Kinlan now. “Where did you get those?”

“And what part of the British Army do you say you belong to if you never set eyes on a Challenger?” said Kinlan.

“Long Range Desert Group,” said Popski. “Chaps call us the Libyan Desert Taxi Service out here. Italians call us Pattuglia Fantasma, the ‘Ghost Patrol.’ I was assigned as a guide for this man here, and we were out on search and rescue until your cheeky Lieutenant with that scout detail stuck his nose in it.”

“Long Range Desert Group?” Kinlan knew something of the history as well, and the name immediately registered. What was this man doing here, pulling his leg in the middle of a hot zone? Was he daft?

The Brigadier was a quiet, intelligent man, somewhat taciturn, and not given to idle chatter. He ran his outfit with precision and competence, and expected the same from every man under him. He was taking Popski in with a calm, careful gaze, and he could see through a brick wall if given the time. Yet there was something about this strange interloper in the desert and his Russian officer that rang true. These men were not posing or role playing here, though he could not imagine why they were here at all, unless to conduct some deep sabotage or special ops raid. He said as much.

“Well now, Major Peniakoff is it? My take on this situation is as follows. You’re here on a Russian KA-40, which would have to come off a Russian naval unit at sea up north, correct? This man beside you here is clearly an officer in the Russian Navy, and that makes him, and you by extension, my prisoners of war. Now you can make this a whole lot easier if you would cooperate and tell me what you’re about.”

“Prisoners? Are you out of your mind? Yes, we came off this man’s ship — a Russian battlecruiser — and it’s up north in the Med just as you say, cruising right alongside HMS Invincible. Prisoners? The Russians are allies, General, or at least they claim to be. Where do you get off treating us as hostiles out here? And for that matter, I’m regular British Army, just like I’ve told you.” He folded his arms again, ready to stick up for himself and vouch for the Russians no matter how many stars were under this man’s crown.

“Look, Major, the Russians just lobbed a missile our way with the aim of toasting every man in this unit alive, so you’ll forgive me if I’m just a bit touchy about something like that. Lucky for us we got the damn things before they got us. Then I find you out here with a couple squads of Russian Naval Marines, and something tells me you were lasing targets for that ICBM. Didn’t think the Russkies would need to do something like that, but maybe they wanted to be extra careful, and here you are. Now what’s this talk about a Russian battlecruiser sailing alongside HMS Invincible? Old Vince was decommissioned in ’05 and scrapped, so you can scrap that line right along with her.”

He was referring to the modern day light aircraft carrier HMS Invincible, of course, nicknamed ‘Vince’ in the service. If this man thought the ship was still at sea, then it was a giveaway that something was rotten in Denmark here. He was going to find out what it was, one way or another.

“Scrapped?” said Popski. “You might try that one on Admiral John Tovey. He’s out there too, sir. Now, I’ve told you what we’re doing here and, begging the General’s pardon, you might think you’d have half a bone in your head and want your General O’Connor fetched back safe and sound. I’d expect cooperation from the Desert Rats out here, and not this sort of treatment from our own rank and file.” He gave the General an indignant look.

Now a Staff Officer, who had been listening to the whole interrogation, stepped up and quietly whispered something to General Kinlan, which prompted an odd reaction.

“You’re certain?” he said.

“I’ve just called it up on the library pad, sir. Have a look at this…” The man handed Kinlan something that looked to Popski like a small tea tray topped with a glass cover but, to his amazement, the thing lit up in color with a single touch of the General’s hand, and he watched as the man studied something there, then stared at him as though he were looking at a ghost.

“Peniakoff,” said Kinlan. “And you say you’re called Popski?” The library pad was opened to a file on the man. Though Kinlan could not believe this could be the same person, the resemblance to the man in the photograph was uncanny. What was going on here?

“Long Range Desert Group, you say?”

“Right, sir. We’re a new unit, set up by Major Bagnold and Captains Clayton and Shaw — all volunteers, just like me. Long Range Patrol was our first handle. Now we’re the L.R.D.G.”

Kinlan tapped at the strange thing he held in his hand, and Popski could not help leaning in to try and get a better look at it. Then the General gave Popski a long look, puzzled yet penetrating, as if he were trying to see beneath the man’s skin.

Fedorov had been listening, not following everything, but he did catch a few words, and one of them was ‘ICBM.’ He asked Popski what had been said about it.

