Kirov Saga: Altered States (Kirov Series) (18 page)

“I’ve done some thinking about this, Admiral. From our present position we are about 3500 kilometers from Severomorsk by way of the Denmark Strait, north of Jan Mayan, and then east above Norway. That is just under four days at 20 knots and three days if we can increase speed.”

“Old familiar waters,” said Volsky. “And our route south?”

“That depends on how far south, but if we were to seek neutral waters off the southern coast of Brazil we are looking at five to six days sailing at 20 knots.”

“My heart tells me to go south and find a nice warm island somewhere as before. My head tells me that fantasy will be short lived, and that we must eventually come to grips with the world we have helped bring into being here. We cannot hide from it any longer. So we will go north, and you may get another chance to meet the man you inadvertently helped put in power, Fedorov. We will go pay a little visit to Sergie Kirov, if he will have us.”

Chapter 15

The
weather was threatening, and Admiral Volsky was concerned about the bow in heavy seas. He gave orders for the ship to ease away from the convoy lane and come to all stop to allow Byko to get divers in the water again and do what they could to reinforce the hull. There they lingered for a long 48 hours before concluding undersea welds and repairs and turning north as planned.

 It was not long before the history began to take notice that a burglar might be in the warehouse. Rodenko was on the bridge standing the command watch when radar reported airborne contacts to the northeast. As a precaution he sounded air alert two, and put the ship on a guarded watch. Fedorov had been resting below but he came to the bridge the minute he heard the alert.

“What do we have, Rodenko?”

“Two aircraft, sir, low and slow bearing 40 degrees northeast about 50 kilometers out and cruising at about 300 KPH. That puts them a little more than ten minutes out if they have us, but they don’t look to be on an intercept course at the moment.”

“It’s much too fast for a
Swordfish
. It has to be a
Skua
off a carrier. The British had nothing that fast on Iceland either.”

“This has an odd feel to it, eh Fedorov?” It was much like that first plane that sighted the ship when they appeared in the Norwegian Sea of 1941 so long ago. The memory of that moment when the plane overflew the ship and Fedorov ran out the side hatch to the weather bridge was still crisp in his mind, but now it seemed a hollow echo.

“They may not have us on radar yet,” said Fedorov. “If they even have radar.”

“Do you want me to set up some jamming signatures?”

“That would be wise at this point. I would prefer to remain anonymous as long as possible, and I don’t want to have to be put in a situation where we have to fire on those planes. Not unless that is absolutely necessary.”

“Aye sir.” Rodenko could not help but appreciate the vast difference between Fedorov and Karpov. He knew that if Karpov were here now the ship would be at air alert one and tracking with SAMs already, and that he would not hesitate in the slightest to shoot down anything he deemed a potential threat. The only thing that had ever stayed his hand was the inevitable depletion of ammunition, except for that one time, just when he was ready to fire on the American Submarine in the Pacific, the
Key West.
That seemed like a lifetime ago, he thought, and perhaps it was.

Rodenko was able to retrieve the jamming signatures they had used before, and so he quickly set up a program and began broadband interference on the channels most likely used by any planes in this timeframe.

15 June, 1940

Captain
Richard Thomas Partridge was up with his squadron of
Skua
fighters for reconnaissance that day. In another writing of these events he would have been far to the north leading in six
Skuas
against the German battlecruisers where they fled to Trondheim after the attack on HMS
Glorious
. Out for blood and an equal measure of revenge for the loss of the carrier, the six pilots would bore in with a relentless dive bomber attack, losing four of six planes while 803 Squadron also lost four of nine. Partridge himself would have his plane shot from the sky that day, the second time he would lose a
Skua
over Norway, and be taken as a POW.

A little over a month earlier he and two other planes had come across a stray Heinkel-111 over Norway in the mountains north of Bergen and he made a run at the bomber, exchanging fire which ended in a draw. Both planes were hit and damaged. Partridge found his engine had stopped and he was soon forced to make a very chancy landing, wheels up in the ice and snow. Amazingly, he made it down safely that day and, after using his flare gun to fire the remaining petrol in his plane to destroy it, he and his radio telegraphist, Lt. Robert Bostock, set out on foot looking for shelter and food.

