Nemesis (15 page)

“Just a
moment.” Fedorov went to his station, producing a book, as Karpov rolled his
eyes.

“We
should be aggressively prosecuting those contacts, not discussing them,” he
said to Volsky. “Why do you continue to invite his nonsense?” He waved
dismissively at Fedorov as he returned with his naval chronology.

“This
history may not be reliable any longer,” said Fedorov, “but then again, it just
might still hold true. I have a reference here to two German U-Boats operating in
these waters, U-451 and U-566, both Type VII-C diesel boats, very common.”

“Sir,”
said Karpov, ever more frustrated. “Those subs could be targeting us even now.”

“Not at
this range,” said Fedorov, “that is if I am correct in this assumption. The
German G7a torpedo could only range out between 5000 and 12,000 meters,
depending on the running speed setting.”

“Yes?”
said Karpov. “Well those are not German U-Boats, Lieutenant, nor do we have a
flotilla of ships shadowing us that were all scrapped decades ago. Why do you
persist in this? We’ve been more than lenient in tolerating your nonsense, and
this is no time for—”

“That
will be quite enough, Captain,” said Volsky. “I asked Mister Fedorov to attempt
an identification of these ships, and he has given his report. Yes, it seems
most unlikely, particularly if that lead ship there on the screen was indeed
scrapped. One replica flying a German War Ensign I might accept. But four? As
to those submarine contacts, it is clear they do not wish to be located. Yet we
should have profiles on them if they are local to this region, unless they are
Chinese.”

“No
sir,” said Tasarov. “I checked all those profiles and there is no match.”

“It
will not be any vessel from our day, sir,” said Fedorov, “and I have already
told you why. May I suggest we simply increase speed to evade and give them a
wide berth? We will find the answer to all these questions at Severomorsk. At
30 knots we can be there in under five hours.”

They
were coming home…

Kapitan
Borchert on U-566 would listen to the searching pings in the sea above him for
another fifteen minutes, and then the silence returned. When he mustered the courage
to restart his engines and rise to periscope depth, he saw nothing but the
empty seas all about him, as if the whole scenario had been a figment of his
imagination. So he resolved to wait for the arrival of the 6th DD Flotilla, as
they were supposedly shadowing the enemy cruiser, and coming his way.

Kirov
increased speed and diverted further to the northeast,
passing the undersea contact position by a comfortable 35 kilometers, and
continuing on towards the inlet to Kola Bay. The sight of the familiar land
forms rising ahead was welcome to them all, though Karpov steamed on the
bridge, a sullen anger kept bundled beneath his cap.

The
waters around them suddenly seemed very busy, and Tasarov had yet another
undersea contact, again unidentified, also trailing in their wake near the
shadowing German destroyers. There was still activity to their north, where
that contact seemed to hold in place for a time, before continuing further
south. Amazingly, Fedorov was able to come up with yet another interpretation
of these events, intensely focused on his history books as he was finally given
permission to resume his normal station at Navigation, much to Karpov’s
chagrin.

“At
this time there would have been one more German U-boat operating to the east,
U-652. It sank Russian dispatch vessel, PS-70, the
Kapitan Voronin,
at
19:00 on the 6th of August. The activity up north is in the same region as the
probable position of Force K under Vice Admiral Vian. He was refueling with the
tanker
Oligarch
before proceeding south again. There was also a pair of British
submarines here this month,
Tigris
and
Trident
,” he told the
Admiral. “Tigris was supposed to arrive at Polyarny to assist the Russians with
patrols up here, and would later operate out of Murmansk.”

“What?
The British, offering to lend us a helping hand?” said Volsky. “You are reading
these things from your history books?”

“From a
log of activity in the Arctic region for this month, sir.”

“And
that may as well be a log of activity in Never Never Land,” came Karpov’s
inevitable response. “Your grasp of the history is laudable, Fedorov, but an
annoyance. It has nothing to do with our present situation, in spite of these
unknown contacts you insist on painting with this brush. Admiral, I have
attempted to abide by your wishes, and remained calm in the face of this
nonsense, but enough is enough.”

“I
thank you for your forbearance, Captain. In another few hours we will have our
answers, and sort this entire mess out.” He gave Fedorov a look, and a nod of
his head, angling it toward the Navigation station, a clear sign that the
Admiral wished him to resume his post.

But
I’ve said my piece, thought Fedorov. I’ve told them what may actually be going
on all around us, chapter and verse, even though these events may not play out
as in the history I have quoted. But time is on my side now, and its steady
march brings us ever closer to a reality that not even Karpov will be able to
dismiss with his foul attitude and willful nature. Then the real game begins.

