Kirov k-1 Page 12

  The weather might be a factor in the enemy’s planning as well, thought Karpov. All weather aircraft could launch and use that front to screen their approach. Then again, the carriers might just wait until the front passed their position before they would launch. He had to be ready for either contingency.

  Fedorov reported as he came through the rear hatch, saluting. “Permission to resume my station, sir.” He waited, respectfully as Karpov looked his way.

  “Carry on, Lieutenant” the Captain said tersely. “And I hope the doctor gave you a good examination, Mister Fedorov.”

  The navigator said nothing, slipping quietly over to his post, and appraising the ship’s present position to update his manual chart. He could still rely on radar reports, but thought it best to have a backup in any case. He quickly surmised their situation, and noted that two ships had been detached from the surface contact and were steaming north towards Jan Mayen. That has to be Adventure and Anthony, he thought, remembering the narrative from his history book. They were detached to deliver those mines to Murmansk before rejoining the British carriers. Then he remembered something else from the history. The carrier Furious was supposed to be with them, yet the feed he had from Rodenko’s board showed only two ships had been detached. Something had clearly changed, and that thought gave him a strange, queasy feeling.

  They were changing the history!

  Somehow the presence of Kirov and the brief, fleeting contact with the British forces had already done something to change the events that were clearly written up in his Chronology of the War at Sea. While the full implications of that were not immediately apparent to him, even this subtle variation seemed deeply foreboding. A hundred questions came to mind, but he pushed them away, unable to deal with them for the moment. Yet the feeling remained with him, an ill-omened awareness that the world was no longer what it once was, what it should be, and that Kirov was somehow responsible.

  He said nothing of this to the Captain, holding his thoughts close and busying himself with his navigation plots. Where was the Admiral? Why was he taking so long to return? The answer to all their questions was just a few hundred kilometers to the southwest, on Jan Mayen. When Admiral Volsky finally appeared, Fedorov breathed an inward sigh of relief.

  The Admiral had spent the last hour and a half in his cabin reading from Fedorov’s book. As eager as he was to resolve the confounding riddles he had been dealing with these last hours, the lure of the information presented in the volume seemed too compelling. It was as if he had already determined what the most likely outcome of his mission to the isolated island outpost would be, a feeling that he was now actually facing the impossible notion that the world was off its kilter, and that he and his ship had slipped through some gaping crack into another time. If that were so, he wanted to know what the days ahead might hold for him, and Fedorov’s volume was quite enlightening. Finally, his need for certainty outweighed the fanciful thoughts that danced in his mind and he roused himself, returning to the bridge.

  “Admiral on the bridge,” said a mishman at the watch.

  “As you were, gentlemen,” said Volsky.

  Captain Karpov straightened himself and turned to acknowledge the Admiral, leaving his conference with Rodenko.

  “We’re twelve hours northeast of Jan Mayen,” said Karpov. “I’ve come to a heading of 250, but Rodenko reports two ships have broken off from the main group and are heading north on an intercept course at 22 knots.”

  “They are heading for the island?” asked Volsky.

  “Apparently so,” said Karpov. The Admiral seemed surprised by something, though he could not think what it might be. This seemed a predictable tactic in the Captain’s mind and he said as much. “These are most likely radar pickets to screen the main body, sir. We’ll have to be ready to deal with them.”

  Volsky glanced up at Karpov beneath his heavy brows. The man was still convinced this was a NATO maneuver, and his thoughts and actions ran entirely along that track. Yet the aggressive undertone in his remark did not go unnoticed. Karpov was plotting out the best way to kill these ships and defend Kirov from any possible attack. That was admirable in one respect, but he knew he would have to keep a firm rein on his Captain if events led them onto a difficult situation.

  “I want to get there first,” said Volsky. “Is the KA-226 refueled and ready for operations?”

  “Sir? Well, yes, I believe so, Admiral.”

