odd mix of conflicting information they had been dealing with. The Admiral clearly expected to see the profile of a typical British seaborne helicopter, but it was soon clear to him that this was a plane, flying low already, and still descending as it bore in on their heading.
Karpov reached for a pair of field glasses where they hung on a peg near the forward view port and snapped them up to peer at the contact, his movements tense and driven by obvious adrenaline. Volsky saw his jaw slacken, mouth opening with astonishment. “What in god's name…”
The aircraft sped in, perhaps no more than 300 feet over the water now, and Volsky could clearly hear the drone of a standard propeller type engine.
Fedorov leapt to his feet and was out through the side hatch at once, eager to get a closer look at the aircraft as it overflew the ship. He smiled with amazement, seeing the telltale concentric circles on each wing, the Royal Navy insignia, and he immediately knew from the profile of this aircraft what it was. The plane passed overhead, its engine loud as it banked quickly, climbing swiftly up toward a drift of low clouds.
Back on the bridge Karpov’s shoulders slumped, and he gave the Admiral a sallow look, field glasses in his hand betraying a slight tremor there. He took a deep breath, exhaling the tension, for he had expected the ship might even now be a flaming wreck. The over-flight had been a simple reconnaissance, not a strike mission as he had feared, yet what in the world were the British up to? What did he see just now?
Fedorov was back inside, sealing off the hatch to the exterior watch deck, his face alight with excitement and amazement, nose red from the cold.
“Mister Fedorov,” said the Admiral, “you will kindly maintain your post in the future. Compromising the integrity of the citadel is a serious breach of conduct.”
“I'm sorry, Admiral,” said Fedorov, “but did you see it, sir? That was an old British fighter plane, a Fulmar II from the look of it, the same planes that would be assigned to these carriers in the Second World War, sir!”
Karpov looked as though he was about to say something, but he held his tongue, for he himself had clearly seen what Fedorov was describing. Admiral Volsky noted Fedorov's astonishment, relieved that he had made the right choice in holding fire, at least for the moment. But now even the evidence of his eyes simply added to the wild confusion of the moment, for what he had seen, what Fedorov was describing, was clearly impossible.
“This must be some sort of reenactment,” said Orlov. “The radio show, the old ships, and now this plane.”
“Sir,” Fedorov went on, shaking his head. “There is only one known example of that aircraft type in existence, and it is sitting in an aeronautical museum in England. There is simply no way that plane could be out there unless…” He himself stopped at the precipice of his own thinking, unwilling to make that last impossible leap over the edge into an abyss he could not hope to fathom. What was happening?
“What are you saying, Fedorov. We just saw the plane, did we not?” The Admiral looked at his navigator, his expression grave and serious.
“It was a Mark II Fulmar, sir, most certainly. That was a Rolls-Royce Merlin 30 engine, and the air duct beneath it on the nose of the plane is a characteristic feature of this aircraft-the long canopy as well. It was used in both strike and reconnaissance roles during the Second World War aboard British carriers, first introduced in March of 1941. Sir, the only known surviving aircraft of this type is the very first prototype model off the production line, which never saw active combat during the war, and it's in the Fleet Air Arm Museum in Somerset! I saw it just last summer while on leave. There is no way this aircraft could be flying today!”
“You tell me you are certain this plane is a Fulmar in one breath and then say it cannot possibly fly in the next. Which is it, Fedorov?” said the Admiral. “How am I supposed to sort this out? Everything we have seen in the last three hours seems completely irregular. Both Orel and Slava are missing without the slightest trace-no sign of wreckage, no thermal signature on the ocean floor, no signals traffic of any kind. Severomorsk does not respond to our communications, and we hear nothing on the radio but historical documentaries and old music. Now I have twelve ships south of my position that no longer exist, and I am being over flown by aircraft that do not exist either-or was that a seagull we just saw.”
“Aircraft that do not exist in the year 2021, sir,” said Fedorov, realizing again how insane his remarks must sound.
The Admiral looked at him, astounded. “You are suggesting we are…”
“This is all nonsense, I tell you,” said Karpov. “This has to be a NATO PSYOP or perhaps a re-enactment, as Orlov suggests. Otherwise we may all be suffering the effects of that explosion. Hallucinating. To think anything otherwise is pure lunacy. What, Fedorov? Are you telling me we have sailed back into the middle of the Second World War? Go and see the doctor! You are clearly unfit for duty here.”
“I will be the judge of that,” said Admiral Volsky. Yet the throbbing in his head seemed worse than ever, in spite of the two aspirin the doctor had given him, and it was clear that all the other bridge crew seemed overly stressed and very anxious. Karpov’s frenetic emotion was keeping everyone on the edge of a razor. Samsonov still waited tensely at his combat station, Nikolin was looking at him with those big round eyes while he continued to listen to the BBC broadcast on his headset. Orlov was sulking in the CIC, his attention pulled between Karpov’s boisterous statements and the video from the KA-40 that he had been re-playing.
The Admiral knew he needed to act-to give the men something they could focus their energies on. These were his officers and chiefs. What else was happening below decks as the crew sat fitfully at their action stations?
“Rodenko, what is that plane doing?”
“It has turned back toward Red Wolf Two, sir.”
“Very well. Our helicopter?”
“Well to the west, sir. There’s no possibility of a conflict.”
“Mister Nikolin, signal the KA-40 to stand down and return to the ship. Mister Fedorov,” said Volsky. “Show me our position on the navigation board.”
“Of course, Admiral.”
“Mr. Karpov, if you will compose yourself, please join us.”
The three men moved to the clear Plexiglas navigation plot where Fedorov had been working out their position manually after losing GPS navigation. “We still have no satellite links,” said Fedorov, “but I have calculated our position here, midway between Bear Island and Jan Mayen. That squiggle there is where Orel should be, but I have drawn in the approximate radius of that detonation, assuming it was a warhead from one of Orel’s missiles, sir.”
The Admiral nodded, and Captain Karpov listened, his eyes narrowed suspiciously, as if he was waiting for Fedorov to skew off into his ridiculous theory again. The navigator went on, pointing out symbols on the board as he spoke.
“This would be Slava’s last known position,” he said. “Now we had one KA-40 here earlier, but we have moved it off to the west, north of Jan Mayen. The other helicopter is sitting on top of the undersea contact here.”
The Admiral suddenly remembered the submarine, and he turned to his ASW man. “Mister Tasarov, any developments on that undersea contact? What is Red Wolf One up to?”
“The KA-40 is over the contact’s last known position, sir. But it has gone silent.”
“I see…” The Admiral rubbed his chin. “Very well, gentlemen. The enemy wants to play war games with us and I will accommodate them. Captain, where would you place the ship to best deal with this surface action group?”
Karpov stood taller, the pained expression in his eyes ameliorating somewhat, lips pursed while he looked at Fedorov’s plotting board. “Here, sir. I would move us due west in the wake of the KA-40, to a position north of Jan Mayen, and well away from the position reported for this submarine. The island will serve to provide some concealment from radar if we put it between our position and the enemy surface action group at Red Wolf Two. And should we engage, they will have that much less time to pick up our outbound missile salvo.”
“Well thought out,” said Volsky, complimenting his Captain. The man may be high strung, he thought, but he was a sound tactician.
“How extensive is the sea ice in that region?”
“It should not be a problem,” said Fedorov, “but sir-”
“Very well, Captain Karpov. Bring your ship around to a heading of 245 degrees west southwest.” The Admiral deliberately handed the task to Karpov, and he could immediately see the effect seemed to calm the man.
