Doppelganger (33 page)

The quiet that followed was eerie and still, the quiet of fog, the stillness of death, the chill of things done and forgotten. But unlike Oleg in his cold, lonesome cottage, Tommy Winn remembered everything just as it was. There sat that radio set, the lights gleaming red and green, as always. The momentarily fit had passed, and now the silence abated, and the room was suddenly humming with all the other equipment, as though nothing had happened.

Yet he could still feel the sting in his hand, and when he looked there, he saw his fingertips looked red and inflamed, as though singed by fire. He had the distinct feeling that he had survived something very dangerous just now. It was as if something had reached for that damn Russian radio, clawing at it, wanting it, a ravenous hunger. Yet when the green fire came, that icy blue shield around the device had staved off that hunger, and stilled its deep growl.

He felt like a man on a fishing boat, merrily going about his business and baiting his line when a great white shark reared up, jaws gaping, serried white teeth wet with seawater as its endless maw opened to devour him. But the jaws snapped shut, finding nothing to clamp down on! The demon was gone as quickly as it had come, leaving him shaken, wet with fear, his pulse racing, but otherwise alive and well.

He crossed himself, whispering saints be praised, and he was grateful he was still alive, though he could not think what he should be afraid of. He was sitting on the most powerful ship in the Royal Navy, behind nearly a foot of solid steel armor plating in the conning tower, and yet, at that moment, it was as if he was sitting at the edge of perdition itself, his hand burned by the fire when he reached for that machine.

Lucky me, he thought. Once burned, twice shy, and I’ve been burned more than a few times in the past. That damn thing must have suffered a fit, and I might have shocked myself senseless if I had laid my hand on it. Pulled back just in time, and all seems well and in order now. I’ll have to report the problem to the maintenance chief, and see if they can have a look at the power feeds. The Russians said they had to put something they called an adapter on the plugs, but maybe things have fallen out of order. Bonkers in here just now, wasn’t it? How did it get so bloody cold? And look at me here now, sweating like a school boy before the master and thinking I’ve a swat from a sturdy cane waiting for me.

Tommy Winn would never know just how close to perdition he really was that moment. Now that it had passed, all seemed well as before, but something had indeed reached for the Russian radio set, the green fire and endless hunger of Paradox. Yet it had been frustrated, held at bay, kept safe in the strange nexus point that had formed around a very special Admiral, on a ship that now skirted the swirling edge of the whirlpools of time, HMS
Invincible
. She had lived up to her name in that hour, steadfast, stalwart, invincible, and Tommy Winn was living proof.

And so was the Russian radio set, still sitting there unharmed in the silence of its electronic dreams, even as another similar set, its first cousin, sat in similar bliss safely aboard the
Argos Fire
. Something had reached for it that day as well, but it had survived intact the same way Tommy Winn’s set had prevailed, the hunger of Paradox frustrated by some arcane twist in the logic of Time.

Chapter 29

It
was that radio set which would suddenly come to play a very important role in what would now happen aboard the battlecruiser
Kirov
. Fedorov passed a sleepless night, slipping in and out of dreams, waking up and thinking all he had just experienced was just a bad nightmare, until he heard the voice of Chief Orlov on the ship’s intercom, summoning the crew to the morning shift. A feeling of fear and alarm jangled his nerves when he again realized where he was, an old soul on a new ship, a changeling spirit, spared from the wrath of Paradox, and given this new life.

Will this happen again and again, he wondered? He thought of all that might lay before him, and the daunting challenges he now faced. First off, how could he convince the Admiral and Captain Karpov that the ship moved in time? That should be much easier now, he thought.

I did it before, and even when I wasn’t entirely sure of what was happening myself. So now, with all I know, it should be easier to prove my case. I must find a way to speak with the Admiral. Karpov will be very difficult at first, but I know how I convinced him before, and maybe those same old tricks will work again.

