John Schettler - Three Kings

“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 itseemes 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?”