Winter Storm

Author’s Note:

Dear Readers,

We
ended
Nemesis
at the edge of a confrontation in the Helo Bay while the
action was building on the east front, and that is where we will being again,
settling affairs on the ship before returning to Guderian’s drive for Tula. He ran
into unexpected Soviet reinforcements in the first of Karpov’s promised
Siberian Shock Armies. Now we return to those battles, large and small, some
fated, some deferred to another day. The action now underway in Russia marked a
decisive turning point in the history Fedorov knew, and its resolution will be
a key factor in this alternate history as well.

That
action will reach a real crisis point in this volume, and then we must also
visit General Rommel again as the British launch Operation Crusader. Finally,
1941 ends with Japan’s Operation Z, the dramatic attack on Pearl harbor. Only
this time, in these altered states, things will be different. Yet it is also
said that the more things change, the more they stay the same. I will blend the
tried and true with the seed of change in this retelling of those events. And
now that the thorny issues of paradox and the ripples of chaos it creates are
behind us, we enter a new kind of chaos zone in this volume. For the war has
already lost its innocence, and now becomes the terrible and desperate struggle
it always threatened to be.

The
clouds are darkening, the wind is up, and lightning scores the rain streaked
sky. It is time for
Winter Storm…

- John Schettler

Part I

Chain of Command

“He who wishes
to be obeyed must know how to command.”

―
Niccolo Machiavelli

“Mister
Orlov!”

The
Operation’s Chief seemed to freeze with that voice, his eyes widening. Even
Grilikov flinched, his confrontation with Troyak momentarily distracted,
granite head turning to see Karpov standing at the far end of the Helo Bay near
the open hatch. Orlov gave Grilikov a quick, but urgent look, inclining his
head to call his attack dog off, and the big man took that step back Troyak had
demanded, though the look on his face remained hostile.

Yet the
sudden presence of Karpov on the scene seemed to overshadow everything else.
The security men behind Orlov shrunk back, their hands loosening on the weapons
they were brandishing. Grilikov seemed extremely edgy, the look on his face
dissolving with each sharp footfall as the Captain approached, a sheen of
perspiration on his brow now, and his neck reddening near his broad shoulders.
Orlov felt much the same, this unaccountable uneasiness in the presence of
Karpov, an unnerving, almost quailing feeling that left him very unsettled. His
normal jaunty attitude melted away, and he suddenly had a hangdog look on his
face.

Ever
since they made port, and the Admiral left the ship, Karpov seemed very
different. There was a sinister air about him that one could literally feel as
he approached. It wasn’t his physical presence, though Orlov knew he seemed
darker, more hardened, twisted like a steel coil. Yet the Captain was not a big
man, not like Grilikov, or Troyak, or even Orlov himself, who stood a head
taller. No, it was not his physical presence, but there was nonetheless an aura
of sheer menace around the man now, and the crew hushed when he passed in the
corridors, sensing and feeling it like a dark shadow moving among them on the
ship.

“Captain
on deck!” said Troyak, and every Marine stood to attention.

Karpov
stepped up to the scene, arms clasped behind his back, taking in the situation
with a studied, narrow eyed glance. “At ease…. What is the problem here?”

“Sir,”
Orlov began, then stopped, swallowing and clearing his throat. “Sir, I came to
take inventory as ordered, but the Sergeant and his Marines do not seem
cooperative.” He gave Troyak a quick look, dark and unfriendly.

“You
came to take inventory?” Karpov turned slowly towards the Chief, looking him up
and down, and the bigger man seemed to shrink under his withering regard. “Who
told you to do that? The Marines manage affairs on the Helo Deck. You know that
as well as I do. I told you to request that Sergeant Troyak make this
inventory, and have it sent to me by 15:00. Now it seems I have to see to the
matter myself.” The censure and disapproval was evident in every word Karpov
spoke.

The
Captain looked quickly at the three security men. “And what are you dragging
these men around in your wake for? Why are they armed?”

“Sir,
I… I was thinking there might be difficulties…”

“You
were thinking?” Now Karpov leaned in to the Chief, lowering his voice, and
staring him directly in the eye. “I will do the thinking on this ship, Mister
Orlov. You will execute my instructions, which said nothing of an armed
security contingent to accompany you here. No one carries a weapon aboard this
ship except on my direct order. Is that clear? These men are to return to their
regular station at once, and locker those rifles.”

