John Schettler - Fallen Angels - 9 Days Falling, Volume II

“The Sprague group has been loitering about a hundred kilometers due east of Shikotan Island, Captain. They could launch now, but radar returns show only modest combat air patrols over that group. I believe they are waiting for the Halsey group, which should reach strike position in about ninety minutes if we proceed on our present course and speed. If we were to hold in place, make that three hours.”

Karpov’s eyes narrowed. “Helm, port fifteen. Mister Nikolin, signal the flotilla to match our movements. We will circle in place.”

“Aye, sir.”

The order seemed to ease the tension a bit on the bridge, and Rodenko was relieved that the Captain seemed to want to buy himself a little more time to consider the situation. Karpov appeared ill at ease, however, as if the weight of the decision was heavy on him now.

“They are not making the mistake Captain Tanner did in 2021,” said Karpov.

“Sir?”

“Tanner tried to take us on single handedly. The Americans had another carrier approaching, the Nimitz , named for the Admiral commanding their fleet in this timeframe. Tanner came in alone and he paid for it, just as this Sprague group would have paid a high price if they pressed that last attack against us.”

“But they called that attack off and consolidated,” said Rodenko. “Now they present us with a much stronger force.”

Karpov was pacing. “Get hold of Orlan and Golovko ,” he said to Nikolin again. “Ask Yeltsin and Ryakhin if they can join me for a conference in thirty minutes aboard Kirov .” Then he turned to sonar. “Mister Tasarov—keep a sharp ear. I want the KA-40 up on ASW patrol and coordinating with Golovko . No surprises please.”

“Aye, sir. Our immediate zone of operations is clear and I am monitoring the situation closely.”

“Good man… Rodenko, you have the bridge.”

Karpov stepped toward the aft hatch, his eye catching the red emergency lighting and manual lock switch as he did so, and a thrum of anxiety rose in his stomach. The memory of that moment when he had opened the hatch and saw the dull gleam of that light on the barrel of an assault rifle pointed at his chest returned to him. The stalwart figure of Sergeant Troyak standing in the hatch opening… the cold, emotionless eyes of the Siberian Marine, the feel of his hand like iron on his own when Troyak took his missile key…The humiliation that followed seared him again as he recalled what happened. The image of Orlov’s face as he looked at him, a quiet sneer of disgust in his eyes, and the last words the Chief spoke to him… “Consequences, Karpov. Consequences… ” And all the while the sound of Kirov’s deck guns cracked in the air like a snapping whip, salvo after salvo. Then the sight of that distant mushroom cloud blossoming up on the horizon, and with it the realization of what he had done.

Karpov lowered his head, stepping quickly through the hatch, his face clouded and troubled.

“Captain off the bridge!”

He was down the ladder and heading aft, his footsteps leading him on past the officer’s mess, where another memory clawed at him. Orlov…He remembered how the big Chief had deliberately spilled coffee on his table, and his surprise in seeing him there as he left the officer’s mess. It was the last time he had spoken to Orlov, and his hand moved involuntarily to his side where the Chief had buried a fist in his gut.

Hot anger colored the Captain’s cheeks as he walked, quickly turning right to reach his quarters. He closed the door with a hard shove, taking off his Captain’s hat and wiping the damp sheen of perspiration from his forehead. Without thinking he went to a cabinet and took out a bottle of Vodka and a shot glass, sitting down at his desk with a hard thump as he hit the chair.

A dejected cold feeling surrounded him. He took a sip and then tipped the shot quickly down, breathing hard with the fire of the liquor on his throat. The taste of the Vodka triggered yet another memory of that drink he had with Admiral Volsky in the brig. He had been sullen and disrespectful, calling the Admiral an old man to his face and prompting him to fist the table top in anger. He could hear Volsky’s anger, well justified…

“You are talking to the Admiral of the Northern Fleet!”

Karpov’s own voice sounded thin and strident in return, and laden with resignation.

“Admiral of the fleet? What fleet is this you presume to command now, comrade? We are one ship, lost at sea, and lost in eternity. God only knows where we are now, but I can assure you, the fleet is long gone, and there is no one back home in Severomorsk waiting for us to return either. It’s all gone, Volsky. Gone! Understand that and you have your fat fist around the heart of it. If you want to understand what I did you need only open your hand and look at it. All we had left was this ship, Admiral, and no one else seemed to have backbone enough to defend it. If I had not taken command it is very likely that we would all be at the bottom of the sea now—have you considered that?”

Yes, he was considering it even now as he poured a second shot. It was all gone—Severomorsk and the Northern Fleet; Vladivostok and the Pacific Fleet—all gone. He was the new fleet commander, the proud remnant of all that was probably left of Russian Navy in the Pacific. That same logic sat like ice in his stomach. If the old life was gone then this was all he had—all any of them had—these three ships and the men he commanded. They could change the entire history of the world if they wished. They were the most powerful men on the earth at this moment. He had said as much to Volsky that day in the Brig. “I had my hand on the throat of time itself and I let it slip from my grasp. Don’t you understand what we could have done with this ship?”

Now he stared at Fedorov’s well worn book on his desktop. Fedorov, pure hearted Fedorov. There was a man with a conscience, eh? Karpov recalled the glassy look in Fedorov’s eyes as he stared at the burning wreck they had made of the battleship Yamato , and realized what he had done, and he remembered what he had said to him in consolation… “ It will get easier.”

The echo of Fedorov’s response was still fresh in his mind …“I’m not sure I want it to,” the young Captain told him, and Karpov knew what he meant. It never really does get easier, he knew, not for a man with any shred of feeling in his heart.

Now Fedorov was out looking for Orlov, lost in the past even as he was. But he had one thing with him that Karpov found missing, that last thing at the bottom of Pandora’s jar. Fedorov had hope. He knew that Volsky and Dobrynin were feverishly working out his plan with the Anatoly Alexandrov to try and bring him home again.

That’s why I feel the way I do now, thought Karpov. There’s no hope , no one is looking for us. In fact, they probably have no idea what even happened to us. Who knows whether or not that letter I sent ever got through to Volsky?

Yet the more he thought of Fedorov, the more he wondered. He was supposed to get back to the year 1942. If he made it, and carried out his mission, that should all be over by now. If Dobrynin had somehow managed to rescue him, Fedorov would be safely home, back in the year 2021. Would the war still be raging there, or did he find a way to put an end to it?

Karpov shook his head, unwilling to believe that Orlov could have done anything to cause the war. He saw how it unfolded like a fan, how it was meant to be, in spite of what they read in that newspaper and the respite they won when he stayed Samsonov’s hand in the Combat Information Center and spared the American submarine Key West. Now he imagined Fedorov returning to the same bleak world of ash and cinder that they had seen on every shore they visited. He imagined the Anatoly Alexandrov sitting there in the Caspian Sea, fifteen kilometers off shore, a solitary island of metal, men, and hope. They would have put out patrols with anything they had available. They would have sent men to the naval base at Kaspiysk. What did they find there if they ever made it back? Was the world safe and sound, or just another lump of coal?