“Take note of everything you see here, Davey,” said Haselden. “The Russians have some very interesting equipment here. I’ll bet Seventeen would love to have a good look at those big mothers there. He thumbed at the shadowy forms of the hovercraft, which waited on the shore. Sutherland got the engine fired up and the boat began to glide slowly down the long quay to the harbor mouth formed by a converging jetty. All they had to do was clear that and they could head out to sea.
Whether it was fate, chance, happenstance, or just damn good luck, they made it out of the harbor and Sutherland beamed as he spun the wheel to point the boat due east. Like a mouse fleeing a burning building, they got clean away. The cats were too busy clawing at each other to notice them or bother them in any way. At one point, a turret gunner in one of the hovercraft spotted their trawler and rotated his twin 30mm gun about for a look at them through his cross hairs. Seeing no threat, he let them go.
* * *
Fedorov was back in the ZSU-23, elated. They had found their man, or so he still believed, and now all they had to do was get everyone else safely back to the waiting hovercraft and out to sea. Troyak was conducting a skillful fighting withdrawal and displacing back toward the shoreline. The last PT-76 tank was back and already loading on a hovercraft. Now Fedorov had to get his vehicle to the big Aist class hovercraft by the main harbor. The engine gunned and they trundled south along the rail lines, soon seeing the stark silhouette of the craft ahead, its forward ramp still yawning open and resting on a narrow beach.
The ZSU quickly made its way towards the maw of the beast. Groups of Marines were filing in under the watchful eyes of their Sergeants, who were counting their eggs as the squads reported in. Then Zykov’s voice was in his earbud.
“I’ve got Orlov’s jacket, but we lost a man in the prison, and two more at the warehouse just outside the main entrance. I’ve recovered the bodies. Hope it wasn’t too bad for Troyak.”
“Where is Orlov?” Fedorov wanted to know where his prize was.
“I ordered the men to get him into the PT-76 for safekeeping. It’s loading now to the north on the light hovercraft.”
“Well check in on them,” said Fedorov, “and tell everyone to head for the Anatoly Alexandrov. Good job, Corporal.”
The job of getting the big anti-aircraft gun aboard the Aist was not quite as easy as getting it off, but they managed and it was soon swallowed by this metal behemoth from the sea. It rolled aboard behind the two BTR-50s, and the Marines crowded in after them. As the operation concluded the overwatch turrets had to engage German infantry trying to cross the rail lines to get to the main harbor, and the two twin AK-230 cannons riddled the yard with suppressive fire, the shower of heavy 30mm rounds being more than enough to stop the attack. Soon the engines of the hovercraft revved up and it slowly backed off the shoreline in a wash of sound and fury. They were heading out to sea, the radars watching for any sign of German aircraft as they withdrew.
The other two hovercraft reported in and Fedorov ordered the flotilla to head east, then south for the Anatoly Alexandrov at their best speed. Any German infantry that were huddled in positions on the shore watched them go, accelerating to over 70 knots as they swept out to sea. The troops gaped at the spectacle, shaking their heads in awe. Who were these hardy men who had blasted their planes from the sky with rockets, stopped their tanks cold, and held the entire weight of two battalions at bay?
As the flotilla retired, they passed a number of smaller craft at sea, giving them no mind and not knowing that Haselden’s little band of raiders was aboard one, slowly heading east in their foaming wake.
The run from Makhachkala down to the Anatoly Alexandrov was no more than twenty kilometers, and Fedorov radioed ahead to tell Dobrynin they were on the way home. “Get Rod-25 ready for operation,” he urged.
“I started the procedure five minutes ago when Troyak radioed he had all his remaining men aboard. But what about Bukin and the Mi-26? Shall I tell him to take off now?”
“Not yet,” said Fedorov. “Tell him to hold until we arrive. I just want to be sure we still have options in case anything goes wrong.”
“Options for what, Fedorov?”
It was a good question, and Fedorov really had no answer for it.
“We’ll be there in a matter of minutes, Chief. Signing off.”
