Kirov Saga: Darkest Hour: Altered States - Volume II (Kirov Series) (3 page)

The gallant attack had begun with
24 planes. Marco Ritter got two before he was embroiled in a fight with the
British fighter cover, the flak gunners got four more, and only nine of the
eighteen remaining got torpedoes in the water that had any chance to score a
hit. Yet it was enough to send
Tirpitz
wheeling off the battle line,
where Lindemann knew damage control parties were now rushing to inspect the
starboard hull.

“Signal
Tirpitz
and see if
they have any real damage from that torpedo hit.”

Lindemann had the heat of battle
on him now. The fourth salvo from
Bismarck
boomed out again as the flak
gun fire subsided, and the Kapitän swerved back to the real battle at hand. He
could see that
Hood
was damaged in three places, her B turret, conning
tower, and a bad hit amidships after the
Stukas
came in. Thus far his
own ship had not been struck by enemy fire, though two big geysers had wet his
bow with a rain of glittering seawater. The sense of power under his feet was
overwhelming as the
Bismarck
forged ahead, her turrets blasting away at
the enemy, engines running smoothly.

Smoke shrouded the scene, but
Kurt Werner was back with a signal from
Prince Eugen
. “Another ship
sighted,” he said, “coming in on the same bearing those planes hit us
from—two-two-zero.”

Lindemann peered through his
field glasses, unable to see anything in the dim light, with smoke from his own
guns rolling out of the side of the ship as
Bismarck
fired again. We
should have launched a seaplane, he thought. I am relying too much on
Böhmer
and his
planes aboard
Graf Zeppelin
.

“And what about
Tirpitz?”

“They report minor damage on the
starboard side torpedo bulge. Nothing serious. The second torpedo failed to
detonate.”

“Then they got lucky. Good, we
can always use a good throw of the dice, because now it comes down to armor and
guns, Werner.”

“
Tirpitz
is coming around
again to match our heading, but we are between their ship and the enemy now.
Shall we have them fall back into line with us?”

“No. Leave them where they are.
It will force the British to split their fire at two different ranges, while
all our gunfire can focus on one point.”

He raised his field glasses
again, and some thirty seconds later he saw another bright flash and explosion
down his line of fire. The plot was thickening with the arrival of another
British ship, but
Hood
had been hit again.

He looked at his watch. It would
probably be another half hour before he could expect more air support from
Graf
Zeppelin.
How many more planes were out there on those British carriers?
Where were the rest of the German fighters? Don’t worry about the planes, he
chided himself. You’re a gunnery officer, the best in all Germany. You’ve taught
most every lead Artilleryman of any note. See to the guns, that’s what will do
the job here. See to the guns.

The Nordic poetry he so often
read was running through his mind now. It was Ragnarök, the clash of the gods
in a mighty battle to decide their fate. Here we decide the fate of nations at
sea, he thought. If we can defeat the Royal Navy here, then anything is possible
in this war. The echo of the guns pounded out the tempo of the battle, and the
words of the Poetic Edda ran through his mind like the hot pulse of blood at
his temples.

“Axe-time, sword-time, shields are
sundered,
Wind-time, wolf-time, ere the world falls;
Nor ever shall men each other spare.”

Chapter 3

Out
on the weather deck
Admiral Volsky stood watching the ochre light on the sea, deceptively calm, and
the silver tint of the fat moon over it all. It was a day when no night would
come, no place to fold oneself into the darkness and shadow, into the silence.
The light gleamed on ragged shards of floating ice, like the cold white teeth
of a great shark emerging from the sea. The ship was thrumming beneath his
heavy soled boots, the metal hull pushing through the ice floes. A cold wind
was crisp on his face, and above him he caught the ceaseless sweeping turn of
the big Voskhod-2 “Dawn” Navigation and weather radar, the highest mast of the
ship, and saw the silhouette of the watch posted there.

