As the ship sailed north there was a strange feeling of both completion as well as a growing uneasiness. These familiar waters are deceptively calm, thought Volsky. He realized their course was fraught with uncertainty, but he decided to take Fedorov's advice to heart. He knew it would be dangerous to allow the men to go ashore, and for that matter he was not even certain they would receive a warm welcome when they first appeared in the long inlet leading to Murmansk and Severomorsk.
There is really nothing there at Severomorsk, he thought, and we will not see tall Alyusha and the eternal flame if we sail up the channel of the Kola Fiord to Murmansk again. Alyusha was the tall grey statue of a Soviet soldier, 116 feet high and weighing 5000 tons atop a stone pedestal to commemorate the defenders of the Soviet Arctic during this war. They have yet to earn their laurels, he knew, thinking that the outcome of the war itself still remained unknown. The Germans have not yet come for the city that was so doggedly defended by the Soviet Moormen, the Polarmen as they were sometimes called-the icemen of the Soviet Arctic.
He was one of them, as were all the men on the ship. They had steamed from those waters and now they return. What will be the effect on the men when they do not see the familiar skyline of Severomorsk. It was just a small settlement in 1940, called Vayenga. There will be no shipyards there, no docks or quays, except at Murmansk.
“What can we expect in the Russian Navy at this time, Mister Fedorov?”
“Not much to speak of, sir. They will have five or six destroyers, a handful of submarines, two torpedo boats, and a few patrol boats and minesweepers. There is nothing there that could pose any threat whatsoever to Kirov, though I do not think they would see us as hostile with that Russian naval ensign on our mast. At this time they would be busy building up the White Sea military base as an anchor defending that region. They are also a bit preoccupied with the Finns, assuming that conflict occurred as it did in our history. That may not be the case, however. I have not had time to dig up any new information with Nikolin.”
“Very well, then we can head home without undue worry.”
The channel leading to Severomorsk and Murmansk is very long and narrow, sir. Were you thinking of going that far in?”
“No, I think we will be cautious at first and stay near the mouth of the inlet.”
“Perhaps we could have a look at the area near Malaya Lopatka.”
“Nothing was built there until 1950, Fedorov. That was the base we built for the old K-3, our first nuclear powered submarine. Don’t worry. We’ll have a look around with the KA-40, discretely, and then I must consider how to persuade Sergie Kirov to meet with us. The meeting will most likely have to be at Murmansk. Severomorsk wasn’t even an operational base in 1940.”
“I can bait your hook for you, Admiral.”
“You have a suggestion, Mister Fedorov?”
“Yes sir. Why not send a message saying the man Kirov met at the inn at Ilanskiy in 1908 wishes to speak with you. Perhaps even mentioning my name would help trigger the recollection. If he remembers the incident, he may be curious enough to want to know more.”
“That is a very good idea, Fedorov. Yes, I think we will do this.”
The word Kremlin meant “fortress,” and it had long been the heart of the Russian government in the center of Moscow, dating back as far as the second century BC. It sat on one of the seven hills of Moscow, 145 meters tall, and its golden spires and domes were known the world over as a symbol of Russian power. The first official buildings had been constructed there in the year 1156, and now the place was simply called “Kremlin Hill.”
Its walls and towers had been improved and designed by famous architects during the renaissance. The 27 acre complex now comprised Red Square, Revolution Square, the Grand Kremlin Palace, the iconic gold domed cathedral, and many other squares and official government buildings.
On this morning the message received at the office of the Commandant was most puzzling. It had come in over radio channels, transmitted from the far northern outpost of Murmansk where there was apparently quite a stir. News of a large warship that had been moving north sounded the initial alarms, as it was thought that this must surely be a German ship, possibly intending to scout the Arctic waters. Yet when planes were sent out from the naval base to look for the intruder, they were astounded to see a large ship, prominently flying the Russian naval ensign, and crewmen waving eagerly in welcome as the old MTB-1 seaplane overflew the ship.
“What is this ship?” The Commandant noted that the naval authorities had stated that they were unfamiliar with the vessel, and had no record of it. Yet they were speaking with the ship’s personnel over the shortwave, and they were clearly Russian. A request had been made, very odd, and one that might had been dismissed were it not for the mystery accompanying the arrival of the ship.
“They say it is a battleship, enormous,” said the Lieutenant of Signals. “And this message is directed to the Secretary General.”
“Oh?” The Commandant was justifiably curious as he took the message in hand and read it slowly. “What nonsense is this? You say Murmansk has been speaking with an Admiral aboard that ship? They say it is not ours? Could it be from the Black Sea, a ship defecting from Orenburg? And who is this Fedorov the message indicates?”
“We don’t know, sir. It is very confusing. If this ship has come from Orenburg, we would be wise to follow up on this. It may also be a diplomatic overture.”
The Commandant frowned, shaking his head, with half a mind to tear the message up and simply throw it in the trash bin. A man named Fedorov wanted to speak with Sergei Kirov! Someone he had met in 1908? Could this man be an ambassador? He mused on it for a moment longer, then did the most expedient and careful thing.
“Very well, send it to the Kremlin main office of the General Secretary, and then let them sort it out.” The Commandant would not be the man fingered should any trouble arise from this. He simply passed the news on and then forgot about it.
Later that same day he was quite surprise when the Lieutenant rushed in again with even more news. “We must alert the General Secretary’s security detachment at once, Commandant!”
“What is this all about, Lieutenant?”
“Kirov, sir. They say that is the name of that ship I reported on earlier this morning. And not only that, the Secretary General himself is making ready to leave for the airport. I am told he is flying north to Murmansk today, and we are to provide for all the security arrangements.”
“Today?” The Commandant’s face reddened, eyes widening and looking this way and that, as if to find everything he would need to assure security. The air force must be notified. Fighter squadrons must be alerted all along the intended flight path, men must be waiting at the other end, trusted men from the GRU, and base security must be heavily reinforced-and all this had to be done quickly and as quietly as possible.
Sergei Kirov was an impulsive man, he knew. The General Secretary had once received a message that there had been an air raid at Perm and flew there himself that very day to see to the organization of the ground defenses there in the event the Grey Legion was planning an offensive. He was impetuous, with ceaseless energy, and it was just like him to do something like this on the spur of the moment.