Doppelganger Page 3

  “There’s another British destroyer out there too?”

  “Not that we know of. We have nothing on radar, and we’d damn well know it if another Sampson system was operating here. No, I think this is starting to add up some other way, crazy as it might sound. Morgan thinks there was a Type-45 out there, riding shotgun for those seven merchant marine ships… In our day that would make perfect sense. He did some digging and found out that there was a fleet order to get RoRo ships down to Mersa Matruh. They were going to pull the 7th Armored Brigade out of Egypt and move them to France.”

  Elena’s eyes narrowed, and all she could think of now was the discussion she had with the Russian Captain concerning how he thought Kinlan’s troops had suddenly appeared here. Someone lit one off to go after them as well, and apparently it blew a hole right through the time continuum, sending Kinlan’s entire brigade here, to the same place that box in her cabin had sent the Argos Fire. That convoy would have made another nice target, and if the Russians used a nuke…

  My god, she thought. It’s coming apart at the seams! Eighty years on the Russians are enemies, and yet here we must embrace them as allies. Yet both are throwing nukes around like there was no tomorrow… That thought gave her considerable pause, for it was exactly what she had warned them about, sheer calamity, a stony silence from the future that spoke of real doom. Now the Russians were suddenly gone, but in their place they had a whole string of uninvited guests. What to do about this?

  “What about Rodney?” The urgency of the moment returned, pushing all these other incongruities aside. “We’ve fired missiles?”

  “Aye, I sent three along to see if we could dissuade the Germans, though I’m not sure how much good we did. Thing is this, Elena. We’ve na’ but seven more missiles under the deck, and without the Russians they won’t be enough to decide this little disagreement. The battlecruiser is gone, and now we’ve no word from their submarine either. This situation is going from bad to worse. Now then. What would you like me to do here, mum?”

  Chapter 3

  The Germans were going to answer that question for MacRae, and in a most uncomfortable manner. The battle continued, this time with Tirpitz and Scharnhorst slugging it out with Renown and Repulse. With only seven anti-ship missiles remaining, MacRae decided that was a very thin margin for the defense of the ship.

  “I think we’d have to salvo fire at least five missiles to seriously discourage one of these battleships,” he said. “That will leave very little under the deck, but we can also weigh in with the deck gun”

  “Well will it hurt them?” Elena folded her arms.

  “It’s a 155mm naval gun, a six incher that can outrange anything they have. I could even engage over the horizon. It may not penetrate their side armor to do serious harm, but it will be damn annoying if we hit their superstructure.”

  “Do it. A stiff jab is better than nothing. I knew we should have considered a heavier missile, but who could foresee this? Are the Russian missiles that much better than ours? They seemed to have no problem with these ships.”

  “Some have warheads more than twice what we have on the GB-7, and they weigh three times more. That’s a lot of excess fuel to burn.”

  “Very well, use your best judgment, Gordon. I’m going to huddle with Mack to see if we can sort out this mess with those other ships, and find out what’s happening with Rodney.”

  MacRae gave the order to deploy the forward gun, the deck panels sliding open and the hydraulics lifting the turret into view. It was a modified BAE Mark 8 naval gun in an angled stealth turret, using a new barrel and breech designed for the AS-90 self-propelled gun in the British Army. Fairchild had purchased one on a special order, and implemented a BAE plan to up-gun the older Mark 8 turret with this newer 155mm third generation maritime fire support system.

  The Captain wasn’t bragging when he talked about over the horizon engagements. The gun could hurl 6-inch rounds out over 100 kilometers, 62 miles, and hit with a circular error of no more than 50 meters at that range. At ten rounds per minute, the rate of fire could deliver a punch similar to a battery of six 155mm howitzers, which would indeed be damn annoying to any ship forced to endure that pounding.

  MacRae decided to concentrate on the two contacts arriving from the east, leaving the British battlecruisers to their duel with Tirpitz. This second German squadron was led by the Hindenburg, he knew, though it was not yet on his horizon.

  This will be a nice little surprise, he thought.