They had lost their original set
in the Pacific, and this was a new model, hastily fitted before the ship left
Vladivostok, though the umbilical cables and wire tentacles that would
integrate it into the ship’s systems had just been connected in recent days.
Engineer Byko managed to get it back on line to improve their radar coverage,
but the Admiral knew it would only be the bringer of more bad news. They were
sailing at the edge of a great battle at sea now, and steel gladiators hastened
to converge in the watery arena where only death and destruction could possibly
result.

Behind him he could see the glow
of the red combat lighting in the citadel of the main bridge where his officers
sat dutifully at their posts, their eyes fixed on their computer screens and
system panels. Fedorov was standing like a shadow by the Plexiglas navigation
panel, marking off the positions of the ships that had been fingered by the
radar. Brave Fedorov. He had lost his tether to the history, and now joined the
stream of ongoing events like anyone else, an unknowing participant, swept
inexorably forward into the moment with each revolution of the ship’s powerful
turbines.

Then he heard a distant rumble in
the deep crimson of the midnight hour, the growl and thunder of a distant
battle. Guns were firing, the big steel barrels of the battleships of this era
blasting out their red anger. Admiral Tovey was now facing a trial by fire.
Hood
was engaged with two powerful enemies, the heart of the German battle fleet,
Bismarck
and
Tirpitz
. Tovey was racing to the scene aboard the battlecruiser
Invincible
arriving like the cavalry at the 11th hour to join the action. Off to the south
Kirov’s
radars had also spotted flights of aircraft, fluttering low and
slow over the sea like moths drawn to the flame of battle. These were the
Swordfish
torpedo bombers off the British carriers, or so Fedorov had told it.

Yet the Germans had more
reinforcements at hand as well. The dark shadows of another battle line were
only now emerging at the edge of the horizon to the north. Volsky had come out
to the weather bridge to have a closer look at them himself with his field
glasses. He could have stayed in the heated battle bridge, watching the scene
on the overhead HD video feed from the Tin Man, but somehow seeing the foe with
his own eyes, feeling the cold air on his face, smelling the sea and hearing
the distant guns was what he wanted now.

The Admiral knew that he could
turn away here any time he wished, and avoid becoming embroiled in the conflict,
withdrawing into the gloaming of this hybrid dusk and dawn. Yet somehow the
grinning smirk of the near full moon seemed to taunt him with recrimination.

Yes, we do not belong here, he
knew. We are uninvited guests, interlopers, trespassing on the sacred ground of
years lived long ago, but he could say that very same thing to both the British
and Germans now. None of this should be happening, as Fedorov would attest. The
HMS
Invincible
that now carried the flag of the Royal Navy into battle
was never supposed to have been built!
Bismarck
and
Tirpitz
should not be at sea either, not in 1940. The fact that this was happening at
all sat heavy on his shoulders, a burden he knew that he and his crew would now
carry for some time, perhaps for all their remaining days.

We did this, he said to himself.
This is the face of the war that we shaped with our own meddling, the war we sculpted
with missile fire and the hard chisel of a nuclear warhead. It is ours now, a
world of our own making, and no, we cannot shirk from battle here and slink
away into the shadows. We have chosen, I have chosen, and now we must own that
choice and do what we must here. It could be no other way.

The dark shapes on the sea ahead
were the very same ships
Kirov
had engaged earlier,
Scharnhorst
and
Gneisenau
, with the heavy cruiser
Admiral Hipper
. They were
hastening to the sound of the guns, even as
Kirov
was, latecomers to the
battle, but ships that might weigh heavily in the balance and decide how fate
would rule in this crucial engagement. Rodenko’s radar report told the tale. The
British would be out gunned if these ships arrived on the scene.
Invincible
had scored a stunning long range hit, causing the Germans to veer off, but they
had just skirted north to slip over the horizon and continued on.

Volsky knew this brief moment of
calm, a breathless anticipation, would soon slip from him like his frosty
breath. He could not wait here, watch here, a simple bystander letting the
history they had created play out as it might. They had made a choice.

