Nemesis

by John Schettler

  “What in God’s name is that?” he exclaimed.

  “Looks like a small frigate or destroyer,” said Volsky. “Take a close look as we pass.”

  Karpov shook his head. The vessel had a small conning section forward and a single exposed deck gun there, with no armored turret, and designed to be manned by a deck crew. As it passed they saw three stacks, each angled back slightly off vertical. There the crew of the ship gaped at them from the gunwales, awed by the imposing size of this sudden new arrival. Karpov clearly saw what looked to be long sets of torpedo tubes amidships and behind the third funnel, and there were three more open breach deck guns on the aft section of the ship. Fedorov would have told them what they were looking at, the destroyer Valerian Kuibyshev, which had served bravely in these waters since the outbreak of hostilities, but Volsky had asked his Navigator to wait below decks while he briefed the Captain. Volsky squinted, taking note of the hull number as the ship passed, and made a mental note to query Fedorov later.

  “Well I’ve seen a few old rust buckets docked here over the years, but never a ship like that,” said Volsky. “What do you make of it?”

  Karpov was silent, his eyes and face dark and serious. He seemed lost in the turmoil of his inner thoughts, struggling to come to grips with what he was seeing, and failing to see, as the ship slowly approached the harbor. Instead of the familiar modern port and facilities he expected, the place was all too bleak and empty. Only the distant shadowy outlines of the piers could be seen, but he knew that he should now be seeing the lights of the city. The Fleet Headquarters complex was on that very street mentioned in the message Volsky had received, and he should be able to make out the high communications tower, its red and green lights winking in the grey evening, which was a twilight zone of confusion for him now.

  “I invite you to join me,” said Volsky. “Care to come ashore?”

  “Sir…” Karpov hesitated. “I think I would like to think about all this for a while, here aboard the ship, if you don’t mind.”

  “Very well.” Even as Volsky said that, the muted sound of a military band struck up an anthem, and they turned to look.

  “It seems we have a welcoming committee,” said Volsky. “Very strange.”

  “That isn’t half a word for all this,” said Karpov. “If any of what you have told me is true, then how did they know we were even here? How did they format and code that recall order? What is this all about?”

  “I hope to have my final answer on that by the time I return,” said Volsky, straightening his cap as he turned to leave. “Kindly have the Watch Officer send down to the helo bay and have Troyak meet me at the launch with a small Marine escort.”

  “Aye sir,” said Karpov, saluting as the Admiral went through the hatch to the citadel.

  “Mister Rodenko,” said Volsky, “no one is to leave the ship, and the crew is to remain below decks. Understood? I should return within three hours unless you hear from me otherwise.” Now he lowered his voice. “I will be taking Mister Fedorov with me, and a few Marines, but we should not be long. Something tells me we will be out to sea again in a few hours.”

  “Very well sir. Good to be home, in any case.”

  Volsky gave him a look, but said nothing. The 2nd Watch called out his departure: “Admiral off the bridge!”

  Yes, he thought grimly, Admiral off his rocker as well! Let me go and see what’s really going on here.

  *

  Karpov stood alone on the weather deck for some time, his careful eye picking out one discrepancy after another in the landscape around them. He should be seeing the glow from lamp posts near the piers, the tall looming presence of the heroes monument, Alyosha, that was the centerpiece of so many Navy Day celebrations. He had stood beneath its shadow so many times, in ceremonies of remembrance, hearing the same old song:

  ‘Always ready, Severomorsk

  Protect the country in hour of need,

  And from the sea, safely cover the town.

  We remember…

  Heavy now is our time,

  But another time will come!

  Look forward now, home country,

  At our valiant Northern Fleet.’

  Yes, heavy now… so heavy… If Volsky’s crazy story was true, then this is the time they remember in that song, he thought, and I am from that other time they longed for. If this is 1941, the nation is at the edge of oblivion, as I stand here now, feeling the very same way.

