It wasn’t up to him after all. Kinlan was going north, and he was going to fight for Great Britain in this war, and that was that. He doesn’t know that now, and he certainly won’t believe a word of it should you try to tell him, but that’s what will happen. So all you have to do, really, is go along for the ride. In fact, that won’t be our choice either. These men have us now, and they certainly won’t apologize, send us back to the KA-40, and wish us farewell.
Perhaps General O’Connor and I can do something about that first, before Kinlan takes that hard road north. Then he smiled again, wondering how O’Connor was going to take in the sight of a battalion of Challenger 2 tanks! Standing there in disbelief was one thing. Putting your hand on that Chobham armor, hearing that big 120mm gun fire, and the thunder of this force in attack—well that was quite another thing entirely, and it will make a believer of O’Connor in short order. He won’t understand it at all, but he’ll see it with his own eyes, and seeing is believing.
It would be good if I could somehow spare both Kinlan and O’Connor the shock and confusion of everything we went through to get this far on this amazing journey. Then he thought of something he could do that would make a very strong argument with Kinlan. Something very simple.
All he had to do was convince him to look over his shoulder!
Brigadier Kinlan gave Popski a frown as he turned from his Staff Officer. “This is already wearing out my patience,” he said. “Now, I’ll give you one more chance to tell me what you are really doing out here, and if I get any more of your nonsense, Major, I’ll lock you and this whole troop up for good! You’re standing there wearing a British soldier’s uniform you must have dug up at a surplus store, and you think you can make me believe your regular army? Alright, have it your way. You know what happens to enemy combatants found behind lines, particularly someone trying to pose as one of our boys?”
Popski had a look of shock on his face, but before he could say anything Fedorov tugged urgently on his arm. “Major, he said quickly. “I need to speak with this officer, and I need you to translate everything I say, faithfully, and without question. Can you do that?”
“I’d just as soon give him a piece of my own mind,” said Popski in Russian, “rank or no rank. The man is going bonkers on us if he thinks we’re his enemy. What’s gotten into him? He’s no British General I’ve ever heard of, nor have I ever seen anything like this lot here!” He gestured to the vehicles still passing them in a long, steady column.
“I need you now, Popski. This is urgent. I must speak with this man. Can you translate? You may not understand any of what I will now say, but just translate. I’ll explain it all to you later, but consider this discussion top secret, something known only to the very highest placed officers in your military. Believe this. I was with Wavell and Admiral Tovey, and privy to things you will not have heard, but I must trust you now. Can you do this?”
“Well get on with it then,” said Popski, a dejected look on his face, arms folded, eyes dark with his rising temper.
“Very well… Please tell the General that…”
How should he begin? He was about to try and give this man the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, the heartache of a thousand natural shocks, the whips and scorns of time. But he had to do something, so he led with the one suit he knew was long in his hand.
“Tell the General that I regret the attack on his position, and hope that it was not my countrymen who were responsible.”
Popski frowned. “It’ll take a bit more than a nice apology,” he said to Fedorov in Russian.
“Popski! Don’t think now. Don’t even listen. Just translate as faithfully as you can. This is critical!”
“Very well, don’t get your britches in a wad. We’ve enough trouble here as it stands.” Then he translated as Fedorov continued.
“Tell him that my men had no mission here associated with that missile strike, and I ask him to believe that. We were here to find and rescue the man his scout troop has just found, but I must now ask him to do one thing that will help explain this entire situation.”
Half a minute later Brigadier Kinlan spoke again. “Sounding a bit better. Yet I fail to comprehend why Russian Marines would be interested in finding a British General, except to capture him.”
“I understand that would be your view,” said Fedorov, “but again, I ask you to do one thing that will help explain everything here. The situation is very critical.”
“It doesn’t get much more critical when the nukes start flying,” said Kinlan darkly. “Alright, what is your request, Captain?”
“Do you still have vehicles near the Sultan Apache facilities?”
