Three Kings

Chapter 34

The fleet was a full day out of Alexandria, now steaming about 200 kilometers west of Crete. They could make only 20 knots at best, which was just under the full speed of the older Queen Elizabeth class battleships, and that stately warrior was in the lead position of the main column, followed by Warspite and Malaya. Invincible was 2000 yards off the port side, with the heavy cruisers in attendance, and Kirov bringing up the rear as an escort to the two British carriers.

A flight of Fulmar fighters was up providing top cover, though Admiral Volsky had told Tovey he could adequately defend the airspace over the fleet. “Use your fighters to defend any strike aircraft you may have,” he said. “If they get mixed up in a dogfight over the fleet, our missiles could find them in that confusion.”

So it was decided that, on spotting the enemy fleet, the two carriers would launch the 18 Swordfish as a fleet strike asset, protected by the bulk of their fighters. Kirov would provide early warning with her long range radars effective out to 300 kilometers, and Lieutenant Yazov was on radar that day watching his screen for any sign of enemy activity. He was suddenly surprised by a warning light on a subsystem that identified known incoming radar signatures, yet he thought it certainly had to be a false signal. His reflex was to tap the screen, as if this simple gesture would cure the problem, but it persisted, so he reported.

“Radar signature?” said Rodenko, who had the con. “On the IFF module?”

“Yes sir,” said Yazov sheepishly. “It is reading for a Marine Navigation radar on the I-Band, and NATO encoded E and F band as well. But look sir, I’m getting IFF identification now.”

Rodenko was an old hand at radar, and he immediately knew what he was looking at, but it made no sense, and his first thought was that it must be a glitch or after effect from the many time displacements that left their system dazed for hours after they moved. This was reading for the British SAMPSON long range AESA Air Defense radar, a kind of phased array system used by modern Royal navy vessels, particularly the newer Type 45 Destroyers.

“Some difficulty?” said Admiral Volsky as he came onto the bridge, the men all standing and saluting as he was announced.”

“Welcome back, Admiral,” said Rodenko. “It seems we have a little mystery on our hands.”

“We’ve certainly had nothing else since we left Severomorsk,” said Volsky. “What is it this time?”

“Well sir, we just got painted by a radar common to the British Type 45 Destroyer class.”

That got Volsky’s attention immediately. “Type 45?”

“Yes sir, but I have no sub-line signature. The entire electronic suite is lining up on that IFF resolution, and I’m definitely reading two rotating planar arrays. That’s unique to the Type 45 SAMPSON.”

Most other modern phased array systems used multiple arrays for constant 360 degree coverage, but the SAMPSON used only two, and they rotated at 30 revolutions per minute in the spherical dome high atop the characteristic tall main superstructure of the ship.

“An error, Mister Rodenko?”

“Possibly sir, but now I have confirmation from both our long range systems, and simultaneous failure of both systems is not likely. We’re definitely getting a phased array radar signal, sir. Our IFF module could be defaulting to this interpretation, but it seemes fairly certain.”

“Phased array? Here? What other ship could possibly have such technology. This makes no sense.”

Volsky came over to the radar console to see for himself, though he was not entirely sure what he was looking at. Radar applications had never been his strong suit, but Rodenko was one of the very best in the fleet.

“I could try to challenge that system and see what happens. It is fairly well impervious to jamming, but if this is a false positive from a local radar set from this time period, we’ll jam it easily.”

“Make it so,” said Volsky, arms folded as he waited.

“Mister Yazov.” Rodenko passed the order to his radar watchstander, and he keyed the jamming challenge. It should have blotted out any radar of this era with little difficulty, particularly as Rodenko had tuned the system to hit typical bandwidths used in WWII. But seconds later the IFF was again protesting that the ship was receiving a phased array signal. Rodenko gave Volsky a look that spoke volumes, real concern in his eyes now.

Volsky hesitated, for the barest moment, then he gave a series of orders that were deadly serious given his tone of voice, though he maintained a calm demeanor.

“The ship will come to full battle stations immediately,” he said. “Mister Nikolin, please call Chief Dobrynin and ask him if there has been any unusual flux event in the reactor core. Has he run any rod maintenance procedure in recent hours?”

“Aye sir.”

“What are you thinking, Admiral?” Rodenko asked.

“The impossible again,” said Volsky. “Either our electronics are having a nice laugh with this little joke today, or there is a British Type 45 class destroyer out there somewhere painting us with this radar signal. That can mean only two things. Either we have moved again, subtly, without our even realizing it, or…”

The second alternative was obvious, but inexplicable. “I don’t see how a Type 45 could be here, sir. That is if we still remain in 1941, which seems most likely. I have solid returns on all the other ships in the British fleet. They are right here with us.”

“Yes? Well it would be a stretch, but we have pulled things along with us before during a time displacement.”

“A torpedo, sir, and a small fishing trawler when the Anatoly Alexandrov moved, but we’re talking about an entire fleet here, several hundred thousand tons of material. I doubt that we could move that kind of mass.”

