But what would happen if Karpov used that stairway? Would he go forward in time again, or backward? He did use it once before, returning strangely shaken, his uniform soiled, and not by the dust and cobwebs of that stairwell. Where did he go? Did he come here, to the past, or to some unseen future? He needed to know, needed more information, and so he asked his next question.
“Certainly all things are possible here,” he said. “Yes, you could become the head of the Soviet State. Of that I have no doubt. Does that mean you intend to stay here, and live out the remainder of your life from this year forward?”
Karpov’s eyes shifted, as if he had not yet thought that through himself. “That has not been decided,” he said. “We must first determine how to locate Volkov and the others, and that could take some time. He arrived here in 1908, but that was a year ago. He could be anywhere now, and nothing is known of him until after the October Revolution in 1917. So it may take a lot of sleuthing to find him.”
“Perhaps your Great Grandfather might help,” Tyrenkov suggested. “After all, he is a member of the Okhrana, and has their network as a resource. We have no intelligence net set up here at the moment, but he does, and he owes you his life.”
Karpov raised an eyebrow at that. “Interesting,” he said. “Yet I hardly think he would believe me if I came to him and told him who I was. That would not be possible. I would have to remain anonymous.”
“Yet you might ingratiate him by revealing Petrov’s plan to kill him, and telling him how we foiled that operation.”
“Possibly…” The thought of finding and speaking with his own Great Grandfather, a man he had never known, was suddenly compelling. Tyrenkov was correct. How would they find Volkov without an extensive intelligence network? It could take them years of fruitless searching. But the Okhrana already had that network in place, men in virtually every district and city in Russia. He considered that, and the other question his intelligence chief had asked him. Did he intend to stay here? Did he really want to hunt down Volkov and Kirov, and assume the role of head of the new Soviet State?
First things first, thought Karpov. I need to know if I can find a way back to 1941. It is clear to me that storm sent us here—time sent me here—and for some reason. It happened just like that incident with the Demon volcano, a massive, highly energetic natural event that opened a breach in time. But why do I always seem to fall through to these years before the revolution? Why did Fedorov appear here when he went down those stairs where he first met Sergei Kirov?
Now he remembered how Kirov had described the inn at Ilanskiy to him… Imagine a simple boarding inn, lost on some forgotten stretch of railway. Imagine the people boarding there all come from different places, which is not that unusual. Yet now throw in a most remarkable twist—say they all come from different pages in the history, different eras in time. The bottom floor houses guests who lived before the revolution, the middle floor is reserved for travelers from this day… and the upper floor? Suppose men from tomorrow board there.
Yet the upper floor is gone, thought Karpov. I saw that with my own eyes. The war had begun. It was underway the moment I reached the top of those stairs. I saw the naval munitions depots at Kansk taking a direct hit from a nuclear weapon. So if I go up those stairs now, from this time, where will they take me? Every time we shifted on the ship, we seemed to get stuck in the 1940s, but Fedorov clearly demonstrated that Rod-25 could go farther back in time, to these years. That’s how they came after me, using Kazan.
Now he began to feel very uncomfortable, the remnant of that mouse of a man he once was, longing for his safe little mouse hole. He had risked much, and taken bold action since he gnawed through that intercom cable outside the sick bay aboard Kirov, sealing Volsky and Doctor Zolkin inside. He had played with the big cats, and taken a scratch or two for his effort. Yet he was alive, a real player in this world now, and in a position to do some very significant things. Yet even as he thought this, he could still feel that thrum of anxiety in his chest. How would he get back to 1941? Could he do so? Where would another journey up those stairs take him this time?
That thought struck him like a thunderclap. The stairway! It’s gone! It isn’t there in 1941! Fedorov destroyed it, damn his rotten little soul! It was blown to pieces, and though I have the plans, and have men working the site in early 1941, he did not know when that job would be complete, or even if the stairway would still work once it was rebuilt. What if the alignment had to be absolutely perfect? What if it was a matter of inches, centimeters, and that stairway no longer angled into oblivion as it did before?
