Three Kings

Gromyko was surprised to hear that. “Are you sure? 1941?”

“It was right in the clear, sir,” said GG. GenzoGavrilov was certain he had it correct.

“Anything within range on radar or sonar?”

“No traffic within fifty nautical miles in any direction, sir, and our systems seem to be recovering nicely now.” Belanov gave the report, waiting, an expectant look on his face.

“Very well…” Gromyko rubbed the back of his neck. “I need some fresh air. Take us up,” he said quietly to Belanov, who nodded as he seconded the order.

“The boat will surface. Watch Officers stand ready.”

“Surface the boat, aye sir, and ready on main mast watch. Mister Levin, take your men up to the sail hatch.”

“Aye, sir.”

Chapter 12

The air was sweet, so clean and clear, untainted by the anger of that volcano that had been the only living thing in the world they had just fled from. Home was behind them, a cinder grey world of ash and smoke, humming with radiation in the fallout. Everything they ever knew and loved in that world was gone, forever gone, and they all carried that awful sense of loss.

But there was life here, thought Gromyko as he took a deep breath of that cool fresh air. Yes, there was life, and time, and a chance to do something here. But what? That was his dilemma now. What should he do? It was January 11, 1941. Japan was at war on the Chinese mainland, but not out here in the sea. If this history was anything like the story of the Great Patriotic War that he knew, then it would be long months before Japan launched her offensive at sea. Pearl Harbor would not happen for nearly a year. So what should he do with all that time, and where was Kirov?

Rod-25 had dragged both Kirov and Kazan from 1908 and into the middle of 1940 before they made their attempt to each return home on their own. Did the ship actually get back to 2021 as they had? Was it devoured in the holocaust they had found there, or had that new control rod failed to deliver? In that case the ship might still be foundering… Kirov might still be here!

Karenin sent his coded message on the special channel they had arranged, using shortwave signals that could propagate over very long ranges, half way around the earth. Then he sat sullenly beneath his headset, still brooding over the loss of his girlfriend, knowing she was gone forever now. Yet here they were in the 1940s, and there seemed to be plenty of fish in this new sea. There might be a life here for them after all, and he did not have long to wait for his answer.

“Captain!” he said, his eyes wide, but Gromyko was up on the weather bridge on the exposed sail, so he toggled his comm system for that station. Watch officers were standing by with headsets for any message he might send, and the news he delivered reeled in Gromyko in short order. The Captain was down from the sail, and onto the main bridge, his boots still wet and glistening with seawater from a new century.

“Karenin?”

“I have them, sir! I have Kirov on shortwave. I just received my green confirmation signal. They got our message and acknowledged. Now I’m negotiating a voice channel.”

Gromyko breathed easy for the first time in hours, exhaling some of that good fresh air he had taken in topside. Karenin worked his system, tuning, filtering, decoding. Then he heard a voice come in over his headset.

“I have Lieutenant Nikolin, sir!”

“Put it on the bridge speakers.”

“Aye sir.”

“Kazan, Kazan, come in. Nikolin here on the battlecruiser Kirov. Where in God’s name have you been?”

Gromyko took up a handset and spoke into the microphone. “Ahoy, Kirov. Greetings Mister Nikolin. We were just asking ourselves the same question.”

Then came another voice, that of the ship’s young Captain Fedorov. “Good to finally hear from you,” said Fedorov, and he explained that their effort to move forward to 2021 had failed. “We’ve been here since mid June of 1940, listening for you the last six months!”

There was a brief exchange, where Gromyko briefed them on everything they had experienced. The report concerning Vladivostok was somewhat grim, but not unexpected.

“We were afraid that might be the case,” said Fedorov. “I have Admiral Volsky with me here, and I will turn you over to him. Standby.”

Gromyko waited, glad to hear the Admiral’s calm reassuring voice again. Everyone on the bridge took heart now, for Volsky’s tone and manner carried a note of home, an anchor to the authority that had send them all tosea in the first place, and a tether on some sense of purpose they might now have here in this new world. Volsky and Fedorov were mariners in time, and had navigated these waters before.