Even as
he said that, the three men stiffened with a salute, heels clicking, and ready
to move off, which was another rebuff to Orlov. When senior officers spoke to
one another, the enlisted men were merely statues on the scene, deaf and dumb
until receiving an order to act. Hearing Karpov’s order, it was Orlov who
should have then turned to dismiss the men, the directive passing down the
chain of command. The soldiers’ immediate and reflexive response to Karpov’s
words, as if Orlov were not even there, was another reproach for the Chief, who
seemed in command of nothing whatsoever at that moment, completely
discombobulated.

“Stand
where you are!” Karpov raised his voice, ever so slightly, a command directed
at the guards, and with obvious displeasure. He had not failed to notice the
blatant breach of protocol, and waited, giving Orlov an impatient look, even as
he also gave him back just a little measure of dignity in the situation.

Orlov
finally realized what was happening, and then turned to order the men off. His
neck was even redder than that of Grilikov now, who stood stone still, eyes
averted, waiting like an automaton in the thick tension of the moment.

“You
have other rounds to complete this morning?” said Karpov.

“Magazine
check,” Orlov returned sheepishly.

“Very
well, please see to that with Martinov, but
he
is to prepare the
inventory, and see that it exactly matches the readout we get on Samsonov’s
board in the CIC.”

“Yes
sir,” said Orlov. “Will that be all?”

“For
the moment. I’ll want to speak with you in the officer’s briefing room in
thirty minutes. Dismissed.”

Orlov
swallowed, waved a hand at Grilikov, who started to turn until he saw Karpov
look directly at him, which froze him in place again.

“Mister
Grilikov, wait at the far hatch. The Chief can handle his affairs without your
assistance. Mister Orlov, thirty minutes.”

The
Chief nodded, saluting and walking with Grilikov to the far hatch, where the
Sergeant stopped and stood like a Titan, tall and hard by the open entry. Now
Karpov turned to Troyak, giving Zykov a brief glance, his careful eye seeing
the weal on his upper cheek, and knowing what it meant, knowing everything that
had happened here in one glance, and everything that might have happened had he
not come on the scene.

“Sergeant
Troyak,” he said. “Forgive the Chief’s meddlesome ways. I will speak with him
on the matter later. I trust there was no problem here?”

“None
sir,” said Troyak.

“Good,
because I want no discord on this ship, particularly no friction with the
security contingent that boarded in Severomorsk. I will see that proper
protocols are followed, and have those men well briefed. Should there be any
further difficulties, please inform me directly if you have any concerns. As to
the matter of the inventory I sent Orlov to request, will you handle the matter
personally?”

“Of
course, sir.”

“Excellent.
I want a complete accounting of everything in your larders, munitions of every
type, and all weapons, equipment, and special modules available for loadout on
the helicopters. That includes
Oko
panels, sonobuoys, infrared systems,
everything. Understood?”

“Sir,
yes sir. I will have a complete inventory ready for you by 15:00 as requested.”

“Thank
you, Sergeant. I would like to meet with you briefly when you present that
report. I will be in the ready room off the main bridge at that time, and you
may report to me directly. No need to involve Chief Orlov.”

“Very
well, sir.”

Now
Karpov looked at Zykov. “Corporal, he said with a half smile, it seems you and
I have both become the walking wounded of late.” He gestured to the gauze that
was still on his cheek, part of the ploy he had devised to mask his scar for
the first few days aboard ship, and obviously taking notice of the mark on
Zykov’s cheek.

“It was
nothing, sir. Just a stumble.” Zykov still had his girly magazine behind his
back as he stood, half at attention, half at ease, and inwardly glad that Orlov
and his warthog had been put in their place. He was also relieved that the
fearsome confrontation between Troyak and Grilikov did not reach the point of
an explosion that would have been terrifying, to say the least. He had seen
Troyak fight before, in training and in combat, and the Sergeant was lethal
when he wanted to be, and utterly fearless.

“Just
our big feet,” said Karpov. “Thank you, gentlemen. As you were.” He turned,
walking quickly to Grilikov, and simply raising a finger to take the man in
tow. The Titan cast one backwards glance over his shoulder as they went,
thinking to find Troyak’s eye, but the Sergeant Major completely ignored him,
turning to his Marines and growling out an order.

