Kirov (17 page)

Fedorov
reported as he came through the rear hatch, saluting. “Permission to resume my
station, sir.” He waited, respectfully as Karpov looked his way.

“Carry
on, Lieutenant” the Captain said tersely. “And I hope the doctor gave you a
good examination, Mister Fedorov.”

The
navigator said nothing, slipping quietly over to his post, and appraising the
ship’s present position to update his manual chart. He could still rely on
radar reports, but thought it best to have a backup in any case. He quickly
surmised their situation, and noted that two ships had been detached from the
surface contact and were steaming north towards Jan Mayen. That has to be
Adventure
and
Anthony
, he thought, remembering the narrative from his history
book. They were detached to deliver those mines to Murmansk before rejoining
the British carriers. Then he remembered something else from the history. The
carrier
Furious
was supposed to be with them, yet the feed he had from
Rodenko’s board showed only two ships had been detached. Something had clearly
changed, and that thought gave him a strange, queasy feeling.

They
were changing the history!

Somehow
the presence of
Kirov
and the brief, fleeting contact with the British
forces had already done something to change the events that were clearly
written up in his
Chronology of the War at Sea
. While the full
implications of that were not immediately apparent to him, even this subtle
variation seemed deeply foreboding. A hundred questions came to mind, but he
pushed them away, unable to deal with them for the moment. Yet the feeling
remained with him, an ill-omened awareness that the world was no longer what it
once was, what it should be, and that
Kirov
was somehow responsible.

He
said nothing of this to the Captain, holding his thoughts close and busying
himself with his navigation plots. Where was the Admiral? Why was he taking so
long to return? The answer to all their questions was just a few hundred
kilometers to the southwest, on Jan Mayen. When Admiral Volsky finally appeared,
Fedorov breathed an inward sigh of relief.

The
Admiral had spent the last hour and a half in his cabin reading from Fedorov’s
book. As eager as he was to resolve the confounding riddles he had been dealing
with these last hours, the lure of the information presented in the volume
seemed too compelling. It was as if he had already determined what the most likely
outcome of his mission to the isolated island outpost would be, a feeling that
he was now actually facing the impossible notion that the world was off its
kilter, and that he and his ship had slipped through some gaping crack into
another time. If that were so, he wanted to know what the days ahead might hold
for him, and Fedorov’s volume was quite enlightening. Finally, his need for
certainty outweighed the fanciful thoughts that danced in his mind and he
roused himself, returning to the bridge.

“Admiral
on the bridge,” said a
mishman
at the watch.

“As
you were, gentlemen,” said Volsky.

Captain
Karpov straightened himself and turned to acknowledge the Admiral, leaving his
conference with Rodenko.

“We’re
twelve hours northeast of Jan Mayen,” said Karpov. “I’ve come to a heading of 250,
but Rodenko reports two ships have broken off from the main group and are
heading north on an intercept course at 22 knots.”

“They
are heading for the island?” asked Volsky.

“Apparently
so,” said Karpov. The Admiral seemed surprised by something, though he could
not think what it might be. This seemed a predictable tactic in the Captain’s
mind and he said as much. “These are most likely radar pickets to screen the
main body, sir. We’ll have to be ready to deal with them.”

Volsky
glanced up at Karpov beneath his heavy brows. The man was still convinced this
was a NATO maneuver, and his thoughts and actions ran entirely along that
track. Yet the aggressive undertone in his remark did not go unnoticed. Karpov
was plotting out the best way to kill these ships and defend
Kirov
from
any possible attack. That was admirable in one respect, but he knew he would
have to keep a firm rein on his Captain if events led them onto a difficult
situation.

“I
want to get there first,” said Volsky. “Is the KA-226 refueled and ready for
operations?”

“Sir?
Well, yes, I believe so, Admiral.”