The hovercraft soon roared up to the waiting ship, and Fedorov considered what to do. Should he send Bukin on his way to carry out Admiral Volsky’s plan? Here they had just taken an enormous risk to recover a single man, and now he was about to send four more off in the Mi-26 for a thousand mile journey east to the Pacific. It seemed a crazy plan for them to try and fly all that distance and then wait, undiscovered, for nearly three years! What was Volsky thinking? Once they got home to 2021 again they would have all three control rods. Then all they had to do was land at the Kaspiysk Naval base here and put them on a fast Antonov-225 cargo plane to send them east to Vladivostok. From there they could work up a way to get back to Kirov…or so he thought.
But how? His mind was soon flooded with all the many things that could go wrong. First off, there was no guarantee that Rod-25 would shift them happily back to 2021. They had often appeared in a future time that was obviously beyond that year, for they had seen the devastation of the war that was fought.
That thought also filled him with dread. What was happening in the war? Had they changed anything with this mission? Did they get to Orlov in time? Did Orlov even have anything to do with the outcome at all? What if they shifted forward in time and found everything destroyed again; the naval base bombed and wrecked? What then?
That prospect was daunting enough, but now he considered all the variables they would face even if they did make it back to an intact base in 2021 and reached Vladivostok by aircraft. What would they do? They could try to take the other two rods back with them from the Primorskiy Engineering Center again. At least they would be right there in Vladivostok when they arrived—but where? There was no guarantee that they would reach the year 1945. Experience told him that they would most likely end up in 1942 again! Then it was back to waiting out the war in Vladivostok until Kirov appeared in 1945.
That was probably a better plan, he thought. Better than the Mi-26 trying to make it all that way alone. The fuel situation is shaky, the helo is unarmed, and it will be a long, long wait for the small crew aboard until 1945. His alternate plan sounded much more secure. He decided that would be the best call, then realized that the instant he made that choice the outcome would ripple forward across the long decades and be “history” at the other end, assuming he actually put that plan into action.
It either works or it doesn’t work, he thought grimly. But I could be the reason Kirov never hears us calling when it arrives in 1945. It could be my meddling with Volsky’s plan here that changes everything—for better or worse.
Chapter 18
“The mission is off? You are countermanding orders from Admiral Volsky.” Dobrynin had a confused look on his face.
“It is simply too risky, Chief.” Fedorov explained his reasoning, and then put forward his idea. “Don’t you agree that would be a better plan?”
“Well… I suppose it does sound more plausible, Fedorov. You found a way to make up for using all that helicopter fuel, but I’m not a Fleet Admiral. Volsky was very insistent that I get this damn helicopter on its way.”
“I will speak to him about it when we return and I’m sure he will understand my decision. Few plans ever play out as they were initially intended. At the moment, our best and only bet is to get the Anatoly Alexandrov home in one piece.”
Dobrynin shrugged. “Very well,” he said. “The procedure is underway and I am ready for rod retraction and insertion.”
“Good, Chief…Do you think we will we make it back?” The uncertainty in Fedorov’s voice was evident.
“The pattern has held steady every time we have used this rod, Mister Fedorov. One thing is probably certain, we are going
to move somewhere.”
“How long do you think it will take?”
“Let me listen…” The Chief slowly raised a hand, like a conductor hushing down his orchestra with a feather light movement of his palm. He was signaling his rod technician to begin. One rod would be removed, the other inserted to maintain the steady regulation of the reaction. As the process began he sat down and listened to the reactors, his mind shutting out all the odd noise of the Marines fussing about on the ship and focusing intently on the nuclear song at the heart of the core.
He listened, hearing the telltale sound of Rod-25 rising like a clarinet above the low rumble of strings, soaring up and up as the rod descended deeper into the nuclear brew. Everything sounded normal, just as he had heard it so many times before. He closed his eyes, a slight smile on his lips, and it was then that he heard a strange harmony develop. What is this, he wondered? There was another note in the mix, then a third, though they were very muted, very distant, lilting like flutes in tandem with Rod-25. The sound changed, no longer the ascending chorus he expected, but a deep descending refrain that sounded completely different!