“You
heard the Captain. All section teams to report with full inventory, and on the
double!”

The men
sprang into action, needing no further encouragement to get to work, and each
one inwardly proud at that moment, as much as they, too, were relieved. The
situation with Orlov had cascaded to a near disastrous confrontation, but the
sanctity of their deck was upheld, and something in the fact that Karpov
instinctively understood and reinforced that in his actions there that day,
earned the Captain a measure of their respect.

Karpov
was twenty paces down the corridor, before he stopped, not even turning, and
spoke.

“Sergeant
Grilikov. You will not lay a hand on any member of the Marine contingent again.
Not for any reason. Not ever. Understood?”

“Sir,
understood sir. And begging the Admiral’s pardon.”

“Captain,
Mister Grilikov. We are not aboard
Tunguska
. On this ship you will
address me as Captain.”

“Yes
sir. Sorry sir.”

“And as
commander of my personal security contingent, you will see that no man of that
detail bears arms unless I so order it. Not on this ship. Is that also clear?”

“Clear
sir.”

“Very
good. Follow me.”

The
Captain continued, the shadow walking on, the massive hulk of Grilikov
following, both men passing quickly down the long corridor and taking the
ladder up.

They
were headed for the Officer’s quarters.

*

When
the quiet knock came, Fedorov did not expect it. It was
rare for anyone to disturb him in his quarters, and for a moment, he thought,
and even hoped, it might be Nikolin. He wanted to see if he could persuade the
communications officer to send out another quiet message, though he knew that
would be somewhat risky. In fact, he also knew that he was putting any man he
recruited into jeopardy here, and that thought was also a burden as he
considered his situation.

I was
very lucky, he thought. It was clear that Karpov was very suspicious of both
the Admiral and myself. Yes, he was our nemesis, and we were the same to him.
Karpov was clearly trying to ascertain what we knew, who we really were, and I
hope to God he bought our little theatre. The Admiral was very adroit with his
pose at that moment, but did Karpov believe it?

“Come,”
he said, wondering who it was, and crestfallen when the door to his cabin
slowly opened and the Captain leaned in.

“Mister
Fedorov,” he said. “May I come in?”

“Certainly
sir,” said Fedorov, standing to offer a salute.

“Wait
here, Grilikov. And no need for formalities, Mister Fedorov.” The Captain
stepped in and closed the door firmly behind him. He spent a moment, his eyes
scanning the room, noting the books on the shelf above the desk, the unkempt
bunk, the half eaten roll on the desk, wrapped in paper.

“I see
housekeeping hasn’t called this morning,” he said. “May I sit down?”

“Of
course. Here sir.” Fedorov gestured to the chair by the desk, waiting until the
Captain was seated before taking a seat himself on the bunk.

“I
trust you have calmed down now after our discussion ashore?” Karpov gave him a
searching look, and Fedorov knew he had to be very cautious here.

“It was
very confusing, sir… I mean the harbor, the whole city gone, and then this
business with the Admiral. I always suspected we had moved in time. I was
arguing that all along, but to finally realize it was true…” He had to play
this part very carefully now.

“Yes,”
said Karpov. “Very disconcerting, but you see, I have finally come round to
your point of view, Fedorov. You should be grateful for that. I was beginning
to think some rather grim thoughts about you.”

Karpov
remembered what his brother self had told him now. Yes, Fedorov was a pest, and
more. His other self had suspected he was a double agent. He had said and done
some very unusual things in the tension of those first days after the 28th of
July. Now Karpov was going to see just where that anchor fell, and pull it up
if need be, to move his ship of thought along concerning this man. He started
weighing in the anchor with his next question.

“About
that radio message you asked the Admiral to send…. What was it, exactly?”

“Radio
message?” Fedorov knew he could not play too dumb here, but his pulse quickened
when the Captain started with this line of questioning. He tried to remember
now, any and everything he might have said in those first days that would give
away the fact that he knew much more than he let on, that he was, in fact, much
more than he seemed.

“Oh,
yes,” he recovered. “The Royal Navy command protocol. I knew about that from my
reading, sir. It was clear to me that I was looking at British cruisers,
County
class, on those video feeds we got. Yes, that was impossible, and I clearly
understood your dismissal. It was difficult for me to accept as well, but I’ve
learned to believe my own eyes, and that started with the moon, as I tried to
explain, sir.”