“Only a nuclear weapon could have caused destruction on this scale,” said Volsky. “So in that we have one clue. We have not slipped further into the past, correct? Halifax was an important harbor and naval center. If it came to war-who knows when it happened-then this was a likely target, and we would be right at ground zero here if a missile was targeted to take out this harbor infrastructure.”
“There did seem to be a crater, sir.”
“Not surprising,” said Volsky. “It would have been a low air burst, and I would guess that this target would have received no less than a 150 kiloton warhead-perhaps two. That could have been fired by an ICBM, or even one of our submarines.”
“One of our submarines, sir?”
“Who else? I don’t think the British or French would have any interest in destroying this harbor, nor even the Chinese if it came to war. But it has long been on the target list for our ballistic missile submarines. I have seen the information first hand.” He shook his head sullenly. “ Borei class…We name the damn subs after the north wind, Boreas, but it is a hard wind that blew here to bring such destruction.”
“Then you are suggesting another war has broken out, Admiral? That we are back in our own time again?”
“Well that hard north wind has blown us clear of the Second World War, and now it seems we have landed in the Third! One day we will grow tired of counting them I suppose. But this is damage from a nuclear warhead, that much is clear to me.”
Fedorov had a distant, empty look on his face as he thought. The history had changed! Nothing was certain now. Nothing could be relied on from this moment forward. He glanced sheepishly at the small library of books on the shelf at his old navigation station. Much of the history in them was so much fiction now. Everything had changed, and it had come to war this time around. War was a ticking clock, he knew, remembering a poem by Kudryavitsky. Tick, tick, tick-then the Alarm clock bomb goes off taking you by surprise with its morning shock. “It's better that you hear it…” His voice trailed off, disconsolate and forlorn in tone.
“Mister Fedorov?” The Admiral looked at him, brows raised.
“A Russian poet, sir,” said Fedorov, quoting the line in full: “ Sometimes the alarm-clock looms up first, quietly ticking in the doorway. It's better that you hear it…”
Volsky nodded. “Some men never listen,” he said quietly, musing. “If war came, and this city was destroyed, then I fear it was a general exchange between Russia and the West. It is my guess that we will find much the same level of destruction if we continue on this course and visit the American coastline. All those cities would have received multiple missiles in a general exchange.”
“But why sir?” Samsonov had a blank look on his face.
“Why?” Volsky gave him a long look. “You have to look no farther than this ship to answer that, Mister Samsonov. We build them, these war machines, these ticking clocks, and they do their job with lethal efficiency. Look how we savaged the British and American navies-this single ship-and we could have done worse damage if Karpov had his way. Yet we vanished from the scene of the crime, a thief in the night as it were. No doubt they looked for us for a very long time, but all for naught. We were here, in some black future we only now begin to surmise, here with the consequences of what we have done when we so blithely put to sea with our holds crammed full of missiles and warheads. Is that not what you were trained for?” His eyes softened a bit as he went on. “No-I do not put any blame on you, Samsonov. It is what we all were trained for. The uniforms, the salutes, the niceties of rank and protocol-all these are just ways we console ourselves as we drill in the making of war. In the final analysis, this is the end of it all, yes? These are the consequences. Who knows how much of the world is left out there for us now?”
“Then what do we do now, sir?” said Samsonov. The eyes of the entire bridge crew were on the Admiral now, for his words had seared them with the realization of what had happened, what they may have done, mindlessly, reflexively, and by simply following the orders of Karpov as was their duty at the time. Duty? What were they, wound up clocks, bound to strike midnight come what may, or men capable of stilling the hands and stopping that jangling sound of the alarm? Yet they had failed to listen. Yes, it was better if you listen…Did they change the history, or was this end as inevitable as the ticking of that clock? No man among them could answer that.
“What do we do?” Volsky clasped his hands behind his back. “We go and find that beach Doctor Zolkin was talking about. We go and find that island.”
The Admiral tapped Fedorov on the shoulder. “Mister Fedorov, the helm is yours. I think I had best walk the ship and talk with the men. They deserve to know what has happened, and for that matter, I think I will pay a visit to Karpov and Orlov as well.”
There was a moment of silence on the bridge until the Admiral gave a final command. “Helm, come about. Take us back up the channel and out to sea. Then ahead two thirds.”
“Aye sir, coming about and out to sea, sir.”
~ ~ ~
DD Plunkett finally righted herself, breaking through another great wave and out into a mottled sea of luminescent green. Kauffman had been holding on to a bulkhead beam for dear life, and he looked out, amazed to see that the seas had suddenly calmed and his ship was settling down, the bow still cutting through the diminished swells at high speed. He had taken a few hard blows from the enemy, but now he could see nothing on the horizon, the shadow of steel and fire they had been chasing was gone.
The Captain was out on the watch deck at once, field glasses in hand, scanning the seas in every direction. There was nothing left of his destroyer division. Benson, Mayo and Jones were gone, but off to the starboard side he caught sight of Division 14. They had been trailing behind his ships somewhat, and suffered less from the enemy guns. Hughes was leaving a wake of smoke, but Madison, Gleaves and Lansdale seemed alive and well.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he breathed. He kept scanning.
“Jimmy, signal Div-Fourteen and see if they have a sighting on that German ship.”
Word came back by lantern: clear ahead, and Kauffman had the other ships form up on Plunkett, a fistful of five destroyers, the proud remnant of Desron 7. They searched the area for some time, but there was no sign of the German raider, or of that awesome explosive geyser they had seen to their east. Kauffman decided to risk a radio call, and he put out a message, hoping to hear from TF-16 and the Mississippi. There was nothing but silence, and the odd green sea.
The Captain scratched his head. Thankfully the fires were out on his own ship, and Plunkett was still seaworthy. With three ships lost, and the enemy nowhere to be seen, he eventually decided to come about and head back to Argentia Bay. When he arrived there he would get the surprise of his life.
