Kirov (18 page)

The
pilot descended, and they saw what looked like the old steel framework of a
roof structure, its wood beams burned away and dark stains of smoke evident on
the brighter metal. Then they saw a man emerge from behind a pile of black
basalt and volcanic rocks with a husky dog restrained by a leather leash. He seemed
to be staring up at them, his goggled eyes shielded by a thick gloved hand.
Another man emerged with a rifle, and Orlov frowned.

“Can
you set us down here?” said Fedorov.

“Why
here?” asked Orlov. “Where is the weather station?”

“Admiral’s
orders,” said Fedorov, playing the only trump card in his hand with the gruff
Chief. His heart was racing, amazed at what he was sure he was discovering.
There would be no further argument after this, he thought. Even Karpov would be
convinced.

“The
place looks like a war zone,” said Orlov. He pointed to obvious signs in near
the area that looked like freshly cratered soil.

“Very
well,” said Orlov. “Secure this area after landing, Sergeant Troyak. And disarm
that man!”

The
helo set down on a flat muddy area and the cold arctic air swept in when the
marines slid back the rear doors and leapt out in their white parkas and thick
caps with heavy ear muffs. They carried a carbine variant of the AK-74M airborne
compact assault rifle, fully automatic, with 60 round casket magazines. The
troops fanned out, with two men dropping low to take up overwatch firing
positions, their weapons aimed at the Norwegians, who gaped in awe at the
scene, their eyes still mostly on the amazing sight of the helicopter with its
twin overhead counter-rotating props.

To
them it looked like some huge insect, a dark wasp buzzing fitfully in the cold
air. The strange overhead rotors swirled, kicking up flecks of snow and
frosting them with the icy wash of their rotation. Yet there was no mistaking
the gleaming metal of a long cannon protruding from the nose of the craft. They
stared, utterly amazed at what they were seeing. Only the dog continued
barking, prompting Orlov to lunge at the animal, which only made the situation
worse.

The
single armed Norwegian noted the odds and quickly lowered his rifle. The
marines fanned out, surrounding the zone, and Sergeant Troyak shouldered his
weapon, saluting the Norwegians briskly to offer the barest courtesy before
stepping up and impudently searching the first man’s pockets. The husky snarled
and growled, but Troyak ignored it completely, not intimidated in the
slightest. Fedorov leapt out, intent on getting to the underground station to
see if he could get some photos. He pulled out the digital camera the Admiral
had handed him before he left the bridge, giving him a wink as he said “let’s
see if NATO can spoof this!”

He
spotted a small anemometer, spinning over the crumbled ruins to measure wind
speed along with a wind sock, and quickly made his way to the rickety lean-to,
seeing a third man there, which he placated with a friendly smile, as he
snapped off photos. The man gave him an incredulous look, and Troyak, having
searched the first two men, was soon at Fedorov’s side to fish into the pockets
of this last man. He handed Fedorov a small dog-eared notebook, and the
navigator also noticed a newspaper folded between two pieces of antiquated
weather equipment, a barometer and a stolid wooden box which he took to be a
hygrometer to measure the moisture in the air.

Again,
it was what he did not see that set his mind racing. If this was a field post
set up for special measurements, there was no modern equipment here, no
satellite phones, digital gauges or monitors, no wireless equipment, though he
did see what looked like an old tube-style radio set, which he photographed. There
were no ultraviolet sensors or radiation detectors either. He reached for the newspaper,
tucking it quickly into his parka, then pulled out two chocolate bars and a
pack of cigarettes and handed them to the dumbfounded Norwegian in
compensation. Two more photos of the equipment and he had all he needed to find
here.

“Let’s
go,” he said to the Sergeant, “I want to look for the main facility.” He nodded
warmly to the Norwegians and ran back to the helo.

