Kirov Saga: Devil's Garden (Kirov Series) Page 6

  The skies were bright and clear that morning, but they had floodlights up to illuminate the runway just the same. The video cameras would record the takeoff for posterity, a newsreel for the ages. One by one the big engines sputtered to life, turning over and spinning the massive props on the enormous engines of the bombers. Tibbets felt the vibration of all four engines shaking his plane, and just before he taxied away he leaned out the side window and waved. Then it was out on the tarmac and down the long runway of North Field, Tinian.

  “Hey JS, look at ‘em go!” A group a Seabees were watching near the hangers. “And to think we built the damn airfield that made all this possible.”

  They had seen the bombers go many times before, but never with this kind of fanfare, and by direct Presidential order. It was awesome, as all real military power was meant to be. And it was terrible beyond the soul’s capacity to measure, 425 superfortresses in the sky, and one with the power of the sun itself in its belly, all flying north for the vengeance the nation demanded. Only the final raids on Japan had been bigger, with two massive raids involving 464 and 520 planes in late May.

  There was no sign of the awful fire that had ravaged the seas the night before. The B-29 bombers were in the air, flying in a massive formation northwest from Tinian. It was a little over 2000 miles to Vladivostok, and with a range just over 3500 miles the bombers would not be returning to the island that day. Instead they would land on airfields cleared and now well established on Okinawa.

  If the Russians had any more ships equipped with their new missile weaponry, they would have 425 planes to shoot at, and odds were that the Enola Gay would get through. The Russians had built at least two bombs, and the great risk was that they had more. What if they were to load one on another of their fearsome new aerial defense rockets to blast the entire bomber formation? In the end it was decided that, in spite of Truman’s dire fair warning, the US would have the element of surprise.

  Part III

  Invincible

  “One day you wake up and realize the world can be conquered... I'm going to put a mask on and scrawl my name across the face of the world…

  — Austin Grossman: Soon I will Be Invincible

  Chapter 7

  “Captain?”

  Karpov heard the voice, but it seemed to quaver in the air about him with a strange echo. He backed slowly away from the viewport, seeing the distant cloud of doom slowly fade in his vision, feeling dizzy and feather light.

  There came a sudden mist, rising thickly about the ship, and many on the bridge crew thought they had been enveloped in the impenetrable haze that accompanied nuclear detonations at sea, known as the “Wilson Cloud,” but this was not the case. The mushroom cloud was gone, as if blown away by a sudden wind, as a man might blow out a candle flame. And there was no wind, only the dull grey of the enveloping fog, and a sudden chill, as if the ship had fallen off the edge of the world long feared by mariners of old, and was now adrift in eternity.

  The Captain turned, his eyes glazed over, his face tortured with emotion. Rodenko was at his side at once. “Captain, sir… Are you alright? Mishman! Summon the doctor to the bridge.”

  “No, no. Belay that…” Karpov held up a hand as if to reassure his Starpom, and now his numbed brain began to work again, and his senses began to assemble the clues in his mind—the light, the changing color of the sky, the eerie luminescence of the sea, and the hushed silence of the enveloping fog. He knew what had happened.

  “Radar, report all contacts,” he said quickly.

  “Captain, my screen is empty, sir. I have no readings.”

  The helicopters they had up were gone as well. They had the KA-226 and one KA-40 aloft. The last was still in the helo bay.

  “Sonar. Active pings. Report!”

  “Con, sonar has been on active search for ten minutes. I can report no undersea contacts.” Tasarov was listening intently, monitoring his scope closely for any signal returns.

  “Screw noise?”

  “Sir, only our own turbines. I have no other registered harmonics or known sonic signatures.”

  “What is the ship’s heading and speed?”

  “Con, Helm. My rudder is steady on zero, three, five degrees northeast. Speed thirty.”

  “Ahead two thirds and steady on.”

  “Sir, aye, ahead two thirds and steady as we go.”