His heart beat faster, realizing that his mouse hole, his escape route, might no longer be there. In 1941 he had already had three years to acclimate himself, gain his footing, recover from the treachery that had nearly been his undoing. In 1941 he was in a very comfortable spot, and one he was very familiar with. He was a rising star, scheming to further his position and eliminate potential rivals as he always did. Yet above him were men like Ivan Volkov and Sergei Kirov, already achieving their power and status by working hard for it from these pre-revolutionary years. In 1941 it had been much easier to cuddle up to Kolchak and work his way into power. From here it would be a long thirty years to take that last step up from where he was, and supplant Volkov and Kirov, and he would have to live through the tumult and travail of WWI and the revolution—the long civil war. It would take years to tame the wild beast Russia would become after the fall of the Romanovs. From 1941 he might still reach the top, and without having to spend thirty years of his life to do so. Kirov and Volkov were old men in 1941, and from there he was still young…
But how could he get back there if the stairway was gone? How?
Tyrenkov was watching Karpov closely, and could see the machinations of his mind working, and the sudden flash of anxiety in his eyes.
He isn’t sure, he thought. The little Admiral with delusions of grandeur doesn’t really know what he wants to do yet. Has he figured out what I concluded just moments ago? The stairway at Ilanskiy was destroyed in 1941, and might not ever be rebuilt. Has that finally occurred to him, or the fact that we’re all living on a short lease here? He decided to voice the concerns in his mind, and asked another question.
“One other thing, sir. Suppose we do commit ourselves to look for Volkov here. We had better be quick about it, and we will need all the help we can get. Because what happens to me in 1913, four years from now, when I am scheduled to be born? Do I suffer the fate of Konev, Symkovich, and Lavrov? Will I just keel over and die on the day of my birth? Will all the crew die that way, one by one as they reach their year and day of birth?”
Karpov seemed surprised by that remark, his eyes narrowing as he thought. “An interesting dilemma,” he said. “I have never considered that. Yet four years would be more than enough time for us to find Volkov, with or without help from my Great Grandfather and the Okhrana. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you never have to face that paradox. As soon as we conclude operations here, we’ll return to 1941 to see how things turn out.”
“Can we return, Admiral?”
“Of course!” Karpov tried to sound confident, in control, but Tyrenkov could hear the edge of uncertainty in his voice.
“But then we’ll have another problem, sir. You said that first incident with the propulsion system aboard your ship sent you to 1941, and I can only assume that you arrived later in the year, because you were obviously alive and well in March when we departed for England. That said, what happens to you on the day your ship first arrived? Do you just keel over and die as well? I may have a four year lifespan if we remain here, but if we return, your candle may be burning very low.”
Part XI
Edge of Chaos
“Even a single grain of sand reveals a profound truth about the way the world works. Some of the most recent investigations related to chaos theory have centered on the critical point where a series of small variations produces a massive change of state. In the modern
terminology, this is called "the edge of chaos." One of the examples of this is that of a pile of sand… When the pile reaches this critical point, even a single grain would be capable of dramatically affecting all around it. This seemingly trivial example provides an excellent "edge-of-chaos model," with a wide range of applications, from earthquakes to evolution; from stock exchange crises to wars.
― Alan Woods / Ted Grant
Chapter 31
The Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross was just settling on the chest of Generalleutnant Alfred Ritter von Hubicki, the commander of the 9th Panzer Division. He had received it for the exploits of his division in the recently concluded Balkan campaign, but its luster was suddenly dimmed that morning when Brigadier Kinlan’s attack fell on his line like the Hammer of God.
There was only brief warning when the big 155mm rounds began falling on the forward positions. The guns were so far to the south that no one heard them fire, only the whine of the shells as they fell in the dark, then the hard thump and tremendous power of the high explosive rounds hit home. It was a brief, but violent barrage, and it was extremely accurate, walking right through his main positions and causing a considerable dislocation, and many casualties.