Fedorov watched him, amazed by the man’s obvious concentration. Everyone has some special skill, he thought. Tasarov lived under his sonar headset, and the Chief knows his way around a reactor room better than any man in the fleet.
He waited, feeling an urgent need to go and see about Orlov. His Aist class craft was being moored to the port side of the floating powerplant, commanded by Captain Malkin, and the two lighter Kalmar class craft were on the starboard side. Orlov was supposedly inside a PT-76 tank on one of those craft, and he was eager to go and see him. Then he realized that Zykov had not yet reported back and a thrum of anxiety rose in his gut. He had the distinct feeling that something was wrong, something oddly out of place.
A voice blared over the intercom loudspeaker. “Captain Malkin to Fedorov. We have a small craft approaching off our port aft quarter.”
Fedorov grasped the handset and spoke. “How close, Captain?”
“About a thousand meters out.”
“Does it look threatening? Is it closing the range?”
“No, sir. Looks to be a fishing trawler. The crew is just giving us a wave as they pass. They must think we are a Russian cargo vessel.”
“Very well. No sense causing any more trouble here than we have to. Let it be.”
Those last three words were very fateful, though Fedorov did not know that as he spoke them. Let it be…
“Keep me posted, Chief.” He was off to find Orlov and settle accounts with the man.
* * *
“Not here? Are you absolutely certain?” Fedorov had an anguished look on his face as Troyak reported. Zykov was standing next to him, a sheepish look on his face.
“We checked the tank. No one saw him. I’ve ordered a search of all the hovercraft and the facility itself. If he’s still aboard, we’ll find him.”
“I hope to God we do,” said Fedorov. “Zykov, what could have happened?”
“I ordered the men to get him to a PT-76,” the Corporal said apologetically. “The attack was really heating up and the withdrawal was very chaotic. I was checking every building for loose equipment and casualties. I don’t know, Colonel. I found two men down in the warehouse near the detention facility, but I assumed they were casualties from mortar fire. The rounds were pounding that area pretty bad as we pulled out. Now that I look at those bodies I see that they were not hit by shrapnel from anything like a mortar. They died from small caliber fire, two rounds per man—probably pistols. I’m sorry, Fedorov… I … I should have collared Orlov myself and dragged him home by the ear.”
Fedorov could see that Zykov was very deflated. He was given the job of finding Orlov and he had done that under very difficult circumstances. But something obviously went wrong. No plan ever plays out as it is intended. He remembered his own words to Dobrynin just moments ago.
“Damn! Well maybe he’ll turn up in the search,” he said. “I know you did your best, Zykov.”
Then he realized that the procedure was already underway. They could shift in time at any moment! If Orlov was not aboard they would lose him again, and without his service jacket there would be no way to find or track him.
“Search every compartment, every deck and storage locker. Search the air conditioning conduits—everything! Turn this place upside down if you have to. I’m going to see if we can stop the rod maintenance procedure. We can’t leave here without Orlov!”
Fedorov started away but, as he was down a ladder and heading for the entrance to the lower deck, he saw something, felt something strangely odd.
He stood on the deck, looking around and scanning the gentle swells of the Caspian Sea. There seemed to be a series of ripples emanating from the ship, and expanding out in concentric circles. Was it happening? Were they starting to displace in time?
He looked out and saw the trawler Captain Malkin had reported, a small shape on the wide expanse of the sea and sailing slowly past the facility. Two men were on deck but, as he watched, the air between the Anatoly Alexandrov and the trawler seemed to quaver and ripple with a mirage-like sheen.
My God! He exclaimed inwardly. We are moving! The shift has begun! He could feel his pulse quicken, an urgent heat rising on his neck. He could feel the whole damn mission slipping through his hands now like a loose mooring rope. It was too late to get to Dobrynin and stop it, and Orlov was gone, gone, gone!