  Karpov folded his arms, his gaze still transfixed by the fog, which now began to waver in places, diffused with ethereal luminescence. He turned his head to Rodenko. “We have moved again,” he said quietly. “Moved in time….I can feel it. That detonation has sliced open eternity yet again, and the ship has fallen through, only who knows where we will end up this time.”

  “We might be heading home, sir,” Rodenko suggested hopefully, but the captain said nothing, his eyes tightening, brow furrowed as he considered their situation. He stepped back from the citadel view ports and slipped slowly into the Captain’s chair, exhausted. The tension of the last few hours left him drained and spent. He could still feel the cool sheen of perspiration on his forehead, and he closed his eyes, grasping a moment of inner peace and calm. A shadow on his shoulder became Rodenko again, his arm extended with a cup of steaming coffee in hand.

  Karpov looked up, smiling wanly. “Thank you, Rodenko.” He considered something briefly and then gave another order. “The ship will secure from level one alert. Assume level three, guarded watch, and secure all NBC equipment. Maintenance crews will conduct routine evolutions at their regular stations. Post watchmen with field glasses on the high weather decks and they are to observe in a 360 degree range about the ship.”

  “At once, sir.” Rodenko was off, repeating the order as he was expected, and the tension on the bridge slackened noticeably.

  “Mister Nikolin,” the Captain swiveled his chair toward the communications station. “Are you monitoring any radio traffic, ship-to-ship or otherwise?”

  “No sir. My band is clear.”

  “Please hail the Orlan. Request their position, course and speed.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Karpov knew that with no contacts on the Fregat system the chances Orlan displaced with them were very slim. Perhaps the other ship did move, he thought. Who knows? But I am willing to bet it is nowhere within fifty kilometers of us now…here…wherever we are. God only knows what happened to them or what fate they suffered alone to face what was still unfought in 1945. I was such a fool to engage a force that size. It was simply too much for us to contend with.

  Pride goeth before the fall, he thought. But where have we fallen?

  “Mister Nikolin, activate the Tin Man optical cameras and feed the signal to the overhead HD display. Fore and aft, please, on split screen format.”

  “Activating Tin Man, sir, aye.”

  Karpov indulged himself, looking up at the display, though he saw only what he expected—the seemingly endless fog. Where were they, in some strange limbo where they would await their final judgment? It might be hours before they knew their fate this time. The ship’s systems could have been affected, as they were in past displacements. Then again, if they shifted forward again, would they see only the devastation of the war in 2021?

  I was sent to try and buy us time to save that horror off, and now look what I have done! I couldn’t wait for the war in 2021, I gave it to them in 1945. Nikolin’s hail to Orlan now sounded like a funeral dirge.

  “Kirov to Orlan. Come in Please. Orlan, please state position, course and speed, over. Kirov to Orlan—where are you? Come in please.”

  “That will be enough, Mister Nikolin. I do not think they can hear us. Keep listening on your headset and report any radio traffic. Please monitor, AM, FM and Shortwave bands.” Karpov knew that if they were still in a world where life existed, he should be able to hear it murmuring on the radio soon.

  Now the weight of what he had done began to feel like lead on his shoulders. He needed sleep, needed to rest, and stood on unsteady legs. “Mister Rodenko
. You have the bridge. I will be in my quarters.”

  * * *

  The Vodka did something to renew his flagging soul. He sat at his desk for some time, staring at himself, until he realized how stupid he looked with his military cap on—Vladimir Karpov, the man who started World War Three.

  They will destroy Orlan, he knew. There was simply too much force there for the ship to escape without our support. Together we might have run out into the Pacific, but alone the Sea Eagle was doomed. Even if we did survive that attack, our SAM inventory would have dwindled to next to nothing. Then all it would take is a couple of their fast carriers to finish us off—unless I wanted to fire off the last of our missiles and warheads. Yes, that might have put such fear into them that they would not dare to approach us again, but we would be lost, outlaws, outcasts on the high seas, and they would have hunted us with every ship they had.

