John Schettler - Devil's Garden

The job of getting the big anti-aircraft gun aboard the Aist was not quite as easy as getting it off, but they managed and it was soon swallowed by this metal behemoth from the sea. It rolled aboard behind the two BTR-50s, and the Marines crowded in after them. As the operation concluded the overwatch turrets had to engage German infantry trying to cross the rail lines to get to the main harbor, and the two twin AK-230 cannons riddled the yard with suppressive fire, the shower of heavy 30mm rounds being more than enough to stop the attack. Soon the engines of the hovercraft revved up and it slowly backed off the shoreline in a wash of sound and fury. They were heading out to sea, the radars watching for any sign of German aircraft as they withdrew.

The other two hovercraft reported in and Fedorov ordered the flotilla to head east, then south for the Anatoly Alexandrov at their best speed. Any German infantry that were huddled in positions on the shore watched them go, accelerating to over 70 knots as they swept out to sea. The troops gaped at the spectacle, shaking their heads in awe. Who were these hardy men who had blasted their planes from the sky with rockets, stopped their tanks cold, and held the entire weight of two battalions at bay?

As the flotilla retired, they passed a number of smaller craft at sea, giving them no mind and not knowing that Haselden’s little band of raiders was aboard one, slowly heading east in their foaming wake.

The run from Makhachkala down to the Anatoly Alexandrov was no more than twenty kilometers, and Fedorov radioed ahead to tell Dobrynin they were on the way home. “Get Rod-25 ready for operation,” he urged.

“I started the procedure five minutes ago when Troyak radioed he had all his remaining men aboard. But what about Bukin and the Mi-26? Shall I tell him to take off now?”

“Not yet,” said Fedorov. “Tell him to hold until we arrive. I just want to be sure we still have options in case anything goes wrong.”

“Options for what, Fedorov?”

It was a good question, and Fedorov really had no answer for it.

“We’ll be there in a matter of minutes, Chief. Signing off.”

The hovercraft soon roared up to the waiting ship, and Fedorov considered what to do. Should he send Bukin on his way to carry out Admiral Volsky’s plan? Here they had just taken an enormous risk to recover a single man, and now he was about to send four more off in the Mi-26 for a thousand mile journey east to the Pacific. It seemed a crazy plan for them to try and fly all that distance and then wait, undiscovered, for nearly three years! What was Volsky thinking? Once they got home to 2021 again they would have all three control rods. Then all they had to do was land at the Kaspiysk Naval base here and put them on a fast Antonov-225 cargo plane to send them east to Vladivostok. From there they could work up a way to get back to Kirov …or so he thought.

But how? His mind was soon flooded with all the many things that could go wrong. First off, there was no guarantee that Rod-25 would shift them happily back to 2021. They had often appeared in a future time that was obviously beyond that year, for they had seen the devastation of the war that was fought.

That thought also filled him with dread. What was happening in the war? Had they changed anything with this mission? Did they get to Orlov in time? Did Orlov even have anything to do with the outcome at all? What if they shifted forward in time and found everything destroyed again; the naval base bombed and wrecked? What then?

That prospect was daunting enough, but now he considered all the variables they would face even if they did make it back to an intact base in 2021 and reached Vladivostok by aircraft. What would they do? They could try to take the other two rods back with them from the Primorskiy Engineering Center again. At least they would be right there in Vladivostok when they arrived-but where? There was no guarantee that they would reach the year 1945. Experience told him that they would most likely end up in 1942 again! Then it was back to waiting out the war in Vladivostok until Kirov appeared in 1945.

That was probably a better plan, he thought. Better than the Mi-26 trying to make it all that way alone. The fuel situation is shaky, the helo is unarmed, and it will be a long, long wait for the small crew aboard until 1945. His alternate plan sounded much more secure. He decided that would be the best call, then realized that the instant he made that choice the outcome would ripple forward across the long decades and be “history” at the other end, assuming he actually put that plan into action.

It either works or it doesn’t work, he thought grimly. But I could be the reason Kirov never hears us calling when it arrives in 1945. It could be my meddling with Volsky’s plan here that changes everything-for better or worse.

“Themission is off? You are countermanding orders from Admiral Volsky.” Dobrynin had a confused look on his face.

“It is simply too risky, Chief.” Fedorov explained his reasoning, and then put forward his idea. “Don’t you agree that would be a better plan?”

“Well… I suppose it does sound more plausible, Fedorov. You found a way to make up for using all that helicopter fuel, but I’m not a Fleet Admiral. Volsky was very insistent that I get this damn helicopter on its way.”

“I will speak to him about it when we return and I’m sure he will understand my decision. Few plans ever play out as they were initially intended. At the moment, our best and only bet is to get the Anatoly Alexandrov home in one piece.”

Dobrynin shrugged. “Very well,” he said. “The procedure is underway and I am ready for rod retraction and insertion.”

“Good, Chief…Do you think we will we make it back?” The uncertainty in Fedorov’s voice was evident.

“The pattern has held steady every time we have used this rod, Mister Fedorov. One thing is probably certain, we are going to move somewhere.”

“How long do you think it will take?”

“Let me listen…” The Chief slowly raised a hand, like a conductor hushing down his orchestra with a feather light movement of his palm. He was signaling his rod technician to begin. One rod would be removed, the other inserted to maintain the steady regulation of the reaction. As the process began he sat down and listened to the reactors, his mind shutting out all the odd noise of the Marines fussing about on the ship and focusing intently on the nuclear song at the heart of the core.

He listened, hearing the telltale sound of Rod-25 rising like a clarinet above the low rumble of strings, soaring up and up as the rod descended deeper into the nuclear brew. Everything sounded normal, just as he had heard it so many times before. He closed his eyes, a slight smile on his lips, and it was then that he heard a strange harmony develop. What is this, he wondered? There was another note in the mix, then a third, though they were very muted, very distant, lilting like flutes in tandem with Rod-25. The sound changed, no longer the ascending chorus he expected, but a deep descending refrain that sounded completely different!

Fedorov watched him, amazed by the man’s obvious concentration. Everyone has some special skill, he thought. Tasarov lived under his sonar headset, and the Chief knows his way around a reactor room better than any man in the fleet.

He waited, feeling an urgent need to go and see about Orlov. His Aist class craft was being moored to the port side of the floating powerplant, commanded by Captain Malkin, and the two lighter Kalmar class craft were on the starboard side. Orlov was supposedly inside a PT-76 tank on one of those craft, and he was eager to go and see him. Then he realized that Zykov had not yet reported back and a thrum of anxiety rose in his gut. He had the distinct feeling that something was wrong, something oddly out of place.