Kirov Saga: Devil's Garden (Kirov Series) (21 page)

The
other two hovercraft reported in and Fedorov ordered the flotilla to head east,
then south for the
Anatoly Alexandrov
at their best speed. Any German
infantry that were huddled in positions on the shore watched them go,
accelerating to over 70 knots as they swept out to sea. The troops gaped at the
spectacle, shaking their heads in awe. Who were these hardy men who had blasted
their planes from the sky with rockets, stopped their tanks cold, and held the
entire weight of two battalions at bay?

 As
the flotilla retired, they passed a number of smaller craft at sea, giving them
no mind and not knowing that Haselden’s little band of raiders was aboard one,
slowly heading east in their foaming wake.

The
run from Makhachkala down to the
Anatoly Alexandrov
was no more than
twenty kilometers, and Fedorov radioed ahead to tell Dobrynin they were on the
way home. “Get Rod-25 ready for operation,” he urged.

“I
started the procedure five minutes ago when Troyak radioed he had all his
remaining men aboard. But what about Bukin and the Mi-26? Shall I tell him to
take off now?”

“Not
yet,” said Fedorov. “Tell him to hold until we arrive. I just want to be sure
we still have options in case anything goes wrong.”

“Options
for what, Fedorov?”

It
was a good question, and Fedorov really had no answer for it.

“We’ll
be there in a matter of minutes, Chief. Signing off.”

The
hovercraft soon roared up to the waiting ship, and Fedorov considered what to
do. Should he send Bukin on his way to carry out Admiral Volsky’s plan? Here
they had just taken an enormous risk to recover a single man, and now he was
about to send four more off in the Mi-26 for a thousand mile journey east to
the Pacific. It seemed a crazy plan for them to try and fly all that distance
and then wait, undiscovered, for nearly three years! What was Volsky thinking?
Once they got home to 2021 again they would have all three control rods. Then
all they had to do was land at the Kaspiysk Naval base here and put them on a
fast Antonov-225 cargo plane to send them east to Vladivostok. From there they
could work up a way to get back to
Kirov
…or so he thought.

But
how? His mind was soon flooded with all the many things that could go wrong.
First off, there was no guarantee that Rod-25 would shift them happily back to
2021. They had often appeared in a future time that was obviously beyond that
year, for they had seen the devastation of the war that was fought.

That
thought also filled him with dread. What was happening in the war? Had they
changed anything with this mission? Did they get to Orlov in time? Did Orlov
even have anything to do with the outcome at all? What if they shifted forward
in time and found everything destroyed again; the naval base bombed and
wrecked? What then?

That
prospect was daunting enough, but now he considered all the variables they
would face even if they did make it back to an intact base in 2021 and reached
Vladivostok by aircraft. What would they do? They could try to take the other
two rods back with them from the Primorskiy Engineering Center again. At least
they would be right there in Vladivostok when they arrived—but where? There was
no guarantee that they would reach the year 1945. Experience told him that they
would most likely end up in 1942 again! Then it was back to waiting out the war
in Vladivostok until
Kirov
appeared in 1945.

That
was probably a better plan, he thought. Better than the Mi-26 trying to make it
all that way alone. The fuel situation is shaky, the helo is unarmed, and it
will be a long, long wait for the small crew aboard until 1945. His alternate
plan sounded much more secure. He decided that would be the best call, then
realized that the instant he made that choice the outcome would ripple forward
across the long decades and be “history” at the other end, assuming he actually
put that plan into action.

It
either works or it doesn’t work, he thought grimly. But I could be the reason
Kirov
never hears us calling when it arrives in 1945. It could be my meddling with
Volsky’s plan here that changes everything—for better or worse.

Chapter 18

“The
mission is off? You are countermanding orders from Admiral
Volsky.” Dobrynin had a confused look on his face.

“It is simply too risky, Chief.” Fedorov explained his reasoning,
and then put forward his idea. “Don’t you agree that would be a better plan?”

“Well… I suppose it does sound more plausible, Fedorov. You found
a way to make up for using all that helicopter fuel, but I’m not a Fleet
Admiral. Volsky was very insistent that I get this damn helicopter on its way.”

“I will speak to him about it when we return and I’m sure he will
understand my decision. Few plans ever play out as they were initially
intended. At the moment, our best and only bet is to get the
Anatoly
Alexandrov
home in one piece.”

Dobrynin shrugged. “Very well,” he said. “The procedure is
underway and I am ready for rod retraction and insertion.”

“Good, Chief…Do you think we will we make it back?” The
uncertainty in Fedorov’s voice was evident.

“The pattern has held steady every time we have used this rod,
Mister Fedorov. One thing is probably certain, we are going to move somewhere.”

“How long do you think it will take?”

“Let me listen…” The Chief slowly raised a hand, like a conductor
hushing down his orchestra with a feather light movement of his palm. He was
signaling his rod technician to begin. One rod would be removed, the other
inserted to maintain the steady regulation of the reaction. As the process
began he sat down and listened to the reactors, his mind shutting out all the odd
noise of the Marines fussing about on the ship and focusing intently on the
nuclear song at the heart of the core.

He listened, hearing the telltale sound of Rod-25 rising like a
clarinet above the low rumble of strings, soaring up and up as the rod
descended deeper into the nuclear brew. Everything sounded normal, just as he
had heard it so many times before. He closed his eyes, a slight smile on his
lips, and it was then that he heard a strange harmony develop. What is this, he
wondered? There was another note in the mix, then a third, though they were
very muted, very distant, lilting like flutes in tandem with Rod-25. The sound
changed, no longer the ascending chorus he expected, but a deep descending
refrain that sounded completely different!

