Paradox Hour

by John Schettler

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

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

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

  Chapter 32

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

  “Depth?”

  “I make it shallow at 40 meters.”

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

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

  “How far out are they?”

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

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

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

  “Ahead full!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Load tubes nine and ten—Shkval!”

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

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

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

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

  He was reaching for the Hammer of God.

  * * *

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

  “Here? In bloody 1941?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Chapter 33

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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