John Schettler - Devil's Garden

“Screw noise?”

“Sir, only our own turbines. I have no other registered harmonics or known sonic signatures.”

“What is the ship’s heading and speed?”

“Con, Helm. My rudder is steady on zero, three, five degrees northeast. Speed thirty.”

“Ahead two thirds and steady on.”

“Sir, aye, ahead two thirds and steady as we go.”

Karpov folded his arms, his gaze still transfixed by the fog, which now began to waver in places, diffused with ethereal luminescence. He turned his head to Rodenko. “We have moved again,” he said quietly. “Moved in time….I can feel it. That detonation has sliced open eternity yet again, and the ship has fallen through, only who knows where we will end up this time.”

“We might be heading home, sir,” Rodenko suggested hopefully, but the captain said nothing, his eyes tightening, brow furrowed as he considered their situation. He stepped back from the citadel view ports and slipped slowly into the Captain’s chair, exhausted. The tension of the last few hours left him drained and spent. He could still feel the cool sheen of perspiration on his forehead, and he closed his eyes, grasping a moment of inner peace and calm. A shadow on his shoulder became Rodenko again, his arm extended with a cup of steaming coffee in hand.

Karpov looked up, smiling wanly. “Thank you, Rodenko.” He considered something briefly and then gave another order. “The ship will secure from level one alert. Assume level three, guarded watch, and secure all NBC equipment. Maintenance crews will conduct routine evolutions at their regular stations. Post watchmen with field glasses on the high weather decks and they are to observe in a 360 degree range about the ship.”

“At once, sir.” Rodenko was off, repeating the order as he was expected, and the tension on the bridge slackened noticeably.

“Mister Nikolin,” the Captain swiveled his chair toward the communications station. “Are you monitoring any radio traffic, ship-to-ship or otherwise?”

“No sir. My band is clear.”

“Please hail the Orlan . Request their position, course and speed.”

“Aye, sir.”

Karpov knew that with no contacts on the Fregat system the chances Orlan displaced with them were very slim. Perhaps the other ship did move, he thought. Who knows? But I am willing to bet it is nowhere within fifty kilometers of us now…here…wherever we are. God only knows what happened to them or what fate they suffered alone to face what was still unfought in 1945. I was such a fool to engage a force that size. It was simply too much for us to contend with.

Pride goeth before the fall, he thought. But where have we fallen?

“Mister Nikolin, activate the Tin Man optical cameras and feed the signal to the overhead HD display. Fore and aft, please, on split screen format.”

“Activating Tin Man, sir, aye.”

Karpov indulged himself, looking up at the display, though he saw only what he expected-the seemingly endless fog. Where were they, in some strange limbo where they would await their final judgment? It might be hours before they knew their fate this time. The ship’s systems could have been affected, as they were in past displacements. Then again, if they shifted forward again, would they see only the devastation of the war in 2021?

I was sent to try and buy us time to save that horror off, and now look what I have done! I couldn’t wait for the war in 2021, I gave it to them in 1945. Nikolin’s hail to Orlan now sounded like a funeral dirge.

“ Kirov to Orlan . Come in Please. Orlan , please state position, course and speed, over. Kirov to Orlan -where are you? Come in please.”

“That will be enough, Mister Nikolin. I do not think they can hear us. Keep listening on your headset and report any radio traffic. Please monitor, AM, FM and Shortwave bands.” Karpov knew that if they were still in a world where life existed, he should be able to hear it murmuring on the radio soon.

Now the weight of what he had done began to feel like lead on his shoulders. He needed sleep, needed to rest, and stood on unsteady legs. “Mister Rodenko. You have the bridge. I will be in my quarters.”

* * *

TheVodka did something to renew his flagging soul. He sat at his desk for some time, staring at himself, until he realized how stupid he looked with his military cap on-Vladimir Karpov, the man who started World War Three.

They will destroy Orlan , he knew. There was simply too much force there for the ship to escape without our support. Together we might have run out into the Pacific, but alone the Sea Eagle was doomed. Even if we did survive that attack, our SAM inventory would have dwindled to next to nothing. Then all it would take is a couple of their fast carriers to finish us off-unless I wanted to fire off the last of our missiles and warheads. Yes, that might have put such fear into them that they would not dare to approach us again, but we would be lost, outlaws, outcasts on the high seas, and they would have hunted us with every ship they had.

Fedorov was correct, as was Zolkin. They would have built three ships for every one we sank, and they would pursue and pursue until they made an end if us. I suppose I could have sailed to within range of one of their cities, and then perhaps they would listen to me if I threatened to destroy San Francisco. He shook his head with that thought, aghast. I have done enough harm to this world as it stands. I could not bear to believe I was the one responsible for what we saw in that bleak future, then I made a certainty of that.

He lay on his bunk, closing his eyes and letting himself fall into a deep, restless sleep. Sometime later he awoke, startled to see that Doctor Zolkin was sitting beside his bunk, a stethoscope around his neck and his doctor’s bag open at his side.

“What are you doing here?”

“Now, now, rest easy,” the doctor assured him.

“What time is it?”

“08:00 hours, at least insofar as the ship’s chronometer is concerned.”

“Morning?”

“The bridge hailed you three hours ago, and when no answer came Rodenko became concerned. He called me and I came to check on you.”

Karpov saw the syringe on the nightstand. Then realized the doctor had also affixed an IV drip to his arm. “What have you done?” he said, the suspicion evident in his voice.

“Did you think I came here to shoot you full of drugs, Karpov? I’m afraid not. You appeared dehydrated and so I am simply giving you fluids.”

“And that?” Karpov pointed at the syringe.

“A mild sedative to calm your sleep. You looked like you were having some real nightmares when I got here. Don’t worry. It has already worn off by now. How do you feel?”

The Captain blinked, and took a deep breath. “Better, I suppose.”

Zolkin nodded. “Better this than the vodka,” he said.

Karpov’s eyes darkened, but there was no point denying it. “I was not drinking heavily, Doctor. It was only a shot to calm my nerves. I assure you, I was fully competent-”

“No one is accusing you of inappropriate conduct, Captain, at least insofar as the vodka is concerned. I’m here to see to your wellbeing, nothing more.”

Karpov looked away. “I should think you might also want to lecture me-wag a finger in my face now, eh? Well, what’s done is done, Zolkin.”

“No lecture, Captain. I spoke my mind at the officer’s meeting with the others. And yes, you have done what you have done, and I don’t suppose anyone can do anything about it now. It is all history, as they say. Though I have no idea how it will read in the decades ahead.”

Karpov realized he still did not know where they were. “Has Nikolin reported anything?”