“As do I,” said Volsky, “and I know Dobrynin will tell me he has stowed those control rods away, but I must check every possibility to be certain. Yes, the presence of the other British ships is quite telling, but could there be a modern British warship here? Where is this signal originating from?”

“Due east, sir, and given the maximum range of the SAMPSON system, it could be no father east than Santorini.”

“Santorini?” That name was familiar to Volsky. If Fedorov were here he would have picked up on it as well. “Santorini is a volcanic caldera, is it not?”

“I believe so, Admiral.”

“Then we may just have an explanation. Let us not forget where the Demon volcano sent this ship of late.”

“An eruption sir? We see no sign of that.”

“Not here, Mister Rodenko. But if that island erupted in the future it could have sent that ship through a time rift.”

“Ah, I understand sir.” Rodenko looked back at his screen. The reason Volsky had ordered battle stations was now quite evident. If this ship came from the same world they had left behind, it was their mortal enemy.

“Well,” said Volsky. “They must be having a conversation very similar to this one on their bridge right now. Let us see if we can diffuse what could quickly become a most unfortunate engagement, because if they fire on this ship, I will be forced to do the same. Mister Nikolin?”

“Chief says no unusual reading or maintenance procedures, sir.”

“Very well. Send a message using standard NATO frequencies and format. Identify us as the Russian battlecruiser Kirov, and request weapons tight for parley. And get a message to HMS Invincible on a secure channel. I want to speak with Admiral Tovey as well.”

“Parley?”

“Yes, gentlemen. The first defensive system we initiate will be our words and human reason. That failing, we get what we have been sailing in all these many months at sea, the madness of war.”

“Incoming message, sir!”

“What is it Mister Thomas?” Captain Gordon MacRae was not expecting this.

“It’s using standard NATO format, sir — a request for open communications link from… the battlecruiser Kirov!”

The surprise redoubled. “Kirov? That was the bloody ship Elena had told him about, the Russian behemoth that had been raising hell, moving in time, wreaking havoc on the history.

“Mother of god,” he breathed. “What is that thing doing here in the Mediterranean? Mister Dean, kindly ask Miss Fairchild to come to the bridge, and state we have a most unusual situation at hand — an emergency.”

“Aye sir.”

“Mister Thomas. Open communications, and put it on the bridge intercom. The ship’s personnel will stand to, all systems.”

The alarm sounded, and that would put some fire in Fairchild’s feet, thought MacRae. In the meantime, he looked to his radar man. “Well that explains it, doesn’t it?”

They had also picked up the electronic signature of the Russian ship, and had been debating what it meant, just as Volsky had predicted. Now the truth was unequivocally clear when Nikolin’s voice came over the ship’s intercom.

“Kirov to any ship bearing SAMPSON radar. Do you copy? This is a comm-link from Admiral of the Fleet, Leonid Volsky, requesting weapons tight for parley.”

“The big brass is aboard,” said MacRae. “And they want to chat before we start lobbing missiles at each other. Fair enough. Get Mack Morgan up here as well, and signal go ahead Kirov, standing by.”

“Aye sir.”

Fairchild was through the back hatch, up from the executive suite, her eyes wondering what was amiss. She could see the earnest attention of the bridge crew to their systems. MacRae was sitting in the blue Captain’s chair, and Executive Officer Dean was standing right behind him. A medic crowded in behind her, offering a brief salute before taking up his post.

“The ship, mum,” said MacRae. “That Russian monster you’ve been talking about.”

“Kirov? Here?”

“About 370 kilometers due west at the moment by our latest reading, just inside our maximum radar coverage zone. They want to parley, but shall I get the X-3’s armed and airborne in case manners fail us here?”

Elena thought quickly. Kirov, Geronimo, It was right here! Could this be the reason Admiral Tovey had encoded this date and time for their displacement to the past? Were they meant to find and deal with this ship, once and for all. She knew that Kirov was a well armed, deadly opponent if it came to a battle. The side that fired first would have great advantage. Now she realized that the men aboard that ship must be as surprised to find Argos Fire here as she was. They were standing like a pair of gunslingers at fifty paces, and if she launched those X-3s it might give them more weapons to put in play, but it would also be like a man slowly moving aside his overcoat to expose the sidearm on his hip.

“Have they launched helicopters?”

“No mum. They’ve requested weapons tight.”

“Then no movement on the X-3s.”

“Admiral Volsky aboard the Russian battlecruiser Kirov requesting weapons tight and parley. Please identify yourself and respond, over.”

“Announce ourselves, Mister Thomas,” said Elena. Then she leaned in to MacRae. “If it comes to a fight here, what are our chances?”

He just looked at her. “It won’t be pleasant, for either side.”

“Sir,” said Healy at radar. “Getting many more seaborne returns now. Surface contacts just west of the primary, but no IFF signatures.”

“No signatures? How many contacts?”