Fedorov watched him, amazed by the man’s obvious concentration.
Everyone has some special skill, he thought. Tasarov lived under his sonar
headset, and the Chief knows his way around a reactor room better than any man
in the fleet.

He waited, feeling an urgent need to go and see about Orlov. His
Aist
class craft was being moored to the port side of the floating powerplant, commanded
by Captain Malkin, and the two lighter
Kalmar
class craft were on the
starboard side. Orlov was supposedly inside a PT-76 tank on one of those craft,
and he was eager to go and see him. Then he realized that Zykov had not yet
reported back and a thrum of anxiety rose in his gut. He had the distinct
feeling that something was wrong, something oddly out of place.

A voice blared over the intercom loudspeaker.
“Captain Malkin
to Fedorov. We have a small craft approaching off our port aft quarter.”

Fedorov grasped the handset and spoke. “How close, Captain?”

“About a thousand meters out.”

“Does it look threatening? Is it closing the range?”

“No, sir. Looks to be a fishing trawler. The crew is just giving us
a wave as they pass. They must think we are a Russian cargo vessel.”

“Very well. No sense causing any more trouble here than we have
to. Let it be.”

Those last three words were very fateful, though Fedorov did not
know that as he spoke them. Let it be…

“Keep me posted, Chief.” He was off to find Orlov and settle
accounts with the man.

*
* *

“Not
here? Are you absolutely certain?” Fedorov had an anguished look
on his face as Troyak reported. Zykov was standing next to him, a sheepish look
on his face.

“We checked the tank. No one saw him. I’ve ordered a search of all
the hovercraft and the facility itself. If he’s still aboard, we’ll find him.”

“I hope to God we do,” said Fedorov. “Zykov, what could have
happened?”

“I ordered the men to get him to a PT-76,” the Corporal said
apologetically. “The attack was really heating up and the withdrawal was very
chaotic. I was checking every building for loose equipment and casualties. I
don’t know, Colonel. I found two men down in the warehouse near the detention
facility, but I assumed they were casualties from mortar fire. The rounds were
pounding that area pretty bad as we pulled out. Now that I look at those bodies
I see that they were not hit by shrapnel from anything like a mortar. They died
from small caliber fire, two rounds per man—probably pistols. I’m sorry,
Fedorov… I … I should have collared Orlov myself and dragged him home by the
ear.”

Fedorov could see that Zykov was very deflated. He was given the
job of finding Orlov and he had done that under very difficult circumstances.
But something obviously went wrong. No plan ever plays out as it is intended.
He remembered his own words to Dobrynin just moments ago.

“Damn! Well maybe he’ll turn up in the search,” he said. “I know
you did your best, Zykov.”

Then he realized that the procedure was already underway. They
could shift in time at any moment! If Orlov was not aboard they would lose him
again, and without his service jacket there would be no way to find or track
him.

“Search every compartment, every deck and storage locker. Search the
air conditioning conduits—everything! Turn this place upside down if you have
to. I’m going to see if we can stop the rod maintenance procedure. We can’t
leave here without Orlov!”

Fedorov started away but, as he was down a ladder and heading for
the entrance to the lower deck, he saw something, felt something strangely odd.

He stood on the deck, looking around and scanning the gentle
swells of the Caspian Sea. There seemed to be a series of ripples emanating
from the ship, and expanding out in concentric circles. Was it happening? Were
they starting to displace in time?

He looked out and saw the trawler Captain Malkin had reported, a
small shape on the wide expanse of the sea and sailing slowly past the
facility. Two men were on deck but, as he watched, the air between the
Anatoly
Alexandrov
and the trawler seemed to quaver and ripple with a mirage-like
sheen.

My God! He exclaimed inwardly. We are moving! The shift has begun!
He could feel his pulse quicken, an urgent heat rising on his neck. He could
feel the whole damn mission slipping through his hands now like a loose mooring
rope. It was too late to get to Dobrynin and stop it, and Orlov was gone, gone,
gone!

Then he realized that if he could still see that trawler they must
be in 1942. It was there, bobbing in the sea as before, though veiled with a
gossamer sheen of light now. Was something wrong? Was Rod-25 failing them at
long last? He had to get to Dobrynin and find out.

*
* *

“Well
have a good look at that, Jock” said Sutherland.

“I’ve
been
looking at it. Why in blazes did you follow
those damn contraptions?”

“Just curious to see what they were up to. They’ve already bushed
us off with no worries. What do you make of it?”

“Some kind of ship, eh? But it’s not moving. Those Russian Marines
are docking up with the damn thing.”

“What’s that up on top? Looks like a big grasshopper!” Sutherland
pointed now.

“Hell if I know. You’d best get to the pilot house again and steer
clear, will you? Suppose they get curious and come over here to have a look.”

“Don’t worry, Jock. We’re just a fishing trawler to them. I’ve
even been waving at them to look all nice and friendly. We’re a good thousand
yards away and just sailing merrily off to look for some fish. No worries.”

But Haselden
was
worried. Sutherland could see it on his
face, more than worry. There was a look of absolute dread in the man’s eyes, a
cold fear that he had never seen before. Haselden had been through the heat of
the fire in action many times before, and in situations far worse than this.

“What’s wrong, Jock? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Never seen anything like this,” he said under his breath. “What’s
wrong with the bloody sea?”

Sutherland noticed it too—the odd sheen in the air, and how it
quavered and rippled, as if the atmosphere had been heated all around them.
Then they could hear a low hum that seemed to deepen, descending below the
threshold of hearing, though it could still be felt. A veil of mist seemed to
rise about the distant ship, rolling outward and rippling the sea itself, as if
the ship were pulsing and creating waves.