“What? We’re nearly ten kilometers outside the perimeter here. You don’t think I was going to sit there and wait for another missile, do you?”
“What does he mean—missile?” said Popski. “Is he talking about those rockets of yours?”
“Just translate!” This time Fedorov put some iron in his tone, and Popski shrugged.
“Tell him there is no further missile threat. Tell him I guarantee this absolutely.”
“You guarantee it?” Kinlan smiled. “Just who are you now, the Commander of the Russian Strategic Missile Troops? The Devil’s Apprentice, are you?”
Popski translated that, though he had absolutely no idea what it meant. The primary Russian ICBM was still the deadly RS-20B ballistic missile, called “Satan” by Western analysts. Their commander was known as the Devil’s Apprentice in intelligence circles, but Fedorov smiled.
“No sir, I am not that man. I am Anton Fedorov, Captain of the First Rank, battlecruiser Kirov, and I ask you to do one thing now. Send the closest vehicle you have to Sultan Apache. You will find the entire sector completely undamaged.”
“That’s because we got your damn missile,” said Kinlan quickly. “Battlecruiser Kirov? You mean that Russian ship that went missing out of Severomorsk last July and then turned up in the Pacific? We thought you tangled with the wrong people and went down off the coast of Japan some weeks ago.”
“No sir, the ship is sound, seaworthy, and at sea in the Mediterranean, as the presence of that KA-40 there testifies. We lifted off with my Marine contingent from the fantail of that battlecruiser.”
“Just as I thought,” Kinlan smiled. “Yet I find it hard to believe your ship made it into the Med. How would you get there? Our side would have seen any move like that easily enough.”
Popski could see that these two men seemed to share a common understanding of what they were talking about, but it was as if they were speaking an entire different language, so he just translated as well as he could.
“I will ask you to humor me, then,” said Fedorov, “because here I stand, and I am, indeed, the Captain of that ship. Now… will you send a reconnaissance to Sultan Apache?”
“What for?” Kinlan folded his arms, head cocked sideways, his battle helmet shading his eyes.
“Because I can tell you exactly what you will find there,” said Fedorov. “Nothing. There will be no perimeter wire. No guard towers, no roads, no buildings, facilities, oil drilling equipment—nothing. There will be nothing there but unblemished desert, and it will not be because anything was destroyed by another missile. You would have seen that, even through this storm. Do this, and you will have your hand on the beginning of an answer that will sort this whole mess out. Trust me, General, officer to officer, man to man, in spite of what has happened these last nine days. You’ll find nothing back there but blowing sand and desert scrub. Sultan Apache is gone, and once your people confirm this, I will tell you why.”
Part XII
Impossible
“Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”
― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
Chapter 34
The fleet was a full day out of Alexandria, now steaming about 200 kilometers west of Crete. They could make only 20 knots at best, which was just under the full speed of the older Queen
Elizabeth class battleships, and that stately warrior was in the lead position of the main column, followed by Warspite and Malaya. Invincible was 2000 yards off the port side, with the heavy cruisers in attendance, and Kirov bringing up the rear as an escort to the two British carriers.
A flight of Fulmar fighters was up providing top cover, though Admiral Volsky had told Tovey he could adequately defend the airspace over the fleet. “Use your fighters to defend any strike aircraft you may have,” he said. “If they get mixed up in a dogfight over the fleet, our missiles could find them in that confusion.”
So it was decided that, on spotting the enemy fleet, the two carriers would launch the 18 Swordfish as a fleet strike asset, protected by the bulk of their fighters. Kirov would provide early warning with her long range radars effective out to 300 kilometers, and Lieutenant Yazov was on radar that day watching his screen for any sign of enemy activity. He was suddenly surprised by a warning light on a subsystem that identified known incoming radar signatures, yet he thought it certainly had to be a false signal. His reflex was to tap the screen, as if this simple gesture would cure the problem, but it persisted, so he reported.
“Radar signature?” said Rodenko, who had the con. “On the IFF module?”