  * * *

  Aboard Hindenburg Lütjens was quite startled when the sea suddenly began to sprout up with the splash of shellfall. “Watchman,” he shouted. “Where is that fire coming from? Adler?”

  “We don’t know, sir. There’s nothing on our horizon!”

  “What? Don’t be a fool. Those are small caliber rounds—a secondary battery or guns off a light cruiser or destroyer. Does the radar have anything?”

  “Nothing sir!” The edge of frustration in Adler’s voice was obvious.

  “Damn incompetence,” said Lütjens, raising his own field glasses and scanning the horizon. He knew the mainmast above would have a much better view, and they should easily see any cruiser or destroyer in range to fire those shells, but the sea was empty. His next thought was that a submarine might have surfaced and was using its deck gun, but he dismissed that as sheer madness. No U-boat Captain would be so brash as to challenge a pair of battleships like this, and besides, the rate of fire here was well beyond what any deck gun on a sub could achieve. He watched, astonished, as three rounds plowed into the sea just ahead of Bismarck in the van, the third welling up right on her starboard side. That had to be a salvo from a triple barrel naval turret, but where was the damn ship? This was madness!

  It was not long before the first rounds struck home, one landing amidships on Bismarck, a second striking Hindenburg right on the forward deck and exploding with a hail of shrapnel—damn annoying. Then a line of three shells came plummeting down to rake right across the ship, one striking his heavy Bruno turret with a loud explosion. Lütjens felt the whizz of shrapnel go right past his cheek, and realized he was in grave danger here. He rushed for the safety of the armored conning tower, still amazed by what he was seeing.

  “Aircraft?” he said with an exasperated tone.

  “Nothing sir, the sky is clear, except for that storm on the horizon.”

  “Clear? Then this cannot be happening, Adler. Who is firing at us? We have no ships sighted on any horizon, and surely this is not a U-boat? What is going on?”

  Chief Engineer Eisenberg had been ready to raise his newly fitted armor plates as a defense against rockets, but the plunging fire of the rounds prompted him to delay. It was this extra measure of defense on many of the outer decks in the superstructure that greatly aided Hindenburg now. Yet Lütjens could see several small fires on the Bismarck.

  This is insane, he thought. These rockets find our ships unerringly, and now we take gunfire that must be coming from well over the horizon—a range exceeding even that of our main batteries—and clearly from a small caliber weapon. This cannot be happening! No cruiser I know of could fire at such a range, and hit with such accuracy. Could they have a submarine correcting their fire, or an unseen seaplane? Yet how could they achieve such range from what must be a five or six inch gun?

  Now he began to have a deep feeling that something was very wrong here. The British had stunned and amazed them with the sudden shock of their naval rocketry—now this! How could they be seeing us? Could it be some highly advanced form of new radar?

  The hard crack and explosion of yet another round on the lower deck shook the ship again. This time they lost a secondary battery to a direct hit. His mind went on and on… Rommel… The man had reported the British had a massive new heavy tank in the desert. He had dismissed it at first, but now he began to re-think the rumors and talk he had heard about it—twice the size of the old Matildas, and with armor that was impervious to a direct hit from an AT gun,
even from the vaunted 88. How could they be so far ahead of us? Why… it’s as if these weapons have come from another time, a generation or more ahead of anything Germany had developed. Yet, at the same time, the British still flew off those old Swordfish biplanes from their carriers, still fought in their lumbering Matildas. It made no sense.

  These new weapons have appeared only in very select places. Goering sent wave after wave of our bombers to smash London. One would think that a prime target for the British to defend with the very best weapons they have. Yet there was not a single instance of any of these rocket weapons that have proved to be so lethal to our planes. That Stuka attack put in by the last planes off Graf Zeppelin was shot to pieces in five minutes! Those anti-aircraft rockets are so deadly that I had to order the Goeben to stand down and break off to the west. No use throwing those last three Stukas away. I see this, astonished, and yet the British let us pound London without firing a single rocket. Something is not what it seems here. Something is very wrong. In the meantime, how much more of this must we endure? Thankfully we should be coming in range of the Tirpitz in due course.

