John Schettler - Devil's Garden

“Sir!” Tovey saluted and went to leave, but the Captain scratched his ear, adding one last word.

“You were correct in one thing,” he said quietly.

“Sir?”

“That bit about reliance on speed and armor. I gave it some thought and find it sound advice, depending on the circumstances of course. But just remember that King Alfred is the flagship of this squadron, young man. In that role she will be at the head of her formation and expected to lead the battle line in. So in nine cases out of ten we will not be talking about single ship broadside, but that of the entire squadron. This is concentration of firepower, Mister Tovey. Don’t forget that.”

“Of course, sir. And thank you, sir.”

Tovey never did forget it, and he came to understand that the essence of combat at sea was to somehow find that perfect balance of firepower, speed, and armor that would win the day. It was a chemistry of steel, sea conditions, wind, and the fall of shot at selected range, and it could make all the difference between victory or defeat in the barest fraction of a second. There also was one more thing, he knew. You have to know your enemy first, and know him well.

He would get his chance to test his theories soon enough, and face a man in combat on the high seas that he was destined to encounter again many years hence, on the cold swells of the North Atlantic, in another life that would never even exist unless he first found a way to survive this one.

They had lingered in the Sea of Japan for days now as Karpov tried to decide what to do. It seemed to him just as his campaign had begun, Fedorov appeared to cast the shadow of guilt on him with his obsession over not breaking the eggshells of history. Well, I am sorry Mister Fedorov, a ship with this much power leaves a wide wake. I barely flicked my little finger at those Japanese cruisers, and they could do nothing about it. That Canadian steamer was merely a distraction. I need to decided whether to commit myself here or to try to get the ship home.

He knew what he wanted to do, deep inside, but now that the men knew there’s a way home it could be difficult to burn this last bridge deliberately. Zolkin would certainly have a fit.

The decision weighed heavily on his shoulders, but that thought suddenly presented him with a possible solution. Zolkin! The Doctor’s words returned to him in the heat of his rumination.

“We are like blind men in a dark closet looking for the right coat here. Whatever you decide, consider the men on this ship. They may not share your dream of conquest. Have you even bothered to consider asking what they might want to do?”

Of course! That was the answer. He would explain their circumstances to the men and see what they would do. They would vote in a secret ballot. No man’s name would be compromised. They could speak their mind without fear, and then at least the Captain would know where he stood.

He had given them all his reasons for the action he planned. “We have beaten off every enemy we have faced and survived to fight again,” he said over the ship’s PA system. “Now we are here, far from home and, short of detonating another nuclear warhead, we are likely to remain here, or so I believed. Yet we have just discovered that Captain Anton Fedorov has managed to get back to this year and time as well, only in the Caspian Sea aboard Anatoly Alexandrov. He proposes to bring us new control rods by helicopter, though if we use them, we have no guarantee as to where they will take us, if anywhere at all. We might move forward, or even further back in time. This cannot be known. So we can now do one of two things, either try to rendezvous with Fedorov and see what happens, or remain here in this decisive era where we now find ourselves, and change the sad future our nation must face in the decades ahead.”

He went on to describe the history of this time and place, the prospect of restoring Russia to power in the Pacific, the idea of preventing Japan from ever rising as a military power here and bringing the Americans into the Pacific in WWII. “Russia has some hard years ahead,” he finished. “The revolution is coming, and it will be shaped only by those men who dare to do so here and now. Yes, we can try and go home to our world of computers and conveniences, and all our loved ones there. But, as we have seen, that world may not be so comfortable after all if the war we were fighting has continued. Who knows, we may get there and find only the ashes of the history I hope to change. Now, here, we have a chance to prevent that war and shape the future ahead. I realize this asks every man to sacrifice much, the entirety of the life you left behind, and to begin again here. So I leave this decision to you, the fighting crew of the battlecruiser Kirov . We have come a long way together. Now you decide where we will go together in the days ahead.”

He gave the men time to talk among themselves and decide how they felt about the situation, still lingering in the Sea of Japan. On the twentieth of July the vote was finally taken and the Captain was pacing fitfully on the bridge. Nikolin tabulated the results and made the announcement on the bridge. “Captain, sir. I have counted all the ballots and the crew votes 128 in favor of sailing to rendezvous with Fedorov, but a strong majority of 582 vote in favor of remaining here with you at the helm.”

Karpov had his eyes closed as Nikolin read the results, and now he opened them with a smile. “Five to one,” he said quietly. “Very well. You may make the results known to the crew, and then we must get about the business of building that new world I promised them. If that means that we must first make some changes to this world, so be it.” He looked at Rodenko now, looking for his reaction. He nodded, and the Captain took that as his assent, though he had no way of knowing how his first officer had actually voted.

It was decided.

At 18:00 hours on that day Karpov joined Nikolin at the communications station and they began broadcasting on the shortwave radio again as he had promised Fedorov. Now there was only one more man to convince, he thought, knowing that Fedorov would definitely not approve of this decision. Ten minutes later Nikolin had a clear signal.

“Fedorov, here,” came the familiar voice. “We’ve been waiting to hear from you, Captain.”

“Well enough, Fedorov. We have considered your plan, and I have discussed it with the officers, Doctor Zolkin, and the entire crew. Over.”

“Good to hear it, Captain. Which option seems most feasible to you. Do you think you can make it to the Arabian Sea? If not, the Bay of Bengal should be close enough. We wish we could come all the way to the Pacific, but we had to use fuel to search for Orlov, and that leaves us no margin of safety. It’s a very long way. Over.”

“You will not have to worry about that, Fedorov….We have decided to stay where we are.”

“Say again, Kirov? What have you decided? Over.”

“We are remaining here, in the Pacific of 1908. Our mission was to defend Russia, and this we will do, but from this place and time, when a ship like this battlecruiser can really make all the difference in the world.”

There was a considerable pause before Fedorov came back. “Did I hear you correctly, Captain? You are staying here? But you can’t do that, sir. The danger-”