Kirov II: Cauldron of Fire

wounded by shrapnel. An examination of the damage showed that the worst of the attack had been aimed at the command citadel, though remarkably little harm was done there. The 200mm armor plating surrounding the critical systems and personnel in this area had deflected most of the heavier rounds, but some of the more sensitive radar and electronics components above suffered serious damage. The port side radar control for the Klinok (SA-N-92) Missile system was shot completely through and virtually shattered. Byko had engineers up on the roof of the citadel removing the unit and gauging their chances of replacing it with reserve components from the engineering bay.

Rodenko finally seemed to get his primary search radars clear of interference and was getting a good picture of the area around the ship, though his range seemed limited. “All clear for the moment,” he said to the Executive Officer. “I suppose we can count ourselves lucky that they didn’t hit the main search radars. Our Voskhod MR-900 system is green and the 3D Fregat MR-910 on the aft mast is fully operational. Not sure why our signal range is so attenuated at the moment, but it was not from any damage sustained in that attack.”

“We had the same situation with signal range the last time,” said Fedorov. My Navigation Radars were at 50% of capacity for several hours.”

“The last time?” Rodenko looked at him. “You mean to say—”

“That was no modern aircraft that just hit us,” said Fedorov. “In the heat of the moment I could not get a clear look at the plane, but I did see enough to know it was a twin engine fighter—probably a Beaufort or perhaps even a BF-110.”

Samsonov frowned. He had never heard of either aircraft, and realized things were skewing off in an impossible direction again. “Then we are still back to the Second World War? This is crazy! What is going on?”

Fedorov looked at him, thinking, but said nothing for a moment. Remembering the attack, he recalled the piercing lights that lanced through the bridge compartment. Rodenko had seen them as well, and he questioned him about it.

“Those lights, Rodenko. Do you remember what happened?”

“I thought it was a laser,” said Rodenko. “Came right through the main bulkhead of the citadel and hit the decks. But, as you can see, there is no damage at all.” He scratched his head, clearly flummoxed by the attack.

“It was probably rounds from the main cannon on that aircraft,” said Fedorov.

“Impossible,” Samsonov complained. “Right through our armor? Then where are the holes?”

“I don’t think they really hit us,” Fedorov began, still feeling his way through the explanation himself, trying to get his mind around it even as he spoke. “This trouble with the ship’s reactor Dobrynin reported… and strange light on the sea just before the attack, the odd pulsation in the air—it was all just as we experienced it before. I think we may have slipped again, moved in time again.”

“But how?” Rodenko and Tasarov both turned in their chairs now, keenly attentive to what Fedorov was saying. The other crew members were listening, though Rodenko waved a hand at one, a look of annoyance on his face that set the man back to his watch on the radar.

Fedorov stepped closer and the four men seemed to form a circle, the senior officers on the bridge now, Fedorov as the acting Starpom, or First Officer, and his senior Lieutenants, Rodenko, Tasarov and Samsonov. He went on, still trying to sort through the situation in his mind as he spoke.

“Suppose we moved again,” he began. “God only knows where now, but it was clearly not forward in time. We’ve slipped back again—or we were pulled back again. Who knows why? But it was as if we were not quite all here when that plane came in on us. Some of those rounds seemed to pass right through the bridge, just as you say Rodenko, like a laser. Then, as we solidified in this moment, the shells began to bite against the citadel’s armor. We got off rather easy with this attack. Those cannons could have done a lot more harm if they had hit more critical systems, but I think most of the rounds passed right through us…because we weren’t really here yet—we were still manifesting in this new time.”

He realized how crazy his words must sound, but by now the crew had come to accept the impossible circumstances of their situation. “Look at the time,” Fedorov pointed to the chronometer. “It is two in the morning, and we should be in the thick of night. Please correct me if I am wrong, but it is broad daylight now. Where has the night gone? Unless the earth’s rotation has suddenly changed, we have obviously moved in time.”

“But there was no nuclear detonation,” said Rodenko. “How did it happen this time? How could we move again like this?”

“I don’t know…” Fedorov was quick to admit his own ignorance. “We may never know. It could be that we have never really settled in time again after that first accident that sent us reeling into the past. Ever skip a rock on a pond? Perhaps we are skipping along in time like a stone skips on the water. We landed in 1941, and then skipped off the water into that nightmare world of the future, only to fall back into the drink again. We just sailed across the Atlantic, so we have deliberately moved in space.”

“That I understand,” Rodenko argued. “But I see no controls at the helm for time displacement! How is it possible?”

“I said I don’t know,” said Fedorov. “Look—we won’t be able to sort through all of this any time soon. It took us days to realize what had happened the first time, but we may not have the luxury of time like that again. We need to be alert and ready, and must assume we are still not where we belong. If we have moved again, we need to find out where we are, because if we’ve landed back in the 1940s as before, then this could be a very dangerous place.” He pointed to the forward view pane. “Don’t be lulled by those nice calm seas and clear blue skies. The Mediterranean was a cauldron of fire during the Second World War, and we’ve sailed right into the middle of it. If I could only figure out the date and time…” He remembered his radio man and turned to that station, his eyes alight.

“Anything to report, Mr. Nikolin?”

“Nothing yet, sir. The band is all clouded over. I think I’m starting to get a signal, then I lose it. It comes and goes like that, but I get nothing clear enough to record.”

“Well, keep at it.” He surveyed the bridge, thinking what to do next. The situation had calmed for the moment, and he wanted to get below and see the damage first hand, but even more to get to the infirmary and see what the Doctor was calling about.

“We’ll sort out what has happened soon enough,” he concluded. “In the meantime I need to find the Admiral and give my report. Stay on that scope, Rodenko—all of you—be keenly alert now. And Mister Samsonov,” he warned, “we cannot afford to be caught by surprise again. I assess no blame here. None of us saw that plane until it was right on top of us. But don’t let another aircraft get within striking range of this ship, eh? If Rodenko finds anything and feeds you a contact, you have my permission to fire at will and shoot it down. I’m afraid the circumstances compel us to shoot first and ask questions later until we know what has happened and where we are.” He straightened his cap, resolved.

“And now, gentlemen, I must go below. Mister Rodenko—you have the bridge.”

“Aye, sir.”

~ ~ ~

He made his way out the hatch and down the stairway to the decks below. Men saluted as he passed, to his uniform and rank if nothing else. They knew him as Fedorov, the young dreamer at navigation, lost always in his books when he wasn’t on duty, and always ruminating on the dusty pages of history past. Yet, with the rumors that had been circulating about the Admiral, they were glad, at least, to see a ranking officer in their midst. Karpov and Orlov were still locked up in the brig, and most of the other senior officers were on the bridge. Though many of the junior officers still thought of Fedorov as one of their own, the fact remained that he was now wearing three stripes and two pips of a Captain Lieutenant, and was designated Starpom, the First Officer of the Boat in authority beneath Admiral Volsky.

Down in the lower decks, the chief warrant officers, or mishmanyy, held sway, commanding the ranks of starshini below them, Chiefs and Petty Officers of various classes, down through Senior Seamen, though the bulk of the 750 man crew were still at the lowest navy rank, the matpoc who carried out all the daily tasks required to keep the ship running in good order. The men still had on their bright orange and yellow life vests and helmets, already hosing down and swabbing the decks where residual fire damage had occurred.

Fedorov saw where the worst of the attack had riddled an outer hatch with sharp punctures, the metal spraying inward as shrapnel to kill and wound several men in this compartment. Some of the overhead insulated