“Another Directive? How many so far?”
“Thirty-Two, sir. This one referred to an ‘Operation Orient’ involving plans for the Middle East. We picked up some information on this earlier, and the German Brandenburg Commandos in Iraq have moved north to the oil regions near Kirkuk.”
“He needs the oil,” said Kirov, nodding his head.
“Unquestionably, as we do. Now that the Germans have taken Odessa on the Black Sea, their Stukas prohibit any movement of oil by sea to Constanta. They still get shipments over the Turkish rail system, but not enough to really matter. The Germans are still relying on Ploesti for most of their imports. To that end, we believe they will complete the occupation of the Eastern Mediterranean islands by attacking Crete soon. To leave that in British hands would mean they might soon have bombers there that could reach Ploesti.”
“Yes,” said Kirov, “but don’t hold your breath. The British only made a few small raids on Ploesti in 1941, with no more than five or ten planes each. The Americans aren’t in it yet, and their first major air raid there doesn’t come until August 1st of 1943, at least according to the material. Even that was considered a strategic failure. They started off calling it Operation Tidal Wave, until their bombers were shot to pieces. In the end the pilots referred to it as Black Sunday. So as to this German Operation Orient—what do we know?”
“Not much has developed, sir. They have even pulled 5th SS division out of Syria and moved it to join the SS Corps in the Dnieper Bend. The other crack units that were sent to Rommel have also been recalled. Both the Hermann Goering Brigade and the Grossdeutschland Brigade have been returned to France. They are being built up to full scale divisions for deployment against us.”
“Churchill must be happy now,” said Kirov with a half hearted smile. “The British complained they were alone in this war since 1939. Now they’ve simply handed it over to us. All but five of Germany’s divisions in active fronts are facing us. Face it, Grishin. This is our war now.”
“Yet the material indicates the Japanese will soon attack Pearl harbor.”
“Yes, and that will start the war in the Pacific if it happens. It might do Karpov some good, because I don’t suppose the Japanese will be looking to push any further into Siberia. They’ll want oil too, and all the developed sources in Asia are in the south.”
“Then you believe the material will hold true? The Japanese will strike into Southeast Asia?”
“Most likely,” said Kirov. “Then the British lose Hong Kong and Singapore, and the Americans lose the Philippines. And we must not expect much help from them now either. They cannot ship anything to us through Vladivostok, because the Japanese have been sitting there for decades. They can’t send us anything through the Middle East now, not with Turkey in the grey zone and German troops minding the rail system there. Nothing gets in through Iran because of Volkov, and so that leaves only one route—the Murmansk convoys. They become crucial for us now. We can build the tanks, but we never seem to have enough time to build the trucks!”
“The first Murmansk convoy is staging to test the route now, sir. The British are calling it Operation Dervish.”
Kirov smiled. “Just as they did in the material. See Grishin? This world may be fractured in a hundred pieces, but some things still hold true. Let us hope that convoy gets through without incident.”
“I think it has good prospects,” said Berzin. “The really big German raiders have all sought refuge in French Ports now after that big sea battle. They lost their only big aircraft carrier as well.”
“Yes…” Kirov had a knowing look on his face now. “Those naval rockets were reported in use there, correct? I think our friends at sea may have had a good deal to do with that situation. What news of them, Grishin? What of the ship they had the good sense to name the Sergei Kirov?”
Part VIII
Doppelganger
“After a great blow, or crisis, after the first shock and then after the nerves have stopped screaming and twitching, you settle down to the new condition of things and feel that all possibility of change has been used up. You adjust yourself, and are sure that the new equilibrium is for eternity. . . But if anything is certain it is that no story is ever over, for the story which we think is over is only a chapter in a story which will not be over…”
- Robert Penn Warren – All the King’s Men
Chapter 22
Fedorov sat in the sick bay, eyes closed, feeling very strange. He tried to sleep, but his mind was too active with unanswered questions. In time he decided he simply must return to the bridge, and convinced Doctor Zolkin he was steady on his feet. The Doctor gave him one last cursory observation, noting his eyes and sense of balance, and then certified him as fit for duty.