Troyak’s
men slipped back, two by two, until the Sergeant boarded last, eying the
Norwegians darkly as he did so. He had taken the man’s rifle as well. A moment
later the KA-226 revved up its twin rotors and rose in a swirl of wind,
ascending quickly and then angling speedily off to the south. Fedorov looked
back, seeing the three Norwegians clustered together as they left, pointing and
talking amongst themselves, and he waved with a wry smile.

They
continued searching for some time, yet saw no sign of any other building or
installation on the pan-handle. Fedorov had a map detailing the locations of
the modern day airfield, roads and ‘Olonkin City,’ as it was called which was
really just a scattering of ten to twelve linked buildings. Nothing was there.

“Where
is the weather station?” said Orlov.

“It
should be right there,” Fedorov pointed to an empty stretch of land near
southernmost end of the lowland flats between the two more elevated segments of
the island.

“Are
you sure you have the right place?”

“I'm
a navigator, Mister Orlov,” said Fedorov. “I can read a map.”

“You
can’t tell me NATO has hidden this facility just for this exercise. What is
going on here?”

They
flew down as far as Kapp Wein, Cape Vienna as it was called, with its
distinctive off-shore rock formations. “Let’s get home,” said Fedorov. “There’s
nothing more to see here and the weather isn’t getting any better. May I use
the radio, sir? The Admiral ordered me to report as soon as we concluded our
investigation.” He was looking with great interest on the identity card the
Siberian sergeant had taken from one man. It was an old style card,
unlaminated, with no barcode or digital tape to be scanned, and no hologram for
security. It was just a typewritten card, and from the looks of it an old style
typewriter had been used. The name was Ernst Ullring.

“Very
well,” said Orlov. “Pilot, take us back to
Kirov
.”

Fedorov
was on the radio at once. He had little to say, as the Admiral had given him
clear instructions.

“You
see this book you lent me?” the Admiral had said to his navigator. “You need
only tell me whether I should be wasting my time with it or not.”

Fedorov
was to use an encrypted channel and he spoke a few brusque sentences. “Scout
one reporting, repeat. Scout one reporting. You may wish to do some further
reading, sir. We are inbound now, ETA 0400 hours.”

Part IV

Decisions

“The
cleverest of all, in my opinion, is the man who calls himself a fool at least
once a month.”

—Fyodor
Dostoevsky

Chapter
10

Admiral
Volsky
had assembled
all his key officers in the wardroom, with the bridge being manned by
substitute watch standers. He sat at the head of the briefing table, his eyes
on the video monitor, watching the playback that had been recorded during the
overflight of the island. From time to time he would stop, and ask Orlov if
this footage was indeed what he had seen. The chief nodded grimly in the
affirmative.

As
the video concluded, the Admiral closed his eyes briefly, rubbing a spot at his
temple, then looked up at his officers and spoke in a quiet, firm voice.

“Gentlemen,
from this footage it is clear to me that the meteorological station on the
island is obviously missing. There is no evidence of the station facilities at
any of the locations investigated, and the Loran-C antennas are missing as
well.”

“Yet
we did see signs of impact craters on the ground there, sir,” said Orlov. “It
looked to me as if the site had been bombed or shelled. Perhaps we are at war
and we have put in an air strike on NATO installations there—wiped them out!”

“These
were fairly large facilities,” said the Admiral. “Did you see any evidence of wreckage?
Even if these facilities had been destroyed, there would be some sign of
wreckage or debris.”

“Nothing
other than the impact craters we noted, sir. But the site itself seemed
reconstructed from damaged metal beams and scorched wood planks.”

“Fedorov
tells me this is exactly what the weather station looked like in 1941. And there
was no sign of the roads that were constructed on the island after the war, nor
the airfield.” The admiral tapped at one of Fedorov’s maps of the island
clearly indicating these major features. “Where did they go?”