“Just gibberish to me,” said Popski. “Something about us lazing about a target area or some such nonsense. The man doesn’t make any sense, and he’s looking at me like I was his long lost uncle or something. What in the world has happened? These aren’t the Desert Rats I know, and I know a good many. I heard Jock Campbell was out here with the Royal Horse Artillery, but these lads are way over the top. Get a look at those tanks. Bloody amazing! This has to be a special unit. Maybe something Wavell has kept under his hat to surprise old Rommel.”

Jake Kinlan caught those names, another oddity, and scratched his head. Wavell? Rommel? And didn’t this man say he was out here looking for a downed British aircraft carrying a General O’Connor? The name was familiar, and a few taps on his library pad called up the file soon enough. There were several men by that name, a General Rory O’Connor who had served with 11th Armored Division, Middle East Command and Commander of British Forces in Hong Kong before retiring in 1966. This couldn’t be the man they were talking about, nor the older entry for General Richard O’Connor dating back to WWII. Yet something about this man seemed to connect in his mind with these old files. The L.R.D.G. had fought here in Egypt and Libya, along with this ‘Popski’ character as well. Wavell was the man in charge; Rommel his enemy. And this General O’Connor had fought here as well. Was this some sort of elaborate hoax, a man playing at WWII in the desert?

No, he thought. Not possible. I don’t know who this Popski fellow is, but there’s no denying those are bona fide Russian Marines in that truck over there, and that’s a KA-40 sitting there. They came here for a reason, and they were up to no good.

He was interrupted again by his Communications Officer, who reported they had another message from Lieutenant out on point. The column was moving now, the continuous rumble of the heavy vehicles shaking the earth itself as the heavy tanks of the Scotts Dragoons were now passing by, obscured by the sand storm. Popski kept looking over his shoulder, a look of alarm as he listened to it, as if he thought a freight train might come crashing in on them at any moment. The sound of the moving column had a deep, threatening tone that spoke of power and steel on the move, and the unmistakable sound of tanks on the desert sand.

“It seems we have another group out there sir. Reeves is beside himself. Says six jeeps came up the road from Siwa.”

“Berbers again? I thought we had that problem solved for the time being. They must have seen that fireworks earlier, and you’d think they’d want to stay out of it.”

“No sir… Not Berbers. Listen to this!”

Chapter 32

The difficulties of operating in the desert soon became all too apparent to Rommel and the troops of the fledgling Afrika Korps. Those first days on the new continent, walking along the broad streets of Tripoli, amid the bleached white stucco buildings were long gone. Then they were warriors arriving in a new land, full of optimism and vigor. The road move to their jumping off point at El Agheila had not been that arduous, but once actual operations started, the trials of desert combat were before them. Now they faced the empty wasteland, with maps that were far from accurate, dust and blowing sand everywhere, and Rommel’s hot pursuit driving them on like a lion tamer with a whip.

Soon his single division was strung out all across the desert, meeting little resistance beyond an occasional Jock Column or a small delaying force of a few 2 pounder AT guns. The Italian Ariete division bulled its way up the main coastal road, followed by two corps of motorized and leg infantry. The 5th Light swung south and east, hoping to cut off the British retreat.

He did not realize, in those hectic first moments of his offensive, that dark eyes were watching his progress, and the Generals in OKW were thinking what to do about it. His military instincts drove him on, and he pushed his men and vehicles hard to achieve the position he wanted.

Yet his enemy was too crafty and had not fallen into his trap. The British pulled out quickly, and started to retreat, with the infantry heading for Benghazi, and the remnants of 2nd Armored division cutting across the peninsula towards Tobruk. There the British retreat consolidated around that fortified port, with the armor attempting to reorganize to the south of El Adem, protecting the port from a turning maneuver.

Wavell had managed to scrape together a few Indian motorized units and send them west to try and bolster the situation, and he was getting the 9th Australian Division ready to board the trains. That and the 2nd New Zealand Division might be enough to hold, and now he saw that the naval situation preventing the transfer of these good troops to Greece may be a boon in disguise, if the Royal Navy could survive what they were now facing.

The problem now was Rommel. How fast would he come east, and how far would he try to go? And what had happened to General O’Connor? Would the Russians make good on their promise to find him? As reports stacked up, Wavell wished he had the plucky General at his side to plan the defense. Now all he heard was one report after another of Rommel’s advance. He was coming at them like a bad desert storm.