He slipped on his cap, and was out the door into the corridor, walking in a fog of his own thinking. A few men saluted as he passed, yet he was too preoccupied to notice. All he wanted to do was to get up to the bridge and see what was happening. The ship seemed fine now, the men going about their routine evolutions, and he was glad that he was not approached and pressed with questions. Yet as he navigated the passageways and ladders up, he thought he perceived a difference in the men that he could not quite identify. There was a lightness of heart in them as he passed. They were joking with one another, laughing easily in a way he had not heard for some time. Perhaps it was simply relief that they had come through the shift with no further damage or odd effects.
Finally he was up the last ladder to the main bridge hatch, where a solitary Marine stood watch. The man saluted, opened the hatch for him as he came, and Fedorov stepped through, glad to hear the reassuring hum of the equipment as he did so. He glanced over at Petrov manning the navigation station, and then looked to find the Admiral. To his great surprise he stopped, frozen, his hand instinctively seeking a hand rail on the bulkhead by the hatch to steady himself, but it was not the nausea again this time, not his sea legs… It was Orlov! The Chief was standing there leaning over the sonar operator’s station, clearly alive and well.
In that moment his mind reached for any possible explanation, and all he could think of was that the Chief had finally phased correctly with the rest of the ship.
“Ah, there you are, Mister Fedorov,” said Volsky. “I trust you have recovered?”
“I am well, sir. And I see the Chief is back after that last shift. Thank God for that!”
Orlov gave him a look, then a nod of his head, acknowledging the remark with a restrained grin, his attention still fixed on the sonar station. “See Tasarov,” he said glibly. “Fedorov loves me. Do you love me too?”
A few of the men laughed at that, but it only increased Fedorov’s surprise. “Tasarov? He’s back too? My God! Then they weren’t missing after all. That last shift brought them all back!” He looked to Nikolin now, seeing the young Lieutenant glancing at Tasarov with a bemused expression on his face.
“Yes, we are all back on our regular shift,” said Orlov. “And now with you here, the bridge crew is complete. Take your station Fedorov. Petrov—you can take your leave now, but don’t eat all the biscuits in the mess hall before we get there!”
Again a ripple of laughter from the junior officers, but Orlov’s remark struck Fedorov oddly. He walked up to the Admiral, thinking to get an update on the remainder of the crew. “This is a great relief, Admiral. Was there any news of Kamenski? Has the crew roster been double checked to see if anyone else has gone missing?”
“Missing? Nobody was reported overboard, Fedorov. And who is this Kamenski? I pride myself in getting to know my crews, but that name escapes me? He is certainly not in the regular bridge crew.”
Fedorov now had a sinking feeling that the Admiral was again experiencing the effects of memory loss, and this was very worrisome. “Director Kamenski, our guest. I know you forgot about him earlier sir, and Tasarov as well. We all did. I couldn’t remember him until Nikolin came to me in the dining hall. Then you remembered… the gopher holes. Do you recall i
t now sir?”
The Admiral gave Fedorov a searching look, his eyes narrowing. “Are you certain Doctor Zolkin certified you as fit for duty, Mister Fedorov? What is all this about? Gopher holes?”
“Damn,” said Fedorov, his frustration getting the better of him. It was happening again. The shift had done far more than he believed. It wasn’t just the dizziness and nausea many had reported to Zolkin, including his own condition. Time had given them something in the unexpected, yet welcome return of both Orlov and Tasarov, but it had apparently extracted a price. The Admiral had forgotten Kamenski again!
“You told me to ask him about the gophers, sir—in the Devil’s Garden. That was stuck in your head for some time. Do you recall it? And what about Chief Dobrynin?” Fedorov said quickly, trying to take stock of the situation before anything else slipped away. Orlov had been listening out of the corner of his ear, but now he stood up, arms folded, a serious frown on his face.
“What about him?” said Volsky.
“Then you remember him? He’s back again as well?”