Before
they would reach the inlet, one more contact was reported by Rodenko, very near
the island of Ostrov Kil’din, just northeast of the bay. With the KA-40 still
up on overwatch, the Admiral had it shift forward to have a look while they
recovered the KA-226.

“Overwatch
one to Mother. We are approaching the contact and will feed video imagery from
our present altitude.”

“Mister
Nikolin,” said Volsky. “Have them hail that ship and see if we can get a quick
identification that will not require any further research by Fedorov here.” As
he said that there was just a touch of frustration in his voice, impatient with
the world that would simply not make sense any longer. All around him was the
familiar sea and sky, the waters of the North Cape being a long time operations
zone for the fleet, and yet, the sense of strangeness in the air around them
here was palpable now, and very disturbing.

The ship
they were observing was a small converted merchant vessel, an old fishing trawler
being used as a patrol ship, now designated SKR-12, the
Tuman
. The
ship’s name meant ‘Mist,’ and it was destined to have a storied fate when it
would be surprised by three of the destroyers that had been slowly following in
Kirov’s wake, and sunk in a gallant but futile ten minute gun battle.
Tuman’s
two 45mm guns were no match for the German destroyers, which would fire off 270
5-inch rounds to riddle the Soviet scout ship and sink her, with heavy loss of
life.

Coming
at a time when the Germans were making their initial effort to take Murmansk by
land, the sinking of the
Tuman
was quickly rolled into the stories that
began to circulate at the beleaguered port, as a way of bolstering the courage
of the defenders. The men of the
Tuman
fought like hellcats, they said,
to the last man, and last round before they were sunk. They gave the Germans
everything they had.

In
truth, when the old trawler sighted the three German destroyers, it reported
the contact to Northern Fleet and then made smoke. But this did not deter the
Germans, who were eager for prey, and quickly closed to within about five
nautical miles before opening fire. Some of the first hits quickly killed the
ship’s commander, Sub-Lieutenant Shestakov, and the Commissar on board. They
also damaged the aft 45mm gun, and so the
Tuman
had very little to shoot
with during the brief engagement. At one point the ship’s flag was shot from
the mast, but the senior radio operator, Bilinov, and a wounded sailor,
Semenov, struggled bravely to raise the colors yet again.

Soon
Russian shore batteries responded to
Tuman’s
calls, and began to range
in fire on the German destroyers. Planes were launched from the airfield at
Murmansk, and came diving in to attack, eventually driving off the German ships,
which sustained minor damage from these attacks. Rescue boats were dispatched,
and eventually pulled 37 of 52 men out of the water, and
Tuman
sank in
to the cold seas, and the enfolding mist of history soon after.

The
story of
Tuman’s
gallant stand was cemented in the lore of the Northern
Feet when the survivors were greeted by the workers of Murmansk harbor,
heartily welcomed home. They cheered the men on the quay, and some days later, Admiral
Golovko then ordered all ships leaving Kola Bay to dip their flags and sound
their horns in tribute when they passed the point of the engagement off Kildin
Island. In fact, seawater was collected from the location and embedded in the
giant statue known as ‘Alyosha,’ a stone statue standing 23 feet tall, of a
soldier in his winter greatcoat, rifle in hand. It was erected in 1974 as a
dedication to the Defenders of the Arctic during the Great Patriotic War.

Alyosha
stands to this day, 500 tons of stone facing the ‘Valley of Glory,’ on the
Lista River defense line that protected the city in the face of a fierce German
attack by the troops of
Gebirgskorps Norwegen,
the German Alpine Korps
under Generaloberst Eduard Dietl. It became the second tallest statue in
Russia, exceeded only by a similar monument erected in Volgograd to commemorate
that pivotal battle.

The naval
ritual commemorating the small engagement continued through the decades, even
to the year 2021, and
Kirov
had also sounded her horn when the ship left
Severomorsk on the outward leg of her deployment for those fateful live fire
exercises. So it was a great surprise when the radio man aboard the KA-40
hailed the ship and got back a signal from the small contact, identifying itself
as SKR-12.

Nikolin
turned to the Admiral, somewhat surprised. “Sir… The KA-40 reports the contact
identifies itself as SKR-12, Patrol Ship
Tuman
, under Sub-Lieutenant
Shestakov!”