“Yes sir,” said Yazov sheepishly. “It is reading for a Marine Navigation radar on the I-Band, and NATO encoded E and F band as well. But look sir, I’m getting IFF identification now.”
Rodenko was an old hand at radar, and he immediately knew what he was looking at, but it made no sense, and his first thought was that it must be a glitch or after effect from the many time displacements that left their system dazed for hours after they moved. This was reading for the British SAMPSON long range AESA Air Defense radar, a kind of phased array system used by modern Royal navy vessels, particularly the newer Type 45 Destroyers.
“Some difficulty?” said Admiral Volsky as he came onto the bridge, the men all standing and saluting as he was announced.”
“Welcome back, Admiral,” said Rodenko. “It seems we have a little mystery on our hands.”
“We’ve certainly had nothing else since we left Severomorsk,” said Volsky. “What is it this time?”
“Well sir, we just got painted by a radar common to the British Type 45 Destroyer class.”
That got Volsky’s attention immediately. “Type 45?”
“Yes sir, but I have no sub-line signature. The entire electronic suite is lining up on that IFF resolution, and I’m definitely reading two rotating planar arrays. That’s unique to the Type 45 SAMPSON.”
Most other modern phased array systems used multiple arrays for constant 360 degree coverage, but the SAMPSON used only two, and they rotated at 30 revolutions per minute in the spherical dome high atop the characteristic tall main superstructure of the ship.
“An error, Mister Rodenko?”
“Possibly sir, but now I have confirmation from both our long range systems, and simultaneous failure of both systems is not likely. We’re definitely getting a phased array radar signal, sir. Our IFF module could be defaulting to this interpretation, but it seemes fairly certain.”
“Phased array? Here? What other ship could possibly have such technology. This makes no sense.”
Volsky came over to the radar console to see for himself, though he was not entirely sure what he was looking at. Radar applications had never been his strong suit, but Rodenko was one of the very best in the fleet.
“I could try to challenge that system and see what happens. It is fairly well impervious to jamming, but if this is a false positive from a local radar set from this time period, we’ll jam it easily.”
“Make it so,” said Volsky, arms folded as he waited.
“Mister Yazov.” Rodenko passed the order to his radar watchstander, and he keyed the jamming challenge. It should have blotted out any radar of this era with little difficulty, particularly as Rodenko had tuned the system to hit typical bandwidths used in WWII. But seconds later the IFF was again protesting that the ship was receiving a phased array signal. Rodenko gave Volsky a look that spoke volumes, real concern in his eyes now.
Volsky hesitated, for the barest moment, then he gave a series of orders that were deadly serious given his tone of voice, though he maintained a calm demeanor.
“The ship will come to full battle stations immediately,” he said. “Mister Nikolin, please call Chief Dobrynin and ask him if there has been any unusual flux event in the reactor core. Has he run any rod maintenance procedure in recent hours?”
“Aye sir.”
“What are you thinking, Admiral?” Rodenko asked.
“The impossible again,” said Volsky. “Either our electronics are having a nice laugh with this little joke today, or there is a British Type 45 class destroyer out there somewhere painting us with this radar signal. That can mean only two things. Either we have moved again, subtly, without our even realizing it, or…”
The second alternative was obvious, but inexplicable. “I don’t see how a Type 45 could be here, sir. That is if we still remain in 1941, which seems most likely. I have solid returns on all the other ships in the British fleet. They are right here with us.”
“Yes? Well it would be a stretch, but we have pulled things along with us before during a time displacement.”
“A torpedo, sir, and a small fishing trawler when the Anatoly Alexandrov moved, but we’re talking about an entire fleet here, several hundred thousand tons of material. I doubt that we could move that kind of mass.”
“As do I,” said Volsky, “and I know Dobrynin will tell me he has stowed those control rods away, but I must check every possibility to be certain. Yes, the presence of the other British ships is quite telling, but could there be a modern British warship here? Where is this signal originating from?”
“Due east, sir, and given the maximum range of the SAMPSON system, it could be no father east than Santorini.”
