Nemesis (18 page)

He knew
this place so well, the winter storms, summer rains, the swaying birch trees
and alders, the smell of wild cranberries growing in the hills. The monuments,
and schools, the restaurants and hotels—all gone. He did see a few low
buildings in the direction where the Naval Headquarters complex was supposed to
be, and he could smell smoke on the cool night, hear the sound of someone cutting
wood, faint and far off. A dog howled on the darkened hills surrounding the
harbor, its mournful call seeming to sum up all he felt at that moment.

It was
gone—all of it—simply gone! Yet, like Orlov’s report from Jan Mayen, there was
no sign whatsoever of destruction or attack. The city was simply not there!

Now
what, he thought, his heart beating faster as the realization of what he was
seeing finally struck home? It wasn’t Fedorov with his damnable history books
this time. It wasn’t video on the monitors, reports from Orlov, or the untimely
rising of a fat moon off the port side of the ship. This time it was the
evidence brought to him by his own eyes, the stark reality all around him that
he knew was wrong. And as he stood there, peering through his field glasses in
a vain attempt to see things that were no longer there, a voice spoke within
him, dark and threatening, laden with consequence.

What
now?

There was
no naval inquiry waiting for them. He would have no one to make his carefully
worded reports to here. There was no court of appeal. Here he stood, an outcast
from the world and life he knew, and now he realized why he could not bring
himself to leave the ship at this moment. It was the only vestige of the world
and life he once knew, the last remnant of the time he was born to. If Volsky
and Fedorov were correct—if that ship they found back there was really the
Tuman
,
and the log book held true, then this was the night of August 2, 1941.

Slowly,
through the flutter of adrenaline and anxiety within his chest, behind the
rising pulse that kept him on edge, another thought suddenly emerged from some
dark corner of his mind. It is 1941, and here I am, standing aboard the most
powerful fighting vessel in the world.

And I
am its Captain….

Another
trip into insanity, thought Volsky as he entered the launch.
What will I find there this time? He watched while the men secured the line,
and the boat eased away from the long grey hull of
Kirov
. Sergeant
Troyak and Zykov were with them and a third Marine named Gretchko. The hoist
lines retracted, and the men above saluted as they pointed the bow of the
launch shoreward, and Troyak fed power to the motor.

The
Admiral had seen a mix of both anxiety and awe in the deck crews they left
behind. The fog and low clouds was still obscuring much, but some of the men
could tell that things were not what they should be here, and he thought long
and hard of how he could explain all of this incredible story to the crew. For
that matter, he thought he had better say something to the Marines.

“You
men,” he said quietly. “You may soon note that the harbor is somewhat
different. There is an explanation for this, though I will not have time to
share it all with you now. I will have Mister Fedorov go over it all with you
later. For the moment, just bear with the situation. It will all be made clear
later.

“How
did the Captain take the news?” asked Fedorov in a low voice, understandably
curious as he and Volsky settled into the cabin.

“I’m
not sure,” said Volsky. “He was very quiet. I invited him to join us but he
declined. I suppose this is more than enough to get any man thinking. We all
lose everything we had left behind to find ourselves standing here, Fedorov.
That is a hard stone to swallow. I was just considering how to reveal this to
the men, but first we must see what Moscow wants, and solve the mystery of this
recall order.”

“We
have been here once before,” said Fedorov.

“Here?
You mean in this time?”

“Yes
sir. You decided to meet with Sergei Kirov, and so we sailed here and he
traveled from Moscow to greet us. We actually met further south in Murmansk. Severomorsk
is not what it was when we left it, as I’m sure you can see, but most of what
is here was built for us after that meeting. There are quarters here for our
crew to take land leave, and supplies for the ship, mostly food and clothing.
Kirov was very gracious and accommodating when we met with him.”

“Volsky
shook his head. “Sergei Kirov… There is a man worth fighting for. I wonder what
the nation is like without Stalin? So do you believe he is behind this recall
order?”

“Possibly,”
said Fedorov. “You said your message from Admiral Golovko indicated he had an
important communication from Moscow. They knew we were here, sir, operating
with the British, and so they must have known we vanished in the middle of that
engagement we were fighting in May. Somehow, they must have gotten wind of the
ship’s reappearance, though I can’t yet figure how.”

“That
is the least of our worries,” said Volsky.