“A good number. I read two ships, close by the primary. Five airborne contacts, then multiple ships in column. I’m reading at least twenty ships, more resolving as we approach.”

Argos Fire was moving at 30 knots due west now, as MacRae had turned to investigate the IFF contact some ten minutes earlier. “But No IFF data? That’s odd.” He looked at Elena, explaining.

“We’ve got clear electronics signatures on the one ship, Fregat 3D radar system as we read it. Now we’re just coming into better range and it appears there’s quite an armada out there. I’m not sure what to make if it. None of the other ships are emitting electronic signatures that can reach us, but they could be running dark and leaving that work to the flagship.”

“You think this is an entire Russian battlegroup? That can’t be possible.”

“Then our wolf is out there cavorting with the sheep, mum. It might have been attacking a convoy, and then up we come, the unexpected sheep dog.”

“Any sign of that? Could we tell if there was combat underway out there?”

“Aye, we’d see it on radar, but there’s no indication of any missile fires underway. It looks to be one big happy family out there.”

Elena rubbed her hands together, always cold, even in temperate climes. Kirov, Geronimo, steaming with a group of many ships that had to be from this era. What was this about?

“Identify us as Argos Fire, Royal Navy. Then confirm parley request,” she said. “Ask identification on those other ships. Let’s see what we can find out.”

“Aye mum,” said Thomas, and he returned the message.

“Senior Lieutenant Nikolin here, speaking for Admiral Volsky. We have patched in a third party. Standby.”

The wait seemed interminable, then a voice came, quiet but firm, and the sound of it seemed to strike a tone of reason and authority. Her heart leapt when she heard the name.

“HMS Argos Fire, this is Admiral John Tovey aboard HMS Invincible, fleet flagship. I am now commanding His Majesty’s Mediterranean Fleet. Sorry to say we haven’t made your acquaintance, Argos Fire. But we request an immediate rendezvous. Over.”

My god, thought Elena. John Tovey! He was here, now, at this very moment. Then this was why this date and time had been chosen. But what was Tovey doing cruising with Geronimo?

“That’s the man who signed off on the message in that box?”

“It appears so,” said Elena taking a deep breath, and feeling like the weight of the entire world had just been taken off her shoulders. Tovey was the legendary founder of the Watch, but that was in 1942. It was 1941 now, and none of that may have happened. But it was Tovey’s order that sent her here, so she would wait to find out what had happened, elated, a feeling of great relief sweeping over her.

“Give my name and indicate my present post as Watchstander G1, code Geronimo. Then ask them if we are to consider the Russian ship as friend or foe.” She waited while the message was sent.

Far to the west, Tovey heard the voice and smiled, though he did not know why. Watchstander G1? The words struck some deep inner chord in him, but he could not quite hear it, a distant memory, stubbornly just beyond his reach. But that other word, Geronimo… This he knew quite well. It was boldly labeled on that strange hidden file box Turing had found, and typewritten all through the contents. Admiral Volsky had just told him that this was another ship from his time, from the future. My God, he thought. King Arthur has come back from Avalon, and in the nick of time.

Argos Fire soon received his message. “All is well, Argos Fire. All friends here. We request a rendezvous in the Gulf of Chania. Over.”

Mack Morgan had come up, and he was listening in, amazed. “All well and good, mum,” he said. “But I must tell you that the Royal Navy had no ship by that name active in 1941. The last ship to bear that name was sunk at the Battle of Jutland in 1916.”

“Oh? Well, then we’re in for a surprise, and I suppose they are as well. Signal confirmation on that rendezvous request. Tell them we’ll be waiting for them…. with bells on!”

Chapter 35

The man was getting his Arabs and Indians mixed up, thought Popski. What was all this rubbish about an Apache Sultan? What was all that about guard towers and oil rigs? He gave Fedorov a frustrated look.

“Well I’ve told him the whole lot, but you’ve completely lost me with all of this. They’re no Indians or oil rigs out here. Why would you tell him that? How would that rubbish solve anything?”

“Bear with me, Popski. What does he say?”

“Alright,” said Kinlan. “Mister Simpson. Send to the back of the column and have three vehicles from the rear guard troop return and report on the condition of the Sultan Apache facility. I’ll meet this Russian Captain half way. At the moment I have business to attend to, but I’ll continue this when I get my report.” The General left to consult with his staff, and they were left alone, watched by a pair of helmeted British soldiers.

“He’s given the order to check on that Sultan Indian fellow, whoever that might be. What are you two talking about here?”

Fedorov gave Popski a sympathetic look. This was going to be the fate of any man alive now who ever came into contact with men of this unit, and realized the truth. They would all stand and stare amazed, some dumbstruck with awe, like Cortez, silent upon a peak in Darien, as Keats would put it. Others would stare in disbelief, until the hard steel reality of these men from a distant time was driven home with the shock and fire of war. The Germans and Italians would get the worst of it, for here was a mighty champion that would soon come to the field of battle and weigh heavily in the equation of this war.

