John Schettler - Three Kings

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.

“Have they launched helicopters?”

“No mum. They’ve requested weapons tight.”

“Then no movement on the X-3s.”

“Admiral Volsky aboard the Russian battlecruiser Kirov requesting weapons tight and parley. Please identify yourself and respond, over.”

“Announce ourselves, Mister Thomas,” said Elena. Then she leaned in to MacRae. “If it comes to a fight here, what are our chances?”

He just looked at her. “It won’t be pleasant, for either side.”

“Sir,” said Healy at radar. “Getting many more seaborne returns now. Surface contacts just west of the primary, but no IFF signatures.”

“No signatures? How many contacts?”

“A good number. I read two ships, close by the primary. Five airborne contacts, then multiple ships in column. I’m reading at least twenty ships, more resolving as we approach.”

Argos Fire was moving at 30 knots due west now, as MacRae had turned to investigate the IFF contact some ten minutes earlier. “But No IFF data? That’s odd.” He looked at Elena, explaining.

“We’ve got clear electronics signatures on the one ship, Fregat 3D radar system as we read it. Now we’re just coming into better range and it appears there’s quite an armada out there. I’m not sure what to make if it. None of the other ships are emitting electronic signatures that can reach us, but they could be running dark and leaving that work to the flagship.”

“You think this is an entire Russian battlegroup? That can’t be possible.”

“Then our wolf is out there cavorting with the sheep, mum. It might have been attacking a convoy, and then up we come, the unexpected sheep dog.”

“Any sign of that? Could we tell if there was combat underway out there?”

“Aye, we’d see it on radar, but there’s no indication of any missile fires underway. It looks to be one big happy family out there.”

Elena rubbed her hands together, always cold, even in temperate climes. Kirov, Geronimo, steaming with a group of many ships that had to be from this era. What was this about?

“Identify us as Argos Fire, Royal Navy. Then confirm parley request,” she said. “Ask identification on those other ships. Let’s see what we can find out.”

“Aye mum,” said Thomas, and he returned the message.

“Senior Lieutenant Nikolin here, speaking for Admiral Volsky. We have patched in a third party. Standby.”

The wait seemed interminable, then a voice came, quiet but firm, and the sound of it seemed to strike a tone of reason and authority. Her heart leapt when she heard the name.

“HMS Argos Fire, this is Admiral John Tovey aboard HMS Invincible, fleet flagship. I am now commanding His Majesty’s Mediterranean Fleet. Sorry to say we haven’t made your acquaintance, Argos Fire. But we request an immediate rendezvous. Over.”

My god, thought Elena. John Tovey! He was here, now, at this very moment. Then this was why this date and time had been chosen. But what was Tovey doing cruising with Geronimo?

“That’s the man who signed off on the message in that box?”

“It appears so,” said Elena taking a deep breath, and feeling like the weight of the entire world had just been taken off her shoulders. Tovey was the legendary founder of the Watch, but that was in 1942. It was 1941 now, and none of that may have happened. But it was Tovey’s order that sent her here, so she would wait to find out what had happened, elated, a feeling of great relief sweeping over her.

“Give my name and indicate my present post as Watchstander G1, code Geronimo. Then ask them if we are to consider the Russian ship as friend or foe.” She waited while the message was sent.

Far to the west, Tovey heard the voice and smiled, though he did not know why. Watchstander G1? The words struck some deep inner chord in him, but he could not quite hear it, a distant memory, stubbornly just beyond his reach. But that other word, Geronimo… This he knew quite well. It was boldly labeled on that strange hidden file box Turing had found, and typewritten all through the contents. Admiral Volsky had just told him that this was another ship from his time, from the future. My God, he thought. King Arthur has come back from Avalon, and in the nick of time.

Argos Fire soon received his message. “All is well, Argos Fire. All friends here. We request a rendezvous in the Gulf ofChania. Over.”

Mack Morgan had come up, and he was listening in, amazed. “All well and good, mum,” he said. “But I must tell you that the Royal Navy had no ship by that name active in 1941. The last ship to bear that name was sunk at the Battle of Jutland in 1916.”

“Oh? Well, then we’re in for a surprise, and I suppose they are as well. Signal confirmation on that rendezvous request. Tell them we’ll be waiting for them… with bells on!”

The man was getting his Arabs and Indians mixed up, thought Popski. What was all this rubbish about an Apache Sultan? What was all that about guard towers and oil rigs? He gave Fedorov a frustrated look.

“Well I’ve told him the whole lot, but you’ve completely lost me with all of this. They’re no Indians or oil rigs out here. Why would you tell him that? How would that rubbish solve anything?”

“Bear with me, Popski. What does he say?”

“Alright,” said Kinlan. “Mister Simpson. Send to the back of the column and have three vehicles from the rear guard troop return and report on the condition of the Sultan Apache facility. I’ll meet this Russian Captain half way. At the moment I have business to attend to, but I’ll continue this when I get my report.” The General left to consult with his staff, and they were left alone, watched by a pair of helmeted British soldiers.

“He’s given the order to check on that Sultan Indian fellow, whoever that might be. What are you two talking about here?”

Fedorov gave Popski a sympathetic look. This was going to be the fate of any man alive now who ever came into contact with men of this unit, and realized the truth. They would all stand and stare amazed, some dumbstruck with awe, like Cortez, silent upon a peak in Darien, as Keats would put it. Others would stare in disbelief, until the hard steel reality of these men from a distant time was driven home with the shock and fire of war. The Germans and Italians would get the worst of it, for here was a mighty champion that would soon come to the field of battle and weigh heavily in the equation of this war.

And yet, thought Fedorov, they were mortal men, not demigods, and their power and influence on events here would not be without limits. This was the realization that he had faced on the ship as they watched their missile count diminish, one by one. Once Kirov fired the last of its Moskit-IIs, and the inventory of SAMs was gone, it was nothing more than a veiled threat, toothless, though the appearance of the ship on an enemy’s horizon might be seen as a shadow of imminent doom.

The same thing would happen here with these men. They would begin with power that seemed overwhelming to any foe they encountered. A German light Panzer II could do nothing whatsoever to bother one of these modern new tanks.