A few miles away the Heinkel had made an equally dangerous crash landing, and the surviving crew of that plane was also out looking for shelter. As chance would have it, they came to the very same shed that the British flyers had found, entering to what could have become a very dangerous, if not deadly situation. Whether it was something in the man’s character or simply a realization that enemies could become friends in the service of their own survival as human beings, Partridge, simply offered his hand, the time honored gesture of good will. The Germans recognized it for what it was, and the embers of war, still a young fire in the world in mid-1940, did not consume that sheltering shed that day.

The Germans had mistaken Partridge and his mates for
Spitfires
when the attack came in, so Partridge, managing some broken German and sign language, played out the story that he and his radio man were from a downed
Wellington
bomber. After huddling in the shed for the night, strange bedfellows all, the British and Germans eventually started for a nearby village and were soon encountered by a Norwegian ski patrol. Partridge and Bostock were repatriated to British forces, and it was the German aircrew that ended up as POWs.

This time, however, Captain Partridge was not over Trondheim trying to dive bomb the Twins. All that had changed. HMS
Glorious
was attacked as it was before, but not sunk. The Twins did flee to Trondheim, but
Ark Royal’s
mission to attack them there was suddenly called off by the newly arrived CiC Home fleet, Admiral John Tovey.

Instead
Ark Royal
hastened south through the Faeroes Gap to join up with HMS
Invincible
and provide air cover for operations aimed at interdicting the Denmark Strait. So this day it was an area recon mission out in front of the fleet flagship’s advance, and dull, easy work compared to the gallant charge he might have made that day, yet the encounter he would soon have was laden with the heavy weight of fate.

The sea was interminable, a wide grey slate with occasional whitecaps from wind-stirred waves. It was to be a simple out and back, more for security of the fleet than any real attempt to cover the Strait of Denmark. That work would begin the following day, as the
Ark Royal
was still too far east. It was then that he saw something on his radar set, and let his radio telegraphist, Lt. Robert Bostock, in on the news.

“Something winked at me just now,” he said. “See anything at two-twenty?”

Bostock looked left and scanned the sea ahead, but could see nothing of any note. Partridge noted his radar signal now seemed erratic. He thought he had a clear reading, but now it was suddenly lost in a backwash of interference. Another man might have written it all off to a dodgy antenna or faulty equipment, but there just seemed to be something else out of whack in the moment, some unaccountable magnetism was pulling at him, and without thinking or knowing why, he simply turned on 220 to investigate. Call it a hunch, a reflex, a suspicion, but he was going to have a look.

“Mister Bostok,” he said. “Notify Fleet Air Arm that I am investigating a possible contact bearing 220 from our present position.”

“Got an itch, Captain?”

“We’ll have a scratch and see.”

* * *

On
the bridge of
Kirov
Rodenko was disheartened to see the contact turn on an intercept heading. “Someone is getting curious, Captain,” he said. “They must have had a reading on us before we jammed. In another eight minutes that plane will have us in visual range. Recommend air alert one, sir.”

Fedorov scratched his temple, frowning. “Not just yet,” he said, thinking hard. The last thing they needed now was open hostilities, another plane chased by a missile or riddled with 30mm shells; another dead aircrew missing from the rolls of history. It always starts this way, he thought, with notions of humanity and the consequences of taking down a single plane. Then it ends with the holocaust of a nuclear warhead…well, not on my watch.

“Sir,” said Rodenko. “Five minutes.”

Fedorov found himself staring out the forward view panes, watching the wounded bow of
Kirov
still slicing cleanly through the sea at 20 knots. He walked slowly to the ship’s intercom, and punched up the code for the mainmast watch. A pair of human eyes with field glasses perched beneath the spinning rotation of the dual panel Fregat Radar system seemed a redundancy, but he had something on his mind that needed human hands at the moment.