And yet, thought Fedorov, they were mortal men, not demigods, and their power and influence on events here would not be without limits. This was the realization that he had faced on the ship as they watched their missile count diminish, one by one. Once Kirov fired the last of its Moskit-IIs, and the inventory of SAMs was gone, it was nothing more than a veiled threat, toothless, though the appearance of the ship on an enemy’s horizon might be seen as a shadow of imminent doom.

The same thing would happen here with these men. They would begin with power that seemed overwhelming to any foe they encountered. A German light Panzer II could do nothing whatsoever to bother one of these modern new tanks.

And yet, the tanks would store little more than 50 rounds of their deadly 120mm ammunition. This brigade would likely have considerable replacement stores, but Fedorov knew they were finite. Once the ammunition was gone the tank would just be an impregnable moving pill box. It was 1941, and this was going to be a very long war. In the end, Fedorov knew the power this brigade could wield could be decisive in any given engagement, but it would be a rock in the stream of this war, stalwart, invincible, yet unable to stem the full flood of the madness WWII eventually became. Entire cities were destroyed in single bombing raids here, a conflagration never seen in modern warfare, where casualty rates dropped precipitously.

The US lost 4487 soldiers in the ten year war they fought in Iraq. On the first day of the Normandy invasion, they would lose 2500, and go on to lose 29,000 before that campaign concluded, with another 11,000 British deaths and 30,000 Germans. And though very significant, that battle was not decisive. The fight would continue in the Market Garden campaign, the Battle of the Bulge, and the battles fought to cross the Rhine before Germany finally was beaten.

The loss of a division or two here would not stop the German war machine. The Germans lost well over half a million men at Stalingrad and still fight on. The Russians lost over a million there. This Brigade could win any engagement it fought while its ammunition lasted, but that was the end of it. The effect its presence here would have on the war itself would depend entirely on how, where, and when its awesome power was used.

Now he thought of Karpov, ever seeking that decisive moment in history to bring the full might of Kirov’s weapons to the cauldron of war. Karpov may have been misguided, selfish and headstrong, but in one thing he was correct. Kirov was a lever that could move a mountain if placed at precisely the right place, its tremendous power fully applied. Even now Admiral Volsky was thinking to decide the balance of naval power in the Mediterranean Sea in one decisive battle. The same would apply here with this brigade. But would even this be enough? How would the Germans react? Might they send even more troops and material to challenge this new foe, or initiate vast new programs to gain these new “wonder weapons” for their own use?

But there stood Popski, unaware of any of this, yet soon to be shaken by the hard reality of what was about to happen. How could he bring him to that understanding, bridge that 80 year gulf between Kinlan and Peniakoff and see them shake hands as one?

“Popski,” he said, quietly. “Have you ever seen uniforms like those worn by these men?”

“Can’t say as I have. Those helmets are unlike any used by the Tommy’s, and the same goes for those rifles they’re carrying, but they look like they’ll do the job well enough.”

“And have you ever seen armored vehicles like these? Look at those tanks!”

“Those are real beasts,” said Popski. “Have to be entirely new. They’re magnificent!”

“They are,” said Fedorov. “And have you ever seen a contraption like the one that we flew in to get here, our helicopter? For that matter, have you ever seen a ship like mine, or rockets that could do what we demonstrated earlier during that air attack on the Suez Canal?”

“I was there to see that!” said Popski. “Rumors make the rounds fast in Cairo, and we heard a fancy Russian ship was coming through, so I went over to the canal when you came in and saw the whole thing. Marvelous! You fellows have a few of those for our ships?”

“I wish it were so, but our ammunition is limited. That’s why we use it carefully, and sparingly, and only when it counts.”

“Smart enough,” said Popski.

“These weapons, these machines, I know they impress you, but don’t they seem fantastic?”

“That they do. One look at a tank like that will drain the blood from this General Rommel’s face, and that’s a fact.”

“Quite so, and it will drain the blood from his men as well, literally. Popski…”

He wanted to tell him that tank could not have been built by the British industries of today; that the craft of its making would not be possible for another sixty to eighty years. Then he realized this man would simply never understand the real truth, so why did he have to know? Popski would believe the tank was here, right before his eyes, but never grasp that it could have come here from the future. That would be the experience of most here. They would never know the real truth, though they would rejoice that Achilles had come to the fight, an invincible champion in this hour of need — Achilles, with one weakness in the limited duration of his power. Yet he realized now that to fully explain this situation to Kinlan, he would need to rely on his own limited skills in English, and he wished Nikolin were here. He was going to have to tell this man something that General Wavell did not even know yet!

“Must be a prototype,” he said at last, leaving Popski in the innocence of unknowing. Some would eventually know the real truth. Wavell would have to be one of them, and O’Connor was on the way here at this moment. Other men highly placed in the British army and government would certainly have to know. The rest of that impossible truth would still be protected by that bodyguard of lies, as Churchill might put it.