The time for battle was again at
hand, but what should they do? They had no more than 26 SSMs remaining, and
perhaps five long years of war ahead if they could not find a way to move
forward to their own time again. Each missile was worth its weight in gold.
Even if they could move forward, what would they find? The world might be
fractured beyond all recognition. Is that what Gromyko found when he shifted on
Kazan?
What would he do? What if he shifts again? These and a hundred
other questions ran through his mind now as he turned and opened the outer
hatch to the citadel bridge. The red light of battle stations fell on him as he
entered, like a baptism of blood and fire.

“Admiral on the bridge!”

“As you were.” Volsky pulled off
his gloves and pocketed them, reaching for a handkerchief to chase the chill
from his nose. “A cold summer night,” he said. “But the sea is calm.”

“Aye sir,” said Fedorov. “Those
planes have veered on a heading of zero-four-zero and engaged the Germans. I
thought they had mistaken Admiral Tovey’s ship as the target for a moment, but
it appears they sorted things out.”

“That is good,” said Volsky. “I’m
glad they did not find us here and we were not put in the uncomfortable
position of having to fend off an attack. But now we must look to the action
ahead. I just had a good long look at that contact to our north.” Volsky
pointed to the overhead Tin Man video screen that was now tracking the ships
vectoring in from the northwest.

“It looks like those ships will
arrive at a most inconvenient time for Admiral Tovey. What should we do about
this, Fedorov? I would be prepared to take further action here, but what would
you recommend?”

Fedorov thought for a moment,
hearing and seeing the launch of a missile in his mind’s eye, with all the
drama and spectacle that would create. It would be clearly seen by the Germans
again, and by Tovey’s ship. Perhaps it would make their claim as a warship just
a little more convincing, he thought, but it would certainly raise quite a few
questions should they ever share lunch and gin with the British again.

He remembered his thought,
moments ago…
They
will see every shot we fire, and my god, what would ever happen if it became
known that we were not born to this time and place, that we are strangers in
this strange land, interlopers from another time with power beyond the
imagination of anyone alive this day?

“How many cards do we want to show here, Admiral? Our missiles
will be a shocking addition to this battle should we engage now. It will raise
more than a few eyebrows, and not just with the British should we meet with
them again.”

“Well the Germans have already seen what one of our missiles can
do.”

“That was expedient and necessary given the circumstances we found
ourselves in. Yes, that will have consequences too. They will think we were a
British ship, and perhaps conclude that this is a new weapon system being
deployed by the Royal Navy. It could have effects we cannot foresee just yet.
Remember, the Germans already have interest and activity in rocket development.
Even in the history we know they fielded radio controlled glide bombs, the V-1
cruise missile, the V-2 ballistic missile and jet aircraft before 1945. That
effort could now be accelerated.”

“Yes, the cat is out of the bag, but we cannot control what they
do now that they have seen our MOS-III.”

“Yet if we keep our missiles close, the lesson will not be
repeated, sir. Perhaps they might see it as a fluke, a lucky shot, and the effects
could be mitigated.”

“Perhaps, Fedorov, but we will never know. What was done was done.
The Germans have see our fire, even though the British did not seem overly
impressed with our ship.”

“That will change if we fire SSMs to intervene in this battle now
sir, but it isn’t just the British I’m worried about.”

“No? What is on your mind, Fedorov?”

“Ilanskiy, Admiral. That strange time shift effect on the back
stairway of the inn at Ilanskiy. I went down those steps and found myself in
1908! A journey up that stair took me right back to where I was, 1942 again,
but Sergei Kirov also came up that stairway after me, and from what Deputy
Director Kamenski told us I now suspect that Naval Intelligence officer may have
taken that stairway as well—Volkov. If that is true, who knows how far back in
time that would have taken him? What if he reached the year 1908 as I did, but
never deduced that the stairway was the means by which he did so? He would have
been trapped in 1908, which could explain how he would have seized the reins of
power with the knowledge he had. If this is the same man who now seems to
control the Orenburg Federation, then news of a ship firing advanced rocketry
and SAMs may also have an unpredictable effect.”