O’Connor had heard him coming when he listened to the opening rounds of the battle, and he knew he did not have enough men and material in hand to stop the German attack, and the prospect of any further advance on his part to Tripoli was now out of the question. So he turned what was left of the 2nd Armored Division over to General Neame and answered the call from Wavell to fly in to Alexandria for a conference. The German fighter that took a bite out of his plane en route would prevent his timely RSVP, but when the plane went down, he was thankful that he had survived without any serious injury beyond a bruised ego. He seldom gave that any mind, and now his only thoughts were set on how to make contact with friendly British patrols before the Italians found him. He knew they still had a garrison at Giarabub, but also that there were elements of the British 6th Australian Cavalry at Siwa.

The storm that had helped to bring down his Blenheim was still raging, but he thought it best to get away from the wreckage of the plane, even though it was the only shelter available. He and the only other survivors, the pilot and navigator, set about gathering up supplies, flares, water, food, and they took one solid meal in the plane, waiting out the worst of the sandstorm.

“The Italians might have seen us go down,” said O’Connor, “but I doubt if they’ll be too keen on investigating a wrecked plane in this mess. That said, when the storm abates, we move out on foot.”

“But the radio is gone now, sir,” said the pilot. “How will anyone know where we’ve gone if we can’t report?”

“Where else would we go our here but south to Siwa?” O’Connor was squinting at a map, his eyes still full of energy. “But I think we’ll come at it by a roundabout way. If I deduce that’s our only play, I won’t put it out of the question that the Italians might also. So when we move, we’ll head east first, towards that escarpment at the southern end of the Qatarra Depression. From there we can work our way south to Siwa. And I’m afraid we shall have to move while the wind is still up, gentlemen. That way it will blot out any tracks we might leave. One man can carry the survival tent and cooking kit. The others lug all the food and water we can carry. I’m not sure where we are, but I can damn well navigate if I have to. You can back me up, Mister Monk.”

Isaac Monk was the navigator, and he nodded. “I’ve a decent sun compass and time piece, sir.”

“Monkey will get us where you want to go, General,” said Bowers, the pilot. “Just you lead the way.”

It was tough going at first, as they left before dawn with the wind up, as O’Connor suggested. They soon found that walking in the desert was no easy task. When the ground was sandy, it got into their boots and shoes, and their feet would sink into it to the point where they felt they were struggling through mud. When it was stony and hard, the rocks presented sharp, jagged threats, and it was tough on ankles or knees, particularly when they would stumble or fall, which happened all too often.

As they trudged along, O’Connor took the lead, tapping out a brisk pace with his riding crop as he went, seemingly tireless. Six hours later the other two men were near exhaustion, and so the party stopped to rest and take some light nourishment. O’Connor wanted another six hour march before they set camp for the night, but a second storm seemed to be brewing. He decided to press on, until the blowing sand forced them to stop two hours after mid-day and rig out the survival tent.

There should have been plenty of daylight left, but the skies were blood red with the desert dust, and it almost seemed that night would be upon them soon. They could barely see in any case, the sand stinging their faces and eyes. That night they rode out the storm, huddled in the cold tent while the conference at Alexandria concluded, and the fleet put out to sea. They were still holed up when the KA-40 was also forced to land, but some hours later O’Connor thought he heard the approach of vehicles.

“Look smart, gentlemen,” he said rousing himself. “There’s movement out there. I’m afraid we’ll have to move too, and quickly. But at least knock down the tent. That way it won’t be seen if these are Italians, and I think they must be.”

So they moved on foot again, with no time to break down and stow the tent beyond knocking it flat. But soon the sound of vehicles grew louder, and they were forced to go to ground, hoping they had not been seen. But the well schooled eyes of men who were out there looking for them had found their quarry, and it soon became apparent that they were going to be discovered.

“Stand ready men. We’ve only the three side arms, but if things go the wrong way here, keep a steady hand and make every shot count.”

Thankfully, he did not have to lead this last little defensive action, for when the vehicles appeared he saw they were the jeeps of the Long Range Desert Group. The lead driver waved as they came up in a billow of dust.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes!” said the navigator, Monk.

