Kirov Saga: Darkest Hour: Altered States - Volume II (Kirov Series) (40 page)

“The
entire box? What are you saying?”

“I
wish I knew, sir. What I have found here makes no sense. It’s either complete
rubbish and nonsense, as you have put it, or perhaps someone’s idea of a very
bad joke. Yet I have opened several of these envelopes and all I have found
within was a mystery so profound that I find myself completely shaken. It was
then that I made my call to you, sir.”

“A
mystery? Explain yourself.”

“I
have studied photo after photo from that box, sir. They are all arranged, nice
and neat, very proper, and following all established protocols for labeling and
attachments.”

“Except
for the rubbish.”

“Exactly,
sir. Yet the photographs… A picture is worth a thousand words, is it not? A
foolhardy man might label those photos any way he pleases, but the photographs
themselves do not lie. That gun camera shot for example, the one purportedly
taken by this Melville-Jackson, well it would be very difficult to fake such an
image. I’d say impossible.”

“Are
you saying someone deliberately mislabeled the photographs? I’ll have the man’s
head!”

“Unfortunately
that will be somewhat inconvenient for me, sir, as I found several photographs
where I, myself, appear to have completed the labels.”

“You?”

“Yes
sir. This one here, for example. See the notations? It looks like someone was
using a shadow cast on the forward deck of the ship in that image to work out
its dimensions—nearly 900 feet long, a hundred feet abeam—big as
Hood
,
sir, or even HMS
Invincible
. That someone was me. Those are my initials there
at the bottom.”

Tovey
steamed. “Have you summoned me all the way from Admiralty headquarters to make
a confession, Mister Turing? Are you telling me you botched the labeling on
these photographs, or worse, that you did this for sport?”

“Quite
the contrary, sir. I must tell you now that I have never set eyes on any of the
material in that box—yet the evidence of my own eyes now tells quite another
story. A man knows his own initials when he sees them. Those are mine, but I
swear to you, sir, that I cannot recall ever seeing that photo, or making those
notations.”

Tovey
listened, shrugging, and clearly unhappy. “I was told you were somewhat absent
minded at times,” he began. “A bit of an eccentric, or so the rumors go. You’ve
heard them.”

“Of
course, Admiral. But I can now hand you five or ten other photographs labeled
by Peter Twinn, also initialed. He’s an associate here. There are numerous
others, all processed and labeled by trusted men here, and a few by people I
have never heard of.”

“This
is a group effort at mayhem with the files? Outrageous!”

“It
would be if the men in question were foolish minded individuals, sir. But I am
not a fool, and contrary to anything you may have heard, the only games we play
here are a good spot of chess from time to time. Otherwise, I assure you we
take to our work with the utmost seriousness. Yet I do not have to defend
myself here, or anyone else. That box contains photographs that will astound
you, sir. Quite shocking, really. How many
King George V
class ships do
we now have in the fleet?”

“What?
Just the two newly commissioned ships. Three more in the shipyards.”

“Well
have a look at this, sir.” Turing handed over another photo, and Tovey spent a
very long time with it, holding it up, his eyes reflecting a gamut of emotion
from surprise to recognition to fear.

“God
in his heaven…”

“And
all’s well with the world,” Turing finished. “Well not quite. As you can see
there are four
King George V
class ships in that image, all at sea, and
the label will indicate that photograph was taken in the Western approaches to
the Straits of Gibraltar… in 1942.”

“That
simply cannot be. It must be a double exposure.” But even as he said that Tovey
knew that
King George V
and
Prince of Wales
were only now
scheduled for a good active duty shakedown cruise. When might that photo have
been taken to find them at sea like that? The photos next in that series were
equally astounding. There was the ship, the Russian battlecruiser, clearly
photographed as it emerged from the Straits of Gibraltar. He could make out the
distinctive landform of Isla de las Palomas on the far left, and something
about that island stirred a deep memory, more a feeling than anything he could
really recall.

“There’s
more, sir,” Turing said quietly. “The entire box—gun camera footage, film
reels, and voluminous reports and other attachments.” Now he handed Tovey a
sheaf of plain typewritten papers, and if Tovey thought he was flummoxed
before, this was the final straw.

Chapter
36

He
looked at them, unbelieving, yet
utterly convinced on another level as to what he was seeing. To the Admiral’s
profound amazement he was soon reading what appeared to be his own reports,
dated from August of 1941 through August of 1942, regarding a coded series of
incidents under the broad designation
Geronimo
. Where Turing had gaped
at his own initials on the back of reconnaissance photos, Tovey now stood
dumbfounded to see his full signature, unmistakably affixed to the reports Turing
had handed him. If this was an elaborate ruse, a forgery, it was expertly done.
Tovey recognized his own unique style in the way he would format his briefings
and reports, and his ‘voice’ in the text itself.

He
sat, stupefied, bewildered and badly bothered, speechless for some time. “This
is absolutely impossible,” he said at last. “Impossible… Yet here it is. This
is my signature, yet it is quite obvious that I could not have written any such
report. Royal Navy ships dueling with this Russian battlecruiser?”

“It
was more than a duel, sir,” Turing ventured. “I’ve been reading all morning,
and this documents involvement by the American Navy, the use of some rather
amazing weaponry, action against the Italians, a full out running gun battle
with our own
Nelson
and
Rodney
, and more. Apparently that little
war was ended by truce in a meeting between you and the commander of this
mystery ship designated
Geronimo
, and it was at that meeting that the
ship was finally determined to be of Russian origins—a ship firing advanced
rocketry that was effective against both aircraft and surface ships.”