“I think that I will try to speak with General Kinlan on my own now, if you don’t mind. I can manage a bit of English.”

“Have a go if you wish. Maybe you can talk sense into the man.”

Fedorov checked with Popski on a few words he was uncertain of, words like displacement and detonation, and then he had him ask for a private conference with the Brigadier, which Kinlan granted. His report had come back, and he had an odd look on his face. The two men went off near an FV432 command vehicle and Fedorov began his faltering attempt to communicate.

“Forgive my English. You’re report? It is concluded?”

“It has, and it seems you were correct, Captain. My men report the site is… well the whole damn facility has vanished! What is going on here? What kind of trick have you Russians pulled?”

Fedorov struggled to get all of that, but the essence came through. “No tricks,” he said. “An accident.”

“Accident? There were millions of pounds worth of equipment and facilities back there. What kind of accident could have them go missing short of another of your damn warheads? Either that or my patrol got lost. They certainly weren’t all carted off by the Berbers, or buried by that sandstorm. Right?”

“No second warhead,” said Fedorov. “It was the first.”

“The first? Well we got that one. At least we got two of the three, and the last was off target to the east. Those facilities were completely intact when we moved our column out.”

“The attack… it caused big accident. Odd effect of nuclear detonation, like EMP.”

“EMP? That might fry electronics, but it bloody well could not account for what we’re talking about here.”

“Not EMP… similar strange effect of detonation. Causes big problem with time.”

“A problem with time? I don’t follow you.”

“Sorry. I will try again…. Detonation changes time, breaks time. It can make things move in time. Understand?”

“Move in time? That’s bosh.”

“Bosh?”

“It’s nonsense! What are you talking about?”

“Not bosh. Is real truth. Your men just found General O’Connor. He is the real man… General Richard O’Connor, and you will soon see. Your base at Sultan Apache remains there, in year 2021. But you are not there. Your men, your brigade, all displaced in time due to detonation. Big accident! I know for sure. Because this happened to my ship.”

Kinlan gave him a look that was half annoyed and half astonished. “Your ship? Are you telling me you think you moved in bloody time?”

“Yes! This is true. Nuclear detonation during live fire exercises. Accident. Then we appear… somewhere else! Same place, different time. Honest truth.” He held up his hand as though he were taking an oath. “I know it sounds impossible. I never believed it myself, until facts made things true. We moved here, to this time—1941.”

“1941?” Kinlan grinned at him, unbelieving, as there was no rational place he could put this. “You’re trying to tell me you think this is 1941? You’re daft, man, off your rocker.”

Fedorov did not follow that, but he could sense the other man’s rejection of what he had told him. “Then where is Sultan Apache?” He returned to his long suit, playing another spade.

Kinlan stared at him. “Well I don’t know where it is, Captain. But it seems you don’t know where it is either with this silly explanation.”

“Sounds false, sounds crazy, I know this. But I speak truly. Sultan Apache is all there, but in 2021. It is you that went missing, just like my ship. You heard reports? Kirov lost in Norwegian sea. You heard this?”

“Yes, I heard the report. Then you show up a month later in the Pacific.”

“Yes! But we do not sail there in oceans of 2021. We sail there in 1940s! Then it happens again. An accident with reactors sent us back to our own time… to year 2021. All true.”

There was movement from the grey brown sand out beyond the sheltering tent set up off the hatch of the FV432. Then one of the Staff Officers, the man named Simpson, emerged with another report.

“Excuse me, sir. Reeves’ scout section is back. They’ve a number of men in jeeps, a bunch of throwbacks, or so they appear. Jeeps look to be old relics, and one man is claiming to be a General O’Connor.”

“Very well,” said Kinlan, the same problem on his hands, unresolved insofar as he was concerned. “Bring the man in. Maybe he can make more sense than this one.” He gave Fedorov a disparaging look.

“General Richard O’Connor,” Fedorov tried again. “Real man — from 1941. Look close at this man. Check photos. Look close at Popski. Look at jeeps. All 1940s!”

“Or all some elaborate theater you Russkies cooked up to hold up my column so you can lob another warhead or two our way.”

“No! Not true. No more missiles. Let your eyes prove this. See General O’Connor. Then you believe… You are here now, in 1941, and this is real. My ship is here, up north, and we fight for the British now. Kirov is an ally, a friend, not enemy. Russians and British are allies in 1941. Soon you believe this too. It is very important… Critical. This can change the war — change history — make no more war with Russia in 2021. Understand? We can stop war there, in 2021, and we can win war here, in 1941.”

Kinlan took that all in, his eyes fixed on Fedorov, seeing the urgency in the man, hearing the sincerity in his tone of voice, and the desperate need to be believed.

“This all happened as I say,” said Fedorov. “An accident, but all true. Otherwise, you tell me, General Kinlan. Where is Sultan Apache? Go look with your own eyes!”

