John Schettler - Altered States

“Then you suggest Kazan be well outside that range. I suppose this is a good precaution. If we are poking holes in Mother Time’s dress again, we might tear it apart if we shift too close to one another. Yet I have also wondered that if we do attempt a close coordinated shift, might it not increase the chances that we shift together? What do you think?”

“It is difficult to know, sir. My feeling is that these effects from the rods could interfere with one another. It may be very risky and we could open a much greater breach in time. Who knows what could happen then?”

“This is as I feared,” said Volsky with a shrug. “Very well, we go our separate ways, but I am very nervous about this. We could be sending Kazan off to an uncertain future. It could appear anywhere and then Gromyko is trapped in the same nightmare we have been living in. I have briefed him on this, but what will he do? He is only now revealing the true nature of this mission to his crew.”

“I have thought about that sir. Nikolin and I have set up a secure encrypted channel to Kazan on a special frequency. What we will do is immediately broadcast on that channel after the shift to determine the location of Kazan relative to Kirov , and they will do the same.”

“Yet we would only be able to communicate if both ships arrive in the same time, which you yourself argue is most unlikely.”

“That may be so, sir, but it must occur that one or another ship arrives first. The signal will then go out automatically. It might be heard even if the other ship arrives days or even months later.”

“And if it arrives ten years later?”

Fedorov raised his eyebrows, knowing that they were again facing a great unknown. Volsky could see his frustration, and raised a hand. “We may never be able to sort this out, Fedorov. But this is a good idea. Yes. Set up your automatic signal beacon, and let us hope for the best. We have some time yet. I want to get well north before we shift, and find a safe place to see to our bloody nose in the bow. Any suggestions?”

“The Sea of Japan is likely to be busy if we linger here, sir. If we could time it for a night transit we might slip through the Soya Strait north of Hokkaido and get into the Sea of Okhotsk, but it would take us two days to get there at 16 knots.”

“Plot that course. We have the time. But I have asked Gromyko for a little favor before we make the final decision.”

“What is that, if I may ask, sir?”

“I consulted with Samsonov on the state of our remaining weapons inventory. It seems we have eighteen missiles, nine each of the Moskit II and MOS III. Considering that we have an uncanny knack of finding ourselves in hot soup when we shift, I have asked Gromyko to transfer over nine of his P-900s. That will still leave him six of those and sixteen Onyx missiles, and all his torpedoes, so his boat remains very strong. But I would feel just a little more comfortable with a few more missiles-not that I have any desire to use them. Rodenko also tells me Karpov had re-configured several SAMs for special use. I want those restored to normal operating status.”

“I understand, sir.”

“I also want to arrange a ceremony for Captain Karpov, and brief the crew on what is happening. Then we will give Byko and his divers a day for repairs before we shift.”

* * *

Orlov watched the last of the missiles being carefully loaded into the silos. The Admiral had come to him and asked him to oversee the operation, and he made sure it was done quickly and efficiently. Kazan’s teeth were a little smaller, by just a few centimeters, than the normal P-900s Kirov would carry. They also had a much smaller warhead at just 200 kilograms, though they had twice the range, out to 660 kilometers. Martinov checked them into inventory and set crews to see to their safe loading in the vertical silos. There was a modification kit that had to be installed for use on a surface ship, but otherwise they were soon lined up on the forward deck silos, and the hatches were slowly closing.

The Chief saw the lights wink farewell from the weather bridge on the sail of Kazan , and he raised his arm in return, hand making a fist. Then he watched as the men there scrambled below and the submarine slowly submerged. Gromyko, the Matador, was on his way to an unknown fate. Who knew if they would ever see the sub again?

With the missile silo hatches sealed and the forward deck cleared, he punched up a nearby intercom and reported the reload operation as completed. “Weapons secured in silos,” he finished.

“Very good, Chief,” came Rodenko’s voice in return, and Orlov smiled. They are still calling me the Chief, he thought. This is a forgiving ship and crew. If they knew what really happened back in the Med, I suppose they might think otherwise, but we will let those sleeping dogs lie.

He reached into his pocket, able to light up a cigarette at last. So now what, he wondered? Where are we off to this time? I get my little slice of redemption here, just as Karpov had his. But a leopard does not change his spots easily. Karpov was back to his same old self the instant he thought he was beyond the reach of higher authority. And what about me? What have I become in all this? Molla got what was coming to him. I’ve settled that…unless the bastard is still alive now. They say it is 1940, two years before I paid a visit to Molla. One day I would like to go home to Georgia, but that day may never come.

He looked at his watch, seeing it was nearly 18:00 hours and time to assemble on the fantail for the ceremony for Karpov. An empty casket was being laid to rest there, beneath a Russian flag. Hollow…That was how he felt about it, as hollow and empty as that casket. Karpov had tried to manipulate him to support his play for the ship, and positioned him to take the fall if things fell apart. Well, he felt my fist in his belly for that, so I will call things even and join the crew. I wasn’t here when Karpov was given command of the ship, but the men spoke highly of him. I suppose we owe him a decent burial, though his body is probably rotting in the sea by now.

He went forward where most of the senior officers and a good number of the crew had gathered on the fantail near the helo bay. Orlov slipped into the group, staying on the fringe of the crowd as he watched. The Admiral was there, standing by the flag draped casket, and now he spoke.

“Fighting crew of the battlecruiser Kirov ,” he began, placing his hand on the casket. “Here we would lay your fighting Captain to rest. Yet he is not with us. His body was never found. So here we stand to pay our respects, and lay what we knew of this man to rest. He was a mystery to many of you, and yes, a man you may have feared. Yet when this ship was faced with certain danger, he fought, and saved us all on more than one occasion. I gave him command of the Red Banner Fleet because I knew he would do his best for us. It was only when he thought himself to be forever lost in time that his heart hardened again, and for that we can forgive him. Yes, we must forgive.”

Now he turned and faced the casket, saluting slowly. “Vladimir Karpov, Captain of the First Rank, acting Commander of the Red Banner Pacific Fleet, may you rest in peace.”

The boson raised his pipe and three long notes trilled out, cutting the silence. Then the Admiral nodded to Troyak where he stood with a squad of Marines in full dress uniforms. He unsheathed his ceremonial sword, raised it to his chin, and then turned his head, his voice sharp and clear as he ordered the squad to action. The Marines moved in well drilled unison, shouldering their rifles and firing once, twice, again. Then the boson’s call sounded a second time and a solitary trumpet followed it playing the national anthem of the Russian Federation. The high notes echoed in the helo bay, and not a man there was unmoved to hear them. Even Orlov swallowed hard, tightening his jaw as the anthem concluded.