Then there came a distant rumble, which soon resolved to the telltale sound of mechanized vehicles on the move. Moments later dark shapes loomed in the distance, and the troops were experienced enough to know they were under attack by armor. Sergeants on the forward line called back to the Panzer Jager teams manning the 3.7 inch AT guns, those that remained intact, and hands tightened on weapons all along the line. Then the firing began, and a Sd.Kfz 251 was suddenly struck by a heavy round and ripped apart. The 8 ton vehicle keeled to one side, a burning hulk.
A wedge of five Challenger II tanks of the Highlanders 1st Company were in the vanguard, their massive shapes emerging from the smoke of the artillery barrage to the dismay of every man who saw them on the line. They were huge fast moving chariots of death, the massive turrets rotating and firing, machine guns spitting tracer rounds into the line as they came. The German division had fought in Poland, Holland, France, Greece and Yugoslavia, but had never encountered anything like the storm that was upon them now.
The troops expected the enemy tanks to stop and take up firing positions, but they did not stop. Firing on the move, the metal behemoths simply crashed right through the line, their machine guns cutting down men on every side, and that long, terrible main gun belching fire at vehicles and gun positions to the rear.
There had not been a shock like this since the first appearance of tanks in the Great War, and in spite of the hard lesson given Rommel at Bir el Khamsa, the full realization of what the new enemy tanks could do had not yet trickled down through the rest of the army. It was a monster that simply could not be challenged, let alone killed. No anti-Tank gun possessed by the troops could harm it, and filled with the hubris earned from its previous victories, the men of the 9th Panzer Division had not sewn landmines as a defensive measure. In fact, they had been planning to assemble and move south that morning to attack, but their enemy had beaten them to the punch.
Behind the hard tip of the spear came the Warriors, also moving fast, their 40mm guns cracking away in sharp, well controlled three round bursts. Thank god there were not many, thought Sergeant Muller as he watched the scene in near shock. He was on the radio at once, calling for tank support from the 1st Battalion of the 33rd Regiment in position directly behind the line. The battalion had a strong group of 54 PzKpfw III, 18 PzKpfw II and 18 of the heavier PzKpfw IVD infantry support tanks, and now the Germans launched a sharp counter thrust, their armor churning forward through the open fields in attack.
“Tanks!” called Lieutenant Horton on the radio. “Front left!”
He keyed the position on his digital display, assigning the symbol for enemy armor, and within a millisecond every vehicle in the battalion had the threat information on their screens. They were able to turn and react immediately, groups of five Warriors rotating their turrets to engage the oncoming threat, and the big Challenger IIs opening the action at long range.
The Highlanders had pushed right through the lines of the Panzergrenadiers with both companies, and now Colonel ‘Sandy’ Sanderson committed his breakthrough force, the heavy platoon of ten more Challenger IIs. They surged forward with the Warriors of his third reserve company behind, to even the odds, and then some. His battalion was facing 90 German tanks, but now he had 43 Warriors and 20 Challenger IIs in the attack. Two Warriors had been damaged and were ordered back to the start line, but the bulk of Sanderson’s force was unscathed. The fire they put out, seeing their targets at long range with their thermal sensors, was devastating.
One by one the German tanks were hit and destroyed. It was the Challenger IIs that wreaked the most havoc, their heavy rounds completely obliterating any target they found. A three round burst from a Warrior was enough to put serious hurt on the German tanks, though some survived to get off shots of their own—until a Challenger rotated that massive turret and blasted them to hell.
Generalleutnant Hubicki was stunned to hear the frantic calls of his tankers on their field radios. He knew his second tank battalion was on the right near the river, and barked an order that it should move to attack, but he was too late. The Mercian Battalion had swept over that ground, and had already engaged the German armor in another devastating, uneven armored duel.