  “Very good. I had a chat with Mister Fedorov earlier. Both his GPS and Loran-C navigation links are down and he believes he might be able to re-sync with the facility on Jan Mayen. Captain, please order the KA-226 to be ready for liftoff in fifteen minutes. I’m sending Mister Fedorov over to coordinate…” He allowed a deliberate pause, then leaned in a little closer to the Captain, lowering his voice. “The fresh air may do him some good. But as Norway is a NATO member, I think it wise that we include an armed detachment of Marines with this visit. Do you concur?”

  Karpov brightened at that suggestion. “Good idea, Admiral. I’ll have Orlov select the men.” It seemed the Admiral was finding his backbone, he thought. He had considered the possibility that a NATO force could have been operating on the island, complicit in the operation they were dealing with.

  “Speaking of the devil…” Admiral Volsky looked for his dour Chief and found him with Samsonov. “Mister Orlov, would you kindly join us?”

  “Right away, sir.” Orlov gave Samsonov a reassuring tap on the shoulder and walked briskly over to the Admiral. “How is the headache, sir?”

  “Still there, Orlov, but I’m going to see if you can help clear things up for me.”

  “Sir?”

  “I want you to select a marine rifle squad and pay a visit to the weather station out on Jan Mayen. I’m sending Mister Fedorov along as well. We want to see why our Loran-C navigation feeds are down. Land at the station and secure the complex with your marines. Mister Fedorov will then report directly to me by radio, and if, for any reason, communications are not possible, then Mister Fedorov will document activities there and you will return to the ship as quickly as possible. Is that clear?”

  “I’ll see to it, sir. But what are we looking for?”

  “Fedorov will handle that. He will direct the initial over-flight and select the landing spot. Understood? And he is to have free reign to make any investigation deemed necessary there. You are to support and secure his effort and make a safe return.” The Admiral gave him the hint of a smile. “One more thing… as the island is officially Norwegian territory, please be polite, Mister Orlov. Firm, but polite, yes?”

  Jan Mayen was a bleak Arctic island, shaped a bit like a turkey leg and stretching some 32 kilometers from end to end. The thicker, northern segment was dominated by the Beerenberg Volcano, an imposing 8,000 foot high cone that was entirely covered with ice and snow year round. At the narrow handle of the leg there were flat, featureless lowlands, and it was here that a few hardy souls would hold forth in a small number of scientific and communications facilities.

  Once the Vikings had landed here during their wandering exploration of the region. In the 1600’s whalers thought to set up a commercial center there with over a thousand men, and Denmark and Norway haggled over possession of the island until it was eventually abandoned after 1650, left a deserted and desolate frozen rock in the Arctic sea until a weather station was set up there in 1921. When WWII broke out it was home to no more than four Norwegian meteorologists, and their buildings were burned in 1940 when they abandoned the post in fear of imminent German occupation. Deemed “Island X” by wartime planners, Jan Mayen was considered an important Arctic outpost, and by March of 1941 a few meteorologists and Norwegian troops returned to set up a radio relay station and weather outpost again. The Germans bombed the place and occasionally tried to slip a few men ashore by U-boat, but it largely remained in Allied hands throughout the war, the only free Norwegian soil until Germany capitulated in 1945.

  The radio soundings and pressure,
temperature, and humidity checks made by the station offered a vital early appraisal of the weather, and figured heavily in some of the most momentous decisions of the war, particularly Eisenhower’s choice as to the timing of the D-Day invasion. By 1959 NATO set up a large 200 foot Loran-C antenna for Long Range Radio Navigation which eventually saw a few more buildings set up at facility called Olonkin. In modern times the meteorological station was a sturdy pre-fabricated all weather building with aluminum siding painted olive drab green, and a rust colored burgundy roof that blended in with the loamy russet soil there. Compared to earlier facilities, it would seem like a luxurious lodge. In WWII the station was built on the old burned out ruins of the 1921 facility, with a few salvageable beams of wood forming a lean-to against the biting arctic wind, and a trench dug into the stony cold ground there. Yet by 2021 it was a comfortable, modern facility, with a sitting room mounting the hide of a great polar bear on its wall, a library, full kitchen, and offices equipped with computers and satellite phones.