Can I just come out with it? Of course not. They’ll think I was absolutely insane, particularly after that fall I took and all the time I spent in sick bay. No. I must be very cautious at the outset, and very clever. I must wait as evidence begins to present itself, and then interpret that evidence as I did before. Yet the situation is very perilous now. Beginnings are always chancy affairs. Last time, we encountered that British task force, though that isn’t likely now. Nothing in my
Chronology of the War at Sea
is likely to be reliable, though that remains to be seen.

From what I gathered with Nikolin, the German fleet made it to France—at least
Hindenburg
did. That will mean Admiral Tovey and Home Fleet will most likely be standing a watch against any further breakout attempt. Those ports are right on Britain’s life line to the Middle East. It will probably mean the British bases in the Azores will become the center of gravity for Home Fleet now, and not Scapa Flow. So I must look for news from there, and perhaps I can find a way to contact Admiral Tovey. The important thing at the outset is to prevent this ship from reflexively engaging the British as we did the last time. Tovey is the key to that.

As he made his way to the bridge, his feet felt leaden, his body and soul weighted with the burden of being the only man on the ship that knew what was really happening. Up the last stairway and through the hatch he went, easily adopting his old role as navigator, for in truth his Captain’s hat had never fit him all that well.

“Fedorov,” said Orlov, seeing him come on the bridge. “Sleep well with Zolkin last night?” He chuckled with that, winking at Samsonov.

Fedorov gave him a peremptory salute. And made for his post, warily looking about to see who was on duty. He eyed Nikolin, who had also just taken his station, and gave him a silent nod of his head. The junior Lieutenant began checking his equipment, doing all the routine things he would normally accomplish as he started his shift. But as he put on his headset, he gave Fedorov another look, and the two men passed a knowing glance. There was a question in his eyes, and Fedorov gave him a quiet nod in the affirmative. Karpov wasn’t on the bridge yet, nor the Admiral, and Fedorov hoped Nikolin might get that message out on the coded ship-to-ship channel and learn something.

He heard Nikolin speaking quietly on his headset microphone, sending out a standard ‘all ships’ hail, and awaiting a reply. Orlov inclined his head, and thought he would see what Nikolin was doing, drifting over from the CIC where he often hovered with Samsonov.

“Ready with your report, Nikolin?”

“Sir? You mean on the radio transmission intercepts? Yes sir.”

“Good, because the Admiral will want to know everything as soon as he arrives. And you Fedorov? Is Petrov’s manual plot correct?”

“It is, sir. I have us still circling at 10 knots over
Slava’s
last reported position.”

“Today we get the submersible down for a good look at the sea floor. Alright, be sharp. Karpov will be here soon as well.”

“Aye sir.”

Orlov drifted away, off to find coffee in the briefing room, and Fedorov realized that was the last anyone saw of him on the old ship. He passed a moment, wondering if this Orlov might have come from the old
Kirov
again, but he could see no sign that Orlov was in any way distressed, and did not think the Chief would handle these events so calmly if he had shifted here. No. This was the old Orlov, the man he was before Karpov tried to take the ship, and he was busted down to a lowly Lieutenant and sent off to Troyak and his Marines. Yet here they were, sailing in a world that other man had done much to shape. It was Orlov’s discontent that led him to jump ship on the KA-226, and that ended up starting that long journey to find him again, a journey that led to Ilanskiy…

Fedorov looked at Nikolin again, waiting and wondering whether he had any response. The other man just gave him a silent shake of his head. Nothing, and something more died in Fedorov as he realized the other ship might be gone. Surely they would have heard that coded message, though he still held out a little hope in thinking the old ship might very well be in that same eerie fog as before, out there somewhere, elsewhere, and perhaps destined to appear again one day. Yet there was no certainty there, and he could not invest too much hope in that. He had to deal with things here and now.

Kirov
was gone, at least for now, yet still right beneath his feet. The King is dead… Long live the King. This ship now ascended to the throne of fate, and he was its real Captain, that he knew, even though he no longer wore the rank. It was his responsibility to steer the ship safely now, and prevent this situation from spinning off on a course that would cause even more harm.

So now he set his mind on how to proceed. The Admiral was the key factor here. He held the real authority, but Fedorov wondered if he would again suffer that debilitating collapse, an effect from that first shift, that led to Karpov taking command at a most inopportune time. If that happened again…

“Admiral on the bridge!”