“Sookin sym,” said Orlov with a shake of his head. “What’s gotten into you, Fedorov? Enough with this nonsense, and get to your station. Do I have to drag you off to see Zolkin again? What kind of medicine is he giving out these days?”
“What’s the problem?” came a voice, and it froze Fedorov’s blood. He stiffened, slowly turning his head towards the briefing room, his face white with shock, and a chill running through him as though he had seen a ghost.
It was Karpov!
There he stood beneath his sheep’s wool hat, a clipboard in one hand, which he slowly handed to Orlov with a nod. “Fedorov,” he said. “Did Zolkin get the wax out of your ears?”
Fedorov said nothing, his eyes wide, his face clearly registering distress, and now Volsky had a troubled expression. “I am not certain that Mister Fedorov is fully recovered from that fall,” he said quietly, deciding something. “How are those sea legs, Fedorov? Can you get yourself back down to sickbay?”
Fedorov heard the words, but his mind was a turmoil of shock and fear. Now the full weight of everything that had been happening on the ship these last days seemed to fall heavily on him again, impossibly heavy, collapsing into his soul like an avalanche of doom. He felt his knees begin to buckle, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead, and it was all he could do to keep on his feet. The Admiral saw him sway, and reached to steady him, nodding quickly to Karpov, a message in his eyes.
The Captain shook his head, reaching for the overhead intercom. “Captain to sick bay. Please send a medic to the bridge with a stretcher team. Mister Fedorov is still not well.” He cradled the microphone and looked at the Operations Chief. “Orlov, where is Petrov?”
“I just dismissed him,” said the Chief.
“Then get someone else.” Karpov walked slowly towards the Admiral, and as he did so Fedorov instinctively backed off, his eyes riveted on the man, as if he were some spectral nightmare come to haunt him in this desperate hour.
Karpov… Vladimir Karpov, standing there in his Captain’s uniform with an expression on his face that was half annoyed, and half curious.
“He’s clearly still disoriented,” said Volsky. “Stand easy, Lieutenant Fedorov. We will get you back to sick bay in a moment, and I want you to take the entire day off tomorrow. Eat well, rest in your cabin, and if Zolkin can mind his business correctly this time, and he certifies you as fit, then report your availability to Chief Orlov. You men—help Mister Fedorov to his chair until the medical team arrives.”
Now the Admiral turned to Karpov. “It seems we have more to worry about than missing ships and submarines. Have there been any other situations with the crew?”
“We’ve been preoccupied here, but I can send Orlov to walk the ship and see to the section Chiefs,” said Karpov.
Volsky considered that, but decided Orlov was not the man he wanted to press the flesh with the crew just now. He was hard on the men, even rough at times, and the Admiral instinctively knew this was not what was needed now. He looked at Fedorov again, standing there with a look on his face that betrayed real anxiety, and he wondered how the rest had fared. If any man had the pulse of the crew now, it would be Doctor Zolkin.
He sighed heavily, his eyes looking out the forward viewports where the grey fog was again close about the ship, isolating it, smothering it, choking off air and life. It came and went, one moment thick, and the next with the promise of clearing. When would it lift? The Admiral struggled to clear his own mind and come to grips with the situation, and soon the claustrophobic feeling he had, drifting slowly forward through the quiet mist, his ship almost blind and deaf, prompted him to act.
“If you gentlemen can keep your heads about you,” he said to his two senior officers, “I think I will accompany Mister Fedorov to sick bay and see the Doctor. My head is killing me!” He slid off the command chair, and shuffled past Orlov, tapping his pocket. “I’ll take that,” he said quietly, and the chief handed him something. “Let the matter go, Chief,” said Volsky. “The men are a little bewildered at the moment, as you can clearly see.” He looked down at the device, an iPod Nikolin still used to store his music and decided he would make it a point to return it to the Lieutenant later.
“Very well, sir,” said Orlov gruffly.
“I’ll make sure the accommodations are in order this time in sick bay,” he said to Fedorov, and the medical team came tramping up the stairs beyond the main hatch even as he said that.
