Bougainville and Londonderry north of Wyndham. As the sun rose, Rodenko began to see some odd signal returns to the northwest, about a hundred and fifty kilometers off the coast of Timor Island.
“It comes and goes, sir,” Rodenko explained. “I think I’m seeing something at about 250 to 300 kilometers out near maximum range on the Fregat-MAE-7 system, then I lose it, and I can get no clear signal processing on the POYMA data unit.”
“A signal return at that range would have to be an aircraft, yes?” Admiral Volsky was back on the bridge and and sitting squarely in his chair watching the distant Australian coast shrouded by haze, his island reverie interrupted by Rodenko’s report.
“Yes, sir. I can only see surface contacts out to about 120 kilometers.”
Volsky thought for a moment, wondering, and thinking discretion would be advised, no matter what their present circumstances might indicate—that they were still adrift on an empty sea in an equally empty world. “Perhaps we should investigate this further with the KA-40. What does my
“I don’t like it, sir—the signal fading in and out like that. It leads me to suggest we keep everyone, and everything, aboard and simply await further developments.”
“I see…” Volsky gave his First Officer a long look, then nodded his approval. “Very well, we will keep all our eggs in one basket for the moment. But I was climbing a ladder a few weeks ago and got a very rude awakening. Let us bring the ship to condition three alert, and I think we should make an announcement. The crew has had a good long rest on the voyage from St. Helena. You may do the honors, Mister Fedorov.”
“Aye, sir. If you wish.”
Fedorov made a short statement over the ship’s PA system, announcing that they were receiving some unusual traffic on the radar and a precautionary drill to battle stations was in order. They could almost hear the collective groan from the crew, and initial response was sluggish, but in time midshipman and warrant officers were reporting to the bridge as one station after another was cleared for action, and the crew stood its level three watch on all systems. Fedorov saw Samsonov activating panels in the Combat Information Center.
“What are you doing, Samsonov? We have no hostile contacts for the moment.”
“Correct, sir, but a level three alert requires me to key and initiate all systems and report general readiness for action.” The big man continued working even as he spoke, his arms moving as if in unison with the ship’s systems, human servomechanisms opening toggle guards and flipping switches to feed life to his CIC panels. A few seconds later he finished, finally swiveling his chair to face Fedorov and make his report.
“Sir, I report all systems nominal, and our current missile inventory now reads as follows: Moskit II, nine missiles; MOS-III, nine missiles; P-900 cruise missile system, eight missiles; S-300 SAM system, thirty-five missiles; Klinok SAM system, thirty-seven missiles;
“Thank you, Mister Samsonov.”
Admiral Volsky looked at his First Officer, frowning. “Running a bit thin on SSMs.”
“We’re lucky to have even those available, sir. But it’s the SAM systems I am more concerned about for the moment. Seventy-two missiles is a fairly weak air defense umbrella.”
“We still have good munitions for close in defense,” said Volsky. Both the Gatling guns and the
The Admiral looked out the forward view panes, taking in the glorious seascape and the distant silhouette of the Australian coast, broken by green archipelagos of sandstone islands circled by reefs in the clear blue waters of the Timor Sea. “I must tell you that I was very tempted to drop anchor permanently when I got a look at that Montgomery Island, Fedorov. Aside from the missing native girls, it was as close to paradise as any man is likely to get on this ship. And now here we are squinting at the radar screens, flipping switches and rattling off missile inventories.” As he spoke he quietly gestured to Fedorov to come closer, and when the young officer was at his side he leaned heavily on one elbow, inclining his head and speaking in a lowered voice. “Alright Fedorov…What are you worried about. Out with it, but quietly please.”
Fedorov blinked, then clasped his arms behind his back and spoke just above a whisper. “The interval, sir. We are well into our thirteenth day now, and all seems well…but it does not
“Explain this interval business to me again.”
“Well, sir, the initial accident that shifted our position in time occurred on 28 July and just as we rolled into 9 August, the detonation of the warhead Karpov fired shifted us forward in time again, or so we believe. Twelve days later we were in the Med, and shifted backwards, only a year later. Twelve days after that we disappeared just as we reached St. Helena.”
“And with no nuclear detonation to help us on our way,” said Volsky.
“That is what bothers me, sir. The shift was not accompanied by those strange effects as before. It was almost imperceptible, and the only way we realized it was when Rodenko’s radar began to malfunction. That same interval was reached again as we left Malus Island, and we have been cruising for some time with no signs of any further shift. Everything seems the same—the sea is naturally this color, and not altered by the strange effects we experienced before, but it does not
“We’ve seen nothing on radar—until this report Rodenko made a moment ago.”
“True sir, but these waters would not be much traveled, even in nineteen—” he caught himself, but Volsky realized what he was thinking.
“You believe the ship is trying to settle into some proper time, but it is a time in the past?”
“I do, sir. I explained it once like a rock skipping over water. We were thrown back to 1941, then skipped forward, arcing up through that bleak future time, and landed again, only this time in 1942. In the meantime we are able to move freely in space, and so we sailed from the Atlantic to the Med and found ourselves in quite a dilemma when we landed back in the middle of the war.”
“I understand… Yet these waters were fairly quiet, even in 1942, or even 1943 supposing your theory holds true and we skip another year forward.”
“That is one consolation,” said Fedorov, “if the history holds true, that is.”
“What do you mean?”
“In that last episode there were instances where ships were committed to battle early, and found to be in places the chronology of the real history says they should
“Yes, yes, what about Orlov,” Volsky repeated. “God only knows what he might be up to if he did survive as we now suspect.”
“It’s a real problem, sir. Before we had the chronology, and certain knowledge of every enemy we faced, right down to the exact ships and numbers of planes in each task force. Now I’m not so sure, and as serene as these waters may now seem, this theater of the war was a titanic naval struggle.”
“Yes, but these variations you reported from our operations in the Med—they were minor, were they not?”
“Seemingly so, sir, though they brought us within range of 15 inch guns…” He let that sink in for a moment, and Volsky nodded his understanding.
“Suppose we do return to the 1940s. Suppose we are even marooned there indefinitely. After all, this stone skips only so far on the water, Fedorov. It must land somewhere.”
“Right, sir. If the interval holds, then we might skip slightly forward again, perhaps to 1943 or even 1944. Action in this region was mostly over by May of 1942 with the conclusion of the Battle of the Coral Sea. That was the Japanese attempt to take Port Moresby on New Guinea, and it resulted in the first carrier to carrier battle of the Pacific war. The Americans lost the