The attack was so violent and swift that it smashed completely through the 9th Panzer Division, devastated the armored reserve battalions, and pushed right on to the north. The presence of the Challengers was unanswerable. Had the Warriors been alone, it might have been a difficult fight, but the Challengers could see and hit the enemy before they even came into firing range, and the British tankers were decimating the German armor, leaving the Warriors to engage anything they missed. It was about 15 kilometers to Rayak, and by mid morning the British were attacking the airfield, where they soon encountered fresh German troops that had been marching south in a long dark column on the main road.
Horton stopped, opening his top hatch to get a look with human eyes. He peered through his field glasses, seeing trucks and vehicles ahead, and troops rapidly deploying on defense. Suddenly a barrage of artillery fire began to come in and he knew this fight was far from over.
“Another column,” he said, quickly buttoning up. “Get word back to Kinlan. Black uniformed troops ahead, in force, north of the airfield. How’s our ammo Jimmy?”
“Running thin,” said his gunner, James Crocker. “Twenty rounds left. We’ll need to get to an ammo truck soon.”
“Not bloody likely,” said Horton. “The supply elements are thirty kilometers behind us by now. The Gurkhas haven’t even swept the ground we just rolled over. So make every round count.”
It was good advice, for the dark uniformed troops he had seen deploying were the men of 3rd battalion, Nordland Regiment, of the Viking Motorized Division. The trains had come in that night at Homs, and the men had hastened to get their vehicles ready for a night march south. Behind them would come the men of the Germania Regiment, and the Westland Regiment in reserve. Von Wietersheim would have his entire Korps in the field, and the Vikings were a large formation, with three battalions in each regiment, a recon battalion, MG Battalion and Pioneers.
Now, after a long hard drive of nearly 75 kilometers from Merdjayoun, Kinlan’s two battalions were coming face to face with a division that would establish one of the fiercest reputations for combat in the war.
* * *
A Bedouin in the Desert Cavalry Company that had moved to the extreme left of the French position was up on Jebel Aassafir, north of the airfield at Palmyra, when he heard the strange sound of beating wings in the dark. The hard thumping in the distance soon resolved to an evil sounding drone in the sky, and his eyes scanned the overcast cloud cover with fearful glances. He had heard entirely too much, and was convinced something was very wrong. A hasty withdrawal down the mountainside, to a
place as far from the sky as he could get, was the only thing on his mind.
The KA-40 was up again that night, moving above the heavy clouds as before, unseen, but clearly heard. Fedorov had made the decision to extract the Marines and yield the fortress. It was either that or they would face a long siege, certain attack, and with dwindling ammunition in the face of heavy odds. Instead they would take to the helo, and fly east to the T3 pumping station for a meeting with the British senior officers.
“Getting back up those ropes might not be as easy as getting down them,” said Fedorov.
“Don’t worry,” said Troyak. “There’s a harness and winch. It’s all motorized. Just hang on tight and they’ll haul you right up.”
“With the Germans firing at my hind end the whole way?”
In the end, that is nearly what it became. The Marines assembled on the roof of the fortress, gathering their equipment into the supply canisters. Two man teams were posted on either side of the fort, and then the helo was vectored in, roaring out of the north, a dark looming shape against the overcast sky.
The Germans in the ruined encampment below were quickly into fox holes, as that sound had been accompanied by withering attacks from the helo’s minigun, though few had ever laid eyes on the beast. They would hear it, up in the dark mist, and then the terrible fire would begin, with lethal accuracy, right on the mortar and gun positions. The enemy could see in the dark! So the mortar teams got as far from their tube emplacements as possible when they heard the thrumming in the sky that night.
Wolff heard it, still frustrated and angry that he had not been able to take that hill. He stepped out from his headquarters at the Temple of Bel, and raised his field glasses, studying the top of the hill closely where the hard stone walls of the old fort jutted like a broken tooth. What he saw next was as puzzling as it was alarming. There was clearly an aircraft of some sort there, but it was not moving! The roar of its engines was apparent, and he rushed to a field phone, finally realizing what was happening.
Hammer of God (Kirov Series Book 14) Page 27