As they
approached the quay, they now saw the military band assembled, and they struck
up the Russian national anthem as the launch docked. There was an honor guard
waiting, smart and precise in dress uniforms, and a short man approached in a
well decorated officer’s jacket and a dark Admiral’s cap. For their part,
Volsky and Fedorov were also in their dress uniforms, instead of the normal
leather service jackets.

“You
have met this man before,” Fedorov said quickly. “But don’t worry, we did not
spend much time with him earlier. Yet it would be good to play as though he was
well met again.”

“Of
course,” said Volsky, feeling very strange. It was as if another version of
himself had been at large in the world, saying and doing things, commanding his
ship, and it was most disconcerting. “I hope I measure up to myself,” he said.

“Don’t
worry sir. You will do fine. Admiral Golovko is aware of us, in some respects.
He was told you are heading up a secret project involving the ship, though I’m
afraid he wasn’t that impressed when he saw we had no large gun turrets.”

Volsky
smiled. “Yes, we’re a bit of a wolf in sheep’s clothing, though one look at the
ship would certainly give any man of this era pause.”

Yes
sir. We later operated in these waters, the Kara Sea, to chase off a small
German surface group, and Admiral Golovko was most appreciative. That was
before Germany initiated hostilities, but we taught them a lesson, sir.”

“Then
they know of the ship as well?”

“Yes
sir. We have openly engaged German ships, and you will not be surprised to
therefore know that we sank several vessels. One was a very famous ship, the
German aircraft carrier
Graf Zeppelin
.”

“I have
heard of this ship,” said Volsky. “Yet it was never fully operational. Yes? We
sunk it?”

“In
this time it was operational,” said Fedorov, “and yes, it was necessary to sink
it in the final engagement we fought in the Atlantic.”

Volsky
took a long breath. “I see I have much to consider here. You and I will have to
have another along chat after this, and you can give me the details of things I
have already done! How very strange this feels.”

“For me
as well, sir,” said Fedorov. “It was here that I first discovered what had
happened to the Captain. I found a photo of him in some reading material
provided by Sergei Kirov. It was quite a shock. I wonder what happened to him
on the 28th of July?”

“Might
he be inside Karpov’s head? The man on our ship? You are here, and with all
these memories intact.”

“If
that happened, Karpov certainly doesn’t seem like he remembers anything.” Yet
Volsky’s suggestion gave Fedorov a pause.

“Well,”
said Volsky, “time to greet the Admiral. I will do my best to play the part,
Fedorov, but realize I have no recollection of any of this, and so I feel like
an actor on stage who has failed to memorize his lines.”

“Don’t
worry, sir. I’ll chime in if things get difficult.”

They
exited the cabin as the boat reached a long pier, still under construction, and
Gretchko tied off the line, a strange, anxious look on his face. The men called
him the cat, because of his greenish eyes, and also because that was the name
Doctor Zolkin had given to his pet, the official ship’s mascot.

“Well,
I see the real estate has gone downhill since we left,” said Volsky, trying to
lighten the moment. Stand easy men. Wait for us here on the boat, and do not be
too curious. If we are very long, we will send for you, particularly if the
food is good.” He gave the Sergeant a wink, and climbed slowly out of the
launch.

*

Fedorov
could see that there had been a lot of new construction at
the base since he was last here, and he felt it very odd that the site chosen
was the same location where the Naval Headquarters Facility would one day stand
in his time. They made their way past a small submarine berth, where in 2021 a
vintage WWII era submarine was docked as a permanent war museum ship, the K-21.
Volsky noted the memorial was missing.

“Oh,
it’s probably here sir, operating right now in these waters under Captain
Nikolai Lunin.” A Hero of the Soviet Union, Lunin would get a shot at the
Tirpitz
during the illfated PQ-17 convoy battle, and go on to make Admiral. His boat,
the K-21, was the only one of its class to survive the war, and the memorial had
been a familiar sight to them both as they came and went from the modern
headquarters facility.

As they
approached the buildings now, Volsky could not help but think of the office and
desk that would be there in 80 years time, and he even summoned up a recollection
of the photo of his wife that sat on a credenza, another loss he had suffered
in swallowing this incredible pill. Would they ever get back to their own time?
Fedorov said they had managed that on his journeys, so he took heart.

They
were accompanied by the honor guard, and Admiral Golovko, who made small talk
with Volsky while they talked about the progress of the new base. The expanded
quarters they were now building would be very near those for the 8th Naval
Brigade in Modern times. Once seated in a warm conference room, they were
served hot black tea, Russian Caravan, from a well styled samovar, with small
cakes, lemon, and jam.

