John Schettler - Kirov

“Admiral Volsky,” the doctor stood at once, taking a more formal tone with the Admiral in the presence of another crewman.

“As you were, gentlemen.” The Admiral looked at Fedorov, noting the book he still had sitting on his lap. “Very well,” he said. “You have something more to say about the situation, Mister Fedorov? Something in that book there?”

“Well sir, you asked me to find as much information about operations in the Norwegian Sea for the period we discussed. He glanced warily at the doctor, not knowing how much he should

reveal, but the Admiral’s expression made it clear that he should speak freely. “It's here, sir,” he began, “I marked the place here on page 75.”

“Read it to me, please.”

Fedorov opened the book, his ink stained finger tracing its way midway down the central column on the page as he began to read. “22 July through 4 August, Arctic sector. British carrier raid on Kirkenes and Petsamo. From 22 to 25 July the ships earmarked for the operation are assembled in Iceland…” He paused, skipping ahead slightly. “Here it is, sir… on 26 July the mine laying cruiser Adventure, used as a transport to Murmansk, leaves with the destroyer Anthony. There follows later Force P under Rear Admiral Wake-Walker, consisting of the aircraft carriers Furious and Victorious, the heavy cruisers Devonshire and Suffolk, and destroyers Echo, Eclipse, Escapade and Intrepid… It's all here, sir.” He handed the Admiral the book, pointing out the passage with his finger. “The Russian translation. A very rare find I picked up in London last summer.”

The Admiral read the passage, squinting at the fine print, yet nodding as he did so. “Ten ships,” he said.

“Two more destroyers and a tanker join the task force as well, sir. They refuel and Wake-Walker proceeds with this attack, which was rather disastrous. The Germans were ready for them. They were spotted by a seaplane and the Luftwaffe had Me-109s lying in wait for them when they launched to attack the harbors. Several British squadrons were cut to pieces.”

“I see,” said the Admiral. “These ships mentioned here, they are the same vessels you identified in the video?”

“I believe as much, sir. The video clearly shows those carriers and 8 inch gun Kent class cruisers. I’ve looked up the these names in my old copy of Jane’s Fighting Ships, and compared the photos to the video images we had. Suffolk is a Kent Class cruiser, sir. There’s no question about that-two turrets forward, two aft, and three stacks amidships. Devonshire was London class, but they’re all considered County Class heavy cruisers.”

The Admiral closed his eyes, that headache still refusing to leave him in peace. “You're going to have to do more for me than a couple of aspirin, Dmitri,” he said to the doctor. “If I thought I had a headache before, what Fedorov is telling me now is something even you may have no remedy for.”

The doctor was very curious, leaning forward, looking over his glasses at the volume the Admiral was paging through now. Volsky related the details concerning the video feed from the helicopter, telling him how Fedorov’s keen eye had apparently identified the flagship at first sight as HMS Victorious, not to mention the plane that overflew the ship a few hours ago.

“You mean to tell me you actually have live video images of the ships?”

“Yes, Dmitri. That's what so, confounding about this whole thing! The evidence is right before our eyes. I saw that plane myself-everyone on the bridge did. Mister Fedorov here took it upon himself to rush out onto the outer watch deck and have a very close look.” The Admiral gave Fedorov an admonishing glance. “Yet this passage here names the very same ships our helicopter filmed just hours ago. Now… the Captain believes we are all hallucinating, that this is some elaborate psychological operation undertaken by NATO, and if that is true, then they have cooked up something really sinister this time. Everything that has happened since that detonation near Orel has been one impossibility after another. Could these effects result from a nuclear detonation, from radiation exposure? This I wonder. Yet we have not detected any radiation threat whatsoever. And Mister Fedorov here has voiced the only possible scenario where the presence of these ships and planes makes even the slightest bit of sense.”

The Admiral looked at his navigator, as if handing him the baton and urging him to speak his mind. Fedorov cleared his throat, again realizing how insane his words might sound. Was the Admiral merely sounding him out here in front of the doctor so that he could demonstrate his odd behavior? He put that thought aside, preferring instead to believe the Admiral was a confederate and not an adversary concerning his views on the situation.

“This will sound crazy,” he began. “But as I said on the bridge, sir, the presence of these ships and planes cannot be explained in the year 2021, which can only mean…”

Both men waited for him to finish the thought that they themselves were thinking. Fedorov took a deep breath, forging on. “The BBC news broadcast we received on the radio, sir… Did you hear the date? It was this exact date, sir, 28 July 1941. And right there, in that book…” He stopped, the conclusion obvious to them all.

No one spoke, but both the Admiral and Navigator looked at Zolkin, as if his take on the matter would certify their own sanity or delusion, one way or another. Each, in their turn, had come to suspect the incredulous notion that something profound had happened to the ship.

Zolkin considered all the information they had shared with him, recalling the deep thrumming drone of the aircraft that he heard some time ago, and piecing together stories various crewmen had left with him as they filed in and out of his sick bay these last several hours. Many had complained of headaches, nausea, some experiencing an unaccountable dizziness. Yet he had found no sign of fever, infection, or other pathogen in his examinations, and there was no evidence of harmful radiation emanating from the strange explosion that had set the sea aglow all around them hours ago. Others simply complained that they could no longer access the Internet on their pads and personal computers, and the sudden sense of isolation only added to a rising anxiety that was running through the crew.

“28 July, 1941,” he breathed, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Of course I have not seen this video, or this aircraft you speak of, but I will take your testimony on faith. So let us reason the matter through. We have video images, radio broadcasts, and the over flight of a single aircraft that Mister Fedorov has identified as an old British fighter plane. The first two could be deliberate deceptions, though I assume you have inspected this video file obtained by the helicopter and found it to be valid, yes?”

“I had Nikolin go over it with a fine toothed comb,” said the Admiral. Orlov was curious about it as well, and would not rest until he had run the footage through the wringer. We find no evidence of tampering. I do not believe, as Karpov suggests, that this file was a video feed by NATO designed to deceive or confuse us.”

“Though it has done exactly that,” said Zolkin. “So…At the risk of reinforcing a fantasy, let me play the devil’s advocate here. If these ships and planes do exist, as real and tangible things, and if we trust what we have heard on the radio is no mere documentary, then let us assume the most outrageous possibility that we are no longer in our own time…”

“Yes,” said Fedorov, “But how is that possible?”

“The explosion…The sea…” The Admiral began. “It was very odd, Dmitri. Like nothing I have ever experienced.”

The doctor nodded. “It seems to have had some unusual effects on the whole ship.” He told the Admiral of the many complaints registered by various crew members.