John Schettler - Kirov

“You can rely on me, sir.” Fedorov was quickly off to his post.

Aboard HMS Victorious, the signal from Grenfell’s Fulmar was cause for some alarm. The pilot, Lieutenant Easton, had reported a large surface ship, yet he was confused as to its type and nationality. The ship had a menacing appearance, yet he could discern no big guns mounted on the long forward deck, just a patchwork of what looked like hatches, as if the vessel was a large, fast cargo ship of some kind. He noted several smaller turrets, however, oddly shaped, yet clearly guns in the range of four to five inches, something a destroyer or light cruiser might carry. Yet this ship was big! Its superstructure climbed up in a series of stark gray plateaus mounting stalwart metal towers, battlements and masts arrayed with strange antennae and pale white domes that gleamed in the wan light. He had flown many missions with the Fleet Air Arm, and knew a warship when he saw one. This ship was easily the size and scale of a battleship.

Admiral Wake-Walker was huddled with Captain Bovell in the plotting room as the two men studied the charts. “Could this be an armed oiler or other fast replenishment ship?”

“If it is, sir,” said Bovell, “then it is certainly nothing I’ve ever heard of. A tanker mounting five inch gun turrets? It has to be a cruiser, sir. The pilot must have been mistaken as to its size. You know how doggy these over-flights can be.”

“Rumor was that the German commerce raider Atlantis was trying to work her way back to German home ports,” said the Admiral. “She had 5.9 inch guns, but latest intelligence has her back tracking for the South Atlantic. Probably heading to the Pacific.”

“I doubt that ship would be up here, in any case, sir.”

“Pity the damn plane wasn’t mounting cameras,” said Wake-Walker. “Yet whatever the identity of this ship, it seems to have vanished again. Grenfell’s pilots can’t seem to range on it any longer, and I’m not inclined to loiter here looking for the damn thing. We’ve orders to get out east.”

“At least those hails have stopped, sir. Having our position, course and speed called out in the clear like that was becoming a tad uncomfortable.”

“Look here…” The Admiral tapped at a spot on his charts. “We’ve had the fighters up for three hours now. They’ll be low on fuel and on their return leg now. Grenfell is spotting another flight to relieve them, but we won’t have much daylight left today.” The Admiral was considering his options. “Suppose we detach Adventure and a destroyer to get up there and have a closer look around for this ship. She can report and then proceed with her planned mine delivery to Murmansk.”

“It sounds like a good idea, sir, unless this is a German fast cruiser on the loose that the Admiralty is unaware of.”

“With 5 inch guns it would have to be a destroyer.”

“True, but if Adventure takes a hit with all those mines aboard, mounted on the decks as they are, it could be rather grim, sir.”

“We’ll send a destroyer with her as a picket ship. If they do run into anything they can slip away. But it would ease my mind to have someone out on our right flank tomorrow morning. I want to turn east at once-bring the whole task force about on a heading of zero-nine-five degrees. The Germans will probably have more seaplanes out and about looking for us in the morning. I want to be somewhere else.”

“Right, sir.” Bovell still seemed uneasy.

“What is it, Captain?”

“Well, the thing is this, sir. That hail… It was sent in plain English-a bit thick on the accent, but from where, sir? If Easton was at all correct on his location for this contact, there’s no way that ship could have spotted us, let alone call out our heading, course and speed as if they had us fixed with a radar signal. And we both know that’s impossible, sir. Even our very best radar sets aboard Suffolk can only range out twelve to fifteen miles for surface contacts. The only reason we could see that other ship is because we had an aircraft up with longer range air to sea radar set. Easton is reporting this ship some fifty miles north of us.”

“It might have been one of our subs,” the Admiral suggested. “If so, I’ll have the captain’s head, or worse. We might ask the Admiralty about that. Then again, perhaps it was that German Do-18 hailing us. They may have been loitering about. Just like Jerry to goad us like that. I’ll note that the hails ceased soon after we put Grenfell’s fighters up. Probably gave them the willies and they high-tailed it back to Tromso or Trondheim.”

Bovell nodded, the Admiral’s logic answering his concerns. “With your permission, sir, I’ll see that the fleet comes about on that new heading.”

“Very well,” said the Admiral. “You can signal Adventure to depart at once. Have her search the area near Jan Mayen and have a look at the weather station there. Once she’s reported we’ll send her on her way… And oh, yes. Detach the destroyer Anthony as her escort. She’s just replenished with Black Ranger and should have the legs for the job.” He was referring to the oiler that had arrived to refuel his task force earlier that day.

“Good enough, sir.” Captain Bovell saluted and slipped out through the hatch to the bridge.

Fedorov found what he was looking for and was elated. He had dragged out his volume of The Chronology Of The War At Sea, 1939–1945, Russian Language Edition, and flipped quickly through the well dated pages to late July, 1941. Amazed at what he saw, he discretely notified the Admiral that he had further information, and Volsky had ordered him below to see the doctor.

“And take that with you,” he said, pointing at the volume Fedorov had been holding. “Show that to Zolkin.”

At first Fedorov believed he was being sent down to have his head examined. After all, he was the only one who had ventured to voice the possibility that the planes and ships they had seen were, indeed, real. If this was an hallucination or other strange after effect of that odd detonation, then the whole crew should be examined. Why was the Admiral picking on him? It was Karpov, he thought. Karpov and his damnable lap dog Orlov…yet he was fortunate the Captain hadn’t put Orlov on to him, and the Admiral’s presence on the bridge seemed a calming and moderating influence over the man. Sometime later, he slipped through the hatch to the sick bay, a sheepish look on his face.

“Mister Fedorov,” said the doctor. Zolkin was sitting at his desk, a cup of hot tea steaming at his right hand. He looked at Fedorov over the top of his reading glasses, smiling. “How may I help you?”

“I'm not entirely sure, sir. I was ordered to report by the Admiral.”

“Feeling blue, are you?”

“I feel fine, sir, but the situation on the bridge is… Well, rather strained at the moment.”

“Tell me.” Zolkin waited folding his hands before him on his desk, his dark eyes studying the man and noting the peculiar signs of both excitement and nervousness about him.

Fedorov told the doctor what had transpired, the strange surface contact, and the over-flight by the old British fighter.

“So that's what all that noise was,” said Zolkin. “What kind of plane was it?”

Fedorov related the details, making a particular point to note that this plane had been retired long ago, and only one was known to even exist.

“You saw this plane?”

“With my own eyes, sir. You heard it yourself!”

“I certainly did.”

At that moment both men were surprised to see Admiral Volsky step through the door, removing his cap and tucking it under his arm as he exhaled deeply. Zolkin noted how he closed the door, securing the bolt lock after he did so.