“Well met, gentlemen.” O’Connor was pleased to see the men, but took in their shabby appearance and made a mental note to have a word with them later. The men were unshaven, uniforms filthy, and looked to be self-styled military vagabonds.

“We’ve been looking for you, General. Sergeant Galloway here, and these are Lance Corporals Cokes and Jewell — Signalman Simpson there in the back.”

“Signalman?” O’Connor took a long disapproving look at Hector Simpson, his beard so long that the other men had taken to calling him “JC,” Jesus Christ.

“Then you have a radio?”

“That we do, sir,” said Sergeant Galloway.

“Good then. We’ll want to get a message off to Alexandria and let them know you’ve found me.” He stopped, looking over his shoulder when he heard the sound of more vehicles approaching.

“More of your boys, Sergeant?”

“No sir, we’ve just these six jeeps, and those sound like armored cars.”

“Armored cars? That must be the Italians out of Giarabub. There were no armored cars available on our side for work out here, as you well know. It was all we could do to keep 2nd Armored running up north. I couldn’t even spare a single Wellington bomber to support Fergusson. We only had two! Well now, can we outrun them?”

Corporal Cokes was already pulling back the bolt on the machinegun mounted on the jeep, but it was going to do them little good, for other eyes had been out searching that day as well, noting the long column of dust that seemed just a little too thick where the jeeps had come up.

They were not human eyes, but the sensitive infrared sensors at the nose of Lieutenant Reeves’ scout column in the 12th Lancers. The speedy Dragons moved, with lightning speed, fanning out in a wide line abreast to envelop the contact and prevent its escape.

It was then that both O’Connor and Reeves got a real surprise, for it seemed there were British armored cars operating in the desert after all, but the like of which he had never seen. And for Reeves, it seemed that the story that odd Popski impersonator had told him about the General’s plane going down was true — impossibly true.

His column of Dragon IFVs pulled up surrounding this new group, yet when he made the P.A. announcement, stating he was British Army, he was surprised to hear cheering from the small group of vehicles they had come upon. That in itself was a bit of a shock, as the locals here had little welcome for them whenever they patrolled outside the Sultan Apache perimeter zone.

One thing led to another, and he was soon on foot, questioning the men, as he had the Russians. There was one among them that all the others deferred to, a short wiry man with grey white hair and an officer’s cap. He carried a riding crop, which he tapped incessantly at his thigh to emphasize anything he said, and he was wearing the uniform of a serving British officer. Reeves could clearly see the rank as well, a Lieutenant General!

He stared at the short energetic man in front of him amazed, because he knew the history of the desert war very well, and this man was the spitting image of General O’Connor, just as that other fellow had been the image of Popski. He passed a fleeting moment, thinking this new catch might be in league with the others, a grand theater, a re-enactment group, but why would anyone want to come out here and play at World War Two? Here? Now, with the whole world going bonkers in another very real and deadly war?

The Lieutenant started with a brisk salute, more to the rank than anything else. These men might be imposters, like the last group, but he would play out the game and see what he could learn. Yet the man’s answers made no sense, mentioning names like Wavell and Cunningham, all long dead, and making the grand claim that he was, in fact, commander of the British XIII Corps in the Western Desert!

“Just who the hell are you, Mister Reeves?” said O’Connor. “12th Royal Lancers aren’t even here in Africa as far as I know. And how in the world did you manage to trade in your old Morris CS9 for that!” He pointed at the Dragon IFV, clearly amazed.

Reeves found his interrogation had quickly backfired on him, as the sheer force of O’Connor’s will and determination seemed to carry the moment. He rode out the storm of words, waiting for this so called General’s questions to abate like he waited out the blowing sand to get this mission started. They came one after another: Where did he get that vehicle? What in bloody hell was he doing out here wearing the patch of the Desert Rats on his shoulder, when that division was back at Alexandria refitting? Did Wavell send him? Was he a new unit? How many men were in his column? … and on it went as if the fellow thought he was out here to fight the last war, his great grandfather’s war, settled long ago with the blood of another generation on these cruel desert sands. In the end he simply held up his hand as if calling for a truce.

“Easy does it,” he said to O’Connor, strangely bothered by the odd notion that this man seemed so completely authentic in his role that he could be the real thing. “I have orders to report all contacts,” said Reeves, “and to get anyone found out here to the rear of our column. Perhaps you’d best tell your story to my Brigadier.”