“Shestakov?”
Volsky knew the name. In fact, he had even made the P.A. announcement when
Kirov
was about to sound off as they passed the location
of Tuman’s
sinking
some days ago. “What is going on here? Are our boys getting in on this NATO
deception you suggest, Mister Karpov? The
Tuman?
That name was retired
long ago.” He looked at Fedorov now, a strange light in his eye, but
Fedorov said nothing, preferring that the reality of their situation speak for
him now.

“Nikolin,”
said Volsky. “Recall our helicopter, and while you are at it, ask the
Sub-Lieutenant if he would care to rendezvous with us. Tell him this is the
heavy cruiser
Kirov
, returning to Severomorsk. And since we are breaking
radio silence here under my orders, inform Command at Severomorsk of our
imminent arrival as well.”

Nikolin
sent the message, and now they began to study the video feed being sent by the
KA-40, the image of a small commercial steamer evident. Rodenko tracked the location
of the ship easily, and twenty minutes later, they slowed as they began their
approach in a light rolling fog that had begun to form. Soon they saw a small
shadow ahead, and Volsky got up from his chair, walking slowly to the forward
viewports. There, as if it had formed from the Arctic mist that it was named
after, was a small trawler flying the flag of the Russian Navy. Volsky decided
to play his part, even before he knew what he would soon discover there.

“Mister
Nikolin… Sound our horn.”

The
long single blast soon followed, a precaution against collision, but Volsky
passed a silent moment within, realizing that it was as if they had paid their
respects yet again to the fabled ship
Tuman
, greeting a phantom from
their own past, haunted by the gallant crew that had been spoken of so long in
the Northern Fleet. They were, and the ghosts aboard would soon become men of
real flesh and blood, when Admiral Volsky determined to take a launch over to
see for himself what this ship really was.

“Mister
Karpov, you have the bridge, but hopefully you will not find it necessary to fire
at anything. Mister Fedorov, will you please accompany me? We will now settle
this matter, once and for all.”

*

It
was hard to say which man was more astonished, the young
Sub-Lieutenant Shestakov when he first set eyes on the looming presence of the
battlecruiser
Kirov
as it emerged from a low cloud, or the wizened Admiral
when he set eyes on the lowly trawler, and came alongside to board with
Fedorov, Troyak, and two Marines.

The men
there instinctively saluted, knowing an officer when they saw one, and seeing
the broad stripes on Volsky’s cuff, the big star on his shoulder insignia. The
very presence of the man himself spoke of authority, massively underscored by a
ship that was bigger than anything else in the fleet. The
Kirov
class
heavy cruiser that they might know from the Baltic Fleet was no more than 9,500
tons full load, and the modern battlecruiser was three times that, approaching
30,000 tons, and over 60 meters longer.

The
stolid aspect of Sergeant Troyak completed the picture. Here was power, the
like of which the Lieutenant had seldom seen, and it gave him heart to think
that in spite of the beating the Army was taking, the Navy was standing tall,
and holding firm.

Volsky
looked the men over, noting their uniforms, all clearly military, but not
modern Russian Navy issue. Who were these men, particularly that squat fellow
next to the Lieutenant with the red star on his cap? He decided to find out.

“And
you, sir?” he said, looking the man over.

“Commissar,”
the man said quickly, though he gave no name, and Volsky smiled, thinking he
was jesting. There had not been a Commissar in the service for over 25 years.
Shestakov and his Commissar, seemed quite surprised to be receiving a navy
Admiral, particularly one they had never heard of. Yet there was no doubting
the authenticity of that massive ship out there, or the man before them.

“Greetings,”
said Volsky. “Forgive our sudden appearance, but we have had little communication
from Fleet Command, and you are the first friendly vessel flying that ensign we
have seen since Moscow ordered us home. How are things at Severomorsk?”

“Not good,
Admiral,” said Shestakov. “We are evacuating the 325th Rifle Regiment from its
position west of the Litsa River, and it happens tonight. That is why we are
out here, ready to report any enemy movements, and now that I see your ship, I
am greatly relieved.”

This
was not anything Volsky had expected to hear. “You are evacuating troops? Our
troops?”

“Yes
sir, the men of the 14th Rifle Division that we landed along the Kola Coast
last month. They’ve held their beachhead for weeks now, holding up the enemy
advance, but tonight we pull them out.”

“For
weeks you say?” Volsky looked over his shoulder at Fedorov, as none of this
sounded plausible to him at all. “And just who is advancing?”

“Sir?
The Germans, of course. They brought up yet another Mountain Division, or so we
have heard from men coming back from the front.”