“Mainmast watch,” he said quietly. “Raise the naval ensign.”

“Raise the ensign, sir?”

“That is correct. Do it now, please, and be quick about it.”

“
Aye sir. Raise the ensign.”

“Captain Fedorov,” said Rodenko. “I thought the Admiral wanted all recognition marks stowed, sir.”

Fedorov said nothing, his eyes set, still scanning the distant horizon. “The ship will come to air alert one,” he said quietly. “Mister Samsonov,
Kashtan
system please. Lock on the target but do
not
engage. Understood?”

At three minutes out Fedorov knew the incoming plane already had the ship in visual range, and he also knew that it was likely to make as close a pass as the pilot deemed advisable under the circumstances. The two sides had stumbled upon one another in the muddled uncertainty of war, and as the Russian naval ensign was raised high on the top mast above the spinning radar set, Fedorov had extended one arm with an open hand, even though he still held a knife quietly behind his back if his gambit failed.

This was a reconnaissance flight, he reasoned. They will not be carrying heavy ordnance. The ship could endure a strafing run if this plane attacked, but he would not fire first—not this time. The raising of that flag was a handshake in thought, and whether it was by chance or design, it was seen by the one man who needed to see it that day, and recognize in it the gesture he himself had made to those three German airmen when they came stumbling in out of the cold.

* * *

“Mister
Bostock,” said Captain Partridge. “What do you make of that?” He gestured to the left, banking the plane slightly so both men could have a better look at the sea. There was a ship, large and formidable in shape and design, a dark threatening wedge of steel scoring the gunmetal sea.

“It’s big!” Bostock was duly impressed. “Signaling ship sighted,” he said breathlessly.

“What’s that up top, Bobby? Look, it’s flying a blue cross on white!”

“Norwegian or Danish?” said Bostock.

“Don’t be daft, man. That’s a Russian naval ensign.”

“Russian? Down here?”

“Get a good look with your field glasses, will you, and verify what I’m seeing. I’ll hold the range and circle.”

He banked into a turn, knowing better than to bore straight in with this unknown sighting. The ship was enormous! He was a veteran of many operations in these waters, some flying air cover over the fleet with ships like the mighty
Hood
and
Invincible
in attendance, two of the largest warships afloat in 1940. This ship was easily the length and breadth of
Hood
, though now that he looked closely he could not make out any large caliber gun turrets, only secondary batteries mounted fore and aft. What was that spinning about on the mainmast beneath the ensign?

“Get that signal off to
Ark Royal
,” he said with just a little more urgency. “Large warship, heavy cruiser or battlecruiser in size and flying Russian colors. They look to be steering zero-five-zero. Estimate speed twenty from that wake and bow wave.”

Partridge was very good at his job.

* * *

Fedorov
watched the plane bank and angle off to one side, the wings dipped so he could clearly see the insignia of the Fleet Air Arm on the wings. The plane had turned and that was a very good sign. They were looking them over now, and they would certainly be keying off an urgent signal. He glanced at Nikolin, who gestured that he was picking up the signal and decoding the Morse. At that moment Admiral Volsky stepped through the main hatch to the citadel, huffing from the climb up the last ladder and stair.

“Admiral on the bridge,” said Rodenko, coming to attention.

“As you were, gentlemen,” said Volsky. “I heard the alarm, and now I see we have company. He walked slowly to Fedorov’s side, hands clasped together under leather gloves.

“Reconnaissance flight, sir,” Fedorov reported.

“You elected to hold your missiles in hand, Mister Fedorov. I hope no one is shooting at us for a change.”

“I thought I would try something else, sir. I have raised the naval ensign. I know I have rescinded the order you gave to strike the colors, but that was in the Pacific before we shifted here, and I felt this situation was different. From what we have been able to determine, Soviet Russia is still neutral, and in our own history it was eventually an ally of Great Britain in this war. I believed showing the flag and holding fire was the wiser course. An open hand might be the better way to start here, Admiral.”