  Something about this spot seemed to chill him, and it was not the cold evening air. He had a feeling of grave danger, a rising sense of anxiety, an inner turmoil that left him feeling lost and very alone. This was the very spot where he once would stand on this ship for the last time, in the year 1908. It was the place where he would fire his service pistol in frustrated rage at a distant enemy, and then slowly raise the weapon to take his own life. Though he knew nothing of that, he seemed to feel it in some vague, indefinable way, a darkness, a quiet terror here on the weather deck off the bridge.

  The fog still veiled the scene, but he knew where to look, and it was soon obvious to him that things were missing, different, and the entire harbor and surrounding area seemed entirely undeveloped. There should be many more vessels here. Where was the fleet? The harbor should be a busy steel jungle, with lowering cranes, trucks coming and going at the quays, slate grey warships huddled next to the piers. but there was nothing. Where was the fleet? Where was Severomorsk? Where was home?

  He knew this place so well, the winter storms, summer rains, the swaying birch trees and alders, the smell of wild cranberries growing in the hills. The monuments, and schools, the restaurants and hotels—all gone. He did see a few low buildings in the direction where the Naval Headquarters complex was supposed to be, and he could smell smoke on the cool night, hear the sound of someone cutting wood, faint and far off. A dog howled on the darkened hills surrounding the harbor, its mournful call seeming to sum up all he felt at that moment.

  It was gone—all of it—simply gone! Yet, like Orlov’s report from Jan Mayen, there was no sign whatsoever of destruction or attack. The city was simply not there!

  Now what, he thought, his heart beating faster as the realization of what he was seeing finally struck home? It wasn’t Fedorov with his damnable history books this time. It wasn’t video on the monitors, reports from Orlov, or the untimely rising of a fat moon off the port side of the ship. This time it was the evidence brought to him by his own eyes, the stark reality all around him that he knew was wrong. And as he stood there, peering through his field glasses in a vain attempt to see things that were no longer there, a voice spoke within him, dark and threatening, laden with consequence.

  What now?

  There was no naval inquiry waiting for them. He would have no one to make his carefully worded reports to here. There was no court of appeal. Here he stood, an outcast from the world and life he knew, and now he realized why he could not bring himself to leave the ship at this moment. It was the only vestige of the world and life he once knew, the last remnant of the time he was born to. If Volsky and Fedorov were correct—if that ship they found back there was really the Tuman, and the log book held true, then this was the night of August 2, 1941.

  Slowly, through the flutter of adrenaline and anxiety within his chest, behind the rising pulse that kept him on edge, another thought suddenly emerged from some dark corner of his mind. It is 1941, and here I am, standing aboard the most powerful fighting vessel in the world.

  And I am its Captain….

  Chapter 18

  Another trip into insanity, thought Volsky as he entered the launch. What will I find there this time? He watched while the men secured the line, and the boat eased away from the long grey hull of Kirov. Sergeant Troyak and Zykov were with them and a third Marine named Gretchko. The hoist lines retracted, and the men above saluted as they pointed the bow of the launch shoreward, and Troyak fed power to the motor.

  The Admiral had seen a mix of both anxiety and awe in th
e deck crews they left behind. The fog and low clouds was still obscuring much, but some of the men could tell that things were not what they should be here, and he thought long and hard of how he could explain all of this incredible story to the crew. For that matter, he thought he had better say something to the Marines.

  “You men,” he said quietly. “You may soon note that the harbor is somewhat different. There is an explanation for this, though I will not have time to share it all with you now. I will have Mister Fedorov go over it all with you later. For the moment, just bear with the situation. It will all be made clear later.

  “How did the Captain take the news?” asked Fedorov in a low voice, understandably curious as he and Volsky settled into the cabin.

  “I’m not sure,” said Volsky. “He was very quiet. I invited him to join us but he declined. I suppose this is more than enough to get any man thinking. We all lose everything we had left behind to find ourselves standing here, Fedorov. That is a hard stone to swallow. I was just considering how to reveal this to the men, but first we must see what Moscow wants, and solve the mystery of this recall order.”