O’Connor’s fate line was redrawn that day, when the history resounded with a strange echo, enacting his disappearance and capture right in the midst of the first German offensive. Yet there was one dramatic difference — he had not been captured by the Germans of Ponath’s 8th Machinegun Company, but by a bemused Lieutenant in the 12th Royal Lancers, in a British Army that would not exist for another 80 years.

Reeves elected to do the only sensible thing he could think of at that moment, and pass the problem along to the officers above his pay grade. So he radioed in to Brigadier Kinlan, and his report came at a most opportune time.

The Staff Officer leaned in, speaking quietly to Kinlan as he reported. “These were men claiming to be British soldiers, sir, dressed out in that same old style British kit from head to toe!” He gestured to Popski now, who was listening intently.

“A Sergeant Galloway, sir. Six jeeps and an odd bunch that look like they’ve been out here for a good long while. That’s how Reeves put it. But they had another man with them, and sir, the fellow claims to be a British General. Calls himself O’Connor.”

Brigadier Kinlan just stared at him. “O’Connor? Rubbish! What in bloody hell is going on here?” He looked down at his library pad again. There was the entry on the General himself in the data file, complete with a vintage photo from World War Two.

Fedorov heard the name O’Connor and his heart leapt. He immediately asked Popski if he had heard what was said.

“Sure enough,” his guide said. “They’ve done our work for us, Captain. So you won’t have to spin up that helicontraption of yours any further. It’s O’Connor alright, along with some of my men! I caught several of the names that staff officer reported.”

Then to Brigadier Kinlan he said: “Just you wait and see now, sir. General O’Connor will be more than glad to straighten this matter out for you.”

“Will he now?” Kinlan did not seem happy at all, and he gave a sharp order to his Staff Officer. “Tell him to bring the whole lot in,” he ordered. “We’ll get to the bottom of this mess right now!”

Chapter 33

Troyak had been unable to get through to Kirov, saying there was odd interference on every radio band. This news kept Fedorov in the dark, knowing that something terrible had happened again here, but unable to determine whether his team had moved in time again… until he heard that the British had found O’Connor. If this was so, if it was actually General O’Connor out there in the desert, then this new British General and his Desert Rats had somehow manifested here from the future! They were the interlopers in time, and not his own small contingent. But how did it happen?

He remembered that strange glow in the sky, the almost phosphorescent light in the blowing sand, and that odd moment when Orlov had yelped with pain dropping that thing he had found in Siberia — in the Tunguska river valley. He began to piece together the odd bits of the puzzle, thinking hard. This British General Kinlan had said something about a missile, an ICBM. Popski told him that they ‘got it first,’ before it could make an end of them, though he did not know what Kinlan meant by that. That could only mean they engaged it with anti-ballistic missile systems, but he gathered that the warhead had detonated, somewhere over the Qattara depression.

Kinlan thinks we’re a fifth column, he realized, finally understanding that remark about lazing about near the target area. He meant ‘lasing,’ but Popski would have never heard of that word, and translated it otherwise. Brigadier Kinlan thought we were here to paint the target zone and help guide the missile attack in. He questioned Popski further about it, and it was the only conclusion he could come to. If this were so, then Kinlan might see Popski and his men as saboteurs, even O’Connor. How could he possibly believe anything else?

Now he had come to one of those critical moments of knowing that could make all the difference in how this all played out. A nuclear detonation… a Tunguska fragment… a hole in time. It was the only possible explanation. That’s how Rod 25 must be working. It contained exotic residual material from the Tunguska event, and when lowered into the sublime nuclear dance of the ship’s reactor, the combination cut time like a razor, and anything within a given radius fell through the rift.

Director Kamenski told him that large explosions disturb time, particularly those of nuclear origin. Could that thing Orlov found serve as a kind of lightning rod, where all that strange effect was targeted at this very place and time. If so, the radius of this event must have been very great if it allowed a force the size of a full Armored brigade to move through the rift. Then again… From what he could determine, and see all around him, this brigade had been tightly concentrated, ready to make a road march, with all its vehicles and equipment gathered into a zone that probably did not exceed five or ten kilometers. Even Rod 25 could produce a radius effect that wide, and this thing Orlov had could be a highly concentrated fragment from the Tunguska event, with considerably more power than the control rod.

