John Schettler - Crescendo of Doom

“We should have seen this coming,” Kirov shook his head. “We were well warned, Grishin. The material told us we needed new tanks, and this Fedorov also warned me when I met with him.”

“The British also have a new heavy tank, sir.”

“So I am told by your men in that theatre. When will you have more information?”

“Very soon. I have a very good man on the job there, but it is a long way to Libya where these tanks made their latest appearance. What we do know is that the Germans cannot stop them, which is why we must do everything possible to build heavy tanks like these ourselves.”

“When will you have the plans?”

“That will not be easy. In fact, we have learned very little about them thus far. We have scoured England, but this is also an anomaly of sorts, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“We can find no production facilities in England associated with this new tank. At first I assumed they were well hidden, perhaps even underground, but my people there are very good. This may sound surprising, sir, but we’ve turned up nothing—no factories, no materials requisitions, no evidence of a design or planning committee—nothing! I must conclude these tanks may have been built in a secret overseas facility, perhaps in the British colonies. Our man in North Africa says they first appeared out of the deep desert of southern Libya.”

“Nonsense. If they had factories there, we would know about them. You simply cannot hide facilities big enough to produce heavy tanks.”

“I thought as much, sir. So we are now looking into India. They could have been shipped in from there, and we’ll find out soon enough. That said, this is all another deviation from the material. No mention was ever made of these heavy tanks, and the fighting in both North Africa and Syria has been radically altered. The Germans have been stopped on both those fronts!”

Kirov thought about this, nodding his head. “No evidence… Just as the British found no evidence that we ever built the ship. That must have been a great surprise to them when it appeared in the middle of their battle with the German Navy last year—yes, another anomaly.”

“There is one more we must discuss, sir.”

“Karpov?” Kirov knew what was on the other man’s mind. “Any further information?”

“Only that those reports of his demise were proven wrong. His airship did not crash in the English Channel. We believe this may have been deliberate misinformation. Tunguska was spotted by our agent at Ilanskiy. And sir, there is a big battle underway there now.”

“At Ilanskiy? Why wasn’t I informed in the morning papers?”

Kirov was not referring to the Moscow news. The ‘morning papers’ were his daily briefing reports from the GRU, which he read over hot tea, blini, and good bread at his breakfast.

“We only got the information an hour ago,” said Berzin. There is an airship battle underway, and Volkov has landed a large troop contingent.”

“I see…” Kirov’s eyes darkened. “Then this offensive opening on the Ob River line three days ago was a ruse. It was meant to pull in Siberian reserves to that front, all so this attack at Ilanskiy might succeed.”

“Why would Volkov want that place, sir?”

“That is usually something I might be asking you, Grishin. Are you not head of the GRU?” Kirov smiled, indicating he was not serious. He knew full well why Berzin was in the dark about Ilanskiy. There were some things Kirov told to no other man, and his experience on the back stairway of Ilanskiy was one of them.

“For that matter,” said Berzin, “why does this Karpov fret over the place? I can only conclude it must be a new weapons facility, sir. There is construction going on there. The Siberians have also been bringing in materials from mining concerns deep in the taiga. We are getting more hard information on this, and I will have a report for you very soon, sir.”

“Where are these mining concerns you speak of?”

“Up near Vanavara, sir, which is very surprising. Those old mines there are a thousand kilometers away from this new operational base Karpov seems to be setting up at Ilanskiy, and we all know the Siberians have very few trucks to waste in hauling mineral ore half way across Siberia.”

“Indeed,” said Kirov, a light of understanding in his eyes now, though he said nothing more.

ElenaFairchild was not satisfied. The conversation she had with Admiral Tovey had done nothing but deepen the mystery, and the dilemma she now found herself in. It was not simply the shock and amazement over what had happened to the ship, or even the deep, residual guilt she felt when she left those oil tankers adrift in that uncertain future.

The moment she received that fleet order on the Red Phone, the thrum of anxiety had redoubled. Her nerves had been jangled by the imminent outbreak of war, and their hurried mission to close a deal with Salase and complete that oil shipment would have been enough for anyone to cope with. When that order came, however, directing her to Delphi, she had been very perplexed. It was blunt and simple: Keyholder Alpha to designated mission point. Godspeed.

It was one of those things that had always been lurking in the background, and something she never quite grasped in its entirety. The duty had been handed to her, officially, just six months before she met Salase, when she was in home port, anchored off her corporate headquarters facility at Port Erin on the Isle of Man. She had gone ashore that day, thinking to have a bite of fish and chips at a favorite little restaurant near the old railway station and museum. The Port Erin Diner was a simple place, in an eggshell yellow building with the familiar green sign. Right next door was “The Station,” serving pure brewed traditional ales, and she would have a pint herself after lunch.

But the dark, official looking car that pulled up outside, and the man in a naval uniform with that briefcase, spelled trouble from the moment she saw them. Instead she was sought out by the young officer, a special courier, and told that she was to take delivery of the briefcase and its contents, and that he was not to leave her presence until he was satisfied that a security team was present to escort her safely back to the ship.

Once aboard Argos Fire she sat in her secure office, staring at that briefcase for some time before she mustered the determination to get on with it and open the damn thing. Inside she found a small manila envelope, and equally terse instructions.

Now designated Keyholder Alpha. Contents to be worn on person at all times. Mission point briefing to follow. The briefing had designated Delphi, and specifically the shrine itself, as her mission point, and gave instructions on how she was to excavate the site should she ever be called to carry out this mission. No further explanation was given, and for some time nothing more came of the matter.

It was just another of the many riddles and mysteries surrounding her induction into the Watch. The things she had learned had been deeply shocking, and her life was never quite the same afterwards. Once she had tried to unburden herself to Captain MacRae, Gordon, the man who had become much more than her able ship’s commander in recent weeks. She had always admired him, and knew that behind that admiration, another feeling lurked in the background, an attraction that she found impossible to dismiss. She had kept it hidden behind the protocols of running the ship, and conducting company business, but she could feel, with that intuition women are famous for, that there was something in his gaze at times, something in the tone of his voice, that was more than simple ship’s business.