  “We have been here once before,” said Fedorov.

  “Here? You mean in this time?”

  “Yes sir. You decided to meet with Sergei Kirov, and so we sailed here and he traveled from Moscow to greet us. We actually met further south in Murmansk. Severomorsk is not what it was when we left it, as I’m sure you can see, but most of what is here was built for us after that meeting. There are quarters here for our crew to take land leave, and supplies for the ship, mostly food and clothing. Kirov was very gracious and accommodating when we met with him.”

  “Volsky shook his head. “Sergei Kirov… There is a man worth fighting for. I wonder what the nation is like without Stalin? So do you believe he is behind this recall order?”

  “Possibly,” said Fedorov. “You said your message from Admiral Golovko indicated he had an important communication from Moscow. They knew we were here, sir, operating with the British, and so they must have known we vanished in the middle of that engagement we were fighting in May. Somehow, they must have gotten wind of the ship’s reappearance, though I can’t yet figure how.”

  “That is the least of our worries,” said Volsky.

  As they approached the quay, they now saw the military band assembled, and they struck up the Russian national anthem as the launch docked. There was an honor guard waiting, smart and precise in dress uniforms, and a short man approached in a well decorated officer’s jacket and a dark Admiral’s cap. For their part, Volsky and Fedorov were also in their dress uniforms, instead of the normal leather service jackets.

  “You have met this man before,” Fedorov said quickly. “But don’t worry, we did not spend much time with him earlier. Yet it would be good to play as though he was well met again.”

  “Of course,” said Volsky, feeling very strange. It was as if another version of himself had been at large in the world, saying and doing things, commanding his ship, and it was most disconcerting. “I hope I measure up to myself,” he said.

  “Don’t worry sir. You will do fine. Admiral Golovko is aware of us, in some respects. He was told you are heading up a secret project involving the ship, though I’m afraid he wasn’t that impressed when he saw we had no large gun turrets.”

  Volsky smiled. “Yes, we’re a bit of a wolf in sheep’s clothing, though one look at the ship would certainly give any man of this era pause.”

  Yes sir. We later operated in these waters, the Kara Sea, to chase off a small German surface group, and Admiral Golovko was most appreciative. That was before Germany initiated hostilities, but we taught them a lesson, sir.”

  “Then they know of the ship as well?”

  “Yes sir. We have openly engaged German ships, and you will not be surprised to therefore know that we sank several vessels. One was a very famous ship, the German aircraft carrier Graf Zeppelin.”

  “I have heard of this ship,” said Volsky. “Yet it was never fully operational. Yes? We sunk it?”

  “In this time it was operational,” said Fedorov, “and yes, it was necessary to sink it in the final engagement we fought in the Atlantic.”

  Volsky took a long breath. “I see I have much to consider here. You and I will have to have another along chat after this, and you can give me the details of things I have already done! How very strange this feels.”

  “For me as well, sir,” said Fedorov. “It was here that I first discovered what had happened to the Captain. I found a photo of him in some reading material provided by Sergei Kirov. It was quite a shock. I wonder what happened to him on the 28th of July?”

  “Might he be inside Karpov’s head? The man on our ship? You are here, and with all these memories intact.”

  “If that happened, Karpov certainly doesn’t seem like he remembers anything.” Yet Volsky’s suggestion gave Fedorov a pause.

  “Well,” said Volsky, “time to greet the Admiral. I will do my best to play the part, Fedorov, but realize I have no recollection of any of this, and so I feel like an actor on stage who has failed to memorize his lines.”

  “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll chime in if things get difficult.”

  They exited the cabin as the boat reached a long pier, still under construction, and Gretchko tied off the line, a strange, anxious look on his face. The men called him the cat, because of his greenish eyes, and also because that was the name Doctor Zolkin had given to his pet, the official ship’s mascot.