All these thoughts tumbled through his mind in a matter of seconds, but now the agonizing question was before him — what should he do about it? What could he do? Saving his own skin, and extricating his contingent from this dilemma was one thing, but to do so he was going to have to convince this Brigadier Kinlan that his brigade was no longer where he thought it was — that he and all his troops were now sitting in the Egyptian desert in January of 1941! Look how long it took us to accept what had happened to us. And Admiral Tovey… He and Turing had years to figure this all out, the slow accumulation of hard evidence, tangible clues, right down to those photographs they handed us. What can I do to convince this General without sounding like I’m a madman?

He groped about, trying to figure a way he could persuade this man, and explain what had happened. O’Connor, he thought. General Richard O’Connor. They were bringing him in with Popski’s men this very moment. O’Connor is a prominent historical figure. There will be photographic references, in fact, I could call them up on my jacket computer if need be. Would that be enough? Perhaps, but then he realized what was on the other side of that coin.

If I do convince them they have moved in time, he thought, then they’ll have to know who we are as well, and wonder how we came to be here. This man was British military, with a very important post in commanding one of the only heavy armored units they had left in 2021. It is very possible that he would have heard about the disappearance of our ship during those live fire exercises.

He thought about this. Could I tell him who we are, and how we came to be here? That lets the bear out of the cave, doesn’t it? Admiral Volsky was bold to reveal this to Tovey, but to convince Kinlan of his impossible fate, I may have to reveal it to the entire world. This is information known only to Admiral Tovey and Alan Turing in this era. My god, even Popski is still in the dark. He doesn’t even know who we really are!

Yet the more he thought about this incredible situation, the more he realized the inevitable outcome of these events. This unit was posted to the BP Sultan Apache oil concern in the year 2020, after the massacre of British oilfield personnel there. He remembered the incident clearly, and now he knew what must have happened. The damn war, he thought. It’s started. The missiles are in the air in 2021, and this was on the target list, two fat birds that could be killed with one nuclear stone. Our forces could take out a vital oil and gas recovery facility here, and wipe out the best unit in the British Army at the same time.

But it didn’t happen that way, and we had everything to do with that. Kirov, this entire odyssey, Orlov, that mission to Ilanskiy, all of it. Then he realized that he, himself, had been at the heart of everything that had happened to forge that chain of events. Yes, Orlov jumped ship, or so he now secretly believed, but I was the one who insisted we go after him. I found the stairway at Ilanskiy, and whispered that warning in Sergei Kirov’s ear. I was the one who insisted we go after Karpov too, and now Kazan is involved in all of this. I was the one who sent Troyak and Orlov on that raid in Siberia, and that’s how Orlov found that Devil’s Teardrop. This is all my doing! And now look what’s in front of me, the British 7th Armored Brigade from the year 2021! My God, the power this unit has at its disposal could influence the entire outcome of this war, and all the history that follows it.

What should I do? It’s going to happen one way or another, with or without any action on my part. These troops were set to move out from their base at Sultan Apache. If so, then they were going to head north to ports that might be able to accommodate the movement of this tonnage. That would be a chancy move with the war heating up as it was, but they’ll try. Yes, they’ll try, and if they do go north they will run right into the thick of things, demigods on the field of battle, the Desert Rats, echoes from the future, born of a past that was playing out here and now, reincarnated in a form and shape so potent that it could change everything. They could save Egypt, prevent England from being knocked right out of this war if things continue to unravel here.

Fedorov had been deeply troubled by the news that Gibraltar had been taken, and the shadow looming over Malta. The dominoes were falling now. He knew the history so well that he could easily see the most likely outcome of these events. Even now, Admiral Volsky was out to sea with Kirov to try and bolster the British fleet as they faced those impossible odds against a combined Axis naval force twice their size. That fight we can win, he thought. With Kirov, and with Kazan out there somewhere, we can unhinge the growing Axis naval power and reset the balance here as it was, restoring the Royal Navy to a position of naval supremacy.

Yes, that we can do, but what about Rommel? How do we influence events on land? That was the dilemma he had discussed with Admiral Volsky. The Germans took Gibraltar, and they’ll likely take Malta now. Rommel will get all the tanks, fuel and supplies he needs here, and what if the Germans reinforce him further? What if they make this place their major war effort for all of 1941? We can win the war at sea, but how in god’s name do I stop Rommel?