“Someone
has a rather bold imagination,” said Tovey at last. “This sounds to me like a
rank and file effort at drafting up an alternate history, a work of pure
fiction, yet so chillingly real. I could swear that report you just handed me
was written by my own hand, and the signature certainly was. What could this
possibly be about? Are the two of us completely daft?”

“This
evidence is simply too authentic in format and detail, sir. No one outside
Bletchley Park could have done this, and I can assure you that no one inside it
has the slightest bit to do with it. We would have neither the time nor the
inclination to produce such a complex fabrication. And yet, my initials are
there as plain as your own signature. This may also seem odd, but I have the
distinct impression that you and I have discussed all this, in great detail, at
some time in the past.”

“Mister
Turing, correct me if I may have forgotten a prior encounter, but is this the
first time we have ever met in person?”

“It
is, sir, and I thank you for coming, and putting up with what must certainly
seem a complete crock of mad hatter stew. I am as perplexed about all this as
you are, yet the details presented in these documents are chillingly accurate—units,
designations, officers involved. Whoever wrote these documents would have had
to be privy to information that no one head might hold. That aside, the
photographs, sir. These images simply cannot be fabricated.”

“I
should think not.”

“If
you think you are confounded now, I dare you to venture further into the contents
of that box. Things begin rooted to the here and now, familiar names and such.
There is, indeed, a Melville-Jackson, for example. I looked up his service
record. The man is presently posted to No. 236 Squadron R.A.F.,
flying
Bristol Blenheims on convoy patrols and escort sorties over the Channel and
Western Approaches. Then there are references to Royal Navy Fleet operations
that are either top secret, in the works, or completely fabricated. One was
called ‘Jubilee,’ another ‘Pedestal.’ There are documents referring to a FRUMEL
unit in Australia, an acronym for Fleet Radio Unit, Melbourne, yet no such unit
exists. I looked into that.”

“Australia?
What would the Aussies have to do with any of this?”

“This
ship apparently went round the Cape of Good Hope to the Pacific and tangled
with the Japanese navy as well.”

“The
Japanese?”

“It’s
right in the box, sir. Envelope number seven. You will find photographs taken
by coast watchers near Darwin—of the same ship. The really alarming thing is
that the reports reference action by the Japanese against Darwin, and against
the American Navy in the Solomons. Yet we both know there is no naval war
underway in the Pacific, at least not yet.”

Tovey
reached up, took off his hat, and set it quietly in his lap. He knew all of
this, on some deep unfathomable level of his being. It was all true, yet
impossible. It could simply not be possible in any wise. It was madness, sheer
lunacy, an anomaly so impenetrable that it numbed the mind. It was
Geronimo
.

“Alright,”
he said, his mind settling on the only thing left that might explain the
situation, like a man scuppered into the sea grasping at any floating spar he
could reach. “Suppose all this is some complex deception plan, aimed at
throwing off the Germans. Suppose these reports were prepared by some secret
arm of the government, and there are many, Mister Turing.”

“How
would you explain the uncanny resemblance to reports you might draft yourself,
Admiral?”

“It
would be challenging, but it might be mimicked. And the signature could have
been forged.”

“The
photographs?”

Tovey
stumbled at that. The photographs were the bulk of the information. There were
images of the ship in many different settings. Was it possible that some photo
alchemist in a hidden special section was turning them out, superimposing
negatives, conjuring this all up in a darkroom witches brew of deception?

“The
photographic evidence is daunting, but I must admit the possibility of
tampering and tomfoolery before I can go down the lane to the next house,
Turing. For to knock on that door admits to sheer bedlam. You and I both know
that these cannot be images and reports from 1941 or 1942! That is madness. So
it must be something else, correct?”

“Yes,
it must be, but I cannot shake the awful feeling I have about it all, Admiral.
It’s as if we have had this discussion before, and bent our minds around it at
the edge of that insane conclusion that we cannot admit to here and now. I can
say nothing more than that, but I have the most nagging feeling that something
is terribly amiss here. Have a look at some of that gun camera footage and you
will be utterly amazed, as I was. The question now is what do we do with all
this?”

“Assuming
the only logical explanation that I have put forward, that this is material
prepared as a deception, then we should keep it safe and very secure. Say
nothing about it to your colleagues, Turing. The fewer cooks around this
kettle, the better. However, I should like it if you would select four or five
photographs for me. Choose images you think are particularly compelling. In a
few days time I have scheduled a meeting with the commander of that ship—
Kirov
.
Yes, it is a Russian ship after all, in truth as well as in that fiction we’ve
uncovered from your storeroom.”

“One
remark, if I may sir. This ship first appeared just a few weeks ago, right in
the middle of your recent operation against the Germans. Before that time
nobody heard of this ship. Are we to assume that all this material was doctored
up in the last week or two, then tucked away in this box and hidden in the
archive? I must tell you that when I first dragged it from its shadowed resting
place, it was covered in dust as if it had been sitting there for years,
completely undisturbed.”

Tovey
did not quite know what to say to that. Turing made a telling point. How could
all these reports and photographs have been assembled, all about this ship, and
in so little time. There were only a very few men that even knew about the
meeting he had with the Russian Admiral, though many had seen the ship when it
came alongside
Invincible
.

“Half
my squadron had a good long look at this ship, Turing. Word gets out. In any
case, I will be meeting this Russian Admiral again in a few days time, that is
unless I find myself beheaded by Admiral Pound, or locked away in the Tower of
London.”

He
stood up, putting his cap back on and straightening his jacket, as if to set
all right again, smoothing out the impossible wrinkle this box had introduced.
He pointed to the box.