“Very
good. I had a chat with Mister Fedorov earlier. Both his GPS and Loran–C navigation
links are down and he believes he might be able to re-sync with the facility on
Jan Mayen. Captain, please order the KA-226 to be ready for liftoff in fifteen
minutes. I’m sending Mister Fedorov over to coordinate…” He allowed a
deliberate pause, then leaned in a little closer to the Captain, lowering his
voice. “The fresh air may do him some good. But as Norway is a NATO member, I
think it wise that we include an armed detachment of Marines with this visit.
Do you concur?”

Karpov
brightened at that suggestion. “Good idea, Admiral. I’ll have Orlov select the
men.” It seemed the Admiral was finding his backbone, he thought. He had
considered the possibility that a NATO force could have been operating on the
island, complicit in the operation they were dealing with.

“Speaking
of the devil…” Admiral Volsky looked for his dour Chief and found him with
Samsonov. “Mister Orlov, would you kindly join us?”

“Right
away, sir.” Orlov gave Samsonov a reassuring tap on the shoulder and walked
briskly over to the Admiral. “How is the headache, sir?”

“Still
there, Orlov, but I’m going to see if you can help clear things up for me.”

“Sir?”

“I
want you to select a marine rifle squad and pay a visit to the weather station
out on Jan Mayen. I’m sending Mister Fedorov along as well. We want to see why
our Loran-C navigation feeds are down. Land at the station and secure the
complex with your marines. Mister Fedorov will then report directly to me by
radio, and if, for any reason, communications are not possible, then Mister
Fedorov will document activities there and you will return to the ship as
quickly as possible. Is that clear?”

“I’ll
see to it, sir. But what are we looking for?”

“Fedorov
will handle that. He will direct the initial over-flight and select the landing
spot. Understood? And he is to have free reign to make any investigation deemed
necessary there. You are to support and secure his effort and make a safe
return.” The Admiral gave him the hint of a smile. “One more thing… as the
island is officially Norwegian territory, please be polite, Mister Orlov. Firm,
but polite, yes?”

~
~ ~

Jan
Mayen
was a bleak
Arctic island, shaped a bit like a turkey leg and stretching some 32 kilometers
from end to end. The thicker, northern segment was dominated by the Beerenberg
Volcano, an imposing 8,000 foot high cone that was entirely covered with ice
and snow year round. At the narrow handle of the leg there were flat,
featureless lowlands, and it was here that a few hardy souls would hold forth
in a small number of scientific and communications facilities.

Once
the Vikings had landed here during their wandering exploration of the region.
In the 1600’s whalers thought to set up a commercial center there with over a
thousand men, and Denmark and Norway haggled over possession of the island
until it was eventually abandoned after 1650, left a deserted and desolate
frozen rock in the Arctic sea until a weather station was set up there in 1921.
When WWII broke out it was home to no more than four Norwegian meteorologists,
and their buildings were burned in 1940 when they abandoned the post in fear of
imminent German occupation. Deemed “Island X” by wartime planners, Jan Mayen
was considered an important Arctic outpost, and by March of 1941 a few meteorologists
and Norwegian troops returned to set up a radio relay station and weather
outpost again. The Germans bombed the place and occasionally tried to slip a
few men ashore by U-boat, but it largely remained in Allied hands throughout
the war, the only free Norwegian soil until Germany capitulated in 1945.

The
radio soundings and pressure, temperature, and humidity checks made by the
station offered a vital early appraisal of the weather, and figured heavily in
some of the most momentous decisions of the war, particularly Eisenhower’s choice
as to the timing of the D-Day invasion. By 1959 NATO set up a large 200 foot
Loran-C antenna for Long Range Radio Navigation which eventually saw a few more
buildings set up at facility called Olonkin. In modern times the meteorological
station was a sturdy pre-fabricated all weather building with aluminum siding
painted olive drab green, and a rust colored burgundy roof that blended in with
the loamy russet soil there. Compared to earlier facilities, it would seem like
a luxurious lodge. In WWII the station was built on the old burned out ruins of
the 1921 facility, with a few salvageable beams of wood forming a lean-to
against the biting arctic wind, and a trench dug into the stony cold ground there.
Yet by 2021 it was a comfortable, modern facility, with a sitting room mounting
the hide of a great polar bear on its wall, a library, full kitchen, and
offices equipped with computers and satellite phones.

