John Schettler - Kirov II - Cauldron of Fire

“Anything more?”

“All three main SSM systems report green sir. We have full fire control and I have spun up one silo to full battle readiness for each system.” The ship’s real teeth, the lethal ship to ship missile batteries beneath their hatches on the long foredeck, were as sharp as ever.

“Very well,” Fedorov nodded, remembering that the Admiral would often use that same expression after receiving a report. And for that matter he assumed as well the familiar stance that Volsky would adopt while he took stock of a tactical situation on the bridge, arms clasped behind him, chin high and a observant eye to the seas around them—mid-day seas, with the sun glistening of the low wave caps and high in the sky. He had watched the old man with much admiration many times from his former post at the navigation station, and he took heart to know that the Admiral was on his way at this very moment, collecting his thoughts for the report he would soon be asked to give himself. But minutes passed and Volsky did not appear. Time stretched on and he stood there, not knowing what to do next.

A low tone sounded and Fedorov walked quickly to the comm-receiver near the Admiral’s chair to answer. “Executive Officer Fedorov here,” he said, eager to hear the voice of Admiral Volsky again in return, but instead it was Dr. Zolkin in the infirmary.

“I’m afraid we have casualties, Mr. Fedorov,” the voice said in a low and serious tone. “If the situation allows, could you please come to sick bay?”

Fedorov hesitated briefly, wondering. Then he marshaled his courage and spoke up, trying to keep his voice clear and level. “Very well, Doctor. I need to run down damage reports, but I’ll see what I can do.”

As he slipped the receiver back into its holder he had a sinking feeling that he knew why the Admiral had not yet reached the bridge.

Lingeringnear the Admiral’s chair Fedorov realized that he might soon be sitting there in a way he had never fully imagined, or even desired. Yet the urgency of the moment pulled at him. He could still hear claxons sounding and knew there was a fire below decks. The damage control parties were scrambling to douse the flames, and when he looked out the forward view pane he could see a column of thick black smoke rising past Kirov’s tall central tower, up past the main mast where it darkened the rotating radar antennae with soot.

Chief Byko called up to the bridge to report the full extent of the damage, which seemed remarkably light given the sound and fury of the attack they had just endured. One of the lifeboats on the port side had been riddled with machinegun fire and set ablaze. Heavier rounds had piled into the main superstructure, some penetrating to the outermost compartments in the interior of the ship, where three seamen lost their lives and seven more were wounded by shrapnel. An examination of the damage showed that the worst of the attack had been aimed at the command citadel, though remarkably little harm was done there. The 200mm armor plating surrounding the critical systems and personnel in this area had deflected most of the heavier rounds, but some of the more sensitive radar and electronics components above suffered serious damage. The port side radar control for the Klinok (SA-N-92) Missile system was shot completely through and virtually shattered. Byko had engineers up on the roof of the citadel removing the unit and gauging their chances of replacing it with reserve components from the engineering bay.

Rodenko finally seemed to get his primary search radars clear of interference and was getting a good picture of the area around the ship, though his range seemed limited. “All clear for the moment,” he said to the Executive Officer. “I suppose we can count ourselves lucky that they didn’t hit the main search radars. Our Voskhod MR-900 system is green and the 3D Fregat MR-910 on the aft mast is fully operational. Not sure why our signal range is so attenuated at the moment, but it was not from any damage sustained in that attack.”

“We had the same situation with signal range the last time,” said Fedorov. My Navigation Radars were at 50% of capacity for several hours.”

“The last time?” Rodenko looked at him. “You mean to say—”

“That was no modern aircraft that just hit us,” said Fedorov. “In the heat of the moment I could not get a clear look at the plane, but I did see enough to know it was a twin engine fighter—probably a Beaufort or perhaps even a BF-110.”

Samsonov frowned. He had never heard of either aircraft, and realized things were skewing off in an impossible direction again. “Then we are still back to the Second World War? This is crazy! What is going on?”

Fedorov looked at him, thinking, but said nothing for a moment. Remembering the attack, he recalled the piercing lights that lanced through the bridge compartment. Rodenko had seen them as well, and he questioned him about it.

“Those lights, Rodenko. Do you remember what happened?”

“I thought it was a laser,” said Rodenko. “Came right through the main bulkhead of the citadel and hit the decks. But, as you can see, there is no damage at all.” He scratched his head, clearly flummoxed by the attack.

“It was probably rounds from the main cannon on that aircraft,” said Fedorov.

“Impossible,” Samsonov complained. “Right through our armor? Then where are the holes?”

“I don’t think they really hit us,” Fedorov began, still feeling his way through the explanation himself, trying to get his mind around it even as he spoke. “This trouble with the ship’s reactor Dobrynin reported… and strange light on the sea just before the attack, the odd pulsation in the air—it was all just as we experienced it before. I think we may have slipped again, moved in time again.”

“But how?” Rodenko and Tasarov both turned in their chairs now, keenly attentive to what Fedorov was saying. The other crew members were listening, though Rodenko waved a hand at one, a look of annoyance on his face that set the man back to his watch on the radar.

Fedorov stepped closer and the four men seemed to form a circle, the senior officers on the bridge now, Fedorov as the acting Starpom , or First Officer, and his senior Lieutenants, Rodenko, Tasarov and Samsonov. He went on, still trying to sort through the situation in his mind as he spoke.

“Suppose we moved again,” he began. “God only knows where now, but it was clearly not forward in time. We’ve slipped back again—or we were pulled back again. Who knows why? But it was as if we were not quite all here when that plane came in on us. Some of those rounds seemed to pass right through the bridge, just as you say Rodenko, like a laser. Then, as we solidified in this moment, the shells began to bite against the citadel’s armor. We got off rather easy with this attack. Those cannons could have done a lot more harm if they had hit more critical systems, but I think most of the rounds passed right through us…because we weren’t really here yet—we were still manifesting in this new time.”

He realized how crazy his words must sound, but by now the crew had come to accept the impossible circumstances of their situation. “Look at the time,” Fedorov pointed to the chronometer. “It is two in the morning, and we should be in the thick of night. Please correct me if I am wrong, but it is broad daylight now. Where has the night gone? Unless the earth’s rotation has suddenly changed, we have obviously moved in time.”

“But there was no nuclear detonation,” said Rodenko. “How did it happen this time? How could we move again like this?”

“I don’t know…” Fedorov was quick to admit his own ignorance. “We may never know. It could be that we have never really settled in time again after that first accident that sent us reeling into the past. Ever skip a rock on a pond? Perhaps we are skipping along in time like a stone skips on the water. We landed in 1941, and then skipped off the water into that nightmare world of the future, only to fall back into the drink again. We just sailed across the Atlantic, so we have deliberately moved in space.”