There were two ways, one an indirect approach that was within their power — logistics. If we establish naval supremacy here, then we can sink any troop transport the other side puts to sea, and cut off Rommel’s supplies. That was one thing Kirov and Kazan could easily accomplish, particularly with the stealth of the sub.

Yet can we do this before the German force footprint here becomes too large for the British to oppose Rommel’s advance? Now he remembered what Admiral Tovey had confided to them before they put out to sea to look for their battle. He revealed that Turing had sent word that BP had wind of new German troop authorizations for North Africa. They were going to send the troops they had used to smash the Rock of Gibraltar, put that hammer in Rommel’s hand by augmenting his force with 1st Mountain Division and a newly reconstituted Grossdeutschland at full division strength! Those units and others, like the 90th Light Division, were now earmarked for North Africa, and they just might get here before this naval situation is resolved to our satisfaction. Then all we could do is try and make their lives miserable here, by cutting off their seaborne communications with France and Italy.

He considered that, and realized the Germans now had many more options open to them for supplying a force here in North Africa. Tripoli was the first port they would use, but they also had Oran, Algiers, and now the narrow straits of Gibraltar to Tangiers. Getting supplies to Egypt from those ports would be much more difficult, but if the Germans were determined… There was even the possibility that they could create an air bridge, like they tried to supply the 6th Army at Stalingrad.

And how to stop Rommel from smashing his way to the Suez Canal before Kirov and Kazan can make that vital difference? A logistics war is a long, drawn out affair, a way of killing your enemy by starving and smothering him. But there was another way, the direct solution to the problem, right here!

The answer was now right in front of him, all around him in the thundering rumble of heavy tanks and IFVs. The Desert Rats had come home again, by chance, fate or design, and if they do move north Fedorov now knew what had to happen. They would find the British holed up in Tobruk, and by god, they would learn the horrible truth of what had happened to them the hard way and, after the madness passed, they would fight. He was as certain of this outcome as he could possibly be.

So you see, he thought. You can stand here worrying about revealing this insane truth to this world, that men from a future time were here to take up arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them. Shakespeare had something to say about everything, he thought, smiling inwardly as his anxiety settled down around this conclusion.

It wasn’t up to him after all. Kinlan was going north, and he was going to fight for Great Britain in this war, and that was that. He doesn’t know that now, and he certainly won’t believe a word of it should you try to tell him, but that’s what will happen. So all you have to do, really, is go along for the ride. In fact, that won’t be our choice either. These men have us now, and they certainly won’t apologize, send us back to the KA-40, and wish us farewell.

Perhaps General O’Connor and I can do something about that first, before Kinlan takes that hard road north. Then he smiled again, wondering how O’Connor was going to take in the sight of a battalion of Challenger 2 tanks! Standing there in disbelief was one thing. Putting your hand on that Chobham armor, hearing that big 120mm gun fire, and the thunder of this force in attack — well that was quite another thing entirely, and it will make a believer of O’Connor in short order. He won’t understand it at all, but he’ll see it with his own eyes, and seeing is believing.

It would be good if I could somehow spare both Kinlan and O’Connor the shock and confusion of everything we went through to get this far on this amazing journey. Then he thought of something he could do that would make a very strong argument with Kinlan. Something very simple.

All he had to do was convince him to look over his shoulder!

Brigadier Kinlan gave Popski a frown as he turned from his Staff Officer. “This is already wearing out my patience,” he said. “Now, I’ll give you one more chance to tell me what you are really doing out here, and if I get any more of your nonsense, Major, I’ll lock you and this whole troop up for good! You’re standing there wearing a British soldier’s uniform you must have dug up at a surplus store, and you think you can make me believe your regular army? Alright, have it your way. You know what happens to enemy combatants found behind lines, particularly someone trying to pose as one of our boys?”

Popski had a look of shock on his face, but before he could say anything Fedorov tugged urgently on his arm. “Major, he said quickly. “I need to speak with this officer, and I need you to translate everything I say, faithfully, and without question. Can you do that?”

“I’d just as soon give him a piece of my own mind,” said Popski in Russian, “rank or no rank. The man is going bonkers on us if he thinks we’re his enemy. What’s gotten into him? He’s no British General I’ve ever heard of, nor have I ever seen anything like this lot here!” He gestured to the vehicles still passing them in a long, steady column.