Simpson returned, leading in a short man dressed out in the garb of an Army officer, but one from days of yore. He expected he might see someone wearing a uniform like his own in modern camo scheme, but not dressed like this, heavy wool socks reaching to knee length shorts, thick leather belt, a pale olive officer’s jersey with shoulder braids and a flash of red at the collars, all topped with an officer’s cap, emblazoned with a thick red band and the badge of a crown over a crossed sabre and baton, the insignia of a Lieutenant General. Rows of service bars rode above his left chest pocket, with a thick strap from shoulder to waist.

Yet it was not the rank and service medals that identified this man as a General, it was his manner and deportment, the bright penetrating eyes, always moving, the air of authority about him, not showy or arrogant, but a quiet strength that spoke of iron will and determination in the man.

“I’m told you are Brigadier Kinlan?” O’Connor extended his hand. “Can’t say as I’ve ever had the pleasure. Have you just come off the boat?”

Kinlan took his hand, with reflexive manners, yet his mind was just as befuddled as before. What on God’s good earth was happening here?

Chapter 36

He just stared at the man, seeing the characteristic white hair at the edge of his cap and short cropped white mustache. It was the image of the man he had seen in the data files he looked up on his library pad. Impossible! General Richard O’Connor had died in 1981, forty years ago! This had to be an imposter, there was simply no other way to look at the situation. Yet, at the same time, there was no reason on earth why anyone would be here, in the middle of nowhere, dressed up like this to play army. Did he come in on that KA-40 with the Russians to play out this sorry ruse?

Lieutenant Reeves was standing behind the man, and he saluted. “Sir,” he said quietly. “One other note to report. Our lead troop picked up something on infrared and we had a look. It was a plane crash, General, so I took my vehicle out and had a good look at it.”

“Yes?” said O’Connor. “That was our Blenheim. Jerry took a good bite out of our left engine, and we couldn’t ride out the storm. Tried to make Siwa, but went down near the dunes a bit north of here.”

“Reeves?” Kinlan looked to his Lieutenant for confirmation.

“Yes sir. It was a Blenheim, just as the General says. I had a look inside, and it was authentic, to the nines.”

“An old wreck from the last war?”

“No sir. The plane was in tip top condition. Looked like it was flown that very day. The engines were still warm, and oil was leaking from one — shot up as the General says.”

“As the General says, as the General says. Damn it Reeves! I’ll grant you this man looks the part, but you know very well he can’t be who he claims to be.” He looked at O’Connor, frustration battling with his senses and reinforcing the one word that could be applied to this whole charade. Impossible!

“See here,” said O’Connor. “You would do well to mind your manners, Mister Kinlan, and mind the rank and insignia you find on this uniform. I’m not one to lord it over another officer, but you’re obviously new here, as is this entire unit. What’s that parked over there?” He pointed with his riding crop. “That’s the biggest damn tank in the world! Did Wavell send you out here looking for me? How many of those monsters do you have?”

“Wavell?”

“Well I’m nobody special, just the commander of the British XIII Corps in the Western Desert, but you’ve certainly heard of Wavell. Yes?”

Kinlan folded his arms and shrugged. He should just throw this whole lot into a secure vehicle and get on with his move north. The column was nearly all past his position by now, the sound of the Warrior IFVs from the last battalion in the line of march still rumbling in the background.

By the time they brought O’Connor in, the storm had abated, but darkness and low blowing sand was still obscuring much of the landscape near the ground. Thus far O’Connor had seen only the eight wheeled Dragon IFV of Reeves’ troop, the FV432 command vehicles, and the shadowy form of one Challenger 2 parked as part of the HQ guard unit. He had seen nothing of the real mass and material of the brigade Kinlan commanded, but he could hear it, and knew the sound of tracked vehicles on the desert ground well enough.

“From the sound of things the whole division must be out here,” said O’Connor. “But I can’t imagine why, or even how you managed to get a force of this size out here. Suppose you tell me exactly what this unit is and what your orders are, General Kinlan.”

Now Fedorov spoke up. “General Richard O’Connor?”

“One and the same,” said O’Connor, noticing Fedorov. “Who is this man?”

“I am Captain Anton Fedorov, off the Russian battlecruiser Kirov. We came to search for you.”

“Russians?” O’Connor had not heard anything of the ship, as he had his hands full managing the retreat east, with Rommel’s tanks and armored cars in hot pursuit.

“I was in Alexandria, with General Wavell when we heard your plane was lost.”

“With Wavell? I see. Very good, Captain Fedorov. Now then, Mister Kinlan?”

The Brigadier shook his head, smiling. “Barmy nonsense, this whole bit. The two of you are going to play this out, are you? In for a shilling, in for a pound, is it? Well if you think you can blag your way on like this, I’ve run out of patience with the whole lot. I’ve a mind to run you and all your men before a firing squad!” He was interrupted by his Staff Officer. “Yes, Mister Simpson? What now?”

