Paradox Hour (37 page)

“Chief on the Bridge!” came the boatswain’s call, and Orlov huffed through the side hatch in a grumpy mood. “Top to bottom,” he said gruffly. “The men are going over the whole damn ship!”

“I trust you are well, Chief,” said Volsky.

“Not bad,” said Orlov. “But we found another stair missing on the lower engineering level. They had to rig a ladder there. Damn thing was half there, three steps, the rest gone. What’s going on around here, Fedorov?” Even Orlov turned to the ex-navigator for answers now, but Fedorov could only speculate.

“We’re shifting, yet in an uncontrolled state,” said Fedorov. “Remember my example with magnetism? The ship may have acquired some kind of phantom energy throughout its travels. It may be causing these effects. How were the final mast inspections, Chief?”

“Everything seems to be working on the main masts and radar decks. The Tin Man optical units checked out fine too. An Engineering team is on the way to fix that mess.” He thumbed the main bridge hatch. “Speaking of magnetism, there’s just one other thing gone haywire.” He smiled, handing Fedorov his pocket compass.

Fedorov took it, and to his amazement, the needle was completely lost, It spun left and right, then twirled about, unable to find magnetic north, a useless flutter, no matter which way he held it.

“Keep it,” said Orlov. “It’s no good to me.” He tramped over to the coffee station near the plotting table, and looked for a mug. “Who knows,” he said. “Maybe the coffee will taste better for a while.”

Chapter 32

Lieutenant
Commander Wellings had no luck in regular seamen’s dungarees and white cap. In fact, every time he tried to get down to the cargo hold on
Rodney
, he found himself press-ganged into some other duty by a burly Chief. What he did discover, is that his pursuit was fruitless. The compartment he needed to get to had been completely flooded, and sealed off. It was going to take a diving suit with oxygen tank to get in there, and he did not think he was going to pull that off any time soon.

He struggled to the upper decks, trying to avoid the scrutiny of any Petty Officer he encountered, and slipped quietly back to the ship’s laundry, looking for the bag where he had secreted away his officer’s uniform. Once dressed as a Lieutenant Commander again, he felt a little better, though his mission here had been a failure, at least insofar as that key was concerned.

Last time it had been pure happenstance, the shift and roll of the ship under the vibration of those awesome guns above, and the heavy seas. This time, he knew exactly where to go and how to find that damn key, but circumstances had prevented him from getting anywhere near it. He chided himself inwardly.

I should have acted much sooner, but the first order of business was getting cozy with Captain Dalrymple–Hamilton and trying to steer
Rodney
out of harm’s way. Now my time here is limited. In another eight hours the pattern signature will begin to erode, and so they’ll have to pull me out very soon.

He had been so close to his goal here, and now it was so very far away. Yet a lot could happen in eight hours, and as soon as he was back on deck he could see the fireworks starting on the horizon to the south—missile fire! He watched as the fiery rockets streaked up into the sky, faster than anything he had ever seen. Their white contrails at elevation were already catching the first rays of the sun, and turning to long strands of ocher rope in the sky. The damage they soon caused on the dark western horizon was soon plain to see. Something had been badly hit there, and he found himself wondering if it was the same ship Nordhausen had reported to him in his variation search data—
Graf Zeppelin
. That ship should not even be at sea! Perhaps that problem has already been solved, but that was a grim thought, and he put it aside.

Now what to do? I’d best get up to the bridge to see what the general situation is. Our reading was that the German squadron was forced to turn back when they were struck by British submarines, but we could find nothing in the British service logs about that attack. The information came only from the memoirs of Kapitan Karl Topp. Why do I have the feeling that things are swinging off kilter here? It’s that damn battlecruiser again. It’s entering the penumbra of that impending paradox, and that will cause considerable phase instability. How much time do we have?

His footsteps were hard on the metal ladder steps, tapping out his haste like the ticking of a harried clock, his breath coming fast as he hurried to the bridge.