Orlov had been leaning over Samsonov’s station again, and he stood up straight, saluting as Volsky appeared through the hatch, breathing a bit heavily as he always did.

“One day we will get elevators installed on these ships,” he said with a smile. He noticed Fedorov at once, and took a moment with him.

“Mister Fedorov, welcome back. I trust you are well?”

“I am sir. The dizziness has passed and I feel fine now.”

“Good, good. Mister Orlov, is the submersible staged for launch?”

“Ten minutes, sir. Byko is checking the seals on the hatch.”

“Very good, then I will take Mister Nikolin’s report, unless we have any further contacts. Rodenko? Tasarov?”

“All clear sir,” said Rodenko.

“No undersea contacts, Admiral. All quiet,” Tasarov gave his report, seeing Fedorov watching him closely, a strange look on his face, like he had found a long lost cousin.

“Then Mister Nikolin can tell me what he was listening to on the radio last night. Any news?”

“Just the same, sir. Old WWII documentaries. They just keep playing the same old news, something about Barbarossa, and Smolensk was the latest.”

“Barbarossa? That was the German attack on Russia in 1941, am I correct, Mister Fedorov?”

“Yes sir,” said Fedorov, eager for any interaction he could get with the Admiral. “The First Battle of Smolensk was fought between mid June and September, 1941. It was the first instance where the Red Army recovered enough to put up stubborn resistance, and delayed the German advance on Moscow for two full months.”

“That’s our resident historian,” said Volsky. “So that battle would be at its height now. Yes? Perhaps they are commemorating the 80 year anniversary of these war events. Yet no other news, Nikolin?”

“Just this old war news, Admiral.”

“Still no GPS feed,” said Fedorov, wanting to stay engaged. “And I have no Loran-C data from Jan Mayen—nothing from the Met.”

“The Met?”

“That’s the weather station at Metten on Jan Mayen. There’s a four man team there year round, and then the main installations at Olonkin City and Helenesanden. Most activity has moved there, but we still call the station the Met.” This had been important evidence the first time around, and Fedorov wanted to get it on the table as soon as he possibly could.

“I see… Can we signal them, Mister Nikolin?”

“I can try, sir.”

“Good. Get the weather report while you are at it, and see what they know. Do it now.”

The intercom sounded a single tone and they heard the voice of Chief Byko reporting that the submersible operation was ready for launch.

“Order them to proceed, Mister Orlov.”

“Aye sir.”

Fedorov knew that Nikolin’s call on any normal channel to Jan Mayen would go unanswered. That would only deepen the mystery, and he knew it was his first real chance to get control of events here. It had been his suggestion that they take a helicopter to that Island that was key in providing real evidence that something profound had happened to the ship. None of those installations he had just talked about were there in 1941, not even the landing strip that was used by Norwegian
Hercules
cargo planes to supply the island. There was only a small Norwegian weather team, always wary of imminent German attack.

It did not take long for Nikolin to report no contacts, and Fedorov was watching the Admiral very closely to gauge his reaction. He nodded, settling into the Captain’s chair, just as Karpov was announced.

“Captain on the bridge!”

“As you were, as you were.” Karpov huffed in, all business, stepping to the Admiral, and giving Fedorov a sideward’s glance as he passed.

“Any news?” he asked brusquely.

“Nothing. Nikolin reports the same old war stories, and we can’t even raise the Norwegian weather station on Jan Mayen.” Volsky gave him a searching look.

“This is most irregular, Admiral. Nothing on the BBC? Nothing from Severomorsk? Nothing from Iceland or Norway?”

“Only the same stories we heard last night. They are still commemorating the war years.”

“Nonsense,” said Karpov, looking around, scanning the sea through the viewports. “And still no sign of
Slava?
Well, when we get that submersible to the bottom of the sea, we may finally get to the bottom of this little mystery as well. I fully expect to find wreckage there, and if this is so, then our situation here takes on a rather dark tint. Are we at battle stations? I heard nothing on the intercom.”