“Medical team reporting sir.” A young mishman saluted when he saw Volsky near the hatch.
“Please see Lieutenant Fedorov gets an easy ride to the sick bay,” said Volsky. “Captain, you have the bridge. Keep me posted if there are any further developments.” The Admiral was through the hatch and on his way below.
Fedorov could not take his eyes off Karpov, who was now drifting over towards Orlov at the sonar station. He was watching every move the man made, so familiar, and yet so shocking at the same time. He could not be here like this. He simply could not be here…
“Gone to see the wizard,” said Karpov with a wry grin when Volsky left. Then he was all business. “This fog can’t persist for very long. When it clears we should get the KA-40s up and have a better look around.”
“Agreed,” said Orlov, glancing over at Fedorov as the medics helped him onto the stretcher again. “Twice in one morning, Fedorov,” he said gruffly, with a disapproving tone. “Now I have to get a third stringer up here to fill your boots, and Petrov gets the entire shift tomorrow. Get the lead out of your head! And don’t think I won’t remember to get you a nice double shift next week so you can pay back the Admiral’s kindness.”
“Forget Fedorov,” said Karpov, casting an equally disapproving look as the men carried the Lieutenant through the hatch. “We have more to worry about than a dizzy navigator. I have a very bad feeling about this situation. It’s plain as day, in spite of this fog. Unless all the equipment has completely malfunctioned, we should have Slava and the targeting barges clearly on radar by now. Failing that, the KA-226 should have seen them, but they’re gone, just like Orel. This was an attack, Orlov, and most likely carried out by a goddamned submarine. If I’m correct, then we’re at war.”
* * *
When the Admiral arrived at the sick bay, two crew members were just leaving the Doctor's office, their heads lightly bandaged where they had apparently sustained minor injuries from the blast wave that had recently shaken the ship. They stiffened to attention, saluting Volsky as he went through the door, then rushed back to their posts, casting a wary glance over their shoulders and wondering what was happening.
“Leonid,” said the Doctor with a smile, his eyes alight, drying his hands on a towel near his first aid station as the Admiral came through the door. “Don't worry about the crew,” he said. “Just a few bumps and bruises here and there; nothing to be concerned about. But what is wrong with Fedorov? The same as before?” His eyes were bright behind his
dark rimmed spectacles.
“He seems very disoriented, and unsteady on his feet. Are you certain there was no serious injury? He took a fairly good fall up there when this business started.”
“I’ll give him the five star treatment this time,” said Zolkin. “But what is going on, Admiral? The ship took quite a jolt there, right along with Fedorov. Did we hit a mine?”
“I wish it was something that simple, Dmitri.” It was plain the Admiral was quite distressed. “It is the strangest situation I have ever encountered. We’ve lost contact with Orel, and Slava as well. All the ship’s equipment seems to be working, but it is as if it was as foggy headed as Fedorov. He’ll be here shortly. The medics were arriving just as I left the bridge. I’ll want him here under observation all night, if you have the room.”
“Of course.”
“If he can be discharged tomorrow, I’ve given him the entire day off to eat and rest.”
“That will probably do more for him than I can. I saw no obvious signs, but he might have a mild concussion from that fall. But yes, he did seem somewhat disoriented earlier.”
“He seemed very surprised to see Orlov on the bridge,” said Volsky. “Almost as if he did not expect him there.”
“Come to think of it, he did say something about Orlov. Yes… He was talking about Dobrynin too, and Lenkov from the galley.”
“And again on the bridge just now,” said Volsky. “He also mentioned another man… What was the name? Ah, a man named Kamenski. You know the crew better than most, Dmitri. Who is this Kamenski?”
“Yes, Fedorov mentioned that man when he was here, but I don’t know him either.”
“What do you make of it, Dmitri?”
“I’ll give him a thorough examination this time. He might also be having a reaction to the anti-nausea medication. There was nothing in his medical file indicating that would be a problem, but I’ll see to it.”
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