“I
thank you for coming, Admiral,” said Golovko, his eyes bright beneath two dark
brows.

“A
pleasure to be home,” said Volsky. “But tell me, Admiral. That recall order we
received… was it sent by you?”

“No
sir, it must have come from Moscow.”

Volsky
looked at Fedorov, as they slowly eliminated one possibility in solving the
mystery, and now Fedorov’s theory that Karpov may have formatted the message
before July 28th remained the only real answer for them.

“Well
now,” said Golovko, “as I stated in my earlier signal, I have been asked to
present you with a messenger, sent to me directly from Moscow. He was sent here
by the General Secretary himself, or so I was told.”

Golovko
nodded to an aide, who went to a door on the far wall and ushered in a tall man
in a long, black overcoat, with silver buttons and a dark military cap. They
all stood to receive the man, and Golovko gestured to his own place at the
table.

“Gentlemen,”
he said quickly. “I have a rifle regiment to evacuate tonight, and I must be on
my way. So I offer my chair to this man in my place. May I introduce a
representative lately arrived from Moscow, and sent directly from the Kremlin,
and the General Secretary himself.”

“Tyrenkov,”
said the man, extending a handshake to the Admiral.

Volsky
shook his hand, feeling it very cold, but firm. Something about the man was
vaguely unsettling, his dark, penetrating eyes, seeming too intense as they
greeted one another. Admiral Golovko doffed his cap and left, and now the three
men settled at the table again, and were left alone.

“So you
are the mysterious messenger from Moscow,” said Volsky. “We received their
recall order, and here we are. But this message… It was in a format that very
few would be privy to, and used specific code words that might only be known to
officers aboard my ship.”

“Correct,”
said Tyrenkov, blunt and to the point.

“Well
sir,” said Volsky. “I find that somewhat strange. Any explanation?”

“None,”
said Tyrenkov. “This man here—who is he please?”

“Ah,”
said Volsky. “Forgive me. This is Lieutenant Anton Fedorov, my Senior
Navigator.”

The man
gave Fedorov a studied glance, a careful appraisal, measuring, considering, but
saying nothing. “Your Captain did not join you?”

“He had
matters to attend to on the ship,” said Volsky.

“I see.
And as to your ship and crew,” said Tyrenkov. “I trust they are well?”

“As
well as one might expect, given the circumstances,” said Volsky.

“You
have been out of communication for over two months. Was there some difficulty
to report?”

Tyrenkov’s
questions seemed to be more than they were on the surface, at least to Fedorov.
He realized that this man may have been well aware of the ship’s presence here,
and for some time. If he was sent by Sergei Kirov, then he would certainly know
a good deal, and Moscow had to know that they had also been reported missing
the previous May. Was he merely trying to fill in that gap, or was there some
darker agenda? He had to think quickly, knowing that Volsky might stumble here,
and inadvertently reveal something that would best be kept secret.

“There
was an accident,” said Volsky.

His
heart beating faster, Fedorov gave the Admiral’s foot a firm nudge under the
table, and he cleared his throat. “If I may, sir. You asked me to remind you of
standing order 21.”

“Order
21?” said Volsky.

“Yes
sir, concerning operational security protocols. We are not permitted to
disclose details of present or past operations, unless specifically directed to
do so by you, and then only after properly vetting the recipient of that
intelligence.”

“Ah
yes,” said Volsky, quick enough to realize Fedorov was intervening here to try
and control what information they might disclose to this man, and he was very
deft, his old humor coming immediately to the rescue. “Forgive me, Mister
Tyrenkov, I give so many orders these days, that I have had to number them to
keep track at times. Yet now I, myself, forget which order goes with which
number. Of course, Mister Fedorov, you are very correct.”

He
turned to Tyrenkov now. “Meaning no disrespect, I have determined that
operational secrecy is paramount at the moment, and can therefore only report
details of our recent activities directly to the General Secretary. I am told
you bear a message from him. May I see it please?” Two could be blunt and
direct, thought Volsky, instinctively feeling a need for caution here, and glad
that Fedorov had given him a nudge to make certain he listened to that hunch.

Tyrenkov
showed no emotion, cool and calculating, his dark eyes motionless, yet intense,
like some bird of prey fixated upon its intended target.

“I do
not carry this message,” he said quietly. “It will be delivered shortly.
Admiral, Lieutenant, if you will kindly excuse me for a moment, I will see to
the matter now.”