  Fedorov was correct, as was Zolkin. They would have built three ships for every one we sank, and they would pursue and pursue until they made an end if us. I suppose I could have sailed to within range of one of their cities, and then perhaps they would listen to me if I threatened to destroy San Francisco. He shook his head with that thought, aghast. I have done enough harm to this world as it stands. I could not bear to believe I was the one responsible for what we saw in that bleak future, then I made a certainty of that.

  He lay on his bunk, closing his eyes and letting himself fall into a deep, restless sleep. Sometime later he awoke, startled to see that Doctor Zolkin was sitting beside his bunk, a stethoscope around his neck and his doctor’s bag open at his side.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Now, now, rest easy,” the doctor assured him.

  “What time is it?”

  “08:00 hours, at least insofar as the ship’s chronometer is concerned.”

  “Morning?”

  “The bridge hailed you three hours ago, and when no answer came Rodenko became concerned. He called me and I came to check on you.”

  Karpov saw the syringe on the nightstand. Then realized the doctor had also affixed an IV drip to his arm. “What have you done?” he said, the suspicion evident in his voice.

  “Did you think I came here to shoot you full of drugs, Karpov? I’m afraid not. You appeared dehydrated and so I am simply giving you fluids.”

  “And that?” Karpov pointed at the syringe.

  “A mild sedative to calm your sleep. You looked like you were having some real nightmares when I got here. Don’t worry. It has already worn off by now. How do you feel?”

  The Captain blinked, and took a deep breath. “Better, I suppose.”

  Zolkin nodded. “Better this than the vodka,” he said.

  Karpov’s eyes darkened, but there was no point denying it. “I was not drinking heavily, Doctor. It was only a shot to calm my nerves. I assure you, I was fully competent—”

  “No one is accusing you of inappropriate conduct, Captain, at least insofar as the vodka is concerned. I’m here to see to your wellbeing, nothing more.”

  Karpov looked away. “I should think you might also want to lecture me—wag a finger in my face now, eh? Well, what’s done is done, Zolkin.”

  “No lecture, Captain. I spoke my mind at the officer’s meeting with the others. And yes, you have done what you have done, and I don’t suppose anyone can do anything about it now. It is all history, as they say. Though I have no idea how it will read in the decades ahead.”

  Karpov realized he still did not know where they were. “Has Nikolin reported anything?”

  “Not yet,” said Zolkin, reaching out to remove the IV drip and apply a bandage to Karpov’s arm. “But we do have something on the radar now. That’s why they called for you, some time ago.”

  “And you let me sleep here?”

  “The world will get on without Vladimir Karpov to watch over it for a few hours. You needed the rest—Doctor’s orders. I told Rodenko that they should simply monitor the contact and report if anything seemed dangerous.”

  “What type of contact, airborne?”

  “No, it appears to be a ship. Rodenko sent the helicopter to have a look around. It saw a ship on radar northeast of our position, about 150 kilometers out. We have been making a gradual approach for the last three or four hours. So I thought I would check in on you again to wake you. You should see the sky behind us, quite beautiful this morning.”

  Karpov leaned forward, still feeling tired but much better now. “I think a good meal will work wonders for me now, Doctor. Tell Rodenko I’ll relieve him in an hour.”

  “Very well, but don’t push yourself too hard, Captain. It’s not every man who gets to fight the American Navy in two different centuries in the span of forty-eight hours.” Zolkin stood up, closing his medical bag and setting a small container with medication on the night stand. “That’s for those times you may think you need more vodka, he said calmly. And I have personally found that one before bed is very handy. It will give you a good night’s rest.” Zolkin started for the door.

  “Doctor…” Karpov swung his legs out of bed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees as he looked up at Zolkin.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “Thank you… for your attendance here…”

  “All in a day’s work, Mister Karpov. All in a day’s work.”