  MacRae’s deck gun had been more than annoying that morning. There was damage on both Bismarck and Hindenburg, small fires that were controllable, but the casualties had mounted up. On the Hindenburg, they lost a secondary battery, a gun director, had lifeboats blown to pieces, and an Arado seaplane exploding amidships with a direct hit.

  The action between Tirpitz and the British battlecruisers had shifted well away from the foundering Rodney. There the Scharnhorst had taken one hit forward near the Anton turret, And Tirpitz suffered a hit on her heavy side armor, shrugging off the blow. Renown had not been so lucky. Topp’s gunners had straddled that ship on their fourth salvo, and the next one put a 15-insh shell right through the forward deck, with Scharnhorst hitting the ship amidships for good measure.

  “Adler!” Lutjens shouted. “It’s now or never. Drive off those battlecruisers!”

  Captain Adler was only too happy to comply, the frustration of taking all these secondary battery hits had been mounting for the last fifteen minutes, and now the enemy would hear the roar of the Hindenburg, like a great elephant wielding its mighty trunk and trumpeting in anger. At long last, he had something to shoot at.

  The British battlecruisers saw the arrival of Hindenburg and Bismarck, and knew their time for battle had run out. They began to angle off to starboard, still firing, yet edging away and opening the range to prevent the new German ships from engaging.

  All the while the plumes of small caliber rounds were still falling around Lütjens squadron, and the Admiral had a very keen eye. He was watching the enemy battlecruisers very closely with his field glasses, and could clearly see their main batteries firing, and mark the fall of those heavier 15-inch rounds.

  Yet they aren’t even using their secondary batteries, he thought. And there is no way these shells could be fired by the Rodney. Our Arado reported that ship to be listing over and sinking. So that narrows down the list of suspects. The British had destroyers with the Rodney, yet they were reported to have broken off with that fat troop ship liner. They would be well east by now. There was also a cruiser said to be approaching Rodney, most likely to render aid and pick up survivors. Could that be the ship firing at us? I could turn hard to starboard now and swing east to find Rodney again…

  At that moment, his lookouts shouted—ship off the port beam. A battleship! The Admiral rushed back out onto the weather deck, heedless of the danger now. There he could clearly see the tall mainmast and conning tower appearing on the horizon, and that could be only one ship. His Arado seaplane soon reported it as well—battleship with three triple turrets, his nemesis, a match for the Hindenburg itself. It could be no other British ship but HMS Invincible.

  There you are at last, he said. You’ve come a long way in my shadow, and now we finally meet. Was this the ship that had been announcing it coming with those troubling small caliber rounds, like hail at the edge of as thunder storm? He looked again at the massive clouds on the horizon, the only weather in sight, yet it seemed an unearthly spectacle, out of place, and deeply disturbing.

  “Adler! Come about to port! We will engage this newcomer. Leave the battlecruisers to Tirpitz. Now It will be your nine 16-inch guns against theirs, and god go with us.”

  The time for this insult of small caliber rounds was finally over. Now it was time for the heavy artillery to decide the issue, and Lütjens was determined that it would be settled here, one way or another. If this was the ship flinging those damn rockets about, he would settle the matter, once and for all.

  * * *

  Argos Fire was finally up on the scene of Rodney’s travail. The battleship was in a heavy list, down at the bow, where the weight of those three massive turrets seemed to be pressing the ship into the sea. The list was too bad for any further gunfire, but thankfully the battlecruisers had arrived and the action had shifted away from Rodney, off to the west and over the horizon.

  MacRae could already see life boats in the water, and he quickly gave orders that they should launch every boat they had. He had kept up a withering gunfire against the second German squadron, and was certain he caused them much misery. But he knew he wasn’t going to sink a German battleship here with his deck gun.