“Santorini?” That name was familiar to Volsky. If Fedorov were here he would have picked up on it as well. “Santorini is a volcanic caldera, is it not?”
“I believe so, Admiral.”
“Then we may just have an explanation. Let us not forget where the Demon volcano sent this ship of late.”
“An eruption sir? We see no sign of that.”
“Not here, Mister Rodenko. But if that island erupted in the future it could have sent that ship through a time rift.”
“Ah, I understand sir.” Rodenko looked back at his screen. The reason Volsky had ordered battle stations was now quite evident. If this ship came from the same world they had left behind, it was their mortal enemy.
“Well,” said Volsky. “They must be having a conversation very similar to this one on their bridge right now. Let us see if we can diffuse what could quickly become a most unfortunate engagement, because if they fire on this ship, I will be forced to do the same. Mister Nikolin?”
“Chief says no unusual reading or maintenance procedures, sir.”
“Very well. Send a message using standard NATO frequencies and format. Identify us as the Russian battlecruiser Kirov, and request weapons tight for parley. And get a message to HMS Invincible on a secure channel. I want to speak with Admiral Tovey as well.”
“Parley?”
“Yes, gentlemen. The first defensive system we initiate will be our words and human reason. That failing, we get what we have been sailing in all these many months at sea, the madness of war.”
* * *
“Incoming message, sir!”
“What is it Mister Thomas?” Captain Gordon MacRae was not expecting this.
“It’s using standard NATO format, sir—a request for open communications link from… the battlecruiser Kirov!”
The surprise redoubled. “Kirov? That was the bloody ship Elena had told him about, the Russian behemoth that had been raising hell, moving in time, wreaking havoc on the history.
“Mother of god,” he breathed. “What is that thing doing here in the Mediterranean?
Mister Dean, kindly ask Miss Fairchild to come to the bridge, and state we have a most unusual situation at hand—an emergency.”
“Aye sir.”
“Mister Thomas. Open communications, and put it on the bridge intercom. The ship’s personnel will stand to, all systems.”
The alarm sounded, and that would put some fire in Fairchild’s feet, thought MacRae. In the meantime, he looked to his radar man. “Well that explains it, doesn’t it?”
They had also picked up the electronic signature of the Russian ship, and had been debating what it meant, just as Volsky had predicted. Now the truth was unequivocally clear when Nikolin’s voice came over the ship’s intercom.
“Kirov to any ship bearing SAMPSON radar. Do you copy? This is a comm-link from Admiral of the Fleet, Leonid Volsky, requesting weapons tight for parley.”
“The big brass is aboard,” said MacRae. “And they want to chat before we start lobbing missiles at each other. Fair enough. Get Mack Morgan up here as well, and signal go ahead Kirov, standing by.”
“Aye sir.”
Fairchild was through the back hatch, up from the executive suite, her eyes wondering what was amiss. She could see the earnest attention of the bridge crew to their systems. MacRae was sitting in the blue Captain’s chair, and Executive Officer Dean was standing right behind him. A medic crowded in behind her, offering a brief salute before taking up his post.
“The ship, mum,” said MacRae. “That Russian monster you’ve been talking about.”
“Kirov? Here?”
“About 370 kilometers due west at the moment by our latest reading, just inside our maximum radar coverage zone. They want to parley, but shall I get the X-3’s armed and airborne in case manners fail us here?”
Elena thought quickly. Kirov, Geronimo, It was right here! Could this be the reason Admiral Tovey had encoded this date and time for their displacement to the past? Were they meant to find and deal with this ship, once and for all. She knew that Kirov was a well armed, deadly opponent if it came to a battle. The side that fired first would have great advantage. Now she realized that the men aboard that ship must be as surprised to find Argos Fire here as she was. They were standing like a pair of gunslingers at fifty paces, and if she launched those X-3s it might give them more weapons to put in play, but it would also be like a man slowly moving aside his overcoat to expose the sidearm on his hip.
Three Kings (Kirov Series) Page 29