  * * *

  The food tasted better than he could remember for a very long time, and the Captain ate with real appetite now, feeling much more himself when he had finished. He wasted little time getting back up to the bridge, where he planned to make crew rotations and see about this ship on their horizon. The answer to many of the questions he took to his quarters could easily be on that ship.

  Out on a weather deck for some fresh air, he looked at the sky for the first time. Zolkin was correct, it was strikingly beautiful behind them to the west, a ruddy orange glow there on the horizon, as if a second sun were rising in opposition to the eastern sun, which was slowly climbing. Very odd, he thought, wondering what caused the strange effect. The thought that it was a residual effect from the warhead he fired crossed his mind. Could they have fallen back into the waters of 1945 while he slept? This thought set him hastening to the bridge.

  Along the way he stopped to talk with the men in the corridors and compartments below. He could see the questions in their eyes, wondering what was happening, and how the battle turned out. He told them not to worry, that all was in hand and that he would make a general announcement to the crew shortly.

  “Are the Americans still after us, sir? Did we beat them?”

  “I think we gave them much more than they wanted,” said Karpov. “They’ll learn not to tangle with the crew of this ship, eh?” He pointed to the deck as he said that, and the young seaman smiled.

  Some minutes later he was back on the bridge in a new uniform, but he made a point of taking his service cap, no matter how ridiculous he thought he looked with it. They were up in the northern latitudes, and so he thought he might soon get back to his fur lined Ushanka. That was a hat!

  “Captain on the bridge!”

  “As you were, gentlemen,” he said briskly. “Anything to report, Mister Rodenko?”

  “Surface contact, sir. We picked it up with the AEW Helo four hours ago. I thought it prudent to have a look around after you went below.”

  “Well done. What did you find?”

  “We have it on the Fregat system now, sir. It’s certainly a surface ship, making about 16 knots on a heading of 275 west.” He walked to the Plexiglas screen, which triggered a bitter memory of the American fleet surging north at them just hours ago, the screen alight with hundreds of air/sea contacts. This time it was completely empty. There was not a single airborne contact reported, and only this one surface ship in the vicinity.

  “What are those land formations to the north?”

  “That would be the Aleutian Island chain, sir, Amchitka Island. The contact heading has been steady the last few hours and back traces to Dutch Harbor.�
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  “Then this is an American ship?”

  “Possibly, sir.”

  Karpov’s eyes narrowed. “How soon before we have them on our horizon?”

  “Not long now. I would say another thirty minutes. We’re presently at 20 knots.”

  “Helm. Go to thirty knots.” Karpov immediately ordered a speed change.

  “Sir, Aye, ahead 30.”

  “Getting curious, Captain?”

  “This ship holds the answer to some very important questions, Rodenko. I intended to relieve you so you could get some rest, but can you carry on for another hour?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Good… Then let’s see what is darkening our horizon this time.”

  Chapter 8

  They saw it twenty minutes later, barely visible on the horizon until Karpov ordered the Tin Man opticals to zoom in. Now they were looking at what appeared to be an elegant clipper ship steamer, hull painted white, with a fine swept bow, two stacks amidships and what looked to be three tall masts at intervals along the deck.

  “That is commercial traffic,” said Karpov. “What would you say its displacement is?”

  “Not more than five or six thousand tons, sir,” said Rodenko. They overlaid a metric display on the HD video feed, and the ship’s length appeared to be about 450 feet. Five lifeboats were prominently mounted along the main superstructure, but there were no visible gun turrets. It looked like an old steamer from a bygone era, but in remarkably good condition.

  “Well what have we here?” said Karpov. “Let’s get closer. Continue on intercept course. The ship will come to level two action stations. Mister Samsonov, please activate the forward deck gun.”

  “Aye, sir. Forward gun ready.”

  The Captain was taking no chances, but as they closed the range it was apparent that the ship posed no military threat. Three minutes later Nikolin’s eyes brightened. “Sir, I’m picking up some Morse code.”