  “Well, I see the real estate has gone downhill since we left,” said Volsky, trying to lighten the moment. Stand easy men. Wait for us here on the boat, and do not be too curious. If we are very long, we will send for you, particularly if the food is good.” He gave the Sergeant a wink, and climbed slowly out of the launch.

  *

  Fedorov could see that there had been a lot of new construction at the base since he was last here, and he felt it very odd that the site chosen was the same location where the Naval Headquarters Facility would one day stand in his time. They made their way past a small submarine berth, where in 2021 a vintage WWII era submarine was docked as a permanent war museum ship, the K-21. Volsky noted the memorial was missing.

  “Oh, it’s probably here sir, operating right now in these waters under Captain Nikolai Lunin.” A Hero of the Soviet Union, Lunin would get a shot at the Tirpitz during the illfated PQ-17 convoy battle, and go on to make Admiral. His boat, the K-21, was the only one of its class to survive the war, and the memorial had been a familiar sight to them both as they came and went from the modern headquarters facility.

  As they approached the buildings now, Volsky could not help but think of the office and desk that would be there in 80 years time, and he even summoned up a recollection of the photo of his wife that sat on a credenza, another loss he had suffered in swallowing this incredible pill. Would they ever get back to their own time? Fedorov said they had managed that on his journeys, so he took heart.

  They were accompanied by the honor guard, and Admiral Golovko, who made small talk with Volsky while they talked about the progress of the new base. The expanded quarters they were now building would be very near those for the 8th Naval Brigade in Modern times. Once seated in a warm conference room, they were served hot black tea, Russian Caravan, from a well styled samovar, with small cakes, lemon, and jam.

  “I thank you for coming, Admiral,” said Golovko, his eyes bright beneath two dark brows.

  “A pleasure to be home,” said Volsky. “But tell me, Admiral. That recall order we received… was it sent by you?”

  “No sir, it must have come from Moscow.”

  Volsky looked at Fedorov, as they slowly eliminated one possibility in solving the mystery, and now Fedorov’s theory that Karpov may have formatted the message before July 28th remained the only real answer for them.

  “Well now,” said Golovko, “as I stated in my earlier signal, I have been asked to present you with a messenger, sent to me direct
ly from Moscow. He was sent here by the General Secretary himself, or so I was told.”

  Golovko nodded to an aide, who went to a door on the far wall and ushered in a tall man in a long, black overcoat, with silver buttons and a dark military cap. They all stood to receive the man, and Golovko gestured to his own place at the table.

  “Gentlemen,” he said quickly. “I have a rifle regiment to evacuate tonight, and I must be on my way. So I offer my chair to this man in my place. May I introduce a representative lately arrived from Moscow, and sent directly from the Kremlin, and the General Secretary himself.”

  “Tyrenkov,” said the man, extending a handshake to the Admiral.

  Volsky shook his hand, feeling it very cold, but firm. Something about the man was vaguely unsettling, his dark, penetrating eyes, seeming too intense as they greeted one another. Admiral Golovko doffed his cap and left, and now the three men settled at the table again, and were left alone.

  “So you are the mysterious messenger from Moscow,” said Volsky. “We received their recall order, and here we are. But this message… It was in a format that very few would be privy to, and used specific code words that might only be known to officers aboard my ship.”

  “Correct,” said Tyrenkov, blunt and to the point.

  “Well sir,” said Volsky. “I find that somewhat strange. Any explanation?”

  “None,” said Tyrenkov. “This man here—who is he please?”

  “Ah,” said Volsky. “Forgive me. This is Lieutenant Anton Fedorov, my Senior Navigator.”

  The man gave Fedorov a studied glance, a careful appraisal, measuring, considering, but saying nothing. “Your Captain did not join you?”

  “He had matters to attend to on the ship,” said Volsky.

  “I see. And as to your ship and crew,” said Tyrenkov. “I trust they are well?”

  “As well as one might expect, given the circumstances,” said Volsky.