The
silence around the table was profound. The men looked at one another, some
wearing confused expressions, others noting the reaction of key officers,
particularly Karpov and Orlov. The Admiral could clearly see that only Karpov
seemed to fidget uncomfortably, the man’s restless eyes clearly revealing that
he was unwilling to grasp the obvious facts they were now reviewing.

“Now,”
said Volsky, “please note this photograph Mister Fedorov was kind enough to
retrieve from one of his history books.” He smiled, passing a photocopy of the
image around the table for the officers to review. It clearly showed the ragged
bare metal beamed roof and lean-to where the helicopter had set down, as well
as the piles of black volcanic rock that had been stacked into a makeshift wall
at one end of the site. Then he pointed to the screen again where an image was
displaying that had been taken by Fedorov's digital camera, just minutes ago.
The two images were remarkably similar.

“If
my eyes do not deceive me, gentlemen,” said the Admiral, “then what we are seeing
in that digital photograph is a near replica of the weather station on this island
as it appeared in April of 1941. As to the effects confiscated from the three
Norwegians present, Mister Fedorov was able to identify one of these men. The
Admiral nodded to his navigator.

“Ernst
Ullring,” said Fedorov. “This man was a leader of a twelve man team from Norway
which landed on March 10, 1941. Now I will read from one of my history volumes,
Great World War II battles in the Arctic
, by Mark Llewellyn Evans. He
clearly states: ‘Once they were set up, they began sending regular weather reports
every three hours, which the Germans quickly intercepted. The Luftwaffe decided
to obliterate the island and launched a raid from their airfields in Norway.
The German bombers streaked in low and pounded the weather station but did
nothing but stir up a little lava dust. Neither the station nor the men were
even scratched. Unknown to the Germans, the weathermen relied on a very
sophisticated early warning system: their Norwegian huskies heard the
approaching Luftwaffe engines long before their masters did, and the dogs’
barking alerted the men in time to reach shelter.’ This explains the impact
craters we observed, and the dog.”

“Yes,
there was a dog,” said Orlov. “A rather of obnoxious dog as well. Barked its
fool head off.”

“You
have further information concerning this man, Fedorov?”

“Yes,
sir. His identity card states his date of birth as 18 June 1894. He was an
officer in the Norwegian Navy, receiving the war cross with sword for his
efforts in maintaining these Arctic weather stations, a very high distinction.
He oversaw operations on this island as well as Svalbard.”

“Born
in June of 1894?” said Karpov. “The man would be 127 years old! This is clearly
impossible.”

“If
I may, sir,” said Fedorov, “in 1941 he would be just 47 years old, about the age
of the man we saw at the site, the very same man Sergeant Troyak took this
identity card from.”

“Perhaps
it was his father's, then,” said Karpov sourly.

“Considering
the other evidence, that seems unlikely, sir. The man also had this notebook,
in which he has been making meteorological notations on a daily basis.” He
passed the notebook to Karpov. “You will note the date of the most recent
entry, July 28, 1941. And sir, I also found this.” He pushed the newspaper he
had found in the dugout across the briefing table, and Karpov glanced at it
briefly, being more interested in the notebook for the time being.

“Now
that is an old newspaper, to be sure,” said Fedorov. “It dates back to March of
1941, so I can only assume these men brought it with them when they landed at
that time, as the history clearly indicates. But if it were authentic it would
be far more weathered than it is now, yes?”

There
was silence around the table until Volsky spoke. “We must also reconsider the
evidence we obtained on the surface contact Rodenko has been tracking. The
video feed showed ships that Mister Fedorov here has identified as WWII class
vessels. We suspected this feed may have been tampered with, but seen in this
light, the whole situation begins to paint a rather convincing picture, even if
it must seem impossible to us all.” The Admiral stared at them, his dark eyes
fixed and steady. “Gentlemen, it
appears
that we are not where we
belong. Appearances can be deceiving, but all the evidence indicates the
present year is 1941. This means that somehow, possibly as a result of that
strange undersea explosion, we have shifted seventy years into the past!”