Then he realized that if he could still see that trawler they must be in 1942. It was there, bobbing in the sea as before, though veiled with a gossamer sheen of light now. Was something wrong? Was Rod-25 failing them at long last? He had to get to Dobrynin and find out.
* * *
“Well have a good look at that, Jock” said Sutherland.
“I’ve been looking at it. Why in blazes did you follow those damn contraptions?”
“Just curious to see what they were up to. They’ve already bushed us off with no worries. What do you make of it?”
“Some kind of ship, eh? But it’s not moving. Those Russian Marines are docking up with the damn thing.”
“What’s that up on top? Looks like a big grasshopper!” Sutherland pointed now.
“Hell if I know. You’d best get to the pilot house again and steer clear, will you? Suppose they get curious and come over here to have a look.”
“Don’t worry, Jock. We’re just a fishing trawler to them. I’ve even been waving at them to look all nice and friendly. We’re a good thousand yards away and just sailing merrily off to look for some fish. No worries.”
But Haselden was worried. Sutherland could see it on his face, more than worry. There was a look of absolute dread in the man’s eyes, a cold fear that he had never seen before. Haselden had been through the heat of the fire in action many times before, and in situations far worse than this.
“What’s wrong, Jock? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Never seen anything like this,” he said under his breath. “What’s wrong with the bloody sea?”
Sutherland noticed it too—the odd sheen in the air, and how it quavered and rippled, as if the atmosphere had been heated all around them. Then they could hear a low hum that seemed to deepen, descending below the threshold of hearing, though it could still be felt. A veil of mist seemed to rise about the distant ship, rolling outward and rippling the sea itself, as if the ship were pulsing and creating waves.
He watched, astounded, as the first wave reached them, lightly rolling the trawler, then another and another, a miniature tsunami disturbing the placid sea. The mist thickened, becoming a fog that now enveloped them and became so dense that they could no longer see but a few feet beyond the gunwales of the boat. A thrumming vibration was felt, a trembling quiver in the air and sea.
He looked over to check on Haselden, still worried about the Captain, and was given the shock of his young life. The man was there…but not there! He seemed to be wavering in t
he odd mist about the ship, a look of profound fear on his face, and absolute astonishment and alarm! Then, with a strange hiss, Haselden was gone! The man simply vanished into the mist, as if he was a ghost—as if he had never been there at all!
Then all was calm.
Sutherland stepped back, eyes wide, heart pounding with fright.
“Jock?” His rational mind forced him to lurch over the edge of the trawler, thinking Haselden might have fallen into the sea, but there wasn’t the slightest sign of that in the water. The odd ripples in the calm sea remained completely undisturbed.
“What’s up with those Russians, Lieutenant?” It was Sergeant Terry calling to him from within the cabin of the boat. “Can’t see a thing in this mist.”
Neither could Sutherland, but he was still shaken by what he had seen—what he knew he had seen—but what he also knew was quite impossible. What happened just now? Where was the Captain?
“My God…” He let out a long breath, staring at Sergeant Terry, his face ashen white.
“What’s gotten in to you, Lieutenant?”
“It’s Jock…He was there. Right there next to me, Sergeant. And when that bloody fog rolled in, he…why he just vanished!”
“Man overboard?”
“No! I was looking right at him and he simply disappeared!”
Sergeant Terry narrowed his eyes, giving Sutherland a stern look. He had seen men go daffy under pressure, but Sutherland seemed to have the situation well in hand up until now. What was the Lieutenant talking about? Was there an explosion or accident of some kind on that odd looking ship? That rolling fog and the ripples in the sea had originated from the ship, and caught them like a bad storm front. He peered into the mist, a strange feeling in his gut that they had lost their way and were now adrift on an endless sea of oblivion.
* * *
Inside the cabin Orlov could feel it too. Another trawler, he had thought at first. Good! It beats walking, or even bouncing about in a truck on those muddy roads. If they had stayed ashore they would certainly have been caught up in the fighting that was closing in on the city. The roads south were probably cut already by the Germans.
Kirov Saga: Devil's Garden (Kirov Series) Page 15