  Now look at us, he thought. There’s men in the water, perhaps seven or eight hundred souls on that stricken battleship. That’s 45,000 tons of steel about to roll over and go under out there, and all the King’s business will soon go with it. He looked at Elena, back at his side again with a look of despair in her eyes.

  “We’re too damn late,” she breathed.

  “Aye,” said MacRae. “We’ve had them on the radio. They took a couple hits low near their forward torpedoes, and the whole magazine went off there. Word is that cargo hold was completely flooded. There was no way in hell we were ever going to get in there. All we can do now is get as many men out of the water as possible.”

  “That could be a problem. Too many eyes, Gordon.”

  “We can’t bloody well leave them out there? I’ve gone and launched all out boats to lend a hand.”

  “Yes, do what you can to pull them onto the boats, but there’s a big troop ship off east. Let’s see if we can quarter the survivors there.”

  “That’ll take time, Elena. What if that battle out there comes our way while we’re at it?”

  “How many missiles left?”

  “Seven.”

  Elena folded her arms, determined. “If anything so much as sticks its nose over that horizon again, you damn well hit it with everything we have.”

  Gordon nodded, one eyebrow raised. “Well enough,” he said. “Aye, we can hold the field here a while if we have to, but what’s the plan now, Elena? What about those other ships out there?”

  “I’ve got Mack on it,” she said. “He’s talking with the Captain of the squadron now—a chap named Dowding. He’s on that auxiliary you mentioned, the Diligence. There are four fleet transports, an oiler, and then the Ulysses.”

  “Quite a flock,” said MacRae. “Useful ships.”

  “Yes, and with Rodney going down, I’m afraid they’re all our watch now. If we can finish up here, I plan to head to Madalena or Ponta Delgada in the Azores.”

  “Makes sense,” said Gordon. “We can’t very well sail into Portsmouth with that lot, can we?’

  “Not bloody likely,” said Elena. “Any further word on the Russians?”

  “Quiet as mice,” said MacRae. “I’ve been thinking what may have happened. Do you suppose they were on the wrong end of that mushroom out there in the garden?”

  “That ship was reported missing long before that, wasn’t it?”

  “Aye,” MacRae nodded, “and then the whole plan went bonkers on us. That other British Admiral must be having fits out there.”

  “Tovey? Probably so. Let’s get a message off to him and let him know Rodney’s status. How long do you figure we have?”

  “
She’s listing at well over ten degrees from the look of it,” said MacRae. “And that is likely after they’ve already counter-flooded to try and correct it. She’ll most likely go down within the hour.”

  Elena nodded, her eyes vacant, searching. “Get as many men on those boats as you can,” she said. “I don’t care if we have to use every raft on the ship—even the helicopters if necessary. Two of the destroyers with Britannic are on the way as well. At the moment, I’m going to have to arrange a meeting with this Captain on Diligence.”

  “He’s going to have one hell of a story for breakfast,” said MacRae with a knowing smile.

  “Elena shrugged. “I’ll be in my cabin,” she said, her hand touching his elbow for the barest moment, their eyes meeting, with much said there without words.

  Part II

  The Final Shift

  “The strangeness of Time. Not in its passing, which can seem infinite, like a tunnel whose end you can't see, whose beginning you've forgotten, but in the sudden realization that something finite, has passed, and is irretrievable.”

  ― Joyce Carol Oates

  Chapter 4

  Fedorov was also facing down the cruel whims of time that night. The dilemma they now found themselves in was confounding, and he could not determine what was happening to the ship and crew. Were these strange effects the result of impending Paradox? The fate of Lenkov, the threatening sounds reported, and now the disappearance of key members of the crew, all convinced him that this was so. Yet what was really happening?

  Have we so altered the course of history with our actions here that it has had fatal effects on the life lines of the missing men? We searched the ship’s records, both digital and analog, and found no evidence that these men had ever existed. There would have been hundreds of data points to prove the existence of a man like Orlov on this ship, he thought. He would have signed off on all the section chief crew assignments, but we find nothing, not a single trace that he was ever here. Orlov exists only in our memories now, and that can only be said of a select group on the ship.