  Fedorov planned to head for this location first. If the building was not there it would tell him everything he needed to know. He was seated up front, sandwiched between the pilot and Orlov, and feeling a bit uncomfortable next to the sour faced Chief. Orlov was a temperamental man. One moment he could chat with you as if you were an old friend, and the next minute he would berate you for the slightest lapse of duty. It was clear that he was not happy to be put into a support role on this mission.

  “What were you doing in the sick bay, Fedorov? The Admiral seems overly fond of you all of a sudden.”

  Fedorov noted the implication, but dared say nothing in return. He sat silently, uncomfortably, and pretended to be scanning ahead for the island. A squad of six Marines were seated on the two back benches, led by the ruthlessly efficient Sergeant Kandemir Troyak, the stony, iron man of the ship’s twenty man marine detachment. Fedorov was not a fighting man. His skill as a navigator and pathfinder were well proven, but he felt ill at ease with the gruff and dour faced marines.

  It was not long before they spotted the high icy cone of the volcano ahead, and Orlov needled Fedorov as they approached the bleak island. “What have you been digging up this time, Fedorov? Got on the Admiral’s good side, did you? Are you thinking to get your hands on some vodka or perhaps a box of those wonderful Cuban cigars?”

  The Admiral’s generosity was well known with those that had gained his favor, but Fedorov merely smiled. Volsky had pulled him aside and told him to say nothing of their discussion with the doctor, and keep his wits about him at all times, particularly with Orlov and Troyak aboard.

  “Make for the panhandle, that narrow low-lying neck there,” Fedorov pointed as they drew closer. “I want to over-fly the Meteorological station first.”

  The helo banked and edged around the flank of the stark icy massif of the volcano, buffeted by the winds that would swirl about its frozen summit. White clouds streamed over the top of the ragged highlands, deeply cratered with the old cinder cones that had once been volcanic hot spots. Fedorov had good sea legs, but he hated flying, particularly in these grim arctic conditions where any mishap over the ocean would likely mean a freezing death within minutes. As the chopper swept in, descending, they saw a drab, empty lowland connecting the more rocky handle of the island in a narrow neck that seemed to be swamped by seawater, but the lagoon was actually ice water from the summer runoff.

  “Cameras on, please,” said Fedorov as he held a pair of high power field glasses to his eyes. This time they would not broadcast a signal back to Kirov, to preclude the possibility that it might be intercepted and spoofed. They were recording direct to disk. Their first observation of the unknown surface action group to their south had been at extreme long range, a live video feed, and the men aboard never got close enough to verify the footage filmed with their own eyes. This time it would be different.

  Fedorov could see the black volcanic soil resolve to rusty brown and dreary green as the lowland slowly gained elevation further south. He had visited this station several times in the past, once with Rodenko, who helped with the compilation of the ship’s weather report. The new Met station was painted out in exactly these colors, so it would be difficult to spot from a distance. The station at Olonkin should be much easier to pick out, he thought, as its buildings were all silver aluminum siding. Yet, as the helo descended, it was what he did not see that set his heart thumping with anticipation. There was no road running along the dark, muddied shore of the island, and no sign of any buildings at all. The long brown air strip at the edge of the low island neck was not there either.

  “There,” said Fedorov over the whirl of the helo props. He pointed to an area just beyond the thick volcanic head of the island, right where it joined to the flat lowland handle. “That metal framework there. Can you get closer?”

  The pilot descended, and they saw what looked like the old steel framework of a roof structure, its wood beams burned away and dark stains of smoke evident on the brighter metal. Then they saw a man emerge from behind a pile of black basalt and volcanic rocks with a husky dog restrained by a leather leash. He seemed to be staring up at them, his goggled eyes shielded by a thick gloved hand. Another man emerged with a rifle, and Orlov frowned.

  “Can you set us down here?” said Fedorov.

  “Why here?” asked Orlov. “Where is the weather station?”