* * *

Chernov
heard what was coming, and he knew it was trouble. Two heavyweight
Spearfish
Torpedoes, 533mm, built to replace the old
Tigerfish
that had been phased out in 2004. That weapon could run at 35 knots, but only for a very short time, giving it a high speed range of about 7 nautical miles. The
Spearfish
had been conceived as early as 1970, when the speedy
Alpha
Class Soviet subs waited like titanium greyhounds, leashed in port with their lead cooled reactors kept warm at all times, and used as fast interceptor boats that would streak out into the northern seas at speeds exceeding the
Tigerfish
torpedo itself! In fact, if not in close, a British sub of that day would have to be very lucky to get an
Alpha
with a torpedo attack. The enemy sub could simply turn and outrun anything that was fired at it. That, and the fact that only 40% of the
Tigerfish
built met design specs, was a good reason to move them into the dustbin of history.

The
Spearfish
was something quite different, driven not by a battery powered electric motor like its forerunner, but by a new, advanced pump-jet propulsor, coupled with a gas turbine engine using Otto II for fuel. This reddish looking oil developed by Doctor Otto Reitlinger, was an arcane mixture of three chemicals, all synthetic, and they reacted with each other when heated to produce the desired energy. Once underway, the torpedo could catch anything in the sea, with blistering speeds up to 80 knots, and it was smart. It could be fired with wire guidance, but when let off the leash, its microprocessor brain could make autonomous decisions on target runs, using both active and passive sonar to find its mark. If it missed, it had the range at 30 nautical miles, over 50 kilometers, to program itself for a second attack vector. In short, the weapon was fast, intelligent, and very deadly with its Aluminized PBX 300kg warhead.

“How many?” asked Gromyko, quietly, the sweat already high on his brow.

“Two sir, both probably still on wire, running true on our last position before that turn.”

“Depth?”

“I make it shallow at 40 meters.”

Gromyko looked at his depth reading to see
Kazan
was slowly falling through 60 meters, descending ever so slowly, her engine off and the sheer weight of the boat slowly taking it down. The
Spearfish
didn’t even have to hit him, he knew. It could initiate a proximity detonation if its sensed sufficient mass close at hand. These fish would run on their fiber optic wire links back to the firing sub, which had the best ears under the sea ever developed. He knew their Sonarman had probably heard the subtle change in sound on the target he had been tracking.

They were well aware of our position, he thought, and they know we heard those torpedoes fire. So they’re listening for our countermeasure, and I don’t think the sled will fool them if they heard us when we rolled over for this dive. Everything depended on the range now.

“How far out are they?”

“Quite a ways, sir. Sound Track has them at an estimated 30 klicks.”

That was a good long shot, thought Gromyko, but well within that weapon’s attack radius. What if I ran now? We’ve got about ten more minutes until those fish get close. They’re moving at 150kph! If I go all ahead full at 65kph now I could run another twenty kilometers. That would put those fish right out near their maximum range, and well beyond their wire guided segment when they catch me…

“Secure silent running!” he said suddenly. “All ahead full battle speed!”

“Ahead full!”

Kazan
lurched ahead, her powerful engines straining. If Chernov’s read on the firing range was correct, things would be very close. The torpedoes might have anywhere from five to ten kilometers left in them when they hit the red zone. If they had been just a little closer, they would have had us for sure, thought Gromyko, but they were too hasty. Then again, they had to hear us firing at those German ships out there. Perhaps they thought we were hitting British ships. Chernov had also reported more contacts down the firing heading of the incoming torpedoes. Several processed through to known signatures, and it looked like a British fast sealift task force.

Yet the madness of the moment was that Chernov still had all the German ships on his board, churning along to the west and northwest. I look that way and its world War Two—I look behind me and its World War Three! What in hell is going on here?

Think, Gromyko, he shook his head to clear his mind.
Think!
That Type-45 out there came through time, just like
Kirov
. So did we! So someone else has a ticket to this show, that can be the only possible explanation.

“Get a message to the British Destroyer,” he said quickly. “Highest priority. Tell them we are under attack by an
Astute
Class submarine and see if they can call their boys off!”