“That report on comm-link status, sir.”

“Anything from Command?”

“IT Systems Operator has nothing on the combat network, sir. All the TALON system digital satellite links are down with the GPS.”

“Everything?”

“Sorry, sir, but it’s all dark. No TSC 503, No PSC 506. And nothing through REACHER or Skynet 5.”

“What about Ptarmigan?” He was referring to a modular battlefield WAN system which operated like a secure VHF mobile radio telephone.

“Nothing there either.”

“Damn. That detonation had more of an effect than we thought.”

Even as he said the word detonation, Fedorov caught his eye. Detonation… strange effects from a nuclear blast… movement in time. Rubbish! That was the load the Russian Captain had shoveled his way. All of this was supposed to be an accident. Then there was this fellow Popski, who looked for all the world like the historical figure by that same name, and O’Connor here was the spitting image of the real thing. He was supposed to be a bloody time traveler now, with the whole brigade lost in 1941. Rubbish!

“One more thing, sir, for what it’s worth.” Simpson had a wan look on his face. “This bloody sand storm is clearing, and Staffer Jacobs managed to have a look at the sky to get a fix on our position for desert navigation.”

“Good for him. We’ll get these men into another truck, wrap this up and move out.”

“Well sir… about the stars. They’re all wrong, sir.”

“Wrong? What do you mean?”

“Jacobs says Orion is rising, and Sirius right behind it. Those are winter constellations, sir. We should be looking at Sagittarius and Scorpio rising now in the late summer. And he says the moon is wrong too. It shouldn’t be up.” He pointed to the thin crescent moon, barely visible. “He says it was supposed to set at 11:14 this morning, sir — doesn’t rise again until nigh on to midnight, and it should be a waning gibbous moon. That’s an evening crescent!”

Fedorov caught this, struggling to understand it all, but suddenly realized what the Staff Officer was saying when he pointed at the moon.

“Yes!” he said enthusiastically. “Listen General. Hear that? Look at the sky,” he pointed to the stars. “It is last day of January, 1941. That is date and time here and now. The sky has changed, because the time has changed. Where is Sultan Apache? Think, General Kinlan!”

Think! Kinlan was a no nonsense man, but now his eye roved upwards, noting the clearing skies and the cold light of the stars. Something there seemed even colder than the desert night now, a lonesome feeling settling over him, chasing the irritating bother he had been sorting through with these men. O’Connor in a Blenheim bomber?

He had to think.

“Reeves, you’re certain of what you saw with that plane wreckage?”

“Yes sir. A Bristol Blenheim, and brand, spanking new — still warm as toast. That’s how we spotted it on infrared, sir. The engine heat was very evident.”

Fedorov seized on this, knowing that only one such plane existed in 2021, just like that Fulmar that had overflown his ship when Kirov first appeared. He remembered how he had broken citadel integrity to run out onto the weather deck to see it. He had seen the plane in England the previous year while on leave — in a museum. And now he remembered the single operational Bristol Blenheim he had seen on that same trip, at RCAF Bolingbroke.

“Only one Blenheim bomber exists where you have come from,” he said. “Explain how this one is suddenly here?” He was very pleased that he managed to get the English correct.

Brigadier Kinlan gave him a dark look. O’Connor was standing there with an indignant look on his face, not used to such treatment, and put off by some of what he was hearing now that made no sense. What was this bit about Talon and Reacher the staffer had teed up? What did they mean that the satellite links were down? Who in bloody hell was this man? What was this unit doing out here, with vehicles that he had never seen before? Who was this Russian Captain here saying he had just seen Wavell? Why was this Brigadier being so damnably thick and obstinate?

“General,” Fedorov tried again. “Sultan Apache is gone because you are gone… moved… to a time where Blenheim bombers still fly, and General O’Connor commands the Western Desert Force in 1941. Can stars and moon change in one hour? Think, General. Impossible? Yes. But still all true.”

Kinlan did think… Popski, the Long Range Desert Group, old jeeps that should not even be able to run, a Blenheim bomber, General O’Connor, and the stars were all wrong. On top of that he had a Russian Captain off a KA-40 claiming he and his ship had a nuclear accident and actually moved in time! It was the stuff of science fiction, and he might have turned his head to look away from it all and just carried on, but for these stubborn things he was still struggling with. What happened to the bloody stars and moon? Was the whole earth off its kilter? And where the hell was Sultan Apache?

It was the first thing this Russian Captain had come to him with, telling him the place would not be there even before any of his men knew that was so. How could this Russian Captain know this? His men had confirmed it. The entire facility was gone, lock, stock and oil barrel, and that was an argument that he simply could not dismiss, like a man going out for groceries one Saturday morning and then coming home to find his house was missing, with nothing more than a vacant lot in its place. It was madness. The men must have gotten lost on their way back. This simply could not have happened. He looked up at the stars again… Impossible!