  “Admiral’s orders,” said Fedorov, playing the only trump card in his hand with the gruff Chief. His heart was racing, amazed at what he was sure he was discovering. There would be no further argument after this, he thought. Even Karpov would be convinced.

  “The place looks like a war zone,” said Orlov. He pointed to obvious signs in near the area that looked like freshly cratered soil.

  “Very well,” said Orlov. “Secure this area after landing, Sergeant Troyak. And disarm that man!”

  The helo set down on a flat muddy area and the cold arctic air swept in when the marines slid back the rear doors and leapt out in their white parkas and thick caps with heavy ear muffs. They carried a carbine variant of the AK-74M airborne compact assault rifle, fully automatic, with 60 round casket magazines. The troops fanned out, with two men dropping low to take up overwatch firing positions, their weapons aimed at the Norwegians, who gaped in awe at the scene, their eyes still mostly on the amazing sight of the helicopter with its twin overhead counter-rotating props.

  To them it looked like some huge insect, a dark wasp buzzing fitfully in the cold air. The strange overhead rotors swirled, kicking up flecks of snow and frosting them with the icy wash of their rotation. Yet there was no mistaking the gleaming metal of a long cannon protruding from the nose of the craft. They stared, utterly amazed at what they were seeing. Only the dog continued barking, prompting Orlov to lunge at the animal, which only made the situation worse.

  The single armed Norwegian noted the odds and quickly lowered his rifle. The marines fanned out, surrounding the zone, and Sergeant Troyak shouldered his weapon, saluting the Norwegians briskly to offer the barest courtesy before stepping up and impudently searching the first man’s pockets. The husky snarled and growled, but Troyak ignored it completely, not intimidated in the slightest. Fedorov leapt out, intent on getting to the underground station to see if he could get some photos. He pulled out the digital camera the Admiral had handed him before he left the bridge, giving him a wink as he said “let’s see if NATO can spoof this!”

  He spotted a small anemometer, spinning over the crumbled ruins to measure wind speed along with a wind sock, and quickly made his way to the rickety lean-to, seeing a third man there, which he placated with a friendly smile, as he snapped off photos. The man gave him an incredulous look, and Troyak, having searched the first two men, was soon at Fedorov’s side to fish into the pockets of this last man. He handed Fedorov a small dog-eared notebook, and the navigator also noticed a newspaper folded between two pieces of antiquated weather equipment, a barometer and a stolid wooden box which he took to
be a hygrometer to measure the moisture in the air.

  Again, it was what he did not see that set his mind racing. If this was a field post set up for special measurements, there was no modern equipment here, no satellite phones, digital gauges or monitors, no wireless equipment, though he did see what looked like an old tube-style radio set, which he photographed. There were no ultraviolet sensors or radiation detectors either. He reached for the newspaper, tucking it quickly into his parka, then pulled out two chocolate bars and a pack of cigarettes and handed them to the dumbfounded Norwegian in compensation. Two more photos of the equipment and he had all he needed to find here.

  “Let’s go,” he said to the Sergeant, “I want to look for the main facility.” He nodded warmly to the Norwegians and ran back to the helo.

  Troyak’s men slipped back, two by two, until the Sergeant boarded last, eying the Norwegians darkly as he did so. He had taken the man’s rifle as well. A moment later the KA-226 revved up its twin rotors and rose in a swirl of wind, ascending quickly and then angling speedily off to the south. Fedorov looked back, seeing the three Norwegians clustered together as they left, pointing and talking amongst themselves, and he waved with a wry smile.

  They continued searching for some time, yet saw no sign of any other building or installation on the pan-handle. Fedorov had a map detailing the locations of the modern day airfield, roads and ‘Olonkin City,’ as it was called which was really just a scattering of ten to twelve linked buildings. Nothing was there.

  “Where is the weather station?” said Orlov.

  “It should be right there,” Fedorov pointed to an empty stretch of land near southernmost end of the lowland flats between the two more elevated segments of the island.

  “Are you sure you have the right place?”