John Schettler - Tigers East

Fedorov had told him such a call might arrive one day, and what he was to do when it came. Fedorov had given him the code, and yet, even though he could see the other man’s face, the impossibility of that memory, and all the others, left him dizzy headed and very confused. When could any of these things have happened? Yet there they were, the memories clarifying with each passing second. He kept his eyes closed, listening, taking it all in, as if a whole other life was being poured into his head.

And it was.

Fedorov heard the voice as well when it came over the receiver, his pulse quickening. “We read you, Kirov, on secure Alpha-Zeta Channel, and your numbers are good. This is Captain Ivan Gromyko aboard the submarine Kazan. Come back. Over.”

Zykov stared dumbly at Fedorov now. What was an Alpha-Zeta channel, and how could they be talking to the submarine Kazan? Who was this Ivan Gromyko? Yet he saw the light of welcome realization in Fedorov’s eyes clearly enough. The Starpom strode over, his hand extended, reaching for the handset.

“Captain Gromyko?” There was just the hint of doubt lingering in the tone of his voice. “This is Captain Anton Fedorov. Come Back.”

“Kazan to Kirov. Glad to hear your voice, Fedorov. I assume all is well aboard the ship. Frankly, we haven’t determined the date here yet. Phoning home was our first order of business. Over.”

This conversation had been pre-arranged by Fedorov long ago. They knew there was always risk, that Time was fickle, that things could slip. Fedorov could see what was already happening to the ship, and so well before Kazan vanished at the edge of the hole opened by its own nuclear tipped torpedo, Fedorov had huddled with Gromyko. “Should you vanish for any reason, slip in time, then it is also possible that you might be returned to this timeframe. This happened to us several times. Kirov moved in and out of different times. We shifted to the future once, and found it very bleak, and then we slipped back again. Well, should this ever happen, I have arranged a secure encrypted channel, just above the EAM comm link that sends us orders from Severomorsk. If you ever re-appear, call us on that link. Here is the code you must receive for the link to be valid…”

“Fedorov here. It is late September, the 28th to be exact, in the year 1942. Over.”

“Understood. No doubt you are wondering what happened to us,” said Gromyko. “Where are you? Is the ship still in the Atlantic? Over.”

“The Pacific,” said Fedorov. “But Captain, circumstances have changed. There is a very great deal I will have to explain to you. At the moment, I am not even aboard the ship. We have a secured radio set that can dial in to the HF command channels. Over.”

“You are not on the ship? Explain. Over.”

“Too complicated for transmission over this channel. I doubt anyone else could be listening, but just to be safe, we should meet face to face.”

Fedorov’s doubt and fear had now been driven out with this sudden arrival on the scene. Now he had a choice to make. He was Starpom aboard Kirov , but already out here in direct defiance of Karpov’s orders to the contrary. There was still enough of the fear Symenko had stoked for him to realize this little act of mutiny would have consequences. He doubted that he could repair the damage. Karpov’s truce with him had always been uneasy. Look how quick he was to fire that S-400. It wasn’t as he said, trying to explain it away as theater to try and underscore the urgency of his order to return. No. That was direct violence, and it had been aimed to kill. If they hadn’t been so far out when the missile came, he shuddered to think what might have happened.

Karpov had no conscience, he thought. He had no scruples, and did not hesitate a single moment before he fired that missile. I did the same when we thought Orlov was jumping ship, and explained away that violence with excuses about contaminating the time line. Look at all I have done since then. So I have to face the fact that Karpov was, and still remains, a deadly nemesis. And I also have to realize that everything Symenko laid out was true as well. I won’t get through to Ilanskiy. I’ll never reach that back stairway like this, not with Karpov raising the alarm from here to Novosibirsk. And even if I did get down those stairs, I doubt I would have the backbone, and that timely cruelty I spoke of with Karpov. I cannot kill Sergei Kirov. I just can’t do it.

I’m sorry, he said inwardly. Sorry for everything. The torture of this world is on my shoulders, and I deserve all the chaos I have courted since the day we first shifted back to the 1940s. I was such a child then, enamored of the fact that I could see an old museum piece sweep over the ship as it did. Karpov wanted to kill that plane. Volsky stayed his hand. Then I opened my mouth, delighted as much as I was shocked to realize what I was seeing, for there I was, right in the middle of the history I have studied all my life. It was my own private heaven, and look what I have made of it—my own private hell.

“Kazan, Kazan,” he said through the handset. “Transmit your coordinates. I am on an airship and we can come to you. Then we can talk, Captain Gromyko. I can explain everything, and believe me, it’s a very long story. Over.”

There was a long pause, and Fedorov knew Gromyko was considering something. Then he came back. “Kazan to Fedorov. You say Kirov is in the Pacific? Please confirm. Over.”

Fedorov did not know why Gromyko wanted that, but he confirmed it. Then the submarine Captain came on again. “Kazan to Fedorov, we’re in the Barents Sea,” he said. “We’ll transmit exact coordinates. Can you get up here, and if so, how soon? Over.”

“Standby, Kazan .”

Now Fedorov looked at Symenko. “Captain,” he said. “I’m afraid we have yet another change of plans. Do you have sufficient fuel to get to the Barents Sea?”

Symenko raised an eyebrow. “It was 2000 kilometers to Ilanskiy from the rendezvous point where I found you. Let me think….” He reached for a chart he had on the desk, and walked a nav compass across it. “We’re skirting the northern tip of lake Baikal from the last report. The Barents Sea is a big place, but if he were up off the Nose of the Dolphin, it would be another 3300 klicks. Yes, I’ve got the fuel to get there, but not much more.”

The Dolphin Head was a long peninsula that jutted up where the White Sea flowed into the Barents. It looked just like the head of a dolphin, with a long nose at the end. Fedorov nodded, thumbing the handset to send.

“Fedorov to Kazan . We can make that rendezvous. Can you meet us off the Dolphin’s Head? Over.”

“Affirmative, Fedorov. Can do. Will transmit exact coordinates on approach. Anything more? Over.”

There was nothing else to be said, at least not now, even on a secure channel. Fedorov walked over to have a look at Symenko’s chart, his studied eye immediately knowing the heading change they had to make.

“Captain Symenko,” he said. “It seems that you and I are now quite literally in the same boat—in a manner of speaking. If you want to know the truth, Karpov will likely see my actions here as out and out mutiny. I’ve disobeyed his direct order to return to my ship to get this far, but given all you have just said, I don’t think it wise if we stay on this heading for Ilanskiy.”

“And this important business of yours?” said Symenko. “Not so important now with his lordship turning out the hounds on you. I was one of them, and I suppose I could still spit in your eye and let my men here have a go at your little contingent of Marines. Sure, those tough louts of yours would kill a good many, but we could also vent helium and simply bring this airship down. You could try to stop us, but I have a crew of 30 men on this ship. You want to try and kill them all?” He smiled.