Brigadier Kinlan would not be satisfied until he got into a command vehicle and drove back to Sultan Apache himself. There he stood, his eyes scanning the craggy features of the escarpment, places he had come to know in the months he was there. He was standing right in the place where he knew a tall metal guard tower was suppose to be positioned. His boots should be on the hard black asphalt of the internal camp road network here, cleared daily by the heavy street sweeper vehicles that should still be sitting there in the maintenance facility — the 30,000 square foot building that was completely gone.

There was no wreckage, no sign of trauma or the fire of war at all. But it was all gone, the barracks facilities, mess hall, vehicle parks, oil workers village, and all the equipment and rigs and drilling tube and pipeline that should be stockpiled at the southern end of the zone — all gone.

There was only the sand and stone of the heartless desert, sand blowing listlessly over the toes of his service boots as he stared down at his feet. He was standing on solid ground alright, though he felt as though he had wandered into some episode of Doctor Who, a Twilight Zone of madness where nothing he ever took for granted as real could be believed again. It was all impossible, and yet it was as real as the hiss of that biting desert wind.

He took his helmet off for a moment, and let the last of the blowing sand sting his face, almost as if he needed to feel the pain to be certain he was still alive. He caught a last glimpse of the crescent moon above, cold and unforgiving, the moon that should not even be there! Then he slowly fixed his helmet in place, adjusted his eye goggles, and turned to his Staff Officer Simpson.

“What do you make of this, Sim? Are we both crazy?”

“I haven’t the foggiest, sir. What could have happened here? I don’t understand.”

Kinlan took a long breath. “Who do we have on the left flank guard?”

“Lieutenant Dobie, sir. 2nd Squadron, 12th Royal Lancers. He’s got the Scimitars, about 15 miles north of Siwa.”

“Tell him to get down there and have a look around. He’s to see if he finds any sign of an Australian unit there — A Colonel Fergusson. Got that?”

“Yes sir. I’ll get him moving right away.”

Kinlan took another long look around the stony plateau where the enormous BP facility had been just two hours ago. It wasn’t burned, or blasted. It wasn’t buried by the sand storm, or carted off by the Berbers, but he knew one thing — it wasn’t here either. Sultan Apache was gone.

The Russian Captain told him it would be gone, and he also told him why. If this were true… If he was the one that went missing in 2021… He resolved to have another chat with the man right away.

My god, he thought. If Dobie radios back that he’s found this Fergusson fellow, then that’s the last straw. But what in the world do I do now? I’ve a full brigade here, men, tanks, IFVs, and a supply train a mile long. I should be half way to Mersa Matruh by now, and I suppose that’s my only play. My god! Could it be true? Could I be standing here in 1941 like this crazy Russian Captain says?

He returned to the command vehicle and they started back for the main column. By the time he got there, he had a report back from Lieutenant Dobie. He had found what looked to be an ill equipped company of Australian infantry at Siwa. They had a few old lorries, and yes, a man came forward calling himself Colonel Fergusson, wanting to know who he was and how he came to be here, but happy to have any reinforcement Wavell could give him.

“He said that?” Kinlan returned on the radio. “Wavell?”

“That was the name he used, sir. And there’s another officer here that says he’s with the 7th Armored. He’s even got the Jerboa patch, and a battery of four artillery pieces, field guns, General. But they look like the old 25 pounders!”

“Very well, Lieutenant. Return to the column, Kinlan out.”

The General took off his helmet, rubbed the weariness from his eyes, and took a long breath. He could hear his Communications Group working their systems, but all the normal military channels remained dark. Maybe if he just hunkered down for the night here he would wake up tomorrow morning and all this would just be a bad dream. Any sane man would have thought that, but he no longer numbered himself among that group.

Off in the distance he heard the AM band radio playing at one of the comm stations. A staffer was there, listening, and hearing news of Rommel’s advance and the British retreat to Tobruk! Then Simpson was back, looking crestfallen and somewhat pale.

“Sir,” he said. “We’ve just gotten through to someone in Alexandria, and he’s hopping mad.”

“Who? Dempsy?” Kinlan hoped they had finally made contact with reality again, as General Dempsy was the liaison officer working out of Cairo.

“No sir… A General Wavell…” Simpson rubbed his forehead. “He wants to know what in blazes is going on out here, what happen to his rescue mission to find O’Connor and where the general is. And he wants to speak with you, sir, directly.”

Kinlan smiled. He was about to be chewed out by a man who had been dead 71 years! “Tell him to stand by, I’m on my way.”

“Yes sir… But General Kinlan, sir….” Sims had a lost look on his face. He had seen and heard all the impossible evidence himself, yet was still in a state of shock and disbelief. “What are we going to do here, General?”

“What are we going to do?” Kinlan shook his head. “Well I think I’ll go over and take my lumps from Wavell first. Then I expect we’ll take this brigade north to Mersa Matruh, just as we planned it, and if we run into a gentlemen named Erwin Rommel… I’m going to kick his German ass, half way from here to Berlin!”