Fedorov
planned to head for this location first. If the building was not there it would
tell him everything he needed to know. He was seated up front, sandwiched
between the pilot and Orlov, and feeling a bit uncomfortable next to the sour
faced Chief. Orlov was a temperamental man. One moment he could chat with you
as if you were an old friend, and the next minute he would berate you for the
slightest lapse of duty. It was clear that he was not happy to be put into a
support role on this mission.

“What
were you doing in the sick bay, Fedorov? The Admiral seems overly fond of you
all of a sudden.”

Fedorov
noted the implication, but dared say nothing in return. He sat silently,
uncomfortably, and pretended to be scanning ahead for the island. A squad of six
Marines were seated on the two back benches, led by the ruthlessly efficient
Sergeant Kandemir Troyak, the stony, iron man of the ship’s twenty man marine
detachment. Fedorov was not a fighting man. His skill as a navigator and
pathfinder were well proven, but he felt ill at ease with the gruff and dour
faced marines.

It
was not long before they spotted the high icy cone of the volcano ahead, and Orlov
needled Fedorov as they approached the bleak island. “What have you been digging
up this time, Fedorov? Got on the Admiral’s good side, did you? Are you
thinking to get your hands on some vodka or perhaps a box of those wonderful
Cuban cigars?”

The
Admiral’s generosity was well known with those that had gained his favor, but
Fedorov merely smiled. Volsky had pulled him aside and told him to say nothing of
their discussion with the doctor, and keep his wits about him at all times,
particularly with Orlov and Troyak aboard.

“Make
for the panhandle, that narrow low-lying neck there,” Fedorov pointed as they
drew closer. “I want to over-fly the Meteorological station first.”

The
helo banked and edged around the flank of the stark icy massif of the volcano,
buffeted by the winds that would swirl about its frozen summit. White clouds
streamed over the top of the ragged highlands, deeply cratered with the old cinder
cones that had once been volcanic hot spots. Fedorov had good sea legs, but he
hated flying, particularly in these grim arctic conditions where any mishap
over the ocean would likely mean a freezing death within minutes. As the
chopper swept in, descending, they saw a drab, empty lowland connecting the
more rocky handle of the island in a narrow neck that seemed to be swamped by
seawater, but the lagoon was actually ice water from the summer runoff.

“Cameras
on, please,” said Fedorov as he held a pair of high power field glasses to his
eyes. This time they would not broadcast a signal back to
Kirov
, to
preclude the possibility that it might be intercepted and spoofed. They were
recording direct to disk. Their first observation of the unknown surface action
group to their south had been at extreme long range, a live video feed, and the
men aboard never got close enough to verify the footage filmed with their own
eyes. This time it would be different.

Fedorov
could see the black volcanic soil resolve to rusty brown and dreary green as
the lowland slowly gained elevation further south. He had visited this station
several times in the past, once with Rodenko, who helped with the compilation
of the ship’s weather report. The new Met station was painted out in exactly
these colors, so it would be difficult to spot from a distance. The station at
Olonkin should be much easier to pick out, he thought, as its buildings were
all silver aluminum siding. Yet, as the helo descended, it was what he did
not
see that set his heart thumping with anticipation. There was no road running
along the dark, muddied shore of the island, and no sign of any buildings at
all. The long brown air strip at the edge of the low island neck was not there
either.

“There,”
said Fedorov over the whirl of the helo props. He pointed to an area just
beyond the thick volcanic head of the island, right where it joined to the flat
lowland handle. “That metal framework there. Can you get closer?”