“I need you now, Popski. This is urgent. I must speak with this man. Can you translate? You may not understand any of what I will now say, but just translate. I’ll explain it all to you later, but consider this discussion top secret, something known only to the very highest placed officers in your military. Believe this. I was with Wavell and Admiral Tovey, and privy to things you will not have heard, but I must trust you now. Can you do this?”

“Well get on with it then,” said Popski, a dejected look on his face, arms folded, eyes dark with his rising temper.

“Very well… Please tell the General that…”

How should he begin? He was about to try and give this man the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, the heartache of a thousand natural shocks, the whips and scorns of time. But he had to do something, so he led with the one suit he knew was long in his hand.

“Tell the General that I regret the attack on his position, and hope that it was not my countrymen who were responsible.”

Popski frowned. “It’ll take a bit more than a nice apology,” he said to Fedorov in Russian.

“Popski! Don’t think now. Don’t even listen. Just translate as faithfully as you can. This is critical!”

“Very well, don’t get your britches in a wad. We’ve enough trouble here as it stands.” Then he translated as Fedorov continued.

“Tell him that my men had no mission here associated with that missile strike, and I ask him to believe that. We were here to find and rescue the man his scout troop has just found, but I must now ask him to do one thing that will help explain this entire situation.”

Half a minute later Brigadier Kinlan spoke again. “Sounding a bit better. Yet I fail to comprehend why Russian Marines would be interested in finding a British General, except to capture him.”

“I understand that would be your view,” said Fedorov, “but again, I ask you to do one thing that will help explain everything here. The situation is very critical.”

“It doesn’t get much more critical when the nukes start flying,” said Kinlan darkly. “Alright, what is your request, Captain?”

“Do you still have vehicles near the Sultan Apache facilities?”

“What? We’re nearly ten kilometers outside the perimeter here. You don’t think I was going to sit there and wait for another missile, do you?”

“What does he mean — missile?” said Popski. “Is he talking about those rockets of yours?”

“Just translate!” This time Fedorov put some iron in his tone, and Popski shrugged.

“Tell him there is no further missile threat. Tell him I guarantee this absolutely.”

“You guarantee it?” Kinlan smiled. “Just who are you now, the Commander of the Russian Strategic Missile Troops? The Devil’s Apprentice, are you?”

Popski translated that, though he had absolutely no idea what it meant. The primary Russian ICBM was still the deadly RS-20B ballistic missile, called “Satan” by Western analysts. Their commander was known as the Devil’s Apprentice in intelligence circles, but Fedorov smiled.

“No sir, I am not that man. I am Anton Fedorov, Captain of the First Rank, battlecruiser Kirov, and I ask you to do one thing now. Send the closest vehicle you have to Sultan Apache. You will find the entire sector completely undamaged.”

“That’s because we got your damn missile,” said Kinlan quickly. “Battlecruiser Kirov? You mean that Russian ship that went missing out of Severomorsk last July and then turned up in the Pacific? We thought you tangled with the wrong people and went down off the coast of Japan some weeks ago.”

“No sir, the ship is sound, seaworthy, and at sea in the Mediterranean, as the presence of that KA-40 there testifies. We lifted off with my Marine contingent from the fantail of that battlecruiser.”

“Just as I thought,” Kinlan smiled. “Yet I find it hard to believe your ship made it into the Med. How would you get there? Our side would have seen any move like that easily enough.”

Popski could see that these two men seemed to share a common understanding of what they were talking about, but it was as if they were speaking an entire different language, so he just translated as well as he could.

“I will ask you to humor me, then,” said Fedorov, “because here I stand, and I am, indeed, the Captain of that ship. Now… will you send a reconnaissance to Sultan Apache?”

“What for?” Kinlan folded his arms, head cocked sideways, his battle helmet shading his eyes.

“Because I can tell you exactly what you will find there,” said Fedorov. “Nothing. There will be no perimeter wire. No guard towers, no roads, no buildings, facilities, oil drilling equipment — nothing. There will be nothing there but unblemished desert, and it will not be because anything was destroyed by another missile. You would have seen that, even through this storm. Do this, and you will have your hand on the beginning of an answer that will sort this whole mess out. Trust me, General, officer to officer, man to man, in spite of what has happened these last nine days. You’ll find nothing back there but blowing sand and desert scrub. Sultan Apache is gone, and once your people confirm this, I will tell you why.”