Perhaps he could talk his way out of this mess. Yet the confusion and chaos inherent in this moment led him to believe this would not likely happen, though it was worth a try. The
Argos Fire
would get the message, wonder about it, try to verify the presence of that sub out there, and it would be difficult to find. Oh, they’ll hear the torpedoes alright, and hopefully that will convince them, but can they get that sub Captain on the line in time? I don’t think so.

He nodded inwardly, his jaw tightening. Then we fight fire with fire, he thought. First we go defensive.

“Load tubes nine and ten—
Shkval!”

They’re coming at me with a pair of fast heavyweights, but I’ll damn well show them what speed is under water. How about a pair of supercavitating hyper-torpedoes, running at 370kph? They were lightning quick, designed to kill subs, ships, and for just this tactical purpose as well—other enemy torpedoes. The jig was that they had a very short range, an envelope no more than 15 kilometers. He had to hold them in the tubes until those two
Spearfish
were closing on his tail, and then he would fire, turn his sea rockets around, and give them hell. I’ll either get those bastards or not, he thought. If one gets through it won’t have much fuel left.

The entire situation had now spun off in a wild twisted gyre of chaos. Two wars were underway at the same time! He was either going to be dead in the next ten minutes, or someone else was. It came down to that single glaring choice.

The best defense was always a good offense, he thought. Those bastards are out there now, grinning at the other end of that fiber optic wire, and as long as that silent devil of a sub is out there, my life will not be worth five rubles. That sub is just too quiet. It’s a miracle Chernov heard the damn thing. If they don’t get me today, they’ll certainly try again tomorrow. He knew what he would do if this were 2021. Time to get serious…

“Load tube number one,” he said, his voice hard and low. “Special warhead. Mister Belanov,” he turned to his
Starpom
, “stand ready to initiate permissions sequencing.”

He was reaching for the Hammer of God.

* * *

Argos Fire
was about 30 nautical miles south of
Rodney
when the harried message from Gromyko came in over the secure channel they had arranged. Mack Morgan was in for yet another surprise when he got the message on the bridge, turning to MacRae with a befuddled look on his face. “Russians say they’ve detected one of our subs—
Astute
Class. They’re under attack!”

“Here? In bloody 1941?”

“That’s what the message reads,” said Morgan, shaking his head incredulously. “They want us to see if we can contact them and calm things down.”

They had been quietly advancing on
Rodney
’s position, with
Kazan
well out in front, over 50 nautical miles away on point defense. The submarine had just launched torpedoes at the German battle fleet to the north, and his sonar station had clearly heard two hits. Then, out of the blue…

“Now let me get this straight,” said MacRae. “We’re sitting here closing on the old British battleship
Rodney
, and out of nowhere we get an
Astute
Class sub here taking a sucker punch at the Russians? What in bloody hell is going on here? They have to be mistaken.”

Then another voice spoke, his own Sonarman monitoring the bow-mounted medium-frequency Ultra/EDO MFS-7000 system. It was not good enough to catch the
Ambush
when it arrived, but he could clearly here the donnybrook now underway between the two subs.

“Sir, I have torpedoes in the water, and they sound like
Spearfish
. I’d recognize that pump-jet propulsor anywhere.”

Spearfish
… MacRae knew that was the premier weapon on the
Astute
Class, and now his temper abated as he moved into battle mode. What was happening here? Did his own ship move again? Were they back in the soup of World War Three?”

“Radar—do we still have a reading on the
Rodney
?”

“Aye sir, I have her at 28 nautical miles, speed ten knots. We should have her on the horizon in about ten minutes.”

What kind of salad was he being served at this bloody restaurant? Something slipped here, and he had no idea what it was, but he had to act.

“Put out a warning on standard fleet comm-link channels. See if you can wave off that submarine. Send this:
Astute
class submarine, Stand down! Your attack is blue on blue. Repeat. Stand Down! You are firing on friendly shipping!”